Cassie Riddle

“You’re gonna burn holes in the back of Jonathan’s head,” you murmur.

Steve startles, blinking down at you. “I… what? No, I’m not!”

“You’re glaring.”

“I’m not glaring,” he mutters defensively, straightening. “I’m… observing.”

“You look constipated.”

He snorts despite himself, shoulders loosening a little. “Wow. Thanks.”

You shrug. “Just being honest.”

You look up at him, really look, and the vulnerable tightness in his expression is impossible to ignore.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates, then gestures vaguely toward Nancy nonchalantly. “She just… used to look at me like that.”

“And now she looks at Jonathan.”

He doesn’t respond and your stomach twists in sympathy—and something else you don’t want to examine too closely.

You nudge him gently with your elbow. “You know… there are ways to make someone remember you.”

He gives a humorless laugh. “What, walk over there and give a dramatic speech?”

“No,” you say, amuse, “something that actually works.”

His brows lift slightly. “…Like what?”

You look away for a moment, gathering the courage, because saying this out loud feels surprisingly intimate.

Then you turn back to him.

“You could make her jealous.”

Steve goes very still.

You keep your voice light, “It works. People don’t usually realize what they’re missing until they think someone else has it.”

He studies your face for a long moment, something soft and uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

“And… how would I do that?” he asks, slow, cautious. “Hypothetically.”

The question sends a pulse of warmth through your chest.

“Hypothetically?” you echo. “You’d need someone to… pretend with you.”

His throat bobs. “Pretend.”

“Fake date,” you clarify, shrugging lightly like your heart isn’t pounding. “Hold your hand. Lean into you a little. Maybe let you put your arm around them so Nancy sees it.”

He keeps staring at you and it makes your skin heat.

“You’d do that?” he asks softly.

You try for a casual tone, even though your pulse is everywhere. “I mean… unless kissing me is some terrible burden.”

A breath of a laugh escapes him, his mouth curving. “No. I wouldn’t call it a burden.”

Something shifts between you.

“So?” you murmur. “If you want the help… I’m offering.”

He looks at you like he’s weighing the whole world.

Like he’s finally seeing something he should’ve seen sooner.

Then, quietly, almost gratefully…

“Yeah. Okay,” he shoots you a faint smile, “let’s try it.”

And just like that, the pretending begins.

Pretending turns into its own sort of torture, because Steve commits.

Hand on your lower back when you walk into a room.

Thumb hooked into your belt loop when he stands behind you.

His palm resting casually on your knee when you sit together.

Little touches that are supposed to be for show.

Supposed to mean nothing.

Except they aren’t nothing.

Not when your body reacts every single time.

He looks at you differently, too.

Like he’s studying your face when he thinks you’re not looking.

Like he’s memorizing your laugh.

Like he’s trying not to cross invisible lines he desperately wants to cross.

And sometimes, when the fake dating act requires a quick kiss to your cheek or your temple, you feel his breath stall. Feel him linger just half a second too long.

You don’t bring it up and he doesn’t either.

But the tension builds, slow and relentless, like water pressing against glass.

And then the crawl happens.

The group is buzzing with nervous energy as plans are finalized. Supplies are checked, flashlights tested, weapons distributed.

Joyce is talking too fast, Robin keeps pacing, Nancy and Jonathan are coordinating routes.

But Steve keeps you close. A gentle touch at your back, a quiet glance to make sure you’re near. The kind of protectiveness that never feels like an act.

Nancy doesn’t say a word when she spots you and Steve standing a little too close near the van, but the shift in her expression is unmistakable. Her eyes flick down to where Steve’s hand rests on the small of your back, casual, but not that casual—then back up to your face, lingering just long enough to read a truth you hadn’t meant to show. It’s not the first time this has occurred, and you hope Steve notices your plan has worked

When the crawl site is declared ready, your stomach tightens.

You’ve been through it before. You know the dark, the vines, the suffocating air. The way the Upside Down swallows sound.

You try to steady your breathing, but Steve sees it immediately. He always sees you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing your arm. “We’re riding in the van. Dustin’s a no-show, come with me.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Inside, it’s dim and quiet. A temporary bubble away from the chaos. Steve closes the door behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you in the muted half-dark.

He sits across from you at first, elbows resting on his knees.

“You’re nervous,” he says softly. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just noticing.

You swallow. “A little.”

He shakes his head gently. “No. More than a little.”

Your eyes sting, not because of fear, but because he sounds like he cares too much for it to be pretend. He scoots closer, still giving you space to pull away. “Come here.”

You go without hesitation.

He pulls you in, slow and carefully, one arm around your back, the other hand warm at the nape of your neck. Your forehead rests against his collarbone, his chin brushing your hair.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

You clench your fist in his shirt. “Steve…”

His hand slides up your spine, soothing… except soothing is the wrong word. Because every stroke of his fingers sends a shiver down your skin.

He breathes against your ear, voice low and soft:

“I’d get between you and anything. You know that, right?”

You pull back to look at him, and everything changes.

His hands stay on you. Your knees touch.

You’re close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

His gaze drops to your mouth. You see it, no.. you feel it.

The exact second the dam cracks.

“Steve,” you whisper, trying to steady yourself. “This is… pretend.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, featherlight.

“Not right now,” he says, “not for me.”

Your heart stutters.

“And not for you either,” he adds quietly.

Your pulse answers him before you do… and you kiss him.

It’s soft for half a second, just the barest brush of lips, before he exhales sharply and pulls you in like he’s been denied this for weeks.

His hand cups your jaw, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into his lap. The kiss deepens. Hungry, desperate, starved.

Every tiny piece of restraint he’s shown shatters the moment you open your mouth to him.

He groans into the kiss, low and rough, like he’s been holding it back.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “I knew it. I knew the second I said yes to this fake dating thing I was screwed.”

Steve kisses you like he’s already fucked you a hundred times in his head.

Your back hits the bench seat and he follows, mouth devouring yours, hands everywhere at once—your waist, your ribs, the underside of your thighs. His fingers tremble with adrenaline and want, but his touch is deliberate, hungry, carving you into memory.

When he pulls back, both of you are breathing hard.

“Take this off,” he pants, tugging at your shirt.

You lift your arms, and he strips it off like he’s starving for what’s underneath. His eyes drag over your chest, slow and reverent, then wrecked.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmurs, palms sliding up to cup your breasts. “How the hell am I supposed to pretend after this?”

You grab his wrist and guide his hand lower. “You don’t.”

That breaks him and he kisses down your throat, your sternum, then lower.

Nipping lightly, sucking harder, leaving a trail of open mouthed heat over your skin until you’re arching into him. He mouths your nipple, tongue dragging lazily before he sucks, deep and firm. You gasp, threading your fingers into his hair.

“That good?” he asks against your skin, voice smug and breathless.

“More.”

He groans, an animal sound erupts from his chest and his hand slides between your legs over your pants, pressing right where you need him. You cry out and he bites your shoulder gently in response.

“Fuck yeah,” he pants. “Let me hear you. No one else is close enough to hear us.”

That thought alone makes your stomach flip.

He unbuttons your pants with frantic fingers, and you help shove them down. He drags your underwear aside and his jaw drops when he sees how wet you already are.

“Holy shit.” His thumb sweeps across you, slow and claiming, “you’re soaked.”

“Been waiting,” you breathe.

His pupils dilate, “for me?”

You nod, and he curses viciously.

“Get over here,” he growls, tugging you up and onto his lap.

You straddle him, and his hands slide under your thighs, squeezing, positioning you exactly how he wants. His mouth returns to yours. Hot, urgent, wet—and he grinds up into you through his jeans, making your breath catch.

You tug at his belt.

“Get these off.”

“Bossy,” he teases, undoing it with shaking hands. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

You help shove his jeans down, his boxers following. His cock springs free, thick, flushed, already leaking.

Your eyes widen and he smirks., “yeah? You like what you see?”

You wrap your hand around him and stroke once, slow.

Steve’s head drops back. “Oh—fuck—”

You lean in and kiss his throat while your hand works him, dragging your thumb through the slick at the tip.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the first time you pulled me against you for show,” you whisper. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

His grip on your hips tightens. “I did… but I didn’t know you wanted me back.”

You line him up, hovering over him.

“Find out.”

He sucks in a breath so sharp it sounds like pain.

Then you sink down onto him.

Slow. Stretching. Inch by inch.

Steve’s entire body locks. His hands seize your hips. He swears—low and broken—eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying not to explode right there.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight I can’t—”

You take him until your hips meet, both of you shaking.

You lean forward, lips brushing his ear. “You can move.”

He exhales shakily. “Baby… if I move right now, I’m gonna ruin you.”

“Do it anyway.”

He snaps.

His hands grip your ass and he guides you up his length, then slams you back down. The van rocks hard. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

“That—Steve—oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he pants. “Ride me just like that.”

You start moving to the best of your ability in the small space. Lifting, dropping, grinding—using him, taking everything he gives you. Steve’s eyes are glued to where your bodies meet, watching himself disappear into you again and again.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, thrusting up to meet you, “taking all of me like you were made for it.”

Your pace stutters. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He grabs your face and kisses you, filthy and wet. “I’m not stopping until you’re shaking.”

He flips you onto your back so fast you gasp. He mounts you, driving into you deeper than before. Hard, relentless, your thighs shaking around his hips.

Your moans echo in the van. His breath is hot and ragged against your neck. Skin slapping, bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with sex and desperation.

He presses a hand lightly around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, pinning you in place while he fucks into you.

“You feel so good,” you choke out.

“You’re gonna cum for me,” he pants. “Cum on my cock. Want to feel you clench around me.”

His fingers drop to your clit, rubbing fast, perfect, ruthless. Your hips lift off the seat, back arching.

“Steve—Steve—I’m close—”

“I know,” he growls, “C’mon babydoll, it to me.”

You break apart, screaming his name, body trembling violently as pleasure crashes through you. Your walls clamp around him so hard he swears, thrusting fast and sloppy, chasing his own release.

“Shit—shit—baby—” He pulls out just in time, stroking himself once before he comes all over your stomach, your hips, your thighs—hot, messy, thick.

He collapses down onto his hands above you, panting like he just ran a mile.

You’re both shaking.

He looks down, taking in the sight of you: legs spread, panting, covered in him, and groans again like he might get hard all over.

He leans down and kisses you slow, messy, devoted.

“I wasn’t pretending,” he murmurs against your lips. “Not once.”

You pull him into another kiss.

ogilvie blinks from across you. he runs a hand through his tousled hair and nods curtly. “oh,” he says faintly, internally freaking out because he was the top of his class at whatever school he went to and he wasn’t supposed to mess up.

you grin, knowing that feeling all too well. “hey, don’t get down on yourself. with time comes wisdom. you’ll get used to it.” you promise, giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder. you scribble something quick on the chart and hand it back to him before he scurries off.

you’re already turning back to the computer when you pat the counter beside you automatically, searching for something that isn’t there. your hand lands on the cold desk and you frown. “…damn.”

dana glances over. “what’s up, kid?” she tilts her head, looking above the top of her glasses.

“forgot my coffee this morning,” you sigh, already pulling up another chart. “i was already here before i realized.”

“rookie mistake.” she tsks, already looking up at the patient board again.

“i know,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “this shift might kill me.” you say casually, fingers clicking against the keyboard again.

three feet to your left, jack abbott hears every word. he’s leaning against the far counter pretending to review a chart he finished five minutes ago. his eyes lift the second you say forgot my coffee. he continues watching you—like always. you’re talking again now, explaining something to a student doctor javadi, gesturing with your pen, hair slightly messy from the start of a long shift. you laugh at something perlah says and the sound carries toward him.

jack used to feel guilty for observing you. it would curl up the nape of his neck and plant itself there every time he realized he’d been watching you for longer than necessary. you were one of the best residents he’d ever seen, so naturally, like any other attending, he kept an eye on you (even though you technically were under dr. robby). still, the first few times he caught himself leaning against a counter across the department, eyes following the way you moved from patient to patient, he’d look away immediately. like he’d been caught doing something he couldn’t quite justify.

now it’s just routine. jack walks into the department and his eyes find you automatically. across the room, down the hall, wherever you’ve planted yourself in the middle of the noise. he tells himself it’s habit. just keeping track of a resident. but the truth is simpler than that.

“abbott.” he looks over, snapping out of whatever trance overtook him. robby, his longtime friend and coworker, raises an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at her for like…three minutes. blink, brother.”

jack glances back at you. you’re still talking, still smiling, still completely unaware. “…was reading the chart,” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

robby snorts, fingers drumming against the tabletop. they’ve known each other long enough to call bullshit. “whatever keeps you going.”

jack sets the chart down with a huff and pushes off the counter. he taps his pocket, feeling the cold weight of his phone, and murmurs, “gonna make a call.”

robby stifles a laugh, shaking his head briefly before assisting dr. mckay with her patient.

~

about twenty minutes later, you’re halfway through typing a note when a paper coffee cup slides quietly into your line of sight. you pause, blinking like it’s a figment of your imagination, before looking up.

dr. jack abbott stands on the other side of the station, one hand braced on the counter, the other nudging the coffee toward you. he’s wearing a black scrub top that squeezes his juicy biceps, and acting pretty casually for someone who’s not supposed to be working yet.

your eyes flick between the cup and him. “did someone get this for me?” you ask, fluttering your lashes at him subconsciously.

jack stares at you. his mind runs blank. behind you, princess slowly swivels her chair to watch. jack drags a hand down his face. “yeah,” he says flatly. “somebody did.”

you nod thoughtfully. you should ask who or where it came from, but you’re running on fumes. “okay.” you pick up the coffee, pressing your lips against the lid and taking a generous sip. jack watches you drink it like a man waiting for a verdict, his finger tapping against his thigh. your shoulders relax instantly. you hum quietly. “this is really good.”

jack exhales through his nose. “glad you approve,” he murmurs, biting back a smirk. call him a creep, but he’s the only person in the department that can get your coffee order correct down to a T.

you finally glance up again, eyebrows lifting like you’ve only just remembered he exists. “wait,” you say. “you’re here early.”

jack tilts his head slightly, pursing his lips. “that bother you?” his voice is lower than before, causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

“no,” you say quickly, ignoring the tingly sensation in your stomach. truth be told, you’re never bothered to see him. “you just usually come in later.”

he shrugs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. it’s a losing battle to keep your eyes on his. “couldn’t sleep.”

dana snorts from behind you, shaking her head while dialing a number on the phone. she bites her tongue, choosing peace for once. jack doesn’t take his eyes off of you, ignoring dana’s antics entirely.

you groan sympathetically. “that’s the worst. i always have melatonin with me if you need it.”

jack’s mouth twitches. a flush forms from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. still, his gaze stays glued on you. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

with a smile, you turn back to the computer, already clicking through charts again, and attempting to calm your nerves. you grip the poor coffee cup, hoping jack doesn’t notice your skin is hot to the touch.

finally, he begrudgingly leaves to assist on a patient down the hall. when he’s out of sight, dana, who stands besides you, leans closer. “you know he bought that for you, right?”

you frown at your chart. “abbot?” you glance up at her, brows furrowed. she nods her head, widening her eyes like ‘wasn’t it obvious?’ you glance over your shoulder toward the hallway he disappeared down. “yeah, but he’s just nice. he’d do it for anyone.” you insist, scratching the top of your head.

dana stares at you like she’s trying to solve a complex neurological condition. “sure…” she finally says.

you just shrug, taking another sip of your coffee because that has to be the reason. right? why else would he buy you the coffee? you close your eyes, shaking the thoughts out of your head because…no way. meanwhile, somewhere down the hall, jack abbott is absolutely losing his mind.

{ TWO }

hour five is always the worst, in your opinion. close enough to the middle of your shift that you should feel motivated, but not quite there. not enough to push you through. just enough time for the exhaustion to settle in your bones and stay.

you’re in bay four with a chart tucked under your arm. the elderly woman on the stretcher looks small under the hospital blanket, silver hair falling loose around her shoulders. her ankle is already swelling beneath the thin sheet and she keeps apologizing every few seconds for something that wasn’t her fault.

“hey,” you murmur gently, crouching slightly so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see you. “no apologies. gravity gets the best of all of us.”

she laughs softly at that. “i tripped on the rug,” she explains again. “my daughter keeps telling me to get rid of it.” her lips pull downward as she continues. “but it’s just so beautiful.”

you nod while carefully pressing along her ankle, fingers gentle but firm as you check for tenderness. “nothing wrong with enjoying art,” you say lightly. your thumb presses along the swollen joint and she winces just a little. you soften your touch immediately. “even if it occasionally decides to fight back.” she smiles in response.

behind you, jack stands close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours when you shift. robby got pulled into something more serious ten minutes ago, and jack (who once again is here before the start of his shift) stepped in without much explanation besides a quiet, i’ll help you with this one. you didn’t question it.

jack watches the way you explain each movement before you touch the patient. the way your voice softens slightly when she winces. the way your hands move with that careful confidence that only comes from repetition. you’re good at this. he already knew that, but still.

“alright,” you say after a moment, straightening slightly. “i’m gonna order an x-ray just to be safe, okay?”

the woman nods, commenting something about you being a doll. then, her eyes flick between you and jack. a slow smile spreads across her face. “aren’t you two just the sweetest together.” you both freeze. “such a nice couple,” she continues warmly. “working side by side like that.”

your brain stutters. “oh-” you start, laughing nervously. jack’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t flinch. you shoot him a quick look before turning back to the patient. “we’re not-”

the woman waves her hand dismissively. “no need to explain, dear.”

jack lets out a quiet chuckle behind you. it’s low and amused and extremely unhelpful. you clear your throat, suddenly very focused on the color of your pen ink. “we just work together.”

the woman hums like she heard you and chose not to believe it. well,” she says sweetly, glancing at jack, “he looks at you very nicely.”

your face heats instantly. you pretend to adjust the blanket around her ankle so you don’t have to respond. jack goes very still beside you. the room stays quiet for a beat before you say, a little too brightly, “okay! we’ll get that x-ray and see what’s going on.”

you scribble something on the chart and step toward the door. jack follows. the second you’re out in the hallway, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath. “oh my god.” jack laughs softly in response. you glance at him. “you could’ve said something.”

“about what.” he feigns innocence.

“the couple thing.”

jack shrugs, hands slipping casually into the pockets of his scrub pants. “didn’t seem necessary.”

you stare at him. your eyes are wide and mouth agape. “it was embarrassing.”

jack tilts his head slightly, studying you for a second longer than necessary. then he says, voice low and teasing, “i didn’t mind playing your boyfriend for a few minutes.”

your brain stalls. you stare at him like he spoke a different language. jack watches the exact moment the words land. the faint color climbing up your neck. the way the floor tiles suddenly call your attention. his mouth curves slightly.

you clear your throat once again. he definitely didn’t mean it like that. jack abbot is many things, including a vigorous flirt. he’s just trying to fluster you. “i’m sure you’d do it for anyone,” you say weakly, turning toward the nurses’ station, “i-i,” cough, “have to, to go do something.”

jack moves to the side, motioning for you to walk. “go ahead,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling.

{ THREE }

the ambulance bay doors swing shut behind you with a hollow metallic clang. outside, the air is colder than it looked through the glass. it slips straight through the thin fabric of your scrubs, raising goosebumps along your arms almost instantly. your hands brace against the cool metal railing and you stare out into the dark parking lot like it might answer the questions still bouncing around your head.

the case had gone bad fast. too fast. one minute the patient had been talking. the next minute the room filled with voices and hands and alarms screaming over each other. someone calling for another unit of blood. someone else pushing meds. robby barking orders across the bed. you’d done everything right.

your shift ended an hour ago. by now, you should’ve been cuddled up with a hot cup of tea and your favorite fluffy socks and maybe a nice book. but after…that…you couldn’t leave. you offered to help the transition into the night shift and assist with some cases. it was enough to keep your mind off of it until now.

your jaw tightens. you take another slow breath, trying to push the noise out of your head. the ambulance bay door opens again behind you, but you don’t have the strength to turn around. heavy footsteps approach, steady and familiar, until someone stops beside you.

jack rests his forearms on the railing beside you. for a second, neither of you speak. he glances sideways, taking a deep breath. the brisk air burns his throat. you’re staring straight ahead, shoulders tense, lips pressed together like you’re trying very hard not to let the thoughts spill out.

jack knows that look. he’s spent way too long memorizing it. “hey,” he says quietly, bumping his shoulder against yours. you hum in response, which is about the most energy you can spare. jack watches you for another moment. “you did good in there.”

you shake your head slightly, inhaling sharply. “we lost him.”

jack sighs, nodding. “sometimes we do.”

you stare harder at the parking lot. “that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.” you mutter, tears pooling at your waterline.

that pulls the faintest huff of a laugh out of him. “yeah,” he says. “that’s the official medical term.” you shake your head, a small smile threatening at the corner of your mouth before it disappears again.

the wind picks up slightly. you shift your weight. jack’s eyes fall to your arms. they’re crossed loosely over your stomach, bumps covering every inch of skin. your shoulders hunch just a little to tell that you’re shivering. he straightens slightly. “hold on.” he says with a tight-lipped smile.

you glance at him. “wha-” but he’s already pushing off the railing before you can finish. you watch him disappear back through the ambulance bay doors with a small frown. he probably got sick of watching you mope. you scoff, kicking yourself mentally because he’s the chief attending and you’re standing here burdening him with your emotional issues.

about a minute later the door swings open again. jack steps back outside to find you in the same position as before. this time, something dark is slung over his arm. you blink as he walks back over and holds it out. a gray zip-up sweatshirt lies in his extended hands.

you stare at it, not moving. “what’s this?” you ask, even though it’s pretty obvious. you’ve never seen him wear the fabric. you’ve only watched him saunter through the automatic doors, eyes intense, and sweatshirt in his hand as he prepares for the night shift.

jack lifts an eyebrow, motioning his hand toward you. “take it.” his voice is low and raspy.

you hesitate. “i’m fine.”

jack gives you a look. the kind that clearly says you’re absolutely not fine. “you’re shivering.” he simply states.

you glance down at your arms like you only just noticed. “…maybe a little.” your hands rub up and down against your arms. jack doesn’t move. the sweatshirt stays extended toward you. after a second, you sigh and take it. “thanks.” when you pull it on, the scent of musky cologne and him fill your senses. you breathe deeper, the smell like a drug. your brain catches up a bit later. “wait—are you gonna be cold?”

jack snorts quietly. “i’ll survive.”

you zip it up the rest of the way, the sleeves a little long over your hands. you fold your arms again, but this time it’s inside the sweatshirt. “thanks,” your voice is softer.

jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “don’t get used to it.”

you glance sideways at him. “you’re very grumpy for someone doing something nice.”

“i’m always grumpy.”

“debatable.”

jack looks at you. his eyes bore into yours, memorizing every detail he can of you. your shoulders have relaxed slightly. the tight line between your brows is gone. mission accomplished. “you should go home now.” he starts softly. “the day shift is all gone and we can handle the rest from here.” he urges.

after a moment, you clear your throat and nod. “i’ll bring this back tomorrow.”

he shakes his head. “keep it.” he says it like it’s no big deal. like he’s not your boss and he’s not lending you a sweatshirt in an oddly intimate way. before you can argue, he says, “you forget things,” he’s already turning toward the door. “figure this way you’ve got a spare.”

you stare at him and just laugh. “that seems like a terrible system.” your shoulders move as you giggle. after the night you’ve had, this is the funniest scenario ever.

jack glances back over his shoulder. his mouth curves slightly. “works for me.” he disappears back inside before you can respond. you stand there for another moment, wrapped in his sweatshirt, staring at the ambulance bay doors.

your fingers curl into the sleeves, fabric bunching around your hands, still warm from him. it sits heavier on your shoulders than it should. you exhale slowly, shaking your head to yourself, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips.

he’s probably just used to this. used to residents stepping out after bad cases, quiet and shaken and trying to hold it together. used to knowing exactly what to say, what to do. how to fix it just enough to get you back on your feet.

you huff out a soft breath, pushing yourself off the railing. “yeah,” you murmur under your breath, already turning toward the doors. “he’s just good at his job.”

{ + ONE }

the bar is loud. a different type of loud than you’re used to. instead of the sharp, frantic noise of the ER, it’s the warmth of conversation and light jokes. robby makes a toast, glasses clink, and drinks are tipped back. the day shift claimed a long stretch of tables near the back. someone dragged two together at some point. chairs are half pulled out, people shifting and talking over each other like no one’s had a full thought all day and now they finally can.

you’re next to samira with one leg tucked under your chair, and your drink sweating in your hand. “i’m telling you,” samira says, covering her mouth to giggle before she even gets the words out. “dr. robby is hot.”

you gasp, choking on your drink before barking out in laughter. “i mean…i can see it.” you say quietly. she raises an eyebrow. you pause. “ok…of course he is.” you rephrase. “he’s just not my usual type.”

beside you, perlah and princess chuckle, pretending that they aren’t eavesdropping.

“what you mean is,” samira takes a swig of her drink before finishing. “he’s not jack abbot.”

you swear you almost drop your glass. “keep your voice down!” you hiss, looking over both shoulders to see if anyone heard.

“it’s not like it’s a secret!” she argues, barely containing her laughter. “you both like each other and you’re both too dense to see it.”

“i would know if someone liked me.” you insist, swirling your straw around in your glass. the ice cubes clink with each stir.

she rolls her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “yet, you’re the only one who doesn’t.” she huffs out a laugh, shaking her head.

the conversation shifts again after that. someone across the table starts complaining about charting, whittaker gets louder, joy says something dry that makes half the table go quiet for a second before laughing. this is the part of the job makes everything else feel worth it.

you’re sitting quiet, listening to the chatter of samira and the occasional arguments of the med-students when a cool breeze brings goosebumps in its wake. you shiver, peaking over your shoulder.

jack abbott steps inside, pausing just past the threshold. he wasn’t planning on coming. it’s his night off. he told himself he’d stay home for once, maybe get a decent night’s sleep. maybe do something that didn’t revolve around the hospital. then robby mentioned called and drinks. then mentioned you’d be there, and here he is.

he scans the room once, finding you easily. he almost physically stumbles when he processes you. you’re laughing at something samira said, head tipped slightly back, hair down around your shoulders instead of tied up like it always is. you traded your scrubs for a pair of jeans and a simple top that fit you in a way that should be illegal.

jack exhales slowly. right. this was a mistake. he runs a hand over the back of his neck, debating turning around and walking right back out. instead, he straightens slightly and makes his way over. he doesn’t go to you first. mostly because he’s nervous and he’s sporting a semi-hard that needs to go down.

he stops by the end of the table, nodding at everyone, and engaging in conversation with robby. dana gives him a knowing look that he pointedly ignores. “thought you had the night off,” she says, blatantly interrupting robby.

