can't slow it down

A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"

Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.

After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?

Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.

Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.

Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.

She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."

"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"

Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"

"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"

"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."

"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"

"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."

You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."

Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.

"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."

You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."

You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."

"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."

As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.

You sighed, "shit."

As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.

But that wouldn't stop you from trying.

"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"

"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"

She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.

You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.

"Yes."

You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.

"That's it?"

You shrugged, "Yes."

He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."

"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."

"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"

You sighed, "Yes."

He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."

"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."

"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"

You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."

"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.

"I won't," you called back.

Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"

Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."

He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"

"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."

He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."

Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."

Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.

"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.

"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."

Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.

"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"

"You got it."

***

You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.

Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.

"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"

"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."

"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"

Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."

It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.

"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.

You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"

"You're too good for triage?"

"I know you're doing it to punish me—"

"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"

"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"

He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."

You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.

But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.

Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.

"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."

"Not now, later."

You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."

"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."

His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"

"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."

You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."

He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.

"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."

You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."

You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."

"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."

You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.

You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.

How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.

He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.

In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.

And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.

"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."

You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."

You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."

"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."

You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."

At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."

You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"

You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."

He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"

He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.

"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."

His grin widened, "Atta girl."

And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.

***

The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.

After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."

Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."

He frowned, "What was that?"

"What?"

"Did you just apologize to me?"

The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."

"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."

The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"

You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"

"Your sister's wedding."

You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."

His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"

You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."

Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.

"If you don't go, they win."

You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."

He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."

"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"

You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"

He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."

Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"

Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."

You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"

He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."

You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"

He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."

You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."

"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"

You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."

After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.

"I left my car at the hospital."

He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."

As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"

Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."

His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"

You snorted, "Seriously?"

He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."

Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."

"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.

You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.

But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.

"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.

Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.

You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"

"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."

"Mom—"

"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"

"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."

"He seemed nice. Handsome."

You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."

Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."

Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.

Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.

You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.

***

You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.

When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"

You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"

"You think I didn't already think of all this?"

He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.

You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"

He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."

You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.

He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.

You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"

"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.

"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."

He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"

You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."

The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."

You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."

He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."

You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.

***

As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.

You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.

"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."

It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.

"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.

"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."

Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.

But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.

Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.

You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.

When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"

You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."

"Yes you can and yes you are."

"Abbot—"

"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."

You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.

He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"

You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."

He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"

Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."

You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"

You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.

"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."

***

As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—

"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.

He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"

You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."

After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"

You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."

He frowned, "What about your parents?"

"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."

His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"

You nodded, "Yep."

"And they're… Fine with that?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."

Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"

"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."

He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."

You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."

After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."

You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?

So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.

***

A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.

You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.

What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.

He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.

And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.

He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."

You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"

"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."

He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."

Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."

"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.

He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."

"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."

"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.

He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.

"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.

"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?

"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.

"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."

He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.

But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."

Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.

"Mom, you remember Jack."

He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.

"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."

"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."

You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.

"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."

You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"

"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."

You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"

Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."

"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."

Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.

"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"

"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."

The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."

You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.

Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—

"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"

You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.

"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"

"Your cane or crutches or something—"

He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."

"But—"

"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"

You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.

Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.

"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.

He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."

"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."

Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."

"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."

Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.

"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."

"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"

Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"

You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"

"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."

You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"

Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."

You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."

Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."

You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."

He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.

"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.

***

Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.

A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.

No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.

Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.

There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.

So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.

Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.

So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.

That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.

You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.

You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?

You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.

***

"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.

"Do you need to sit down?"

You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.

Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.

"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."

You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."

"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"

"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."

Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"

Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.

Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"

Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."

"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"

You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.

"Could you kiss me, you think?"

Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"

Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.

Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.

It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.

"What do you think? Did it work?"

You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."

Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"

You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"

Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."

You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."

Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.

Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.

But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.

Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.

And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.

"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."

You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.

Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."

You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."

Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"

"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"

He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.

But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.

It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.

***

"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"

Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.

You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.

The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.

You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.

Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.

And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.

"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."

She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.

"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."

Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."

You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."

She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."

Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"

"You're lying!"

"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."

Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"

"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"

"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."

There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.

You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"

"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"

You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."

You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.

Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"

She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."

The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.

"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."

Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.

But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.

"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"

Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.

So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.

"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.

You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."

Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."

You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.

"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.

"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."

When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"

"That's not true—"

"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."

The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.

"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.

In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.

"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."

You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"

"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."

His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"

He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."

Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."

His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"

You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."

With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.

***

"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."

Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.

"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.

You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."

Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."

You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.

"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"

A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."

For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.

"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.

"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"

You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.

But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.

You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.

***

Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.

But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.

"So, when're you gonna tell her?"

Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.

"Sorry?"

"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"

Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."

Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."

Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."

"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."

He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."

Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."

Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.

He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.

He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.

You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.

***

After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.

You bit your lip, "Can I help?"

He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"

"I want to. Please."

He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.

You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.

He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"

"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"

He nodded, "Much."

You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.

You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."

He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."

You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."

"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."

You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.

"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."

"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."

He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"

He nodded slowly, "'Course."

As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.

When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.

He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.

***

Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.

When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.

"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.

Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.

You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.

In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.

As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.

The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.

You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.

"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.

"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."

He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.

"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."

"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."

He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."

You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"

He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."

"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."

As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.

"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."

For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.

You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.

"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"

You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."

That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."

You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.

***

Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.

But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.

He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.

You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.

But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.

When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.

You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.

He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."

David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."

Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."

For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."

When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.

"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.

"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.

You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."

"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"

He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."

"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"

Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."

He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."

You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.

"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"

Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.

"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."

You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."

Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.

"I don't need you picking me apart as well."

He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."

You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"

Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."

There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.

Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.

"Jack?"

"Hm?"

"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."

His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."

He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."

It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.

Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.

But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?

Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"

Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.

You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."

***

Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.

His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.

It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.

He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.

The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.

But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.

When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.

You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.

Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.

When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—

"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.

Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"

You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.

Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.

There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.

But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.

And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.

He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.

"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—

"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"

Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.

Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.

"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"

"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.

"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."

He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.

This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.

At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.

Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?

But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.

After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"

When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.

"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.

"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"

He sighed, "That was out of line—"

You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."

Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."

When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.

He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.

You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.

"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think…Could you hold me?"

Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.

You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.

He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.

When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."

He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.

***

Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.

As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.

Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.

You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.

"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.

"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"

"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"

He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"

You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."

He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"

You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"

He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."

You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."

Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"

You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."

He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."

You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.

"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.

Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."

Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.

"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.

Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"

"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."

You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.

And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.

His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."

***

The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.

The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.

Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.

"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"

"Jack—"

"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"

Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"

You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"

He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"

You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."

He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."

You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."

"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"

You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.

After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.

Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."

You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"

His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.

As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.

"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."

Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?

***

You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.

"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.

You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."

And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.

You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.

"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.

You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."

Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."

You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."

You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.

"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."

You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.

Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."

"I'm just trying to help—"

"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.

She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."

You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"

"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"

"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"

"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"

You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"

"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"

"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"

"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"

It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.

"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.

Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.

"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.

"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.

"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.

"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.

Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"

"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.

David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"

You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.

"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"

"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."

David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"

Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"

"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"

"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."

"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."

You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."

"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"

Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."

"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.

You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.

And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.

You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.

You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.

"You can talk to me right here."

Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"

"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"

"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"

You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.

Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."

You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.

You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.

It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.

Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—

"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."

Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.

"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."

Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"

You frowned, "But I—"

"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."

You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."

***

Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.

When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."

David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"

Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."

Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."

With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.

There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.

"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"

She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."

Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"

God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."

Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."

She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."

Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."

***

You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.

You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.

It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.

It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.

And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.

So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.

For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"

"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."

You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.

It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.

"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.

"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"

He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"

You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."

His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"

"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."

"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"

"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."

Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"

"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."

You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.

"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"

"Yes."

He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"

You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"

He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"

"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."

His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"

He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.

"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.

Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.

"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."

Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.

You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.

The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.

Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.

So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.

***

Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.

On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.

"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."

Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"

"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."

Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."

She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."

Jack frowned, "I don't follow."

Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."

She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.

He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.

Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.

The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The third night, he snapped.

"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"

"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"

Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."

He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.

As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.

He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.

When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.

You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.

"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"

Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.

You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"

"I'm sick."

Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."

You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."

He tilted his head, "You don't?"

Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"

"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"

"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"

"Scared of what, honey?"

Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."

Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.

"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."

You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"

He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."

You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."

He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.

With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"

You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."

He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."

You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."

Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.

He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.

"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.

He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."

"Where are we going?"

"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.

He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.

Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.

"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.

"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."

"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"

You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."

He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"

"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"

He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."

***

It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.

You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.

Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.

"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.

His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"

You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."

His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.

Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.

Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.

Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.

When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.

His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.

"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."

Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.

"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"

"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."

There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."

As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"

"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."

"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"

Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"

"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."

You nodded, "Me too."

He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."

Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."

He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."

Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.

"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.

When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.

He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.

Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"

Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.

After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.

He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."

Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.

With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.

You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."

You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."

You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.

"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.

You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."

His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.

With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."

Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.

He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"

"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."

He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.

As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.

The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"

You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"

"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."

For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.

Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."

***

With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.

"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"

You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."

He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."

"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."

He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."

As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.

With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.

Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.

Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."

Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."

He notices it the first time you work a night shift with him. 

Jack has seen you in action before. Hell, Robby has even sung your praises (a rarity). You have sure hands, follow spot-on gut instincts, and you’re great with the patients. You’ve proved that you’re competent and confident here in the EC. 

However, as soon as Jack steps into any room you’re already in, that sugar-laced smile fades. You stutter, you hesitate, your hands start to tremble. 

Initially, he thought it was because he intimidated you. It wouldn’t be the first time, but usually, if a resident is scared of Jack, they’re downright terrified of Robby who’s known to be hypercritical and harsher in his corrections (a side effect of all the stress he’s under, Jack thinks). 

That doesn’t seem to be the case with you. He’s seen how you act around Robby, professional but relaxed. You grin, high five, and Jack is pretty sure he witnessed a warm, work-appropriate side hug shared after a particularly harrowing shift. 

He comes to the conclusion that this is an issue you have exclusively with Jack, and that doesn’t sit well with him. 

He isn’t angry, just curious. 

Also, he can’t have you freezing up whenever he’s even remotely close by; that’s just not good in this line of work. 

So, in the early morning hours of what Jack knows to be your last shift before you’re off for a few days, he catches your attention and jerks his chin to beckon you over to the nurse’s station. The manner in which you look around and over your shoulders, pointing to yourself in disbelief, makes his lips quirk up on one side. 

Jack mouths the word ‘you’ while nodding and watches as you shuffle toward him with wide eyes. 

“Um, what can I—” you clear your throat, “what can I do for you, Dr. Abbot?”

“You have a second to talk?” he asks, and you swallow, head moving up and down in slow, silent affirmation. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”

“Okay, do you… do you wanna talk here, or is it—I mean, is it a closed door conversation, or…?”

Jack just does not understand why you get so timid around him. Why is it you can laugh and joke and work with Robby and Shen, but you can’t with him? What has he done to make you so mousy? 

“Wherever you’re comfortable. We can step outside if you want, or we can stay right here,” he offers. You’re in control here. You have the choice. No wrong answers. 

“Outside?” you half suggest, half ask, and Jack motions for you to lead the way. 

It’s about three AM on a Tuesday morning. Not a whole lot of action right now, but you both know that can change on a dime. 

As soon as the doors slide shut behind him, you look at Jack in concern. “Is everything okay?” 

He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers it could come off as defensive or surly, so he drops them to his sides, except that feels awkward and wrong too. No fucking wonder Robby is always rubbing his face and holding the back of his neck. 

Eventually, Jack settles on sliding his hands into his pockets, relaxes his posture, tries not to look like a soldier standing at attention. 

“I wanted to ask you the same question.” 

You frown, not quite pouty, more like you’re having trouble solving a riddle, so Jack continues before you can catastrophize any further. 

“I get the feeling that I make you nervous sometimes,” all the time, “and I want you to know that you shouldn’t be. Nervous, I mean.”

No longer pinched together, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, your gaze repeatedly flicking to and away from his face. 

“See, that,” he chuckles, “you look like you just got caught stealing drugs.” Then, in an attempt to ease your discomfort, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial volume and adds, “have you… been stealing drugs?”

It does not make you laugh. It just makes you shake your head urgently, “no, I’d never—Dr. Abbot, s—”

“Hey, hey, calm down. I was just teasin’, kid,” he tries to reassure you while smiling how he usually does, subtle but amused. 

If he’s being honest, though, the deer in the headlights look is kind of endearing. Unnecessary, but endearing. 

