This Could Be From ANYONE

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

The first time feels like a fluke.

A rare silver lining of good stroked through the grey devastation that was today; after hours of wading through blood and gore, you at last strike gold.

“You heading off too, kid?” Despite the questioning tone in Jack’s voice, you know it’s an order.

He’s staring down at the park bench, eyes hovering over you and how tightly you’re still clutching that fourth can of beer, zoned out and completely oblivious to how everyone else has already packed up for the night and headed home. Not to sleep, no. It’s doubtful any of you will get much sleep, not after the events of today.

Robby had slipped away first, not without sharing a few final words of wisdom aimed at soothing everybody’s aching soul. Javadi followed soon after, abandoning a half-drunken beer as she went racing off to answer her mother’s beck and call. Mateo, Princess and Samira called it quits together, each heading off in different directions. Even Donnie left eventually, the now empty cooler in tow, his wife waiting patiently for him to crawl back to their newlyweds home and into her arms.

Then there were two.

Abbot and you.

Neither of you dared to interrupt the silence that had rolled in, minds too busy swimming in pools of thought, struggling against violent currents and attempting to escape the deep end.

Moonlight crept through the crevices between the branches above, cicadas came together to sing in disjointed harmony, and the world around you both kept moving, completely oblivious to how your own life had come to a halt. Somewhere between waking up to the screech of your pager and rushing through the doors of the PTMC to find it in a state of chaos, different and bloodier than you’d known it to usually be, you had shutdown.

Jack knew better than to force you out of that state.

He saw himself in your blank stares and the bouncing knees, remembered how it felt to be young, bright-eyed, and finally forced to reckon with how brutal this field could be. He didn’t need to ask to know: this had been your first mass casualty event.

Maybe that’s why he sat with you, the passing of time irrelevant, and let you fester in your shock. Let whatever cracks were forming in your heart deepen, because he knew it was the only way they’d be able to solidify. Let you exist on the periphery of life for however long you needed, his own senses fully intact and ready to watch over your body while your mind drifted elsewhere.

Only when he noticed you stifling a yawn did he act.

Jack, conscious of not startling you, moved slowly. Calmly.

He started with his prosthetic, lifting it off the bench and placing it back down onto the ground before safely attaching it. Then his bag, hands rummaging unnecessarily as though to check everything was in place — he’d already checked before leaving the locker room, but he figured another revision and a few more minutes for you to sit with your thoughts couldn’t hurt. Slinging one strap over his right shoulder, he pushed his frame off the wooden bench and came to a stand, the sickly-sweet gravel of his voice perforating the silence at last.

“Hmm?” Your reply is practically nonverbal, a simple hum. Enough to acknowledge the fact he’s spoken, yet not enough to answer his question.

Hazel eyes zero in on your own, observing how they’re tired, blinking just a little bit too lazily. The beer has warmed your cheeks, sped up your heart, and slowed your mind. Dancing on a tightrope between tipsy and inebriated, the last thing Jack is about to do is send you off home alone.

“C’mon,” he gruffs out, prying the can from your hand and laying it to rest on the bench. He replaces the weight of it in your palm with his touch, thick fingers effortlessly engulfing your own. To his delight, you give way easily, rising to a stand as he tugs you up. “Let’s get you home.”

You attempt some version of, “I’m fine.”

Jack pays it no mind.

Instead, he grabs at your familiar pink duffel bag. Something settles in his chest, dark and sickening, at the sight of dirt staining the bottom of the fabric, ruining your usually polished belongings. How apt it seems, a perfect mirror to how today has the left a smudge on you.

You stare at him all of a few seconds, eyes red. There’s no tears in sight, just the remnants of those that have already fallen. Then, when the older man shifts his weight off his right leg, you finally begin walking.

The journey is slow.

Jack’s unsure if you set the pace to accommodate to him or to put off the inevitable of going up to a lonely apartment, where all that work you’ve done to suppress the storm of emotions building inside you will prove useless the moment you step into the quiet of your home, the furthest place from danger and, yet, where all your troubling thoughts will at last catch up to you.

He thinks he’s better off not knowing, chooses to believe you’re doing it for his sake.

Some of your steps are swayed. The sight of your unsteady feet and teetering body are enough to keep his mind alert, fighting off the exhaustion that threatens to find him soon. This was supposed to be his day off, after all. He was supposed to be catching up on sleep right now, not watching over one of his nurses and worrying himself sick with thoughts of how today’s horrors will linger with you for years to come.

It was supposed to be your day off too, after all.

Neither of you should have been at the Pitt.

One man and a weapon had changed that.

You come to a stop abruptly, catching the doctor off guard and sending his solid frame crashing into your back. Before either of you can stumble too far, Jack’s snaking his free arm around your waist and stabilising you against him.

Maybe it’s the warmth of his palm, large and imposing and seeping through the cotton of your top. Maybe it’s the gentleness behind his touch, the way it anchors your feet to the pavement and silently promises that it- he won’t let you fall. Maybe it’s the weight of today finally shaking your unbreakable self, your arms too weak to keep holding you above water for much longer.

The reason doesn’t ultimately matter.

What matters is you’re finally speaking.

“Did you litter?”

Not exactly what Jack expected you to say.

It startles him for a moment, has him forgetting how today was full of horrors and has him wondering, instead, if you recycle.

It shouldn’t be so easy to picture you, bed head and a wrinkled shirt (preferably one that originally belongs to him), huffing and puffing your cheeks while you shoot around his kitchen, bags scattered along the island as you berate him.

Jack, how many times have I told you. Yellow is for plastic and cans, blue is for paper, green is for glass!

And wouldn’t it be so hard for him to fight back a smile, heart bursting with joy? A lovesick fool, happy to be lectured on the complex recycling system if it means having you, half naked, half awake, frowning at him as soon as you notice the shake in his shoulders.

Sorry, sweetheart. Promise it won’t happen again… And his hands finding your waist, pinning you to the marble counter-top so there’s nowhere for you to run from his mouth, trailing molten kisses up the expanse of your neck, lips lingering just to feel the steady thrum of your carotid pulse, physical evidence that you’re real, and here, and in his arms-

The blaring of a horn pulls Jack Abbot back onto the sidewalk.

You’re still in his arms but his lips are far from your neck and the speed of your heart is testament only to the anxiety speeding through your veins.

“Yeah. Maybe. I- I’m not really sure,” try as he might, he can’t remember if he ever moved your can from the bench. Is it still there now, half empty and waiting for its owner to return? “I’m sure someone’ll throw it away.”

Like you can’t dwell on the thought for too long, you move on, and finally say what’s really been troubling you.

“I don’t know if I-” the words catch on your throat, dry from the beer and raw with emotion. “How do I go back?”

Vague, unspecified.

Jack, with years of becoming fluent in you, understands.

“You find a way.” He wishes he could give you something more helpful, more reassuring. All he can offer you is the truth. “It’ll be hard. Different to how it was before.”

“I don’t think I can-” once more, emotions cut you off.

You’re not crying, not yet.

Stubborn as he knows you to be, steadfast in your need to remain strong until the very end. It wounds him in a way that feels a little too deep for a man who should see you as nothing more than a coworker.

Attending physician. Nurse. Colleagues.

Those are the only three words that either of you should use to describe the other. Jack knows, has known so for years. So, why does he keep having to remind himself?

“I don’t think I belong there, Doctor Abbot. You saw it, I froze. I hesitated. You had to ask me twice for the scalpel, and then- We lost him. If I had just- I should have-”

The hand at your midriff finds your shoulder, turns you around, and then his eyes find yours.

“Stop that, now. That man, he was good as gone when he reached us,” it’s a brutal truth but one that needs to be said. Jack knew it then just as much as he knows it now; that red wristband was destined for peeds. “You could have handed me that scalpel at the speed of light, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing, okay?”

You take a steadying breath.

It doesn’t work.

Instead, Jack watches it shake right through your frame. Your eyes drift from his own, like if he stares too long, he might catch a glimpse of every self-blaming thought racing through your mind.

“D’you even realise how many lives you helped save today?” The question comes tumbling out before Jack can stop it, some enate part of himself screaming at him to reassure you, to scramble up all the fractured pieces of you and slot them back together. That’s an attending’s job, right? To keep watch over the crew, to take care of the crew. So what if you’re off-the-clock? “One-hundred and six.”

“I only worked on-”

“Doesn’t matter who you personally worked on. Every one, you hear me?” He gives a squeeze of your shoulder, tells himself it’s because he wants to get you to look at him. If the touch happens to ground him too, it’s a coincidence. “Every life we saved tonight, you had a hand in that. You being there mattered, we couldn’t have done it without you.”

The words settle over you like a blanket, wrapping you in warmth and promising you shelter.

They don’t erase the sadness, don’t make it dissolve into a puddle on the ground, left to be forgotten on the dirty surface of the sidewalk. But they do enough to ease the tension between Jack’s brows and to wipe a layer of uncertainty from your eyes.

Then, unable to help himself, Jack adds, “I know I certainly couldn’t. Can barely intubate without my favourite nurse at my side.”

You laugh, slightly.

It eases something in Jack’s chest, nonetheless.

“Doctor Robby says it’s not right for attendings to play favourites.”

Now Jack is the one laughing.

You take the chance to pry your bag from his grasp, throwing the strap over your shoulder. The first act of Goodnight.

“Yeah, well, come to me again when Robby starts taking his own advice.”

There is no grand goodbye between you.

Just an exchange of fractured smiles, a subtle nod of approval from Jack as you take the first step towards the building’s entrance, and the wave of your hand before you turn fully and dash to safety.

Before you can slip through the crack you make in the building’s heavy door, Jack calls out, “I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.”

Once again, not a question. An order.

The second time is all about convenience.

It’s the last night of your monthly seven-days-on, the kind of shift where the hours stretch themselves impossibly thin and it feels like you’re crawling towards the end, a goalpost that keeps moving an inch out of reach each time you start to feel relief. By the time you officially clock out, shooting off towards the locker rooms before Whitaker can ask you to accompany another patient for a CT or Princess can enquire on any night shift gossip, you’ve worked an extra two hours and the bags beneath your eyes feel so heavy, they may as well be dragging by your feet.

Out of your scrubs, back into clothes that only partially carry the sterile stench of bleach and blood, you busy yourself with cramming things into your bag while trying your best to let Mateo’s generosity down softly.

“It’s fine, really,” even you have to admit that you don’t sound as sure as you mean to be. For a moment, you mull it over, imagine the comfort of letting yourself sit back and relax in the passenger seat of Mateo’s car. The sooner you’re home, the sooner your week off can start, right? Still, something within forces you to decline. He lives on the opposite side of the city and, with gas prices rising and his body’s tank running on empty hours before his next shift, the last thing you want to be is a nuisance. “I don’t mind the walk, gives me the chance to decompress.”

Your fellow nurse looks at you with a level of distrust, doubting the reassuring smile you cast his way.

“Are you sure?” Mateo pushes, dragging his tired body along the lockers until he stands behind yours. His curls, freed at last from the constraints of a hair-tie, peek out from the door. “I really don’t mind taking you. I mean, no offence, but you look like you belong on the set of Night of The Living Dead right now. Don’t wanna send you off just to later find out you tripped over air and wound up back here as a patient.”

Slamming your locker shut and giving his shoulder a shove — with no force behind it and doing little to move the man — you roll your eyes, “I’m fine, dingus.”

“Dingus? What are we, five?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one treating me like a toddler.”

“Like a toddler-?! I’m trying to be a good Samaritan. A gentleman!” You dodge Mateo’s hand as it reaches for your duffel bag. “Now quit being stubborn and let me make sure you get home safe-”

Everything happens so suddenly, your brain is forced to compartmentalise every action, step by step, as they unravel.

Mateo reaches for the bag, again.

You dodge it, again.

You glide to the left.

You run shoulder-first into a solid wall of warmth.

And there he is. Jack Abbot, freshly changed out of his scrubs. Hair wet from a shower, an overly woodsy scent clinging to damp skin, black t-shirt stretched a little too tightly over his chest. Despite his attempts to scrub the night away, he’s thrown on the same pair of cargo pants he spent the last fourteen hours rushing around in.

You almost want to chastise his stupidity, until you remember you can’t.

Not only is he your colleague, he’s your senior.

What business do you have telling a man like him to do anything?

“I’ll take her home.”

Never a question, always an order.

Unlike weeks ago, world turned upside down and veins full of sickly beer, you have half the mind to turn him down this time. To inch away from where your body collides with his. To reinforce your grip on the pink strap of your bag. To shake your head and offer a polite, though bashful, smile.

“Doctor Abbot, it’s fine, really! You don’t have to offer me a ride, I really do prefer walking-”

“I’m not offering you a ride,” Jack shuts you up with a pointed look, eyebrows jumping as though he’s daring you to shoot him down again. “Car’s in the garage, something’s up with the exhaust. I’m walking your way anyway, may as well let me keep you company.”

The truth is, you’re not sure why you are so hesitant to accept his offer.

Jack is a good guy, and he’s certainly not a stranger.

You’ve known him since you first stepped foot in the emergency room. Younger and brighter, the both of you. Back then, he was still new. Back then, you were still a student. Time passed, as it tends to do; Jack became a trusted figure of authority, you graduated right into the night shift. Brief exchanges of good morning, good night, and how are you? during the shift handovers blossomed into good job, good call, and I need you with me.

Lena likes to tease you, throwing looks over the top of her glasses every time he saunters up to the nurses’ station, raps his knuckles upon the desk and tilts his head towards whatever room he needs you in.

He likes me because I talk to the patients, is typically your explanation while Lena looks at you otherwise. Keeps them busy while he works.

He likes you because you’re a pretty young thing, Lena never fails to retort between answering the every whim of the staff, like the charge nurse she is. Gives those hazel eyes something to ogle.

“C’mon, are you really gonna run away from a disabled vet?” Jack pushes, shooting you that infamous silver-fox smirk. Damn him and those arms, muscles pulled taut as he crosses his hands over his chest, impatiently waiting for you to give in. “What if I stumble and there’s no one there to catch me? That’ll be on you, kid. Think you can handle it on your conscience?”

“Yeah, imagine you come back next week and find out gramps here split his head open on the curb,” Mateo chimes in from the sidelines, only for the amused expression to melt the moment you pin a glare on him. “What? The man made a good point!”

“Yeah, kid,” you barely have the chance to register how swiftly Jack tugs the duffel out of your grip, staking claim over your belongings and securing himself as a guardian to guide you home. “I made a good point. Now, are you gonna keep me waiting? ‘Cause I’d really like to see the tail end of this place at some point today.”

So you let him walk you home.

Steps less swayed, back more stiff, you try your best not to think about the last time you both walked this path. You, drowning in sorrows; him, swimming effortlessly with his head above the water.

The sun is rising slowly, rays of golden warmth kissing over the city. It’s not enough to fight away the bitter chill of winter, sending your hands diving into the pockets of a flimsy coat, reaching for a warmth they never quite find. Beside you, Jack is unshaken, barely bothered by the way his breath reflects back at him with each exhale.

“You did good today,” Jack says today in place of last night, the true mark of what the night shift does to a person’s perception of the world. Daybreak becomes dusk, while dusk becomes sunrise. Where others prepare to start their daily ritual of adhering to capitalism, you’re crawling into bed and giving in to the sweet relief of sleep. “Calmed that kid right down.”

You know immediately who he’s referring to.

James. A sweet baby boy, barely a day past 6 months, running a fever of a hundred and three, and sporting a nasty ear infection.

Understandably, he had been screaming up a storm.

Unfortunately, a certain patient nursing a headache was screaming even louder, profanities that pleaded for someone to Shut that fucking baby up!

Jack had offered to shut the patient up.

You had a more peaceful idea.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” god, you feel pathetic.

Praise is far from something foreign to you. Patients, colleagues, and friends alike are always firing off at you, sweet words that affirm the simple gestures and quiet good you bring into their lives. Whether it’s through fluffing a pillow, aiding in procedures, or gifting out your time freely; praise always worms its way into your ears.

But this is different.

Jack is different.

Every good job, every well done, every thanks, kid; it shoots right through you. Lightning that electrifies you, takes you from a state of near asystole to tachicardic in as little as the few seconds it takes his lips to shape the words. Your cheeks warm, your palms sweat. Words run from you, leaving you to grab at the few you can manage and stumble over half-formed sentences.

Worst of all, you think he knows.

He has to, right?

A man like him has lived through enough — lived long enough — to recognise the tell tale signs of the effect he has on people. Hardly anyone is immune or safe from his charms, from college kids that wind up in a gurney after having a little too much fun with a fake ID, to elderly women rushed in by their panicking children, afraid a bad cough or a sore back could be the sign of something far more sinister in the aging body.

“How did you know it would work?” It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to realise Jack is talking again, head turned to watch as you walk alongside him rather than focusing ahead. “Flipping him over?”

Right.

James.

The crying baby.

Your peaceful idea.

That’s what you’re both talking about.

“Old wives tale,” you finally answer, mind drifting back to the memory of your quick thinking. The screaming baby, the screaming patient. Your hands, gentle as they picked James up. The questioning look from everyone in the room as you flipped the infant over, face down and hovering a few inches off the basinet. And then, silence. No more screaming baby. “My mum used to do it to me, flip me over when she couldn’t get me to stop. It just, y’know, shocks the system. It’s like flipping a switch, turning the baby off.”

“Huh,” somewhere above, a bird chirps, singing a song of good morning. “I’ll have to remember that.”

And then, before you can think any better or question the possible implications, you open your big mouth, “Why? Thinking of stepping into fatherhood?”

Jack gives you the worst possible answer he could have come up with: “No such thing as too late, right?”

“Yeah, maybe. If you’re a man,” you huff. “I, on the other hand, am running out of time on my biological clock as we speak.”

“Then you should get to work on changing that. If you ever need any help with it, I’m always here.”

He says it so casually, like each syllable doesn’t inch you closer to an imaginary ledge.

But his words aren’t what move you to silence.

It’s the imagery they conjure.

Positive tests and hospital visits.

The cold touch of gel on your belly, the warmth of a hand clasping your own.

Sweat rolling off your skin, limbs tangling with yours upon a mattress.

You have to physically shake yourself out of the… Fantasy? Nightmare? Mortifying hell-scape where you’re envisioning what it would be like to let a very handsome attending bend you over and get you pregnant?

“Oh my god,” you half whisper, half yell. “Doctor Abbot, did you just seriously offer-”

“Oh, you’re a pervert!” he has the audacity to exclaim as he swings your bag and bumps it against your thigh, the mischief in his eye the only thing that gives him away. This is Jack, after all, a notorious and shameless flirt. His words didn’t mean anything beyond making you flustered. “I was just offering up my kind and professional aid, as a healthcare provider and an avid champion behind women’s health.”

Head shaking and shoulders bouncing; you’re caught under the influence of Abbot’s charm. Completely unaware of the false sense of safety he’s lured you into, taking you by the hand and dragging you out to sea, waiting until your feet no longer reach the bottom, and then he let’s go, leaving the currents to pull you under…

In simpler words, he asks you the very thing you’ve been avoiding: “How's therapy going?”

“Good. Great. Yeah, I definitely feel a lot… Better. Thanks,” the words taste bitter on your tongue, bursting out of you with an urgency.

Maybe, you figure, if you say it fast enough, there will be no space to doubt it, no time to notice the lie.

“That’s amazing,” he nods curtly, only for that easy-going lilt on his lips to twist into something a little more sinister, a little more interrogative. “Cause when I spoke to Caleb, he said you haven’t been showing up. You wanna pretend you found someone else, or are you gonna tell me why you’re not using the help that’s there?”

You knew this conversation was bound to happen, from the moment Jack referred you to the PTMC’s trauma specialist, high-strung and hell-bent on fast-tracking your progress to mental wellness.

Jack hadn't known about the nightmares.

Or the sickening doubt.

Or the fact you remember every face you treated that day.

Even then, he knew you enough to notice the shift in your demeanour in the days following the Pittfest tragedy. He knew you enough to pull you aside and introduce you to Doctor Jefferson.

Deep inhale, slow exhale. Eyes focused on the pavement ahead, you finally answer, “I just… I don't like it.”

Jack scoffs.

“Nobody likes therapy.”

“It makes me feel… weak. Like I'm not cut out for this.”

You make it to your apartment building sooner than you expect, despite knowing the exact time it takes to trek from your door to the entry of the PTMC.

Any smarter woman would use it as an escape plan, as an excuse to duck out of a conversation that has you shifting weight from one foot onto the other and searching for anything to look at other than the whirlpools of brown that the doctor has pinned on you.

It turns out, you’re not as smart as you think you are, because your feet remain planted on the ground and there’s a feeling hollowing out your chest at the thought of parting from his side.

You will yourself to strip your bag from his grasp.

“Look, kid, I can’t force you to go. I don’t want to force you.” It would be easier to focus on what Jack is saying, if he didn’t have to sound so distracting. Soft-spoken, deep voice, on the verge of begging at an altar if it will get you to listen. “But I know what this job does to people, how it rots away at us if we don’t cure our wounds. I’ve lived it. I’ve seen it. I don’t want that for you. So just… Try, would you? If not for you, then for the poor old attending who really needs the help of his favourite nurse and her magic hands that manage to soothe even the weepiest of babies?”

Echoes of Mateo’s voice ring in your ear, his overly enthusiastic exclamation of The man made a good point! on loop.

There’s every chance you’ve been damned by some higher power, afflicted to live this life with a particular weakness to the man before you. It’s the only thing that makes sense, truthfully, when you find yourself conceding without a fight.

“Okay.”

How unfair it is, for eyes like that to light up so easily, “Okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll give it a try.” This time, there’s no bitter aftertaste to your agreement. Just the cold hard truth on your tongue: you’ll take a step down the path towards help, the path Jack put you on. “Can’t make it any worse, I guess.”

“That’s my girl.”

His words hit you like a sucker punch, straight to the gut and leaving you winded.

You stumble, both on your words and on the stairs, as you bid him goodbye and dash into your apartment building.

Safely tucked away at last, a whole week ahead without the threat of mortifying yourself in front of Jack Abbot.

The fourth time is a matter of protocol.

Jack once heard Dana ask Robby, “is it really a shift in the ED if you don’t end it wanting to quit?”

Today more than ever, he feels an itch to see resignation papers.

Not his own.

Yours.

Wrapped up in the active war zone of a multi-vehicle collision, Jack’s hands, eyes and mind were too focused on the woman actively bleeding out on the table to notice you slipping out of the OR, called upon by the charge nurse.

She needed you to check on a patient.

A favour, quick and simple. That’s all it was supposed to be.

There was never supposed to be a grapple for power. Or the clatter of metal meeting the ground. Or the crack of a skull following suit. Or the sickening sound of someone calling code Hula Hoop, when Jack’s hands are too occupied to run towards the source of violence.

It takes him twenty-eight gruelling minutes to make it free from the trauma rooms.

Jack strips himself of the PPE with haste, gloves and gown practically disintegrating under the force of his need to get out of the room and find out what happened, who it happened to.

He knows the answer is you before Mateo even gets the chance to speak.

Lena is on the phone, barking orders down the line. By the few words he manages to catch through his own deafening panic, the police no doubt sit on the receiving end of her call.

There are other patients to attend to, and other matters that are far more pressing — from an outsider’s point of view — that call for Jack’s immediate attention. He brushes them all aside, near blind to any consequence as something commands his feet across the department floor and straight for Exam Room 3, where the tiniest glimpse of you waits behind glass.

Shen is already tending to you, planted firmly by your bedside while the Pitt’s newest resident, Nazely, runs through your vitals. One of your arms is bent backwards, holding a compress to the back of your head. There’s a spatter of blood down the shoulder of your scrubs, splotches of a deep red staining the grey fabric. If Jack looks at it for too long, he’ll throw up, so his eyes shift to your face instead.

When he finds you smiling, a flood of anger finally collapses the immovable dam within him.

Jack frowns before he can even think to stop himself.

“What the hell happened?” Disgust stains each of his words, bleeding all over the room and stiffening the shoulders of those who potter around you, Nazely and the nurses alike.

Only Shen is unmoved by his outburst, turning to meet him with a deadpan stare and a mocking finger pressed to his lips, before he breathes out a gentle shh. “Watch it, old man, my precious patient’s got a nasty headache.”

There’s a likelihood Shen doesn’t get the chance to witness Jack’s eye roll, as the older man slips right through the gap between your gurney and his fellow attending. Without a word of acknowledgement tossed your way, he pries the cold compress from your fingers, commanding you to drop your arm and yield the task of holding it against your head over to him.

This time, Jack speaks a little softer, “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know, Doctor Abbot, there’s this thing called HIPPA-”

“John, I swear to-”

“It was my fault,” your voice cuts through the bickering of the two attendings, snapping the heat of Jack’s gaze off of Shen and onto you. The frown lines along his forehead ease ever so slightly, against his will, as you insist on flashing him an even bigger smile than before. “Lena, she told me- warned me the guy was in an altered state of mind. I shouldn’t have- I know better than to turn my back on a patient in that state. But it’s fine-”

Jack starts up immediately, hackles rising on the back of his neck as he takes the stance of a defensive mutt, ready to fight tooth and nail to protect its owner, “It’s not fine-”

“I’m fine, Dr Abbot,” pathetically placid, the brush of your fingertips as they graze his arm is enough to neutralise his outrage, nostrils no longer flaring with each puffed out breath of frustration. “He grabbed me, we tussled, and then I slipped on my own untied shoe lace.”