“i do.” he crosses his arms.

“and yet.” dana motions to the room and where he stands.

jack shrugs, casual. “heard there were drinks.” dana hums like she doesn’t believe him for a second. she glances past him, toward you, and then back. jack pretends not to notice. he lingers there longer than necessary, letting himself get pulled into the edge of a conversation he’s not really listening to. how could he listen when you’re there looking like that?

he’s aware of you in a way that hinders his ability to interact. the sound of your voice cutting through the noise. the way you gesture when you talk. the way you lean into samira, laughing at something under your breath. he drags his gaze away, but it always comes back. he’s metal being pulled into your magnetic field.

finally, he pushes off from the end of the table. he circles the group until he’s right behind you. he can hear you clearly now, even smell your perfume.

“you always this loud?” he asks, voice cutting cleanly into your conversation, “or is this a special occasion?”

you freeze. samira’s eyes go wide for half a second before she bites her lip to keep from laughing. slowly—slowly—you turn your head. up close, he looks even better than he did from across the room. you can see his features clearly. the stubble beard he bother shaving, his salt and peppered curls, and that hardened look that always melts you. could he be anymore perfect?

your brain stutters. “i’m not loud,” you retort, which is immediately a lie.

jack raises an eyebrow. “no?” he asks, voice low, amused. “could’ve fooled me.”

samira lets out a quiet snort beside you. you shoot her a look before turning back to him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “maybe you’re just eavesdropping.”

“maybe you’re just easy to overhear.”

you open your mouth, then close it. you can barely breathe the way he’s still looking at you, never mind forming coherent sentences. you swallow. “what are you doing here?” you ask, tone lower.

jack shrugs, one hand settling on the back of your chair. your back brushes his fingers when you lean closer. “thought i’d see what you all look like outside the hospital.”

your stomach flips. samira makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like oh my god. “and?” you ask, lifting your chin slightly. “what’s the verdict?”

jack’s gaze drags over you in an antagonizing slow manner. it starts at your face, and dips before coming back up. your breath catches.

he hums. “undecided.”

samira chokes on her drink. “i need another round,” she blurts, already sliding out of her seat. she grabs princess and perlah by the wrist and drags the with her before you can even process what just happened.

traitors.

you’re suddenly very aware of the empty chairs beside you, and the fact that jack doesn’t move away. if anything, he moves closer. “so,” you say, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the way your heart is picking up speed. “night off?”

“yeah.”

“and you chose to spend it here.”

“seems that way.”

you huff a quiet laugh, glancing down at your drink (because if you don’t you’ll stare at him arms). “we’re honored.”

jack’s mouth twitches. “you should be.” he lowers his voice to a gruff sound. that has to be his bedroom voice, you think. you look back up at him, rolling your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

he watches you for a second longer than necessary before finally dropping into the chair samira abandoned like it was always his. your knee brushes his and neither of you move. you take a sip of your drink just to give your hands something to do. jack doesn’t look away. he leans back slightly in his chair, one arm draped behind you like it belongs there.

you clear your throat. “so,” you say, glancing at him, “you just haunt bars on your nights off now?”

jack huffs quietly. “only the ones you’re in.”

your brain trips over itself for half a second. you recover fast. mostly. “that’s…concerning.”

“yeah,” he nods. “i’ve been told.”

you shake your head, trying not to smile into your drink. the liquor warms your throat, giving you some much needed confidence. neither of you move. you glance down at your glass again, tracing the rim with your finger. “they’re short on night shift,” you say after a second. “again.”

jack’s attention sharpens. he notes the way your voice lowers. you don’t want anyone else at the table to hear. “yeah,” he nods, pouring himself a beer from the pitcher on the table. “we are.”

you look up at him through your lashes and he has to adjust his pants. you stall, questioning if this is the right time or place to talk about this. finally, you exhale. “i was thinking about maybe switching over for a bit,” you continue, shrugging one shoulder. “just temporarily. try something different.”

almost immediately, he replies, “you should.”

you blink, stifling a laugh. “that was fast.”

he doesn’t even try to backtrack. “you’d be good over there.”

you tilt your head slightly. “you don’t even know what i’d be like on nights.”

“yeah, i do.”

your brows lift. “you’ve never seen me on nights.”

“don’t need to.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to calm yourself. you feel tingly all over. “you’re very confident.” you say, avoiding eye contact with him.

“i’m usually right.”

“debatable.”

“not about this.” there’s a quiet certainty in his voice that makes it hard to brush off.

you shift slightly in your seat. “i just-” you sigh. “i don’t know how robby’s gonna feel about it. i feel like he’s gonna think i’m abandoning day shift or something.” you ramble. “and-”

jack leans forward now, thick forearms resting on the table. “robby won’t be mad at you,” he interrupts with no room for discussion.

you glance at him. “you say that like you speak for him.”

“i’ve known him longer than you,” jack replies easily. “he’s not gonna hold you back.” you nod slowly, but your not convinced. “he likes you,” jack adds.

your lips twitch. “he likes everyone.”

jack shakes his head slightly. “he admires you.” he corrects himself.

your eyes flick back to his. there’s something in his tone that makes your chest tighten again. you look down quickly. “i just don’t want it to be weird,” you say, softer now.

jack watches you for a second. then leans in just a little more. “it won’t be,” he says. he’s close enough that you can feel his breath fanning against your skin. your breath catches. after a moment, he straightens again. “we can talk more about it over dinner.” he states in a matter of fact tone.

you nearly choke. your brain tries to file that under professional—it doesn’t match. “…what?”

jack’s mouth curves slightly. “dinner,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. like you’re the one lagging behind.

you stare at him. that didn’t sound like just a friendly request. your heart starts picking up. “like…with the team?” you ask, clinging to logic.

jack’s gaze doesn’t waver. “no.”

your stomach drops. “…just us?”

“that’s usually how dates go, no?” he smirks. there’s no hesitation.

everything clicks at once. the realization flashes across your eyes in series of memories. the coffee, the sweatshirt, the way he shows up early, and the way he watches you like you’re the only thing in the room. your breath catches. “you’re asking me on a date?” you ask like you had to say it out loud for it to process.

jack’s smile deepens. “took you long enough.”

your heart stutters. “wait-” you sit up straighter, staring at him. “you’re serious?”

jack leans in slightly, voice low. “i asked you to dinner.”

your pulse jumps. “i thought you meant like talking about the shift-”

“we can talk about the shift,” he nods, taking a sip of his glass. his eyes flick down to your lips for a split second before coming back up. “doesn’t have to be the only thing.”

oh.

oh.

your face heats. you look away, then back, like you don’t know where to land. “you’ve been-” you shake your head slightly, almost laughing. “this whole time?”

“pretty much.”

you huff out a disbelieving breath. “i thought you were just-” you stop yourself.

jack raises an eyebrow. “just what.”

you groan, dropping your head into your hand for a second. “i don’t know…normal.”

that actually makes him laugh real low. “this is me being normal?”

you peek at him. “apparently not.” you lower your hand slowly, looking at him again. your heart is still racing, but you don’t hate it. “you’re bold,” you say quietly.

jack’s mouth curves. “only when it counts.”

your stomach twists again. you shake your head slightly, smiling despite yourself. “and you just assumed i’d say yes?”

“no.” he shrugs simply.

the honesty catches you off guard. “then why ask?”

jack holds your gaze. “because i wanted to.” he murmurs. “figured you were worth the risk.”

you stare at him for a second longer, tilting your head like it might help you figure him out better. “…ok.” it slips out before you can overthink it.

jack tilts his head slightly. “ok?”

you nod, a little more certain now. “yes, i’ll go out with you.”

a boyish grin takes over his face. it may have taken months of what he thought was obvious flirting, hundreds spent on overpriced coffees, and more self-control than he’d ever admit out loud, but he got there. now you’re sitting in front of him, cheeks warm, eyes a little wide, finally seeing him the way he’s been seeing you all along.

You pick your head up, slamming your locker door shut, whipping your body around, throwing yourself into the chaos of the E.R.

I miss you, you think, shaking your head as you shove up your sleeves, donning plastic gloves as you get straight to work.

He had the nerve, the gall, to text you at 7 pm on a Thursday to tell you he misses you. The thought burns hot in your chest, a brand to your heart.

You don't have much time to dwell on it though, as you're prepped for your first patient by Dana, who's eyes linger on your sweatshirt a moment too long. Your cheeks heat under her gaze.

It's only forty minutes into your shift when your phone vibrates for the first time. You stop briefly in your tracks, your hand pausing on the blood pressure pump at the ticklish buzz.

You shake your head, a shiver running down your spine at the expectant looks from the patient and Dana alike. "Sorry," you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut.

Tears prick behind your lids, your stomach a tornado of emotion. After a deep inhale and a sharp exhale, you snap your head up, eyes finding the numbers labeled on the tiny screen. You read them off nonchalantly, burying yourself behind the charting station to buy a brief moment of privacy. You swipe away the stray tear that's fallen from your eye and keep typing.

The second call happens right after lunch time. You're finishing up a bandaging of a gracious older gentlemen when you feel it. It rattles in your scrubs, and you nearly jump at the sensation.

You struggle to keep your best smile as you see him back to chairs, before you scurry into the corner, using the briefest moment of reprieve to open your phone. You knew what to expect when you pulled it out, but it really didn't prepare you to really see it.

Michael

It flashes on your screen like a warning, your heart sinking at the confirmation. You bite your lip, glancing around before swiping your thumb across the screen, turning your back to the rest of the E.R.

"What?" You grit out through clenched teeth.

"Oh!" Is the first thing you hear. It's a surprised noise, like he can't believe you picked up. You roll your eyes.

"Shouldn't you be working?" Is the next thing that comes out of his mouth, and the stupidity of it weighs heavy through the line.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Robinavitch?" You hiss, rage flowing like lava in your veins.

"Right, right. You're not working because I keep contacting you. I'm sorry," he says, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you strive not to break your resolve.

"What do you want?" You murmur, patience running thinner by the minute.

"I just- I want to talk to you, and I just couldn't wait, and I know this is a bad idea because you're in the middle of your work day, and now I regret this-"

"Really? Now you regret it?" You snap, not even waiting for a response before hanging up on him.

You whip around, strutting back into the department with a force that nearly knocks Dana over. Embarrassment burns through you as you reach your arms out to steady her, sputtering out an apology.

"Hey, it's not a big deal, sweetheart," she says, putting her hands out to calm you.

You take a step back, taking a deep breath. You let it flow out through your lips, a brush of air that has her brow quirking.

"You alright, kid? You've seemed off all day," she crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes flitting to the sweatshirt now tied around your waist.

"I'm fine," you lie through your teeth, forcing a smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

"Good," she says, turning slowly on her heel, her gaze training on the gray piece of fabric you've clung to for almost two weeks.

The third call comes in around 4 pm. You'd just finished a physically debilitating CPR on a patient, ultimately losing her on the table. It stops you in your tracks for the third time that day, and at this point, your patience has run out.

You storm into the ambulance bay, tucking yourself behind a shrub, foolishly answering his call once again.

"What?" you grit out, spitting venom through your teeth.

"I'm so sorry. I know you're rightfully furious with me, I just- please let me talk," he blurts out.

You audibly exhale, popping a hand on your hip and rolling your eyes.

"What the hell do you want?" You mutter, completely monotone this time.

The line is silent then, and you can just barely make out the little shocked gasp that falls from his mouth. You make a show of checking a pretend watch, even if he's not here to see it. If he were, he'd tell you to 'quit it with the dramatics, pretty one.' The thought of his low, gravely voice makes your tummy twist.

You close your eyes, trying to assemble at least a fraction of your composure, squeezing your legs tight together to bury the burn blooming between them.

"I'm gonna hang up, Michael," you say, annoyance lacing your tone as you pull your phone away from your face.

Before you can hit the little red button, you hear him shout out, "Wait, wait wait!"

You close your eyes again, inhaling sharply, pressing your phone to your ear all the same.

"What, Michael? Seriously, I'm getting pissed off. This is affecting my job. Which is just as important as yours," you grumble that last part, a bitter callback to your conversation a month and a day ago.

You can practically feel his wince over the line, "I know, I'm sorry s-"

You hear him stop himself, a delicate 'sweetheart' hanging off the tip of his tongue.

"I'm sorry," he starts again, accompanied by a heavy sigh. "I just have to tell you how sorry I am."

"What," you scoff, "it only took you a month to completely heal, no therapist, and realize how big of a dick you are?"

A sardonic chuckle rolls off his tongue on the other end, and you can practically hear his fingers running through his hair. It was his go to move in those last few weeks, before he left.

"No, I-" he stops himself halfway through the frustration, and this gives you some pause.

Before he left, he so quickly leaned into his frustration, allowing it to take over. He clears his throat, and your heart skips a beat.

"I'm better here," he starts. "I feel better, I'm eating, I'm sleeping. I'm thinking a lot. It's not all bad for the first time in a long time."

Your heart beats rapidly, a galactic rush of rage and love swirling through you. Your brain floods with any and every response, I'm sorry, I love you, I can't stand you, I want to kill you, I want to kiss you. They swirl around your head like little birds in a cartoon.

"Would you like a round of applause?" You spit out, the only thought you could verbalize. I can't stand you won this time.

"Yes, actually. Standing ovation, perhaps," he quips, and it startles a chuckle out of you. All of a sudden, it feels so normal again., laughing with him. I love you creeps in then. But then it clicks, and you zip your lips tight.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry. I know that's not enough, but I just want you to know that I'm sorry, and I'm trying again. That's where I'm at right now," he says, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

Your stomach clutches at his words, a mascara laden tear trickling down your face. You're not sure what to do with this. I want to kiss you. I want to kill you.

"Okay, Robby," you croak, "I don't know if I forgive you. There's where I'm at right now."

"Okay," he says after a long, dreadful pause. It's broken, and rattles around in your hollow chest like a pinball. "I understand," he adds. "I just wanted you to know. Take the time you need. I'm sorry, again."

It's the last thing he says before he hangs up, and your resolve finally cracks.

You practically fall back onto the ledge supporting the bush you're hiding behind, the privacy allowing you the space to just cry. You bite your lip, focusing on the ground beneath you to will them away.

You focus on the little dots your tears make in the sidewalk, watching how they spread out around each other like snowflakes. Your bottom lip trembles, your heart twists inside you- a wet rag being wrung out to dry.

Your arms wrap around yourself, desperate for any kind of comfort as you try and regulate. You have patients in there that need you, you have colleagues in there that need you. There's a man in Alberta who seems to need you too, though it didn't seem like it a month ago. The thought of it makes you sick.

You flinch at the soft schliff of a pack of cigarettes opening, and you turn to find Dana, an already lit one in her mouth, offering you one of your own. You shake your head, a small smile on your face as you sit up taller.

"Had a feeling. 'S why I brought ya this," she reveals an energy drink in her other hand, and this has you perking up the rest of the way.

You roll your shoulders back, shimmying out the sadness. It's a strategy she taught you your first year as a nurse at PTMC. Oftentimes our burdens at this job feel physical. Shimmy them off, and you realize it's just mental. You wish it worked for matters of the heart, but you're not so lucky.

She smiles with pride nonetheless, and it helps pick you up just a little. You crack the drink, the fizzy, fruity taste dancing on your tongue.

"Thank you, Dana," you mutter, still not ready to meet her gaze.

You guys take a moment, feeling the fresh breeze, relishing in the chaos of the ambulance bay. The silence turns heavy when you feel her gaze fall onto you, her pointed glare burning a hole through your head.

"It's too much," you mutter, shaking your head, gaze fixating on the horizon. "Him being gone, I can't handle it."

"Thought I recognized that hoodie," she says, a light chuckle spilling from her lips. You hang your head between your knees at that comment, embarrassment creeping up your neck like a spider.

"He left me," you say, and you can hear her neck snap as she whips her head towards you. "Before he left. He called it off."

"That fucking prick…" she scoffs, taking a long drag of her cigarette.

She fishes around in her pocket next, handing you something else, a small card tucked between her fingers.

You take it, brows knit together. A small white Airbnb card reflects an etched illustration of a cabin next to an adress you've never seen before. One thing does stick out, though: Alberta, Canada.

It's your turn to whip your head up, eyes wide and desperate to communicate everything on your mind- is this what I think it is? Why are you doing this? How long do I have to go see him?

She nods, jerking her head toward the parking lot. "Go."

-

The flight is long. After a grueling seven hours sandwiched between stops and layovers, you're finally rolling your suitcase up a narrow walkway. It leads to a cabin, identical to the one on the card Dana gave you. You pull it out of your pocket, making sure for good measure, and knock on the door.

You hear rumbling behind the door, the shuffling of slippered feet. Your heart aches at the thought of him in there, cozy and sleep mussed hair, and hopefully at peace, even just a little bit.

The door swings open, and nothing could have prepared you for seeing him again. He's different. Calmer, the storm inside him weathered ever so slightly. His tired eyes seem to glimmer just a bit, a soft sigh leaving his lips at the sight of you.

It's quiet for a long, tedious moment as you take each other in. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, face burning as he studies you. It hurts at first, taking in all the little differences that you'd missed out on- deeper lines decorating his eyes, even more gray littering his beard.

What gets you the most is his soft, peaceful smile, a certain warmth back in his eyes. They pierce through you- adoration and regret and nerves swirling through his honey brown gaze.

"Hi," you whisper, the word puffing out into the air before you. You swallow thickly, mouth dry with anticipation.

"Hi," he responds.

Your eyes move lower, then, registering the soft robe hanging off his frame, his white t-shirt and loose sweatpants. They hang low on his hips, and your body moves before your brain.

You step over the threshold, grip his face in your hands, and kiss him.

The taste of his lips is intoxicating, flooding through you like a tsunami. He brings you in close with one hand, shutting the door with the other. The flat of his palm against your back weakens your knees, and you fall into him further.

He grips both of his big arms underneath your thighs, hoisting you up to wrap your legs around his waist.

There's no talking, just soft smacks and whimpers and whines. They fall from your lips, they always have when you're with him.

Your stomach swirls with the heat of his touch, liquid and thick. Your nails scrape the back of his neck, and he shivers against you. The movement startles you, a small gasp leaving your lips.

You part slightly, your eyes catching each other for the first time since you'd crossed his front door. Michael rears his head back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours. He smooths his palm through your hair, pressing kisses along your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, finally finding your lips again.

"Michael-" you groan out, writhing against him.

"I know, baby. I know," he responds, following it up with one, two, three sweet kisses to your puckered lips.

"What do you need? How can I give it to you?" He asks, hands skimming up and down your back, lips sliding over your face.

Your heart stops at his questions, asked with a gentleness he's never before reserved for you. You freeze in his arms, resting your weight against him. Your hands grip his biceps as you try to process this new version of Robby- kind and calm and gentle. There's no rush, no shame, no self loathing. It's disarming.

"What is it? Are you okay?" His eyes search frantically for any sign of harm.

"Yeah, honey. Yeah, I'm okay," you say, snapping out of your pause. "I just-" you cut yourself off with a wry chuckle. "You're different already."

"Different?" He asks, a brow shooting up toward his hairline.

"It's good. You seem at peace," you whisper, inching your face slightly closer.

"Maybe just a little," he replies bashfully. "I told you I've been sleeping."

He seeps his fingers into your hair at this, pulling you closer and kissing you again.

This one is deep, intense, and paired with a journey to his bedroom. He's carrying you in his big arms, dark eyes watching you intently as he lays you down on the bed.

You snuggle into the white sheets, feeling at home beneath him. He kisses the tip of your nose, pinching the plump skin on your side in affection. You giggle, and he kisses you again.

"How'd you get even more beautiful?" He asks, his large hand reaching beneath your sweatshirt. Goosebumps bloom in the wake of his fingertips, and you shiver as they grace your ribcage.

"I missed you," you whisper, your kisses growing frantic, desperate the more he touches you. "I missed this. So fucking much."

"I know, baby," he says, sliding your top off, then his. "You don't even know how many times I've touched myself, pretending it was you."

"Yeah?" You whine, fiddling with the waist band of his sweatpants. He nods, and you lean forward to kiss him gently.

"Yeah," he whispers against your lips. "Never as good as you, though."

This unleashes butterflies loose in your stomach- the thought of him here, all alone, touching his cock and thinking of you has you nearly delirious.

"Same here," you admit, batting your lashes at him. "Could never reach as far inside of me as you can. Couldn't make myself cum like you can."

The last of his resolve crumbles at this, and he hoists your hips up, peeling your leggings off your lower frame. He stands on his knees to take you in- your bare chest heaving up and down, the thick of your thighs touching as you attempt to hide the damp spot on your panties.

His gaze ignites your belly, his eyes burning a path into your skin as he studies you. He bites his lip, shaking his head incredulously.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he leans his weight over you, taking his lips in yours again. "Fucking perfect. Needed this so bad, I'm so fucking sorry."

His mouth is moving ahead of his mind, you can tell by the unbridled truth spilling out. You don't mind, though. You will later, mentally bookmarking the conversation you need to have in the morning. Right now, though, the only thing you can think of is the hard weight in his boxers.

Your nails scrape a trail down his hips as you pull them down. He lurches into you at the touch, a groan ripping from his chest with a force that has you gasping, lifting your legs around his waist, and pulling him as close to you as you can.

He falls gracelessly, lips sloppily sliding against yours. His fingers reach down to your center, rubbing you with ease. The familiar burning churns in your stomach, rumbling like the beginning of a storm.

He slides in a finger, cooing at your whine, pressing a kiss to your temple. You whimper, clenching down on him as he works you open.

"Jesus," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss on your temple, your cheek, your jaw. "You're so fucking tight. This is only one finger, you poor thing," his thumb rubs your clit and you keen into his touch.

He slides in another finger, and you whine. He laughs sardonically, and kisses your lips. Your back arches, your breasts flattening under the weight of his chest.

"Feels good," you mutter, eyes falling closed. He kisses the apples of your cheeks, where your lashes meet them.

"Good," he remarks, a smirk taking over his lips. His fingers press in relentlessly, hitting your most sensitive spots over and over.

You flop back onto the bed when your orgasm hits, and he wrings it out of you with such delicate precision. Your eyes squeeze shut, a long moan falling from your lips.

He kisses you as he continues to work his fingers, thumb still circling your clit. You shiver, burying your face in his neck.

"Good job," he coos, pressing kisses to the sweaty skin of your neck. "You're so good, missed you so much."

You whine at his words, clawing at his chest. "I missed you too," you nearly wail, lips forming into a sweet pout. He kisses it off.

He stands up on his knees then, lining himself up with your entrance. Your legs are open wide, your right lifting to rest your foot on the bed. His hand grips the skin of your inner thigh, hitching it against his hip as he slides in.

You throw your head back at the intrusion, rocking your hips to get more of him.

"Careful," he whispers, "don't want it to hurt."

"I don't care," you wail. "I want it all. It's been too long, I need it so much."

He pins your thrashing hips down, using the leverage to sink in further. He reaches the hilt, and the fullness leaves you delirious. Your head is spinning, heat radiating through your stomach.

"Oh God, Michael," a sob rips out of your chest as you claw at him. You rake your nails up and down his back, over his shoulders, down his chest and stomach.

He shivers the lower you get, jerking his hips even further into you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, pleasure swimming deep in your belly. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a firm kiss to his lips as he moves in and out, in and out.

The coil in your stomach winds tighter, and tighter, and tighter. You let him know, whimpering a small 'gonna come' against his neck.

"Go ahead, sweet girl," he coos, linking your fingers together. He lets out a hiss as you tighten around him. "You can come."

You kiss him deeply then, scraping your nails through his scalp.

"God," he shivers, "you're insane, baby." He shakes his head, chuckling incredulously. "Perfect body, you feel so fucking good. I'm so lucky, y'know that? So fucking lucky that you give me this gorgeous pussy."

You gasp, covering your face with your hands at his words. They swirl deep within you, flurrying like snowflakes. He hits a spot, deep within you, and the band finally snaps.

Your back arches as you come undone, your own release triggering his. You can feel him twitch inside you, a long groan ripping from his chest as he falls into you.

The feeling of his weight is intoxicating, you wrap your legs around him to keep him as close as possible. You shake and writhe against each other as you come down, chests breathing heavy together.

He presses his nose against yours, kissing you once, twice, three times before pulling out. You wince at the sudden emptiness, and he leans down to place a kiss on your aching clit.

You jump at the contact, a sharp pang of pleasure racing through you. He stands, reaching for his boxers and sliding them over his hips. You pout at his covering up, and he rolls his eyes, a reluctant smile on his lips.

He retreats to his bathroom, the water running behind the half cracked door. You twist in his white sheets, curling into the plush bed. You like Alberta Robby. You like him a lot.

He returns with a warm, wet washcloth, wiping you clean and pressing kisses to your thighs. He crawls up the length of your body, slotting his legs between yours again, kissing you, again,

"I love you," he murmurs against your lips.

You freeze, your heart stopping and dropping, deep into your stomach.

"What?" You breathe out, feeling like you've dropped on a roller coaster.

"I love you," he repeats, big brown eyes determined. "I know we have a lot to talk about. I have a lot to say, I'm sure you do, too. But for tonight, this is all I want to say."

You're breathless, and he becomes glossy above you. Your heart swells like a symphony, and you press a small kiss to his lips.

"I love you, too," you whisper, and he releases a strained breath. "I'm ready to talk, too. How's tomorrow over coffee sound?" You ask as he rolls off of you.

You flip on your side, wrapping your arm around his middle. You study his face, a smile widening on yours.

"Let me guess, I'm making the coffee?" He asks, a wry smile on his face.

"You're the best at it!" You insist, and he chuckles. "I don't know what you do, but it's perfect."

His chest shakes with his own laughter, and he presses a kiss to your head.

Frank is everywhere. His lips consume yours, large hands spanning your waist, the curve of your ass. The air is thick between you, your fingers lightly scraping against his stubble. It's prickly against your mouth. It's not enough to be rough, but a sweet sting instead. It moves to your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. He's insatiable, dragging his swollen lips over every inch of skin he can find.

His hand slips your cap sleeve down your shoulder, sinking his teeth in a light bite. You squeal, your hips hopping off his lap for a moment. He catches you, large hands holding you in place above him.

His long, dexterous fingers press into the plush of your skin, the pressure making you dizzy Your brows knit together, a small whine escaping your lips. You inch your face closer, trying desperately to capture his lips in yours once again.

He surprises you, ducking his head out of the way. Your jaw drops, huffing out a bratty exhale. He mocks you, his own jaw falling open, a small chuckle escaping. Your lips form into a petulant pout, which he kisses off.

He pulls back again, the intensity in his gaze completely swallowing the giggly butterflies of before. You have no choice but to stare back, jaw going slack at the sight of him- darkened blue eyes, mussed hair, kiss swollen lips.