Then, Jack sees that wide eyed stare move down to the slight curve of his mouth and remain there for a few whole seconds, more than enough time for you to see that previously subtle curve lift a little higher on one side until it’s more smirk than smile. 

So, that’s what it is. 

Jack tries to clear it from his face, but it’s kind of impossible, especially when you’re able to detect the mirth dancing in his eyes. 

“I should, uh—ya’ know, actually….” You start backing up toward the sliding doors, “you really don’t make me nervous, Dr. Abbot. I think you just… I mean, no offense, but I think maybe you got the wrong idea.”

A self-conscious laugh, then a little huff when you miss the doors and instead back up into the bricks beside them. 

“Right.” 

Jack moves closer, finding too much enjoyment in your tiny gasp when he reaches out and gives you a nudge to the side before placing his hands lightly on your shoulders. 

He turns you to face the pitt, guides you through the entrance as his footsteps echo directly behind yours. 

“Of course you’re not nervous—why would you be?”

You’re absolutely rigid in front of him, even curl forward a tiny bit when Jack gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go. 

You pivot to hide your face so fast, he’s surprised you don’t tear a goddamn ligament. 

It all makes sense now, he thinks. 

You’re not nervous; you’re smitten. 

How sweet. 

•

You consider begging Dr. Robby to let you come back to days early. It would be out of line and a little pathetic, but you’d much rather deal with that fallout over the very real threat of dropping dead in a trauma room any time Dr. Abbot so much as looks at you. 

A single glance is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and he is doing a bit more than that now, so you have a feeling that your time is about to be up. 

<< Hey, how many more weeks am I on nights? 

You type up some elaborate story about splattering spaghetti all over your dry erase calendar and having to clean it, wiping away your schedule, but the more details you give, the more suspicious Dr. Robby will get. 

>> Is it not on Teams?

Damn. 

<< Missed the window to change my password, so I’m locked out on my phone. 

That seems believable. 

It takes him a while to get back to you, but you almost wish he hadn’t when you read his response. 

>> You’ve still got another 3 weeks

There’s no way you’ll make it that long. You’ll be a nervous wreck by the time you return to the daylight hours of the EC. 

>> Miss day shift? 

<< Maybe. 

<< Yes. 

You also miss working under an attending who doesn’t make you shake like a chihuahua. 

>> I promise I won’t make you stay any longer than you have to, but Abbot and Shen need the help for now

Just reading his name is enough to make something jump in your stomach. 

Three more weeks of surviving Dr. Jack Abbot as he tries his damndest to kill you. 

And, you don’t even know why he’s doing it. You can understand why he’d want to suss out the reason you get so flustered around him, but now he has it. You know he knows because apparently you are incapable of concealing your feelings or even facial expressions when you see that barely-there smile of his. 

The exact moment—you witnessed the exact fucking moment that he figured it out. God, just thinking about it has you mortified all over again. And, then he held your shoulders and he teased you and you still had to work another four hours without passing out from embarrassment. 

From the very first day, or more accurately, the very first shift change, Dr. Abbot had too much of your attention. Something about his eyes and mouth and the salt and pepper stubble and silver curls and dexterous hands and really everything about him. 

He knows that now—maybe not all the details and areas of focus, but he definitely has the big picture. 

And, it amuses him. Entertains him. It’s almost like it brings him joy to make you squirm a little. 

He isn’t preying on you, you don’t think. It doesn’t feel malicious or coercive. Just inconvenient and confusing and really fucking distracting. 

In the shifts that followed shortly after his little discovery, Dr. Abbot just looked at you longer than he did before. Sometimes you’d see the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. Unnerving, but something you could cope with. Mostly. 

Now, he’s getting a little bolder, a little closer. Physically. Will come stand right next to you at the nurse’s station or sit at the computer nearest the one you’re using to chart. He doesn’t stare at you when he inflicts this torture. No, the gazes are always from a distance, probably with the purpose of making the back of your neck burn. Here, when he’s right beside you, he just smirks. You think he might try to hide it, but he’s not very good at it, even laughed once when you’d stood up as soon as he sat down. 

It’s just—it’s just rude. So rude. 

The worst part of it all, though, is that it’s helped steady you. You’ve stopped shaking in exam rooms, rarely stutter when giving reports. It’s like some kind of awful exposure therapy, and while it’s made you a more efficient doctor (still not as good as you are during the day), it leaves you in a constant state of mild discomfort, hot all over for twelve straight hours. 

It can’t get any worse, though. There’s no way that Dr. Abbot, revered and respected and selfless, would push things further. 

He wouldn’t. 

He wouldn’t. 

(He does.) 

•

The praise is genuine. Jack doesn’t say it to get a rise out of you; he wouldn’t do that. 

He’s watching over your shoulder as you prepare to put in a chest tube. Your hands are unwavering, nimble fingers counting ribs and controlled around the scalpel. 

In just a couple weeks your confidence in treatment has risen exponentially. He wishes he didn’t have to torture it out of you, but whatever works, works. 

Plus, it’s not like he’s not having some fun with it. You may be well balanced while performing procedures, but around Jack, you’re still wide eyed and restless. 

It’s cute, your little crush. 

Surprising, a little baffling, but mostly cute. 

Jack has been told that he has an… effect… on some women. More than he would’ve thought, and he still isn’t used to it. Fuck, he’s only just now started to notice it. 

Samira, bless her, was able to break it down for him, said he was a ‘silver fox’. Gray hair, fit, “think Anderson Cooper!”

Then, she’d let him in on another secret. 

“Your eyes are your best weapon, though.”

“My eyes?”

“Mhmm. It’s the way you stare. It makes it feel like nothing else exists. Very intense.”

She’s moved on to bigger and better things, as she should. Jack is glad she did, even if he misses having someone to explain the trends and lingo of the modern world. The pitt was never going to be big enough for Dr. Samira Mohan. 

It’s perfect for him, though. Exactly where he wants to be, especially right now as you secure the chest tube just fucking right. 

“Nicely done,” Jack tells you, still eyeing your work from behind you, catching the way your shoulders raise up close to your ears. 

He chuckles, you let out a frustrated, squeaky grunt, and then Jack gives you a little pat on the back and leaves. 

You avoid him as best you can for the rest of the night. 

Apparently, Jack has more going for him than his silver hair and ‘intense’ stares. 

Whether it’s proximity, his voice, or the words themselves, he isn’t sure. He’s more than willing to experiment to find out, though. 

The next chance he gets, Jack stands unnecessarily close to you again. It isn’t enough to raise eyebrows, really just looks like he’s keeping an eye on a fledgling doctor’s technique (which he is!). You’re a little stiff but not nearly as done with him as you were earlier. 

So, you’ve gotten used to him hovering. That’s good. 

“John got everyone lunch,” Jack says, coming to lean against the central hub beside you, voice dipped low and a tad rough. 

If you ask, he’ll just say he’s tired. It won’t be a lie. 

You don’t ask, however, just glance over at him, eyes landing on his mouth for a nanosecond before flicking back up. 

“What, did he lose a bet?” you eventually respond. 

Jack laughs quietly, “yeah, actually.”

“Typical,” you snort, “is gambling a hallmark of every EC or is it just ours?”  

He shrugs then straightens up, “no clue. Gotta find ways to entertain ourselves, right?” 

So far, you’ve seemed relatively unfazed, which is why Jack tosses you a quick wink as he backs away from the station. 

That gets a reaction, like a lightning strike that makes your spine go straight, makes you hide your face and whine, “oh my god, I hate you.”

You can’t see him, what with your head buried in your hands, so you don’t catch Jack’s smug grin as he turns around. 

“Me? What’d I ever do to you?”

He’s pretty sure he can feel your glare burning holes in the back of his skull. 

•

Robby’s birthday finds several faces of the pitt in the bar closest to the hospital. The man behind the counter knows many of you by name and therefore has a line of drinks prepared for you all without even having to be asked. 

You sip on your vodka Sprite—easy, decent taste, shouldn’t get you fucked up unless you really want to get irresponsible. 

And, irresponsible is the last thing you want to be when you can feel a heavy, hazel gaze on you wherever you go. You talk to Trinity, to Victoria, to Donny, and no matter where you move, those eyes follow you. 

It seems a little different tonight, though. Abbot usually watches you with the purpose of teasing. Now, it just feels like he’s watching to watch. 

With two drinks and little food in your system, a nice buzz settles in your head, stomach warm with alcohol and courage—not enough to talk to Abbot, but enough to make your way to the table he’s sharing with Robby so that you can wish the latter a happy birthday. 

“Unbelievable I made it through another year,” Robby says with a tired smile. He didn’t even work today, and the man looks exhausted. 

You grin sideways and tell him too honestly, “I’m glad you did,” then laugh around your straw when he blushes. 

Your eyes flit to Abbot who’s looking over at the other man, but as if sensing your attention, he redirects his to your face. 

“You can’t say stuff like that to Robby,” Abbot jokes, “one day he’s gonna get so red, his head will explode.”

“Shut the fuck up,” comes a groan from behind Robby’s hands, “aren’t you supposed to be nice to people on their birthday?”

“Sorry, were you expecting birthday kisses?” Abbot puckers his lips and acts like he’s really gonna plant them on Robby’s cheek, but he leans back when he’s swatted away, typical half-smile lifting his mouth when he winks at you as if the two of you are in cahoots. 

Robby isn’t the only one blushing now, your face hot as it always seems to be when you’re around Abbot. 

Thankfully, Cassie chooses that exact moment to slide up next to you to do exactly what you had come over here for, grabs the attention of both attendings, allowing you to slip away. 

An hour and two more drinks later finds you at the same booth. You ate the fries off Mel’s plate with the hopes of sopping up some of the alcohol, and while it probably helped, you’re still nice and fucking tipsy where you sit next to Robby, across from Abbot. With little room, you’re actually on Trinity’s lap, her cheek resting against your back as she chats with Robby, who has had enough beer to divulge a few fun stories about one Yolanda Garcia. Naturally, Trinity is eating it up. 

You listen and laugh, happy to be here, happy to see Robby actually relax, and, if you’re being honest, happy to be stared at. 

Eyes a little cloudy, you meet Abbot’s, and your stomach flips in a way that’s less to do with nerves and more to do with attraction. 

He tries and fails to hide a smirk, and you twist your own mouth to the side to keep your smile at bay, look down and laugh as you shake your head. 

You should probably put some distance between the two of you before you say or do something stupid. No way are you gonna let yourself flirt with Jack Abbot in public, especially not with Trinity and Robby so close by.

You slide from your friend's lap with the excuse of getting some water, which isn’t actually a lie. You could definitely use some, and that’s emphasized by how fucking good it tastes and feels when you gulp it down at the bartop. 

“Now, that’s impressive,” you hear from beside you, look to your right to see a man a few years younger than you who is blatantly checking you out. 

With a little frown, you tell him, “it’s not vodka or anything—just water,” immediately getting a bad vibe from this guy who’s probably named Chad or Brad or whatever frat boys go by these days.

“Shame,” he hums, “sober girls are so much harder to pick up, especially the cute ones like you.”

It’s possibly the grossest thing you’ve ever heard, shamelessly fucking predatory, but when you narrow your eyes at Chad, he just chuckles. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, either not recognizing your expression of distaste or ignoring it altogether. 

Hackles rising, you respond, “none of your business,” and turn to walk away. 

When Brad’s fingers wrap around your wrist, you round on him again, your free hand hot with the impulse to clock him right in the jaw. 

“You’re not even gonna talk to me?” he grins, “you should at least give me a chance.”

About to reply with a lecture full of expletives, Brandon lifts an eyebrow, suddenly focused on something or someone behind you. 

The way your neck prickles tells you exactly who’s just walked up, but that sixth sense does not prepare you for the strong arm that curls around your waist. 

“You need to let go before I fucking make you,” Abbot says, tone casual, his body anything but. You can feel the tension radiating from him, a loaded gun with his own finger on the trigger. 

Chadwick drops your wrist, and you flex your hand as if it’ll get rid of the residual sensation of his grip. 

“We were just talkin’, man.”

“Yeah?” Abbot’s fingers curl into the material of your shirt, and your heart starts beating faster for reasons unrelated to the cocky fucker in front of you. “You grab every woman you talk to like some kind of fuckin’ caveman?”

“Bro, chill, I didn’t mean anyth—”

Abbot cuts him off with a glare, “I’m not your fucking bro.” 

His volume doesn’t grow, voice still even, but there’s a certain strain to it, the same strain you see in the muscles of his neck, feel in the flex of his bicep. 

This shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, and you are no fucking damsel, but having Abbot stand up for you—get mad for you… 

“Old man lookin’ for a fight?” Brayden challenges, pushing his chest out in an over the top, alpha male way that would make you roll your eyes if it weren’t for the way Abbot’s hand twitches against your hip. 

You glance up at him, that sly smile nowhere to be found as he works his jaw, tongue sliding behind closed lips like he’s counting his teeth in some grounding exercise. 

You’re about to murmur to him that it’s okay. You’re okay. He can take a breath and calm down, but then you’re joined by yet another patron, this one much more level headed than the men staring each other down. 

“Walk away, man,” Robby says, “this guy may be old, but I guaran-fuckin’-tee you, he’ll drop you. You really want that?” Brown eyes are narrowed from the way he scrunches his face up, almost cringing on the other man’s behalf. “You really wanna get your shit kicked in, in front of her?”

Chandler’s eyes flit between Abbot and Robby before he raises his hands in surrender, grumbles something about, “no bitch is worth this bullshit.”

You hear something between a grunt and a growl resonate from Abbot’s throat, his arm around you growing tighter, and at the same time, Robby takes a single step forward, hands still in his pockets, his shoulders pulling back as he bows up on the guy. 

Abbot may be able to control his volume, but Robby sure can’t, basically barks at Broderick, “what the fuck did you just say?” and you look between all three men in complete disbelief. 

What is happening? You’ve got one of your attendings doing everything he can to keep you plastered to his side while another looks like he’s about to knock this guy’s teeth into the back of his throat. 

The sense of security is, admittedly, very nice and oddly endearing, but neither of these men can afford to, a) spend a night in jail, and b) fuck up their hands. 

“Okay, boys,” you call out, slipping out of Abbot’s grip only to grasp him by the forearm (his thick, thick forearm), your other hand reaching out and curling into the back of Robby’s hoodie, “that’s enough, time to go.”

Looking at Chad/Brad/whatever the fuck his name is, you advise, “if I were you, I’d make myself really fucking scarce right about now.”

He looks between all three of you, eyebrows pinching together as he shakes his head. Thankfully, he walks away, likely swearing the whole time. 

You drag both of your bosses out of the bar, claiming, “you two need some fresh air,” then nudging both of them to lean against the wall of the building. 

“While I appreciate the whole white knight thing, you guys did not have to do that. Like at all,” said wide eyed and serious. “I know I’m probably just some baby resident to both of you, but I promise I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

Robby laughs through his teeth, turning his head to look over at Abbot then back at you.

“I wasn’t saving you, sweetheart. I was saving him from stepping into some deep shit.”

“That fucker deserved to get his shit handed to him, and you know it,” Abbot spits back. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this, genuinely upset, and with that anger comes a different vocal inflection—his words are rough and colored with what you think might be a California drawl. 

Strange. You’ll have to ask him about that some time. 

“Not arguing that,” Robby sucks his teeth, “be really fucking inconvenient if you got hauled into the police station, though.”

Abbot releases a humorless laugh, “ever the pragmatist.”

“Someone’s gotta be.”

You watch their back and forth, caught off guard by how weird it is. You’ve only seen them interact during shift changes, and whenever they do you’re certainly not around—what, with your whole avoiding Abbot mission. 

That seems sort of impossible now. In fact, after that whole display, you don’t think you even want to avoid him anymore, and that poses an entirely new problem. 

•

Jack’s little game has backfired horribly. 

He really should’ve had the foresight to anticipate it happening, but he didn’t. Caught up in his own amusement as well as your flourishing in the EC. 

It’s all been harmless, and if you ever told him to back the fuck off, he would have. He still will. 

It’s just… it’s a lot harder to leave you alone now. 

And, he doesn’t have some savior complex, no unjustified possessiveness. The problem lies with the fact that Jack can’t fucking get your body out of his head, or really, the way it felt against his. What it felt like to hold you. What it felt like to have you let him. 

Sure, he’s had fun riling you up here and there. Watching you get all cute and flustered has brought him a little too much satisfaction, but the dynamic has changed. The rug has been pulled out from beneath him. 

The events that transpired at Robby’s birthday get-together (Jack almost strangling another human) caused a shift in you. You’re more comfortable around him, willing to engage and even banter with him, which is great except Jack experienced a shift within himself as well. 

The game has changed. The goalpost has been moved. He doesn’t care about working you up as much as he cares about making you laugh, seeing your smile, made even better if he’s the cause of it. 

He still stares, and you still catch him, but when you do his characteristic smirk is missing, replaced with a clenched jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows thickly. 

He still stands too close to you, and you still roll your eyes, but you also bite your lip. You don’t move away. Not even when Jack’s fingers brush your arm in a way that could be accidental if he didn’t do it so often. 

He does not come up behind you in the exam rooms, though. Despite having never been bothered by it before, the forced proximity that comes with most traumas lights his every nerve ending on fire—painful zaps that travel from his fingertips and spread through the rest of his body. 

He’d made the mistake only once, and it was during the shift that immediately followed that night at the bar. Jack moved close enough to look over your shoulder, ready to give feedback and praise for really any reason he could find, but an ultrasound machine getting rolled into the room and into his space had him leaning forward even more until his chest was flush with your back. 

Up until this point, you would’ve gone still, maybe curse him under your breath. Not anymore, though. No, this time, with Jack more or less on top of you, all you’d done was glance back at him, lip caught between your canines, then focus your attention back on the patient. 

He had to stay in that position for a solid five minutes, if not longer, and by the time he was able to move away from you, he’d gone through almost all of the breathing techniques his therapist had taught him. 

So, it goes without saying that this newfound desire is pretty inconvenient. 

Also, he’s fucking delusional to call it that—newfound. It’s not new at all, it just wasn’t so obvious, even to him. 

Jack has been kinda sorta really fixated on you for a while now. He’d been bothered enough to confront you about what he had thought was an issue of intimidation, then interested enough to play with you, for lack of a better term. 

Plus, he’s always found you attractive, cute when stuttering around him, beautiful when you intubate, crouched and squinting as you visualize vocal cords. Downright mouth watering when you scoff at Jack after he says or does something ridiculous (to get your attention), arms crossed with a hip cocked out. 

Enamored doe eyes can narrow into a glare in the flash of a second. Shaking hands can cut through flesh with both strength and precision. A frown can brighten into something that glows so brightly, Jack could swear he feels it in his chest. 

Long story short, he’s fucked, even more so when you ask him about it. 

“You’ve been weird the last couple weeks,” as you sidle up next to him at the central hub. 

Jack looks from the forms in his hands. “How so?”

“You haven’t been nearly as annoying lately,” you tell him with a snort. 

Feeling his mouth twitch into a smile, Jack looks back down at the papers. 

“Don’t tell me you miss it,” he teases, and there’s something oddly comforting about the way you shift on your feet beside him, a habit of yours from back when he could still give you butterflies (or so he assumes). 

“I am definitely not saying that,” you click your tongue, and Jack chuckles. 

“What are you saying then?” 

He signs the last of the paperwork, lines every sheet up then taps them on the counter, straightening them out to near perfection before turning to face you fully. 

“Does someone miss having my undivided attention?”

Your jaw falls open in offense, but a short laugh still bubbles out of you, so Jack isn’t too worried. 

“You, sir,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he burns at the tiny point of contact, “are just a little too bold, you know that?”

His mouth twists from one side to the other, and Jack can literally feel his eyes light up with mischief. 

He tries to keep it inside. Tries to stamp it down, but oh, he needs to see the look on your face when he tells you—

“You really think callin’ me sir is the best idea?”

And, it’s so fucking worth it when that stare grows into something wide, and your shoulders drop to open up your posture and your little hands fidget where they hang by your sides. 

You take a deep breath, then, without even meaning to, flip the script on him when you mumble his name—his first name— “Jack…” so, so quiet he almost misses it. 

But, he’s watching your mouth so he sees the way your lips form that single familiar syllable, and something is trying to escape his throat, a groan or a shout, he doesn’t know what. 

He can barely believe his fucking ears when you deliver the next line, just as quiet, timid as you used to be, “you have to stop teasing me if you’re not gonna follow through.”

You may sound like your former, mousy self, but you still manage to hold his gaze, meaning you see the way his mouth opens in surprise for just a moment before he quickly clamps it shut again. 

“At this point you’re just being kinda mean,” you continue. 

Jack has to exercise every ounce of his self control to keep from surging forward and catching your pouty lips with his. His hand flexes at his thigh, all five fingers stretched out then curled into a tight fist. 

“I didn’t know you were ready for me to start being nice,” he breathes. 

You’re speaking in innuendo, right? He isn’t reading this wrong? 

You make a self-deprecating sound and shake your head. “I’ve been ready for so long it’s humiliating.”

Jack doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but it is not an option right now, and because of that, because he can’t move to touch you, all the potential energy stored in his hands gets released through his mouth instead. 

“Sleep with me after work,” he blurts, and what the fuck—what is wrong with him? “I mean, shit,” Jack laughs at himself ‘cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna take the stairs two at a time to get up to the roof. “Come to my house and sleep in my bed,” he tries again.

It’s still not graceful, and definitely worthy of a good, long cringe, but it’s out there, and damn, when’s the last time he felt genuinely nervous? He’s survived fucking war zones, but right now, those pale in comparison to the threat of you laughing in his face. 

“I…”

“You can tell me to fuck off,” he quickly adds. “I probably deserve it after being such a pain in your ass.”

Your eyebrows are still high, but a smile smug enough to rival his own spreads across your face, “oh my god, wait… That’s what it is.”

“What?” He’s breathing too hard. 

“All that, everything you’ve been—” you fucking giggle, and the sound of it makes Jack dumb. “Was that just you, like, pullin’ on my pigtails?”

Jesus, that… yeah, that’s exactly what it was. A schoolboy with a crush, craving the attention of the prettiest girl in the class. 

He has to shut his eyes, clenches his teeth so hard, his molars might splinter under the pressure. 

“That’s one way to put it,” words coming out clipped, as if his jaw is wired shut. 

“And, how would you put it, Jack?”

“Me being a stupid son-of-bitch, something along those lines.”

You hum, hand by your face with your index finger curled against your bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree.”

A few beats of silence pass, and Jack spends every one of them trying not to shake. 

Then, his whole body relaxes when you add, “I guess I could go for a nap after work.”

Oh, Jesus Christ, thank God, praise him or her or whatever might be up there. This is truly a blessing.

“Yeah?” he asks, just to make sure. 

Your smile remains mirthful, but there’s also a softness to it as you nod, “yeah.”

•

Jack’s house is a small, one story not too far from the hospital. It’s about what you’d imagine for a single man in his forties. His military background can be seen in the tightly ordered bookshelves, the sponge and scrub brush by the sink being perfectly aligned, the containers of flour, sugar, and whatever else pressed against the wall from tallest to shortest. 

You thought you would be terrified if ever given the chance to see this very personal part of him. Hell, you’d been terrified of him in general not long ago. 

Now, though… Now you scan your surroundings with a tilt of your head, taking it all in and learning new things about the man you’ve been pining over for too long. 

“You’re making me nervous just staring like that,” he says with a quiet snort. 

When you look back to him, you raise an eyebrow, “nervous, you say? Welcome to my life for the last couple months.”

Jack curls his lip over the bottom row of his teeth, looks sheepish, which is not something you’re used to. On one hand, you feel oddly validated that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine, but you’re not entirely sure you like seeing him… ‘insecure’ isn’t the right word. At a loss, maybe. 

You sigh and step toward him, extend a timid hand to take his, and he lets you, watching as you play with his fingers. 

You’re ready to explode and ready to melt. Want to scream and want to cry in relief. Confused at how you got here but so relieved that you did.

All mixed up over him, like you’ve always been. 

“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” you admit, eyes flicking to his face before returning to calloused, freckled hands. “All I’ve seen is the Jack at the hospital. Dr. Abbot.”

He hums. “That guy’s alright, I guess.”

You grin, and he can probably hear it in your voice when you reply, “yeah, but he’s kind of a badass in the trauma room, which is super fucking annoying.”

“What a dick.”

Giggling in a way you’ve never actually allowed him to see, you find him looking a little dazed. Hazel clouding over, the side of his mouth keeps twitching, smile not quite forming almost like Jack can’t feel the muscles activating, like he’s no longer tethered to himself.

“Can I shower before we lay down?” 