“And where is he now? This altered patient,” his grip slips slightly on the compress, apologies flooding his tongue at the slight wince the action wakes in you. Ignoring your pain, you take more notice of the hostility in his stance, quirking an eyebrow up at him in a silent question. “Don’t give me that look. I’m a doctor, I want to make sure he’s getting the standard of care he deserves.”

When you try to shrug off his interrogation, Shen finally proves he can do something other than get on Jack’s nerves this evening and unveils the truth, “He took off, slipped out the ambulance bay when they called the code.”

“Son of a-”

“CT’s back,” Nazely, quiet as a mouse, had managed to slip out the room unnoticed, and now shoulder-barges her way back in, carrying your results and cutting off Jack’s foul mouth. “Other than a nasty bump, you’re in the clear.”

It’s not that Jack doubts the intern’s ability as a doctor.

And it’s certainly not that he doesn’t trust Shen.

It just so happens that, when the young resident goes to hand-off your CT scans to one of the attendings, Ellis comes knocking on the door, demanding the input of her most trusted attending.

Jack’s never been more relieved to come in second.

Hawk eyes scan over black and whites images, and only once he’s confirmed with his own two eyes that you truly are in the clear does Jack feel that tension in his shoulders begin to unwind.

In a room that now only houses two, he lets himself stand as close to you as he needs, shifting his stance to keep watch on the doors on either side of the room — a guard dog that can never deny it's nature to protect, even as it nestles into its owner.

He doesn’t quite nestle into you, careful to obey that fine line of decorum that exists between colleagues, between a junior and a senior, between a girl your age and a man as weathered as him. No matter the itch in his palm that begs to be scratched by skin no other than your own, he resists the urge to touch you.

Until you move.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Puzzled by the sternness in his usually nonchalant voice, you gaze over your shoulder at him, now sat upright and with both legs swung over the other side of the bed, “To finish… my shift?”

And that is how his hand finds your arm, a grasp that is gentle yet firm, allowing him to guide you back into your previous position. In his other hand still sits the ice pack, as he continues pressing it to your head.

“Uh-uh,” the denial is followed by a tsk, as he slips back into Doctor Abbot mode and puffs out his chest, taking on the persona of big, bad, commanding professional who knows exactly what his patient needs. “Your shift ended the moment that head of yours hit the ground. And since that asshole-” a pointed look shoots his way, warning in your eyes. Jack corrects his previous verbiage, “altered patient who did this took off, new protocol says I can’t let you leave hospital grounds on your own. Now unless you know someone kind enough to pick you up at 4 am, I suggest you take the opportunity to get some rest. I’ll come wake you when the morning shift zombies start strolling in.”

He leaves no room for debate.

He leaves the room, drawing the curtains and switching off the light.

If Jack were even a modicum more brazen, he’d shamelessly have locked the doors, ensuring you can’t slip away to return to your duties. In the end, he doesn’t have to worry about catching you back out on the floor, as when he checks on you some time after five fifteen, Jack finds you curled into the bed, the ice pack now fully melted and discarded halfway down the foam mattress.

By the time he wakes you, the clock has long struck seven and Robby is breathing down his neck, urging him to open Exam Room 3 back up to actual patients and not just that nurse you like to ogle.

Something in your demeanour has shifted.

Quiet, slow, weighed-down. You don’t walk; you drag yourself to the lockers. Head turned to the floor, body pulled in on itself, voice soft as you bid people good morning and goodbye.

Jack follows in your footsteps, hovering in the periphery of your every move, from your locker out into the street.

You don’t acknowledge him, barely even look at him, yet you yield easily to the way he takes the weight of your bag off your shoulder, slipping it onto his own. And so he gives you your space, walks a few paces behind as you both inch along the path back home — your home.

A shiver forces him to break the silence.

It creeps down your spine, from top to bottom, and settles into your hands, a subtle shake that not even shoving them into the pockets of your coat can quell.

“Wait a second, would you, kid?”

Jack’s never fought so hard to keep his voice soft. Despite his efforts, you startle at the interrupted silence. When your feet pause on the concrete, it’s unclear if it’s because of his request or your shock.

Instead of dwelling on the thought for too long, Jack focuses on his self-assigned task, shrugging his bag off of one shoulder and manoeuvring it to lay against his chest, allowing him to observe the contents as his hand riffles through it. Digging way down past rolls of bandage, a tube of specialised moisturiser, a few odd pairs of compression socks, and various other miscellaneous wonders, his fingers finally happen upon what they’ve been seeking: hand warmers.

“Here,” he starts up, as he hastily rips a packet open and shakes the bag. “This should get the cold out your bones.”

Jack has always prided himself on his rationality. Controlled and composed, with eyes that have payed witness to more horrors than the heart can cope with, it is a rare — if not impossible — feat to catch him sporting a heart rate higher than seventy three.

Watching you envelop the warmer in both your palms, soothing out the shake brought on by early morning chills and the residue panic from your attack, he’s tachycardic.

Months of awaiting the rise of an opportunity — since that second time he walked you home and watched you attempt to hide your skin from the wind’s bite with the flimsy pockets of your coat — buying those hand warmers has at last payed off.

He’s not quite finished digging through his bag.

Untangling the ball that has become of his wired earphones, Jack awaits permission before slipping one bud into your ear, the other into his own. He plugs them into his phone, swipes along his catalogue of playlists, and hits play on the first one that catches his eye. Medicine in the form of music, doctor’s orders.

And just like that, you’re both on the move again. The silence between you now carries a soundtrack, a mixture of eighties rock and seventies funk marking the beat of each footstep. Jack no longer hovers a few paces behind, welcomed back to your side by the short string of wire dangling between you.

Halfway through The Cure’s Just Like Heaven, Jack catches himself entranced in the shape of your lips as they mouth along to each lyric, and it strikes him, then and there, that maybe a moment like this is what inspires a musician to write, to eulogise an emotion through the eternal art of music.

For a man who long ago stopped talking to any version of a god that may exist, walking along by your side, hands brushing occasionally, bodies drifting closer to each other’s orbit; it’s as close to heaven as Jack may ever get.

Jack doesn’t leave you at the entrance to your building.

He holds the heavy door open for you, follows you in. Learning quickly that you live on the third floor, he bites back a comment about how shaky the elevator is, enduring the ride up. Following as you weave through the hall, right down to the end, he keeps quiet as you pause outside a door.

For a moment, he thinks that you’re going to say goodbye. That you’re going to thank him for walking you home, again, even after he’s told you it’s no bother. That you’re going to fish out your keys and slip through the door, starting the countdown on the clock of when he’ll get to see you again, later tonight for another shift in the pitt.

What Abbot isn’t expecting is for you to turn to him, cheek already streaked by a rogue tear, with another dancing on your eyelashes and promising to follow soon.

You take a moment to find your voice, lips parting and delivering the promise of your voice, “I’ve never felt unsafe at work.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, wanting to let your words simmer.

You have other plans.

“But when he-” the crack in his heart echoes the one in your voice, lips trembling over silent vowels as you fail to speak.

Tears roll down like waves, crashing against your chin and dripping onto the neckline of your sweater. And all Jack can do is clench his fist, hold it close to his side as blunt nails tattoo their print into the flesh of his palm. He cannot risk letting his guard slip, risk acting on an impulse you might not welcome.

“I was scared.” You breathe out, like the words you utter are a grave sin, the weight of guilt at last ripped off your shoulders. “Which is stupid, I know. I was fine, it was just a- I shouldn’t of-”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts, daring to take a step closer, hands still glued to his sides. “You were attacked.”

Like hearing it spoken aloud clicks something into place, gravity kicks in and you finally come crashing down, waves of tears now aided by a storm of overwhelming emotions. Shoulders shaking, breath stilling, eyes landing on every inch of the hallway but the place he stands.

Jack is no stranger to stomach-churning sights.

He’s withstood the horrors of a war zone, watched bullets hit their marks and shrapnel claim countless victims — his leg, to name one. From the brutality of war to the chaos of an emergency department, he’s bit back the acrid burn of bile at the back of his throat; it comes with each life he fails to save. There are nights where he cannot count the dead on both hands, never mind one. He has reckoned with the missing piece of him, where empty space now occupies the flesh that once extended below his right knee. Perched upon a shower bench, or throbbing with a phantom ache, or soothing vaselines and creams into an angry red stump, Jack learned to endure the pain.

But this — you, breaking down before his eyes, barely a step between you both — brings on a pain like no other, something he can't quite describe.

Cracks are forming in his composure, a trait he wears like armour, threatening to spill onto the dirtied floors of the building's hallway. His fingers slip, no longer balled into fists but pressed flat against the top of his thighs, drumming a nervous rhythm into stained cargo. When Jack tries to clear his throat of the ball forming within, he nearly breaks out in a cough, choking on the comfort he longs to speak into existence.

You interrupt his collapse of self-control.

Two steps is all it takes for your forehead to kiss his shoulder. Dampness overcomes the grey fabric of his shirt, your tears staining it a darker shade. Jack freezes at first, hands unwilling to move beneath the growing fear of touching you wrong, scaring you off. Then, slowly, as the weight of you presses deeper into the crook of his neck, his arms find themselves taking full possession of you, fingers splaying up the length of your spine and pulling you tighter against him.

For a moment, the outside world holds no consequence. Jack is not an attending, you are not a nurse. There's no decade of time between the age of your bodies, nor a quiet though respectful history of admiration between you as coworkers. That acceleration of his heart is not a reason to panic but a reason to rejoice, no fear of any wicked woes from years gone by sneaking back up to remind Jack of troubles past.

No, none of that matters in this moment but you, Jack, and the syncopation of your breathing.

One of his hands finds your hair, equal parts warm as it is large when it cups the back of your head and smothers you closer into his pulse point. Suddenly he’s grateful he reached for the expensive cologne today.

Clearing his throat, Jack attempts to self soothe from the sharp pain in his chest that grows with every sniffle from you, “Fear doesn’t make you any less brave.”

Your reaction is delayed, barely acknowledging the fact he spoke at first, until you’re bursting into a fit of subdued giggles.

While laugher wasn’t exactly what he was aiming for, Jack can’t help but feel like he's succeeded at something.

“Who knew you could be so deep, Jack,” he wrestles with his body at your soft reply, willing himself to not imagine you mentioning deep and his name in a much racier setting, preferably splayed out on the navy of his bedsheets, hair a soft halo that further cements your image as an angel… An angel he wants to commit every carnal sin against.

You move too soon for Jack’s liking, who nearly clings onto your figure until logic kicks in and reminds him how pathetic of an image that would paint. There's a streak of colour down your cheeks, stains where tears have dragged away the subtlest hints of makeup, yet Jack swears he’s never seen you in a prettier light than this: beneath the cold, buzzing light of the hallway, stepping back from his arms with a look in your eyes far lighter than the one you sank into him with.

“Easy on the teasing, kid,” the nickname has never felt more like a lie, sour on the back of his tongue. The last thing Jack Abbot considers you is a kid. Younger? Of course, but nothing short of a woman, in shape and in mind. “I stole that quote from my therapist actually, I’ll have you know.”

Then, for reasons less related to muscle memory than he would dare to admit, Jack shoots a wink in your direction.

Goodbyes exchanged and apologies for wet shirts successfully curved, Jack lingers by your door until he hears you twist the lock shut behind you, a solid frame of wood bringing the abstract divide between you into the world of the tangible.

Right then, right there, still running on that same spike of adrenaline from when he first heard the horrid cries of code Hula Hoop, Jack Abbot is struck over the head with a horrific realisation.

One taste of you in his arms is not enough, and it never will be.

Jack needs more.

The fifth time is a matter of routine.

You’ve always been a fiend for structure; a creature of habit. Doctor Jefferson reckons it’s the perfect trait to balance out the chaos your field of work brings into your life — when you reiterate that explanation to Jack, him retying his laces for the third time in a row and you reshuffling the same stack of papers for a fifth time, the attending is quick to agree.

“Have you seen yourself eat a sandwich?” Jack’s defensive retort comes no sooner than a moment after your hand teasingly swats his shoulder. Unbeknownst to you, the sudden sway he gives has less to do with the force behind your hand, and everything to do with how your touch grips at his soul. “You’re the only person I know that takes the exact same order of bites, every time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” your protest is far from filtered through any seriousness, words that are soon followed by an amused snort. “No I do not!”

“Uh yes, you do,” back on his feet and standing straight, Jack’s gaze lowers to meet your own, sitting prudently at your desk and finding any measly task to occupy your hands for five more minutes, if only to continue giving your feet the break they need from running here, there, and everywhere. Force of his own habits, or perhaps a nervous tick, you watch as the attending occupies his hands with the shape of his stethoscope, two fists dangling from his neck as he curls his knuckles and tugs on the object.

With your apparent eating habit now dragged into the spotlight, Jack dismisses himself with nothing more than a cheeky lift of his lips, and a muttered Duty calls! as a set of EMTs come strolling in with a gurney.

The rest of your shift passes in a Jack-less blur, your eyes and ears too occupied as you trail next to Parker.

She had lay claim over you no more than seven minutes into your shift, face lighting up like a Christmas tree at the sight of you strolling out from the locker room, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your body familiarised itself with the shape of your scrubs. Without even so much as a hello, Ellis grasped a hand around your forearm and tugged you off towards triage, paying no mind to Jack’s questioning gaze as you both shot right past him. All she offered him was a, “Sorry, Abbot, your girl is mine for tonight.”

Abbot didn’t correct her.

Your girl.

Every part of your psyche is aware it’s a minuscule thing to get hung up on, to feel your stomach fluttering with an unknown anxiety each time you replay the scene; yet it happens all the same.

As you assist Dr Ellis, passing her a scalpel.

As you rip off dirtied gloves and replace them with a new pair.

As you stir sugar into your third coffee of the night, eyes staring blankly ahead while Ellis talks your ear off, venting about her recent misadventures in love.

“And then guess what she said!” Parker’s voice may as well be going in one ear and out the other, because you’re far from listening, eyes too busy following the shape of Abbot as he cuts down the length of a hallway, one of the younger residents glued to his side and pitching their newest case.

Has the casual dominance he wears like another layer of clothing always had this effect on you, firing off error warnings in your mind as you watch him steer his resident out the way of an oncoming gurney — a motion that reads as second nature, not even so much as a moment’s thought running through him before he’s executing the action.

Ellis snaps you out of it, fingers clicking in your face and blinking her back into focus.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Huh? What?” It’s torture not to let yourself get wrapped up in Jack again as he perches himself across from you both, elbows braced on the nurse’s station and arms straining at the seams of a navy top you swear is purposefully two sizes too small. “Yeah, of course I am.”

“Then guess what she said next,” despite the distrusting glint in her eye, Dr Ellis spares you the humiliation of telling you she caught you staring at her attending.

“Uh… That she’s not ready for a relationship, even though you met on a dating app?”

“Worse!” she exclaims, right as you notice Jack’s hazel gaze meet yours, intrigue practically dripping off his eyelashes with every involuntary blink. “I don’t date Virgos. I mean, can you believe that? The girl is navigating her love life by letting goddamn starry shapes guide her!”

“Hey,” you feign a face of offence, hand clasped your chest as though to shield your heart. “Some of us just like the comfort of fixed compatibility.”

You watch as the betrayal settles over Doctor Ellis, glazing over her already dead-pan stare with a look of pure judgement, “Et tu, brute? Go on then, shove your knife deeper, would you ever date a Virgo?”

“I don’t know. I guess? I’ve never really thought about what signs I wouldn’t date,” you pause, the hairs on the back of your neck standing to attention as a strange sensation of being watched creeps over you. But as you look back over in Jack’s direction, you find him engrossed in his phone. A pitiful feeling dawns over you, baptising your heart with a hollow ache only disappointment can conjure. “Weirdly though, all my exes have been either a Pisces or Gemini. I don’t know what that says about me but-”

You finish on time, for once.

No last minute emergencies, no lingering to help Jack as he squeezes one last case into his already-finished shift, no letting your scrubs overstay their welcome; you pry them off like they are caught ablaze. And then you linger.

Hands occupy themselves with minuscule tasks, organising and rearranging the items in your locker; then unzipping your bag and going through each of your belongings. Eyes take the occasional peek towards the entries of the lockers, and ears perk up each time footsteps grow closer.

It’s only when Jack steps through the door at last, defeat written all over his face, that your mouth moves. First, stretching into a smile, and then forming a few words.

“Rough night?”

Relief ripples his features at the sound of your voice — like finding a streak of sunlight on a rainy day— bringing the tiniest spark of joy back into his sunken eyes, “Thought you’d have gone by now, kid.”

You waver, something about his question feeling accusatory, even if he delivers it in the gentlest of voices.

Why haven’t you left?

A troublesome cat, an unfinished box-set, and a bowl of leftover pasta sit in the confines of your apartment, practically begging you to race home back to them and delve yourself into comfort, that momentary pause to the chaos of the PTMC you struggle to find in the hours between shifts. A few months ago, you would already be a glass of wine deep and settling in for just one more episode of many, far from lingering like a bad scent amongst the lockers. But then again, a few months ago, the road home was a lonely one.

At what point did that seventeen minute walk become the highlight of your day?

Something warm meets your nostrils, dragging your attention across to where Jack now stands, spritzing his sweat-ridden neck with a few pumps of cologne. You don’t mean to notice the bottle has less than a quarter of its amber liquid left. You also don’t mean to reminisce on the first time you saw the bottle, clasped in Jack’s hands. The memory was one you thought would be singular, never once before having witnessed the older man groom himself after a shift.

Instead, it’s become his signature.

Clock out, hit the lockers, drown the stench of bleach with a warm musk, and then…

“Do you have any gum?”

You know this scene all too well, you almost get ahead of the script and answer before he even asks. Fortunately, you manage to play it cool, “Uh, let me check… Yes!”

Jack doesn't need to know that you didn’t really need to check.

And Jack definitely doesn’t need to know that you never used to carry gum, not until the first time he asked.

But does he need to move closer, that cloud of freshly sprayed cologne enveloping you in its arms, just to pluck the strip of gum from your outstretched hand?

Mint blankets over the notes of bergamot and black pepper, and Jack washes away the stale coating in his mouth, jaw wound tight as he crushes the white rubber beneath his molars.

He doesn’t inch away, retreat back to where he once stood. Instead, his hand finds your own, fingers bumping against yours and silently commanding you to relinquish control… Of the strap of your bag, of course, index and middle finger hooking beneath the padded fabric and slinging the bag over his own shoulder.

“You know,” you say, because you have to. If you don’t distract yourself with speech, you’ll drown in those hazel eyes, too close for comfort and, yet, nowhere near close enough. “You should really start bringing your own gum. Or a toothbrush, if you’re that scared of having a bad breath. What if I switch to day-shift, huh?”

Maybe Jack scoffs in disbelief, knowing there’s not a version of reality where you elect to work days. Or maybe the scoff is a way of downplaying his irritation at the thought, possessive over the sheer possibility of losing his girl to the likes of Robinavitch, hot-head extraordinaire with a touch of suicidal tendencies.

Whatever his reason, Jack is quick to mask the original expression on his face with an easy smile, one corner of his lips twisting upwards as he shrugs, “It’s less to do with not wanting a bad breath, more to do with the fact I like being in your debt.”

Frozen in shock, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowing, you barely register as Jack starts to make his way down the hall, snapping out your trance only as he calls your name.

Like a dog called to heel, you scurry off to join his side.

Jack stops informing you that he’s walking you home.

Without fail, every shift, he shows up, steals your gum, invades your space, and takes your baggage hostage, guiding you out of the ER with the ghost of his touch against your lowers back, steering you through the crowd of ailing folks and stopping you from diving in to help.

Conversation is no longer something the space between you demands, a comfortable silence settling in; the wind down of a hectic shift sound-tracked by the sound of a city waking up, the smack of your footsteps hitting the ground, and the occasional exchange of words.

Like today, as you pass by a unit under construction and Jack reads over the sign: a soon-to-open sushi restaurant.

“You ever been to Japan?” He asks, curiosity practically beaming from his eyes.

“Never. You?”

“Once, when I was young-” he hesitates, like he intended to add -er to the end of his word but decided against it. “Would you ever go?”

“To Japan?” He nods. “Yeah, maybe.”

His reply arrives like a confession, gentle and lacking the confidence you’ve come to associate with Jack, “I’ve been meaning to visit again.”

Silence keeps you both company the rest of the way, until your feet come to a halt outside your apartment block. Jack doesn’t intend to follow you to your door, not like the last time. Instead, he shrugs off your bag and helps you slip it over your own shoulder, using those large hands to scoop your hair up, rescuing you from the sharp sting of feeling the strap pull down on it.

Then Jack announces, just as lacking in confidence as the last time he spoke: “I’m not a Virgo.”

You stare at him, blinking slow, letting his words settle into the grooves of your brain and sink down until some part of you starts to make sense of them.

The more he speaks, the clearer it becomes what he’s attempting to say, “Or a Gemini. Not even a Pisces.”

Suddenly, those moments as you stood listening to Dr Ellis’ romantic woes, with the nurses station between you and Jack and fleeting glances snuck between nurse and attending, it all feels less innocent, less casual. More intentional.

Jack had been listening, hanging on to your every word as you entertained Parker and pretended to allow astrology to rule over the romance in your life.

“Just, thought I should let you know,” much to your dismay, Jack’s fleeing quicker than you can chase him, a sheepish smile overcoming his face and a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “In case you were ever wondering.”

Finally, there is the time where lines blur.

“Come on,” the tell-tale whine of a tipsy Trinity Santos rings out of your phone’s speaker, interrupting an intimate evening for three: you, your cat, and a cheesy horror movie, where the only thing scarier than the lacklustre VFX are the plot inconsistencies. “Even Crash- Ow! Sorry, I mean, even Vic is here!”

The last thing you want to do on your night off is to squeeze yourself into a pair of jeans and spend it in the presence of the exhausted day-shifters, four-drinks too deep for you to ever catch up, no matter how many shots you throw back.

Unfortunately for you, the only thing more convincing than Trinity’s pleading is Whitaker’s tipsy bellow of your name, followed promptly by, “I need a karaoke partner! Santos ditched me for Mel!”

It’s only with a groan that you agree, “Okay. Fine, yeah, whatever. I’ll come. But I’m having an early night! No seven am walks of drunken shame like last time!”

“Don’t worry meemaw, we’ll get you tucked into bed before three, latest,” Santos’ laugh rings down the line, the alcohol coursing through her veins amplifying the humour she already finds so easily in her own words. “Now hurry, the bar closes at eleven, then who knows where the night might take us!”

You enter the bar, already braced and ready for the impact of the Pittlings swarming you, like bees drawn to honey, a tangle of arms wrapping themselves around you. Only as Mel let’s you go — the last to do so — do you notice a figure you had not anticipated.

Dr Robby, sat in all his grumpy glory, greeting you with a tightlipped smile and a single wave of his hand. Before you can even open your mouth, ready to return the greeting, you take a step forward, heel landing in a puddle of spilled drinks, and nearly slip… only to find there’s a presence at your back.

Not touching you, but there; hovering, lingering. A buzz of energy trapped in the minimal space between the small of your back and the warmth of a hand.

“Careful, kid. There’s better ways to fall head over heels.”

Without even having to turn your head, you know it’s him.

You do so, anyway, and welcome in the sight of Jack Abbot clad in a pair of dark jeans, dark boots, and a white button up, sleeves rolled below his elbows and with the buttons undone enough to tease the way his collarbones sit dusted by freckles. Familiarity is in his scent, a cloud of his cologne settling into the atmosphere above your head, and the low lights of the bar catch on his pupils, reflecting warmth.

A million thoughts run through your head: how he’s no doubt come to keep Robby company, how the sleeves of his shirt are practically choking his biceps, how wrong it feels to see him surrounded by the Pittlings, how much of a relief it is to see him.

But all your mouth can manage is an unpleasant, “Why are you here?”

The table’s chatter comes to a pause, all eyes on you two as an exchange of chuckles, whistles, and even a soft ouch crawls its way out of Robby’s lips.

“No! Sorry, I-” hellbent on embarrassing yourself, it seems, you groan as your face dives into the safety of your palms, cheeks hot to the touch. “That’s not what I meant-”

Fingers seize your wrists in a gentle grasp, momentarily soothing over your rapid pulse point before they tug your hands away from your face, putting you back on display to the rest of the bar. All you see is Jack, in front of you, biting back laughter and fighting off a teasing grin.

“I know what you mean,” by the grace of something merciful, he lets go of you, sending your hands dropping back down to your sides. “I swapped with Shen. He needs my Sunday off.”

At the mercy of God, or the universe, Samira puts an end to your humiliation ritual and jumps out her seat, lacing her arm with yours, and drags you off in the direction of the bar, “Let’s get you a drink. Alcoholic, preferably!”