You wiggle a little, trying your hardest to plop back down onto him. His grip tightens on your waist, and you whimper. He tuts in response, pinching the skin of your hip.

"Hey," he whispers, flipping a loose strand of hair out of his eye, "I wanna try something. Can we?"

"What-what is it?" You breathe, blood pumping, nerves swirling in your belly.

"Wanna taste you, 's that okay?" He asks, licking his lips at the thought.

You freeze, face going hot, body going rigid. He feels you, and it clicks immediately.

"What is it? You okay?" He asks, a shiver unzipping your spine.

"I just- I don't want to disappoint you…" you start, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

His brow furrows, and your finger pads the soft crease between them. "Disappoint me?" He breathes, incredulous. "How could you disappoint me?"

Your heart sinks, embarrassment creeping up your neck like a spider. Your gaze drops, focusing on your lap, still hovering above Frank's.

"I just-I don't really like it, is all," you admit, fiddling with your fingers.

"Like what?" He asks, cocking his head like a dog. "Wouldn't like it if I used my mouth on you? 'S that what you're saying to me?"

Your eyes fall closed, your lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks. A shiver runs down your spine, your face burning at the shame creeping up. You plop your face in your hands, a groan softly leaving your lips. You nod your head, confirming his suspicion.

"Hmm," he ponders, mouth twisted in that cute little way, "that's okay, honey. You never have to do anything you don't want to do. I just feel like there's more you're not telling me."

You grimace, because of course he noticed.

"I just-" you start, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. "Nobody's ever made me finish from it, is all. It's turned off almost every guy I've dated."

Tears burn the backs of your lids, eyes darting anywhere but Frank, whose grip on your waist tightens just slightly. Your heart leaps, despite the needy ache pounding through it.

You work up the courage to look up at him, his icy blue eyes squinted in concern. You bury your face in your hands, embarrassment burning through you.

"It's so embarrassing, I know. I get it if you don't want to, it's like there's something wrong with me-"

You're cut off by a quiet, sweet, 'shh,' his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrists. He pulls them down, softly smiling at the sight of you.

"You think there's something wrong with you?" He asks, tone soft yet neutral.

You nod, your chin dropping to your chest. He crooks a finger underneath it, pulling you back up to him once again.

"Stop hiding from me," he commands. "I want to see you."

Your stomach coils at his words, that need from before throbbing between your legs. You involuntarily roll your hips against his, his eyes falling shut at the contact.

He grips your waist with his hands, stopping your movements, a hiss escaping his lips at the loss of friction. You wiggle a bit in his hold. He just grips you tighter.

"Hey," he says firmly. "You're not getting out of this conversation, I know you want to."

Your face heats at his accusation, how he can read you so easily.

"I'm sorry," you mutter. "I just don't want it to change your mind, about this. About me."

Things with Langdon are still new, his first relationship post-divorce, your first since your asshole boyfriend dumped you last Valentine's Day. He's someone who's approval you'd sought since your first day in the ER, even after he came back after a long, ten months.

To be on his lap now, with him looking at you like you hung the stars and the moon, it's almost too much to handle. You're not sure what you did to deserve his care and attention.

"I'd never do that," he mutters, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

You melt into it, eyes squeezing shut, trying to drown out all the insecurities plaguing your mind.

"If you really don't want it, tell me, and I'll back off," he begins, eyes boring into you with the utmost seriousness. "But I want to taste you. I don't want to be deprived of that because some assholes before me didn't care enough to make you feel good."

His words light your skin on fire, goosebumps rising in their wake. You nod, eyes wide and pleading. He shakes his head at this.

"Nuh-uh," he taps your inner thigh, a sweet, mean scolding. "I need to hear it. What do you want?"

"I want you," you murmur, it's small and shy and utterly wrecked.

"You want me to what?" He prompts, and you grip his shoulders.

"You're so unfair," you whine, and it's a bit petulant. It earns a harder slap on your sensitive skin. You lurch into him, squeaking at the contact.

"Tell me," he commands, and you break.

"I want your mouth on me. I want you to make me come, please," you whisper that last part, desperation taking over the last of your resolve.

"See, that wasn't so hard, hm?" He asks, and you roll your eyes.

He adjusts your bodies so you're now resting on the couch, sinking to his knees between you. He looks up at you, his blue eyes round and wide, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

You clench around nothing at the sight, butterflies swirling in your tummy at his beauty. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip suppressing a whimper as his hands lift up your hips, sliding your sleep shorts down your legs.

"God," he whispers in awe, eyes almost doe-like. You've never seen him so wrecked, especially before your panties have even come off. "You're so beautiful."

He presses a chaste kiss to the damp spot on your light blue panties, a strangled whine wrestling from your throat. You feel him exhale against your core, a shiver unzipping your spine.

"Y'got this wet just from kissing me?" He asks, eyes sparkling as he slides his fingers under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs.

"Yeah," you moan out, resting your face in the palm of your hand. "Want you so bad."

"Fuck," he groans, whether at your words, or the bare sight of you, you're not sure. "You're so fucking gorgeous. Can't believe no one's taken the time to treat you properly."

"Please," you whine, head falling back onto the couch. "Please be the one, I want you to treat me right, please."

He nods frantically, his cow-licked strand of hair falling in front of his brow. He rolls his lips together, licking them with his tongue to prepare himself for you.

"Since you asked so nicely…" he mutters under his breath, inching closer and closer to you.

The sight of him is almost holy- on his knees, ready to worship. His devotion boosts your ego, confidence mixed with a burning desire making you arch your back, inching closer to him. You slink your legs over his shoulders, scooting your center closer to his face.

He inhales roughly, groaning as he takes in your scent. You clench again, and he licks a wide strip up your pussy. Your head falls back, a quiet moan escaping your lips.

"Oh, God, Langdon!" You whine, sinking your fingers into his hair.

He presses one, two, three kisses against your clit, taking it in between his lips and sucking with a force that has you keening.

Butterflies swarm in your belly at his movements, his sweet suckles, his harsh licks and soft kisses turn you into mush. Your head swims with the pleasure, your heart beating erratically in your ears.

"Feel good?" He mutters against your core, and the vibrations have you pushing yourself further into him.

He chuckles sardonically, hands coming up to push your legs further apart, sucking in your clit and letting it go with a pop.

"I'm making you feel good?" He looks up at you again for confirmation.

His thumb circles your clit while he waits for a response, and you nearly faint at the sight of him. His hair is mussed, eyes are dark, and the slick of you shines on his lips and chin. You feel the coil in your belly tightening, a burning sensation begging to snap.

"Yes, Frank," you blubber out, "God it's so good," you thrash, thrusting your hips up to get his mouth back on you. He obeys, squeezing his eyes shut as he takes you in again. "Never been this good before."

This seems to get to him, as you feel a certain rocking sensation beneath your thighs. You peer down to find him rubbing himself against the couch, brows furrowed in his unmistakable look of pleasure. You keep talking to him.

"You're going to make me cum," you whine. "Going to be the first one to ever make me cum with their mouth."

He whines against you at the reminder, picking up his own pace as you both near the brink.

"You like that, huh?" You ask, sinking your hands in his hair and tugging. "You like being the only one who's been able to find my clit?"

You hold back a chuckle at the absurdity of your words, but it only revs him up more. He lets a whine loose against you, slotting his entire mouth against you, trying to take in as much of you as possible.

You wind up tighter as he inserts a finger, moving in perfect time with his soft kitten licks and kisses.

"Oh, fuck yes. That's it, don't stop doing that," you instruct, rocking your hips against his face.

"Fuck yes," he moans out against you. "That's it, sweet girl, get yourself there. Wanna taste you so fucking bad, you're so fucking sweet, wish I could live down here," his words fly out of his mouth at record speed, in between kisses and licks and sucks that have your head spinning.

"Wish I could quit my job," kiss, "spend my entire life down here eating your pussy," lick, "you have no idea what you do to me," suck, "those assholes have no idea what they're missing," he finishes, adding in another finger.

He moves them vigorously, right against your sweetest spot, takes your clit in his mouth once again. You finally snap.

Your orgasm rushes through you in waves, white hot pleasure burning through you with the intensity of a tsunami. He moans against you, and you can tell through your hazy pleasure that he's reached his brink too.

You tug his hair again, a soft pull that has him shaking against you, his body jerking with his own release.

"Frank," you moan, and he moans against you at the sound of his name. "So good, so fucking good. Can't believe it took me so long to find you."

He presses chaste kisses against your center, your thighs, down to your knees. He presses his sweet kisses back up your body, this time to your tummy, your chest, your neck, your cheeks, eventually finding his way back to your mouth.

He's tangy with the taste of you, tongues sliding together with a now relaxed passion, the languid warmth of your release taking over both your limbs. You guys slink together like pretzels, his legs tangling in with yours, his arms looping around your body, pulling you as close to him as possible.

"Worth the wait?" He breathes out, lips against your temple.

You stood there in a denim skirt that hit mid-thigh and a graphic T-shirt—slightly oversized and tucked loosely into your skirt, which said: more espresso, less depresso in bold letters.

He had never seen you in a skirt before. Suddenly, he wanted to put his hands all over you and taste your skin.

"Hey," he greeted casually, and then his face split into a toothy grin. He cleared his throat. "You look great."

You grinned in return, his eyes sparkling with amusement at your reaction. "Thank you," you replied, trying to keep your voice smooth and confident. "So do you," you said sincerely. You were sort of unable to tear your gaze away from his face. As your eyes locked, he watched you slowly open your mouth.

"Let me grab my purse."

Jack couldn't help but enjoy the view of you in that skirt as you turned around and bent over to grab your purse from a nearby chair. You shouldn’t have been enjoying his eyes on you, but you did. You felt them burning into your back, and you knew they were hovering just a little too long on your ass.

When you returned with your purse and stepped out into the hallway, Jack followed you out of your brother’s apartment complex, and the air between you shifted immediately. It wasn’t bad—just different. Awkward in a way that made both of you too aware of yourselves.

Jack didn’t know how to act around you. Not anymore. Not after everything. You had offered just to meet him out. But he had insisted on picking you up. Even though this wasn’t a date, he wanted to do this… whatever this was… the right way. Or at least the way that felt right to him.

The walk to his truck felt longer than it actually was. You were quiet, and he kept stealing glances at you because he couldn’t help himself. When you reached the passenger side, he moved ahead of you and opened the door. You murmured a soft "thanks," and he nodded a little too quickly. You climbed in, and before he could stop himself, he leaned in to help with your seatbelt. His hand brushed the strap, and Jack clicked it into place. Then his heartbeat started stuttering in a panic—because you were right there. Close enough that he could smell your shampoo. Close enough that he had to force himself to pull back before he lingered.

He shut the door gently, trying to play it cool. But the second he turned away and walked behind his truck, his face twisted in disbelief at himself.

He mouthed, what the fuck, like he couldn’t believe he’d just done that.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he was trying so hard to be normal, to be casual, to be whatever you needed him to be right now… and instead he was out here buckling your seatbelt.

Jack finally slid into the driver’s seat, his ears a little pink, and he gripped the steering wheel for a second longer than necessary. He finally exhaled, turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. Only then did he glance over at you, his expression carefully casual even though the air still felt charged.

"So…" he said, drumming his fingers once against the wheel. “How’s your brother doing? Is he almost all unpacked?"

"Knowing my brother? He won’t be fully unpacked for at least a month."

Jack huffed a small, amused breath.

"He’s actually at a Renaissance festival today."

Jack’s head turned toward you, his soft hazel eyes boring into you. "Oh. I… wouldn’t have expected that to be his thing."

"It’s not," you said, amused. "But the girl he’s into is into Renaissance festivals."

"He just moved to Pittsburgh, and he’s already dating around?"

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked out the window, watching the sunlight slide across the hood of his truck as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Dating around, you thought. More like finally trying something he probably wanted for a long time.

Your brother hadn’t exactly planned this outing. Mel had been saying how she was going to take advantage of her upcoming days off and hit the Renaissance festival with Becca. She’d been excited about it—talking about some jousting event she refused to miss. And then, almost as an afterthought, she’d invited your brother to come along. Technically, he was third‑wheeling. But you knew better. He wasn’t there for the festival. He was there because Mel had asked, and that alone was enough to make him show up with zero hesitation.

"Something like that," you finally said, peeking up at Jack and tilting your face up in his direction.

"Sounds like he’s a smart man," Jack said. "It’s important to do the things your dates like."

You raised a brow, amused. "Oh really? What if you don’t like it?"

"It’s not about pretending you like the thing," he said. "It’s about the person you care about liking the thing."

You could only nod, dumbstruck and breathless at how simply (and how sincerely) he said it.

"I hate carnivals. Hate the whole thing. I don’t get it. The crowds, the noise, the overpriced food—I don’t get the appeal."

You snorted softly, and he shot you a look like he was pleased he got that reaction.

"But," he continued, eyes flicking back to the road, "I knew my wife loved carnivals. On our third date, I spent half the night at one of those rigged game booths trying to win her one of those stupid stuffed animals."

A small smile tugged at his mouth, the kind that came from a memory he hadn’t touched in a long time.

"She kept telling me to stop wasting money, that it didn’t matter. But she was laughing, and she was happy, and I just… wanted to keep that going. So, I kept trying. And eventually I won her this giant, lopsided bear with one eye sewn on crooked. She loved it. Carried it around the rest of the night like it was the best thing she’d ever gotten." He shook his head softly, almost fondly. "Seeing her that excited made the whole thing worth it."

This was the first time Jack had truly opened up about her—sharing something genuine, something fun, not just a fact but a real moment. It felt like he was giving you a glimpse into a part of his life he hadn’t shown before. You expected a wave of jealousy or insecurity to wash over you. But instead, a strange calm settled over you. You appreciated that he was willing to be vulnerable and authentic with you.

You gasped dramatically. "Oh my God, what is wrong with you? Your wife was right. Carnivals are so much fun."

"More like a total scam."

"Well," you said, settling back in your seat, "I had my first kiss at a carnival."

"You did?"

"Yes," you said, feeling giddy. “I was 16. It was Ryan Atwood. He was the bad boy who’d just moved into town. He was afraid of heights, but he still kissed me at the top of the Ferris wheel."

"Ryan… Atwood, huh?"

"Mhm."

The two of you kept talking as he drove—the kind of easy back‑and‑forth that made the fifteen‑minute ride feel like five. Dinner had been easy in that way things with Jack always were. The two of you tucked into a corner table at a wine bar he’d picked. You talked, you laughed, you shared plates, and when the bill came, you snatched it up before he could reach for it. You saw the flicker of frustration cross his face and the way his jaw clenched for a split second before he quickly masked it. Jack was stubborn in that old‑fashioned, quietly principled way. He’d been raised —or trained—to handle things, to take care of the people he was with, to follow a certain code of social decorum without even thinking about it. He didn’t say anything out of respect, but he hated that you had paid.

In his mind, he’d asked you out. He’d chosen the place. He’d planned the night. And even though neither of you had labeled this a date— even though you were both pretending it was just two people catching up— it still felt like one to him. But, he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, and didn’t want to risk pushing you away by insisting.

The two of you slipped back into conversation as soon as you stepped outside. Jack drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near you, while the windows were cracked, letting in the breeze.  You had no idea where he was taking you next. He didn’t offer any hints, and you didn’t ask. And then he finally turned into the gravel lot, his headlights swept across the glowing sign: DOC'S DRIVE-IN THEATRE

You smiled shyly, and he shrugged like it was nothing, but the way his fingers tapped the steering wheel gave him away. You thought it was sweet that he was taking you to a drive-through movie. On New Year's Eve, you had shared with him and your friends that you had never been to one. Everyone said you were missing out on a cultural experience.

Jack drove up to the entrance and paid for your tickets, as you were directed to a designated parking spot. The sun was setting, casting a beautiful light over the surroundings as Jack parked his truck. You both stepped out of the truck and took turns picking out snacks from the concession stand, grabbing popcorn, candy, and cold beers. The large screen in front of you lit up with previews of upcoming movies, as you and Jack settled into the bed of his truck. "I know this is kinda corny," Jack started to grumble, his Adam's apple bobbing. "No, it’s perfect." His lips twitched into a small smile.

You stole glances at Jack during the movie, admiring his face and his easy smile. As the film went on, the two of you slipped into conversation, your voices mingling with the movie. The more engrossed you became in talking, the less attention either of you paid to the screen.

For all the drive‑in scenes you’d seen in movies, they were always far more suggestive. But Jack kept everything completely PG, and was a total gentleman. At one point, he reached for the popcorn and accidentally brushed his hand against yours. A jolt of electricity shot through you at the brief touch. Trying to play it cool, you pretended not to notice and kept your eyes on the movie.

Maybe it was just in your head, but it felt like he shifted closer, your arms grazing each other as you shared the popcorn. A breeze drifted through the open lot, and you instinctively pulled the blanket higher around your shoulders. Jack noticed immediately.

"I can’t believe you’re cold," he teased, nudging you lightly. "It’s 75 degrees." You scoffed, tugging the blanket tighter. "It’s June. It should be at least 85.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

"You’re being dramatic."

"For wanting basic summer temperatures?"

"For acting like you’re about to freeze solid," he said, grinning. "Should I check your vitals?"

"Actually, yeah. You’re the doctor. Is there something wrong with me?"

Jack opened his mouth to answer—then hesitated, eyes flicking down for half a second before he said, almost too casually, "Maybe it’s the skirt you’re wearing." He froze immediately, eyes widening like he’d fucked up. "I mean—uh—I didn’t mean—forget I said that." He rubbed the back of his neck, mortified. "I swear that sounded less… whatever that was… in my head."

You let him squirm for a beat before nudging him with your shoulder. "Relax, Dr. Abbot." And because you couldn’t resist, you added with a wink, "But I’m glad you’re enjoying the skirt."

He bit the inside of his cheek, his heart pumping strongly and fast with excitement.

Were you flirting with him? It sure felt like it.

And you called him Dr. Abbot on top of it?

The last time you called him Dr. Abbot— his cock had slid effortlessly inside of your cunt, with your hands braced against his living room wall, while your moans echoed throughout the space.

Jack didn’t know what to do with this. Not yet. Not when he wasn’t sure if you meant it or if you were just being playful the way you always were.

He shot you a look—half glare, and half severely turned on. "Anyway," he said, slipping back into his doctor voice, "some people naturally run colder. Could be circulation, metabolism, body composition… nothing dangerous. Just biology being annoying."

"So… I’m not dying?" you asked, deadpan.

"No. You’re just… experiencing a mild case of being you."

"Wow. Rude."

"It's a tragic condition. Zero cure," he added, holding up his hands like he was helpless in the face of your affliction.

You rolled your eyes and fought back the stupid smile from spreading across your face, but the breeze cut through again, and a shiver ran up your arms before you could hide it. Goosebumps rose instantly along your skin. "You’re so lucky," you muttered, tugging the blanket tighter. "You run like a furnace."

Jack’s eyes dropped to your arms again, catching the goosebumps rising along your skin. The teasing faded from his face, replaced by something softer—something he didn’t bother hiding this time.

Three months without you. Ninety‑two days. Over a hundred thousand minutes. He’d counted more of them than he’d ever admit.

And now you were here beside him, and he was supposed to just… sit there?

"Fine," he said, drawing out the word like he was making a grand concession. "Guess I’ll have to take more drastic measures."

"Like what?"

He shifted behind you, "Like this."

With a gentle, deliberate motion, he guided your back toward him, settling you against his chest. Jack reached for the blanket and pulled it forward, letting it fall over both of your legs. His arms didn’t wrap around you. He didn’t want to be too bold or forward. You felt yourself settled against his chest, the warmth, the familiar scent of him, the way your body recognized the shape of him without thinking—it all felt so natural it barely felt like a decision.

"This okay?" he asked quietly, with his deep, gravelly, sexy voice in your ear.

You nodded, feeling your skin prickle under his touch. Jack hesitated only a second before his arms slid around you—slow, careful, like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. His hands rested lightly against your forearms, warming the goosebumps there, pulling you just a little closer. "Good. Maybe now you’ll stop pretending it’s winter."

You giggled, and you felt Jack smile against your hair. That giggle sent a rush of fucking adrenaline through his veins. Then he cleared his throat, like he was trying to remember where you two had left off before he got distracted by your shivering.

"You were saying something about your editor…" he murmured, his lips finding your ear again. At some point, your T‑shirt had ridden up just enough that a thin strip of skin showed above the waistband of your skirt.  His hand had drifted to your waist, settling right over that warm sliver of skin, thumb brushing a slow, absent line along your skin. It shouldn’t have felt so suggestive, and Jack was barely fucking touching you, but you already felt like your entire body was going to combust.

"Right. Um… he’s probably taking this job offer with GQ. Which means I’m going to get a new editor. Someone who’s either going to be amazing or terrible. …or… well, there’s another part to it."

Jack’s thumb paused, then resumed its gentle sweep. "What’s the other part?"

"He’s implied he’s suggested people internally to take over his job," you said slowly, "and I was… named as one of those people."

"Sweetheart," he breathed, "that’s fucking incredible."

"I guess."

"…you guess?" he repeated, his other hand sliding up your arm. His brows pinched together. He’d expected you to be thrilled —glowing, rambling, already planning ten steps ahead. Instead, you sounded like someone had handed you bad news.

"It is amazing. It’s just… I’m scared it’s too soon. That taking a promotion before I’m truly ready would be a mistake. And it wouldn’t just be Travel. It would be the editor position for Travel + Sex & Romance + Beauty."

You felt him nod slowly behind you, absorbing it. You rushed to fill the silence.

"We really don’t need to talk about this."

"Why not?"

“I don’t know,” you muttered, staring at the screen in front of you. You had no idea what was happening anymore— the plot had slipped right out of your hands while your brain spiraled somewhere else entirely.

Jack let out a soft, disbelieving breath against your shoulder.

"There you go again," he murmured. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act like what you do is small."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he kept going. "You’re an incredible writer."

"Jack—"

"And I don’t just mean that New Year’s article. After I read that one… I kind of... went down a rabbit hole."

You felt him shift slightly behind you, like he was bracing for your reaction.

"I have read all your Cosmo pieces…and everything you wrote at the Chicago Tribune after journalism school."

Your jaw dropped.

He’d never told you that. You left the Tribune 3 years ago.

"And my favorite?" he went on, almost shyly. "That piece you did about the flexibility of American passports. How most people don’t realize how lucky they are. How some countries need visas for practically everywhere, and we just… don’t think about it."

Your cheeks flared with heat at his compliment. You hadn’t thought about that article in years. It was one of the first real pieces you’d written after journalism school. You’d packed up everything you owned, moved to Chicago, and tried to convince yourself you belonged in a newsroom full of people who’d been doing this for decades.

That article had taken you weeks. You’d rewritten it three times. You’d cried over it.

Your parents were immigrants. So was your stepfather. You’d grown up watching your extended family struggle with things you and your brother never had to think about— visas denied for no reason, trips canceled, people missing graduations, birthdays, and weddings because a piece of paper didn’t come through in time. You’d seen your cousins cry over embassy appointments. You’d watched your aunts and uncles plan travel months in advance, only to be told no.

"I didn’t know you read that," you mumbled.

"Of course I read it," Jack said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You never give yourself enough credit. But you should. Your writing matters. People read it because it makes them feel something." His arms tightened around you. "This opportunity? Being considered for the editor position?" He rested his chin lightly against your shoulder, his breath brushing your skin. "You should be proud. And you should interview for it."

"I’m scared," you admitted quietly.

"Why?"

"Because I really want the job. And the pay would be… insane. Well…like, life‑changing insane for me. And I just know I’ll be devastated when it goes to Michelle. Or someone like her."

Jack blinked, confused. "Michelle?"

"Yeah. Michelle. She’s—" You searched for a polite word and came up empty. "She’s a complete bitch. But everyone loves her. She’s loud and charming and somehow always in the right place at the right time. She’s been at Cosmo longer than me. She knows everyone."

"And you think they’ll pick her?"

"Yes," you said, the word slipping out before you could control it. "Probably."

You could feel Jack thinking. His hand slid up your arm in a slow line— his thumb brushing once over your shoulder.

"Well… if you don’t try, you won’t know."

It was almost annoying how straightforward he made it sound. But you knew he was right. You chewed your bottom lip as you silently weighed your options. But… there was something else eating at you. And it was completely unrelated to your career.

You turned your head slightly toward him. "Jack…why did you ask to see me tonight?"

Jack’s hand froze. Then, almost hesitantly, he withdrew it from your arm. The warmth of his touch evaporated, leaving a chill that hit you harder than expected. Your skin suddenly felt cool and exposed, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d been leaning into his touch until it was gone.

"It’s selfish, really," he drew in a breath. "I’ve just… missed you. And I wanted to spend more time with you. As pathetic as it sounds, I had so much fun being with you yesterday, even if we weren’t alone. It was the first time in months that things felt… right again. And— I just wanted to see you again before—

He stopped.

But he didn’t have to finish the sentence. You knew what he meant.

Before you left.

And suddenly, the whole thing felt painfully, brutally unfair.

Unfair that you lived in New York. Unfair that he lived here, in Pittsburgh. Unfair that he was finally working on himself, finally doing the hard internal work in therapy… but that didn’t automatically mean he was ready for anything real with you.

And the most unfair part?

You were in love with him.

God…timing could be such a cruel, stubborn fucking bitch.

You shifted, turning toward him fully now. The blanket slid with you, pooling around your hips. Jack’s eyes flicked to yours, then down, then back up again—like he wasn’t sure if he should look at you or look away.

"You know what’s crazy? You and I have only spent a total of 14 days together," you said, shaking your head, almost disbelieving the math even as you said it.

"That’s not true."

You frowned.

"It’s 16 days," he grunted. "When are you counting from?"

"When you showed up on New Year's Day and spent the night."

"You’re forgetting the first time we met. And the holiday party."

"Those were a couple of hours both times."

"Still counts. And if we’re being extra technical, yesterday and today would bring us to a total of eighteen days," he said, brining your hand to his lips and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

Your smile stretched so far, it made your eyes squint.

"Okay… so a little over two weeks."

Saying it out loud made it sound even more absurd. A little over two weeks. Spread out over 6 months. And… somehow Jack still lived under your skin like he’d never left.

"I’m not over you," you admitted, your mouth tugging into a gentle frown as you shifted, crawling closer into Jack’s lap. His head lifted, eyes snapping to yours. "But I know I should be," you went on. "It would make everything easier. And trust me, I’ve tried. But…I can’t make myself pretend that those two weeks, or shall I say 16 days, with you weren’t the best time I ever had in my life."

Jack slid his palms up your thighs and around your hips, pulling you flush against his lap. Then, his lips found yours, and you both let out a deep, satisfied groan. He massaged your lips carefully before he pushed his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and trying to savor the moment. You pulled back slightly, and you saw tears glistening in his eyes, mirroring the ones that had welled up in your own. His thumb started drawing circles against your cheeks, and he was breathing heavily now. His hazel eyes raked over your face for a moment, making your pulse quicken and your stomach flutter.