He doesn’t answer at first but eventually blinks a few times. “Huh? Oh, right. Shower. Yes.”

His fingers curl around yours and as he leads you further into his home, you’re wrapped in a certain comfort. This is good. You are safe. He is right.  

Those are inside thoughts, though. No reason to let him know how far gone you are. He has enough of an idea as it is. 

“Let me grab you something to wear. Is—are you alright with one of my T-shirts? And, I have… basketball shorts that should—”

“If you just have a pair of boxers, those’ll work. I don’t like that athletic material.”

Jack stares at you with an intensity you haven’t seen in a couple weeks now. You watch his throat work over a gulp, and he takes a deep breath before croaking, “yeah. Boxers. Got it.”

It’s hard not to shoot him a mocking grin, able to recognize the struggle he’s going through, but you are much more merciful than he is, choose to simply squeeze the hand you’re still holding. 

You enjoy the shower alone, inhaling the familiar scent of Jack’s body wash, his shampoo, the conditioner that keeps those curls looking so soft, and you’re hit with the idea, the excitement, that you might actually be able to feel them, run your hands through his hair, feel his stubble against your palm. 

You didn’t necessarily come here to have sex. If that’s what ends up happening, then you definitely won’t be disappointed, but you mostly followed him home to spend time with him. To learn more. And, maybe you’d get to cuddle with him. Maybe. 

Friends, lovers—whatever this may turn into will be fine with you. Jack has always been attractive to you, even with his incessant teasing, but more than that, he’s always been admirable. 

The most capable person you’ve ever met, cool in a crisis, sturdy and sure. He is a pillar, a titan, a leader, but he’s also witty and goofy and mischievous. 

There’s a reason you fell for him and a reason you keep falling for him. 

The white t-shirt he left smells like him, soft and baggy, and the boxers fit okay once you roll the waistband a couple times. Your hair is wet, and your eyes are dark from fatigue. You don’t feel particularly pretty, but the open domesticity of this whole encounter encourages you to step out into the hallway. 

You’re not here to be pretty. You’re here to sleep. And stare a lot. 

Jack’s room is right across from the bathroom, and you walk into it you find him sitting on his bed wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He’s in the process of doffing his prosthesis, and you watch what seems like a ritual. His fingers move and massage scar tissue, and there is a voice at the back of your head, a want—to one day be the one to do this for him. To get the blood flowing again, to soothe any aches or chafed skin. 

Probably not quite there yet. You aren’t even sure he wants you to witness this, don’t know if he’s self-conscious about his leg or not. 

With this in mind, you step a little louder to announce your presence, and Jack looks up quickly, doesn’t say anything for a moment as his hands falter in their movements. 

“Uh… probably should have told you…”

You frown at him. “Did you—did you think I didn’t know?”

Mouth pulled downward in consideration, Jack shrugs, “it’s never come up in conversation, and it’s not like I’m using my crutches at the hospital.” He briefly changes the subject, nodding to the clothes in your hands, “you can toss those in the basket if you want.”

You do just that before approaching him, careful not to knock into what is likely very expensive hardware. 

“It didn’t have to come up in conversation. And, you didn’t have to use crutches for me to notice.” He regards you curiously, so you continue slowly, trying to choose all the right words. “You don’t have a limp. You don’t move awkwardly. But, there’s a certain… rhythm… to the way you walk. A kick, I guess, that one leg has that the other doesn’t. It’s really, um… it’s really subtle.”

Jack blushes, but he also smirks. You roll your eyes before he can open his mouth to poke fun. “Yes, I’ve stared a lot. Yes, I’ve watched you like a freak. Fucking sue me.”

“Do I need to file an HR complaint?” 

With narrowed eyes and extreme caution, you slowly slide into his lap, draping your arms over his shoulders, making sure not to put all your weight on him. 

He’s obviously taken aback, stifles a little cough, but his hands still settle on your waist without hesitation. 

“Do you want to file an HR complaint?” 

He’s comically quick to answer, “fuck no,” the words rough as they fall from lips you’re zeroed in on. When his tongue darts out to wet the corner of them, you shiver. 

Jack moves first, but you’re right behind him, meeting him halfway in a kiss that starts with a deep inhale. Your fingers rake through the hair at the back of his head, travel to finally, finally feel those curls, and when they’re just as soft as you imagined, you hum happily—a sound that turns desperate when Jack cups the back of your neck and somehow pulls you even closer than you already are. 

His stubble, though scratchy against your skin, is just long enough to keep from hurting, pleasurably stimulating rather than rubbing like sandpaper. 

You tilt your head, open your mouth, and Jack swiftly slides his tongue against yours, a deep grunt sounding from his chest and reverberating in yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Want to touch him everywhere, want to feel everything. He, however, knows exactly what he wants, keeps holding your nape while his other hand curls around your hip and guides you to fully sit in his lap, traps you there as he grinds against your core, and fuck, oh fuck—he’s hard. He’s hard and he’s big and he wants you. 

Jack swallows your little mewl, groans when you roll your hips, but breaks away from you before either of you can get carried away. 

“This isn’t,” he’s already so out of breath, and the fact that you’re the cause of it makes your body flush hot, makes your pussy ache. “It’s not why I asked you to come home with me… contrary to popular belief.”

You refuse to stop playing with his hair even as you speak, “well, I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it wasn’t my plan either.”

His thumb is stroking over your hip bone, very distracting as you try to keep yourself from shoving him back on his own bed. The hand that was previously on your neck is caressing your cheek, smoothing over the bone, moving to your jaw, the space right below the curve of your lip. 

“You are,” Jack swallows, huffs through his nose, “you’re incredible, you know that?” 

It takes you by surprise. Praise like that from someone like Jack Abbot is something people crave, whether they’re attracted to him or not. He’s never been one to hold back from encouraging younger doctors, one of the reasons everyone enjoys working under him, but… incredible?

“And, beautiful, obviously. Brilliant. Patient—”

“You don’t have to butter me up, you already have me in your bed,” you play, rolling your eyes as if you’re not eating this up. 

“I’m not buttering you up—I’m telling you everything I should’ve when I was too busy pullin’ on those pigtails.”

And, then, for whatever reason, he beams at you, a grin so wide and crooked that it spreads to every one of his features, changes the very shape of him. You see dazzling white teeth all the way back to his molars, and you sort of want to cry into his shoulder. 

He’s—he’s so fucking handsome, it hurts, and you can’t look at him any longer, holding his face in both hands as you kiss him again. 

And, again. 

And, again. 

And, Jack refuses to drop that damn smile, still wearing it even as he twists and turns to maneuver you onto your back. 

It’s finally happening, oh god, you’re finally getting—you finally have your hands on him, sliding under his shirt, lifting and pushing it off entirely. 

His arms, what the fuck, his arms, and his chest, his stomach, his freckles… freckles everywhere, dusting his body like one huge constellation. 

You’re so ready to worship him, only you can’t because Jack is too busy with you, mouthing down your neck to nip at your clavicle, fingers dancing at the hem of his shirt. 

Looking at you through unfairly pretty eyelashes, he questions, “may I?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod, “knock yourself out.”Jack laughs, helping you sit up so that he can tug the t-shirt from your body, and once it’s off he bites his lip hard enough for the flesh to redden. “Talk about a knockout.”

Part of you wants to ‘boo’ the cheesy line, but it’s hard to criticize when he’s staring at you the way he is, even harder when he leans down to pepper kisses over your chest, sucking on one of your nipples until it hardens on his tongue, then caring for the other in the same way. 

Your tits rise and fall with every breath you take, shiny with his spit by the time he begins his descent again. 

Jack leaves marks on your rib cage, a bruise sucked into the soft skin right below your belly-button, one on each hip as he hooks fingers into your waistband and pulls the material down little by little. 

The hickeys don’t stop, numerous dark spots littering your inner thighs, each one making your cunt pulse with arousal, and once the boxers are discarded and Jack is between your legs, he examines his handiwork—bruises first, then your dripping pussy. 

Warm breath cascades over you, a few short puffs followed by a languid lick from your entrance to your clit. 

“Haah—ah—Jack, oh…”

His resounding groan vibrates through you, and you immediately find purchase in those silver curls again. 

His facial hair scrapes your thighs so deliciously, stubble on his chin and around his lips making you gasp and writhe, and you would love to hold him still and ride his face, but you want something else even more. 

“Feels, fuck, feels so good, but—” your back arches when he nibbles on your clit, soothing it with his tongue afterward, “—I want, God, please, want you in-inside.”

And, with those words, Jack fucking whines for you, eyebrows pinched together as he works his jaw, stuck between a rock and a hard place (with a rock hard cock pressing into the mattress). 

He wants to fuck you, good God, he wants to bury himself in you, but your cunt is so sweet and so wet, drenching his face and fluttering just for him. He could do this for fucking ever, quit his job and eat your pussy for the rest of his life. 

But, your hands are urging him back up your body, and Jack really has no business or desire to deny you anything you want from him. 

As soon as he gets to a certain position, one that gives you enough force and leverage, you shove him onto his back and straddle his hips, crushing your lips against his and no doubt tasting yourself on his tongue. 

“Do we need… do we need a condom?” you question, follow with, “I’m clean, I had a—a physical a couple weeks ago—”

You’re asking if he can fuck you raw. Shit, Jack is not well enough equipped to deal with this, to deal with the increase in his heartrate and blood pressure as you start working his boxers off of him. 

You slide down him quickly, but stop at his legs, and when he feels you press what can only be described as a loving kiss to the scar tissue of his residual limb, Jack sucks in a breath so sharp it might lance him right open. 

It’s fleeting, not something you draw too much attention to, but the sensation and the care will stick with him until the day he dies. 

“Healthy as a horse,” his voice cracks when he finally responds to you, and he clears his throat in the vain hope that it’ll heal his grated tone. 

Both of you stripped of every garment and inhibition you slink back up his frame, another question glimmering in your eyes. Jack raises a hand to push hair out of your face and nods. Yes. Please. I’m entirely yours. 

Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping him and making Jack press his head back into his pillows when you run your thumb over his tip to smear the precum drooling from it. 

“Gonna kill me,” he whispers, gazing up at you in awe, his jaw dropping even further when you line him up with your entrance and begin sinking down. 

Your pussy is hot and tight around him, taking Jack deeper and deeper, and the feeling of you squeezing his cock paired with the way you’re moaning for him has his eyes rolling in his head. 

“Fuck, you’re too goddamn good for me,” he groans, and he means it. “Too fuckin’ good.”

But, you disagree with a laugh and a shake of your head right as you settle onto his pelvis. 

He is fully inside of you. Sheathed. Surrounded. Buried just like he wanted to be. 

The thought nearly does him in, and Jack bucks up into you, the action making you bounce, keen, then start your own rhythm. 

Lifting up over and over, you ride him like you were fucking born to, raising yourself and dropping on his cock, then falling to your forearms to work him at a different angle. Your ass bobs up and down, and if he cranes his neck just the right way Jack can see the jiggle of round cheeks. His fingers dig into your plush skin, groping and pulling and using his grip to move you up and down on his cock. 

He’s lost to you, lost in you, and he’s fucking ecstatic about it. Uncontrolled grunts and growls leave him without his knowledge, creating a cacophony of lewdness when mixed with your melodic moans and squelching pussy. 

You brace yourself on his chest and piston your hips, the pace growing into something frantic as his cock rubs against your g-spot. 

Head thrown back, tits pushed out, nails digging into his skin, you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. 

“That’s it, take what you need, baby, I’ve got you,” he tells you, though it’s really Jack who needs the reassurance. Needs to know you won’t disappear from his grasp, here one second then gone the next. He has you, he’s holding you, and just the idea of letting you go drives him insane.

No. No. 

He coats his thumb in spit before pressing it to your clit, holds it there to apply a steady pressure for you to control more than him. 

Mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, you cry while shifting on top of him, an endless dance that eventually has your muscles locking up, your pussy starting to spasm, and Jack can’t tear his eyes away as your orgasm builds, build, builds, his own right alongside it. 

You teeter on that edge for so fucking long, face stuck in the same expression of utter desperation as your body moves almost robotically, your lower half snapping to keep his cockhead against your g-spot, his thumb against your clit, and then, with a beautifully broken moan, your orgasm plows into you, taking Jack along with it. 

In hindsight, he should’ve asked if it was okay to finish inside of you, but he has no control as you milk it out of him, squeezing thick ropes of cum from his cock, his seed flooding your pussy until it starts leaking out around him, leaving a mess between your bodies. 