A half hour passes in the blink of an eye, clock striking ten and beginning the countdown to the bar’s closure. You down your first drink - a concoction of fruit juice, and syrup, and cheap liquor. The second is one you treat a little kinder, nursing your glass of vermouth and giving it the attention it deserves, each sip a chance to let the flavours melt into your tongue. By your third, the sweet feeling in your chest is enough to counter the bitterness of any drink, and so you move onto the cheap beer Trinity clings to like a lifeline.

Jack sits furthest from you, alternating between sophisticated sips of a bourbon and gulps from a beer bottle his hand engulfs entirely too easily. Despite the fact he sits knee-deep in conversation with Robby — who has spent most of his night complaining, no doubt, about a recent run-in with Gloria — while you lend an ear and a smile to Dennis as he pleads his case to you on why his friendship with a certain widow is perfectly innocent, the two of you orbit each other.

With eyes that wander, drawn from one side of the table to the other. At first, it’s bashful: whenever you catch him, Jack’s neck snaps his attention right back to his fellow attending. But as the drinks flow and time ticks on, it grows bolder, transitioning into a challenge; hazel eyes pinning your own into a staring contest as they watch you over the rim of his glass. You lose, conceding to whatever force draws your eyes down like magnets to the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

With fingers that toy a line between distance and friction. When you reach for the handful of nuts at the centre of the table, Jack’s fingers meet your own in the bowl. The graze is minute, barely a whisper of contact between skin, yet it shakes you to the core. Familiar fingers meet your skin as Jack makes his way around the table, excusing himself with needing a trip to the bathroom. It’s as he passes you that he strikes, a teasing drum of fingertips against your shoulder — mimicking the call of someone searching for your attention — that has your head turning to the right, only to find no one there. By the time you catch onto the fact it was Jack, he’s standing in a queue for the toilets and offering you a challenging raise of his brows. What the challenge is, you don’t quite know yet.

You’re not given the chance to dwell on the thought, not when Santos slams an empty bottle down into the centre of the table and declares, “Time to find out all your dirty secrets. Truth or Drink!”

A chorus of groans echo from the surrounding party, yourself included… Yet you all entertain her all the same, no one daring to challenge her pointed stare as she spins the bottle.

It lands on Mel, whose excitement lasts all of the seven seconds it takes Trinity to dish up a question.

Have you ever tried to break up a marriage?

Mel drinks.

Victim #2, much to Trinity’s delight, is Javadi.

Javadi, who already is nose deep in her glass before a question can even hit the table, slamming her empty cup down onto the table with a sheepish smile.

“Dammit, I was gonna tell Mel to ask about Mateo,” comes Santos’ disappointment.

The younger girl is just as quick to reply, “Why do you think I drank?”

Poor Robby ends up roped into the game next, following in the footsteps of the previous players and drinking instead of answering Javadi’s interrogation, “Do you follow me on TikTok?”

It’s when Dennis takes a swig of his colourful cocktail that Samira groans, surprising the entirety of the table as she throws her head back and exclaims, “Oh my God, you people are so boring! All too chicken to answer!”

Jack seems to take that as a challenge, for when the bottle comes to a halt, neck pointed in his direction after Dennis spun it, his arms remain firmly crossed over his chest.

“Shit. Wow, okay,” the younger boy is startled, no question burning on the tip of his tongue for a man he barely knows. So he settles with something simple, something impersonal, something with no deeper intention behind it to humiliate the man: “When was the last time you lied?”

Jack doesn’t answer immediately.

No, he makes a show out of turning his wrist up to his eyes, squinting as they read of the dials and his face settles into an emotionless expression, “Like… an hour ago?”

Quick as a whippet, Trinity dives at the first chance to investigate, “Who did you lie to?”

“That’s a different question,” Jack fires right back, reaching for the empty bottle to spin.

For some reason, his eyes are pinned on you. Even as the bottle lands on Trinity, they linger on your frame, that same unknown challenge in his stare.

The bar spits you all out at four minutes past eleven, bodies spilling out into the street. It’s chaos, voices of strangers mingling in with those of your coworkers. You’re being tugged each and every other way, a million questions fired in your direction.

C’mon, don’t you agree we should go Downtown?

No, no! We have to head to Passion!

Ew, Passion sucks. Every surface is… sticky.

Can’t we just go anywhere that offers karaoke?

Poor, unsuspecting Dennis is left flinching back in shock as a unified bark of No! comes from all the girls, disgusted eyes burning him for so much as daring to suggest such a thing.

“Wherever you kids are going, it won’t be with her,” Jack, emboldened by the booze in his veins, finally lets that hand of his fully press against your lower back. Your head turns to find him already watching you, amused by your puzzled look. “You’re working tomorrow.”

“So are they!” You exclaim, hand pointing out to the crowd of Pittlings. “They have work sooner than I do!”

“And that’s Dr Robinavitch’s cross to bear. You, on the other hand,” a finger drags down the slope of your nose, taping against the tip as Doctor Abbot leans down to your ear, like you’ll suddenly lose the ability to hear him over the noise of the city streets. “You’re my problem.”

It’s hard to breathe; the night air too cold, too thick, too drenched in Jack’s cologne.

You know his reputation; you’ve been victim to it. Jack Abbot, shameless flirt, tongue always locked and loaded with a comment capable of shaking even the most stable of heartbeats. But this is different.

This is his hands on you, this is his voice claiming some form of ownership over you, this is his stare tearing through the fabrics of your being and embedding itself inside your chest, awakening a kind of warmth that even the hottest Pittsburgh summer day would envy.

“Boo!” It’s Victoria who cries out, cutting right through the budding tension between nurse and attending, one-too-few seconds away from blossoming into something far from the professionalism of colleagues. “You’re leaving already!?”

Your mouth opens, ready to answer.

Jack steals the words right out your mouth, “Yes. I think it’s about time we leave, don’t you agree?”

Spotlight pointed at you, he puts you on the spot for the entire group to watch how you fumble over a simple, “Uh, sure.”

The hand against your lower back sticks to you like a magnet the whole way home.

A journey longer than the one you usually stumble down with Jack by your side. It would have made more sense to hail a cab, any rational adult would recognise that, yet neither of you dare to suggest it. Crowds of drunken fools spill out from bars and invade the sidewalk — the kind of stumbling messes that activate a cynical part of you, wondering just how many of them will wind up in the care of your colleagues before the end of the night — Jack answers their invasion by drawing you closer, footsteps fading to the back of yours as he guides you to walk ahead of him, the burn of his hand reminding you that he’s there, that you’re safe, that no wave of foreign faces is going to sweep you up and drag you away.

Even as you make your way up the stairs to your apartment floor, elevator out of service, Jack lingers a few paces behind, watching your every move.

It’s as your fumbling around in your purse, fingers blindly rummaging through loose change and half-empty lip gloss tubes in search of the keys to your apartment, that Jack takes it upon himself to start spewing revelations.

“It was you,” he says, pauses and, when met with your questioning eyes, glancing back at him over your shoulder, clarifies. “The last time I lied, tonight. It was to you.”

A few seconds pass in silence, and then, “Oh.”

“Shen doesn’t need Sunday off.”

“Oh.”

“I knew you were off tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he leans down, enters your orbit and invades you with the knowledge of how solid his chest feels pressed against your back, and how warm his breath feels, brushing against the shell of your ear as it mimics your repetitive exclaims of shock. “‘S that all you know how to say?” Before you can politely beg him to back up, for the sake of your sanity and your fraying willpower, hanging on by a single thread that seems more than eager to snap and unleash the burning in your loins upon the older man, Jack shuffles a few steps back and takes a deep breath — the kind that has his shirt straining against the growing width of his chest. “It’s not the first time I’ve lied to you.”

“Oh- Wait,” Cut off by your own confusion, you spin on your heel a little too quickly and stumble forward, hand inches away from rediscovering the meaning of balance against his chest. “What have you lied about?”

“There we go, finally using that pretty voice properly again,” if you had known this was what a tipsy Jack Abbot behaved like, you would have offered him a drink months ago. Especially with the way his cheeks sit blushing in red, a shy imagery to contradict the growing boldness in his words. “My car was never in the garage. I even drove it to work that day. But you wouldn’t accept Mateo’s offer for a lift, so I figured I’d need a real good excuse to walk you home.”

Clarity washes over you not in repeated waves, but in one single tsunami.

Overwhelming, a wall of emotions flooding over your being. You mentally retrace each step you’ve taken in his company. Each walk home, each careful conversation exchanged between you. Every cloud of worry that hovered overhead, convincing you of a reality where your presence and the act of accompanying you home is nothing but a burden to Jack Abbot, a simple kindness that’s gotten out of hand and now he does not know how to back out of.

But his words bend that reality, until it snaps in half and ceases to exist. Because here Jack is, telling you he orchestrated reasons to walk you home, excuses to linger in your presence after the night shift came to an end and patients are no longer a force that brings you into one another’s proximity.

Jack Abbot wants to be around you. So why on Earth would you part from him now, just because your finger had hooked itself around a keyring?

“Jack,” in the quiet of the hallway, his name echoes off your lips, uttered more intimately than ever before. “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

Your confidence is a case of easy come, easy go; dissipating before you can even wait for a proper reply from the man. Anxious thoughts dialled up and overloading, you turn back to face your front door, shakily shove the key into the door, and unlock something that feels a little more than just your apartment, a point of no return awaiting in it’s premises should Jack choose to accept your offer.

Walking in before Jack can speak, you get your answer with the gentle closing of the door behind you and the clearing of Jack’s throat, swallowing back what may just be a similar ball of emotion swelling within your own.

If you had anticipated Jack Abbot standing in your living room tonight, you would have at least attempted to tidy up.

Then again, if you had anticipated this, there’s other things you would have done differently… You would have made sure you actually had something to offer him to drink, for starters.

“Uh… I don’t have any beer,” you mutter, more to yourself than Jack, one hand holding the fridge door open and the other rummaging through the half-empty shelves, like you might somehow unveil a surprise bottle of anything-worth-drinking. “I can offer bourbon? Maybe? Or I’ve got leftover wine. Might have gone bad though. Shit, sorry, I really don’t have anything to offer.”

Closer than you anticipate, hovering by the entry to the kitchen, Jack rasps a careful, “Just you is fine. ‘S all I’m really here for.”

Like two opposing magnets drawn together by an unseen force, distance becomes null and void as eyes meet and you both inch closer, devouring the space between you with careful steps. Face to face at last with everything that has been brewing beneath the surface of your interactions, you barely squeeze out a whisper of his name before Jack claims your mouth as his prisoner.

Lips lock like shackles, trapping you in place against the older man. Hands find one another’s frames, his large palm staking claim over the back of your neck and tilting your face into the perfect angle for him to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing with a graze over your lower lip, the beginning of a chuckle bubbling in his chest as you answer his touch with a pitiful whine, before he finally licks into your mouth. Your own hands carve out a path for themselves, sliding over the expanse of his broad shoulders, curling around the tightness of his biceps, trailing down his waist to find the worn out leather of his belt, two finger hooking beneath and drawing his body closer — like any space still exists between you.

He lets you move him all the same, walking yourself backwards and dragging him along until your back hits whichever wall sits the closest. Any memory of the layout to the apartment you’ve spent the last five years living in has melted away in the heat of Jack’s mouth, kissing you like he has something to prove and this is the only chance he’ll ever get.

Squeezed flush against one another, no barrier but clothes sitting between, you feel the shape of him pressing into your hip and making you painfully aware of the fact Jack Abbot, the older attending you forced yourself to learn to observe quietly and cautiously from a safe distance, now has his semi-hard cock straining against you. That realisation must run through you too viscerally, for Jack’s soon tearing his mouth away from you.

“Shit- Sorry,” he just about gasps the apology out, lips incapable of drifting too far for too long, a smatter of kisses meeting the edge of your jaw as you feel Jack angle his hips away from you. “Been a while since I last-” He’s cut off by his own groan, reactionary to the weight of your hand landing atop the bulge of his jeans, palming at the length of him in hopes of finding out just how hard he can grow. “And I’ve just been thinking about this, ‘bout you for so long. Just-” greedy mouthed, even his desperate please for apology are interrupted by the drag of his tongue over your pulse point. “Ignore it, I’ll keep myself in check. Don’t wanna come on too strong, scare you off.”

It’s a bit late to retreat now, is what you want to say, with the way your thighs are squeezing together in search of any friction and the cotton of your panties sticks uncomfortably against your folds.

But Jack is blushing enough as it is, tips of his ears as red as you imagine his hair once was, face burning hot as he burrows it deeper in your neck. So you spare him some kindness and settle on the buckle of his belt, choosing direct action over teasing words.

A switch seems to flip at the brush of your fingers as you reach for Jack’s belt, attempt to dive beneath the waistband of his boxers. The older man stiffens against you, in more ways than one, head rising from your neck like a cobra enchanted by the notes of a flute. Thick fingers curl around your wrist, prying your hand from him gently yet accompanied by the disapproving tut only an authority figure could conjure, moments away from teaching you a lesson.

His chastisement isn’t vocal but physical, dragging your wrist up to his mouth and greeting it with the gentlest press of lips, right where your pulse recounts a soliloquy on the affect this man has on you, heart rate spiking. Jack lingers, face turning to brush the tip of his nose against your skin while his eyes slip shut, like he’s drowning himself in the fading notes of your perfume. Then, he jumps right back into action, manoeuvring both your arms above your head and pinning them against the wall.

“No one ever tell you to keep your hands to yourself, sweetheart?” No man’s condescension has ever sounded so appealing, so soft. A softness he pairs with the brush of fingers, his free hand tracing a path for itself down the length of your torso, catching on the waist of your jeans and lingering, only to continue its descent over the shape of your thigh. “‘S okay, I don’t mind being the one to teach you.”

“Doctor Abbot,” you breathe, something stirring in your bones the longer the man stares at you, eyes spilling secrets of every degenerate thought passing through his mind.

“Really?” Jack reclaims your skin with his mouth, teeth scraping over your clavicle before his tongue tastes your flesh, a slow drag of the wet muscle halfway up your neck. Your pulse, a bass drum thrumming against the restraints of your veins, brings him to a pause, luring him into peppering a series of chaste kisses over the spot. All the while, his hand is familiarising itself with the curve of your thigh, fingertips dragging over the seam of your jeans and following its journey north, inching towards your clothed core. “Still calling me that, even while I’ve got my hand between your thighs?”

Maybe the alcohol is clouding your judgement, eradicating any hint of the usual hesitation that has ruled over past encounters like these, leaving you shy and bashful, and far from the kind of person willing to rip their aching desire right out their chest and present it to it’s new owner, heart in hand and lust in eyes.

The unexpected confidence boost has your hips shamelessly rolling into the palm of Jack’s hand as he engulfs the expanse of your core. Breathing stalls as the inseam of your jeans brushes against your lace-covered clit, pulsing with anticipation of whatever the older man plans to do with you.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” It’s unfair, hearing such earnest words falling from his lips, a touch of breathlessness to further sweeten the desperation in his voice; all the while one hand tightens it’s grip on your fidgeting arms and the other, firm and steady, undoes the button of your jeans and begins drawing the zip down at an agonizing pace. “Dangerously so. Might have to file a complaint soon, tell the board how inappropriate it is of you to distract me with just a smile while we’re meant to be saving lives.”

A sigh, delicate as silk, robs you of the satisfaction of replying instantly, body too busy accustoming itself to the intrusion of his hand on your skin, explorative touches that dip beneath your waistband and drag slowly through your folds.

Stealing yourself and silencing the part of you that wants to melt into his hand and let him remould you into something new, you eventually manage an amused, “I can always change departments, Dr Abbot. They’re always looking for extra hands with the inpatients.”

“Do that, and I’ll drag you back, kicking and screaming, if I have to.”

Beneath your clothes, the tip of Jack’s middle finger has taken to dipping between the warmth of puffy lips, collecting a dollop of your liquid pleasure, and lathering it over the desperate nub of your clit in gentle circles. His movement is casual, careless, not a hair out of place or a shaking of nerves evident on the man in front of you. Just the hungry eyes of a man in control, ready to take his time tearing you apart bit by bit, in a way only he can put you back together after.

“Fucking soaked,” Jack’s comment feels aimed at his own ears, a passing acknowledgement of your state that you just so happen to hear as he brings a second finger up to lazily play with your clit, all the while the wet patch soaking into your panties grows, no doubt seeping through lace and staining denim. “‘S actually a little pathetic, kid. I’ve barely even touched her and she’s weeping for me.”

Heat burns at your cheeks, the foul nature of the words leaving his mouth bringing you to a confusing state of embarrassment mixed with the headiness of lust, clouding your better judgements and axing whatever part of your brain is in charge of overthinking, just in time to halt a spiral down into the dreaded pits of sleeping with a coworker, a man you’ll have to continue to see nearly everyday, for better or for worse — everything hinges on how tonight ends.

There’s no time to worry about the end when Jack is just beginning.

Those same fingers that teased at your clit dip lower, nestling themselves between your folds. As though shocked by your warmth, you feel more than hear the man groan into your neck, a half-bitten back string of curses parting from his pretty lips.

“Can I, sweetheart?” His plead for permission pulls you out of your body momentarily, mind drawn away as it attempts to recall the last time a man bothered himself with asking before taking. “Need to know how she feels, ‘s all. Can you let me do that, hmm? Let me fill her with my fingers? Promise I won’t ask for more, won’t push my luck. Christ, already know I’m pushing it now, thinking an old man like me has any business messing with a pretty thing like-”

“Yes, Jack!” Cutting off his rambling mouth, your hips keen into the tantalising drag of his fingers through your slit, a back-and-forth motion he’d spent his whole monologue performing idly, with an occasional torturous catch of his fingertips on your entrance, threatening to delve deep only for him to course-correct and set them back on the track up the length of your slit. “Please, God, just- Touch me.”

“Greedy girl,” he tuts, face winding it’s way out from your neck just for his hazel eyes to observe your face as he finally breaches his fingers past your entrance. “Am I not already touching you?”

Replies are lost to the kitchen air, breath knocked out your chest in one foul swoop as he burrows his fingers knuckle-deep. Your lips part, your eyes roll back, and you grind down against his hand, as if by some grace of god he’ll hit some place deeper inside, fingers already pressing against that spot inside you as Jack curls them towards himself, putting the come in come-hither.

The angle is awkward, movement hindered by the tight squeeze of your jeans around his wrist, yet Jack works through the strain, digits pulling out at a slow, agonising pace, only to slip back inside equally as slow. It’s like he’s making you savour the feeling, imbedding every ridge and wrinkle along his fingers and knuckles into your memory, so the next time you find yourself hot under the blanket and struggling to sleep at night, your own hand won’t bring you half the relief.

His fingers fall into a rhythm, a back and forth tease that sets your nerves ablaze and unravels a ball of desire you long ago tossed aside, four weeks into working at the Pitt and telling yourself that those pesky butterflies you felt every time a certain attending crossed your path were nothing but newbie nerves. Marking the tempo of his touch, the repeated squelch of your cunt being filled by his fingers rings out; the deeper he dives, the wetter you grow. Your moans follow along to his beat, a perpetual huff of half-formed whines and hitched breaths, echoes of pleasure that claw their way out your throat and shamelessly sing him a song of praise.

“Ah, ah,” Jack mimics you, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he feeds your moans right back to you in a tone so condescending, you feel your toes curl. “‘S that all you know how to say?”

Those same words and that same mocking tone from the hall have your skin crawling with need. A need to press yourself closer, until all your frayed edges tangles themselves in Jack. A need to fight against the hold of his hand, wrists squirming and fighting for release in hopes of winding your arms around his broad shoulders. A need to give in to the overwhelm, dive head first into the waves of desire that roll over you… So you do.

Jaw slack, toes curled, head thrown back. An orgasm crashes into you with the force of an ocean, sweeping you under and flooding the palm of Jack’s hand with the sticky sweet evidence of how good he’s making you feel.

His fingers fuck you through the experience, lazily curling and stroking the fire, drawing out your pleasure for as long as your body allows him, until a dry sob racks through your chest and tears dance along your lash line, head shaking as you protest the overstimulation.

The retreat of both Jack’s hands, slipping from the waistband of your jeans and relinquishing the grip on your wrists, it does not grant your poor heart respite, a chance to calm the beating it’s delivering against your chest. Instead, he doubles the speed, raising the fingers stained in your own slick and brushing the tips against your lower lip.

“Say ah,” not a question, a demand. Jack is an expert at ordering you around in a manner soft enough, confident enough to have your head reeling and will bending to his every wish.

Under the effect of his darkened gaze and the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixing with the beer on his breath, how can you do anything but let your mouth fall open?

Your first thought is disbelief, running cold down your spine at the unexpected sweetness that coats your tongue; sweetness that melts into a sharp tanginess, giving way to a thirst like no other, glands going into overdrive and wetting your palate. Drunk on yourself, you let your eyes slip shut and your lips wrap around the stretch of Jack’s fingers, a pleased hum bubbling up your throat as his digits apply the slightest of pressure against your tongue, testing the waters of your gag reflex as he slowly pushes himself deeper in your mouth, soaking himself in your spit.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Jack’s spare hand has found its way down to your waist, slipping over the slopes of your curves and perching itself atop your hip, where he delivers a firm squeeze. “Made a real mess of my hand, ‘s only right you clean it up.”

By the time Jack pulls his hand back, a string of saliva connects his fingers to your lips and a craving is reawakening between your thighs. Afraid to fracture the fragile atmosphere between you and the attending, you choose to lead with action again, one hand grappling at the buckle of his belt while the other begins to hastily drag your jeans down the swell of your ass, skin-tight fabric stubbornly refusing to give way and grant you the freedom of air against your legs.

You only make it so far, barely managing to pry apart his belt when Jack intercepts your desperate touching, hands reclaiming possession over your own and shooing them away. With a pause for consideration, the mental cogs visibly turning behind his eyes, you watch as the attending descends the path of your body, peeling down your jeans along the way. A hiss is bitten back as he bends his knees, one foot planted firmly on the ground the other — his right knee — kissing into the kitchen floor, prosthetic calf laid behind him.

It’s the brush of a breath against your thigh that has you lurching back into your body, ignoring the worried nagging voice that wants to drag him off his knees for the sake of his health and comfort… and instead focusing on the part that wants him off his knees for a far more selfish reason.

“Jack,” your attempt at protesting is pathetic, a well-intended firm call of his name fracturing midway and collapsing into a whine as the man takes to laving his tongue up the expanse of your inner thigh, inching dangerously close to where you can feel your centre throbbing, crying out for him in morse code, desperate for the simplest of touches so long as the one delivering it is the older man currently kneeling on your kitchen floor.

Fingers wind in greying curls, the faintest burn of auburn and copper tickling against your knuckles. You attempt a tug, gentle enough to do no harm yet firm enough to get the point across of what you want: Jack, up and on his feet.

The man does not take the hint, instead he inches further up your leg, nose nuzzling against your mound. Blood rushes in every direction as you witness him pull in a sharp inhale, flooding himself with the intoxicating scent of your would-be pheromones.

“I want to taste you,” he says it with a fire behind his eyes, words impassioned by an animalistic desire; any woman would be mad to not throw herself at him, plead him to take anything and everything from her, however he should please.

Which makes the confusion burning his features more than understandable as he takes in your shaking head and your gentle mutters of no, followed swiftly by, “I need you to fuck me, Jack.”

Hands seek purchase on your hips, grip squeezing a little tighter as he steadies his prosthetic back onto the floor and brings himself back to his standing height. You can see the hesitation, in his eyes and in his fingers, as he slowly continues the undoing of his belt, slow and calculated movements that drag cracked leather free and loosen the clutch his jeans have around his waist.

“Who knew the Pitt’s sweetest nurse could be so demanding?” he muses, like joking might distract you from the cloud of doubt that has so visibly rolled in and settled above you both.

You entertain him, even if only for a moment, “Only when I don’t get what I want. Are you gonna deny me, Jack?”

“So you’re a brat,” bypassing your question, Jack drags the zipper of his pants down and leans his face in, lips brushing against your own with the ghost of a kiss. “Noted.”

His kisses paint a pretty picture of distraction, peppering affection over inches of skin that had spent so long being neglected, you’d nearly forgotten they existed. Over the swells of cheeks, down the slope of a throat, onto the point of a shoulder and back up to the shells of an ear. While your heart wants to sink into the feeling, fall back and let him lather you in every mouthful of affection he can sear against your burning skin, your brain takes the reins of the situation and forces your hands onto his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” Direct and to the point, you avoid the time-waste of skirting around the subject and confront the change in his demeanour head-on, the sudden hesitancy. A sense of panic licks up your spine, filling your mind with thoughts of Jack regretting having started this, crossing over the safe lines of coworker and marching across into trickier territory. “If you don’t want- I’d understand, okay? If you say it was just the heat of the moment, and the beer, and that you no longer want-”

“What? Baby, I promise this is anything but- Fuck,” Jack practically collapses into the groan that tears out of him, hand falling over his face and pressing into the corners of his eyes as he struggles to get the words out fast enough, a soul-crushing need to put an end to the rejected twinkle in your eyes as you offer him a gentle smile, the kind offered by politeness instead of happiness. Jack hates it on you. “I don’t know how to explain without sounding conceited.”

“Oh-kay,” your confused exclaim melts into acceptance, though your eyes remain sceptical as they trail over the attending’s face, awaiting further explanation. When it doesn’t come, your eyebrows jump, a visual nudge that has Jack finally spilling confessions all over your kitchen floor.