"Truth is, I don’t know how to get on with my life when it feels like part of it is still tied to you," he said desperately, and you could see the vulnerability etched across his face.

You ran your hands up into his hair, pulled him closer to you, and pressed your lips to his again. The intensity of his touch sent shivers down your spine, causing your heart to race with anticipation. With each kiss, you felt a deep, primal urge stirring within you—a longing for more of his touch, with the way his hands roamed your body with a hunger that matched your own. You felt his fingernails dig into the meat of your ass, hearing him groan and feeling his erection straining against his pants. You thrust your hips into him, whimpering at the sensation, as Jack continued to kiss you forcefully and sloppily. It was wet and messy and fucking perfect. God, you had missed him—all of him.

Your pussy pulsed with anticipation, and you needed him to touch you. It would be so easy for him to slip his hand under your skirt and—

Suddenly, he pulled his mouth off from yours and shifted his body away, creating a noticeable distance between you two. "Baby—I can’t," he struggled out; his breathing was ragged.

"Oh," you whispered weakly, and your brows furrowed in confusion as you tried to make sense of his abrupt response. You tilted your head to the side, trying to understand, your eyes darting back and forth, searching for any clues or explanations.

His eyes widened, and you saw the lines of concern imprint on his face. Before you could ask what he meant, his hands were already on you, pulling you towards him for a hug. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with his intoxicating aroma, as he buried his face in your neck. God, he smelled good. He smelled like pine needles combined with earth and soft musk. You knew this could be the last time you would ever see him and were afraid that his scent would vanish before you could fully savor it. Ultimately, you clung on to him.

"No, I just mean. Not... like this," he whispered.

"Not like what?"

He pulled back slightly from the hug, his arms still lingering around your shoulders as he leaned back to get a better look at you. "I don’t want us to fall back into something physical or whatever that was about to turn into… as a way to avoid a real conversation. There’s still a lot of stuff we need to talk about. And, you know, maybe we can talk," he made a vague gesture at your legs, "when you’re not wearing that skirt," he said, trying to joke.

Your eyes cast down, and your hands nervously fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, and you wanted to disappear into the ground. You avoided making eye contact, your lips pressed into a tight line as you tried to hide your embarrassment. He was right, you were trying to use… your lips (and maybe your pussy) as a distraction.

Jack gently placed his hands on either side of your face, looking directly into your eyes, the intensity of his gaze softened by his reassuring smile. "You know how crazy I am about you, right? I just—I’m just—trying to do the right thing. And also…" he added with a crooked, self-aware smirk. "I really don’t want to get arrested for public indecency."

Suddenly, your awareness of your surroundings sharpened. You glanced around. Thank fuck it was dark. The neighboring cars were far enough away, and no one seemed to be paying attention. You probably would’ve fucked him right here. In the back of his truck, with people just a few yards away.

Could anyone blame you? It was insane how stupidly good he looked even when he wasn’t trying.

While you knew he was right, the rejection weighed heavily on your heart, leaving you feeling hurt and confused. A pathetic little whine escaped you before you could stop it.

"You’re right," you whispered softly, reaching up to put the palm of your hand on his cheek as you caressed it.

Jack was staring at you very intensely with a very serious expression crossing over his face. "I should probably get you back to your brother’s apartment."

"You don’t have to; we can stay here and finish the movie that we haven’t been watching," a sly smile tugged at his lips. "I promise I won’t jump you," you said while nervously chewing on your lower lip.

"I can’t promise I won’t jump you, baby. I might not behave," he said, his voice low and husky as he started tracing lazy designs on your thigh. You knew he was doing this innocently, as it was something he always did out of habit. However, at this moment, it was turning you on far too much. You felt a dull ache between your thighs, and then Jack leaned forward to bring your lips toward him, but he pulled away before you could deepen the kiss. He sighed heavily as he brought his forehead to meet yours. "As much as it pains me to say this, I’m going to try and be the responsible one here," he stated.

"Okay," you pouted, running your hands through his curls. He loved it when you did that. He pretty much loved it when you did anything.

The drive back to your brother’s apartment complex was quiet, but not in a bad way. When Jack pulled into the parking lot, he didn’t just drop you off at the curb. He parked, got out, opened your door, and walked you all the way to the entrance of the building. As the two of you started walking toward the entrance, you pulled out your phone, and a quick glance at Find My Friends told you your brother still wasn’t home— his little dot was across town, nowhere near the apartment.

You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He’s not home yet," you said quietly. Jack nodded, his expression unreadable. Inside the building, he followed you into the elevator without hesitation. The doors slid shut, and the two of you stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder as the numbers climbed — 7… 10… 12… — the soft hum of the lift filling the silence neither of you seemed willing to break. You could feel the heat of him, the tension radiating off his body, the restraint he was clinging to by a thread.

When the elevator chimed at the 15th floor, he walked with you down the hallway, hands in his pockets, matching your pace. He didn’t stop until you reached your brother’s door. You dug through your purse for your keys.

"Uh… um… would you like to come inside for a nightcap?" you squeaked out.

A nightcap? A fucking nightcap. What were you even saying?

Was there even alcohol in your brother's apartment?

"It’s getting late, so I probably should get home," he said apologetically.

"Oh yeah—um that makes sense, um, no worries," you tripped over your words.

His hands then reached for your shoulders as he pulled you closer. You stood still, waiting for him to kiss you. When you saw him bend his head, you closed your eyes, waiting to feel his lips on yours. Instead, you felt his soft lips brush softly against your cheek, and then he pulled away.

"Goodnight," he said quickly, before he turned around to head for the elevator. "Goodnight…" you said softly, and you knew he probably didn’t hear you. You unlocked the door, setting the extra set of keys on the entryway table, and stood there momentarily, a little confused.

Because in a way… Jack had been hot and cold with you all night. And that’s when his words from yesterday came back to you.

Everything that happened between us made me realize how much I had been avoiding. How much I hadn’t dealt with. I thought I was ready to date again, but I wasn’t…not really.

I thought I was ready to date again, but I wasn’t…not really.

I wasn’t…not really.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt the hot trail of tears against your cheeks. You swiped at your face, but more tears followed, warm and stubborn.

It sucked. Of course it sucked.

But you got it. You really did. He was clearly still just wrestling with his own grief and unfinished business with his late wife. Jack wasn’t capable of giving you the kind of clarity or commitment you deserved. At least… he’d been kind enough to realize that and respected you enough not to blur the lines.

But… what you didn’t know was that Jack was currently sitting in the parking deck, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel, and hating himself for not having pulled off the side of the road after the movie, tell you he loved you, and just, fuck you, in his car. Or maybe his house.

And yet, even as the frustration burned through him, he knew exactly why he hadn’t done it.

Because that would’ve been unfair to you. And to him as well.

Because what would it have meant?

It would’ve felt good, sure. It would’ve been easy to lose himself inside of you. But afterward? When the adrenaline faded and the reality settled in?

You would still be living in New York.

… and he would still be living here…in Pittsburgh.

You and Mel were standing in your brother’s kitchen, surrounded by open boxes and piles of packing paper. The two of you had fallen into an easy rhythm: she unwrapped plates, you stacked them into cabinets; she handed you mugs, you lined them up on the shelves. It was the kind of mindless, practical work that kept your hands busy while your thoughts wandered places you didn’t want them to.

Your brother had planned to spend the day setting up his living room— which, in his mind, meant getting the TV and every single game console known to mankind perfectly arranged. It was obviously a top‑tier priority, the kind of mission men treated like a sacred rite. You didn’t understand how plugging in a TV and setting up consoles could possibly take hours, but somehow it did.

Or at least, it would’ve, but the universe had other plans. His internet started acting weird, dropping in and out every few minutes, and after an hour of cursing at the modem and threatening to throw it out the window, he’d grabbed his keys and stormed out to the physical Verizon store to "deal with some bullshit," as he put it.

You reached for another stack of bowls and glanced over at Mel. "There’s a reason I flew out here. You really don’t have to help him with any of this," you said quietly, "and you have work tomorrow at like fucking 5 AM."

Mel didn’t even look up from the plate she was unwrapping. "I actually find this very therapeutic."

And she meant it. Despite the pressure of being a caregiver and the demands of her medical career, Mel loved being around you and your family. She liked the quiet moments just as much as the chaotic ones. Sometimes she called you just to hear your voice and re‑ground herself after a tough shift or just a weird day instead of watching that lava lamp app on her phone. And sometimes (like today) she found comfort in simple tasks, in organizing someone else’s mess, in making a space feel livable.

"Besides. This is way more fun than listening to your brother scream at a router."

Her comment gave you an opening, and you took it.

"So… how was the Renaissance festival?" you asked, trying to sound casual as you now slid a stack of pots into the cabinet.

Mel’s whole face lit up. "It was great," she said, already reaching for her phone. "We walked around, drank way too much mead—okay, I drank way too much mead— and Becca was just as bad. I was definitely drunk by the end of it. Your brother was so sweet, though. He stayed sober so me and Becca could drink and drove us home."

Then she pulled up her camera roll and handed you her phone. There they were— Mel, Becca, and your brother — all dressed up in full Renaissance gear. Mel in a corset and flowing skirt (looking hot as fuck). Becca wore a simple, delicate flower crown resting in her hair, woven from small faux wildflowers that gave her an easy, whimsical touch without going full costume. And your brother was wearing a tunic, boots, and a leather belt. He even had one of those ridiculous feathered hats.

You clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. When you’d come home last night, your brother had been tight‑lipped about the whole thing. You hadn’t wanted to pry, and now you knew why— he’d been fully committed to the bit. And honestly? You loved having photographic evidence. You also loved knowing he’d done that for Mel—making sure she had fun. It made something warm and soft settle in your chest.

Mel passed you another pot, then tilted her head. "What did you do yesterday?"

The question hit you like a sudden jolt, because you hadn’t told her anything. And, when you’d come back last night, you’d gotten home before your brother. When he asked you what you had been up to, you’d tossed out some vague explanation about shopping and working on your July article, and he hadn’t questioned it.

"Nothing really."

You didn’t know why you lied. But the truth was… you just didn’t want to talk about a situation that felt so confusing. And saying it out loud— especially to Mel felt like it would make it too open to interpretation or questions you weren’t ready to answer.

Before Mel could respond, you felt your phone buzz sharply in your back pocket. You reached for it, and the second you saw the name on the screen, your stomach flipped.

Jack.

"I have to take this," you said quickly, already stepping away. "Work."

Mel didn’t question it—she just nodded, starting to uncover the forks and knives.

You slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind you, heart thudding a little too hard as you lifted the phone to your ear.

"Hello?" you greeted him, with a weak voice and shaky nerves.

The background noise hit you first— the unmistakable beeping, the distant chatter, the rolling carts. He was clearly at work, which was strange because it was the middle of the day. You frowned, listening as the sounds shifted, muffled, then faded. He must’ve ducked into a supply closet or some empty corner to get privacy.

"Hey, sweetheart. How are you doing?"

"I’m okay."

"Listen," he said, voice low, a little rushed. "I really wanted to see you again."

You swallowed harshly, but before you could respond, he continued, a tinge of unintended sadness coating his voice.

"I just… I don’t think I’ll have the time. I’ve got a ton of stuff to handle, and I have to fly out in a few days for a patient."

"It’s okay," you said with poorly concealed disappointment.

"It’s not," he said softly, and you could hear the sincerity in it. "Last night was… it was really special to me."

Your throat tightened. "It was special for me, too. And honestly? It’s a much better way to say goodbye than last time."

"Oh really?" he said, sarcasm threading through his voice. "What happened last time?"

You shook your head, a small laugh catching in your throat, but suddenly, a sharp voice cut through the muffled background on his end.

"Jack! This conversation is not over," a woman barked, her tone clipped and unmistakably irritated. "You cannot just drop a bomb like that on me."

You heard him curse under his breath. "Fuck."

There was a rustle, like he was covering the receiver with his hand, followed by a strained exhale.

"I have to go. But, have a safe flight on Tuesday, okay?”

"Bye," you whispered, but the moment the word left your mouth, all you heard was the flat, abrupt dial tone.

TWO WEEKS LATER – New York City

The speakeasy was packed. Your girlfriend Lina had outdone herself with her private birthday party. It had been a couple of hours, and everyone was drinking and dancing, Her cousin was being a little flirty with you, and while you appreciated his compliments, you respectfully declined his advances and continued dancing with your friends. The drinks were good, and you started taking a few pictures of your pretty drinks. You were happy that Lina was being celebrated by her closest friends and family. She deserved it, and she looked damn good in a sleek, sexy, tight-fit red dress that highlighted her curves, while the vibrant red hue demanded attention.

She had been hooking up with this guy, Theo, casually, and you could tell he felt like the luckiest guy in the world just to be in her orbit. They hadn’t quite yet had the ‘exclusivity’ chat, but you had a feeling that after tonight, things would change when you saw him kiss her in front of your other friends. It made you smile. She deserved love after some of the questionable guys she had dated over the years.

Suddenly, you were sorta drunk. You all were, honestly. It seemed that everyone had been powering through a shitty week. You were on drink number 4 or 5? You were a fucking idiot and had been mixing liquor instead of sticking to your usual gin. And now you were doing shots.

You were swaying on the dance floor when Ben slipped in beside you. The two of you had hooked up casually a couple years ago—nothing serious, nothing complicated— and tonight he had definitely been hinting that he wouldn’t mind ending the night the way you used to. And honestly? You hadn’t been with anyone since Jack, and your dry spell was starting to feel… bleak.

Plus, ever since your last trip to Pittsburgh, you and Jack had barely texted. If you were honest, it was… odd. At first you kept trying…trying to give him openings to talk, but the replies were short, clipped, almost like he was holding you at a distance. After a while, you got self-conscious and stopped reaching out altogether. And then the silence stretched. And stretched. Eventually, you stopped hearing from him entirely. It hurt, but you told yourself it was better this way. And the truth was, staying in touch with an ex (is that what he had been?) wasn’t healthy. Not for him, not for you. But, what was even weirder was how, over the last few weeks, Mel kept asking about him. Had you heard from him, had he checked in, had anything changed? She was never usually this pushy about your love life, which only made it more confusing. And every time, you gave her the same answer:

No.

No, you hadn’t heard from him. No, he hadn’t checked in. And… no, nothing had changed. And saying it out loud each time stung a little more than you wanted to admit.

Ben was cute. Why had you never considered actually dating him? He had a decent personality, good manners, and did well for himself.

"Damn, you look good tonight," Ben said as he grabbed your ass on the dance floor.

You giggled and wrapped your arms around his neck. You were wearing a fitted black dress that always made you feel confident, paired with heels that added just the right amount of edge. You had admired yourself in the mirror when you got ready tonight—the confident woman staring back at you was almost surprising. After wrestling with a few accessories, you settled on a pair of delicate silver earrings and a thin bracelet that sparkled with every movement.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but you found yourself agreeing with him—you did look good. He kissed you, and you really wish you could say that you felt something. But… his lips just didn’t feel as soft as Jack’s lips. His tongue just didn’t feel as demanding as Jack’s tongue. His hands just didn’t feel as rough as Jack’s hands. His blue eyes just didn’t make you melt like Jack’s hazel eyes. His blonde, straight hair didn’t make sense, as you tugged his hair and were expecting salt-and-pepper curls. Ben’s jaw felt too soft against your skin, since he had no facial hair—no stubble to play with and kiss. While sleeping with Ben was not the best idea, he was comfortable, and while he had never given you mind-blowing orgasms, he had always treated you with kindness.

Ben’s hands were still on your waist when a sudden, sharp scream cut through the music. You turned just in time to see Lina’s sister clutching her foot, wobbling as she tried to keep her balance. People around her backed up in confusion, and then you saw it— the glint of shattered glass on the floor.

A broken beer bottle. And she had stepped right on it.

"Shit— shit, shit," Lina gasped as she rushed toward her sister, Maria, panic already rising in her voice. "Oh my God, are you okay?"

Maria was crying, trying to lift her foot but unable to put weight on the other. Blood was already pooling on the floor.

"I think we might need to call an ambulance," Lina said, voice trembling. "Should I call 911? I think I should call 911."

You snapped out of your shock and moved toward them. "Do it."

Lina fumbled for her phone, hands shaking as she dialed. Within minutes, the music had been cut, the crowd parted, and the flashing red lights of the ambulance painted the walls outside the venue within approximately 7 minutes.

As the EMTs loaded her sister onto the stretcher, Lina looked at you with wide, frantic eyes.

"I’m going with her."

“Of course you are,” you said, already reaching for your bag. "I’ll meet you at NewYork-Presbyterian. I’m calling an Uber right now."

Lina nodded, barely holding herself together as she climbed into the ambulance.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Ben asked, concern crossing his features.

You shook your head. "No, I’m fine. Really. But, can you do me a favor?"

"Yeah, anything."

"Tell Theo what happened. He stepped out to get that cake for Lina, and he’s going to walk back into an empty venue and be confused as fuck." You exhaled, already pulling up the Uber app. "Just let him know Lina’s heading to the hospital so he can meet her there."

Ben nodded immediately. "Got it. I’ll call him now."

You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning away and heading for the exit. Outside, the night air hit you, and you waited on the curb until your Uber pulled up, then slid into the back seat, giving the driver the hospital address. By the time you arrived at the hospital, the ER was chaotic and loud. Nurses rushed past with clipboards, and you were seeing things you wished you hadn’t— glimpses of injuries, pale faces, people doubled over in pain. It all hit you at once, and your stomach twisted uncomfortably.

You checked your phone. No updates from Lina. You approached the front desk. "Hi. I’m looking for Lina and Maria Papadopoulou. They should’ve just come in by ambulance." The receptionist gave you an apologetic look. "I’m sorry, but unless you’re family, I can’t give out any information."

"Right. Okay." You stepped back, swallowing your frustration.

You found an empty seat near the wall and sat down. The adrenaline had worn off, but the alcohol hadn’t— not fully. Your leg bounced uncontrollably, shaking fast enough to make your heel tap against the tile. You pulled out your phone, trying to distract yourself from the spinning room, and then a new notification lit up your screen, probably 20 minutes later.

Lina: Meet me in room 304.

Relief washed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy. You stood and hurried back to the front desk, holding up your phone like a hall pass.

"Look," you said, giving the receptionist your best wide‑eyed, pleading expression. "My friend just texted me. Can I just please go be with them?" The receptionist hesitated for half a second, then sighed and nodded. "Go ahead. Down the hall, take the elevators to the third floor. Make it quick, visiting hours end soon."

"Thank you," you breathed, already moving.

She buzzed you through the double doors, and you slipped into the sterile hallway behind the ER. The fluorescent lights felt harsher back here, and the smell of antiseptic made your stomach twist even tighter. You found room 304 and stepped inside. Lina and Maria were both there— Maria on the bed, foot wrapped in temporary gauze, eyes still red from crying, Lina pacing in tight, frantic circles. They both looked up the second you walked in.

"Thanks for being here," Lina said, rushing over to you. She looked pale, shaken. "A surgeon is coming to assess everything. They said she might need surgery for—" her voice cracked, "—for fucking nerve damage."

"Hey, hey," you said gently, trying to calm her down. "We won’t know anything until the surgeon gets here. Let’s just breathe for a second, okay?"

Lina nodded, but her eyes were still wide and frantic, her hands trembling as she tried to pace the tiny room. Maria tried to give you a brave smile, but it wobbled. "It’s not as bad as it looks," she said, though her voice was thin. It felt like the room was tilting slightly, the hospital smell mixing horribly with the leftover alcohol in your system. The nausea crept up your throat, slow and relentless.

You were facing Maria, trying to keep your own stomach steady, when you heard the door open behind you. Footsteps, a clipboard, the rustle of scrubs —all you could see in your peripheral vision was movement.

"Hello," a man said, voice calm and professional. "I’m Dr. Abbot. I’ll be—"

You turned at the sound of his voice.

And there he was.

Jack.

Jack.

Jack.

He froze mid‑sentence, eyes widening just slightly as he took you in—which was you looking like you were honestly about to pass out. For a second, your brain refused to process what you were seeing. You blinked hard, convinced the alcohol or the fluorescent lights were playing tricks on you. But no— the badge clipped to his scrubs was unmistakable:

Dr. Jack Abbot

Attending, Trauma Surgery

NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital

And then you really felt it— the nausea rising too fast to fight.

"Oh fuck," you groaned, clapping a hand over your mouth as the room now really fucking tilted.

Jack moved instantly, crossing the space in two quick steps, his hands landing on your shoulders.

"Look at me. Deep breaths. Come on."

He brushed your hair back gently, trying to keep it out of your face.

But the nausea surged.

And then you threw up… all over Jack’s shoes.

Fuck.

Masterlist | Part 1 l Part 2 | Part 3 | You’re reading Part 4

The clear brilliance of a winter morning or the coziness of an ice grey twilight were nice and romanticized in Hallmark movies, but the biting cold made your skin burn and your eyes water. It seeped into your bones each time you stepped outside. It turned streets into hazards, making your job in the ER harder and busier. Winter was your least favorite season. 

The forecast looped on the break room TV, warning of the worsening blizzard, and you felt that familiar, uneasy tightening in your chest as snow and hail began falling harder against the windows. The storm had started as just a small flurry and had worsened by noon. 

Dusk settled over the hospital and brought with it a dying hope. The windows were white with frozen frost. The snow was blowing sideways, piling up faster than plows could clear it. The roads were closed, and public transport was completely shut down. Anyone still at the hospital was staying whether they wanted to or not. 

You had been on your feet for nearly fourteen hours, the adrenaline long burned off, replaced by a bone-deep ache and a dull pressure behind your eyes. The hospital hummed with a restless energy—stretchers in hallways, staff wrapped in borrowed blankets, residents sprawled on chairs with charts balanced on their chests. You had been a new attending doctor at PTMC for nearly six months and had never seen the unit so…quiet. Current patients had been dealt with; new patients were practically nonexistent. 

You were huddled at the nurses' station, miserably cold, your hoodie zipped to the top, and you were delirious to the point of seriously considering putting on some latex gloves to try to save your fingers from hypothermia, even though you knew that wouldn’t help at all, but you were desperate for some semblance of warmth. 

You were halfway through catching up with some charting when a shadow fell across the table, and a familiar, warm scent made your clenched muscles loosen. 

“Freezing on the job?” Robby murmured, voice low and amused but gentle.

You glanced up at him, arching a brow. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of running hot all the time. I’m always cold.”

“Maybe moving to Pittsburgh wasn’t your best idea,” he teased. 

“You’re right. I think I made a huge mistake. Maybe I need to go back to Miami,” you said, smirking. You had completed your residency in the crowded South Florida city. You had grown accustomed to the warmth, and winter in Pittsburgh was an entirely new monster you had to face. 

“Don’t you dare leave,” he said. “I don’t know how we functioned without you.” He was teasing, playing along with the joke, but there was a layer of sincerity you sensed in his voice that made butterflies erupt low in your belly. You had been orbiting each other for weeks now—shared patients, late consults way past the end of your shifts, and conversations that lingered a beat too long. Nothing really happened, just lingering looks, secret smiles, and coiled tension that felt ready to snap at any point. A part of you felt like it was all in your head, but then he would smile at you or brush his hand against yours, and it made you feel like you were right. That there was something there. 

You swallowed nervously before speaking. “Don’t worry, Robinavitch. I’m not going anywhere. Who else will keep you on your toes?”

He smiled at that—small and earnest, the kind he only ever seemed to give you. It made the lines around his warm brown eyes deepen in a way that made your heart skip a beat. 

He reached behind him, grabbed an extra blanket from the stack meant for patients, and casually draped it around your shoulders.

“There,” he said quietly. “Can’t have you catching hypothermia.”

Your chest tightened, and a heat crept from the back of your neck and up your face. Your fingers brushed his wrist as you raised your hand to adjust the blanket, the contact brief but electric. “Thank you, Robby,” you replied calmly, even as your heart tripped over itself and the softness of his face and the soft smile he gave you. 

His eyes lingered on you for half a second too long. “Anytime,” he said, just as softly, and then stepped back, professionalism snapping back into place a moment before Dana clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. 

“Okay,” Dana said. She had been on the phone for over 10 minutes trying to find out more about the snowed-in situation. “Listen up. We don’t have enough on-call rooms. We’re doing sleep shifts. Two rooms left for us.”

A collective groan rippled through the group huddled around her. 

Dana scanned her list. She nodded at you as she read off your name.  “Robby, and Santos. You’re splitting the last two rooms.”

You blinked. “All three of us?”

“Unless you want to sleep in the supply closet,” Dana said dryly. “We’re rotating. You got three hours, then we switch out. Rooms 203 and 204.”

Santos sighed but shrugged. “I can make that work.” 

She turned to you and smiled. “Hi, roomie.” 

“Two attendings?” Robby asked. 

“I got it covered,” Shen said from the back of the dispersing group. “You guys have been here since 7 AM. And I know you all hate it when I say it, but I think we’re safe this time. It’s pretty quiet.” 

Robby just nodded, surprisingly accepting, although the dark circles under his eyes and the tightening in his jaw showed just how tired he was. His gaze flickered back to you, lingering for a second, like there was something he wanted to say to you. The blanket was still draped over your shoulders, a persistent reminder of him, and the space between you was charged with something unspoken.

Before either of you could say anything, Trinity stepped in beside you, rubbing her eyes. 

“Okay, I’m officially useless. I think I’m about to fall asleep standing up,” she announced. “Ready?”

You let out a quiet laugh, tearing your gaze away from Robby’s. “Same. You better not snore, though. I don’t think my misophonia could handle that right now.”

You heard Robby let out a laugh. “Well, if she does, you can always room with me.”

Your breath caught in your throat at the bold statement, and you could see Trin’s eyes widen beside you. She pursed her lips, trying to hold in a smile. You knew this would not help the rumor mill spreading about the two of you. 

You forced out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “Funny, Robby.”

He smiled, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Wasn’t a joke.”

You wanted to say something witty back, but it felt like your brain had short-circuited. Robby gave you another easy nod and walked away toward the on-call rooms. 

“Wow, that was…unexpectedly bold of him,” Trinity said, smiling at you.

“That’s one word for it,” you mumbled, crossing your arms in front of you nervously. “You think he meant it?”

She gave you an incredulous look. “Seriously? I think everyone here knows the answer to that,” she giggled. You bit your bottom lip, trying to hold in your smile, but it was a futile attempt. 

“Ready to go?”

“I’m going to grab some tea first,” you said, already backing away. “I’ll meet you there.”