You take several deep breaths, fuck-drunk eyes heavy and locked on one another until you fall forward onto Jack’s chest. 

He wraps both of his arms around your back, fingers of one hand clasped around his opposite wrist. Your head hangs over his shoulder, face turned into his neck, and Jack angles to kiss your forehead before resting his cheek against it. 

“Mmm, that was… yes,” you say, still mindless. 

Jack chuckles, “yeah, it was.”

“Can we… is that something we can… hm,” you struggle to finish the thought, drowsiness sinking its claws into you. A 14 hour shift and earth-shattering orgasm will do that. 

Lucky for you, Jack knows what you’re trying to ask and answers, “we can do that however and whenever you want.”

He feels you smile into his neck. “Not a one-time-thing, then?”

“Do I seem like a one-time type of man?” 

You make that wordless ‘I don’t know’ sound, “how’m I supposed to know? You could just be teasing me again.”

His arms tighten enough to push some of the air from your lungs. 

“I may be a tease, but I am also” his lips brush the corner of your eye, “a selfish prick—one of my many charming personality traits.”

Instead of being put off by his half-joking, mostly serious confession, you nuzzle into him and gently suckle at a place on the side of his neck long enough to leave a bruise and make Jack’s very tired dick try to twitch back to life. 

“I really enjoy… hm, what am I trying to say? I like that—I like that you want me, I guess. And, I want you to be selfish. And, I wanna be selfish too.”

His chest rises with a short laugh. You could have anyone you set your sights on. Stunning, smart, funny, talented, Jack could go on and on. The fact that you have feelings for him, have had these feelings for longer than two seconds, is nothing short of a fucking miracle. 

“I’m yours for the taking, babe—your loyal dog. I’ll even sit at your feet if you ask me.”

He unlocks his hands from your back to rub his aching eyes, the toll of last night and this morning weighing heavy on his limbs. 

“Will you wear a collar too?” you tease, finger tracing over his Adam’s apple. 

“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me shower and sleep for a couple hours.”

You do, joining Jack under the spray where he leans against you, your arm looped around his torso to keep him stable, and if he weren’t so damn exhausted, he’d probably insist on independence, but he feels like maybe it’s safe to let his guard down. Maybe he doesn’t have to surround himself with trauma or distract himself with little games. Maybe he can just be. 

With you. 

You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.

“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”

“—right there,” he cuts in.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”

He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”

You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”

Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.

“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.

You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”

You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.

“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”

You try not to smile. You fail, a little.

“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”

“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.

You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”

He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”

You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”

“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”

That earns you a look.

“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”

You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”

“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.

You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”

“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”

“Debatable.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.

You hand him a fork.

“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”

He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.

You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”

He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.

A pause.

Then—

“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.

You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”

“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”

“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”

Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”

“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”

Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”

“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”

“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”

“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”

“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.

“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.

Jack doesn’t answer.

Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”

“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”

“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”

Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.

Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.

“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”

Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”

“Ambulance crashed!”

The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.

He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.

But this. This thing you were doing…

The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.

From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.

And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake. 

Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.

You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.

Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.

Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.

“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.

Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.

“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”

Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”

Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”

Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.

Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

You were already moving.

Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.

You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.

“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”

Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.

Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Then you leaned in.

Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.

Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.

Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.

“We’re heading out,” he said.

Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”

Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.

You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.

And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.

And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you. 

It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.

★★★

Day Six.

He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.

The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.

The second— You.

On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.

And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?

“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.

The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.

He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—

—and you shift just slightly.

It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.

A beat.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”

There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.

“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”

You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”

“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”

“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”

Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”

“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.

“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.

Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.

“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”

He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.

“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”

“You could just… not text her.”

Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

You smile slightly.

“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”

“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.

“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”

There’s a pause.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.

Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.

The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.

He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.

His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.

You startle just a little, then relax.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”

“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.

He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.

“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.

“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”

His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.

You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.

He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.

“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”

You don’t answer.

Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.

His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.

“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”

But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.

Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.

“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”

His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.

“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”

The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.

You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.

You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—

You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.

It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.

If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.

You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie. 

Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.

It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”

★★★

Day Twelve.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”

“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.

“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”

The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”

He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.

They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.

Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”

“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”

Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”

Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”

“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”

Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.

Locks. You.

At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.

You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.

“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”

Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”

“You aren’t going there.”

“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”

“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”

“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”

“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”

“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”

Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.

Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.

You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.

Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.

Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.

“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”

“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.

“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”

McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”

“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”

You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”

“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”

“Santos encouraged it.”

“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.

“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”

Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”

You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”

You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”

You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.

“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”

You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”

Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—

“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”

“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.

“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”

You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”

Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”

Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.

You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.

Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.

Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.

“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”

He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.

You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”

He stands there for a second. Then another.

Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.

★★★

Day Eighteen.

You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.

Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.

“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.

You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.

He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”

You hum like you believe him. You don’t.

He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”

“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.

“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”

You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.

Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.

He’s trying to be good. You can see it.

Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.

You keep going anyway.

“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.

You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”

You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”

You glance at him now.

“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.

“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.

“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.

You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.

He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.

“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”

You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.

“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.

You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”

“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds. 

Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.

“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”

Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.

You shouldn’t.

You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.

“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”

A pause.

“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.

You kiss him again properly.

It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.

Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.

His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up. 

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.

He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”

You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.

You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.

“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”

“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.

You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.

He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.

You glance down.

He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.

You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.

“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”

“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”

You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”

“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.

Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.

We resist.

You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.

So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.

So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly. 

So you added structure.

Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.

You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.

You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.

But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.

You’ve also tightened everything else.

Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.

The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.

“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.

He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.

And still—you function.

You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait. 

The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity. 

And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.

The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.

Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.

You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.

Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.

“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.

“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”

“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”

You nod, moving in.

The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.

You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.

“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.

You.

He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder. 

Three weeks of this… discipline.

And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”

“Now.”

You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”

Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”

“Good. Splint.”

You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.

Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”

You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.

“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”

Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”

Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”

“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.

“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”

Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”

“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”

“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”

You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.

“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”

Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”

“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”

You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”

“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.

Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.

“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”

“Debatable.”

“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—

“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”

You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”

You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.

“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.

“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”

You huff. “How is he doing?”

Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.

“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”

You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.

You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”

Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”

“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.

There’s a small pause, then—more casually—

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He called it punishment.”

“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”

You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”

You laugh under your breath.

He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.

You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.

“See you at home in a few hours.”

He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.

“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.

You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.

“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”

Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking. 

“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.

McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.

“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”

You glance over. “Why?”

“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”

“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.

McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.

“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”

Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”

“You brought her up first.”

“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”

McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”

You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”

“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”

McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”

Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”

You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”

McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..

Santos, however, immediately does.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”

McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.

Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”

You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”

“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”

You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”

McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”

Then, casually—

“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”

McKay exhales through her nose.

Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”

Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”

Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”

Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.

Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”

Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.

Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.

You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.

He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”

“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”

He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”

“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”

A beat.

“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.

Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”

Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”

Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”

Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”

“…Did I what?”

Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”

“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.

“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”

Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”

Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.

“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.

“I salted it.”

“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”

Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”

“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.

“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.

“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.

You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.

You pull back just as fast.

“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”

His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”

“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.

You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.

“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”

Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.

He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.

“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.

“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.

“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.

“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”

You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.

“C’mere,” he says.

You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.

“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.

You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.

His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.

“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.

You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.

“Mhm.”

He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.

“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.

His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.

“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”

You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that. 

You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.

“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”

He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”

“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.

“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”

You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.

You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”

His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”

You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.

“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.

“What else?”

“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip. 

You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.

“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.

He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you. 

The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch. 

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.

“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.

“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.

He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass. 

He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.

“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric. 

He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement. 

“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”

You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.

He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.

“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe. 

He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.

“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.

His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.

You shake your head.

“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.

He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”

He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”

You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.

“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”

He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.

“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.

You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.

 “Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.

You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.

He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say, 

His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.

“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man. 

His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.

You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”

You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.

“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”

“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head. 

You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him. 

You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.

“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.

“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.

“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”

“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.

“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.” 

He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”

“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”

You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.

“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.

“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.

Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect. 

His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back. 

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good." 

You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch. 

He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?" 

“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.

He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.

Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”

He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar. 

He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him. 

He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.

“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.

He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.

“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”

You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them. 

You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. 

“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.

You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp. 

You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense. 

You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.

He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. 

His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.

His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?" 

His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”

“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.

“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.

“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.

“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”

His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.

"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely. 

You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.

You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”

There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.

You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.

“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.

You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”

He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”

“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.

You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.

It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.

You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.

“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.

You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”

“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”

You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”

He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”

“I can help, I’ll—”

“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.

You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.

When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.

“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.

He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.

You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.

There’s a pause.

“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”

He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”

You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.

“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.

He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.

There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”

“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”

You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”

You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.

“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.

“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”

His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.

The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.

You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.

Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.

The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.

It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.

Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.

You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.

“Jack.”

He doesn’t even look up. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet!”

“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”

You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.

“I just need a small, tiny favor.”

“No.”

“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”

“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”

“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”

“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”

“You froze.”

I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.

“It was just…one second.”

“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”

You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.

“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious!”

“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”

“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.

He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”

That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”

“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”

He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.

You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.

The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.

You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”

His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”

“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”

He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says again, quieter.

You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.

“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”

You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.

“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”

You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.

Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.

Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.

Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.

“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”

──────────

Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”

“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.

He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”

You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”

“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”

You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.

“Oh, immensely.”

“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”

You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”

“I’ll go down on you.”

“What?” you ask slowly.

He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”

“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”

His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”

“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”

The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.

“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.

And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.

“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).

“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.

And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.

You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.

You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.

──────────

Four days after, you get behind on your charting.

Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.

“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”

He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”

You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”

Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.

“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.

“Oh, really.”

“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”

Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.

Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.

──────────

“Hey kid.”

You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.

“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”

He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.

Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.

“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.

“How long?”

You blink. “How long what?”

“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.

You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”

He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”

Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”

He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).

“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.

His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”

You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.

You can’t help but smile back at him.

Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”

Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.

“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”

You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.

“I hate you, Robinavitch.”

“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.

Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.

And there is a thing.

──────────

It happens after the code blue.

You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.

Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.

By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.

The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.

You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”

The door opens quietly behind you.

“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.

The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”

“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.

He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”

His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.

Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”

Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.

You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”

You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.

“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”

You study him, skeptical.

“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”

He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.

“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”

“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.

“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.

Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.

The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.

And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?

He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.

Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.

“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”

You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”

“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.

“Oh, do I know her?”

“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”

You pinch his side. “Rude.”

“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”

“Unbelievable.”

“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”

You swallow. “Oh. Her.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love that.”

You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”

You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.

Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”

“Shower.”

“We’ll need to talk to him immediately.” The man - Rossi, you assumed, seeing as he was going gray and had less of a charge fueling his steps - spoke quickly as the two men followed your team.

“Be here when he’s out of surgery.” You didn’t bother to look back, trying to convey your annoyance and praying they got the hint. 

“He’s killed three women and has another one hostage. We don’t have time.” The other one piped up, easily keeping pace with you.

Abandoning your previous strategy, you let your team push the man into the operating room, shutting the door behind them and whipping around to face the duo. “I understand that, sir, believe me.” You were more elevated than you would have liked, years of unease unfortunately slipping through your efforts to withhold them. “But whatever happened when you found him left him barely breathing. You can’t speak to a corpse. You’ll have your time when he’s stable. Go do your job and let me do mine.” You tensed your calves planning to turn around, but quickly felt the guilt catch up to you. “I’ll call you if he wakes up.”

“If?” 

You sighed. You hated profilers. “I’ll call you.” 

“Call the headquarters.” He was scribbling down a number on the back of a hospital business card. “Ask for Agent Hotch. We’ll be waiting.” You nodded your head once, taking the card from his hands. He started walking away as he thanked you. “We appreciate it.” Sure.

–

The surgery to save the man had been a trip and half. One of the bullets had internally ricocheted, and the other two were lodged next to crucial arteries. You praised your mother for giving you steady hands as you inched them out of him. It took you and your team six hours and fifteen minutes to get his heartbeat steady, you estimated he’d be knocked out all night. You should call, you thought. You had no idea how late these people worked but they were more than likely expecting to talk tonight and you didn’t know if that’d be possible. You fished the card out of your pocket, his handwriting was impressively neat for how fast he’d written the number. You heard the line ring twice before someone picked up. 

“This is Penelope Garcia with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, who am I speaking to?”