“I’m… Big.”

And cue the laughing track.

Watching as the tips of his ears bleed a bright red, you bite back and swallow down a comment about how his height is a little over average at best. Because when a puppy-eyed Jack Abbot warns you of his size in a manner that implies real danger, the last thing you should do is turn his panic into a joke.

“How big?”

“I don’t know-” Then he cuts himself off, like reality has struck him over the head and he remembers he is, in fact, a medical professional and, though he may never have measured his own endowment, surely he can guesstimate. “Maybe like eight. Inches, I mean. And, um…” what a thrill to see Jack reduced to a mumbling mess, a man so usually consumed by his flirty nature, a charm so potent that it pours off him in rivers, soaking all who wind up in his vicinity. Yet here he stands, barely enough space for a deep breath between you, shyly detailing the heat he’s packing beneath the waistband of his trousers. “I’m- I mean it’s pretty thick, too.”

Silence haunts the space between you.

A sick satisfaction pools in your loins, knowledge renewed on the fact you’re bare from the waist down yet all the power seems to sit in the palm of your hand in this moment, Jack’s fate hanging in the balance of however you choose to react to his assumed shameful confession.

So when all you offer is cocked head and a tongue poking against the inside of your cheek, Jack just about falters into insecurity, seeking validation before you even have time to utter a word.

“I’m not bragging. Or, you know, talking myself up. It’s just- I don’t want to hurt you, or to-”

“Take it out.”

His neck practically snaps as his gaze flies from the floor to your eyes, hazel rings that grown thinner under the enlarging of his pupils, lust bleeding into his stare as he managed a careful, “What?”

“This big dick of yours,” emphasis to your words, you finally let yourself look down and catch sight of him, firm and heavy beneath the confines of dark blue denim. The view of his bulge alone is enough to have your mouth watering, but you can’t let it slip, not when your grip on the reins is finally secured. “Let me see it, Doctor Abbot.”

The switch is instant.

Bashfulness melts away and the cloud of doubt is blown away as a cockiness overcomes Jack’s features, face splitting into a shit-eating grin. Fingers work fast this time, dipping beneath the elastic of his boxers and granting his cock freedom at long last.

No trace of a lie in his words; Jack is big. Uncut, with a rosie red tip that’s already made itself known, glistening with the rogue drops of precum that smear the mushroomed head. At the base sits a bush of hair, groomed enough to show you he cares enough to trim it yet overgrown enough to tell you it’s been a few weeks, silver locks threaded through a valley of dark auburn. Freckles dust his skin in subtle specs, while a vein draws a colourful line up the length of him.

You can practically feel yourself throbbing, calling out for him with each moment that passes, your eyes glued to the phallic shape. Jack, evil incarnate, has the gall to lick a stripe up his palm, hand wrapping around himself and daring to give a slow pump.

“I’m gonna need you to stop looking at me like that,” Jack cuts himself off with a hiss, teeth taking his bottom lip hostage as a chuckle rustles out from the depth of his chest. In that moment, you swear nothing has ever been more attractive than the gentle disapproving shake of his head as he rakes his stare down the shape of you, eyes clinging to where your thighs sit squeezed together, stealing any amount of friction you can find. “‘Else I might cum all over myself like some desperate college kid.”

You reach your hand out, searching for traction and finding it in the belt loop of his trousers, still clinging to his tree-trunk thighs. And thank god for that, for it allows you to tug the man closer, chest to chest, knuckles brushing over the hood of your clit as he works his hand over his cock one last time.

“Then give me a reason to stop looking, Doctor Abbot,” swallowing back any lingering shame or shyness a less hornier version of yourself possesses, you curl a hand over the top of his and stare into pools of hazel as you speak, “Don’t you want to make my eyes roll back?”

Never has a man looked so eager to part your legs, the skin of his knuckles burning white as he takes a hand to the back of one of your knees and hooks it over his waist. Left with no choice but to keep your thighs spread, you indulge yourself by glancing down at the view. Visual sin, erotica live in emotion, Jack guides the blushing tip of his cock up the length of your cunt, soaking himself in your arousal. A mutual gasp echoes out into the kitchen on his second swipe, head catching on your entrance only to be denied easy access, hips rolling only to watch himself press against your clit.

“Don’t care if it hurts,” bordering on lost in lust, you barely register the words as your mouth moves. Jack, on the other hand, clings to every syllable, awaiting whatever salvation they promise to bring him. “Just wanna feel you, Jack. All of you, please.”

“Shh, shh,” his hushing is full of mockery, like the last thing he really wants is to silence the desperate plea in your voice. He does so, unintentionally, by finally lining himself up with your entrance. “Don’t need to beg, baby. I’m gonna give it to you, all of it. Just be sure to cry real pretty for me if it gets too much.”

Something animalistic comes over you as Jack feeds the first inch into your cunt.

The burn is there, the stretch of long-unused walls remoulding themselves around the shape of Jack. But any pain is sweet, the kind that tickles at your nerves and has your heart speeding up, adrenaline activated and intoxicating your bloodstream.

Jack, conscious of the crease between your brows, is tentative, careful. He gives a barely-there thrust, letting himself inch just a little deeper into the pulsing warmth of your pussy. There’s a vein across his forehead that makes itself known, the force of his concentration paired with an accelerating heart rate drawing it to front and centre stage of his face. All it does is make you want him more, deeper, quicker.

Words cease to serve any purpose as the two of you give in to the physical, hands that grasp and pull and anchor themselves atop one another’s skin. You think you breathe some version of his name, but the letters are knocked out of you as your fingers tangle themselves in grey curls and, in the blink of an eye, Jack’s pelvis sits flush against your own, cock buried right to the deep hilt and face collapsed into your own, foreheads exchanging sweat as his temple kisses against yours.

A pitiful whine claws its way from you, suddenly painfully aware of how well Jack fills you, stuffed to the brim in a way no man before has quite achieved. You feel him in your cunt, in your guts, in your lungs with every shaky breath you pull; you are drunk on the attending and the feeling of his cock pulsing deep within your gummy walls.

“Sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” apologies are overflowing from the fountain of Jack’s mouth, brushing against your cheek in tiny puffs of breath as the older man blesses you with a whimper so pathetic you nearly come undone right then and there, cunt ready to spill all over his throbbing cock. “Didn’t mean to- shit. Wanted to take it slow, ease him in, but god… You’re just so tight. And warm, and- Ahh! And your nails, they- they scrapped against my scalp and you were tugging on my hair and I couldn’t help it, baby.”

How can you even contest or complain, when you feel like a live wire, thrumming with a deadly kind of energy that threatens to burn everything and anything that touches you and isn’t Jack Abbot?

His hips rock back slightly, only for him to fuck back into you, tip to cervix. The leg hooked around his waist tightens around him, holding Jack as close to you as possible. The scene between you plays out with an intensity one could cut with a knife.

Slow and shallow rolls of hips, punctuating each shaken breath you pull and forcing the air out of you in pitiful whines and moans, songs of praise for Jack's viewing pleasure.

Foreheads together, breaths mingling until it’s hard to tell where your exhale stops and his inhale starts. Both nurse and attending, junior and senior, woman and man; whatever title you and Jack may be addressed by, you’re equal measures of the same mess, staining one another with nails that scrape over freckled skin and five o’clock shadows that burn at cheeks.

“Look at you,” Jack marvels, one hand scooping up to cup your face and remind you of how big his hands look — hands you spent weeks wishing would reach for yours during quiet walks home. Yet now one cradles you while the other grips at your body, tilts your hips at angle that drives him just that little bit deeper. “Taking it like a good girl, no whining or complaining that it hurts.”

What really hurts is that he is still moving at an agonisingly slow pace, torturous drags of his thick length along your walls. If you weren’t speechless under effects of his ministrations, you’d maybe find the ability to tell him this.

“You’re just grateful to have something to fill this pussy, huh?” Something catches in Jack’s throat, a fractured groan that raises a sudden alarm. It feels different to previous ones, born from somewhere deeper, more painful in his chest. “If I knew you’d be do eager, I wouldn't have waited this long to come inside.”

You stomach three more measured rolls of Jack’s hips before you cave into the anxious feeling hollowing your pleasure, the wince on his face having grown deeper and more concerning.

All it take is a hand to his shoulder and a barely formed Jack, wait, for the man to tear himself off you, putting immediate distance between you despite the hand that remains on your face, holding it steady as his gaze sweeps over you in search of evidence of your well-being.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Just like that, you watch him slip back into the practised role of a caretaker, Dr Abbot taking centre stage and relegating Jack, the man keen on seeing you come undone at his touch, to the wings. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I told you- Warned you, baby.”

His rambling would be endearing, if you weren't aware of the sudden empty feeling of your cunt clenching at nothing and, worse, the bitten-back wince of pain that pronounces itself across his face as he shifts weight from one foot onto the other.

So you take matters into your own hands to silence his spiralling mind.

Literally into your hand, fingers wrapping themselves around the thick swell of his cock, standing at attention and smearing the evidence of your lust over Jack’s lower abdomen. The reaction is instant: hips bucking into your touch in a stuttered thrust, mouth falling agape and silent as you envelop him in your gentle touch.

“You didn’t hurt me,” quite the opposite, the tight fit of his dick bordering on nothing short of heaven. “But you’re hurting yourself.”

Before Jack can demand a much earned explanation, you trade his cock for one of his hands, threading yourself to him and enduring he can’t let go as you begin guiding him to your bedroom, the gentle jingle of his loose belt slapping against his thigh announcing each step he takes.

Lit only by the silver light of moon, you turn to him as you reach your humble queen size bed and try your hand at that stern yet caring look Jack has mastered — the look that’s held your heart hostage since you first witnessed it directed at you.

“Your leg. It’s hurting,” now you wish you had opted for switching on a light, because you swear you see the subtlest hint of a blush taking over Jack’s cheeks, guilty and caught when he thought he was doing such a good job to mask the dull ache of his limb. “Take it off, Jack. Or at least let yourself rest on the bed, let me do the work.”

Your silver fox puts up little fight, mouth opening and swiftly closing before any empty protest can flee. The mattress squeaks beneath his weight as Jack sits down on the edge, both legs bent at the knee and feet planted on the floor — he makes a conscious effort to keep his boots from touching the small carpet that runs along your bedside, unwilling to taint the cream coloured fur.

As he hunches over, hands peeling back the leg of his trouser to expose the sight of his faux-calf, a fragile quiet befalls you both. You watch entranced as he removes the prosthetic, a practised ritual he performs with the ease of a man who long ago came to terms with the cards that were handed to him. Freed at last, unwinding a strip of bandage from the stump, Jack takes to removing his clothes next, while you take to filing away his previous movements into a part of your mind labelled later, a future in the shape of a question mark, the possibility of some day needing to remove it for him.

There is something decidedly cruel about the sight of Jack Abbot sitting at the edge of your bed, completely undressed and pinning you beneath his stare as his hands now occupy themselves with more nefarious actions, one gripping at his cock and indulging himself in a languid stroke while the other takes claim of the bottom of your shirt, balling the fabric up in a fist as he tugs you close so abruptly, it’s only natural that you slip and tumble into his naked lap.

An awkward repositioning is punctuated by your own nervous laughter, a shy giggle making itself known as you straddle the doctor, the hand between his legs now teasing at your core, dipping into your honeypot just to soak himself in your sweetness before diverting his attention to your clit, pointer and middle finger rubbing an agonisingly slow circle over the nub.

“You’re gorgeous,” Jack whispers, honesty rolling off him in waves as his eyes ravage the newly exposed sight of your naked chest, t-shirt and bra tossed behind you in the blind chaos of falling into Jack. “You know that, right?”

There is urgency in his voice, like his worldview might just collapse if you tell him otherwise, and the desperation is enough to have you giggling all over again, a noise that quickly is intercepted by a gasp, eyes slipping shut as the man welcomes himself to the taste of your flesh, mouth swooping forward to take the right nipple between his lips, “You might have mentioned it before.”

“Then let me mention it again,” mumbled into your chest, he marks the sentence with a kiss to the opposite nipple, “And again,” the next kiss lands back on your right nipple. “And again.”

Both of you groan at the other’s ministrations, your hand threaded back in the silver locks of his hair and tugging at them just sharp enough to have Jack’s hips rutting up into you, bodies searching for the sweet release of friction yet neither of you rushing to give in as you slowly wade into the depths of lust, grinding desperately against one another like a pair of inexperienced college students.

“Jack,” you breathe his name, hand tilting his head back from your chest and granting you the freedom to plant your mouth against him, tongue dipping into the cavern of his mouth, the taste of beer and bourbon still on his lips.

“Hmm,” Jack hums, hand cradling your cheek.

Between you, tensions rise as your folds spread around his cock, rubbing up the length of him as he rocks himself against you.

“Are you going to fuck me,” is all he lets you get out before he drags you in for another kiss. “Or are we going to sit like this all night?”

“I don’t know, feels pretty good to me,” he’s teasing you, enjoying the sight of you growing more and more dishevelled by your own carnal needs, your nails digging into his freckled shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Sighing with nothing but sexual frustration, you recapture those earlier reins and slip your hand between you both, grabbing at Jack’s cock and lining it up at your entrance, thigh muscles burning as you hover, “Well I would.”

You sink down onto him slowly, eyes incapable of resisting the urge to roll to the back of your skull as you feel that sweet familiar burn of him stretching your walls.

Jack is speechless, but far from quiet, mouth open and singing you the prettiest songs of guttural praise. His hands are on your hips, gripping you in a way that threatens to bruise, all the while you are savouring the flush press of your bodies, your soaked folds kissing the base of his cock with a creamy ring.

When you finally begin to move, a careful raise of hips, you condemn both of you to a world polluted by lust, and pleasure, and the aching need to keep stimulating friction.

The rhythm comes naturally, a slow build-up of you fucking yourself down onto him, stuffing your cunt full to the brim. Jack has given in, handed himself over to you for you to use how you please, while his hands rake over every sliver of skin they can reach. Smoothing over your thighs, grabbing at your waist, pinching at your hard nipples, guiding your mouth down to meet his, a kiss that is more an exchange of breaths than a battle of lips.

A symphony composed entirely of sin, the darkness of your bedroom is set ablaze by the wet slap of skin meeting skin, a squelch punctuating each time he fills your cunt and a new wave of your arousal drips down his thighs and stains your bedsheets.

“This fucking pussy,” Jack speaks like you have personally wounded him, your forehead meeting his shoulder as you let out a squeak, the hands on your waist no longer sitting idle but now guiding you, bouncing you down to meet the upward rut of his hips. “‘S so tight, and warm, and perfect. You’re perfect, letting me stretch this little hole. Taking all of me.”

“Love it, Jack,” You’re babbling into his shoulder, mind turning to unusable mush the faster Jack slams you down on him.

“Love what, kid?”

“Your cock.”

“Yeah?” Oh, the smugness in his voice should be illegal, but you have only yourself to blame. “Who knew my pretty nurse was so good at taking dick. Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me all this time.”

A chord is winding inside you, drawing tighter and tighter as Jack continues to bounce you down on his cock, pausing every few thrusts to let you savour the full stretch, grinding up and biting back laughter as you greet him with the whites of your eyes.

“Holding- ahh! Out?” Your walls flutter around him as you feel yourself closer to the edge of an orgasm.

“Yeah, sweetheart, holding out,” a kiss lands on the side of your head, as though Jack is incapable of not showering you in as much physical affection as possible. “Ignoring all my flirting, never giving me a sign that you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Flirting?!” Head out from his shoulders, you gaze down at him in disbelief, refusing to take the blame for why it has taken so many months for the pair of your to wind up here, naked and desperate and staining your sheets together. “How was I supposed to know? You flirt with everyone- Jack!”

His name is more shriek than moan, tearing out of you as his fingers press themselves to your clit and send you head-first into an orgasm.

Jack fucks you through it, slower rolls of his hips stretching out your state of euphoria and granting him a longer view of your mouth spewing profanities and your eyes rolling back and your hips bucking atop him, both fleeing from and feeding into his touch.

A sudden bang interrupts the scene, cutting your bliss short and forcing you to swallow back a moan.

Frozen in place, fingers to your clit and cock half-way buried inside, Jack’s wide-eyed gaze watches you with a questioning glance. Silence isn’t given the chance to settle fully between you, as soon another sound — from the same direction as the bang — echoes through your bedroom.

“Hey! Keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep.”

Jack is the first to react, laughter shaking his shoulders. His head tilts back, disbelief gripping him in its clutches. Collapsing back onto your bed, he drags you down with him, sweaty chest pressing to sweaty chest. You follow him into laughter too, your own muted chuckles spilling into his neck as you shyly bury your face away, mortified by the thought of one of your neighbours hearing you and Jack.

Apparently, it has the opposite affect on him.

Because instead of crippling mortification, Jack has already begun rutting back into you, shallow thrusts that he somehow manages to deliver, despite the fact his cock already fills you to the brim. Nerves aflame from a ruined orgasm, your body is quick to submit to him, hips tilting to welcome him deeper, back arching into his body. But the moment your lips dare to part, a chastisement is quick to follow, a disapproving tut coming from the man beneath you.

“Shh,” despite his hushing, he makes no attempt to slow his thrusts, the very cause of your fracturing sanity, mouth no longer in control of the noises you let out. Neighbours be damned, you would happily dare any of them to feel the sweet release of Jack stretching them out and not turn into raving banshees. Well, not quite so happily, for you are very quickly growing not only fond but possessive of the attending. “I know, kid, I know. Feels good, right? So good you just wanna scream, don’t even care if someone hears?”

Whether you realise it or not, you nod along to his mockery, desperate please for more, please, just like that, Jack proving his point perfectly: you don’t care.

The only thing you can do is feel him, all of him.

“That’s it, let it out,” he croons, faux sympathy in his voice while he cups your face and swipes away at a tear, the overwhelm of feeling so full and so close to cumming for a third time finally getting the better of you. Tear gone, the hand on your cheek drifts down to cover your mouth, smothering you into silence, muffling the shriek you let out as his hips grow sloppy, desperate, fucking you deeper, harder, faster each time, his own orgasm creeping over the horizon. “I’ll take you to my place next time. ‘S a detached bungalow, can be as loud as you need to be. And, god, I plan on giving you reasons to be loud, put you in every possible position, make you cum so many times you lose count.”

Every moan and groan and whine of his name that leaves you is muffled by the heavy palm of his hand… Which turns out to be a blessing in disguise when a third and final orgasm collides, head first, right into you, leaving you a mess. As you writhe and wriggle, one of the muscles in your calf cramping as your toes curl and your body pulls itself taut, Jack is fighting his own personal battle, hips stilled and limiting the friction as much as possible while you fall apart atop him.

Fingers tangled in his hair, face engulfed by his heavy hand, thighs squeezing around his hips; the image of you cumming is the kind that pushes a man to pick up a paint brush, all in the hopes of memorialising the art in motion onto canvas. Jack can barely focus on you, however, eyes squeezing shut as he steadies his breathing and struggles to hold back a flood.

“‘M gonna cum, baby,” Jack strains out, pulse near visible along his jugular as his heart rate shifts into overdrive. “Need you to lift these pretty hips off me or else- ahh!”

The whimper you pull from him is damn near heartbreaking, right from the gut and full of a fractured sincerity. Unwilling to so much as let him finish any thought of pulling out, never mind his sentence, you’ve staked your claim, shook your head, and cemented yourself flush atop him, cock stuffed to the brim and left no choice but to spill into the pulsing heat of your walls.

Hot, thick ropes of Jack’s cum flood your pussy, painting a pearly white mess inside of you. Overflowing and with nowhere else to run, you feel the unmistakable stickiness of his cum, now mixed with your own orgasmic bliss, leaking out of you and staining both your skins in the act. Breathless and minds drifting far away from the physical plane, you crash down atop Jack, overstimulated and overspent, and drift into the comfort of his arms enveloping you, holding your sweaty figure against his own in an embrace that says stay without uttering a single syllable.

Frozen in time, the pair of you remain glued to one another. Your breathing falls in sync, each rise of his chest matching perfectly with your exhale, and a gentle rocking remains between your bodies, an invisible stream of desire that ebbs and flows, manipulating Jack into rocking up into you and teasing you into grinding down to meet his movements, in spite of the teeth clenching sensitivity tingling at your skin.

You are the first to move, a careful rise from his chest. Already softened within you, his cock slips out of you and you pull a breath in through a grimace. The muscles in your thighs have turned to mush, more unstable than jelly, and so it is nothing short of a miracle to feel Jack’s steady touch settle itself on your hips, hands supporting the dead-weight of your lax body and guiding you to hover over his lower abdomen. You quickly realise he has less than pure intentions, as you watch satisfaction creep back into his pupils when a string of his cum dribbles out from your cunt and drips down onto his skin.

Admiring the picture you paint over his lower stomach, Jack has the nerve to mock the tired whine he coaxes from you as fingers swipe through the white mess and slip between your folds, feeding his spend right back into your walls.

Back hitting the mattress before you can protest, you struggle over a gasp and a barely stringed together sentence while the attending slips down the length of your body, pausing only when his head reaches your thighs.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Jack, with reflexes quick enough to match his wit, intercepts your legs before they can crush his head between them, your hips bucking and your heart unsure whether you are trying to chase after or run from the teasing stripe he licks up your cunt. “You cleaned your mess, now let me clean mine.”

Your heads hit the pillow as the Sun hits the horizon.

By nine, birds chirp by the windowsill and sunlight cuts through the sliver in your curtains, forcing your half-asleep form to retreat into the safety of Jack’s chest. He answers your cry for help instantly, arms pulling tighter around your waist as he continues to venture through a land of dreams, lips parted in the softest snore.

By noon, the city is awake. Cars honk their horns, voices fill the streets, doors slam from floors above and below. But in your apartment, not a creature stirs, bodies clinging to one another and sleep with equal fervour. If you drift left, Jack soon follows. If Jack flips onto his front, your palm is quick to flatten itself over his back. Magnets connected by an unseen force, the pair of you toss and turn beneath wrinkled bedsheets.

By four, the bathroom mirror is fogged. You are a nervous wreck contained behind the nervous smile of someone who is trying their best to be supportive despite the shampoo stinging at your eyes and the grown man you are supporting against your frame. Unwilling to let you drag one of your leather dining chairs into the cubicle, Jack had insisted he would be fine to shower standing, so long as you kept him company.

By six, your apartment is empty. Clad in the familiar shapeless clothing that is sure to keep you comfortable throughout your shift, you’re struggling to find the right time to ask Jack to hand you your bag back, too used to his habit of prying it out your hands to even notice he had done so as you both departed from your front door. No choice but to throw on last nights clothing, Jack is silent at your back, one arm pulling you against him as yet another neighbour slips into the confines of the elevator — freshly fixed yet sending a shiver down your spine with each shake it gives in its descent down to the ground floor.

By some miracle, you make it out onto the street.

Which maybe, now that the fresh air hits your cheek, you are beginning to lament. Because this is it, the point of no return; where you go one way and Jack will go the other, trailing home to enjoy the rest of his night off while you no doubt will spend your entire shift dreading where the events that transpired between you — the stolen kisses, the lustful whines, the rolling hips — leave you both standing.

Taking your bag from him seems like the correct first move to make towards goodbye, but when you reach your hand out, Jack answers your silent plea with his empty one threading itself into your hold, fingers entwined in a manner so perfectly it has you reminiscing on how your bodies lay atop your mattress.

The attending has already tugged you halfway down the street before your mouth catches up with your feet, choking out a dumbfounded, “Where are you going? You’re off today.”

“So?” Jack barely offers you a bothered shrug of his shoulders, glancing back at you with a look in his eyes so warm, you worry you might just melt into the asphalt. “That doesn’t mean I can’t walk you to work.”

+ extra hyde!

· this fic was meant to be short, believe it or not... my first proper fic of 2026, yippee! · olivia, girl... never stop making albums for me to cry to. · pov: jack abbot, the biggest flirt who turns into a bumbling idiot when faced with the person he actually wants:

You woke up with your heart in your throat.

For a second, you did not know where you were. 

The room was too quiet, too warm, too unfamiliar. Your hand flew out toward the side of the bed before your eyes had fully opened, searching for something you could name.

A nightstand. A lamp. Your phone.

Anything.

Your fingers hit the edge of the mattress instead.

Not your bed. Not your room. Not your apartment.

Jack’s guest room.

The thought came slowly, then all at once.

Jack’s guest room. Jack’s house.

The door was still halfway open, exactly the way he had left it. Not more. Not less. Halfway.

Your breath shuddered out of you, but it did not calm you down. The nightmare still clung to the edges of the room. Not clear enough to remember. Not vague enough to ignore. A hallway that stretched too long. A coffee cup sitting outside your door. A note tucked beneath the sleeve.

Please don’t shut me out.

A lock that would not turn.

Your own voice caught somewhere behind your teeth. You pushed yourself upright and pressed one hand to your chest like you could hold your heartbeat still by force. The house was quiet. Afternoon light slipped through the curtains in thin, pale lines. Your phone sat on the nightstand beside you, plugged into the extra charger Jack had put there because, apparently, his mortgage came with emergency preparedness and emotional damage.