She nodded and walked away, and you head toward the break room. You grabbed a mug of green tea, hands wrapped around the warmth like it might’ve kept you upright a little longer. You drank it quickly, your thoughts wandering back to Robby and his offer, and heat crawled up your neck. Surely, he was joking. 

You made your way down to the on-call rooms. You rolled your neck, sighing at the cracks and the releasing tension. The hallway lights were dimmed, the hospital seeming softer somehow.

You got to 203 and gently opened the door, quietly stepping into the dark room. You didn’t bother turning on the light, not wanting to disturb Trin. You kicked off your shoes near the door, set down your now-empty mug carefully on the table, and slid under the thin blanket with a tired sigh. 

You turned on your side, adjusting the stiff pillow beneath your head, and were ready to fall asleep. Your eyelids felt heavy as you let them close. 

The mattress dipped behind you, sheets ruffling slightly, and a heavy arm draped over your waist. You froze for half a second, then relaxed, exhaustion winning over any worry over your friend. 

“Trin,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “I swear, if you steal the blanket, I’m reporting you to HR.”

The arm tightened slightly around you. A low, familiar voice murmured back, far too close to your ear, and the breath fanned across the back of your neck, causing goosebumps to break across your skin. “I really hope you don’t plan on reporting me.”

Your eyes snapped open right as your heart stopped beating.

“Oh, my god,” you whispered, dread settling in your chest. Your breath began increasing in speed, and you’re sure he heard the uptick in your heartbeat, the blood rushing through your veins in panic. You reluctantly turned just enough to see him in the low light. Robby. His hair was mussed, scrubs wrinkled, and eyes squinting with sleep. 

“Oh my god,” you repeated. “Robby. I thought you were Santos.”

“And here I thought you were taking me up on my offer,” he joked, and you felt a lump in your throat. Despite being cuddled up to him being a fantasy come true for you, you knew it was highly inappropriate. He was your coworker. The head of the ER department. And despite his constant teasing that made hope build in your heart, a very loud part of you felt it was unlikely that he felt the same way. 

There was a beat of silence where neither of you dared to move. His arm was still draped over your waist, and your back was still pressed against his chest. Despite the shock and dread filling you, you were acutely aware of the heat from his body, warming you from the deep chill you’ve had all day. 

“I’m so sorry. I can leave,” you said, but despite your words, you didn’t move. 

“You could stay,” he mumbled, and the sleepy rasp made a low heat spark low in your stomach.

There was another pause. The storm howled faintly outside, the wind rattling against the window. His breath steadied behind you, and he didn’t make an effort to move away from you either. You should have gotten up. You knew that. There were professional boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed, but you also found it increasingly difficult to stop thinking about the man lying behind you.

But you didn’t leave. “You’re warm,” you whispered.

A soft huff of a laugh escaped him. “You’re freezing.”

He shifted, his chest pressing tighter against your back, his heat spreading around you, and his hand shifted slightly, his large palm now resting securely at your waist. The tension that had been simmering for months felt like it had reached a tipping point, overflowing with nowhere else to go. 

“You know,” he murmured, his breath tickling your ear slightly, “I’ve been trying really hard not to make things weird between us.”

You scoffed, tilting your head back just enough to look at him, and gave him a small, nervous smile. “You’re doing a terrible job.”

His smile was small, crooked, and unmistakably Robby, and he chuckled. “Oh ho ho. So are you.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Despite the two of you lying in an on-call room and knowledge that the surrounding rooms were filled with sleeping healthcare workers, the hospital suddenly felt very far away. It was just the two of you in the dark, the storm trapping you in this moment.

Your eyes shift from his eyes to his mouth before flickering back up. His hand, warm and secure, tightened around your waist before shifting lower to your hip. Your breath stuttered in your chest when he whispered your name.

“Someone could walk in,” you whispered.

“We’ve got three hours. No one’s coming,” he said quietly, gently pushing your hip down so that you were lying on your back, and he pulled your body a fraction closer.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“Okay,” you said. That’s all it took. 

He didn’t kiss you right away. He leaned down, forehead resting against yours, breath warm, promise hanging heavy in the air.

Outside, the blizzard raged on. Inside, the two of you knew that you would not be getting much sleep. 

“Robby,” you whispered, and his grip tightened on your hip for a moment before his lips finally met yours. Your eyes fluttered shut, warmth spreading from your lips and down your limbs. Your mouth moved slowly against his, making Robby press his body against you. Your hand raised, cupping his face slightly, fingertips playing with the coarse hairs of his beard, and you basked in his scent. He was almost too heavy, but it felt perfect. Warm, solid, instinctive. 

His lips left yours, travelling down your jaw, and your breath hitched when he pressed an open-mouth kiss to your neck, his tongue licking the skin there. You shuddered and the cold vanished completely. Your body heated from the inside out, and every inch of you was burning for the man above you. Your flesh felt like it was scorching from his warmth. You felt overwhelmed–by his warmth, the soft scent of his cologne, the feeling of his beard against your sensitive skin. 

Your hand gripped the back of his neck, holding him against yourself, and you rolled your hips, your pelvis rubbing deliciously against the prominent bulge in his pants. The small, raspy groan from Robby went straight to your core, making your skin break out in goosebumps. His hand slipped under your scrub top, the heat of his large hand against your skin made your stomach clench, and you whimpered in anticipation as you kept rolling your hips back and forth against him.

His hand moved up slowly, warm against your flesh, and you moaned quietly when he gripped your breast over your bra. His hand squeezed, and his mouth sucked harshly at your neck. 

He rose, his large frame kneeling over you, and he stripped his top off. You took a moment to admire him–his broad shoulders, strong chest, the softness of his stomach, and the trail of hair that led your sight lower and lower. You bit your lip, looking back up at him, and he smirked at you, cocky in a way that only he knew how to make charming. 

Maybe you should knock him down a few pegs. 

You leaned up, quickly taking your top off. For a moment, you regretted wearing that old, plain bra you had owned for years, but the red creeping up his face and the widening of his eyes reassured you that your bra was the last thing he was interested in. You reached behind you, snapping the clasp, and you let the fabric fall over your shoulders. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he said, voice low and raspy and delicious. His gaze was intense, making you feel self-conscious, but not in a bad way. In a way that made you aware of every inch of skin you exposed to him. In a way that made you aware of the heat building beneath your flesh, and the warmth of him pressing against you. 

“Thank you,” you said, voice low and shy. 

He leaned down, kissing you again and guiding you back down to the bed. His hand returned to your chest, fingers playing eagerly with your breast, squeezing the flesh and pinching your nipple. His lips traveled down again, past your jaw and neck, licking the skin of your collarbone, and then down lower, until his mouth wrapped around a nipple, giving you the pleasure you desperately craved. 

His arms slipped under your back and wrapped around you, pulling you tight against him, and he continued his ministrations. Your mouth fell open in pants of intense pleasure. Your eyes were closing, but you forced them open, wanting to witness every second of Michael Robinavitch ravaging you. It was something you had imagined many times and you didn’t want to miss anything.  

Your noises only seemed to spur him on as he lapped at your skin, nipping at the aroused flesh, all the while his hands explored every inch of your newly exposed back. 

You gripped his shoulders, and when your nails dug into the muscle there, he looked up at you, brown eyes piercing. 

You whimpered a plea, grinding your hips up against his. 

“Oh, baby, do you need more?” His tone was almost mocking. 

A terrible mix of frustration, annoyance, and extreme horniness made you almost incapable of speaking. You whined, the sound low and unfamiliar. 

“Come on, honey. Use your words,” he said, looking up at you with dark eyes and a smug smirk on his face. You wanted to punch him, but you wanted him to fuck you even more. 

“Please.” You sounded pathetic, and by the teasing smile on his face, he thought so too, but he obliged. 

His hand travelled down the skin of your stomach and pushed past the elastic of your pants and into your underwear. You shivered at the sensation against your core as he slowly moved his pointer and middle finger, swirling patterns spreading your wetness. 

“You’re so wet, honey,” he said, voice teasing. 

“Mhmmm,” you mumbled, the touch of his hand making you think of nothing but the delicious spasms of pleasure that overcame you every time he grazed your clit. 

“For me?”

You moaned, the dirty words spilling from his mouth, the quiet rasp against your ears, and the feeling of his large fingers exploring your pussy clouding your mind and striking you dumb. 

A sudden, harsh pinch on your clit made you squeal, hips flinching. 

“Use your words. Don’t make me say it again.”

The words made you clench around nothing, your mind sparking the thought that you wanted to see what he would do if you were a brat and made him say it again. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that you were still in the hospital, the rooms surrounding you filled with sleeping staff, so you filed the thought away for next time. 

“For you,” you whispered, and he smiled. His fingers began rubbing soft circles on your clit, periodically dipping lower to collect your wetness and spreading it over you. You moaned, eyes closing and head falling back at the euphoric sensations he was giving you. 

“Robby,” you whimpered, a knot tightening in your lower belly. 

“Shit, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this,” he said. He shifted slightly, pulling the fabric of your scrub pants and your underwear down in one go, exposing you fully to him. His hands gripped your inner thighs, holding your legs open while he took a moment to admire you. You felt heat rise to your neck and face. 

“Robby,” you mumbled, embarrassed, and you tried to cover your face with your hand. 

“Honey, this is the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. No need to be embarrassed,” he said, chuckling slightly. He leaned down, pressing a kiss against your calf before he continued, pressing his mouth against your pussy. You gasped, the feeling of him going down on you making you frantic for more. His tongue lapped up your juices, and when he groaned against you, shivers raced down your spine and to your core, right where he was devouring you. 

“You taste better than I ever imagined,” he groaned against your heated skin. His tongue flattened against your clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves rhythmically, and you moaned loudly. 

“Quiet, honey, don’t want anyone to know what’s going on here,” he mumbled, but did not stop. His fingers teased your entrance, slowly entering your tight hole and rubbing against the velvet walls. Your back arched and you bit your lip, desperately trying to keep quiet as he continued to eat you out like a starved man. He was glorious, skilled in a way that only an older, experienced man could be, and the band in your belly snapped, your orgasm hitting you harder than you ever remembered happening before. 

He finally relented, lips following a path up your stomach and breasts, until he met your mouth in a smoldering kiss. Kissing Robby made you feel like you were being engulfed in an unrelenting fire. The taste of his lips–the taste of your cum lingering on his mouth–sent waves of desire straight down to your center and you greedily wanted more. 

“Fuck, I need you, Robby,” you mumbled into the kiss and you felt him smile. 

“Oh, I know,” he mumbled back, voice smug and you gently pushed his shoulders off of you. He kneeled up, a chuckle escaping him as he stood off the bed, taking the opportunity to take his pants off before trapping you underneath him once more. 

“Condom?” you whispered, and he leaned over to the bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling a condom out. 

“They really keep those here?”

He chuckled, opening the packet and rolling the condom over his impressive cock. 

“Better safe than sorry.”

You turned to your side, and he settled against your back, arm wrapping to pull you tight against his chest, and you rolled your hips, rubbing your ass against him. 

“You’re killing me, honey,” he groaned, his grip on your hip tightening as an unsteady breath escaped you. You turned your head, capturing his lips against yours again, a hand tangling in his hair as you continued to roll your hips back against his. He moaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss to press his lips down your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. Each kiss made warmth bloom beneath the flesh and desire shoot down your spine. 

His hand squeezed the heated skin of your hip again, and you squirmed. He pinned you against him as he lined up at your entrance. 

He paused briefly. “You’re sure about this?”

Your heart stuttered at just how sweet he was, but that was not what you were craving right now. “Robby, shut up and fuck me, please.”

You heard him chuckle under his breath, the smug bastard, and he entered you slowly from the back. The delicious stretch burned and your pussy clenched around him. It had been a while since you had sex, let alone with someone as big as Robby. He continued entering you, slowly and gently, taking a pause each time your breath stuttered or hitched until he finally bottomed out, fully pressed against you. 

Your hands clenched on the sheets in front of you, and your eyes squeezed shut in pure bliss. He filled you so perfectly, so deliciously, that the only thought in your brain was of him and his cock. You clenched around him again, so tight that he groaned from behind you. 

“Shit, honey, you’re so tight,” he groaned, hand gripping the skin of your hip tighter, and he slowly pulled out, only to drive back into you. You moaned, the friction sending waves of pleasure throughout your body. 

You rocked back against him, matching the slow rhythm he had set. His hips snapped desperately forward for a moment, almost as if his control was slipping, but he pulled back slowly again. You writhed against him, a hand lifting from the sheets and wrapping around his wrist at your hip. 

Robby moved his arm up, gently grabbing your chin and turning your face to his. You forced your eyes open, meeting his. His pupils were dilated, eyes gone completely black except for a small ring of brown. You imagined you looked just as fucked out as he did. He snapped his hips forward a few more times, quick and hard, and you moaned. He pressed his mouth against yours, muffling the sound. 

“Quiet,” he reminded you, although there was no taunting in his voice. 

He crashed his lips to yours again, his hand cupping your face gently before he moved it lower, down your neck, fingers slightly curling around it, and you swore that your heart stopped beating for a second. He continued his path, down your sternum to your breasts, caressing and pinching, making you groan into his kiss. 

You bucked your hips back to meet his thrusts, urging him to go faster, and he smiled into the kiss before his hand dipped lower to your stomach, pressing you tight against him. His fingers played across the expanse of your skin, his hips moving faster against you, making you squirm in his grasp and moan into his mouth. His hand dipped even lower, reaching down to where your bodies met, and his fingers rubbed against your clit with just enough pressure. You bucked your hips desperately against his, chasing your high. Your moans became needy, and Robby broke the kiss, his eyes boring into yours. 

“Come on, pretty girl. I want you to come for me.” 

You panted in pure need at his encouragements, your hips moving frantically against his, and he pounded faster and faster into you. You moaned his name as he rubbed fast circles into you, and the friction was so deliriously intoxicating as it pushed you into pure pleasure, your body reaching its high again. You clenched around him, your whole body tensing, and you felt his rhythm falter. 

He snapped his hips against yours, until he let out a deep groan as he reached his high. He pulsed inside of you, emptying himself into the condom, and he rocked in and out of you to prolong his high for as long as he could. 

“You’re so perfect,” he rasped out, a deep murmuring of your name following as he finished coming. 

The room grew silent, save for both of your panting breaths, no moans, groans, or lewd, slick noises filling the space. You leaned your head back and rested it against his chest, and his arm wrapped around your torso, holding you tight against him for as long as he could. Neither of you spoke for a long while, until he pulled out, making you whimper at the loss of him. You felt empty, utterly fucked out yet wanting more of him. 

He kept his arms wrapped around you as you turned to face him. His face looked peaceful, lacking the usual tension he had while at work. It made him look younger, carefree and happy. 

He smiled at you, and you smiled back. 

“You know we have to talk about this,” you said. 

“I know,” he said nonchalantly, pulling you closer to the heat of his body, and he nuzzled his face into your neck. “We’ll have plenty of time. Sleep, honey, we still have two hours.”

Despite the desolation and bitter cold of winter, his touch bloomed spring wildflowers on your skin, making you shiver, but that time it was not from the cold, and you had a thought that maybe winter might be your new favorite season if you had a certain doctor there to keep you warm. 

(And yes, you completely ignored the heat creeping up your neck and the knowing looks Trinity sent your way two hours later as the three of you made your way back to the emergency department.)

“Jesus! Fuck… So good—” Robby choked out, and each word was punctuated by another pulse that painted fresh streaks across your ruined face, over your forehead, into your hairline, dripping from your jaw.

You swallowed, letting him hear it, and licked a stripe across your swollen lower lip, gathering more of him onto your tongue. “That… that was a lot,” you could feel the volume of his release on your face, probably six ounces, easy.

Robby kept his eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t look anywhere else. “I… uh… I tried to warn you,” he managed to say. “Told you to pull away. Fuck, baby, I—I’m sorry.”

You reached up, dragging two fingers through the thickest stripe across your cheek and gathering a generous smear of his cum, then you brought it to your lips, and sucked them clean while holding his gaze. “Don’t apologize,” you said firmly, licking the last of it from your fingertips. “And don’t you ever ask me to pull away again.”

A/N: Girrrl, when you sent me that, my mind immediately went to facial. Like, getting a facial from Robby. And the shock of experiencing it for the first time and realizing just how much it was.

Unfortunately, I don’t have that gift some people have of writing something short and straightforward… so yeah. I really just needed to write it.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you. 

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked. 

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

The two of you are on the couch with your legs across Robbys lap. You're both tired as hell, happy to be at home relaxing after a long shift.

He's watching a documentary about ...something, meanwhile you're watching him, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and taking in the features of his face that you adore so much.

You see Robbys eyes flit over to your face and back to the TV a few times, before they finally abandon the documentary entirely. He turns to face you with a questioning, tone teasing as he asks, "What're you looking at, hm?"

Smiling you reply, "Just admiring", which has his face turning bashful, a slight redness creeping up his neck.

"Not much to admire I'm afraid", he chuckles, at which you tut at his self depricating humor, climbing into his lap. You love the way his large hands instantly settle around your waist.

"I'm serious, I love looking at you." You're stroking his face now, over his graying beard and his nose that you love so much, before the tips of your fingers settle on his cheeks.

As you get lost in your favorite part of him, his deep brown eyes (that now turn shy under your gaze) you note absentmindedly, "Hope our kids get your eyes."

The change in him is immediate.

Robbys posture straightens and his eyes shoot up to yours. "Kids?", he asks.

You're too startled by the sudden shift in atmosphere to answer with much more than a confused "Huh?" , hands dropping to your sides.

Robbys hands leave their place on your waist, moving to cradle your face instead. "You said you hope our kids get my eyes", he clarifies, "You want kids? With me?"

You're still struggling to keep up a bit, your tired brain confused on what to make of his excited state - so you settle for a bit of preemptive damage control.

"I mean, I, yeah. I don't... Well I've always thought I'd have kids one day and I think you'd make a good father. I didn't mean to say we have to now, o-or at all really - if you don't want to - just think it'd be nice, like maybe one day-"

Robby shuts you up with a kiss that you're too stunned to reciprocrate properly and when he draws back you finally get a good read on his expression. He's positvely beaming - looking at you like you've hung the moon the sky.

"How about now?", he asks, moving to pepper kisses over your face and neck.

Your head is spinning both from the dizzying kisses and the emotional rollercoaster you've just experienced.

"What? You... Robby hold on love." Pushing him back gently at his shoulders, so you can look at his face again you ask: "Robby are you asking me what I think you're asking? You want to have a baby? With me? Like... now?"

He's still grinning as he picks you up, steady steps taking you towards the bedroom. "Sweetheart, I want to give you as many babies as you'll let me."

You really get the sense that he means it about 15 minutes later, when he's got you laid out in bed, your knees pressed to your chest as he's relentlessly pounding into you. At this angle his cock is hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars, the fullness of it almost too much to handle.

Robby is grinning down at your fucked out expression, leaning in to give you a kiss, one massive hand around your jaw and mumbling into your open mouth, "How many are you gonna give me, hm? Sweetheart?"

When the only thing that leaves your mouth in response are the tiny "uh, uh, uhs" being punched out of you in time with his thrusts he shakes his head in mock dissapointment.

"I asked you a question. Gotta give me an answer love or else I'll pick a number." Robby watches your face for a moment, grinning at the way he can tell you're trying to formulate a thought, but fail to do so.

"Oh poor thing, too gone to answer? That's ok." His hand shifts to stick two fingers in your mouth, hypnotised by the way you immediatly begin to suck on them, as he continues, "How's five sound? Five's a good number, hm? Yeah, I like the sound of that."

Something in Robby seemingly breaks when he sees the way your eyes roll into the back of your head in response, unable to stop the flow of words spilling from his lips.

"We gotta hurry though, still wanna be able to play with them all, while I still can."

"Gotta be one after another, hm?"

"Can see you bouncing our little one on your hip, already swollen with the next one. Fuck you'll be such a pretty momma"

"Can't believe you're letting this old man knock you up."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It's three weeks later, when you're presenting Robby with a positive pregnancy test after your period being late prompted you to take one. He's grinning like an idiot, tears in his eyes, kissing all over your face and then kneeling to do the same all over your stomach.

He swears up and down he couldn't be happier than he is in this moment...

You approach on his left side, reaching around to pinch the right side of his tummy, the delicious little sliver peeking out of his navy hoodie. It’s risky, but you couldn’t help it. It pays off when he falls for it- he always does, and whips his head to his right side, completely missing you until his peripheral kicks in, his eyes sliding shut, head hanging low as a reluctant laugh shakes his shoulders. 

“Good morning, Doctor,”  you mutter, rubbing your balmy lips together and avoiding eye contact. 

“Good morning,” he responds, pretending to shuffle things around in his now open locker. It’s not lost on you that it was closed just moments before. 

“Doesn’t look too bad out there,” you say, the small talk feeling futile considering his strong arms held you close between his sheets mere hours ago. 

“Hey! No jinxing, you know the rule!” He scolds playfully, finally turning to face you. His forearm rests against the lockers, the other hand propped on his hip. You’re not so brave, unable to face him in fear you’d crumble under the weight of his gaze, his doey brown eyes glimmering with adoration as you fight the temptation to drag him out to the lobby and kiss him in front of everyone in the E.R. So, you turn away from him, your knuckles whitening around your stethoscope before bounding towards Dana’s desk. You still feel Robby’s smile as he watches you go. 

The start of the day is pretty immediate, multiple patients flooding in and out of the E.R. at a rapid pace. Adrenaline pumps through your veins as you assist with each one. In the chaos, you hardly even register the small brushes against Robby’s forearm, his large hand on the small of your back, his sturdy chest barely grazing you as he maneuvers the limited space.

A shudder rumbles through you anyway, shaking you to your very core. A house with a weak foundation. 

There’s a change in the air when a family comes rushing in, a frazzled mom immediately ejecting her baby girl into your arms upon arrival. She rushes to Robby soon after, blubbering something about her son, who’s being rolled in by the paramedics. Robby spares you the briefest glance, silent confirmation that it’s okay to do what you think is best with the child. 

You balance her in your arms, soothing her fussy cries with quiet words, rubbing circles on her back. You rock back and forth, carrying her to peds for an exam. It’s standard practice when one child comes in injured, and thankfully she comes out alright. 

She reaches up for you from the examination table, her cries ebbing into little coos as she finds comfort in your arms again. Her chubby little hands exploring as much of you as she’s allowed- your pink scrubs, your claw clip, the gold studs in your ears.

You take a moment to have fun with her, juggling her in your arms, tickling her neck, lightly squeezing her cheeks. Her giggles fill the space around you. Her little head snuggles in your neck as she becomes more familiar. You rub your hands up and down her back, rocking back and forth to calm her down before reentering the busy E.R. 

Your head pops up when the door opens, Robby making his way through the entrance, letting the door shut behind him. He stops when he sees you, the prolonged eye contact making your heart stop, much like it did this morning when you were in his shoes- stunned by the mere sight of him. 

You can’t help but assume the child in your arms has at least a little bit to do with it. The glimmer in his eye flits from you, to the baby, then back to you again. The softness in his gaze clutches your heart, ringing it out like a wet rag. Want pools low in your belly, his round, chocolate eyes piercing right through you. 

“Uhm-” he clears his throat, ringing his hands together as he looks to the ground. “You done here? How’s the sweet girl?”

The nickname flip flops in your belly.

“She’s good! No problems over here, except for a deprivation of snuggles, as you can see,” you readjust her once more, hooking your hands under her armpits and raising her to eye level. “You just needed snuggles, huh? Yeah, yes you did!” You ask in a high pitched voice, holding her close once more at her squeals. 

“Please don’t make me give her back,” you draw out your plea, a soft tone and your widest eyes, a small pout jutting your lower lip. In your more…casual moments, he calls this your ‘Kill Me Cocktail’. 

He’s drinking it now, the apples of his cheeks tinting the brightest red under the scruff of his beard. He rings his hands together once more, backing up slowly towards the door until his back meets the wall rather violently. He's then smushed by the open door opening, squeezing him between itself and the wall. Dana pokes her head in the open space. 

“Hey love, you seen Robby?” She asks, her hard brow softening at the sight of you and your new friend. 

“Yeah!” He gruffs, sliding out from where the door trapped him. “Right here!” 

His cheeks burn even brighter now, and you bite your lip to keep from laughing. This makes things even worse for him, though, as he nearly trips over Dana on his way out of the room. 

“Make sure baby gets back to mom for me, will you?” He asks, before jetting off in another direction. 

“Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do?” Dana calls after him, even though he’s long gone. 

Her head turns back to you, a brow quirked. Guilt and anxiety pool in your stomach, like you’re a child being sent to the principal’s office. Dana has that effect on people. She’s also been suspicious of you two for weeks now, ever since you came into work the day after a rather late night out with coworkers. 

“That was the most unlike him I’ve ever seen,” she remarks pointedly. 

You nod, your own cheeks now burning, “Yeah, I don’t know,” you blubber out, your own speedy heart rate now catching up to you. “Where are the parents?” You desperately try to change the subject, but Dana is never so kind. 

“I’ll take her, we don’t need you passing out over your attending,” she takes the baby with another pointed glare, and you take it as your sign to get back to work. 

You meet a different doctor’s needs, deciding it’d be best for your current mental state to assist someone who wasn’t inside of you mere hours ago.

-

The room is so thick with white hot desire, you’re swimming in it. Your arms loop around Robby’s neck, pulling him close so you can nuzzle your sweaty forehead into him. He doesn’t let you get away with it for too long, lightly nudging the point of his nose at your jaw, pressing a quick kiss there before pulling his head back, lifting your head with his hand, “so I can see your pretty face,” he tells you, kissing you plainly on the lips. You're on your side, leg hitched on his hip, his length hitting your deep, sensitive parts.

His words churn your insides, your heart fluttering in ways it definitely shouldn’t for your senior attending. You can’t help it, not when he moves his hips further, deeper into you, cooing in your ear as he thrusts, unforgiving and oh, so loving. You squeal, resting your head on the pillow, allowing him to roll further on top of you. 

You maintain eye contact, his round, brown eyes wide and hazy. You love seeing him like this, uninhabited by the stressors of the work day, calm and relaxed. 

Your hands reach up to grip his biceps, nuzzling your head into his strong forearm, propped up by his hand on the pillow.

“Michael, it feels so good” you mutter, so lost in the pleasure he’s giving you that you don’t even realize the slip. 

He does, though, his hips coming to a pause inside you. It’s then that it clicks, your heart dropping into the acid pool of your stomach, your veins running cold. 

“Robby-” you whisper, but he stops you, fingers on your lips to silence you as he starts his hips up again. 

You take two of them in your mouth, wrapping your lips around them and bobbing your head slightly. You maintain eye contact, looking up at him through your lashes. A soft groan escapes his lips, driving his hips even deeper. You close your eyes, moaning around his fingers. 