“Uh- I’m Dr. L/n down at Quantico Med. I’m looking for Agent Hotch?” Your words tilted up at the end of your sentence. The casual nature of his shortened name left a weird feeling in your mouth after you said it. “I have an update on a patient he was asking after.”

“Is this about an unsub?” 

“A what?” She lacked professionalism. You wondered briefly if he had just given you the phone number of an employee.

“I’m sorry-” she laughed slightly. “Is this about a suspect? Hotch told me someone might be calling.”

“Um - yeah it’s about a suspect. He was brought in earlier. Is Agent Hotch there? I’m sorry ma’am but I've been in an operating room for the past 6 hours and I want to go home.” You hoped she’d respect your honesty, you really didn’t have the patience to explain yourself to someone new. 

She chuckled. “I got you honey, I’ll page you over.” The line went dead for a second before the ringing resumed. Please be quick, you prayed, get me out of this fucking hospital.

“Hotchner.” His voice was rougher over the phone. You guessed the long hours started to weigh on him by this time of night. You always felt it the most around this time, too.

“Hi, sir. This is Dr. L/n from the hospital. We managed to stabilize your guy, but it’s unlikely he’ll be up before tomorrow. I know it was assumed he’d be awake tonight but it took longer to operate than expected.” Your guys put 3 bullets in him, so sorry for the inconvenience. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow. You can come by at any time and I’ll let you in.”

“Are you positive we can’t talk to him tonight? I understand the situation is difficult but this case is extremely time sensitive. I’m sure that’s not lost on you.” You cursed the man for not being more condescending in his delivery. Thinking of the poor person either trapped or dead right now due to the guy you just saved made you sick. 

“I know.” Fucking hell. “I can wake him up.” A quarter dose of adrenaline works wonders. “Be here in fifteen minutes. You won’t have much time to talk to him.”

“Thank you.” He hung up. You put your head in your hands. Just a little kid with bruises.

– 

The layout of the BAU made you envious of the workers here. You’re sure they’d dealt with atrocities beyond what the average person could stomach, but you also worked within the belly of the beast and man were those hospital hallways claustrophobic. The daylight shone beautifully through the large windows, and you asked yourself if you’d be able to cope with all the paperwork in exchange for a feel like this. There weren’t any front desks, nowhere to sign in, so you sat in one of the chairs by the door and waited to see if something would happen. You had been specifically requested to visit the building , a note signed ‘Strauss’ being left with the hospital secretary. You didn’t like being called on by a stranger, it made you nervous beyond belief. You’re sure anyone walking by assumed you were being charged with something. Sweating like a sinner in church.

“Dr. L/n?” A woman was standing near you, having completely avoided your eyesight until now. “I’m the board supervisor, Erin Strauss. Thank you for coming.” The woman was nice enough, but she seemed rigid, clearly confident in her authority. She led you to her office and gestured to the chair facing her desk.

“I’ll cut right to the chase.” She smoothed her pencil skirt as she sat down. “The BAU is seeking a stand-by medic and I’d like to offer you the position. You’re revered highly by your previous places of employment and your current boss has only good things to say. Along with a personal reference by an employee of mine, you’re certainly a person of interest. You’d be working interchangeably with three other individuals, however you would be the first one called when needed.”

That is definitely not what you were expecting. You were almost immediately ready to turn down the offer. You didn’t work well with cops. You worked well in a hospital, going into the field to patch the wounds of both good and evil was a less than appealing deal to you. 

“You’d be on call while you worked your current position at Quantico Medical, when you’re at home you can remain there, but you’ll be flying with the rest of the team when they leave. You will be entered into a federal database, and employed as a stand-in for hospitals near you when working abroad.” She went on to explain you’d be paid salary, and when you heard just how much you could add to your monthly income by doing this, you took it. You were doing fine, you definitely didn’t need the financial boost, but you had family that could use it. Your niece had been close to turning down college because of the cost, so some extra money could really set her up. 

“Excellent. You’ll start your field training next Monday.” She was shuffling papers into a hefty stack as she talked. “Come back when you’ve finished this and I’ll arrange a team meeting.” The stack was even heavier than you expected when you picked it up. It was far too early to be regretting your decision. 

–

The first day of training had been easy enough. You weren’t an agent, so you avoided having to learn weapons or combat. It generally consisted of learning efficiency, along with how to work properly with agents and the expected etiquette when dealing with an unsub. You had met the team only once by now. Everyone had been nice - Garcia especially - but aside from her nobody had been particularly welcoming. The conditions of your job were a bit strange, basically capitalizing on the what ifs that came with the FBI title, and that created a bit of distance between you and the rest of the team. They questioned the necessity of you, they’d survived this long without a stand-by medic with them, why did they need one now?

Above any disregard for those in law enforcement sat your stubbornness. You knew they were on the fence about you, the most logical thing for you to do now would be attend every session required of you and prove yourself through pure accomplishment. Easy in theory, much harder to execute when Aaron Hotch is the one you’re learning from. He was a good teacher - you’d give him that - he had a confidence to him that easily dominated a room, attracted eyes in a way other men couldn’t manage. You’d ignored the initial stir in your stomach when meeting him in favor of attempting to scold him and his partner. Now, it was much harder to quell the slight pound in your head or the sweat on your palms. He was just standing up front, lecturing on the importance of a team, but his attire was the only thing able to break through the haze in your mind. Every time he’d shown up at the hospital, he’d donned a suit, a slightly baggy blazer worked incredibly well as a shield to your curiosity. That had clearly changed, as he shed the overcoat when talking to the class, having just a white button up adorn his torso. You took notice of the rolled up sleeves, clearing your throat quietly to snap yourself back into focus. You had the intention of snuffing out this little thing of yours but were a living contradiction at this point, setting on the goal of avoidance while barely ignoring the sight of the veins on his arms. You pondered the thought of sleeping with some man at a bar just to get this out of your system, but remembered how little projecting attraction onto someone else helps a situation. In other words, you were probably fucked.

– 

The first mission you worked with the team had you flying to a tiny Georgia town to investigate a string of bodies being found in ransacked homes. It seemed to be a simple motive, robbery turned to murder, but the team was called down to help once the kill count hit five. You had been expecting a long commercial flight, figuring you’d need to invest in a good neck pillow and some aspirin. Nobody had bothered to inform you the Bureau utilized private air travel, or that you’d be flying in one with people you’d known for two weeks. You’re sure you looked a little out of place, looking around the plane without being obvious you were doing it and adjusting to the sight of couches on planes. The others, having had this privilege for years now, took their respective seats. You had been nervous about that, unfortunately. The unsure feeling of where to sit reminding you painfully of high school cafeterias and inferior reputations. The only open seat happened to be right next to the man you’d been ducking away from the past two weeks. Lovely. He took a moment to look at you when you sat. You were prepared to talk to him, but for now you busied yourself with rummaging through your bag looking for nothing and pretending not to see him in your peripherals.

“Do you get sick on planes?” He seemed to have a deeper motive when he asked, like you saying yes would solve a puzzle in his head.

“Not really.” You’d only been on a plane a handful of times. “Turbulence can make me nervous, but I think that’s fairly normal.” You thought momentarily that perhaps he would blame your obvious anxiety on that instead of his proximity to you. He was a profiler, you’re sure he picked up on tells for nerves you weren’t even aware you had, but maybe he’d write it off. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem…” He trailed off for a moment, looking over your face to try and categorize your expression. “I don’t know, lost?” He smiled, light and easy, and you realized he was trying to reach out to you. The comfortability in the gesture made your head spin. It was like a shot of morphine, enveloping your body in a dull elation - an escape. You wanted that comfortability, wanted him to feel weightless around you. There had been a certain tension between the two of you since you started. He was warmer than the rest, but also more awkward. Your first real interaction had been an outburst, and it left you hesitant to talk to him. 

You chuckled at his remark. “No I -” You shook your head as you spoke, as if shaking off his accusation. “Nobody told me about the jet. You’d think exclusive aircraft would be in the job predecessor.”

He nodded in agreement, holding a slight upturn on his lips. “Yes, you would.” He glances away to check the time, looking back to you quickly like you were his homebase. “Strauss has a habit of getting ahead of herself. Plus, we’re all pretty used to it by now. I have to remind her sometimes that normal provisions don’t have a TI.”

“I’m sure.” It was clear she’d worked with the unit for a while. “Even if they did, though, they’d never find another Garcia.” You thought of the woman, bright and sparkly and incredibly good at her job. “You guys are lucky to have her.”

He stared at you, losing a hint of the lightheartedness and letting a wave of genuinity intertwine with it. “You have her too, Y/n.” His eyes were like a trap, rich pools of honey just begging to tug you down in. “You’re a member of this team. Don’t think your newness makes you inferior to anyone else on it. We’re lucky to have you too.”

Fuck, you were whipped. “I really appreciate that, sir.”

He smiled, shaking his head and waving you off. “Don’t with the sir, please. It’s bad enough when Garcia does it. You can call me Aaron.” Not even the other team members called him that, a thought that seemed to strike you both simultaneously. “Or Hotch, whatever you prefer.”

You just looked at him, letting a smile rouse your lips and trying your hardest not to let the effect he had on you reach your face. “Ok.”

–

The first case had been good training wheels, simply tending to a vic who needed stitches and getting a feel for the life of a field agent. You’d been adjusting nicely to it, quickly getting used to working random hospitals and waiting to be needed on an active crime scene. The others had warmed up to you tremendously after getting back, opening their circle for one more, and you couldn’t be more grateful. A team like this was something you’d wanted for a while, growing more and more unsatisfied with the callous ER workspace by the day. Ironically, there was much more life in jobs dealing with murder. He had also been warming up to you. The two of you hit the status of work-place friends nearly instantly. The endearing encounter on the plane simmered inside you for a while. The memory of it prompting you to keep talking to him, always searching for a fix of the painkiller you’d felt that day. 

You weren’t a profiler, but you were unfathomably infatuated, leading you to never miss his tone getting softer with you, or any one of his touches that lingered for just a second too long. It just barely bypassed the line of friendship, but you never lost sight of that linear barrier, so it was incredibly prevalent to you when he breached it. You scoffed at the idea of any reciprocity, brushing off every remark made by a coworker or the one horrific time you heard JJ refer to the two of you as ‘mom and dad.’ This wasn’t a plausible thing. This was a stupid workplace crush that was more of a hindrance than anything. The growing closeness between you and him would have it’s effects properly restrained to the confines of your head, only permitted to express themselves once you were away from the man. It was an odd dynamic, but Aaron wasn’t an obvious guy, so trying to define the edges of you two would only draw attention to the fact you had been looking at all. No thank you.

“Shit.” The team was sitting around the table going over their files. You were mainly there for support, as you were never a part of the lead up to the catch, the chase. You heard Hotch mumble the exclamation under his breath and looked over to see the trouble. He was looking down at his phone, jaw resting between his thumb and pointer finger. You got up and moved to sit next to him, the motion virtually ignored by everyone else as they continued searching for connections.

“Everything ok?” You mumbled to him, trying not to disturb your friends who were nearly nose-deep in their files. 

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Jack’s sitter canceled. I wanted to stay here to go over the latest crime scene but I guess I’ll have to raincheck.” The killings of your latest unsub had been increasing. You knew the collective stress that was starting to boil within the team. Him going home would only slow them down, a horrible addition to a killer that was speeding up. 

You volunteered your night away before you even got a chance to think about it. 

“I can watch him.” 

Surprise was apparent in the raise of his eyebrows. “I appreciate it, but I couldn’t ask that of you.

You’re fairly certain you would do anything he asked of you, but the nobility of the man in this case almost made you roll your eyes. “No, please. I offered and I would love to. I’m not helping anyone just sitting here, and you leaving would slow them down. You know what to look for here, I don’t. I don’t want another girl going missing just cause your sitter flaked. I can do it.”

He seemed mildly speechless. “I -” He paused, trying to find the wording he wanted. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll send you the address, if you’re sure.” He looked at you with more adoration than you’d ever had directed at you, so intense your eyes instinctively ducked down. “Thank you, Y/n.” He was so touched by the action it made you slightly sad to think about. Had no one ever helped him? Maybe you were raised weird, this seemed hardly beyond common decency to you. 

“What are friends for?” He exhaled a slight laugh in gratuitous agreement, but you saw the glimmer of his eyes dull slightly. The notion surely reflected in your own eyes as the words burned your tongue. Friends.