You stared at it. No new texts. No missed calls.

Nothing from Trent.

The absence of him should have helped.

It did not.

Your mouth was dry, your throat tight, and your body had that awful leftover feeling of fear with nowhere to go. You threw the blanket back and swung your legs over the side of the bed. For one second, you sat there in the borrowed quiet, listening. 

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. No knock at the door. No coffee cup outside. 

Just the soft hum of Jack’s house settling around you.

Still, when you stood, you moved carefully. Like a loud enough step might change something. Like the house might stop being safe if you trusted it too quickly. You padded toward the hallway, then paused at the half-open door.

The hallway outside was empty.

The bathroom door stood open across from you. A folded towel still sat on the edge of the counter where Jack had left it. Your overnight bag was still on the chair. Your scrubs were folded over it for later, because apparently, even terrified and exhausted, you had packed like a nurse with a shift looming. Your throat tightened. Work. Later. Normal. You were supposed to go back to PTMC later and be normal. You almost laughed. Instead, you stepped into the hallway.

The house looked different in the afternoon.

Softer.

Less like a refuge and more like a place someone actually lived. Jack lived. That still felt strange. Not bad strange. Just real. Your feet carried you toward the kitchen before your brain caught up. Water. That was the mission. Water was simple. Water did not require thinking about Trent, or your apartment, or the way Jack had said, “Wake me up anyway”, like it was the easiest thing in the world to offer.

The living room came into view first.

You stopped.

Jack was on the couch.

A book rested open in one hand, though his eyes were already on you before you made it fully into the room. He sat with one leg stretched out along the couch, the other bent slightly, his free arm resting along the back cushion. He had changed out of his work clothes at some point, soft shirt and sweats instead of the layers he wore at PTMC.

His prosthetic rested near the end of the couch, within reach.

That detail caught in your chest for reasons you did not know what to do with.

Not because it was strange.

Because it was private. Because Jack always looked so assembled at work, so controlled, so impossible to catch unprepared. Seeing him like this, tired, barefoot, reading, existing in his own house with the pieces of his day set down around him, felt like stepping into a room you had not known he let anyone see.

He did not look rested. Not really. His face had the quiet, tired sharpness of someone who had slept in pieces, if at all.

You stood at the edge of the hallway. “You’re awake.”

Jack glanced down at the book like it had personally betrayed him. “Allegedly.”

Your brow furrowed. “You were supposed to sleep.”

Jack looked back at you. “So were you.”

You had no argument for that. Your fingers curled at your side. “I was getting water.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. Not clinically. Not exactly. Still too accurately.

“Nightmare?” he asked.

You looked toward the kitchen. “Water.”

Jack closed the book around one finger to hold his place. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“No,” you said. “But it was less embarrassing.”

Something softened in his expression. He did not push. He only nodded toward the kitchen. “Glasses are in the cabinet by the sink.”

You moved because standing still made you feel too visible. The kitchen was quiet and neat in the afternoon light. You opened the cabinet he had pointed to, took down a glass, and filled it from the sink. Your hand shook a little. Not badly.

Enough.

You watched the water rise and tried to make your breathing match it.

In. Out. In. Out.

You drank half the glass standing at the sink, then closed your eyes. Your apartment had been quiet too. Your hallway had been empty too. The coffee had still been warm. The thought hit without warning, sharp and ugly, and your fingers tightened around the glass.

From the living room, Jack’s voice stayed low. “You still with me?”

You opened your eyes. The window over the sink looked out over the side yard. Grass. Fence. Pale afternoon sun. No hallway. No coffee. No note.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Jack did not answer right away. When you turned, he was still watching you from the couch, the book lowered now. Not asking you to come closer. Not telling you to sit. Just there.

You came back into the living room with the glass in both hands.

Jack shifted slightly. “Sit down for a minute.” 

You glanced at the cushion beside him. “Dangerous invitation.”

His mouth moved faintly. You sat anyway. Not too close. Close enough. The couch dipped slightly under your weight. The room held the quiet differently now that you were beside him. The book rested against his thigh, one finger still tucked between the pages.

You nodded toward it. “Anything good?”

Jack looked at the cover. “No.”

You blinked. “You’re reading a bad book voluntarily?”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “It was nearby.”

You took another sip of water. “That’s bleak.”

Jack glanced at you. “It’s readable. Barely.”

You looked down at the glass and let your thumb trace the rim. A minute passed. Maybe two. The quiet did not hurt as much with him in it.

You said, “Did you sleep at all?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the book, but he was not reading anymore. “Some.”

You sighed. “That means no.”

“It means some,” Jack replied. 

You looked at him. “Jack.”

He sighed through his nose, then closed the book completely and set it on the coffee table. “Not much.”

Your chest tightened. “Because of me?”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “No.”

You looked at him. He looked back. Then his jaw shifted once. “Because I didn’t like the idea of not hearing you if you needed me.”

The words landed too quietly. Too honestly. You stared at him. Jack looked away first, his attention dropping to the book on the coffee table like it had become medically urgent.

You did not know what to do with that. With him awake on his couch in the middle of the afternoon because you were down the hall trying to sleep in his guest room. With the fact that he had told you to wake him and then stayed awake anyway. With the fact that the safest you had felt in days was not because the door locked from the inside.

It was because Jack was on the other side of it.

You swallowed. “That’s not sustainable.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’ve made worse choices.”

You took another sip of water. “Recently?”

Jack looked at you for half a second. Then he looked back at the book. “I’m still deciding.”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Small. Sleep-rough. Real.

Jack’s eyes softened when he heard it. You hated how much you noticed that now. 

You looked down at your glass. “You could have slept.”

Jack leaned back against the couch. “You could have woken me.”

You had no answer for that either. He let you have the silence. You drank the rest of your water slowly, then set the glass on the coffee table beside his book. You should have gone back to the guest room.

You knew that.

The adult thing would be to stand up, tell him you were fine, go lie down alone in the room he had given you, and try again.

Instead, you stayed.

Jack did not comment. He reached for the book again, opening it where his finger had marked the page. You watched him read for maybe thirty seconds before your body began to understand the room. The locked front door. The quiet house. The low sound of a page turning.

The steady presence beside you.

The fact that nothing was asking you to prove you were fine. Your shoulders lowered before you gave them permission. Jack noticed. He did not say anything. You leaned back against the couch and pulled your knees slightly toward yourself. Your eyes burned with exhaustion. Jack turned another page. The sound was small. Ordinary. Safe enough to make your chest ache. 

You did not mean to lean into him.

At least, not at first.

You only meant to shift. To get more comfortable. To let your shoulder rest somewhere that was not the back of the couch.

Then your shoulder brushed his.

Jack went still.

You were too tired to move away. For a second, neither of you said anything. Then Jack shifted just enough to make the contact easier instead of accidental. Your eyes closed.

“This okay?” Jack asked quietly.

You nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

His arm came around you slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. You didn’t. The book lowered against his thigh. Jack reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over both of you without making a thing of it.

You curled a little closer before you could stop yourself. Jack’s arm settled around you. Not possessive. Not assuming. Just there. 

Sometime between one page turning and the next, Jack’s chin came to rest lightly near the top of your head.

Not deliberate enough to be a move. Not distant enough to be nothing. Just tired. Just warm. Just there.

You should have been embarrassed. You probably would be later. But for now, your body was too relieved to make room for anything else. The house was quiet. The blanket was warm. Jack’s breathing was steady beneath your ear. For the first time in days, sleep did not feel like something waiting to punish you. It felt like somewhere to go. So you went.

The next thing you heard was an alarm.

Muffled. Persistent. Annoying in a way that felt almost normal.

You woke slowly, warm before you were fully aware of anything else. Warmth beneath your cheek. A blanket over your legs. An arm around your waist. Jack’s chin resting lightly near the top of your head. For one soft, dangerous second, you did not remember to be embarrassed. You only registered that you had slept. Actually slept. 

Then Jack shifted beneath you. Your eyes opened. His did too. Neither of you moved. The alarm kept vibrating on the coffee table.

Jack’s voice was rough with sleep. “That’s mine.”

You blinked up at him. “I figured.”

The alarm kept buzzing. Neither of you reached for it. 

Jack looked down at you, still not moving. “We should probably do something about that.”

You swallowed. “Probably.”

Still, for another second, neither of you moved. Your hand was curled loosely in the front of his shirt. His arm was still around you. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. You should have pulled away faster.

You did not.

Jack did not tighten his arm. He did not pull you closer. He only waited. Because of course he did. Because even waking up wrapped around you on his couch, Jack still somehow made the next move yours.

The alarm buzzed again.

You finally let out a breath and pulled back. Jack’s arm loosened immediately. Not like he wanted it to. Like he knew he should.

You sat up, dragging one hand over your face. “That was…”

Jack reached for his phone and silenced the alarm. “Unexpected.”

You looked at him. His shirt was rumpled where your hand had been. That felt like a crime.

You looked away. “Right.”

Jack sat up slowly, running a hand over his face. “You slept.”

You glanced at him. “So did you.”

His mouth moved faintly. “Medical miracle.”

You tried to smile. It worked better than you expected. Then you saw the time on his phone.

Your stomach dropped. “Is that your work alarm?”

Jack looked at the screen. “Yeah.”

You sat up straighter. “We have work.”

Jack tilted his head. “That is usually what the alarm indicates.”

You gave him a look.

His mouth barely moved. “Sorry. Reflex.”

You pushed the blanket off your lap and stood, suddenly too aware of the warmth you had just left behind. “I have to get ready.”

Jack stood too, slower than you, one hand braced briefly on the back of the couch. “Guest room’s yours.”

You looked toward the hallway, then back at him. For half a second, neither of you moved. His shirt was still rumpled where your hand had been. Your face warmed. Jack noticed. But he only reached for his prosthetic near the end of the couch and said, “Bathroom’s across the hall if you need it.”

You nodded too quickly. “Okay.”

Then you escaped down the hallway before either of you could say anything that would make the room feel smaller. Twenty minutes later, you were brushing your teeth in Jack’s bathroom with your clean scrubs folded on the closed toilet lid and your phone charging on his guest room nightstand.

It should have felt strange. It did. But not as strange as it should have been. That was the problem.

Jack knocked once on the bathroom doorframe without looking in. “Coffee?”

You leaned out with your toothbrush still in your mouth. “You’re making coffee?”

Jack stood in the hall in clean clothes, hair still slightly sleep-mussed, one hand braced on the doorframe like this was normal.

“I’m an adult with a mortgage,” Jack said.

You pointed your toothbrush at him. “That is still not a personality.”

His mouth curved. “You keep saying that.”

You ducked back inside before he could see your smile. By the time you made it to the kitchen, Jack had two travel mugs on the counter. One was yours. Or not yours.

Not really.

But he had made it the way you liked it. You stared at it.

Jack glanced over. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He watched you for half a second.

You picked up the mug. “Dangerously domestic.”

Jack reached for his keys. “It’s coffee.”

You took a sip. It was perfect. Just how you liked it. Your chest did something inconvenient. Jack noticed your smile. But this time, he let you have it. You followed him toward the front door with your work bag over your shoulder and his travel mug warm in your hand.

It should have felt temporary. A favor. A crisis plan. Instead, it felt like leaving for work together. Like routine. Like something you had no business wanting.

Jack opened the door and waited for you to step out first. You passed close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm. Neither of you commented on it. Neither of you moved away fast enough. And for one quiet, dangerous second, the whole thing felt normal. 

Then Jack locked the door behind you, checked it once, and nodded toward the truck.

“Come on,” Jack said. “We’re going to be late.”

You looked at him. “We are not.”

Jack glanced at you. “You say that like Lena won’t blame me anyway.”

You stepped down from the porch. “She will.”

“Exactly,” Jack replied. 

You laughed softly as you walked toward the truck.

It was supposed to be one night. Then two. Then three. No one said that out loud. You did not announce that you were staying at Jack’s house a little longer, and Jack did not announce that he had started leaving the porch light on when you were both working late.

It just happened.

One temporary decision became another. Your charger stayed plugged into the guest room nightstand. Your spare scrubs took over one drawer. A bottle of your face wash appeared beside his bathroom sink after you forgot it there twice, and Jack, with no comment at all, simply stopped putting it back in your bag. The guest room door stayed halfway open the first night. Mostly open the second.

By the third, Jack stood outside the doorway and asked, “Halfway?”

You looked at the door. Then at him. You said, “Open is fine.”

Jack did not smile. But his eyes softened enough that you had to look away. It should have felt strange. It did. At first. Then it started feeling strange for a different reason. Because you learned which mug Jack reached for when he was tired. Because he learned that you liked the blanket from the back of the couch more than the one in the guest room. Because he stopped asking if you wanted coffee and started making it. Because you stopped asking where things were. Because sometimes, when the house went quiet after shift, you ended up beside him on the couch again. Not curled into him the way you had that first afternoon. Not exactly. But close enough that your knees brushed beneath the blanket. Close enough that neither of you moved away. Close enough that the silence started feeling less like something you were surviving and more like something you were sharing.

You fought over the radio on the way to work. The first time, Jack reached for the dial before you had even buckled your seatbelt. You caught his wrist. “Absolutely not.”

Jack looked at your hand on him, then at you. “This is my truck.”

You kept your fingers around his wrist. “And yet I am the guest.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “That is not how vehicle ownership works.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “It is how hospitality works.”

Jack stared at you. You stared back. Then he let go of the dial with a sigh so theatrical it almost counted as a medical event. You picked the station. For three whole minutes, Jack said nothing.

Then “Bed Chem” by Sabrina Carpenter came on. Bright. Sweet.

Absolutely not subtle.

Jack’s eyes stayed on the road. His jaw shifted once. You turned toward the window because you could feel the smile coming, and you did not want to give him the satisfaction.

Jack said, “This is a wildly inappropriate song.”

You looked over at him. “It’s Sabrina Carpenter.”

Jack kept his eyes forward. “I know who it is.”

That surprised you enough to make your mouth fall open. “You know who Sabrina Carpenter is?”

Jack glanced at you. “I work with nurses.” You pressed your lips together. Jack looked back at the road. “And Ellis controls the music in trauma three when Lena isn’t paying attention.”

You nodded slowly. “Sure.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

You lifted your coffee. “I didn’t say anything.”

Jack’s voice stayed dry. “You were about to.” The song kept playing. Jack lasted another thirty seconds. Then he said, “The title alone should be an HR violation.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. Jack reached one hand toward the volume. You slapped his wrist away. His hand froze. So did yours. For one sharp second, your fingers rested over his skin. Then you pulled back as if the radio had burned you. Jack kept both hands on the wheel.

His voice went lower. “Careful.”

Your pulse kicked. You looked out the window. “I’m protecting the vibe.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You’re creating a hostile vehicle environment.”

You smiled into your coffee. Then, because apparently your sense of self-preservation had clocked out before you did, you hummed along under your breath. Jack went very still. Not his hands. Not the truck. Just him. You glanced over. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, but the tops of his ears had gone red.

Oh.

Oh, that was useful information.

So, naturally, you made it worse. You sang softly under your breath, “Come right on me, I mean, camaraderie—”

Jack’s hand tightened on the wheel. “Stop.”

You widened your eyes. “Stop what?”

Jack did not look at you. “Do not play innocent with me.”

You took another sip of coffee. “I’m enjoying the music.”

Jack’s voice stayed low. “You’re being a menace.”

You lowered your mug. “That feels accusatory.”

Jack glanced at you once. “It is.”

You hummed again, softer this time. Jack exhaled through his nose and adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered.

You pressed your mouth against the rim of your travel mug to hide your smile. Jack glanced at you once. Just once. His ears were still red. You had not felt this much like yourself in days. That made the laugh that escaped you small, bright, and almost startling. Jack looked back at the road before you could catch the look on his face for too long.

But you saw it anyway. The relief. The warmth. The awful, careful affection he kept pretending was something else. You hummed one more note just to be cruel.

Jack pointed at the windshield. “I am turning this truck around.”

You laughed harder. “We’re going to work.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Then I’m filing a report.”

You looked at him. “With HR?”

Jack kept his eyes on the road. “With Sabrina Carpenter.”

You fought over food, too. Jack made breakfast like it was a clinical intervention. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. A look that said he knew exactly how long you could go on caffeine and spite before your hands started shaking.

You retaliated on the fourth day by making pancakes.

Jack walked into the kitchen in sweats and a soft shirt, his prosthetic in place but his hair still sleep-mussed, and stopped dead at the sight of you standing at his stove. His eyes moved to the bowl. Then the pan. Then you.

Jack asked, “What are you doing?”

You poured batter into the pan. “Making pancakes.”

Jack looked at the stove. “In my kitchen.”

You nodded. “That is where you keep the stove.”

Jack stepped closer. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

You pointed the spatula at him. “You’re supposed to be sitting.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t agree to that.”

You flipped the first pancake with more confidence than you felt. “You don’t have to agree. You only have to comply.”

Jack stared at you for a second. Then his mouth curved. Barely. Dangerously. “You get bossy after a long shift.”

You kept your eyes on the pan. “You get controlling in the kitchen.”

Jack glanced around the room. “It’s my kitchen.”

You slid the pancake onto a plate. “And yet, you are going to sit at that table and let someone feed you for once.”

The words landed before you realized what they sounded like. Jack went quiet. Your face heated immediately. You looked at the pancake like it had betrayed you.

Jack’s voice came lower. “Is that right?”

Your hand tightened on the spatula. You forced yourself to look at him. “It’s pancakes.”

Jack held your gaze. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

The air shifted. Soft. Warm. Entirely too charged for eight in the morning and a pan full of batter.

You swallowed. “Sit down.”

Jack watched you for one more second. Then he pulled out a chair and sat. You turned back to the stove before your face could give you away. Jack leaned back in the chair. “For the record, I’m only doing this because you’re holding a weapon.”

You looked down at the spatula. “This?”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’ve seen you with worse.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “That sounded almost respectful.”

Jack folded his arms. “It was cautionary.”

You slid another pancake into the pan. “Same department.”

By the time you set a plate in front of him, Jack was watching you like you were the problem he had not decided how to solve. You set the syrup on the table. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Jack picked up his fork. “Like what?”

You sat across from him. “Like you’re trying to diagnose breakfast food.”

Jack cut into the stack. “I’m assessing risk.”

You lifted your fork. “They’re pancakes.”

Jack looked at you over the plate. “You’re in my kitchen making them after ordering me to sit down.”

You held his gaze for one second too long. Then you looked down at your plate. “Eat your pancakes.”

Jack did. And because he was Jack, he waited until you had taken your first bite to speak.

Jack said, “They’re good.”

You looked up. “Careful. That almost sounded like praise.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Don’t get greedy.”

There he was. There you were. There was the rhythm again.

You fought over television like it mattered. Jack refused anything involving people making bad choices in swimwear. You refused anything where men stood in warehouses explaining international finance.

Jack held the remote against his chest. “We are not watching Love Island.”

You sat on the other end of the couch with the blanket over your legs. “You don’t even know what it is.”

Jack gave you a flat look. “I know enough.”

You leaned toward him. “You know nothing.”

Jack lifted the remote out of reach. “I know there’s an island. And judging by your expression, limited critical thinking.”

You gasped. “That is so disrespectful to the villa.”

Jack looked pained. “The villa.”

You pointed at the television. “You have to respect the process.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “There is a process?”

You reached for the remote. “Yes. Give it to me.”

Jack moved the remote farther away. “No.”

You leaned across the couch. “Jack.”

Jack’s voice stayed firm. “No.”

You stretched farther, one hand braced on the cushion between you. “You made me watch a documentary about deep-sea salvage.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “It was educational.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It was forty minutes of men yelling about a chain.”

Jack nodded once. “You learned something.”

You pointed at him. “I learned I hate chains.”

Jack looked smug for half a second. “You didn’t respect the process.”

You froze. Jack realized his mistake at the same time you did. Your smile spread slowly. “Oh.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

You sat up straighter. “You said process.”

Jack shook his head. “I retract it.”

You reached again. “You can’t.”

Jack lifted the remote higher. “I can. I’m an attending.”

You shifted closer. “Not in this living room.”

Jack kept the remote high. “Especially in this living room.”

You lunged for it. Jack caught your wrist before you reached the remote. Not hard. Not rough. Just enough. Your breath caught. So did his. For one second, the whole room went still. Your hand was in his. Your knee pressed against his thigh beneath the blanket. The remote did not matter anymore.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

Only for a second. Less than that.

Your pulse jumped.

Jack let go first. Carefully. Like the contact had become something fragile. You sat back slowly. Jack lowered the remote to the cushion between you.

His voice came quieter. “One episode.”

You stared at the remote. Then at him. “One?”

Jack leaned back against the couch, jaw tight. “Do not make me regret this.”

You picked up the remote before he could change his mind. “You’re going to love it.”

Jack’s expression stayed grim. “I’m absolutely not.”

You settled back with the blanket. “You’re already invested.”

Jack looked at the screen. “I’m calling it clinical observation.”

Twenty minutes later, Jack pointed at the television. “That man is lying.”

You turned to him, delighted. “About what?”

Jack did not look away from the screen. “Everything.”

You clutched the blanket. “You’re learning.”

Jack’s expression stayed grave. “This is a public health issue.”

By the end of the episode, he knew everyone’s names and had opinions. Strong ones. 

You looked at him over the edge of the blanket. “You want another episode.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “I want resolution.”

You beamed. “That’s what they all say.”

Jack reached for the remote, then paused when his fingers brushed yours. This time, neither of you pulled away immediately. The television kept playing. The house stayed quiet around you. Jack looked at your hand. Then at you.

His voice was lower than it needed to be. “You’re trouble.”

You swallowed. “You keep saying that.”

Jack’s thumb moved once, barely there, against the side of your hand. “I keep being right.”

For a second, you forgot about the show. About the shift waiting later. About the guest room down the hall. Then Jack looked back at the screen, as if the moment had not cracked open between you. But his hand stayed close to yours on the couch. Close enough that your fingers almost touched for the rest of the episode. Close enough that both of you knew it.

Neither of you moved away.

You told yourself it was temporary.

Jack never asked you to call it anything else.

That was worse, somehow.

He gave you space. He gave you choices. He gave you pancakes, bad television, and a reason to laugh in his truck. He never made it feel like you owed him anything. Which made you want to give him things anyway. Your attention. Your trust. Your laughter in his kitchen at eight in the morning. The soft, dangerous part of yourself that had started looking for him before you looked for exits.

And then, on the sixth night, Trent came to PTMC.

You were at the nurses’ station when it happened, one hand wrapped around your coffee and the other scrolling through a medication reconciliation that had clearly been completed by someone with either no eyes or too much confidence.

Shen stood beside you, reviewing labs at the next workstation. Crus was restocking the trauma cart. Lena was at the digital board, tablet tucked against her side, expression already irritated by whatever the night had decided to become. Jack was across the station, speaking to a resident with the kind of quiet patience that meant there was very little patience left. It was normal.

Almost.

Then the ambulance bay doors opened.

No one looked up at first.

The doors opened all night. EMS came through with chest pain, falls, overdoses, shortness of breath, broken wrists, altered mental status, all the ordinary disasters that kept PTMC lit and moving while the rest of Pittsburgh slept. You did not look up until you heard your name. Not from Lena. Not from Jack.

From Trent.

Your whole body went cold before your brain caught up. You looked toward the ambulance bay. Trent stood just inside the doors in a dark jacket, his hair wind-tossed, his expression too relieved for someone who had no right to be relieved.

“There you are,” Trent said.

The words moved through the station like something dropped and breaking. Shen stopped typing. Crus went still beside the trauma cart. Lena’s head lifted slowly from the tablet.

Jack turned.

Trent took one step farther inside. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

For one second, you could not move. Not because you did not know what to do. Because your brain rejected the image of him there. In the ambulance bay. Under PTMC’s fluorescent lights. Standing in the place where stretchers came through and blood hit the floor and people called for help because help was supposed to live here.

He had no place here. He had no place here at all.

Lena’s voice cut through the station, flat and lethal. “Sir, you cannot be back here.”

Trent barely glanced at her. “I just need to talk to her.”

Jack moved before you did. Not in front of you. Not yet. Just closer. Close enough that you felt the shift of him at your side. Jack’s voice was low. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

Trent’s eyes flicked to Jack. Something bitter moved over his face. You forced your hand to loosen around your coffee before the lid gave.

You turned to Trent. “I told you not to contact me.”

Your voice shook. It still carried.

Trent looked back at you like you had hurt him. “You stopped answering.”

Lena reached for the phone at the desk. “Security to the ambulance bay.”

Trent’s gaze snapped to her. “Seriously?”

Lena’s expression did not change. “Immediately.”

Trent looked back at you, the wounded look sharpening into something uglier. “You’re really calling security on me?”

You set your coffee down carefully. Jack noticed your hand. He noticed everything.

You looked at Trent. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Trent laughed once, disbelieving and humorless. “I went by your place. You haven’t been there.”

The station went silent. Not actually. There were still monitors. Still phones. Still footsteps. But every person close enough to hear that sentence stopped the way people do when something becomes dangerous.

Jack went still beside you. Completely still. Lena’s face hardened. Crus’s hand tightened around the stack of flushes he was holding. Shen looked at Trent like he had become a problem with an obvious solution.