“Say it again,” he demands, taking his wet fingers from you and dragging them down your neck, your chest, circling your sensitive nipples. “Call me Michael again.”

“I’m getting close, Michael,” you tell him, reveling in the flutter of his eyes. “You’re so big. Feels incredible,” you punctuate your words with a kiss to his forearm, sinking your teeth in a little bite shortly after. 

“Me too, angel,” he groans, leaning in to plant a searing kiss on your lips. 

You melt into it, sucking his bottom lip in your mouth. It invigorates you, his lips on yours, compelling you to push his shoulders back until he’s flat on the bed. You crawl on top of him, sinking down his shaft in record speed. The delicious sting of his reentry hits you like ice dripping down your back. 

He lets out a dangerous groan at your actions, his hands wasting no time gripping your ass, helping you find a steady rhythm. You drop your hands to his chest, your ass slapping against his hips in wet bounces. 

“You’re so pretty,” he mutters, fingers digging into the plush of your ass. “How did I get so lucky? Hm?” He asks, gripping your hips so he can sit up. 

He pulls you to him, pressing his hand on the small of your back so he can feel your tits against his chest. It’s his favorite feeling, or so you’ve been told. 

You fall into him at his touch, sloppily pressing your lips against his. You start to bounce in this new position, and Robby, ever the caregiver, scoops his hands underneath your ass. He lifts you up and down on his lap, and you can’t help but let yourself be pliant for him. 

“How’d I get so lucky, getting my pretty nurse to bounce on my dick like this?” His words steal the air from you, a searing heat burning deep within you.

”Y’know, when you first started, I had no idea you’d be so good for me. Guess I should’ve, with the way you always listened, never did anything you weren’t supposed to. Perfect girl. My good girl, hm?” The words dribble from his lips, a stream of consciousness he graces you with as he rubs your clit. 

“Ohgodyes,” you whisper, the white hot pleasure in your belly nearly unbearable as he relentlessly pounds you on him.  “Mikey, oh fuck, I’m your good girl,” you moan, throwing your head back as the pleasure starts to surge, the wave at its peak, just before a crash. 

“Yeah, you are,” he affirms, kissing your cheek. “My good girl’s gonna come for me, isn’t she? You can, go ahead,” he permits, and it’s over.

The rush is monstrous, you squeal on top of him, yet he’s still bouncing you like your life depends on it. Your body tenses, your back arching and pressing your softness further into him. It spurs his own release, his dick twitching and pulsing inside of you. 

“Fuck, I’m coming. Sweet girl, I’m coming,” he grunts against your ear. 

You rake your nails down his spine as he finds his bliss. You squeeze hard around him, sure to get every last drop. A long groan rumbles his chest as he comes with you. He grips the back of your head to bring you in for a kiss. You tongue laps at his, giving him small, sensual licks between sloppy kisses. 

A fuzzy calm takes over your body, you’re now fully slumped in his arms. He feels it too, you can tell by the relaxed hum rumbling in his chest, the soothing circles he rubs on your back. He kisses your head, resting his chin at your temple. 

“You did so good for me.”

-

Dana catches you dozing off, your eyes glazing over when you should be charting your new patient’s medical history. She quips at you lightly, giving you a quick nudge to get you back up to speed. 

Your cheeks burn at the reminder, and you quickly bury your face into the chart, attempting to type away any thought of Michael Robinavitch. At least, until you clock out. 

You continue to make the rounds for about an hour until you’re caught, pulled from your Robby-less reprieve. A whiny cry comes from your right, and you instinctively turn to see familiar chubby hands reaching out for you. 

“Oh, hello again sweet girl!” You coo, unable to resist her, even though it means you’ll have to see Michael again. 

“She was asking for you,” Dana says, handing her over. 

“Whining and crying’s more like it,” a deep timbre surprises you from behind. 

You jump, immediately averting eye contact as Robby speeds past you, officially bringing you back on his rotation. You focus on the baby to try and get rid of the sinking feeling in your stomach. 

He walks three strides ahead of you, updating you on what you’d missed. His tone is short, avoidant. You’re not used to the dust he’s kicking in your face. It’s bitter, and you’re walking twice as fast, trying to keep up with someone who usually only walks beside you. 

Robby grinds to a halt once he’s back at his patient, and you nearly bump into his back. You hold the baby closer, soothing her while he checks on the brother. His eyes pierce a hole through your back as you juggle the sweet girl, reveling in the way she giggles, grabs at the loose strands of hair falling out of your claw clip. You nuzzle into her cheek, her laughter infectious. 

Whitaker gets in on the fun then, playfully prodding her cheeks, squeezing her little wrists. You laugh with him, grateful to have a small, Robby-less bubble. That is, until he decides to pop it. 

“If my staff could get back to work, that would be amazing,” he quips, not even bothering to spare a glance your way. 

Your veins run cold at his tone. Your mind flits back to the night before, to the warmth in his eyes while you were in his bed, the gentle stroke of his knuckles against your cheekbone. Your heart sinks at the thought of it, contrasted with the harshness of his tone, the harsh stomp of his feet as he sulks past you. 

You watch him, baby in arms, eyes wide as he maneuvers around you, purposefully keeping at least a foot of distance between you two in the tiny cramped space. 

It’s petulant, the way you react to his behavior, but you can’t fully blame yourself. You like to think any woman would react this way. The man who, just mere hours ago, tore you apart to put you back together, is now ignoring you, pretending like you don’t exist. 

You startle at the glare Dana shoots you across the hallway, awareness blooming in your chest like a thorny rose. You avert your gaze in record speed, jostling the now fussy baby. She writhes and whines, and you bounce yourself on the ball of your foot, swaying left to right as you gently shush and coo.  

“Can you please take her somewhere else, calm her down a little?” He snaps at you, his back to you, chin resting atop his shoulder. He still refuses to meet your gaze. 

You catch his eyes squeeze shut, releasing a deep sigh before turning back to the baby’s sibling. That’s when it clicks for you. Annoyance pricks at your heart, a cactus sprouting deep in your chest. 

It’s the baby. He can’t handle seeing you with the baby. 

You roll your eyes and scoff, sauntering back to peds, annoyance lacing your every step. You make sure to sway your hips a little extra, too. 

-

You rock the baby, who’s now sideways in your arms. Her eyes are begging to close, her little body not quite letting her sleep in the foreign setting. You whisper a scratchy, hopefully soothing, Somewhere Over The Rainbow. She seems to like it, a giggle babbling from her lips as she snuggles further. 

Your head snaps up at the click of the door opening, Dana’s head peeking through the small opening in the door. 

“Hey sweetheart! How you guys doing in here?” She whispers. 

“Not bad!” You hush back. “I’m just trying to get her down.”

She slinks in, opening her arms to take the bundle of joy. You hand her over, relief dawning on you like an early morning sunrise. 

You slump into a chair against the wall, leaning back against it with shut eyes. Dana takes a seat next to you, the baby already asleep. 

You throw your hands up and scoff, partly in awe, mostly in envy. 

“How did you do that?” You whisper, mouth agape. 

She shrugs. “Two daughters. You never lose it. Maybe you’ll get there one day,” she nudges toward you as much as she can with a baby in her arms. 

Your cheeks burn hot at her comment, that burn of awareness stings your chest, your face. You cover your face with your hands, as if trying to hide the fact that you’re in love with your attending. 

“What’s going on with the old guy?” Dana asks, deadpan. 

A pitiful laugh bursts out before you can stop it, the flame in your cheeks burning hotter as the reality of your feelings sit deep in your chest. 

“I love him,” you mutter, resigned and utterly hopeless, a tear slipping from your eye. “I think he loves me too. He’s being a bitch about it, though.”

“Sounds like him,” Dana rolls her eyes and stands, gently rocking the baby. “Don’t worry. I can’t speak for him, but I don’t think there’s anything for you to worry about. Well, besides him being a little bitch,” she supposes, lifting her shoulder. 

You laugh again at that, wiping at the stray tear that splashes from your waterline. “Yeah. He is being a little bitch,” you nod, looking down at your folded hands in your lap. “You really think he loves me, too?” Your voice is small, woeful. 

Dana purses her lips, her eyes saying “well duh!” Her words are kinder. 

“Of course I do. I can see the way he looks at you. I’ve worked with that man many years, and it’s very rare to see the light in his eye when he looks at you. Hard to deny,” her words crack your chest. “Just talk to him, it’ll be alright.” 

She nods before handing the sleeping baby back to you. You cradle her close to your chest, her tiny thumb finding her lips. You glance back up at Dana, eyes glossy again.

“Thank you,” you smile, soft and pretty. She nods, turning to brace the busy E.R. again. 

You’re not ready to go out into that world again, content to snuggle with your little friend for a little while longer. This is why your heart spikes when the door stays open, the lively chatter and clatter of the world beyond seeping its way into your makeshift haven. 

“Hey, we need you out there,” Robby’s gruff voice barks. 

Your eyes nearly roll behind your skull. 

“Michael. Get in here and shut the door, she’s asleep,” you whisper sharply. He immediately listens, squeezing in and shutting the door quietly.

The silence that befalls you two is deafening, the air so thick it’s like you’re moving in slow motion. He walks over, slow yet sure, sliding into the chair next to you. Your eyes never break contact. The entire world opens up in his eyes. It’s painful, the clutch in your heart as he looks. Just looks. 

You instinctively hold the baby closer, for your comfort or hers, it’s hard to say. His eyes shine with something a lot like grief but also a lot like love. You still say nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, slicing through the suffocating agony. 

“Thank you,” you whisper back, your smile tilting up in a small smile. 

“You have no idea…” his eyes find the ground, his elbows on his knees. “You have no idea how much you scare me,” he confesses. 

“Seeing you with that baby, after what happened last night…” he trails off, knowing exactly what he’s thinking about. The moment you first called him Michael. 

You’d crossed a line in that moment, one you can’t go back on. You both knew that. You both liked that, too, you’re pretty sure. The complications this will bring, though, Robby is not ready to handle. He tells you so, his own brown eyes glassy.

“Hey,” you whisper, bringing the baby to the exam table. You lay her gently on the foamy bed, so she can sleep peacefully, without the baggage of two anxiously attached health care workers. 

You walk back over to Robby, sitting not beside him this time, but perched on his knee. He melts at your actions, just like you knew he would. He can’t resist feeling the weight of you on him, in any capacity. Just a reminder that you were there, you were real, that was enough. 

“I was annoyed. I’ll be honest,” you tell him, and he nods a bit shamefully, gaze falling to the floor. 

You lift his chin up with your finger, forcing his eyes back on yours. You sigh, really getting a good look at him. You think he’s so pretty like this, worn from a hard day’s work, eyes round and soft and tired. 

You press a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose, your hands finding his shoulders, running down to his biceps, moving over to his pecs. He shivers at your touch. You lean in, pressing your lips against his to whisper, “I love you, you know that?”

He nearly chokes at the confession, and you feel him chub up beneath you at the confession. You smile to yourself, fighting back a giggle he wouldn’t be able to resist. His arms come up to grip your waist, pulling you close and nuzzling his face in your neck, inhaling sharply. 

“I love you too,” he mutters, eyes closed in what now looks like bliss. Your stomach flips at the sight, eager to make him cry once your shift is over. 

“That’s enough,” you whisper, placing a chaste kiss to the shell of his ear. He shudders. 

“For now, that’s enough, okay Michael?” You clarify, pulling back to look in his eyes. 

He looks back desperately, nodding his head in agreement.

“For now,” he repeats. “We have more to talk about when we get home, I know.”

Your heart sinks at the idea of this conversation, of bureaucratic rules and sneaking around at work. It can’t be completely sunk, though, because Michael called his apartment home. Not his place. Home. 

It’s your turn to repeat him. “At home,” you confirm, resting your forehead against his. 

“I love you,” he whispers, placing one last kiss against your lips. “We gotta get back to work, angel,” he reminds you.

“One more,” you insist, pecking him once, twice, three times. 

His brow furrows, a groan escaping his lips at the temptation. He presses a large finger against your mouth, pulling himself back and away from you. He pops you off his knee, taking some deep breaths. 

You follow in his footsteps, fanning your burning cheeks in order to prepare for E.R. reentry. He moves to pick up the baby, who’s starting to stir. 

“Oh, hi!” He coos, his big, strong arms wrapping around her tiny tummy. 

It clicks for you, then. What he was feeling earlier, what caused him to be a dick to you. It’s this. This aching, burning feeling. It permeates your entire body, chest, stomach, in between your thighs. 

You can’t stop your brain from fast forwarding five years in the future, an even greyer Robby, cheaters resting on his nose, balancing your own baby on his hip while you prepare breakfast on a Sunday morning. 

“Oh, Michael,” you gush. “Now I get it. God, I love you,” you gush, unable to contain it. 

He knows exactly what you mean, a smirk lifting his lips as he lightly rocks the baby back to consciousness. 

“It felt like my whole body was on fire,” he admits, his cheeks tinted pink. “I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

“I know what I need to do, and that’s get back to work,” you redo your hair, tightening it in your claw clip once more. You move towards the door, hand on the handle. Before you twist, you turn back to face Michael. 

Jack Abbot was going to hell.

A fact that is cemented by the way he's standing in the kitchen of your childhood home - well, the home that you still currently live in because you haven't saved enough money to move out on your own yet - with your hand on his belt buckle. The only reason you can even host him is because your parents are out of town.

He should have known it was a ruse when you'd asked to him to come over. But how could he say no when you looked at him with wide eyes near the end of shift and asked him to help with you're leaky washing machine.

"It flooded yesterday, Dr. Abbot. I barely got any sleep trying to fix it last night, and I don't have anyone else to look at it."

Bullshit. He hasn't even glanced at the laundry room yet.

He can't even look at the walls, too afraid he'll get a glimpse of your family portraits and be forced to reckon with the fact that your parents are his age.

He's known about your little "thing" for him, of course. How can he not when you listen intently to any and all instructions he gives you, the way your eyes narrow when he uses his commanding voice that demanded respect in the barracks.

He's so going to hell. And he can't even bring himself to care.

"C'mon, kid, we shouldn't-"

"I'm a big girl, Jack," you cut him off, with another kiss. He knows he should push you away, but he just can't get his arms to cooperate right now, "I'm an adult. And I'm a nurse so you're not technically my boss."

"That doesn't mean - I'm so much older than you."

"You're telling me that doesn't turn you on a little bit?" you ask, sinking down to your knees, "If you really want to then you can leave now and pretend this never happened."

He should take you up on your offer.

Instead he lets you palm him through his scrubs as you settle on the floor. Jack has half a brain to grab the kitchen towel and fold it once so you can kneel on it instead.

"Mm, such a gentleman," you say as you finally get his belt buckle undone.

He laughs, considering what you're about to find out about him.

"Yeah, about that, kid, need to tell you something."

"Can it wait?" you're pulling up his shirt, and he curses. No turning back now.

You squint, seeing the lines of ink for the first time, "You have hip tats? That's so fucking hot."

"I-"

Your jaw falls open as you take in the sight in front of you. Slightly faded with time now but still perfectly legible in hand written script "It Won't Suck Itself."

"Oh my god?" You look up at him with wide eyes, except he's staring at the ceiling, unable to face you.

"It's douchey, I know. I lost a bet in med school."

You laugh, "What did your wife think of it?"

"Who do you think I lost the bet to?"

"She told you to get it?"

"It's her handwriting," and why he can't bring himself to get it lasered. It became a weird comfort when he was overseas, and now he can't stand to get rid of the memory so it's just there. Haunting him - preventing him from getting serious with another woman. He stands there, chest heaving, waiting for you to kick him out. He's still avoiding your eye, unable to see the way that you lick your lips.

"That's so hot."

He blinks, "What?"

You shove his shirt into his hands, "Off."

"You don't have to-"

"Well, 'It won't gonna suck itself' won't it, Dr. Abbot?"

He's so embarrassed, he's completely forgotten about the-

"You're a freak," you look at him, once again slack jawed in awe, "your dick is pierced?"

His face is burning, he's wishing that someone will come and put him out of his misery.

"I-I-it was a rough patch of years a while ago. Lost my leg, then my wife, did it so I could feel control over my life."

He's expecting you to kick him out now, to put in a request to transfer to day shift and have every interaction between you to be painfully awkward from now on until he dies - which would be a shame, you really are his favourite nurse.

Instead, his knuckles turn white against, the counter as you swallow him down - mouth warm around him. When he finally gains the courage to look at you he's met with glossy eyes staring back at him.

"Christ, kid, gonna send me into an early grave," you moan in response, the action sending vibrations through his body's a.

You reach up, grabbing one of his hands and placing it on your head. Jack almost laughs at the earnestness in your face.

"Calling me a freak when you're the one that brought me here to seduce me? Went down so easy for me, didn't even have to ask."

Any worry that he has about whether or not he's crossing a line is swept away by the way you start to bob your head. It's been so long since anyone's done this for him. He closes his eyes, head falling back as he gets lost in your motions. You continue, moving back and forth, hallowing your cheeks and doing little movements with your tongue that make his brain foggy. It's an embarrassingly short amount of time before he feels that pressure in his belly, tries to warn you but you just suckle at his tip while your hand massages his shift, ready to receive whatever he gives you.

He tightens his grip in your hair as he spills into you. The sight of you licking your lips eagerly after you've finished swallowing him down is enough to make his dick twitch at his side again.

"Can you take a look at my washing machine now?" you ask, wiping your lip with your finger in a way that makes Jack question his sanity.

He blinks, brain still taking a moment to buffer, "That was real?"

"I don't lie, Abbot, I just saw an opportunity and I took it."

Jack: Why is Lena saying we're short staffed and you're not coming in tonight?

You: its icy as shit man. im gonna get run off the road

Jack: I'll come pick you up.

You: tf am i supposed to tell my parents when there's an old man luring me into his truck

Jack: You lured ME first of all Jack: Tell them I'm just a concerned boss.

You: they know what Lena looks like

Jack: I'll be there in 10minutes. 15 tops.

Jack has been out of the dating game for some time now, however, middle aged men dating younger women has always existed. He just never thought he'd be one of them.

He's aware of how much older he is now and he's not one to brag, but he is good shape. He goes to the gym regularly, can keep up pretty well with Jake and his friends in the basketball court whenever his schedule allows him to tag along with Robby - he's proud of his body, of what he's still capable of at his age.

But, it's nothing compared to your youthful libido.

"You're still horny?" Jack groans, rubbing a hand over his face as you-not-so subtly- start to rub against his crotch in his bed, "I'm offended. I thought I did a pretty good job earlier."

Jack has always been a cuddler. After he'd gotten you cleaned up he'd simply rolled into his side. Your head was resting on his arm, legs tangled together until you started to squirm.

"Not my fault. You're so hot I can't help it."

"How do you make it through the day?" He asks, tone mocking, but he's rolling you over onto your back "I swear, sex is the only thing you think about."

"Says the man with the dick sucking tattoo."

He shakes his head, "You think your subtle but you're not. I see the way you look at me at work, kid. So fucking obvious."

"I don't," your breathe hitches.

"Please, sweetheart," he kisses your neck, scratching his stubble against your skin, "Anyone can see it. The way you stare at my hands? I can tell you're thinking about the last time they were between your legs."

He runs his hands along your thighs, gently holding them open for him. He's spent, won't be able to get it up for a while, but he's gotta take care of his girl no matter his limitations.

"It's embarrassing, really," he starts to trail kisses down your body, "How obvious you are. Fresh faced nurse fucking your attending - that's the plot of every porno ever."

You whimper, biting your lip. When he reaches your sternum you arch your back into his touch.

"So needy," he coos, ignoring your whine as he bypasses your breasts, "bet if I asked you to get down on your knees in front of everyone in the trauma room you would."

You nod.

He keeps going lower down your body, "Say it, doll. Say what you would do for me."

"I'd get down on my knees for you, Jack ," he stops at your belly button. He looks up at you, keeping eye contact as he kisses his tongue dips down into the crevice, "In…in front of everyone."

"Maybe one of these days I'll ask you to," he grunts, giving one last kiss before dipping down to where you really want him.

He spreads your legs, whistling when he sees your glistening folds. He wastes no time, moaning around your clit like it's the last meal he'll get. You're still sensitive from earlier, squirming around as he does so. He chuckles to himself, getting his hands on your hips and digging his fingers into the soft skin to keep you from moving.

He doesn't tease you this time. Two fingers sliding in with ease. He reaches up, squeezing your breast in his hand, rolling your nipple in his hand. You gasp, calling out his name. Your thighs close around his head, trapping him.

Jack is perfectly content to stay here until you're pushing his head away with weak fingers.

"What are these?" you ask, catching the gloves he throws at you.

"Boxing gloves," he responds, shoving his hands into his own.

You throw him an annoyed glance, "No shit, Sherlock. Why are you giving them to me right now?"

"You're gonna show me how you throw a punch," he smacks his gloves together.

You let out an incredulous laugh, "What?

"You're a pretty girl. When you leave the hospital and it's dark you walk back to your car by yourself. What kind of man would I be if I didn't try to make sure you can defend yourself."

"You're serious about this?"

"As a heart attack."

"Okay, old man", you smile at him as you put on the gloves, "Let's go."

You start out unsure, giving a few test punches to find the swing of things.

"You have to fight back," you say, straightening up, "It feels weird otherwise."

He nods.

He throws one playful swing at you, and is actually shocked when you block it and throw a solid punch at his side. He stumbles a little, looking at you in surprise.

"Don't leave your ribs open, Abbot," you tease.

He can't lie, he's a little bit turned on.

As each swing comes, more power than the last, getting harder and harder to dodge, a little bit more blood rushes to his cock. He makes an effort to throw a few punches here and there, but he's enjoying being used as a punching bag far more than he ever intended.

"Oh my god!" you exclaim, laughing, throwing punching him on in the chest, "Are you hard right now?"

He grunts, "Maybe."

He doesn't bother trying to block the next blow, "You're disgusting, Abbot."

He shivers, cock twitching in his pants. He puts one hand on it to try and relieve the pressure and you laugh when you realize what he's doing.

"Never beating the dirty pervert allegations," one more punch to his chest, much lighter this time, "getting off on a little girl beating you up and being being degraded? You're such a fucking freak."

He nods, biting his lip.

You strip off one of your gloves, dropping it to the floor before pulling him in by his collar. He's just inches away from you know. You use your ungloved hand to slide his shirt up. You weren't actually trying to hurt him, but your first hit caught him completely off guard, and now he a fresh bruise blooming over his ribs. Your fingers ghost over the spot a moment before pushing hard.

Jack hisses, heart hammering in his chest as his cock starts to leak.

"Of course you like that, perv," you coo doing it again, a little lighter this time.

Jack has to steady himself, reaching out to hold onto the counter. He closes his eyes, trying to calm himself. He groans when your other hand slides under the waistband of his shorts and cups him through his boxers. He leans forward, forehead falling against yours, panting into your mouth. You don't move your hand , don't make any attempt to jack him off.

"Gonna cum for me, Jackie?" you ask, fingers prodding at the bruise again, "Gonna finish in your pants without me touching you? Like the dirty old pervert you are?"

He nods against your head.

"Cum for me, Jack."

He spills into his boxers as you push on it one more time. He grunts, hips stuttering while he tries to catch his balance. You laugh, squeezing his cock more time before tipping your head up to kiss him.

Jack sighs in relief as he takes he removes the liner from his leg. He leaves his prosthetic in front of him, turning to you.

"I got you something. It's in the drawer. Ran out of time to wrap it all nice for you, though, sorry."

"A gift for me?" you ask, voice teasing as you pull open the drawer. Your brow furrows as you hold CD case with your name on it, "What is this?"

Jack stops massaging his stump, blood running cold, "Don't tell me you don't know what a CD is?"

You roll your eyes, coming to sit next to him on the couch, "I'm in my 20s, not my terrible 2s. I'm know what a CD is, geezer, I'm just confused as to why this is my gift."

"Well, back in the day when we'd like a beautiful girl, we'd make her a mix tape with a bunch of different songs on it. I'm getting tired of you not getting my musical genius so I put a bunch of my favourites on there. Whole buncha genres too, Madonna, Zeppelin, Michael Jackson. I tried to pick the ones you'd like."

"A mix tape?" you repeat, jaw agape, "You made me a mix tape? Like it's 1999?"

His ears are starting to get warm. He reaches over, snatching it from you, "If you don't want it, I'll take it back."

"No, no," you practically leap across the couch, hopping into his lap while you hold his face in your hands and pepper kisses all over it, "I love it. I love it so much. This is the most romantic gift I've ever received. My next day off I'm driving to the thrift store and buying a boom box and I'm gonna play it over and over and over again until it breaks and you have to make me a new one because I actually don't know how to burn a CD."

You kiss him, unable to wipe the smile off your face as you do so, "Please tell me you have something to play this on here?"

"You sure you know how?"

"We had surround sound system with 6-disc player. My dad was very high tech - still is."

"I've got the old set up in my room, doll. Just give me a minute, legs killing me today."

You frown, sliding off his lap, "Anything I can do to help?"

He shakes his head, "Not really, doll. I'll live."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

One thing Jack seems to forget when you're outside the hospital, is that you're a damn good nurse and going the extra mile is written in the fine print of your contract. About 20 minutes later, you have him in his seldom-used bathtub. The smell of the bubble bath and epsom salt that you door dashed from the nearest pharmacy fill the bathroom.

"I thought you were joining me?" he calls out.

The door of the bathroom is open, he can hear you moving around in his bedroom.

"Hold your horses, Abbot, I'm working on something."

A few minutes later you appear holding his old CD radio. You move around things on his counter top to make space for it. Once it's set up and plugged in, you press play.

"Purple Rain" starts to blare through the speakers.

You tilt your head to the side, "I don't think I've heard this one."

"Hence, why the mix tape was necessary."

You push the volume button, making the speaker fill the enclosed bathroom space. You kneel down next to the tub, running your hand through his curls.

"Feeling better?" you ask, kissing him softly.

He nods, "Would feel even better if you'd get in here with me."

"You just want to get me naked," you feign offense as you stand up, lifting your shirt over your head, "Perv."

"Caught me," he raises his hand in surrender, eyes dropping to your tits.

Once you've removed your bottoms you put one foot into the water. There's a brief moment where your ass is directly in front of his face before you sit in the water and Jack doesn't even finish the thought before he reaches forward and bites the meat of your ass.

You squeal, standing up strait before turning around to look at him. You blink at him once and then a reach down and launch a huge wave of water at Jack's head. He laughs, wiping his face.

"Okay, okay, I deserved that. No more biting."

"I mean you can bite, just give a girl some warning next time," you mutter, sinking down between Jacks legs. You lean back against chest, head flopping against his shoulder, "I was gonna massage your leg but now I'm mad at you."

Jack kisses your shoulder, "Any chance I can make it up to you?"