–

Jack was a delight. A well mannered, clearly well raised kid. Parts of his dad shined so vibrantly in him that you’re sure you’d be able to pick him out of a crowd based on mannerisms alone. Hotch had called Jack’s daycare, verifying your identity and giving you the ok to go pick him up. He seemed quiet on the way home, but rushed to give you a tour of the house, and excitedly led you to his line up of toy trains once you’d entered the place. There was a shift between you and Hotch that happened when you gave the offer. A shift that was now only just settling in you. This was his house. His space, his stuff, his place of security. He’d invited you into it, gave you permission to enter it, to exist within it, and it was strangely intoxicating. He was intoxicating, and you realized quickly how much you ached for the permanence of it. You’d made Jack dinner, played for a bit, went out for ice cream per his pleading, and wished him a peaceful goodnight when his bedtime rolled around. He’d dubbed you his ‘best babysitter ever’ and you knew as soon as the words hit your ears that you’d be watching him again. You’re sure situations like today popped up frequently for Hotch, you could be a valuable asset to him when you had free time. He would be saving money too. No need to pay a sitter when you were being paid by the Bureau every second you were there. Aaron had gotten home a few minutes past one, utterly exhausted and uncharacteristically apologetic. He was sorry for being gone so long, making you stay so late, everything and anything the man could apologize for was pouring out of his mouth. He’d welcomed you to stay, but his hair was messy from messing with it all night, and he’d ditched the suit jacket for a gray long sleeve. You’d wanted to take the opportunity, wanted to bask in the safety of him for as long as he’d allow it, but those restrained thoughts were clawing the walls of your skull with a vigor unlike anything you’d felt before. It would be abhorrent to dream about the man while in the confines of his home. You couldn’t do that - you wouldn’t. You brushed off any apology he could conjure and let him escort you out the door. His hand was on your lower back, and his voice was low from the siphoning nature of the day. 

“Thank you, again.” He looked at you. “You’re a lifesaver.” You’d expected to hear some humor in his voice. The start of banter between friends, a casual appreciation for a job well done, but there wasn’t any. He sounded rough, slightly beat down, his eyes filled with a sincerity all aimed at you. A blend of pure adoration and a deeper level of dedication. Was this a commitment? What kind?

Heat bubbled in your stomach as you made eye contact. “Please.” You shook your head slightly. “Jack’s an angel. You’re clearly as good at this as you are profiling.” You nodded in the vague direction of Jack’s bedroom as you referenced the kid. “It was my pleasure. I’d love to do it again, if you’ll let me.” 

He sighed out a small laugh and broke your gaze for a moment, looking back to you as he spoke. “I’d like that.”

–

You’d seen Jack a multitude of times after that. Aaron was never particularly fond of asking you, claiming that he appreciated the gesture but it was mainly Jack’s begging that made him cave. That, and your persistence. You liked Jack a lot, and more selfishly, you liked being around Aaron’s stuff. It was a little creepy, yes, but you felt better acquainted with him after being around his things. An energetic type of understanding, the type that deepened a connection without words. He was needed late tonight, and as much as you hated denying an offer to see Jack, you had priorities at the hospital. The previous sitter wasn’t able to watch him, so she gave a personal recommendation, and Jack got stuck with a stranger. You thought about him while working, probing and patching people half-focused with the desire to be elsewhere. You’d felt mildly guilty about it, but it’s not like it altered your work, so you figured it was harmless. 

You wondered slightly if you manifested the event you were watching play out. You watched in pure disbelief as a sobbing Jack was being carried into the ER by a flustered blonde woman. There was blood staining the right sleeve of his shirt, pouring out of his skin in a surplus and completely soaking through the material. A jagged piece of glass was standing at attention in his wrist, having sliced through the fabric like butter. He was marked ‘urgent,’ who knows if the shard had hit an artery or where the glass had come from. 

Most other doctors were busy, either operating or tending to patients. You’d walked to the front desk, remaining as calm as your racing heart would let you, and told the secretary to assign the case to you. “I know this one. Let me take him.” She just nodded, marking your name down as the primary doctor and allowing you to take him back. 

Walking up to the blonde woman, you assumed this had been the new babysitter. She was a wreck, trying to explain what happened through her own hysteria while simultaneously having her words drowned out by the crying child. “It’s ok, ma’am.” You’d reassured her, obviously she hadn’t intended the injury. “Let me take him, I’m a friend of his father.” You saw the calmness dilate her eyes, making itself apparent in the relaxation of her tense shoulders. You removed the bleeding boy from her arms, holding him against you and cooing at him the way you would a baby. You took him to a stretcher a few feet away and laid him down, ensuring his wounded arm stayed flat in an attempt to slow the blood. He was on the brink of passing out, his body not having nearly enough energy for the sobbing on top of losing vital fluid. “Jack.” You addressed him directly, two more doctors aiding your transfer to an examination room. “I need you to stay with me, buddy. Just a little longer, I promise. You’re gonna be just fine.” You pushed with one hand, caressing his non-injured arm to emphasize your affection. “Just a little longer.” You looked at him in between looking forward to keep the stretcher straight, seeing that same adoration from his father’s eyes mirrored in his. You felt protective, realizing you cared for the Hotchners much more than you let yourself believe. Little kid with bruises, you skimmed through your origins in your mind in an attempt to center your focus. Just a little kid with bruises.

Two hours later, Jack was stitched up and sleeping soundly. You knew his sitter had called Hotch, probably as soon as something happened, and were not surprised to find him idle in a waiting room chair. He was leaned forward, head in his hands and knee bouncing violently. He heard footsteps getting closer, a feeling within him recognizing them as yours, and he looked up. His eyes were teary, tired. The look of a concerned father.

“How is he?” You’d never witnessed this type of worry in him, heard the amount of desperation in his voice.

You smiled lightly as a predecessor to Jack’s wellbeing. “He’s fine. Glass missed his arteries. We had him patched up in around an hour and a half. Gave him a lollipop and a light sedative to get him to rest. He should be all set to go in the morning.” 

He sighed, and the amount of stress that audibly left his body made you feel a little lighter from where you stood. “Thank God.”

“Hey man, give us a little credit.” You joked, relieved when you heard the slight laugh come from his downturned head. Pity laugh, probably, but it was a cherished sound nonetheless. 

“You have full credit, Y/n.” He shook his head, raising it to look at you. “Quite the hero.”

You almost physically recoiled from the term, rushing to correct him while maintaining the lighthearted nature. “Definitely not.” You rejected the praise. “Just doing my job. I’m glad I could help him.”

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing for a second before he planned to stand up. “Noble.” He chuckled. “But you helped my son. That’s about as heroic as it gets to me, doc.”

Blood rushed to your ears at your professional title being used so affectionately. “Go check on your kid, Hotch.” You waved back towards the direction of Jack, knowing that even though he was asleep, he’d want to see him anyway. You also hoped the slight distraction would draw his attention away from your increasingly flustered state. “You’ll have plenty of time to praise me.” You weren’t entirely sure you’d wanted the sentence to exit your mouth, but it was too late to bite your tongue.

He raised his eyebrows so slightly that you scolded yourself for having noticed. Such a minuscule action that seemed to move mountains within your brain. “Oh?”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes at your own remark. “I’m walking away. You know what I meant.”

“Mhm.” He smiled, nodding his head dramatically and rising from his seat. “Just name a time and place, doc. I’ll do good on that promise.”

You went momentarily braindead, hoping your eyes weren’t giving away the less than work appropriate feeling pumping through your veins. You stared baffled at him for what was definitely a millisecond too long before giving a half-shocked, half-flattered laugh and gesturing him away. “Say that when you’re not obviously sleep deprived and delirious and maybe we can arrange it.” The last thing you heard was him, laughing the way you do when you’re very serious but desperately trying to pass it off as a joke. You knew it well, having done it almost every time you were around him since you started. Comfortable, witty retorts between  friends. “Have a good night, Aaron.” 

Aaron, he thought. He’d remember that.

– 

That had been the second shift between the two of you. Felt immediately by both parties and tossing you both into the deep end of whatever you’d been building with him. He’d been much more touchy, seemingly subconscious on his part but noticed by every part of your body, mind, and soul. You thought about what it could mean, then sunk even further into your incoherent mind when realizing just how subconscious the actions really were. He was just drawn to you. You had viscerally fought that conclusion as it came to you but it genuinely could not be anything else. He was touching you more because - whether on the surface or deeper down - he just wanted to, and that fact was wrecking you. You were so fucking into him that it hurt. Hurt to look at him or be in his home watching Jack or have his knee pressed against yours in the back of car during a team outing. It all hurt because he wasn’t yours. He seemed into you, too. Of course, you didn’t know to what extent. You worried maybe he hadn’t said anything yet because he simply didn’t like you enough, and that hurt more than any other factor. It was a foolish notion - one you would have abandoned instantly had you peeked inside his head - but alas, no such luck.

He’d been more relaxed, too. The two of you reaching a point in your relationship you hadn’t ever let yourself dream about. He was funny, achieving that lightness around you that you’d wanted from the start. He’d gotten riskier, amping up the dial on his remarks a bit. Starting with those like the hospital, ending with ones that made you have to take a breather in the room where they kept the coffee. It hadn’t gone unnoticed, per say, but the others were certainly ignorant to the true depth of the change. You simply couldn’t measure it by witnessing, you had to feel it. And fuck were you feeling it. 

A week or so after Jack’s ER visit, you’d asked after him. You didn’t know if the regret was immediate, but it flooded through you quickly. Aaron got nervous, shifty, like you’d touched a live wire of his and he now had to patch it up before it blew. You got concerned, asking if something happened with his stitches or if Jack was now showing some sort of trauma response to the event. Was that even plausible? You weren’t sure, PTSD wasn’t exactly your strong suit. However, he quickly stated that wasn’t the case, noting that Jack was actually in perfect health and had been relentless about wanting you over for dinner.

“He’s grateful.” Hotch was smiling with paternal reluctance, proud of his son for having such good morals but also uncomfortable with the possibility of rejection he was facing. “He wants to see you, say thank you for “saving his life.” He emphasized the last bit in a sarcastic tone, both of you knowing his life hadn’t been in danger but also knowing that fact wouldn’t deter the boy from considering you some type of guardian angel. “Would you be up for it?” If you hadn’t been so focused on snuffing out the heat rushing to your face, you would have seen that same heat reflected in a slight pink across his cheeks. 

“Definitely.” You smiled at the thought of the boy bugging his dad about getting you to the house. “When were you thinking?”

“Saturday night?” Both of you were scheduled to be off that day, and you found yourself begging whatever merciful being would listen to not have some lead to chase that day. “He’ll want the day to prepare.” He chuckled.

“Oh no.” You joked. Prepare? You couldn’t even begin to imagine what that meant. “Well, I am extremely curious to find out what an eight year old boy has to prepare for. How about seven? Would that be good?”

Aaron felt his palms start to sweat. He’d never actually been around his house when you’d been there, only seeing you on your way out. “That’s perfect.”

“Great.” You smiled, checking the time and realizing you needed to get going to the hospital. “I’m looking forward to it.” You nodded slightly as one last confirmation and headed out, suppressing a giddy smile while trying to force yourself into a headspace you could work in. 

In the meantime, Aaron watched you walk off from where he’d been perched on your desk, entirely oblivious to the man watching the scene.

“As I live and breathe.” Rossi had crept up on him, not spooking him but rather suspending him in a state of immeasurable embarrassment. “Aaron Hotcher has a crush.” The man held his shoulder, patting him there like a father witnessing his son get his first girlfriend. “She’s a good one. Quite the eye you got, Aaron.” Then he was gone, walking away with Aaron’s dignity clasped in his hands. Closing his eyes in pure mortification, Hotch simply thanked God that nobody else was around for that and walked away with the intention of fusing to his office chair to avoid ever looking at Rossi again. At least you’d said yes, he thought. He didn’t know how he’d cope with his friend watching him swing and miss.