Your skin went cold.

You asked, “You went to my apartment?”

Trent’s mouth twisted. “You wouldn’t answer me.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Not because they were complicated. Because they were simple. Because in his mind, that explained it. Because in his mind, your silence had been a problem he was allowed to solve by showing up wherever you were.

Jack shifted closer. 

Trent’s eyes moved from you to Jack. Then back to you. His expression changed. Something bitter and ugly pulled across his face. “So this is why?”

You stared at him. “What?”

Trent looked Jack up and down. “You’re fucking this guy now?”

The air changed. Jack went very still beside you.

Trent’s mouth twisted. “What, are you a fucking slut now?”

Jack’s voice cut through the station, low and lethal. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Trent’s eyes jumped to him. “I’m not talking to you.”

Jack’s expression did not change. “No. You’re talking about her.”

Your chest tightened. Jack stayed beside you. Not in front of you. Not blocking your view. Not taking your answer away from you. Just close. Close enough that you could feel the restraint in him like heat.

Trent looked back at you. “So it is him.”

You forced air into your lungs. “This is not about him.”

Trent laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Right. Sure.”

You made yourself keep looking at him. “I told you I didn’t want to keep seeing you.”

Trent shook his head. “I thought three dates meant I deserved an actual conversation.”

You said, “I gave you an answer.”

Trent’s jaw tightened. “You stopped answering me.”

Jack’s voice stayed cold. “That was her answer.”

Trent looked at Jack. “Stay out of this.”

Jack did not move. “No.”

Trent took one step closer. It was small. Maybe someone else would have missed it. Jack did not. His hand lifted slightly at your side, not touching you, not holding you back. Just there. A warning. Then Jack moved. Calmly. Gently. Enough to put himself between you and Trent without shoving you backward or making it look like you had disappeared behind him. His shoulder angled in front of yours.

Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “That’s close enough.”

Trent scoffed. “What, are you her bodyguard?”

Jack held his gaze. “Today?” The silence went sharp. Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Yes.”

Trent’s eyes flicked past Jack’s shoulder to you. “You don’t get to just hide behind him.” 

You stepped to the side before Jack could answer. Jack did not stop you. He only turned his head enough to track you, his body still angled between yours and Trent’s.

You said, “I’m not hiding.”

Your voice shook. You hated that it shook. But it did not break.

Trent’s face twisted. “Then talk to me.”

You held his stare. “I am.”

Jack stayed quiet. Lena stayed quiet.

Everyone let your voice have the room.

You looked at Trent. “I’m telling you to leave me alone.”

Trent took another step forward.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Stop.”

Trent ignored him.

His hand shot out toward your arm.

Jack moved so fast you barely registered it.

One second, Trent’s fingers were reaching for you. The next, Jack had his wrist in one hand, twisted down and away from your body with a clean, brutal efficiency that made Trent suck in a sharp breath. The whole station froze. Jack did not shove him. Did not hit him. Did not raise his voice. He only held Trent exactly where he was, close enough for Trent to understand how easily it could get worse.

Jack’s voice was quiet. “Try to touch her again.”

Trent’s face had gone pale.

Jack leaned in by half an inch. His voice dropped lower. “See what fucking happens.”

Your breath caught.

Trent tried to jerk his arm back. “Get off me.”

Jack’s grip did not change. “Gladly.”

He released Trent’s wrist with a controlled push that sent him back one step, not enough to make him fall. Enough to make the point.

Jack shifted back into place beside you. Not in front of you this time. Beside you. Close enough to intervene. Far enough that your voice still had room.

Jack’s eyes never left Trent. “You’re done.”

Your hands were shaking now. You could feel it. You let them. You looked at Trent, at the anger and embarrassment twisting across his face, and something in you settled. Not calmly. Not cleanly. But enough.

You said, “You do not text me again.”

Trent’s jaw tightened.

You kept going. “You do not come to my apartment. You do not come to my work. You do not leave things for me.”

Jack stayed silent beside you. You took one breath. Then another. Your voice steadied. “You do not contact me again.”

Trent laughed once, ugly and desperate. “You’re really doing this over coffee and a couple of notes?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Jack’s attention flicked to you.

You held Trent’s stare. “I already told the police.”

Trent’s face changed. Just slightly. Enough.

You kept going. “The texts. The rose. The coffee at my apartment. The notes. All of it.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

You said, “You do this again, they know.”

Jack went very still beside you. Not because he was surprised. Because he heard it too. The difference. You were still scared. Your voice still shook. But you were not asking anyone else to say it for you.

Trent’s jaw worked. “You’re making me sound like some kind of criminal.”

You lifted your chin. “You did that.”

Security came through the ambulance bay doors before Trent could answer.

Mark was first, another officer right behind him. Lena pointed toward Trent without looking away from him. “He needs to leave.”

Trent looked at security, then back at you. “Are you serious?”

You held his stare. “Yes.”

Mark stepped closer. “Sir, you need to come with us.”

Trent’s laugh came out thin. “This is insane.”

Jack stood beside you, silent and still.

Trent looked at you. “You’re really doing this?”

You held his stare. “Yes.”

Trent’s face flushed. “Of course you are.”

Mark moved between Trent and the rest of the station. “Sir.”

Trent took one step back, but his eyes stayed on you. “You’re making a mistake.”

Your stomach turned. Jack shifted beside you. You forced yourself to breathe.

Then you said, “No. I’m done making room for yours.”

Trent’s mouth opened.

Lena’s voice cut across the station. “Walk.”

Mark gestured toward the ambulance bay doors. “Now.”

For a second, Trent looked like he might argue again. Then his gaze flicked around the station. Lena at the desk. Shen near the patient room. Crus by the trauma cart. Ellis with a tablet still in her hand. Jack beside you. Witnesses everywhere. Good. Let there be witnesses.

Trent’s jaw worked once. Then he turned and let security guide him toward the ambulance bay doors. He looked back over his shoulder before they reached the threshold. “You didn’t have to make it like this.”

Your hands shook harder. You let them. Mark pushed the door open. The second officer stepped behind Trent. Then the ambulance bay doors slid shut after them.

For a moment, no one moved. The ED sounds came back slowly. A monitor alarm from room three. A phone ringing near registration. The digital board refreshed overhead. Someone asking for a warm blanket down the hall.

The world, continuing.

Your body did not seem to understand that the confrontation was over. Your pulse was still racing. Your hands were still shaking. Your throat still felt too tight.

Jack turned toward you, but he did not touch you. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not without asking. His voice was quiet. “Look at me.”

You did. Barely.

Jack’s face was controlled, but his eyes were not. Not completely.

Jack said, “You did good.” 

Your breath caught. You shook your head once. “I was shaking.”

Jack held your gaze. “You still said it.”

That landed somewhere deep enough to hurt.

Lena stepped closer, tablet tucked against her side. “I’m going to document this with security.”

You nodded, but the motion felt disconnected from the rest of you. “Okay.”

Lena’s eyes softened by a fraction. “You don’t need to do anything else right now.”

Shen’s voice came from near room three. “I can take room seven.”

Ellis looked at you from behind the desk. “Do you need anything?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Jack saw it happen. He looked at Lena. “I’m taking her somewhere quiet for a minute.”

Lena nodded immediately. “Consult room two is empty.”

Jack looked back at you. “Okay?”

The question nearly undid you. Not because it was complicated. Because after everything, he was still asking. You nodded. “Okay.”

Jack moved with you toward the hall. Close. Steady. Not touching. But there. 

Consult room two was empty. Jack stepped in after you and closed the door. The click sounded too loud. For a second, you stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes fixed on the floor. Then your body seemed to realize Trent was gone. Your hands started shaking harder.

Jack saw it immediately. “Sit down.”

You almost argued. Your knees shook before you could. You sat in the chair against the wall and pressed your palms against your thighs. Jack stayed in front of the door for a moment, jaw tight, eyes on you. Still not touching. Still giving you room. You hated that you needed it. You hated more that he knew.

Jack’s voice came low. “Breathe.”

You let out a broken laugh. “I am.”

Jack gave you a look. “Barely.”

You dragged in air. It caught halfway down. Jack did not move closer until you managed another breath. Then he crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, far enough away that you did not feel trapped, close enough that you did not feel alone.

You stared down at your hands. “I wanted to hide behind you.”

Jack did not answer too fast. When he did, his voice was quiet. “I know.”

Your throat tightened. You looked up at him. “I wanted you to handle it.”

Jack held your gaze. “I know.”

“I hated that,” you said.

Jack’s brow pulled in. “Why?”

Your hands trembled against your thighs. “Because I wanted him to hear me.” Jack’s expression shifted. You swallowed hard. “I wanted him to see me say it.”

Jack’s answer came steady. “He did.”

Your eyes burned.

Jack looked at you like he needed you to hear him. “You told him no.”

Your mouth pressed tight.

Jack said, “You told him not to text you. Not to come to your apartment. Not to come here. Not to leave things for you.”

You blinked hard. For a second, the room blurred. Not badly. Not all the way. Just enough. 

You whispered, “I was shaking.”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “You still said it.”

You looked away. The words hit somewhere tender. Somewhere tired. Somewhere that had been waiting for permission to believe that being scared had not ruined the moment. Jack stayed quiet. He let you have it. The silence. The shaking. The proof that you had done it anyway. Then your eyes dropped to his hand. The one that had caught Trent’s wrist. His fingers flexed once at his side.

You asked, “Are you okay?”

Jack’s eyebrows drew together. “Am I okay?”

You nodded toward his hand. “You moved so fast.”

Jack looked down at his hand like he had forgotten it belonged to him. Then his jaw tightened.

“He reached for you,” Jack said.

The words came out flat. Hard. You looked back at him. Jack’s eyes were darker now, his control pulled so tight it looked almost calm. Almost.

“He reached for you,” Jack said again, quieter this time. “And I was so fucking angry.”

Your chest tightened. Jack did not look away from you. He did not soften it. He did not soften it. He did not dress it up. He just said it.

“I know what I did,” Jack said. “I know I moved fast. I know I grabbed him hard.”

Your pulse beat in your throat.

Jack’s voice stayed low. “I’d do it again.”

You breathed in.

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “He doesn’t get to put his hands on you.”

The words landed with a weight that made your whole body go still. Not because they scared you. Because they didn’t. Because Jack’s anger did not feel like something loose in the room. It felt like a locked door. Like a line drawn in concrete. Like a promise he had no intention of making pretty.

You said, “He didn’t.” Jack held your gaze. You added, softer, “He didn’t touch me.”

Jack’s face changed. Barely. Enough. You knew what he was thinking. Because he had gotten there first. Because he had made sure of it. Because he was still crouched in front of you with that fury sitting under his skin, trying to turn itself into something useful. Jack looked down for half a second. For a moment, neither of you moved. The ED carried on beyond the door. Muffled footsteps. A monitor alarm. Lena’s voice somewhere down the hall. The world still happening around the small, dim room where Jack was looking at you like he had almost lost something he did not know how to name.

Then he breathed out through his nose and stood. Not abruptly. Not distancing. Just because staying crouched there, looking at you like that, was starting to become something neither of you were ready to touch.

Jack looked toward the door. “I’m going to get you water.”

You huffed out a weak laugh. “That’s your big emotional follow-up?”

Jack glanced back at you. His mouth barely moved. “Hydration matters.”

Something in your chest loosened. Not all the way. Enough. You looked down at your hands. They were still shaking. But less now.

You said, “Okay.”

Jack opened the door, then paused. He looked back at you one more time.

His voice came quiet. “You did good.”

Your eyes burned. You whispered, “Jack.”

His expression softened by a fraction. Then he said, “You did.”

He stepped back into the noise of the ED before you could answer him.

For a few seconds, you stayed exactly where you were. Sitting in consult room two. Hands still trembling faintly against your thighs. Breath still uneven. Jack’s words sitting in the room with you like he had left them there on purpose.

You did.

Not you tried. Not you survived because he was there.

You did.

Your eyes burned harder. You pressed your palms into your thighs and bent forward slightly, breathing through it until the worst of the shake passed. 

Outside the door, PTMC kept moving. A monitor alarm. Lena’s voice somewhere near the desk. The low rumble of Jack answering someone in the hall. Life continuing, whether you were ready or not.

A soft knock came a moment later. You lifted your head. The door opened just enough for Jack to step back in with a bottle of water in one hand. He looked at you first. Not your hands. Not the floor.

You.

Then he held out the bottle. “Drink.”

You took it from him. “Bossy.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Observant.”

You twisted the cap off with unsteady fingers. You took a sip. The water was cold. It helped.

Jack leaned one shoulder against the wall near the door. “Lena’s handling the security report.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jack continued, “Mark’s going to document that Trent entered through the ambulance bay and attempted to grab you.”

Your stomach tightened.

Jack’s voice stayed even. “You don’t have to give a full statement tonight unless you want to.”

You looked down at the bottle. “I should.”

Jack watched you carefully. “Should because you want it documented, or should because you think you have to prove something?”

Your throat tightened again. You hated how fast he found the bruise. “Both.”

Jack nodded once, like that was an answer he respected. “Then we’ll do it with Lena.”

You looked up. “We?”

His expression did not change. “If you want.”

Something in your chest loosened. Not all the way. Enough.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack pushed off the wall. “Okay.”

You stood slowly. Your legs felt steadier than you expected. Not steady. Steadier.

Jack opened the door but waited for you to walk through first. The ED looked the same when you stepped back into it. That was the strangest part. The board still glowed overhead. Someone had spilled coffee near the printer.

Crus was arguing quietly with a supply cabinet that refused to close. Shen was in room seven, listening to the teenage wrist patient explain that his pain was “basically a nine if you thought about it emotionally.”

Ellis looked up from behind the desk and gave you a small, careful smile. Lena stood near the workstation with Mark from security, tablet in hand. No one stared. No one rushed you. No one made the room feel like a stage again.

You loved them a little for that.

Lena looked at you. “Ready?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack stayed at your side. Not too close. Close enough. The statement took fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Time moved strangely while you explained everything in order. The texts. The rose. The note. The coffee. The apartment. The ambulance bay. Trent’s hand reaching for you.

Jack’s jaw tightened at that part, but he said nothing.

Not until Mark asked if Jack was willing to provide his own statement about physical contact.

Jack’s answer came immediately. “Yes.”

Mark nodded. “I’ll follow up before the end of shift.”

Jack said, “Good.”

Lena finished typing, then looked at you over the tablet. “I’m sending this to admin and attaching it to the security report.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Lena’s voice softened just enough for you to hear it. “You did everything right.”

Your eyes burned again. You swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Lena held your gaze for half a second longer. Then she looked at Jack. “Take five.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “I did.”

Lena’s expression flattened. “Take another.”

Jack looked like he wanted to argue. Lena stared at him.

Jack sighed through his nose. “Fine.”

For the first time all night, something almost like a laugh moved through your chest. It did not quite make it out. But Jack glanced at you like he heard it anyway.

The rest of the shift passed in pieces. A discharge. A chest pain workup. A kid with croup whose mother cried with relief when the breathing treatment finally helped. A drunk man who kept insisting he knew Shen from college. 

Shen looked at him over the top of the tablet. “You do not.”

The man squinted. “You sure?”

Shen tapped the screen. “Deeply.”

Normal kept trying to come back. Not all at once. Not cleanly. But in fragments. A joke from Ellis. Crus dropping a pack of saline flushes and swearing under his breath. Lena pressing a granola bar into your hand without discussion. Jack catching your eye from across the station every so often, just long enough to check. Just long enough for you to answer without words.

Still here. Still standing. Still breathing.

By the time the shift finally ended, exhaustion had settled into your bones. Not the soft kind. The heavy kind. The kind that made every movement feel slightly delayed. You stared at yourself in the staff bathroom mirror and did not know what expression you expected to find there. You looked tired. You looked like someone who had been scared. You looked like someone who had said no anyway.

When you stepped out, Jack was waiting near the staff exit with his jacket on and his keys in one hand. He looked as tired as you felt.

Maybe worse.

His eyes moved over your face. “Ready?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Neither of you said much on the way to the truck. The morning air was cold enough to bite. Jack walked on the outside of the sidewalk without making a point of it. You noticed anyway. He unlocked the truck before you reached it, then opened the passenger door.

You looked at him. “I can open a door.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I know.”

You slid into the seat. He closed the door once you were in, then walked around to the driver’s side. The ride back to his house was quiet. No radio fight. No Sabrina Carpenter. No teasing him about the villa. Just the low hum of the engine and the city moving gray and tired around you.

You watched Jack’s hands on the wheel. Steady. Controlled. Tight. At one red light, his thumb tapped once against the leather. Then stopped. You looked out the window before he could catch you noticing.

His porch light was on when he pulled into the driveway. Of course it was. Jack killed the engine. Neither of you moved right away. The house sat quiet in front of you, warm light spilling over the porch steps, the kind of ordinary thing that should not have made your throat ache.

Jack’s voice came low. “I’d like you to stay tonight.”

You looked at him.

He kept his eyes on the house. “Just in case he’s stupid enough to show up at your place.”

There it was. The reason. The practical one. The safe one. The one both of you could hold without looking too closely at everything underneath it.

You nodded. “Okay.” 

Jack’s gaze shifted to you then, like he had expected an argument. You were too tired to give him one. 

“Just in case,” you added softly. 

Something moved across his face. Then it was gone. Jack nodded once. “Just in case.”

Inside, the house was quiet. Still. Too still after the ED. Jack locked the door behind you, then checked the deadbolt. Then checked it again. He set his keys on the counter and looked toward the kitchen, as if the next step had to be useful or he would not know what to do with his hands.

“Water?” Jack asked.

You leaned against the edge of the island. “I’m okay.”

Jack looked at you. You sighed. “Yes.”

His mouth barely moved. He got you a glass. You took it because both of you needed him to have something to do. For a minute, there was only the sound of water running. The cabinet opening. The glass being set on the counter in front of you. You wrapped both hands around it. Jack stayed on the other side of the island. Too far.

Not physically.

Not really.

But farther than he had been all week.

You looked at the counter between you. Then at him. He was watching you with that same careful expression. The one he used when he was choosing every word before it could become a problem.

You asked, “What?”

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Nothing.”

You gave him a tired look. “Jack.”

His eyes held yours. For a second, he still said nothing. Then his hand flexed once against the counter.

Jack said, “When he reached for you tonight—”

He stopped. The sentence broke there. Your breath caught. Jack looked down, mouth tight, like he hated that he had started it at all. You waited. You did not rescue him from the silence.

After a moment, Jack looked back at you. His voice was quiet. “I was so fucking angry.”

The words landed harder here. In his kitchen. Under the soft light. Without the ED around them to swallow the edges. 

You swallowed. “I know.”

Jack shook his head once. “No.”

Your fingers tightened around the glass.

His voice stayed rough. “No, you don’t.”

The space between you changed. Not suddenly. Not loudly. But enough that you felt it in your ribs. Jack looked at you like there was more. Like whatever came next was sitting behind his teeth, dangerous and heavy and too honest for the hour.

You set the glass down. The sound was small.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. Then back to your face. You stepped around the island. He went still. You stopped in front of him, close enough now that you could see the exhaustion in his face, the restraint, the anger still buried there with nowhere safe to go.

You said softly, “He didn’t touch me.”

Jack’s expression tightened.

You added, “Because you were there.”

His eyes closed for half a second. When he opened them again, he looked wrecked. Quietly. Carefully. In the way Jack always seemed to break inward first.

Your hand lifted before you thought better of it.

You stopped just short of touching him.

Jack looked at your hand. Then at you.

Neither of you moved.

The whole house seemed to hold its breath.

Your fingers brushed his shirt. Barely. Just enough.

Jack inhaled. You looked up at him.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Less than that.

Enough.

Your heart kicked hard.

Jack’s hand came up slowly, like he was giving himself every chance to stop.

His fingers hovered near your jaw. Not touching. Asking without words. You did not move away. His fingertips brushed your cheek. Careful. Almost nothing.

Everything.

Your breath caught.

 Jack heard it. His thumb moved once, barely there, and the room tilted.

You whispered, “Jack.”

His name sounded different here. Not like a warning. Not like a plea. Like permission neither of you knew what to do with.

Jack leaned in.

So did you.

For one suspended second, there was no Trent. No ED. No waiting for impact.

Just Jack’s hand near your face, your fingers curled lightly into his shirt, and the soft, impossible distance left between you.

Then Jack stopped.

Not far.

His mouth was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

But he stopped.

His eyes shut. “Fuck,” Jack whispered.

The word was quiet. Ragged.

He pulled back slowly, like every inch had to be earned.

Your hand fell from his shirt.

The loss of contact hurt more than it should have.

You looked at him, embarrassed before you could stop yourself. “I’m sorry. I —”

Jack’s eyes opened immediately. “No.”

You froze.

His voice came rough. “Don’t apologize.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack looked at you like the apology had hurt him more than the almost-kiss. “Not for that.”

Your fingers curled at your side.

He dragged a hand over his face, then dropped it again like he did not trust himself with it.

“I want to,” Jack said.

Your breath caught.

His jaw flexed once. Jack’s voice dropped. “That’s the problem.”

You stared at him. He looked toward the hall, then back at you, fighting himself with every controlled breath.

“Not tonight,” Jack said.

You swallowed.

His voice softened without losing its edge. “Not after what happened. Not when part of the reason you came here was because you were scared.”

You found your voice. “That’s not the only reason I’m here.”

Jack’s expression changed. Barely. Enough.

You almost said more. You almost said too much.

But Jack shook his head once, gentle and firm at the same time.

“I know,” Jack said.

The words landed between you. Quiet. Certain. More devastating than if he had argued.

He looked at you like he did know. Like that was exactly why he had to leave the room. Jack stepped back. Not coldly. Not far. Just enough to put air where his body had almost been.

His voice came quieter. “Guest room’s yours.”

You nodded because there was nothing else to do with everything sitting in your throat. Jack reached for his keys, then stopped himself, like he had forgotten he was already home. For some reason, that almost broke you.

He looked at the deadbolt. Then at you.

“You wake me up if you hear anything,” Jack said.

You nodded. “I know.”

His mouth barely moved. “I mean it.”

You looked at him. “I know.”

For a second, he stayed there. Then Jack nodded once and turned toward the hall. He made it three steps before stopping. His back was to you. His shoulders rose with one slow breath.

Then he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Your throat tightened. You whispered, “Me too.”

Jack did not turn around. Maybe because he heard too much in it. Maybe because you did. He only nodded once. Then he went to his room and closed the door halfway. Not all the way.

Halfway.

The guest room door was open when you stepped inside. Your charger waited on the nightstand. Your bag sat near the dresser. Your spare scrubs were still folded in the drawer. All the evidence of a temporary arrangement that had started to look dangerously like belonging.

You changed slowly. Washed your face. Brushed your teeth.

Moved through the little routine like your body knew where things were now.

Because it did.

When you climbed into bed, you left the door open.

Across the hall, Jack’s door stayed halfway open too.

The house settled around you. Quiet. Locked. Lit at the edges by the porch light he had left on before either of you came home.

You stayed because Trent might come back.

That was the reason. The one you both used. The one that made sense.

But long after the lights went dim and the house went still, you lay awake with the almost-kiss burning softly beneath your skin. 

And you knew it was not the only reason.

But Robby's romance with Heather fizzled out in the way that all of Robby's romances did. And Jack really didn't have time to concern himself with how his best friend went through women. Sometimes he would think about it in the lull around 1am on the nightshift. Was Robby running away from something rather than towards something with these women? Sometimes he would mention it to his therapist who would peer at him over the frames of her glasses.

"Is that what you really want to talk about right now, Jack?" she would query, and he would simply shake his head.

All this to say, Jack Abbot never had an issue with being professional with his residents. He likes training them up, he had overseen John Shen and Parker Ellis, who chose to stick around on the PTMC night shift. He likes nights, has ever since his wife passed away a decade ago. He used to fight with Robby about who would work day shifts, and then, after he came back to work, he asked Adamson if he could swap to nights permanently. No one questioned it. How could they? Jack had lost his wife and his unborn child.

Romance was not the top of Dr Jack Abbot's list. He had experienced it. And he had no intention of getting on the apps or dating or any of that shit. Anyway, his work schedule wasn't really compatible with dating.

"Brother?"

The voice shakes him from his thoughts. He turns and sees Robby approaching him across the roof.

"Rough night?" his friend asks as he leans against the railing.

Jack just shakes his head. Honestly, it hasn't been. He has no excuse to be up here watching the city of Pittsburgh awaken.

"Just needed to clear my head," he confesses before letting Robby bring him back downstairs.

Robby doesn't question why his friend needs to clear his head. He's been there. They've all been there. This place can suffocate you if you let it. He knows that all too well.

Unfortunately, Robby has no idea that the reason why Jack's head has been spinning isn't some disaster, some rough night, some difficult case. No, the reason why Jack has needed to take walks, take deep soothing breaths and avoid spending time in the on-call room is because of a new intern.

You are currently speaking to Trinity Santos and Samira Mohan, catching up on what has happened. You're currently on your night shift rotation after joining PTMC in the summer. Straight out of med school. You hug Mel when she appears, a little later than the other two. She had to drop her sister at her care facility, and there was an issue. You nod sympathetically as she rambles, before you place a hand on her arm to remind her to take a breath.