"You got a hand don't you?"

"Yes, but not in here. This bubble bath smells great but its guaranteed give you a yeast infection."

You scrunch your nose in disgust, "How sexy, Dr. Abbot. Keep talking dirty to me."

Jack is aware that he's been out of "the sex game" for a number of years now, but he wasn't aware of just how much has changed. More specifically, he has lost a lot of his hearing in his right ear and he just wants to make sure he heard you right.

"Doll, can you repeat that for me?"

You purse your lips, suddenly looking a bit nervous, "I mean it's okay if you're not into it. It was just a suggestion."

He looks around a moment, desperately regretting his decision to come up to you during shift, "I'm old, baby. I can't hear so good anymore."

You take a deep breathe, "I said, my parents are out of town again. It'd be kind of sexy if you broke in and chased me around the house, don't you think?"

So now Jack has parked his truck across the street from your drive, praying your neighbours don't call the cops as he stands outside, peering into the window.

You're cutting something in the kitchen, headphones on. He watches as you drop a piece of whatever it is on the floor, smiling at your little gray fuzzball gobbles it up.

The window is cracked open, part of your post shift routine. You take your plate, heading up the stairs to unwind with whatever trash reality TV you've been telling him about. He approaches the window, carefully lifting it, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Your house is open concept, he can see you on the couch upstairs from here. Your cat has spotted him, bristling at the sight of an intruder. He ducks into the hallway when she starts to growl.

"Arti?" you call out, "what's wrong?"

The tv shuts off.

He hears you pad down the stairs. This hallway connects to your pantry. The door is open, and slips into the shadows with ease.

"Hello?" your voice rings through, "Jackie is that you?"

You pause a moment. Artemis finds him in the pantry. He knees down, wincing as his knee pops in the quiet. She sniffs his hand, her tiny face rubs against his fingers a few times before she's satisfied, walking out of the pantry with her tail flicking happily.

"Come, girlie, let's go watch TV."

He can hear you walk up the stairs. He peaks around the corner, watching your ass in those tiny shorts. Except this time you don't stop at the couch, instead going up one more the extra set of stairs. Your room is in the basement, he has yet to see that part of the house. He follows quickly, trying to keep his prosthetic from making too much noise on the ground.

There are two doors on the top landing, one closed, one cracked open with the light seeping through. He shakes his head upon realizing that this is definitely the master bedroom - your parents room. The light in the bathroom is on, you're opening and closing drawers, talking to Artemis with no care in the world. He weighs his options, deciding on simply waiting outside the door for you. The sink turns on and then off, and then your footsteps get closer and closer to him.

The door opens, and Jacks springs forward, grabbing both your wrists and immobilizing you. You struggle, back towards him, thrashing against his grip.

"Easy, easy, kid," he hums. You pull one more time and he tightens his grip, yanking you back against his chest, "Don't act like you weren't putting on a show for me."

"I- I wasn't-," you pant.

You've given up fighting now, instead letting Jack walk you forward, pushing you face first on the bed. He slaps your ass one time, and you take it as your cue to get your knees under you, giving him the perfect view.

"Don't play those games with me, doll. Prancing around in these itty bitty shorts?" he yanks them down your legs, revealing your glistening pussy. You moan as he slides a finger through your folds, "fucking soaked already. You wanted this, didn't you?"

He rubs at your clit lazily. You gasp, jolting forward as the next slap lands on your clit, "Answer me, kid."

You nod, moaning out.

"That's why you led me up here, didn't you, sweetheart? Left me a nice trail to follow."

"Mhm."

It doesn't take Jack long to get out of his pants, sliding his cock along your folds. He grips your hips, you cry out when the thick head of his cock stretches you out. He eases into you, draping his body over yours. The beads of his frenum rubbing against your walls. He waits for your breathing to even out, in tune to your body now. He gets his fingers back on your clit, grunting at the way you tighten around.

"Good, baby?" he asks quietly, pressing a kiss between your shoulders.

"Keep going," you moan out.

And Jack is nothing if not a vessel to carry out your wishes.

He pulls his hip back, waiting no time before slamming forward. You go limp against him as he continues his assault on your body, crying out loud. Jack's breath is hot against your ear, voice rough.

"So fucking needy. Just waiting for me to fill her."

Tears roll down your face. Before he can stop himself his tongue darts out, moaning when the salt hits his tongue. He stops just a moment so he can pull out, long enough to flip your body around. You're still wearing your thin-fabriced pajama shirt, nipples poking through the fabric. He doesn't hesitate, grabbing the collar and pulling until the fabric gives way under his hands.

You yelp, the sound making his cock twitch. He pulls your legs apart once more before resuming his brutal pace. Your back arches up, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

He holds your jaw in his hand, keeping your head still as he sucks on your pulse point.

"Cum for me, kid. Know you're close."

A few moments later your back is arching off the bed once again, toes curling as your orgasm wracks through you. He keeps going, keeping his rhythm as he fucks your through it.

When he's at the brink he pulls out. He gives himself a few quick tugs and then he's spilling all over your tits. When he's caught his breath he dips his finger in the mess.

"Be a good girl and clean yourself up."

"C'mon, sweets, gotta get you in the shower," he says poking you in the rib to get you moving, "You're sticky."

"Whose fault is that?" you groan, not moving an inch, "You owe me a new shirt, by the way.

"I'll buy you 10 shirts. Now, the sooner you get up, the sooner you'll be downstairs in your bed."

"Ugh, just let me sleep here," you cover your face with your hands, "I don't want to move."

Jack shakes his head, "Absolutely not. I've already fucked you in your parent's bed, I am not taking more karma points against me for using their shower and sleeping here too."

Reluctantly, you get up, yawning as you stand, "Yeah, but it was hot right?"

"I'm not answering that, kid."

When he does finally get you downstairs, he kisses you softly as the water warms up. He takes his time, sniffing each bottle of soap you have before choosing "summer breeze" to be his scent of choice to lather up your body.

You drift off to sleep easily, listening to the reassuring thump of his heart as you lay your head on his chest.

Jack clears his throat as he approaches you where you're charting, voice low, "Are you coming over after shift?"

You shake your head, "My parents are coming back today. I'm picking them up from the airport after I leave here."

"And you're off tomorrow?"

"Rest of the week."

That means he'll barely see you until you're back on shift with him. You must have had the same thought because it's all too easy to convince you to dip into Robby's office after handoffs are complete.

"Jack, are you sure? What if Robby -"

"He just started. There's probably already 10 things that need his attention on the floor, relax, kid. So long as we stay quiet, no one's going to find out."

He pushes you up against the wall. You sigh, as he starts to trail kisses against your jaw, laughing as his cock starts to poke at your thigh.

"Don't tell me you took your pill during shift? When did you even have time?"

"I take offense to that. Sometimes he still works on his own," Not often. But he's grateful when it happens.

When he's balls deep inside you, it's hard to focus on anything else. He's totally consumed with you, in tune to your every need. He doesn't even register the the sound of the door opening until he hears Robby yelling.

"Jack, what the fuck?" he exclaims, turning around, hand covering his face, "You have 30 seconds to get your dick in your pants, I swear to god."

"Relax man," he says. You're embarrassed, eyes locked to the ground as you scramble to make yourself decent, "Like you've never had a quickie at work."

"Are you forgetting that this is my office," he turns around, "Unless I missed the part where we got married and you changed your last name to Robinavitch."

"Might as well at this point," he grunts, doing up his belt buckle.

You haven't made a peep until now. Robby's eyes narrow as he recognizes your face.

"Remind me how old you are, kid."

"If I were a minor I wouldn't be a certified RN. No felonies here," you roll your eyes.

"You know what I don't even need to know. Bare with me here, kid, this not a reflection on you in way," Robby turns to Jack, shit-eating grin on his face, "Did all the women your age fucking die?"

Jack nods along, letting him have his moment, listening to all the jabs Jack has thrown his way these past few months.

"Make sure you put a password on your banking app so she doesn't transfer all the money out of your account in your sleep," he's laughing as he says it and Jack knows there's no real malice behind the words.

You on the other hand, "Okay, I take offense to the idea that I'm going to steal all his money."

Jack shakes his head, "He doesn't mean it. He's just repeating the things I said to him. I get it, I was wrong and I'm an asshole."

Robby's still laughing to himself.

"You said all those things?" You look at him and his stomach starts to turn with guilt.

"In my defense, the first time I met her she was dressed like a -"

"Like a what?" you ask, tilting your head.

"Yeah Jack, what was she dressed like?" Robby questions.

He doesn't answer.

"Was she at home when she was dressed 'like a hooker?'" you ask, "'Cause I dress like a hooker at home. It's the one place you can dress like a hooker without consequences."

"He came over to my place unannounced and now he's slut shaming my girl," Robby shakes his head, looking at you, "I don't know what you see in him."

"Eh, I can still teach this old dog new tricks."

7:43 am. PTMC. July 4th. 

“Where the hell is my resident?” Robby tossed his hands out as Dana walked by. 

“She no called no showed. That’s why I called Langdon in.” She gave Robby a look that appeared to say: ‘I’m sorry, but not really.’

“That’s very unlike her.” He argued in a sing-song voice. 

Dana shrugged and turned back towards the nurses’ station, not her problem. 

6:09 am. Pittsburgh neighborhood. July 4th. 

You were running late this morning. You yawned as you anxiously jogged towards the T train you rode to work. You lived farther from PTMC than ideal. And when your car broke down three months ago, it was your last priority to get it fixed as a broke resident. So, public transportation it was. 

You didn’t mind it, in fact the train ride normally helped calm your nerves on the way to work. A mindless ride where you didn’t have to focus on other drivers or endless city traffic. 

You shouldered your bag as the crosswalk lit up with the ‘walk’ symbol. Without a second thought, you crossed the street, your mind focused on not missing the next train. As you entered the striped crosswalk, an SUV took a right turn too hard, not noticing you in the soft morning light. You went down hard. 

Your ears were ringing and your vision blurred. You briefly recall reaching for your head and the slam of a car door before everything went black. 

You woke in the ambulance, the loud siren enhancing the pounding in your head. 

“Try not to move!” the paramedic shouted as she leaned over you. “Can you tell me your name?” Her brows were scrunched and you inhaled sharply at the overwhelming surroundings. 

You were in and out of consciousness the rest of the ride, your brain fuzzy and forgetful. 

6:56 am. Westbridge Hospital. July 4th. 

The hospital closest to your apartment was not your place of work. As they wheeled you in from the ambulance, you could barely stay awake. You groaned as they pushed you into the unfamiliar trauma room. 

“Ma’am? Ma’am, can you tell us your name?”

They moved you onto the table and your face scrunched in discomfort. You wanted to answer them, but your mind was too muddled. You heard the paramedic continue. “We didn’t see an ID or anything at the scene. She has scrubs on, does she work here?”

“I don’t recognize her. Scrubs could mean anything.” The doctor, you assume, answers. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. No ID? Where was your bag? Fuck, your hospital badge was in there. 

“Stay awake, sweetie. Open your eyes for me.” A softer voice was saying. Your eyes watered when you opened them again. 

“My bag-” You coughed. 

“What? What was that?” The nurse asked. 

You groaned. Your body felt hard and stiff, yet gelatin-like at the same time. You could recognize the assessments they were performing even in your disoriented state- assessments you performed on a daily basis. Your neck and airway were observed, vitals announced, a bright light was shone in your face, and a superficial glance for wounds. You felt the cold blade of scissors as your scrubs were cut. Your body was rolled, orders were shouted. 

You felt completely overwhelmed. You were having trouble understanding and processing what was going on, and you could feel blood dripping from your hairline. 

“Pulse is rising!” A new voice shouted. “BP dropping.”

“She’s in shock.” The doctor’s voice was loud. “Definitely have some internal bleeding in the left abdomen. Someone page surgery.”

“Does she need CT?”

“If we can stabilize her.”

Your blinking was hard and you felt your eyes flutter before you passed out. 

9:53 am. PTMC. July 4th. 

“We’re getting all Westbridge reroutes!” Dana’s voice sounded through the ER. 

A collective panic and disappointment filled the department, but the day moved on as it always did. 

11:41 pm. PTMC. Two weeks ago. 

You were covering a night shift for Ellis. Only catch, she couldn’t switch shifts. So, here you were working a double. You yawned as you caught up on some charting. An open cup of hot coffee landed next to your keyboard. 

You glanced up and smiled at the attending. “Thanks.” You took a sip. 

Jack smiled and gave you a small nod. “Night shift misses you.” He quirked. 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “I do not miss the all-nighters.” You tried to keep your focus on the screen in front of you. 

“Ah, they’re not that bad. You get used to them. You would have.” He nodded. 

You had switched to the day shift last month after a long year on the night shift rotation. You loved the night shift staff, and working under Abbot and Shen taught you a lot- but the constant overnight shifts were killing you. Along with the butterflies that filled your stomach when your boss was around. You started picking up day shifts, and with Langdon’s absence the past few months, Robby finally let you fill in for a few weeks full time. 

“Maybe.” You sigh and lean your head back to look at his form standing over you. “Why? You guys miss me down here?” You joke. 

“Some of us more than others.” He smirks, and you try to hide the immediate blush his words ignite. You shake your head. 

Abbot was fond of you and he knew it was apparent. He respected your character and your work ethic immensely. He was hard on you when you needed a push, but he held a strong soft spot for you. And he liked to throw out the occasional flirty line that sent your stomach spinning. 

He laughs quietly and moves on with a tap of his fist to the counter. You watch him retreat to a patient’s room, eyes trailing over his hard back. 

12:46 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

Robby was pulled into the second motorcycle accident of the day. Beds were filling up and it was a great relief when Dr. Jack Abbot showed up early for his shift. He’d heard about the Westbridge closure and assumed the pitt would need all the help they could get. He’d taken a moment to change out of some of his tactical gear when Dana announced, “Incoming trauma from Westbridge! Car accident victim.” 

Dr. Al-Hashimi got up from her spot at the nurses’ station. She nodded for Joy to join her, grabbing gloves and heading for the ambulance bay. When they arrived, the paramedics were more frantic than she expected. 

“Car accident victim. Young female- looks to be late twenties, early thirties. She was awaiting surgery at Westbridge, but her vitals tanked on the way here. We had to bag her.” The paramedic squeezed the intubation bag as they walked speedily into the ER. Al-Hashimi nodded along. The paramedic continued, “Internal bleeding of the abdomen, possible TBI, vitals unstable. And she had no ID on her. Westbridge went into lockdown before they could search the system. We got a Jane Doe on our hands.” 

“Put her in Trauma Two!” Dana shouted without looking up from her chart. 

Jack glanced up from the computer he was working at as they pushed you down the hall. His brows furrowed and denial filled him as he registered who was on the stretcher. There was no way. His stomach sank. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” He shouted, jumping up from his seat. Eyes across the ER fell to his jogging form as he rushed over. “That’s not a Jane Doe! Fuck-” he glanced up.

Dana looked up at the scene and cursed. “That’s why she didn’t answer.” Her voice was worried under her breath as she hurried over to help. 

“Would someone like to explain to me what’s going on?” Al-Hashimi asked as you were pushed into Trauma Two, Jack right at your side now. Joy stepped back at the commotion, letting the attendings work. 

You were moved onto the table. Jack was pale, almost robotic as he worked. 

He spoke, “She’s a resident here. My resident. She- she’s not a Jane Doe.” He spoke your name with full assurance and glanced at your bruised face. 

Jesse pushed into the bay and sobered his features as he got to work. “Vitals all over the place still. She’s hypotensive. She came in from Westbridge?” 

“Yes.” Dana replied as you were rolled, her hand squeezing your arm in comfort even in your unconscious state. 

“Internal bleeding looks bad. Page surgery- now.” Jack swallowed as you were assessed all over again, at your place of work this time. 

He mumbled under his breath, “You’re okay.” Almost a reassurance to himself. 

“Pupil response is slow.” Al-Hashimi announced as she flashed her pen light. “Get neuro, too.”

“Someone get Robby in here!” Jack was sounding more impatient as your symptoms were uncovered. 

“He’s in with the motorcycle accident-" Dana started. 

Jack looked up from your limp form and into Trauma One. Robby was speaking to Santos over their patient. 

“Fuck.” He cursed again. He swallowed hard and tried not to let his gaze linger on your marked body. 

“Surgery’s sending someone.” Jesse announced. 

Abbot took the ultrasound wand and carefully moved it over the intense bruising on your side. “This internal bleeding is not good. Westbridge seriously couldn’t get her into the OR?” The frustration in his voice was evident. 

6:48 am. PTMC. Two weeks ago. Same shift. 

You were exhausted. The 24 hours in the ED were getting to you, and a nauseous feeling had been lingering in your stomach since around 4 am. You were handing off your patients to McKay and Mel, going over their stats and needs. As soon as the opportunity arose, you booked it to your locker. 

The bags under your eyes were harsh and defined. Your hair was tangled and frizzy. You grabbed your bag and slammed the locker shut. Just as relief filled you at the idea of getting home, your boss’s voice came from around the corner. “You driving home?” 

You shook your head. “My car broke down. I’ve been taking the train.”

Abbot looked at you for a moment before holding up a finger, a silent gesture for you to wait. You sighed and looked up at the ceiling, obeying. He returned a moment later with his bag over his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll drive you.”

“Drive me? Home?”

He laughed under his breath. “Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

You sighed, and in that moment, accepted his help. “No.”

He nodded and gestured for you to follow him. He led you to his truck and held the door for you. The drive was quiet and you felt comfortable enough to lean your head back and close your eyes. 

“Here.” He spoke quietly when you arrived. 

You jolted up and blinked hard. “Thank you.” You yawned. 

“Anytime.” 

You grabbed your bag and hopped out. You paused at the curb, hand on the door. “I’ll think about it.”

His brows scrunched. “About what?”

“The night shift.” 

He smiled. “Please do.” 

You returned the smile, shyly, and thanked him again before shutting the door. 

12:57 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

“Where the fuck is surgery?” Abbot’s calm demeanor was wavering. Al-Hashimi bit her tongue. You were apparently one of this department's resident doctors, and she understood the urgency in the matter. 

Robby finally caught Dana’s eye from Trauma One and his face flooded with confusion as he tried to read the distress on hers. He snapped his gloves off and left Santos in charge, stepping into the second trauma bay. His inhale was sharp and loud as he took in the scene before him. 

He grabbed new gloves and stepped in right beside Jack. “What the hell happened to her?”

Dana answered, “Car accident. She was at Westbridge- they transferred her here before surgery got to it.”

“That’s bullshit.” Robby worked beside his fellow attending. 

Al-Hashimi stepped back quietly. “I will page neuro again.” She spoke calmly before stepping out. 

“Neuro?” Robby asked. 

“Low pupil response.” Jesse answered. “Paramedics said possible TBI.” 

“Possible TBI, yet they decided to transfer her here? What the hell kind of show are they running at Westbridge?” Jack spat. 

The monitor spiked. “BP’s dropping again, quick.” Jesse announced. 

“She’s probably in shock.” Robby worked. 

Garcia finally pushed in. “What do we got?” She froze for a second. “Is that?”

“Yes.” Abbott snapped. 

Garcia closed her shocked mouth and stepped in. “What- what happened?” She assessed your form as she asked. 

“She was hit by a car.” Dana explained for what felt like the millionth time.

“Shit.” Garcia whispered. “I can’t take her to the OR in this shape. Has neuro seen her? Did she get a CT?”

“No and no.” Jack said. 

“She’s at risk of-”

“Okay, then get neuro in here.” He snapped, again. 

Garcia exhaled hard and pulled off her gloves. “Bring her to me when she’s been seen and stabilized. That internal bleeding needs to be taken care of.” She left. 

The next half an hour was full of waiting. Waiting for a neuro consult. Waiting for meds to kick in. Waiting for a CT scan. And Jack stayed by your side the whole time, even when he knew he should step back out and help others. 

Neuro cleared you with a grade three concussion and your CT confirmed what was obvious. Garcia admitted you to the OR, and only then did Jack make his way back down to the ED, where he was restless and irritable. 

“You sure you want to be down here?” Robby asked in passing. 

“I’m fine.”

“She’ll be okay. They’ll take care of her.” He squeezed Jack’s shoulder.

10:17 pm. Lucky’s Bar. Last week. 

You were out. You never went out. But it was an old friend's birthday, and you would feel too bad missing it. The night had been lively and fun, and the few drinks you’d had were feeling good in your system. 

You were leaning against the bar waiting for your refill. The bar was one you liked. A more lowkey, almost sports bar/pub feeling to it. You tapped your chipped nail against the counter when an all too familiar voice spoke up beside you. 

“So, this is why you don’t want to come back to the night shift?”

He was stepping up beside you, a half-drank beer in his hands. 

“Dr. Abbot.” You acknowledged with a smile.

He smirked and leaned against the bartop next to you. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You laugh, amused. “No, I did not leave the night shift so I could go to bars. It’s a friend’s birthday.”

He nods in understanding, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, you left because…? And don’t say exhaustion again.”

You scoff and stand from where you were leaning. “That is why!” You laugh. “I can’t do it anymore. Maybe I’m finally getting old.” 

“So, what does that make me?” He raised a brow. 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “I don’t know how you do it.” 

His smile was genuine as he shook his head. “Just think about it some more. Coming back, that is. Robby has enough of you guys on his hands.”

The bartender placed your drink on the counter then. You thank him and Abbot clears his throat. 

“I won’t keep you. Have a good night, doctor.” 

You raised your glass and said goodnight. 

Your friends wanted to leave soon after that, and you were putting your jacket on when you met his eyes across the bar. He looked like he was with some friends, all standing around a pool table. You smiled and lifted your hand by your side to wave, a silent goodbye. He paused his conversation and crossed the room to you. 

“You leaving?”

You nod. “Yeah, my friends all called it a night.”

“Do you have a ride?”

“Um, the train again.” You laugh. 

He glances at his watch. “It’s late.”

“Not that late.” You shrug. “You don’t have to drive me home, Jack.” His name slips from your mouth like second nature, and you feel the heat of regret and embarrassment fill you. “Abbot. Dr. Abbot.”

He laughs softly. “Jack’s fine. And I don’t think you should be walking or taking the T alone.”

“I’m a big girl.”

He scoffs lightly. “Let’s go.” He carefully grabs your elbow and leads you outside to his car. He opens the door for you. The ride is filled with the soft radio and the occasional question to fill the air. 

When you arrive at your small apartment complex, you clear your throat. “Thank you. I, uh, I appreciate it.”

“Like I said, anytime.” 

You nod but don’t move. When you glance back at him your breath is quick. “Goodnight Jack.”

He speaks your name softly, like a whisper. 

You swallow hard and lean closer to him. A subtle movement, but he notices. He notices everything you do. How when you suture, you bite your bottom lip. Or how you used to always make a coffee at exactly 3:45 am on the night shifts. Or how you would fight Shen on charting, and him too at times. He noticed how your face flushed when he joked. Or how you’d inhale at his touch. 

He noticed. And he was waiting for the time when you’d finally notice he felt the same. 

His eyes fell to your lips and he could hear your breath intake. He moved towards you. A silent game of meeting in the middle. He could feel your breath on his lips now. Your eyes shut softly and when his mouth met yours, you melted into it. 

It was soft at first. A toe in the water. He cupped your face softly as he moved his mouth against yours. The kiss grew, along with the heat in your stomach. Your hand reached into his soft curls and you pulled him impossibly closer. 

He exhaled roughly at the touch and his tongue glided across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth to him and moaned at the growing sensation. His other hand came to meet the back of your head and you desperately wanted to climb across the car’s console then. But in that moment, a car alarm rang out and you pulled back, startled. 

Both of your breaths were ragged and Jack’s hand lingered softly on your neck. You licked your lips and swallowed hard as you met his eyes. 

“I should probably go.” You whispered. 

He cleared his throat and nodded. “Okay.”

You sat back and opened the door softly. “Thank you.”

He nodded again. 

“I’ll see you Monday?” You try to ask casually. 

“Yeah- yes.” He gives you a tight mouthed smile. 

You hop out of his truck. “Night, Jack.”

He returns the sentiment and waits until you’re inside of your apartment before driving off, a hand dragging over his face. 

4:33 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

When Jack noticed Garcia walk into the pitt, his heart jumped. Her eyes landed on him and she moved to meet him. 

“She’s okay. She’s in the ICU. She’s been stabilized and they removed the intubation tube. She’ll wake up on her own.” Her voice was authoritative and she got the information out before he could question her. 

He nodded, hard. “Thank you.”

She went to share the update with Robby while Jack moved for the elevators. His foot tapped against the linoleum floor, his anxieties surfacing. He had jumped right back into the chaos of the ED after you’d been taken to the OR. He needed that distraction, a reason to keep his mind from freaking the fuck out. 

He walked down the ICU floor with a purpose. The charge nurse recognized him, “She’s in 614. She’s okay.” 

Abbot thanked her and when he reached your room, his heart sank a little. You were still asleep. Your head was bandaged, your form still, breathing deep and slow. He pulled the chair close to your bed and sat. 

6:09 pm. PTMC ICU. July 4th. 

You groaned harshly as the pounding in your head registered. You reached a wired hand to touch it when a voice rang out. 

“Hey, hey. Careful.” 

You groaned again as the IV in your hand tugged. 

It was when he spoke your name that you realized it was Jack’s voice. 

“Jack?” You cough and blink. 

“I’m here, yeah.” He reached for the water on the table to help you take a sip. 

You coughed again after, and glanced at him. “What happened?” 

He placed the cup down and sighed. “You were in an accident. A car hit you.” 

Your heart monitor spiked. “What?” 

Jack moved closer. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. You were taken to Westbridge, but they went into lockdown. You were transferred here.” He finally reached over and squeezed your hand. 

“What’s wrong with me? What happened?” Your voice shook. 

“You have a grade 3 concussion and Garcia took care of your internal injuries. You’re okay now, I promise. I know it’s a lot.” His voice was reassuring and gentle. 

A tear rolled down your cheek and he didn’t hesitate to catch it with the pad of his thumb. “You scared me.” He whispered. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumble. 

He shakes his head. “No, no. Honey, please don’t apologize.” 

You exhale at the term of endearment, a calm washing over you. 

“So, I’m okay?”

Jack nods. “You’re okay.”

You squeeze his hand back. 

He sits with you before meeting your eyes with determination. “This just- this is making me realize a lot of things.” He glances down before continuing. “I care a lot about you, and I want you to know that. I don’t- I don’t want to beat around the bush anymore.” 

You exhale shakily but nod, tears forming in your eyes. “I don’t either.” 

He smiles softly, his hand reaching to comfort you. “Come back to the night shift where I can keep an eye on you.”