–

The daylight seemed to be anticipating this more than you were, hours passing by like minutes until eventually the sun woke you up on Saturday morning. It was blazing through the cracks in your blinds, settling in slim lines across your floor, as light and gentle as snow. You’d been rehearsing your poker face in preparation for tonight. Writing safety manuals for any ungodly situation that could happen, everything from a fire to Aaron gaining the ability to read your mind and unearthing what you really thought about him. You were so happy that Jack held you in such high esteem, but your hands were shaking at the thought of sitting down with him and his father and acting like it wasn’t the dynamic you fucking dreamt about. You knew it was a good sign of compatibility if someone’s cat liked you - did their child liking you mean the same thing? You hoped Jack’s seemingly innate approval of you gave you at least a couple brownie points. Aaron had called you a hero. Swiftly ignoring the memory of what he’d said after he called you a hero, you pulled out your phone. You and him didn’t really speak outside of work and babysitting schedules, but you were pacing around your room and needed something to give you a semblance of structure, a reassurance - even if it was just for the time. You texted, asking if you were still on for tonight, then went to go make breakfast and inevitably pace some more. He’d gotten back to you about twenty minutes later, confirming the time and giving details of how excited Jack was about it. You smiled at that, praying tonight would be as smooth as humanly possible and you could walk away with an ounce of emotional control. You set an intention, this wouldn’t deepen your feelings for Aaron. Was it a pointless goal? Yes. Was it also highly unlikely to prove true? Yes. But the loose plan you worked around the resolution almost completely extinguished the anxiety that had been blazing for hours now. It would be fine, you thought. Completely and utterly fine. 

The same words were looping through your thoughts when you got to his front door. Casual - but still minorly more dressed up than he’d seen you. You’d put a little extra effort into your appearance, mainly to pass the time if you were honest, and you walked in with mild confidence fueling your steps. You did your best not to ogle him, he was in an attire that was already threatening to unravel the safety net of the goal you set. You were used to the suits hidden beneath blazers you cursed the existence of, maybe a snippet of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves late at night. Now, though, he sported a simple black tee, more comfortable than you’d ever seen him. Domesticity was practically oozing from the entire situation. You felt the pieces slip into place as Jack ran up behind him, and you almost cried with how badly you wanted this feeling to be your normal. 

“Hey, buddy.” You laughed as he hugged you, reciprocating the act as well as you could from the multiple feet you had on his height. “How’s the arm?”

He raised up his wrist, now gauze free and proudly showed off the scar there. You played up the genuine admiration you felt for him. “That’s a pretty gnarly scar.” He nodded in response, probably feeling cool for the evidence he handled such an injury. “I don’t want to see you back in my operating room, you hear me? Scared the life out of us.” The scolding was playful, and he giggled at your words.

Aaron huffed in agreement, cocking his head to the side slightly. “You can say that again.” Jack looked between you two, smiling and seemingly thinking something neither of you could decipher. To break the moment of silence, Aaron patted his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell her what’s on the menu, buddy?”

He told you, and you hummed along to his words, commenting that it sounded delicious and actually meaning it. He ran away a second later - presumably back to whatever he’d been doing before you got there - and left you and Aaron alone. Venturing into the kitchen, you saw multiple pans and pots sitting neatly on the stove, table set and ready to be utilized. Everything was being kept warm, and you finally gained an appetite after having wrestled with nerves all day. 

“Do you want a drink?” He asked it while entering the kitchen, pausing to look at you. 

“Please.” You were desperate to calm yourself, eager to subdue the shaking of your hands. “Do you have any wine?” You weren’t the biggest fan, but you couldn’t think of a drink more fitting for the evening.

He nodded slightly. “Red or white?”

“White.”

He chuckled. “Thought so.” It was quiet, more to himself than you as he was already walking away from you when he said it. He’d thought about what kind of wine you liked, you thought. He’d thought about you. He pulled two wine glasses down from the cupboard, then walked over to the fridge. He reached above it, barely having to stretch, and pulled an uncorked bottle from the storage up there. You felt your legs tense looking at how tall he was, how sure he was of his actions. Jesus. It’s been five minutes and you were crumbling. You watched his hands as he uncorked the bottle, reading the label and realizing the brand.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Seems a little fancy for a dinner.”

He laughed under his breath as he finished pouring the glasses, walking back over to sit next to you on the island stools. “You’re a guest of honor.” He placed yours in front of you. “I thought it was fitting.” 

You searched, but couldn’t find the humor in his tone. You raised your eyebrows slightly. “Am I?” It was sarcastic, you needed to stop the heat in your stomach from spreading. “I didn’t know doing your job earned such a title.”

He was drinking as you spoke, finishing his sip before joking back. “You’re a doctor.” He said. “I thought you knew that better than anyone.”

You sucked air through your teeth as if wounded by his words. “Touche.” You took a sip of your drink, relishing the taste. Damn, he didn’t come to play. He laughed, and you set your glass back down. “Ok, I have to know.” He drew his attention to you. “What the hell did Jack need the day to prepare for?” The question had been on your mind since he asked you.

He took a drink, chuckling with a mouthful then swallowing so he could reply. “He actually helped cook most of this.” He nodded towards the stove full of different dishes. “That was what he needed the day for. Time for trial and error.”

You grinned at the thought of Jack and Aaron spending the day in aprons, making sure everything turned out perfect. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He looked back towards Jack, coloring in the living room, close enough to see but far enough to miss your discussions. “He gets nervous around you.”

That surprised you. “Why on Earth would he be nervous around me?” You took your turn looking at the boy, an idea hitting you and making you feel sick. “Wait, I didn’t do something did I?”

He looked back at you, smiling. “No, no. Nothing like that. He gets nervous because he likes you. He knows who you are to me, too, so he wants to make a good impression.”

Your mind latched onto that sentence and played it like a broken record, bouncing between your ears over and over. “Oh?” Your lips were curling up at the corners, eyebrows furrowing as you got ready to hold him to that statement. “And who might I be to you, Aaron?”

Fuck. He’d let that slip past his lips without even thinking about it. So used to being in the confidential company of his son. Good thing he used to be a lawyer and could lie his ass off. “Most of his sitters aren’t also my coworkers.” He delivered it the smoothest way he could, smiling and drinking to hopefully exude a false comfortability that he certainly wasn’t feeling.

“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to look sarcastic but in truth downplaying the sting you felt. What if this had been one-sided all along? You hadn’t prepped a safety guide for that.

Luckily, Jack came sprinting into the kitchen a second later, pleading with his father to eat now. Clinging to his leg and declaring how hunger was killing him by the second, dramatically threatening to wither away before your very eyes. You both shared a look, agreeing silently to put the kid out of his misery. The instinctual nature of the act hit you like a bolt of lightning. Both of you so in tune it was comical. The dinner had been lovely, and you reminded yourself to encourage Jack to keep up his cooking hobby. Maybe you could foster a professional chef. You’d talked with them both, light and the happiest you’d felt in a while. There it was, you realized. That weightless feeling you wanted to give him. You felt it in yourself too, and you could only pray it was because he felt it first. When dinner concluded, you’d help clean up while Jack resumed his coloring. His bedtime was soon, and you didn’t want him to spend his last hour washing pans. He was nearly delirious by the time 9:00 graced the clock, tired from the preparation of the day and needing to get to sleep. He’d given you a hug goodnight, thanked you for coming like the gentleman he was, and that was the last you saw of him. The rest of your time there was spent on the couch with Aaron, you both held a second glass of wine, and you noticed it manifest in the blush on his face. He was gorgeous, and you were staring. You know your eyes went to his lips a couple times as he spoke, low and rougher as the time ushered more light out of the sky. You saw his eyes slip down a few times too, this sort of unspoken, agonizing rule of look don’t touch. He’d walked you to the door, thanked you for your attendance, and then you were leaving. Sitting in your car, warm on the inside from both his presence and the anger you felt at yourself for not just kissing him. You were so incredibly needy for this - for him, and that fact just sat with you, like a raincloud constantly in a state of downpour, never letting you forget the pure fucking craving you had for him.

–

You think the start of your blackout was Morgan’s panicked voice over the speaker. You’d been stationed in your typical hut, equipped with medical gear and waiting on someone to need you. It was almost never your team in need of service, typically you were tending to an injured hostage or sometimes the unsub themselves, but never your friends. Your breath had been baited since you’d heard the gun go off. You knew the case was dealing with an aggressive attacker, you’d been expecting a fight, but nothing is ever more excruciating than waiting to hear who the shot was meant for. Derek crying out your name followed by a “get in here. Hotch is down, we need you in here.” had you ready to run the soles of your shoes down to dust just to make it in time. In time. God, in time for what? You’d ran past Emily and Rossi hauling out the unsub, anger evident in their treatment of him. How bad was it? How bad had he got him to have them acting like that?

The scene was bloody. Your brain switching off and forcing you into autopilot as you registered the pool of Hotch’s blood that Morgan was kneeling in. He was putting pressure on the wound, an attempt to stop the bleeding but it was flowing like a river. He wouldn’t make it to the hospital like this, you realized. He wouldn’t make it to the fucking hospital. You were holding his life in between your hands right now, the slightest tremor could sever that chord and you were feeling the pressure hard. Aaron was leaned against the wall, slumping down slightly which was only making the bleeding increase under the internal pressure. 

You looked at Morgan, putting on the bravest face you could muster and effectively seizing control of the situation. “Morgan.” You got his attention quickly. “On three I need you to lift him away from the wall. I need to check for an exit wound.” He just nodded, doing exactly as you’d told him when you reached three. You checked the area, finding an exit wound in nearly the same spot. It’d been a straight line. You sighed in relief. Thank fucking God. “Ok, Morgan, I need you to put pressure on the wound on his back. I’m going to stitch the front to give us the time we need for the hospital drive but I need you to hold it. You got me?” 

He nodded once. “I got it.” He moved his hand from the front to the back, Aaron wincing at the switch.

You took out the numbing cream from your pack, knowing it wouldn’t do much for a gushing bullet wound but hoping it would at least quell the sting of a needle. You took out the needle, threading it with hands frighteningly stagnant as the adrenaline gave you tunnel vision. You had to save him. “Aaron.” You looked at him as you prepped his skin for the procedure. “I’m gonna need to double stitch this, and it’s gonna hurt like hell. I need you to stay with me.” 

The man just nodded, exhaling in exhaustion. “Do it.”

You worked as quickly as possible, gaining hope as you listened to the ambulance approach. “There you go.” You said under your breath, at this point you couldn’t tell if you were reassuring him or yourself.  You looked to Morgan, who was still sealing the other injury. “Help me get him up. Keep your hand on there. These stitches are gonna give us twenty minutes tops. Hold his shoulders straight and walk quickly.” You counted again, both of you rising when you hit three, taking the man with you. The walk to the ambulance was the longest of your life. Aaron was clinging to his consciousness but you knew he was losing grip. Finally getting him to the stretcher and slamming the doors was a relief like nothing else. There was no time to debate anyone else going, you rushed him in and sat right down beside him, taking off almost immediately after. The bleeding had slowed, and your hand took the place of Morgan’s on his back. Since he was laying down, his full weight was on it, and you felt the circulation lessen more and more as it remained there. You couldn’t care less, you’d let the blood drain from your entire arm if it meant Aaron’s survival. He hadn’t passed out, which you thought was miraculous, simply walked the line of decently delirious. Groaning under his breath at every slight bump in the road. 

“Why am I always having to save you Hotchner men?” You knew now wasn’t the time to be humorous, but you would have done anything to deviate from the tears in your eyes, the ball in your throat. You finally understood why it was frowned upon to date coworkers - it should be illegal to care this much. 

“I don’t know, honey.” The pet name was the kicker, allowing a tear to break the dam and roll down your cheek as he chuckled. “You seem to be pretty damn good at it, though.” You laughed too, fighting the devastation you felt at the sight of him with the fact that he was clearly well enough to still be joking. “I should have kissed you when you came for dinner.”

Fuck. “Aaron, now is not the time.” You chuckled slightly as more tears fell. This is absurd.

“I know but-” He flinched as the ambulance hit another bump. Almost there. “I might as well say it now.” You wondered if there was genuinely something wrong with him. “You’ve been all I can think about since the moment-'' He paused to breathe slightly in exertion, you giving a disapproving look as his confession took it’s toll. “since the moment you started, you know that?”

“You are dying! Please, for the love of God, Aaron. Use this energy to prevent that from happening.” Your scolding was dramatic, but your actual concern shone brightly through your ruse of sarcasm. 

“Exactly.” He was being equally as sarcastic. How on Earth did he manage this with a rapidly declining life force. “Give a dying man a chance. How unfortunate would it be if the last thing I hear before I go out is the woman of my dreams rejecting me?”

“Jesus Christ.” You shook your head in pure amazement. This was by far the most goal oriented man you’d ever met. “I’ll let you take me out if you shut the hell up and save your energy.” He smiled, letting his head hit the reclined back of the stretcher. “After you get better.” You added, reminding him that his recovery took priority. “Deal?”

“Deal.” This was probably the most insufferable man you’d ever met. “Such a good motivator.”