Jack is very aware of how much younger you are than him. He is very aware that he is your Attending, your mentor, your teacher. He is someone you look up to...literally. And you look at him through your lashes when he explains something to you he can feel his cock stir in interest. And he feels like a dirty old man. He cannot be doing this.

He would get in so much trouble!

Anyway, a pretty, young thing would never be interested in an old guy like him. So he shakes off his thoughts. He tries not to dream about the way you would squirm under him. He tries not to fist his cock, thinking about you as soon as he gets home from the shifts he shares with you.

You always ask him to walk you through every new procedure. It's something he usually does with the residents, regardless. But he can think of a thing or two that he would rather talk you through instead. You always move so close to him when he has to guide you, he can smell the perfume you always wear to your shift. He can feel the heat radiating from your body and he wants to touch you desperately.

"Dr Abbot," you call, catching him in his thoughts. "Will we do rounds before we get caught helping these guys out again?"

You never mind staying a little bit longer if it got busy in the mornings. You want a good evaluation at the end of the year, of course, from both Dr Robinavitch and Dr Abbot.

Jack blinks as he watches your open and eager face, just waiting for him to give you a command. Instead, he simply nods his head and leads you, Santos, Mohan, and Mel around the beds.

You manage to clock out and change out of your scrubs just after 7:30am. Not bad! You are fumbling with the zipper of your jacket as you walk out of the changing rooms when you walk straight into your Attending, Jack Abbot.

You are counting down the weeks until you're back on days. Dr Jack Abbot seems to hate you. And you can't understand why. Samira and Victoria had both told you that Dr Abbot was so much nicer than Robby. He rarely ever yells and he talks you through procedures, every step. He has a very different teaching style than Robby. But while Robby is always there to help you go through your charts, Abbot avoids you like a plague. He never wants to be around you it would seem.

He is only there when he needs to be. And usually, he's handing you off to Shen when the other Attending is on. You really have no clue what you did to make Abbot hate you like this.

You've worked your ass off to get here. Top of your class in pre-med and med school. That's why you got your first pick of this specific Emergency Department. It's one of the best in the country! In fact, you attended lectures both Robby and Abbot held when you were in college. This was it for you! And Robby always sang your praises.

You refused to have all your hard work get thrown away because your Night Shift Attending hates your guts.

You look up at him through your lashes when you bump into him. He grips your biceps to stop you from stumbling backwards. He's looking down at you, unimpressed, with his chin jutting out. God he hates you.

"S-Sorry, Doctor Abbot," you breathe. "I'll see you tomorrow...or I guess tonight."

He just nods and releases you. You miss how he flexes his hands after touching you just for the briefest moment. And you certainly don't know that he'll fantasise about that interaction in his shower later that morning.

No, you're convinced he hates you and it couldn't be further from the truth.

You trudge back into PTMC that night, 7pm sharp and Matteo is quick to hand you a Red Bull.

"My angel," you say with a smile as you crack it open immediately. It's going to be a long one. Especially when you see Jack Abbot round the corner and crack his neck.

Oh God. Was he coming over to yell at you? Did you do something wrong last night? But no, he ignores you entirely. And somehow that is worse.

You actually don't interact with Dr Abbot until about 2am when you have to help with a trauma. It's stressful, and you feel like your legs are going to collapse from under you.

"That's it, kid," he praises you, walking you through the procedure that has you wrist deep in a man's chest. "That's it. Just like that. Almost there, kid."

It's a nickname that is reserved only for you. He never hears him call any of the other interns, well Santos, that.

"That's it," he breathes again, his hot breath tickling your neck as he watches your every manoeuvre. "That's it. Good girl."

Your eyes flick up to meet his gaze. He's watching you with his chin tilted up just so, making your breathing hitch for just a second. You shake your head and focus back on your patient.

When Dr Walsh finally comes down to bring the patient up to the OR, you are on the brink of tears.

"Good job, kid. You just saved that man's life," Abbot tells you, giving you a half smile.

Your body is trumming with adrenaline. That is the only reasonable explanation for why you do what you do.

You turn to your Attending and throw your arms around him in a tight hug.

Jack freezes. He never expected to be this close to you, having your smaller frame wrapped around him. And his heart is thumping. He is willing, no demanding, his cock to behave. It's not long before you realise what you've done and jump away.

"Sorry! Sorry!" you repeat before pulling off your gown and gloves and rushing off.

Jack calms his breathing, tells Lena he's taking fifteen and heads up to one of the abandoned wards. He should not but doing this as he locks the door to one of the rooms. But it's not even five minutes later that his cock is loose and he is stroking himself thinking of you. He can still smell you on his skin. Even that brief interaction drove him mad. He swears as he cums in his hand, catching his load so it doesn't spill onto his scrubs. He can't go back down like that.

He takes a walk up and down the hall before going back down and finishing off his shift. As soon as Robby walks in, Jack ambushes him.

"Can we talk?" he asks.

Robby looks at his friend with weary eyes. He hasn't even had a second to put his bag down. But he allows it, letting Abbot bring him into the breakroom.

"I was thinking of releasing the Kid back to days," Jack says simply, busying himself by making coffee.

This surprises Robby, who leans against the countertop.

"She hasn't finished her rotation. It's her intern year, it's important that she completes everything," he reminds Jack.

Jack sniffs, twisting his mouth to the side and nods.

"Yep, but we run a tight ship here. And I think you need more hands on Day Shift. Anyway, no need to fuck up a good cicidian rhythm for the sake of rules," he says with a hand wave.

Robby watches the way his friend moves. Jack is usually all about eye contact, to an unnerving degree but Robby cannot catch the shorter man's eye this morning. And finally the pieces click into place.

"She's very young, Jack," he crows, a triumphant smirk on his face.

Finally something, or someone, has penetrated Jack's walls.

"I am aware, Robby. That is why I am asking you to do me a solid and remove her from the rotation," he grits out, finally meeting his friend's smirk.

While Robby agrees, neither man realises you are outside. You had made your way over after Langdon showed you another video of Penny crawling to grab your lunchbox. But all you heard was how your Attending was asking the Chief of the ED to do him a "solid" and get you kicked off night shift.

You turn on your heel and leave before anyone can stop you, lunchbox be damned.

You're dreading your next shift. You change into your scrubs slowly, you tie your hair back and finally make your way onto the ward. You tug at the sleeves of your grey undershirt and frown when your gaze lands on Abbot.

He nods at you, motioning for you to follow him. And you do. He walks you into an empty room and pulls the curtain.

"I know, you want me off nights," you say before he can start. You don't need to hear the whole song and dance from your boss who clearly hates you.

"Kid," he begins, but you shake your head.

"Don't call me kid. I'm not...I'm a good doctor. I'm still learning, I work so hard. I've never had any issues with any of the Attendings. So I'm really sorry that I have offended you in whatever way I have," you snap.

Jack sighs, "You can finish your shift and start back with Robby on Monday."

You nod and storm off, tears thick on your lashes. You have to take a few minutes to cool down before you start working.

You manage to avoid Jack Abbot for almost six months. Even when you have a double shift scheduled, Jack is always off. You do your rounds with Shen. He chuckles and shakes his head as you actively avoid dealing with the older man.

"He's not that bad," Shen says one night with a sparkle in his eyes.

"Uh huh," you say as you take the decaf iced coffee Shen has started to bring in for you when you're doing handover. "Not like he got me kicked off night shift."

"You really didn't wanna be stuck with us," Shen responds with a smile.

You roll your eyes. It's true, you didn't plan on staying on night shift permanently. But it was part of the job! You're concerned that his cutting your rotation short will affect your progress in your intern year! You grumble about it to Santos at least once a week.

At one point, she suggests you just "kiss and make up," and you throw a chest tube at her.

But one evening, you get a call from a very desperate Shen, Parker called out sick and they are scrambling for someone.

"Can't someone work a double?" you grouse.

You really, really don't want to work with Abbot. Not tonight! You've just gotten home from a day out with friends. Your hair is carefully curled and you even have makeup on. Something that rarely happens when you go to work. So your grumbling as you walk into the Pitt.

"It better be a quiet night," you point at Shen as you walk in with your bag slung over your shoulder.

Jack Abbot's eyes flick up when he hears your voice. He wasn't expecting to see you. And you take his breath away. Moreso than you do when you're running around the hospital in your scrubs that fit just a little too well. You're not even wearing anything fancy, just jeans and a form fitting tank top. That is worse than the scrubs. He swallows thickly trying not to swallow his tongue.

"Jack?" Lena is saying, following his gaze, before smirking to herself.

The only person that is oblivious to how Jack really feels about you is, well, you.

He shakes his head and returns to his chart and lets Lena walk him through what he's missed. But it's not long before you're back out on the floor, changed into your scrubs with your hair tied back now. But Jack can't stop tracking your every movement.

You're sure you've jinxed yourself when you demand a quiet night, but all things considered, you're not run off your feet. Until 5am rolls around and a crash comes in. It's tough and you just can't manage to figure out how to stop the internal bleeding.

"Hey! Look at me," Jack all but growls at you. "You need to focus. Breathe and fuckin' focus, kid."

You try, you fucking try your best but none of it matters. Doctor Park comes in and take up to OR but they lose him on the table. And it's your fault. You should have been able to stop the bleeding!

You're worked up and the day shift is slowly starting to trickle in so you climb up to the abandoned ward on the eighth floor. You just need to breathe. To think. And not have Dr Abbot watching every move you make, waiting for you to fuck up. Again.

You're pacing back and forth, trying to stop the tears that are threatening to overtake you from flowing down your face. And then you spot his shadow in the doorway.

"Kid?" Jack Abbot's husky voice asks.

He didn't plan to run into you. Obviously, he would rather avoid it, but he had seen movement when he was on his way to the roof to take a breather. He didn't want some lawsuit on his ass because he had ignored a squatter. But worse it was the intern he has been successfully avoiding for the better part of six months.

You still hadn't left his thoughts, though. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of you if he came in early or when he came to meet Robby for lunch. He would sometimes find hints of your perfume around the ED and it made him stop dead in his tracks. And yes, he was still cumming into his hand, groaning out your name.

He really should speak to his therapist about it all. It was all so fucked up.

Your glassy eyes meet his gaze, and you just burst into tears. He's probably come up here to yell at you. Tell you that you can't just hide when something goes wrong.

Instead, he doesn't. Despite Jack Abbot's better judgement, he closes the door, crosses the room and bundles you up into a hug. He really shouldn't be doing that. But you're sobbing!

It takes you maybe 30 seconds before you realise what is going on and pull away from him. He steps back immediately, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I wasn't even supposed to be working tonight," you finally snap. "I cam in as a favour to Shen."

You say the other Attending's name pointedly.

"And if I need a second to compose myself after losing a patient, I'm going to take it. And I don't need you to come up here and tell me what a shitty doctor I am, I can do that on my own, thank you very much."

"I wasn't gonna-" Abbot begins but you're not finished on your tirade.

"I just don't understand why you hate me! I have worked so hard to be here!" you say finally looking at him, you face red with tears and from your yelling.

Jack had a half smirk on his face as you ranted, but it immediately fades at the idea of him hating you.

"You think I hate you?" he asks, cocking his head to the side in surprise.

You let out a small laugh.

"You asked Robby to move me off night shift," you remind him. "Because you run a tight ship."

His words still echo in your head all these months later. You wait for his response but there is none. He's still staring at you; the man loves nothing if not eye contact. But his mouth is screwed up in concern now.

"I don't hate you, kid," he finally breathes out, his voice soft and raspy. It makes you stomach twist in a way you didn't expect.

You open your mouth to argue back. How could he not hate you? But you don't get a chance because he has closed the space between you and pulled you into a searing kiss. A kiss that has your whole body feeling like you're static. You can't even think as his silver stubble rubs against your soft skin. Your tongue delves into his mouth and you let out a soft moan at his taste. You can't help yourself. You thought all this time he hated you. And yet his rough hands were grasping at your ass over your scrubs.

God, you were going to be a fucking cliché, but you pulled back just to pull your scrubs top and your undershirt off. And Jack's eyes look like they're going to bulge right out of his head. He didn't know what to expect when he kissed you, but this? Well, this was better than any fantasy he has come up with. Maybe he's sleeping...dreaming... Maybe he's actually taken a tumble off the roof, and this is heaven.

Your lips on his neck bring him back to this moment. You don't realise how hungry you are for him until he's presented in front of you. Your Attending, your Attending that you thought hated you is now groaning out for your kisses. You pull at his scrub top trying to see how far the freckles on his neck go. But he stops you.

Fuck. Have you gone too far?

But he's pulling you closer, kissing you again. He lifts you, easily and carries you to the unused bed in the corner.

"I don't hate you, kid," he growls as he lays you down.

Now its his turn to kiss down your silky neck, down to the swell of your breast. He laves at your hardened nipples over the fabric of the bra before he crawls over you and unhooks it. He lets out a groan as your breasts fall free and he dives between them, sucking and licking and biting. He focuses on the skin around your nipples before sucking and teasing each hardened peek. Your buzzing brain is wondering if you can cum by nipple play alone. And if Jack Abbot had more time, you were sure you could. By the time he's finished, you're covered in love marks.

He pulls away a smirk on his face as he kisses down your stomach down to the top of your scrub pants.

"You don't-" you begin which causes Jack to surge up and kiss you hard.

You take this chance to pull his scrub top off and let out your own appreciative groan at his freckle covered biceps and chest. He's spent a lot of time in the sun...without a shirt it would seem. You get dizzy thinking about him sweating as he chops wood in his back garden. As if the Adonious isn't in front of you right now.

"Like what you see, kid?" he asks with a cocky smirk.

Usually, you would roll your eyes, but all you can do is nod as he begins his journey back down your body once more. When he gets to your scrub bottoms, he pulls them and your soaking panties off in one swift move. He groans as he watches your wetness stick to you fabric of your underwear.

"All for me, baby?" he growls as he kisses over your mound. "You walkin' around the hospital like that every time we work together, huh? Cos I was hard enough to pound nails when I was working with you. Useda have t' come up here just to jerk off to the thought of you."

You whimper out at the filth coming out of his mouth.

"Been dreaming about what you would taste like," he breathes, blowing a warm stream of air over your cunt.

You writhe underneath him already and he hasn't even touched you. You whimper as he places a soft kiss over your weeping folds. You haven't been touched in so long. And Dr Jack Abbot knows what he's doing. He presses kisses over your pussy, peppering a few over your clit. And then he's pressing his tongue inside you, moving between that and lapping at your clit.

You can feel that familiar coil of pleaesure build and build and build. One rough hand comes up to tease your hardened nipple as he focuses his attention to your clit.

"Cum for me, baby," he demands as he spits onto your cunt. "Cum for me, now."

He focuses his efforts back down on your clit, moving his tongue in time with the fingers on your nipple and within seconds you're crying out his name as you absolutely soak his face.

Your release is sparkling over his lips, catching in his stubble. You go cross-eyed at the sight. He climbs up the bed to kiss you, claiming you desperately.

"Fuck, Jack, I need you," you beg him between kisses, your fingers tangling in his hair.

"Baby, we don't need to do anymore," he breathes, just happy to have made you cum like that.

You shake your head. You need more. You demand more.

"Need you inside me, please? Need you to fuck me," you beg.

You've never begged before, but the way Jack Abbot is on top of you, still gripping onto one of your thighs...well, you can't help but beg.

"Ya want me to fuck you, baby?" he coos all sweet. Hell, he even pouts.

You just nod, rubbing your thighs together as you dream about getting a sight of him. He's already tented against his scrub pants, and your eyes flick between his hazel eyes and his crotch. He gives you a cocky smirk, and by God has he earned that cockiness, and simply flips you onto your stomach. He gives the rounded flesh of your ass a smack as he presses his chest right onto your back.

"Hands and knees, baby," he growls into your ear, his teeth grazing over your lobe.

You scramble to do exactly as he tells you. It's a struggle with him kissing down your neck and over your shoulder. But you do it.

"Good girl," he praises as he sits back on his heels and pushes his scrub pants down his thigh.

Not enough to let the pretty, young intern see his prosthetic. He's not ashamed of it. But he doesn't need you asking questions...especially not right now. Now, he needs to be balls deep inside you. He pumps his angry cock that's dripping with pre-cum, admiring the view in front of him. You've arched your back just right, your legs spread enough for him to see how wet you are for him. Your slick has coated your thighs.

He can't help but reach out and land a sharp smack to your cunt.

"Ready, baby?" he asks as he moves forward.

You simply nod but that doesn't satisfy Jack. He gives your pussy another slap, earning him a little mewl from you.

"Words, baby," he growls.

"Yes," you manage to whimper as you hands twist into the sheets of the hospital bed.

He plants a kiss between your shoulder blades before he presses the blunt head of his cock against your folds. He lets out a grunt as he settles into you, slowly, torturously slow until he bottoms out inside you.

"Atta girl," he praises as he kneads at your ass.

He takes a second to adjust to you before he rocks his hips forward. Then he slowly starts picking up the pace, his hand grips your hair and pushes your face into the pillow. You never imagined that Jack Abbot would be loud in bed, but he's grunting and groaning over you.

"Wanna hear you," he demands, tugging your hair so your cheek is pressed against the pillow and your moans are finally unmuffled.

Jack closes his eyes and drinks in the sweet cries you make as he slams in and out of you.

"That's it, baby. You can take more, can't you?" he growls as he pulls you apart with each thrust.

It's like when he walks you through a procedure, so thorough...but so much hotter.

"I can feel that pretty pussy already pulsing. Are you gonna cum for me again? On my cock, pretty girl?" he gruffs out.

Honestly, his own orgasm is on the horizon. But he's a gentleman, and he won't finish before you. He's just gotta coach you throw it.

"Baby, I wanna feel you cum for me. Cum on my cock, huh?" he gruffs as he pulls your hair up.

He uses this leverage to pull you flush against his chest. One hand wraps around your waist to keep you upright as his thrusts get more and more erratic. But he manages to snake the rough palm up your body to paw at your breast. His other hand slides down to your clit.

"You're close, baby," he tells you, right into your ear. He kisses over your neck. "Can feel ya...ya got another one for me. Huh?"

You nod before you cry out his name. You drop your head back against his shoulder.

"I'm right there with ya, baby. Right there," he grunts, kissing over your face as best he can at this angle. "Fuck...fuck...that's it, baby."

You can feel him fill you with white, hot spurts of his cum.

"Take me, baby, take me. Gonna fill that pussy. Fuck," he growls.

He captures your lips in a heady kiss as you both come down from your highs. You feel him grow soft and he slides out of you with a wet pop. He grabs the blanket and gives his cock a quick clean before pulling up his pants. You collapse back onto the bed completely spent. He grabs his scrub top and redresses. He dips into the adjoining bathroom of the room to wet a cloth. He cleans up the mess he made between your legs. Your vision is still spotty so you let him. And let him kiss you once more.

You finally become more aware of what you just did. Who you just did it with. And where you just did it.

You sit up looking for your clothes, but Dr Abbot is already at the door.

"Our little secret, kid," he practically purrs, throwing you a wink before he disappears back down to the ED, leaving you alone with a lot to process.

a/n: thanks for reading

part two

"I'm not here for that."

"Close. The door."

You did, hating yourself for it. Hating how your body was already responding to the command in his voice.

He stood and came around the desk, each step deliberate. "You were having lunch with Marcus."

"So?"

"So I don't like it."

You laughed, sharp and bitter. "You don't get to control who I have lunch with, Titus."

"Don't I?" He was close now, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off him. "You're mine. That means I get to decide who you spend time with."

"Fuck you." You pushed at his chest, but he caught your wrists easily.

"Later." He backed you up against the door, pinning your hands above your head with one of his. "Right now, I'm going to remind you who you belong to."

"I don't belong to anyone."

His free hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. "Liar."

You glared at him, refusing to back down even as your pulse raced beneath his palm. "You're a possessive asshole."

"And you love it." His thumb stroked along your jaw. "You love that I can't stand the thought of another man looking at you. That I want to mark every inch of your skin so everyone knows you're taken."

"That's not love, that's obsession."

"Same thing." He kissed you hard, brutal, claiming your mouth like he owned it. Like he owned you.

And fuck, maybe he did.

You bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and he pulled back with a dark laugh. "Vicious little bitch."

"You like it."

"I do." His hand slid down to cup your breast through your blouse, thumb finding your nipple and pinching hard enough to make you gasp. "I like that you fight me. Makes it better when you break."

"I don't break."

"No?" He released your wrists and dropped to his knees, pushing your skirt up around your hips. "Let's test that."

"Titus, we're at work."

"I don't care." He hooked his fingers in your panties and dragged them down your legs. "You're going to come on my tongue, and then you're going to go back to your desk and feel me dripping out of you for the rest of the day."

"You're insane -"

He buried his face between your thighs, and the words died in your throat.

________________________________________________________________

Thursday

You showed up at his penthouse because you couldn't help yourself. Three days of trying to maintain distance, three days of ignoring his texts, and here you were anyway.

Addicted.

He was waiting in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. "Took you long enough."

"I wasn't going to come."

"But you did." He set down his glass and stood. "Because you can't stay away. Because you need this as much as I do."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not." He crossed to you, backing you up against the wall. "I'm stating facts. You're obsessed with me. With this. With how I make you feel."

You shoved at his chest. "You're delusional."

He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head. "Am I? Then why are you here?"

"Because -" You couldn't finish. Couldn't admit the truth.

"Say it." His free hand slid down your body, cupping you through your jeans. "Say you need me."

"I hate you."

"That's not what I asked." He popped the button on your jeans, slid the zipper down. "Say it, or I'll make you beg for it."

"Fuck you."

"Wrong answer." He released your wrists and spun you around, pressing you face-first against the wall. You heard his belt buckle, the sound of a condom wrapper, and then he was pushing into you from behind, rough and deep and exactly what you needed.

"Titus!"

"Shut up." His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. "You don't get to talk right now. You just get to take what I give you."

You tried to push back against him, tried to fight, but he held you in place with brutal efficiency. Each thrust was hard, punishing, claiming.

"This is what you came here for," he growled against your ear. "To be fucked like the desperate little whore you are."

The degradation should have made you angry. Should have made you leave.

Instead, it made you wetter.

"Say it," he demanded. "Say you're my whore."

"Go to hell."

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. "Wrong answer."

"Titus -"

"Beg." He turned you around, his hand wrapping around your throat. "Beg me to fuck you, or I'll leave you like this."

You glared at him, defiant even as your body screamed for him to finish what he started. "You won't."

"Try me."

The standoff lasted maybe ten seconds before you broke. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me."

"Better." He lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he pushed back inside you. "But you can do better than that."

"Please fuck me, Titus. Please!" The words dissolved into a moan as he started moving again, harder now, relentless.

"That's my good girl," he murmured, and the praise mixed with degradation made you clench around him. "So pretty when you beg. So perfect when you submit."

You came with a cry that echoed through the penthouse, your body shaking with the force of it. He followed seconds later, his grip on you bruising as he emptied himself inside you.

When you could breathe again, you pushed at his shoulders. "Put me down."

"No." He carried you to the leather chair and sat, keeping you straddled across his lap. "You're staying right here."

"Titus -"

"Quiet." His hand slid between your bodies, finding your oversensitive clit. "I'm not done with you yet."

________________________________________________________________

Saturday

You woke up in his bed again, sore and marked and furious with yourself.

This had to stop.

You couldn't keep doing this - couldn't keep letting him consume you like this. You had a life outside of Titus Danforth. Friends. Hobbies. A career that didn't revolve around being fucked senseless by your boss.

You slipped out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him, and gathered your clothes from where they'd been scattered across the floor.

"Where are you going?"

Fuck.

You turned to find him watching you, propped up on one elbow, looking entirely too satisfied with himself. "Home."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am." You pulled on your jeans. "I have plans today."

"Cancel them."

"No."

He was out of bed in an instant, crossing to you with that predatory grace that made your pulse quicken. "I said cancel them."

"And I said no." You grabbed your shirt. "You don't own my weekends, Titus."

"I own all of you." He caught your wrist, pulling you against him. "Every minute. Every breath. Every fucking heartbeat."

"That's not how this works."

"That's exactly how this works." His hand cupped your face, forcing you to look at him. "You're mine. Completely. And I don't share."

You jerked away from him. "I'm having brunch with Sarah. That's not sharing, that's having a fucking life."

"Fine." His jaw tightened. "Go to brunch. But you'll be thinking about me the whole time. About this." He grabbed your hand and pressed it against his cock, already hard again. "About how much you need it."

"You're unbelievable."

"And you're a liar." He released you, stepping back. "Go. Have your brunch. Pretend you're not completely obsessed with me. But we both know you'll be back here tonight."

You wanted to tell him he was wrong. Wanted to walk out and prove you could stay away.

But you couldn't.

Because he was right.

________________________________________________________________

You came back.

Of course you came back.

He was waiting in the living room, and the look on his face when you walked in made your stomach drop.

"I knew you would," he said softly.

"Shut up."

"Come here."

"No."

"Come. Here." The command in his voice left no room for argument.

You crossed to him slowly, hating yourself with every step. When you were close enough, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down across his lap, face down, ass up.