You laugh but groan when your abdomen clenches. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He laughs softly. “Sorry.” He continues, “We can make this work. And you can stay on night shift. You’re a brilliant doctor, and I don’t want you to hide away from me anymore on the day shift. I’d like my resident back. And I also want to ask her on a proper date.”

You smile at his words and nod, teary. “Okay.” 

“What brings you today?” the young man asked as he walked into the treatment room.

You glanced at the nametag. Whitaker. The name didn’t sound familiar; he must be new.

“I passed out at work,” you said with a shrug.

“Has this happened before?” he asked, grabbing a pair of gloves.

You gave him a look. “Have you read my chart?”

Whitaker hesitated, then reached for it, feeling like a child who had missed a step. He examined it properly this time instead of skimming.

The triage note stated that you’d walked into the ER less than an hour ago and reported to the receptionist that you had fainted at work. You mentioned a brief loss of consciousness with no head strike. You’d complained of increasing fatigue over the past few weeks, but no other emergency symptoms.

Given your documented history of chronic anemia, they hadn’t made you wait. You were brought straight back for blood labs.

Whitaker’s eyes moved to the results — and froze.

Your iron levels were critically low. You barely had enough red blood cells to carry oxygen through your body. That explained why you’d passed out.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

He’d seen anemia before, but never this severe in someone alert, someone who had calmly walked themselves into the ER.

He slowly looked up at you.

You were sitting on the edge of the exam table, gently swinging your legs like you were relaxing on a swing set.

“It’s my iron, isn’t it?” you said casually. “I was supposed to come next week, but I guess now is fine.”

His throat felt tight. “It’s… really low,” he said carefully.

You shrugged. “Yeah. That usually happens.”

How were you so calm?

You had passed out and walked yourself into the ER. And you were acting like you were about to order a coffee, not undergo a medical procedure.

Whitaker cleared his throat, glancing back down at the chart.

“I’m going to order an iron transfusion,” he said carefully. “You were due for one next week anyway. This should help bring your levels back up.”

You nodded easily. “Okay.”

“I’d like to keep you monitored for a couple of hours,” he added. “Just to be safe.”

He hesitated. “Do you want us to notify you of your emergency contact? Since you passed out.”

You gave a small shrug. “I guess.”

“Alright,” he said with a nod. “We’ll take care of it.”

You didn’t look worried. Didn’t look nervous. If anything, you looked mildly inconvenienced.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he said, stepping out of the room.

The nurse’s station hummed with conversation when Whitaker approached. Santos was catching up on charting while Mel stood nearby, talking about her current patient.

Santos glanced up as he arrived. “Syncope?” she asked, nudging his shoulder. “About time you got an easy one.”

“Yeah,” Whitaker replied, leaning against the counter. “Chronic anemia. Dangerously low. I ordered a transfusion.”

“How low?” Mel asked. Blood transfusions weren’t common in the ER.

“Low enough that I don’t know how she managed to get here.”

That earned him a few looks.

“She walked herself in,” he added. “Completely calm. Explained her medical history without missing a beat.”

He flipped open the chart again, double-checking the order before calling the emergency contact.

His eyes drifted down the page.

Emergency Contact.

He paused. Read the line once. Then again.

His posture stiffened instantly.

“You okay, Huckleberry?” Santos asked, noticing the change.

Whitaker didn’t answer. He just stared.

Santos and Mel leaned in, curiosity pulling them closer.

There was a beat of silence. Another. And then—

“Oh shit,” Santos muttered.

Whitaker swallowed.

And down the hall, in exam room five, you were still sitting on the edge of the bed, gently swinging your legs, waiting for your man to arrive.

The door to exam five opened.

Jack stepped in, already in scrubs, already working. Maybe you should’ve answered his text when he said he had to come in early.

His eyes went straight to you, not the monitors or the chart, just you. He took you in carefully, cataloging every small detail until he was satisfied you were alright. You were sitting upright, breathing easily, the gentle sway of your legs a familiar sign that you were back to your usual self.

He exhaled slowly as he made his way to your bedside. “I came in early because of an accident. Not to get a call from one of the residents telling me my girlfriend passed out at work and decided to walk herself into the ER.”

You winced, then shrugged. “In my defence, I didn’t drive myself here.”

Jack let out a short laugh, half relief, half exasperation. “Thank God for that,” he said. “I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”

You grinned. “See? I think I’m learning.”

He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth tugged into a small smile. “Barely.”

“Next time, call me,” he said, voice softer now.

“Yeah, I know,” you replied with a smirk. “The ringer’s always on for me, ain’t I special?”

Jack shook his head, pretending to be exasperated, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. “Too special,” he murmured, sliding a hand onto your knee. Thumb brushing gently. “You scared me.”

“Oh, come on,” you said lightly, trying to shrug it off. “It wasn’t that long of a scare, you were only down the hall.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed just a little. “That’s not the point,” he said, voice low. Before you could tease him further, he leaned closer and gently pulled you into a hug, holding you tight. The warmth of him, steady and real, made you pause.

You let out a soft sigh, half-playful, half-relieved. “Okay… maybe it was a little scary.”

Jack rested his forehead against yours, thumb tracing circles on your knee. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Won’t happen again. Not today. Especially since we’re getting this transfusion now—”

You grumbled, nuzzling into him. “Do we have to do it now? I have an appointment for next week.”

“Nope,” Jack said firmly as if it wasn't up for debate. “Not next week. Now. You need it today. Trust me.”

You huffed, still warm against him, but the edge of protest faded as you felt the steadiness in his hand and the quiet certainty in his voice. “Fine,” you muttered, “Only because it’s the doctor’s orders.”

Jack let out a small, satisfied hum, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “That’s what I thought.”

The door to exam room five opened, and this time Whitaker stepped in, scrubs crisp, iron bag in hand.

You looked up, smirking. “Oh! Doctor Whitaker, you’re back,” you said, voice light and playful.

Jack, sitting in the chair next to you, gave Whitaker a calm glance, thumb still brushing over your hand.

Whitaker blinked, a little stiff, and murmured, “Uh… yeah. I—”

You cut him off with a grin, leaning slightly toward Jack. “Whitaker, this is my boyfriend, Jack. Jack, this is Whitaker.”

Jack rolled his eyes, just the slightest, letting out a short, amused sigh. Then he turned his gaze to Whitaker, calm and steady, giving him a look that clearly said: ignore her.

Whitaker stiffened, caught somewhere between professional respect and utter confusion. “Uh… nice to meet you,” he stammered, holding the kit a little too tightly.

He shifted nervously, glancing at Jack, then the bag. “Do you… Want me to help?”

Jack didn’t even flinch, thumb still brushing lightly against your hand. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You’re the doctor here, Whitaker.”

Whitaker’s face flushed, a little panicked. “Oh! Right! Of course…”

You grinned, leaning back slightly. “Don’t worry, Whitaker. I just came by to make sure Jack takes a break for once… You know, I thought I’d pay him a little visit.”

Jack actually laughed, short, soft, completely genuine — while Whitaker’s eyes widened, gripping the kit as he’d walked into a hurricane. She… she just said that? Jack actually laughed?

Whitaker cleared his throat and shuffled toward the door. “Uh… I’ll… I’ll just… leave you two to it,” he muttered awkwardly.

Jack’s eyes flicked to him, calm but firm, taking on that unmistakable superior tone. “Whitaker,” he said quietly, “next time… always read the chart.”

Whitaker froze, nodded frantically, and retreated out of the room, muttering something about supplies and professionalism.

You leaned into Jack, smiling, nudging slightly against his chair. “He’s so easily flustered.”

Jack pressed a gentle kiss to your head, still smiling softly. “Easily flustered,” he murmured, “because he has a fool for a patient.”

“A fool you love,” you teased, letting out a laugh. “At least I’m enjoying myself.”

Jack chuckled, tilting his head so his forehead rested against yours.

You grinned, nuzzling into him. “Do you think… next time, I can have an in-house appointment, Jack?”

He lifted an eyebrow, mock stern. “That’s doctor to you.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

You let out a soft sigh, smiling against him. “I love you Doctor Abbot.”

“i’ve been in this room 3 hours.” the man laying before you grumbles. you nod absentmindedly, trying to acknowledge the man’s feelings while remaining neutral.

“i’m aware sir, and i’m sorry.” you’re not sure what else to say. as a nurse, you’ve experienced your fair share of rude, entitled patients. you usually make an allowance for them. tell yourself they’re in pain, they’ve been waiting hours. even if they’re being unreasonable, you stay pleasant.

the man just mutters something under his breath before shifting his weight so he’s closer to the edge of the bed where your stool is.

“it’s unreasonable.” you nod again, placing tubing on the table beside the bed. the sweat on the pads of your fingers stick to the latex of your gloves.

“i agree.”

“and now i need an iv?” for the third time, you nod.

“yes, did dr abbot explain this process to you?”

the man squints like he’s trying to place a name to a face, “uh, yeah.”

“alright well, which arm would you prefer?” the man glances down, seemingly conflicted before rolling up his right sleeve. you can tell it’s his default arm for blood drawls and such, especially with how the vein protrudes.

“great, you’ll receive fluids through here, and what makes it convenient is we can also use it to draw any blood we may need from you.” your explanation is simple but easy for the regular person to understand, a sentence you’ve given to so many patients you can’t even remember all the faces of. you smile at the man as you rip open a sterile package of an alcohol wipe, rubbing firm circles on the crease of his arm.

“how long until those tests, the ones that um-,”

“dr abbot.”

“yeah, when do i get those? i need to get back to work.” you level him with a look of confusion.

“sir you have a head injury, you’ll have to be on observation for several more hours,” you speak as though he could be set off any moment, noticing the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, “however we can get you some water, juice, a snack if you’re hungry?”

now you’re placating against the tidal wave of slow boiling frustration you feel beginning to radiate from the man.

“can we cut that time in half?” he breathes out, like he’s trying to soothe his annoyance, you appreciate it despite the anxious coil wrapping around your stomach. you know how fast things can escalate, you’ve experienced it first hand. just be polite, keep him calm.

“that would have to be a question for the doctor, i’m sorr-,”

“yeah bullshit,” you’re taken aback, visibly shocked at the sudden change in language from the man, “if you’d been in here 3 hours ago, i’d be home by now.”

you want to scoff, but the professional in you swallows it down to instead respond with a tight lipped smile.

“i’m very sorry about that,” you breath, “if you let me get this iv in i’ll try to hurry this whole process up.” you say that like you can control any of this, but if it relaxes the man, you’ve done the best you can.

“fine.” you think its settled, you think he’s realized he’s being unreasonable and will now act decent.

the man is still for a minute as he lays back down and you hold the needle intended for him at an angle. a million times, you must’ve done this a million times. but as the needle is inches from pale skin, the man lunges, hands out, pushing, one flies up into yours, knocking into your palm and lower arm so harshly you’re set backwards to the wall.

then he’s screaming, how you didn’t tell him you were about to use the needle, how big the needle is, asking how incompetent you could possibly be. you’re stunned, maybe by the force of the push, maybe because he just put his hands on you and you can’t even figure out what you do wrong.

there’s an echoing clink of metal rings as the curtain behind the open glass door he’s shoved aside.

“what in the fuck.” there’s a familiar drawl to the voice, one you’ve heard at the softest of times, whispering sweet words into your ears at the early hours of dawn, it’s different, now twisted and enraged.

you’re wobbling to a stand as a pair of hands steady you from the side. shen.

“woah, hey-,” ellis’s voice joins the party, panicked and as shoes squeak across the waxed floor, breathing heavy and you realize the man is still yelling and pointing at you when suddenly there’s this noise like a shuffle, your gaze shoots up.

your eyes are wide as you eyes fall on the patient right in time for his body to be thrown backwards, slamming into the wall behind him. that seems to shut him up.

jack approaches, fists clenched.

“you like that being done to you? nah, didn’t think so,” you should be worried about the fact that he’s just physically assaulted a patient who already has a head injury, however all you manage is a awkward wince as you raise your hand, “parker, get security in here, now.”

“ow, geez,” shen comments from his place still keeping you on your feet, even though you’re no longer dizzy, “blessings of this job i guess.”

your once normal hand is now skewed, a 20 gauge needle protruding from the middle of your still gloved palm. the little pink plastic at the end mocking you.

“jesus,” jack is rounding the bed, ignoring the complaints from the patient now slumped against the floor, “does it hurt?”

he discreetly shoos shen away, but you don’t miss the way he steps into his place, eyes on yours as he angles your chin up to meet his.

“um, is it weird to say not really?” you try to laugh, attempting to lighten the mood. jack doesn’t crack a smile, although you don’t miss the way his eyes soften considerably. the patient groans, throaty and irritated as security steps into the room with ellis, her arms crossed.

“you’ve got this?” jack doesn’t turn back for her to know he’s speaking to her.

“oh yeah.” her eyes pan to the man on the ground, expression hard. you can hear security and shen hauling the man to his feet as jack guides you from the room, practically blocking the entire view of your attacker.

lena exchanges a look with jack as he brings you into an empty patient room.

“scale of one to ten?” as you sit on the edge of the cot, face a tad pinched as the dull ache in your hand begins to set in.

you hum, thinking.

“solid 2,” you grin up at jack who’s already grabbed all the necessary supplies to help you, “this could’ve been so much worse if i’d already stuck him.”

you knew you weren’t the only one who had a fear of dirty needles, and thankfully, you’d gotten lucky this time.

“i don’t want to think about worse, this shouldn’t have happened to begin with.” and he’s right as he rips open some antiseptic, moving to sit before you.

“it happens.” you shrug.

“well, it shouldn’t.” jack responds, voice sharp despite the look of defeat on his features. you want to pull him in, settling for placing your non injured hand in his knee. his hand clasps over yours, its larger, more callused.

“i just want you safe.” his eyes meet yours, words coming out with breath you worry that he’s been holding since he separated the patient from you.

“i’m as safe as i can be right now.” you laugh, staring at the war vet across from you. his lips curve up at that, head tilting back it that cocky jack way.

“damn straight.” he says it like a promise you, and you believe him.

A/N sorry it’s so short. i’ve been so busy but i still want to get some fics out, also happy valentine’s day 💋

taglist pt 1

@julisgarden

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@sharkluver

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

He’s trembling, but it’s not from fear. It’s the charge building under his skin; the kind that makes the air taste metallic, the kind that hums in his bones. Every muscle in his body is alive, twitching, waiting, ready to burn. But his hands, those are steady. Steady as stone on the rope. Unmoving, unbending, calloused fingers curling into their own kind of prayer.

You stand close enough to feel the heat coming off him, close enough to smell the dust and leather and sun on his flannel. Your fingers work quick and sure, tugging the straps of his body protector tight, smoothing the edges flat against his chest. The fabric’s rough beneath your palms—worn thin in places, the scuffs and scars of a hundred rides carved into it like a record of everything he’s survived.

You fix the sleeves of his shirt at the shoulders, tug them free from where they’ve caught under the vest. The motion is small, ordinary, but your pulse skips all the same. You can see the way his breath comes—deep and heavy, but even—the rise and fall of a man winding the spring tighter, ready to let it snap loose the second that gate swings open.

You lean in, voice barely a whisper against the noise of the crowd.

“Show ‘em, Rhett. Show ‘em how damn good you are. You’re the best rider out there, y’hear me? The best.”

He doesn’t look at you—not yet. His eyes are locked on the arena, fixed on that strip of dirt that’s about to open wide beneath him. The corner of his mouth twitches, the faintest ghost of a grin pulling through the tension.

You feel it when he exhales—a rush of hot, dry air that smells like grit and adrenaline and sun-warmed denim. He rolls his shoulders once, loosens his grip, then tightens it again. The world narrows to the sound of the bull breathing on the other side of the gate and the steady drum of his pulse under your fingertips.

Then he finally glances your way—eyes bright, alive, burning—and in that split-second, you know he heard every word.

He turns to you without warning, still thrumming with that wild, caged energy, and then he’s pulling you in. The world blurs, crowd noise swallowed by the impact of him against you. It’s a rough collision, breath stealing, teeth catching for an instant as your faces meet.

It isn’t neat—it’s fast and fierce, the kind of kiss that comes from too much adrenaline and not enough time. His hand catches at the back of your neck, glove scraping dust across your skin. His mouth is hot and hurried, a clash of breath and heartbeat, and you taste dust, sweat, and something electric.

His nose bumps your cheek as he leans in harder, angle off-centre, everything unpolished and alive. For a second, the whole world contracts to that single point of contact—his breath, the tremor in his chest, the thud of his pulse under your palm.

His name cracks through the tannoy, sharp and loud, slicing through the haze. He pulls back in one swift motion, eyes still locked on you; his pupils wide like a black hole, chest heaving, looking like he’s been starved of air, or maybe just you.

You fight your way through the crush of bodies, the air thick with heat and dust. It hums, electric, every breath buzzing like it’s wired straight into your veins. The crowd presses tight, a living thing of its own—voices rising and falling in waves, boots stomping against the bleachers, the metallic ring of cowbells somewhere above the din.

You shoulder past a line of spectators, catching elbows and the scent of beer and sun-baked cotton. The air tastes of grit and copper, of something wild stirring in the dirt—ozone, sweat, the sharp tang of adrenaline you can’t tell is his or yours. Someone yells his name and the sound rolls through the stands like thunder; someone else slaps the rail so hard it rattles.

By the time you reach the front, you’re half breathless. The fence is cold and rough beneath your palms, dust streaking your skin. You can feel the vibration of the arena through it—the bull pacing, snorting, the low metallic groan of the gate shifting in its hinges. The noise folds in on itself until all you can hear is the steady pulse in your own ears.

The gate slams open and the bull surges out, all muscle and fury, but Rhett moves with him, not against. Every twist, every jolt, he meets it; body rolling like a wave instead of fighting it. His grip stays sure on the rope, wrist flexing, jaw set, shoulders loose. He doesn’t flinch, he flows.

The seconds stretch long and hot under the fading light. His hat flies free somewhere behind him, a flash of white against the dirt, and his hair catches in the wind—pale gold in the last stream of sun, every strand lit like straw on fire. The arena lights pop alive, shutters click, and the air fills with the sound of awe—the flashbulbs sparking like summer lightning around him, catching every frame of the Rodeo King in his prime. Your man. Fierce. Untamed.

The bull bucks one last time, twisting mean, but Rhett’s already moving; dismounting clean, landing hard on both feet. His knees give just enough to catch the shock, boots grinding a half-moon into the dirt as a cloud rises around him, dust swirling up in a golden haze.

Then he straightens—one heartbeat later, spine tall, chest heaving, eyes blazing—and pounds a fist against his chest with a sharp, defiant cry that splits the roar of the crowd. They answer him in waves, shouting his name until it sounds like something holy, something ancient, a prayer made of dust and thunder.

And through all of it—through the noise, the haze, the chaos—his gaze finds you, like you’re the only still point in all that wild motion.

He bends to scoop up his hat, dust clinging to the brim. A swipe of his hand knocks some of it loose before he jams it back onto his head, the crown tilted just enough to shadow his eyes. The crowd is still roaring, the sound bouncing off the metal railings and up into the open Wyoming sky, but Rhett doesn’t seem to hear any of it. His boots cut a straight path through the churned-up dirt, every stride long and certain, eyes locked on you at the fence.

When he reaches you, there’s no pause. He leans in, arms slipping through the lower gap in the rail until his hands find your waist. The metal is cool against your back; his grip is the opposite—rough, hot, unrelenting. The kiss he drags from you isn’t gentle; it’s the crash after the storm, the only way he knows how to burn off what’s still coursing through him. His breath is harsh against your cheek, his chest rising hard against the fence, the sound of him a low, raw grunt that cuts through the noise around you that’s more animal than man.

For a few seconds, everything else disappears. No cameras, no shouting, just the tremor of him pressed close, the taste of dust between you, the sharp clang of the rails when he hauls you in a little tighter. Then the world rushes back all at once—flashes, cheering, the announcer’s voice booming overhead—and Rhett breaks away, breathless, eyes bright and dazed like a man who’s run headlong into something bigger than himself.

He’s still buzzing, body wound too tight to stand still. Every movement is quick and alive, shoulders rolling, jaw working like he’s trying to chew the adrenaline out of his own blood. He laughs, but it’s ragged, half-caught between disbelief and pure exhilaration.

It all led up to this very moment: you, stark naked bar a single sock and your bra hanging at the crook of your elbow dangling over the edge of the worn in leather truck bench; him, fully clothed, jeans button popped open and zipper pulled down far enough for his cock to slip out and fill you up.

He smells like the arena—dust, leather and a deep, raw musk of sweat baked under the Wyoming sun. There’s a sharp tang of iron from the metal gates and the sweet rot of trampled hay.

His jeans—streaked with dirt and chalk, fabric gone stiff and tough with sweat—are coarse against the sensitive skin at your thighs; the zipper cold and scratching with each thrust into you, pressing deeper and deeper.

There’s something sharper underneath all that as he grabs at you before he’s even thought it through, rough from adrenaline. Not unkind, just too full of motion to stop.

A sharp, punched-out gasp escapes you at a sudden, breathtaking rougher thrust. He’s not gentle and the stretch is immense—a delicious, burning pressure that has you seeing stars. He holds himself there for a heartbeat, buried deep, his body curved over yours, his breath hot on your back.

Then, he moves again.

He pulls back, almost all the way out, the cool air a shock on your wet, heated flesh, then drives forward again. Hard. The force of it slams you forward, your hands scrambling for purchase on the leather. He sets a punishing, relentless rhythm from the very start, each thrust a brutal, perfect mimicry of his ride on the bull—a powerful, driving piston motion meant to conquer.

“This,” he grunts, his voice rough and strained with each movement, “this is the only prize that matters.”

His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers surely leaving bruises as he yanks you back onto him, meeting every forward drive of his body. The sound is obscenely wet; a slick, rhythmic slap of skin on skin that echoes in the confined space of the truck. The entire vehicle rocks with the force of his movements.

His palm lands on your back—not hard, but with enough force to make you arch—pressing you down further, altering the angle. On the next thrust he goes impossibly deeper, brushing a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. A broken cry is torn from your throat before you know it.

“That’s it,” he encourages, a dark, hungry satisfaction in his tone. “Take it. Take all of it. Anyone could walk on by,” he breathes out, the words hot against your spine. “See this truck rockin’, see me claimin’ what’s mine.” The thought, the sheer audacity of it, sends a fresh wave of heat flooding through you. It has you clenching tight around his cock, slicking up your thighs, leaving a dark wet patch painted across his chaps.

“They could peek right in this window,” he continues, his pace never faltering, each word punctuated by a deep, grinding thrust, “and see ya—see y’takin’ my cock just like this. See what y’are for me.”

He leans over you, his vest plastered to your sweat-slicked back, his mouth near your ear. His thrusts become shorter, harder, more focused. Leather creaks beneath you, under the strain of your scrambling hands. You can’t stay still; you’re writhing underneath Rhett, pressing your forehead into the seat as you grit your teeth.

“My good girl. My damn good girl.” The praise is filthy, possessive, and it unravels you completely.

You can feel every vein on his cock inside you. He’s engraving every part of himself in you—marking, claiming, taking. Each thrust has you feeling, keening under his touch; punched forward an inch with every harsh piston of his hips, your hands flying up to the cold metal of the door to keep you from hitting your head.

“There y’go, y’just take it,” his voice is hoarse now, choked back, “take everythin’ I’m givin’ ya. My little slut. Take it.”

You feel the tension coiling tight in your belly—a familiar, urgent pressure building with every jarring impact. Your inner muscles flutter wildly around his invading length; clenching, trying to pull him even deeper. He feels it, his rhythm stuttering for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah,” he rasps, a note of triumphant awe in his voice. “Come on. Do it. Cum on my cock.”

You can feel the precipice at your fingertips, taste it on the tip of your tongue, but you need something else and you can't quite tell what it is.

His rhythm is relentless—a deep, driving cadence that rockets through your core, each thrust sending a shockwave of pure, undiluted pleasure that threatens to shatter you. You can feel the climax building; a brilliant, tightening coil low in your belly, but it’s stuck, hovering just out of reach. It’s a maddening tease, a promise unfulfilled. You’re climbing a peak with no summit, and the frustration is a keen, sharp edge alongside the pleasure. You’re sobbing with it, your body a taut bowstring, every muscle clenched and straining for a release that won't come.

“Y’gonna cum in me, baby?” You ask breathlessly, each word punched out with Rhett’s feral thrusts into you.

“Fuck—yeah, gonna fill y’up. Gonna be drippin’ me out the whole night.” You look over your shoulder to look at Rhett, your cheek pressed hard into the seat. His nose is scrunched up at the bridge, head tilted down with his chin on his chest, watching how you stretch around his cock. “Then I’m gonna fuck ya when we get home, in our bed, where y’belong,” he continues, pussydrunk and rambling on, “under me, this pretty pussy wrapped round me. Full’a me.”

Distantly you hear yourself whining and warbling out half-coherent pleas for him to make you cum. It’s like you’re listening in underwater—everything slowed, distorted, the edges of sound softened by the weight of it all. The world tilts, colours bleeding together; all you can register is heat and motion, the pulse in your throat, the static of breath too close to yours.

“Rub your clit f’me, darlin’,” a quiet demand, and you obey immediately.

One hand slides across the sweat-slick leather underneath you, your nails catching on the stitches in the grooves, before your thumb finally finds your clit. The contact is so direct, so exquisitely precise, that it wrenches a raw, guttural sound from your throat. You rub in a tight, insistent circle, slipping at each pass with how wet you are.

The coil snaps.

Pleasure detonates; a white-hot shockwave that seizes your entire body. The first convulsion steals the air from your lungs, a seismic shock that rends you apart. A fractured, high-pitched moan is all you can manage as the pleasure—hot and liquid and absolute—floods every vein, every nerve ending. Your back arches, your muscles milking his length in frantic, uncontrollable pulses.

The waves keep coming, one after another, each one pulling a ragged sob from your throat. You are dimly aware of his own harsh groan, of the way his own rhythm finally shatters. With a snarl that sounds ripped from the very depths of him, he buries himself as deep as he can possibly go. You feel the hot, sudden jet of his release flooding into you, pulse after pulse—a scalding affirmation of his possession. His body goes rigid above you, every muscle locked tight, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he empties himself with a series of low, guttural curses.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint, tinny sound of the distant rodeo announcer. The truck settles.

The world slowly seeps back in—the feel of the cool leather against your overheated skin, the weight of his body on yours, the scratch of fabric as his body protector chafes the skin of your back, and the faint scent of sex and sweat hanging in the air. He slowly collapses over you; his weight a heavy, comforting blanket, his softening cock still resting deep within you. His breath gusts against your skin, stirring the damp hairs at your nape.

You are boneless, liquefied, every ounce of tension bled out of you. You drift in the hazy, satisfied aftermath, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank.

He shifts his head, his lips moving against your shoulder blade.