"What are you -"

"Quiet." His hand came down on your ass, hard enough to make you yelp. "You need to learn that when I tell you to do something, you do it."

"Fuck you." Another slap, harder this time.

"Keep talking back. See what happens."

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg him to stop. But your body betrayed you - you could feel yourself getting wet, could feel the heat pooling between your thighs with each punishing strike.

"That's what I thought." His hand slid between your legs, finding you soaked. "You love this. Love being punished. Love being put in your place."

"I hate you."

"Liar." He pushed two fingers inside you roughly, making you gasp. "Your body tells me the truth even when your mouth lies."

He worked you with brutal efficiency, his fingers curling inside you while his thumb found your clit. You tried to stay still, tried to maintain some dignity, but your hips started moving of their own accord, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of everything.

"Look at you," he murmured, his free hand stroking down your spine. "So desperate. Humping at my hand like a bitch in heat."

The degradation should have made you angry. Should have made you fight.

Instead, it pushed you closer to the edge.

"Please!"

"Please what?" He slowed his movements, making you whimper. "Use your words."

"Please let me come."

"Why should I?"

"Because -" You couldn't think, couldn't form coherent thoughts past the need consuming you. "Please, Titus. Please."

"That's better." He increased the pressure, his fingers moving faster, harder. "Come for me. Show me how much you need this."

You came with a broken cry, your body clenching around his fingers, pleasure crashing through you in waves. But he didn't stop - kept working you through it, pushing you toward another orgasm before the first had even faded.

"Titus, I can't…"

"Yes, you can." His voice was dark, commanding. "You're going to come again. And again. Until you're so fucked out you can't remember your own name."

"Please!" You didn't even know what you were begging for anymore. For him to stop. For him to never stop. For this to end. For this to last forever.

He added a third finger, stretching you, filling you, and the sensation was too much. You came again, harder this time, your vision blurring as pleasure consumed you.

"Good girl," he praised, his fingers gentling as you shook in his lap. "So perfect when you let go. When you stop fighting and just feel."

You couldn't respond. Could barely breathe. Your mind was blank, thoughts scattered, reduced to nothing but sensation and need.

"There she is," he murmured, stroking your hair. "My docile little thing. So pretty when you're dumb for me."

You tried to form words, tried to throw some cutting remark at him, but all that came out was a whimper.

"Shh." He lifted you carefully, cradling you against his chest as he stood. "I've got you."

He carried you to the bedroom and laid you down on the bed. You watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he stripped, as he rolled on a condom, as he settled between your thighs.

"One more," he said, pushing into you slowly. "Give me one more, and then you can rest."

You didn't think you could. Didn't think your body had anything left to give.

But as he started moving, as his hand found your clit again, you felt the pressure building once more. Impossible. Overwhelming.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with his own need. "Come on my cock. Show me who you belong to."

The orgasm hit you like a freight train, tearing through you with an intensity that made you scream. You felt him follow, felt him pulse inside you as he groaned your name.

When you could think again, when the world came back into focus, you found him watching you with dark satisfaction.

"Still hate me?" he asked.

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to maintain some shred of defiance.

But you were too exhausted to lie.

"I don't know what I feel anymore," you whispered.

"Good." He pulled out and disposed of the condom, then pulled you against him. "Because neither do I. But I know I'm not letting you go."

"That's not healthy."

"I don't care." His arms tightened around you. "You're mine. And I'm keeping you."

You should have argued. Should have fought.

But you were too tired. Too broken. Too consumed by whatever this was between you.

So you just closed your eyes and let yourself sink into the darkness.

________________________________________________________________

Monday

You called in sick.

You'd never called in sick for a man before. Never let anyone dictate your schedule, your choices, your life.

But here you were, lying in Titus's bed, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache, covered in marks that would take days to fade.

"Good girl," he murmured against your neck when you hung up the phone. "See how easy that was?"

"This is fucked up."

"I know." He rolled on top of you, settling between your thighs. "But you're not leaving."

"I should."

"But you won't." He pushed into you slowly, and despite everything - despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite knowing how wrong this was - your body welcomed him.

"I hate you," you whispered.

"I know." He kissed you gently, a stark contrast to the brutal way he'd taken you last night. "But you're still mine."

And that was the truth you couldn't escape.

You were his.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

Addicted to the way he made you feel - the degradation and the praise, the pain and the pleasure, the way he reduced you to nothing and then built you back up again.

This was toxic. Obsessive. Wrong.

But you couldn't stop.

Didn't want to stop.

Because somewhere in the darkness, somewhere in the twisted mess of possession and need, you'd found something you couldn't name.

Something that felt dangerously close to belonging.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

This was fucked up. Toxic. Wrong.

And you couldn't stop.

You’d only begun working at Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center a few months ago, looking for more of a challenge after spending the past few years of your career in dermatology. You didn’t hate it, per se, but you felt deep in your bones that you were meant for more high stakes work.

Not only did the job suit you better, but the people did too. Sure, you’d met some nice people in dermatology, even met your best friend there, but working in the ER surrounded you with people much like yourself. Adrenaline junkies.

Unfortunately, adrenaline junkies and medical conferences did not mix.

That’s how you found yourself at some dodgy dive bar down the street from your hotel the last night of your conference with two of your coworkers, Trinity and Victoria. The three of you had been bored out of your minds at the last lecture of the day, where some old pretentious man droned on and on and onnnnn about medical research that was about 25 years outdated. You really needed a drink.

“Okay, I know we agreed on vodka crans, but I got us green tea shots too. My treat, alright? I fucking need a shot after whatever that lecture was,” Trinity explains as she returns from the bar, setting three drinks and three shots down on the center of the table. You were able to snag some seats in the back corner of the bar, thankfully, because the last thing you want to deal with is any more people today.

“Oh god, it was horrible, wasn’t it? I was just about ready to rip my hair out. Didn’t think that guy would ever stop talking,” Victoria replies as she reaches for one of the shots. 

The three of you clink glasses, tapping them down onto the wooden surface of the table before knocking them back. 

“God, that’s fucking good,” you wince, the alcohol burning at the bottom of your throat.

The night continues in a cycle of work gossip and ordering vodka cranberries for the table. By the time you guys are leaving, you’re thoroughly buzzed.

You walk back to the hotel together, arm and arm, when you get back onto the topic of work. Feeling a little more truthful than usual due to the alcohol coursing through your system, you decide to tell your friends about an awkward moment you had during one of your shifts last week.

“Oh it was awful, you guys. I was assisting Dr. Abbot with a perforating GSW and he asked me to hand him hemostatic gauze, and I dropped the package all over the floor trying to open it. I’m talking gauze everywhere. I had to rush to get a new one, my hands were shaking like hell when I gave it to him,” you ramble. “And the worst part? He noticed. Pulled me into one of the on-call rooms afterward to ask what was up with me. I was horrified.”

Victoria furrows her brows, and Trinity slows her steps until the three of you are standing still in the middle of the dimly lit sidewalk.

“What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?” you ask, confused. 

“Sorry, you were nervous?” Victoria questions.

“I didn’t even know that was possible for you,” Trinity admits, shock displayed on her face.

“I mean, yeah. If you guys had been there, you’d understand. The whole room was tense, you could hear a pin drop,” you explain.

“Don’t think that’s how I’d describe the Pitt, but okay,” Victoria concedes, falling back into step toward the hotel as you and Trinity trail close behind.

“Y’know, I don’t think it was the GSW that had you all worked up. I’ve seen you in action. You’re not one to falter, especially not like that. I think maybe a certain night shift attending has you all hot and bothered,” Trinity prods, landing a playful punch against your shoulder.

Victoria whips her head around at that. “Oh my god. That’s totally it!” she squeals. “Are you guys hooking up? I’ll be soooo jealous, he’s a total silver fox.”

Heat blooms in your chest and creeps up to your cheeks. You’re suddenly very, very hot.

“Jesus, no. I’m not hooking up with him. I’m not even into him, not like that. I can promise you he’s not what made me nervous,” you ramble. “We work a high stress job, it’s normal to make mistakes. And that’s all it was, a mistake,” you babble on, hoping your friends won’t pick up on the fact that you’re lying straight through your teeth.

While the part about not hooking up with him is true, you can’t deny the fact that you definitely have feelings for Doctor Jack Abbot.

It’s all his fault, really. From the start, he was charming. Good at conversation. Never made you feel less than, despite being the newbie of the department. 

And it definitely didn’t help that he looked like that. Salt and pepper curls that framed his angular face which was dusted with freckles. Wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that made themselves known when he smiled. Biceps that bulged underneath his scrub top sleeve, which was far too tight considering the size of his muscles.

It got worse once you guys fell into a rhythm, able to work in tandem. Sometimes you didn’t even need words. It only took one look at each other for you to know exactly where he needed you, how to best assist him with a procedure. 

If it wasn’t a look, it was a touch. A gloved hand overtop yours, guiding you on where to make an incision. A warm, large hand braced against your back as you intubate. A pat on the shoulder after you successfully stabilize a patient. 

But undoubtedly, the worst part was the way he spoke to you. Whether it be a “Nice work, Kiddo,” after a particularly stressful chest tube placement, or a “What’s goin’ on up there?” with a featherlight touch to your temple when you were lost in thought. It was like he could sense what you were feeling before you’d even figured it out for yourself.

Clearly, whatever feelings you have for Dr. Abbot are written all over your face, because Trinity and Victoria seem wholly unconvinced.

“Okay, well if you’re not hooking up with him, then you should be. I’ve seen your dynamic, there’s some clear tension between you guys, babe,” Trinity argues as you finally approach the doors of your hotel.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. Even if I wanted it to, which I don’t, there’s no way he’d be into it,” you explain, the warmth in your cheeks only growing. 

Victoria lets out a dramatic sigh as you make your way through the hotel lobby toward the elevators. “And I thought I was clueless.”

“Sorry?” you ask, pressing the button for the elevator. It dings and the doors open, the three of you piling in. You quickly push the button for floor three. You want to escape this situation as fast as possible, if you’re being honest. Your emotions are too heightened from the drinks to be having this conversation right now.

“If you can’t see it, there’s nothing we can do to help you,” Trinity replies. “Anyway, it might not be the brightest idea to sleep with a coworker. We all know how that went for me…”

“Oh Trin it wasn’t that bad. At least she doesn’t work in the same department,” Victoria remarks, then gestures vaguely at you. “Imagine if this hypothetical hookup with Abbot really did happen. She’d have to work with him all the time and he’s her attending. Now that’s bad.”

You groan. “Gee, thanks guys. I feel really supported right now.”

“So you do want to sleep with him then?” Victoria quips. 

“No! My god, you guys. I’m done with the conversation,” you exclaim. The elevator finally reaches your floor and you waste no time stepping out into the warmly lit hallway.

“Well, I’ll see you both bright and early tomorrow. Still want to get coffee before the airport?” Trinity asks as she fumbles with her keycard outside of her room door. 

Victoria, one door down from Trinity, follows suit in swiping her card. “Sure, how’s 7:00 sound?”

“Works for me, see you guys tomorrow!” you reply with a smile and a wave, making your way down to the end of the hallway to your room. 

It hits you as you struggle to get your door unlocked that you’re a lot drunker than you thought. Not enough to warrant a hangover, but inebriated enough that you stumble toward your bed as you kick off your shoes. 

After taking a much needed shower, washing away the grime of a long day, and putting on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top, you cuddle up into bed and check your texts.

There’s multiple from your best friend, Jackie. The one you met when you worked in dermatology. 

Jackie: girl i haven’t heard from you all day Jackie: is the conference terrible Jackie: so glad i don’t have to go to those lol Jackie: is dr hottie there at least

You chuckle at her messages. Of course she’d bring him up. She’s the only person you’ve confided in about your attraction to Dr. Abbot, and she’s become obsessed with him ever since. Even gave him that ridiculous nickname.

You swipe back to check your other notifications, reading a text from your mom and watching a Tik Tok that Trinity sent you from her room before you finally go back to reply to Jackie.

Unfortunately, in your inebriated state, your finger slides on your screen and deletes your text chain with her.

“Shit!” you exclaim. At least you remember what she said. You quickly click the “New Message” button and start typing out her name. 

j… a… c… 

You click on her contact and begin typing.

You: sry i’ve been busy but yes the conference was shit You: got drinks after im a ltitle drunk lol You: and yes dr hottie is here thank god You: i sat behind him during a talk this mornign and had to fight urges to run my hands through his sexy silver hair You: i didnrt do it tho. i am brave

Sighing, you shuffle in bed so you’re no longer sitting up against the headboard but laying on your side. You reach toward the nightstand and flick the lamp off, filling the room with darkness.

Well, the room is dark until your phone buzzes on the mattress next to you and the screen lights up, emitting a soft glow. 

Rather quickly, it buzzes again. You reach for it, expecting Jackie’s replies. While it’s not very late, she’s a night owl through and through, so of course she’d answer you immediately. 

Instead, you see two notifications from… Jack Abbot? The only times you’ve ever texted him were about coming in early or that one time you’d forgotten your sweater in the break room and asked if he could hide it in one of the cabinets until your shift the next morning. Why would he be texting you at 11:00pm on a night you were both off?

You unlock your phone and click into your text thread with him.

Jack: I think you meant to send those to someone else. Jack: I’ll try and sit farther away next time. Wouldn’t want my hair distracting you.

You shoot up in bed, breath catching in your throat. Immediately, your chest is on fire. There’s no fucking way you sent those messages to him.

You: oh my god You: im so fuckign sorry You: i was trying to text my friend

Jack: It’s OK.

You: its not You: its extremely unprofessional You: im so so sorry

Jack: Stop apologizing.

Your breathing still hasn’t calmed down. You’re mortified. How are you ever going to face him again?

For a minute, there’s no other reply. You debate texting him again, but what could you even say? “I’m sorry I think your hair is sexy”?

Instead, you try to focus on calming down. Everything will be fine. You can blame it on the drinks, even if you’re not really drunk. He won’t know that you’re lying.

Your eye catches on the three little dots at the corner of your text thread. He’s typing again. A lump forms in the base of your throat.

Jack: Where are you?

Confused, you type out a reply.

You: my room You: why

Jack: How much did you drink?

You: not much You: a few vodka crans with trinity and victoria You: im mostly sober now

It wasn’t necessarily a lie. This interaction definitely sobered you up.

Jack: So you’re OK?

You: yep You: safe and sound

Jack: Good. Jack: Dr. Hottie, huh?

You: oh god pls dont remind me You: im mortified

Jack: Don’t be. Jack: Are you in bed?

Your eyebrows furrow at that last message. At first it seemed like he was just checking in on you, making sure you weren’t stranded and drunk at some shady bar. But what kind of question is that?

You: yes

Jack: Send me a picture.

Eyebrows knitting together in confusion, you open your camera and take a photo of the foot of your bed. You can make out the shape of the chair in the corner of the room and the TV mounted to the wall. You go back to your texts and send him the photo.

You: [1 attachment] You: see You: exactly where i said i am

Jack: No, a picture of you.

Oh. 

With shaking hands, you swipe back to the camera app, this time flipping it so it’s front facing. You snap a photo of yourself, angling the phone so it captures your face and part of your torso. 

You examine the photograph, taking in the pouty expression on your face and noting the way your tank top rides up at your stomach, exposing your midriff. Considering you didn’t put on a bra, you can see the faint outline of your nipples through the thin material.

Without overthinking it, you send him the picture.

You: [1 attachment]

Jack: Jesus. Jack: You always sleep like that?

Feeling bold, the remnants of your night out still coursing through your veins, you type out a reply.

You: no You: i usually sleep naked You: but that feels a bit too exposing for a hotel 

Jack: Fuck, sweetheart. Jack: You have no idea what you’re doing to me.

You: send a pic You: i wanna see

Heat pools between your legs. There’s no way this is happening. You’ll wake up tomorrow and realize you dreamt up this entire conversation.

An image from Dr. Abbot comes through.

Jack: [1 attachment]

He’s laying in his hotel bed in nothing but his underwear. You can’t see his face, but his chest is on full display. God, his muscles were something else.

But the real star of the show is his bulge, straining hard against the fabric of his boxers. One of his veiny hands rests atop it, and you can’t help but notice the wet spot pooling where his erection sits.

Fuck.

You hold your phone in one hand and slide the other one underneath your shorts and panties, rubbing slow, methodic circles against your core. Your phone pings with another message.

Jack: What’re you doing now?

You: touching myself You: are u

Jack: Fuck, yes.

Growing warm, you kick the bedsheets aside. Your hand continues to circle, pressure building deep in your belly.

You: wish i could see u rn

Jack: [1 attachment - 0:21]

Oh, God. 

Suddenly, everything starts feeling a little too real. You should not be doing this. He’s your attending. You’re sacrificing your career, everything you’ve worked so hard for, for what? One meaningless night?

But the way your hand is creating friction against your clit combined with Jack’s messages have you too horny to care, if you’re being honest.

Nervously, you click play on the video.

You almost regret doing it.

But you can’t look away from the sight of him pumping his cock up and down in the dim lighting of his hotel room. 

It’s long, longer than you were expecting. And thick. 

You watch as he drags his hand from the base up to the head, uses his thumb to circle the precum that's built up at the slit, and then works it up and down his length.

If the sight of that wasn’t enough, the sounds he’s making have you groaning into your pillow. He’s practically growling, the noises coming ragged from the depths of his throat.

You can’t even think straight, you’re so desperate for more. For anything. Without even thinking about it, you open your phone camera again and start recording.

It’s nothing special, considering how worked up you are. You really can’t even see much since your shorts and panties are still on. 

You film as your hand moves underneath the fabric a few times, breathy moans escaping your lips. You pull it out slowly, showing off the sticky mess left on your fingers for the camera.

You: oh my god You: thats so fucking hot You: [1 attachment - 0:14] You: this is how badly i want u

There’s no response for a minute, and you worry that you went too far. Maybe he realized how fucking crazy this whole situation is. Because that’s exactly what it is. Crazy.

Before you can begin to spiral too hard, your phone buzzes in your hand.

He’s fucking calling you.

You let it ring a few times, working up the courage to answer.

With a shaking hand, you click accept.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can hear his heavy breathing and the sound of something wet in the background. 

“How are you doing it?” he mumbles into the phone, abruptly.

“What?”

“How are you touching yourself? Tell me.”

“Oh, I’m– I’m rubbing circles on my clit,” you can barely make out the words, feeling embarrassed. 

“Oh fuck,” he groans. “Slip a finger in.”

“Jack, I–”

“Fuck, I need you to,” he begs. “Please do it for me, Kiddo.”

“O-Okay,” you stutter, lining up your middle finger with your entrance and sinking it in. You release a moan at the sensation, pumping your finger in and out a few times before adding another.

“God, that sound. You sound so pretty when you touch yourself. Can you hear me? Hear me pumping my cock? It wants you so bad, Sweetheart. You have no idea.”

His words make you shudder, more needy sounds escaping from your throat. The sound of his hand working against his length combined with his breathy moans have you bucking your hips into your hand.

“I want you too,” you whimper. 

“What’s your room number?” Jack grunts.

“What?”

“I can’t do this. Knowing you’re right down the hall. What room are you in?”

You blink.

“302.”

The line clicks. 

He hung up.

You stare at the dark phone screen in front of you, fingers coming to a stop under your panties.

What the actual fuck just happened.

Is he coming here? Like right now?

Suddenly, there’s three sharp knocks at the door. You readjust your panties and shorts and nervously make your way to the door, fumbling to open it because of how hard you’re shaking. 

As you expected, Jack Abbot stands in front of you clad in a white t-shirt and a pair of sweats. He’s using his crutches, didn’t even waste time putting on his leg. His left foot dons one white sock. No shoe. 

Just looking at his face makes the ache between your legs grow. His skin’s coated in a thin sheen of sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. His breathing is uneven, chest heaving against the tight fabric of his shirt.

Without a word, you open the door wide enough to let him through and he wastes no time heading directly for the center of the room, placing his crutches against the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed. You click the door shut and lock it.

“C’mere,” he whispers.

You take one step toward him. Measured, careful. Then another.

“Jack, I don’t know if we should…”

“Fuck, don’t say that. Would you just come here?” he growls.

You move closer until you’re standing in front of him. He reaches for you, placing his broad hands on your hips and tugging you closer to him, between his thighs. His thumbs move back and forth against your hip bone.

“Do you want this?” He asks, quiet.

“Yes.”

“Then let me make you feel good. Please,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer so he can press open mouthed kisses to the base of your throat and down your chest. 

You moan into his touch, hands coming up to tug his hair.

“Is it as good as you imagined?” he teases.

“Sorry?”

“Running your hands through my ‘sexy silver hair’? Your words, not mine.” 

A laugh escapes from his lips and you groan, dropping your head on top of his so he can’t see how horrified you are. 

“Yeah, I’m going to regret that text for the rest of my life.”

Jack brings his hands up from your waist to the back of your head so he can pull you back to look at him.

“I’m not,” he says, maintaining such an intense eye contact that you begin to tremble underneath his gaze. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about it. Your hands in my hair. Your mouth on me. How you’d sound when I fuck you,” he whispers, leaning to continue sucking marks on your chest, just above the neckline of your tank top.

You moan at his words. If that’s the case, you should’ve been fucking him for months now.

Something snaps inside of you, and you give up on holding back. You want this. You can deal with the repercussions tomorrow.

You bring your hands down from his hair to his shoulders and push him back slightly on the bed so you have enough room to climb on top of him, straddling his thighs. He moves his hands back to your waist, keeping you stabilized against him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he responds, breathless.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Fuck, please.”

You dip your head down and hover your lips over his, inches apart. You can feel his warm breath fan over your mouth as he exhales. 

Fed up, Jack closes the distance, connecting his lips with yours. 

And fuck, he tastes good. 

You whimper into his mouth, quickening your pace, desperate for more.

The sound you make causes his grip to tighten around your waist, his kisses becoming sloppier. He darts his tongue out, seeking entry to your mouth.

You swirl your tongue against his and he releases a deep, guttural groan. Your bodies move together, hips grinding over the bulge in his sweatpants. 

Between frantic kisses, he manages to lift your tank top over your head, pulling back only to admire your bare chest.

“Been dreaming about these,” he admits, taking his right hand off your hip to palm at one of your breasts. “They’re even better than I imagined.”

You throw your head back as he rolls your nipple between his knuckles. He dips his head and uses his mouth to suck on the other one, and the sensation has you rocking your hips even harder against him.

“So fucking sexy,” he breathes as he swirls his tongue around your nipple. You dig your nails into his shoulder, overwhelmed by his hands and mouth.

He kisses his way back up your chest and neck until his lips connect with yours again, hand still squeezing at your breast.

“Can I taste you?” he groans into your mouth. 

You nod against him and he takes that as permission to lift you from his lap and toss you on the bed next to him, head hitting the pillow. You giggle at the sudden movement, Jack crawling above you to keep peppering your lips and jaw with kisses.

He pulls back so he’s sitting on his haunches and fiddles with the waistband of your shorts. Slowly, he peels the fabric down your legs and tosses them aside. He pushes your knees apart so you’re spread for him, ducking his head to kiss his way up your thighs.

“Jack, please,” you beg.

He places a few kisses over the lacy fabric of your panties before he pulls them to the side, face to face with your dripping center. 

He licks one slow, agonizing stripe up your core, causing you to buck your hips up in the air. 

“Fuck, you taste so good, Kiddo,” he mumbles into your cunt, lapping up the wetness that’s gathered there. He takes his time sucking and kissing at your clit, dipping his tongue into you, building you up to your first orgasm.

“Jack, I–I’m gonna come,” you whine, teetering over the edge.

“Let it happen, Sweetheart. Want you to come on my tongue.”

His words send you over the edge, riding out your orgasm against his mouth as he keeps swirling his tongue inside of you. He continues to leave soft kisses against your sensitive clit as you come down from your high.

Once you’ve settled, Jack kisses his way back up your stomach and chest until you’re face to face.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you admit, still in shock. 

“Me neither,” he whispers, brushing a stray hair from your face and tucking it behind your ear.

“I need you inside of me,” you breathe against him, desperate.

“Fuck, okay.”

Jack makes quick work of removing his shirt and sweatpants, then drags your panties down your legs, exposing you fully to the cool air of the room.

He strips himself of his boxers and pumps his length a few times with his hand, adjusting his position so he can line up with your entrance.

He pushes forward, seating himself inside you down to the hilt in one fell swoop. You moan loudly at the feeling of him, how he fills you entirely. 

“Oh God, Jack,” you mumble.

“You okay?” he asks, hesitating to move.

“Yes, God, yes. Please move.”

With a grunt he begins working himself in and out of you, setting the pace. The head of his cock keeps hitting that spongy spot deep inside you so hard that it’s making you see stars. 

“Fuck, Jack, just like that,” you babble, clawing at his back to stabilize yourself against his frantic thrusts.

“Jesus, Kid. You feel so good,” he mumbles into your neck. “I’m not going to last. Where do you want me?”

“Inside, do it inside,” you beg.

Those words alone are enough to make him falter, his pace becoming uneven and sloppy as he releases thick spurts of cum inside of you.

The warmth of his release combined with the feeling of his dick twitching inside of you has you hitting your peak, coming again with a garbled moan.

Exhausted, Jack collapses on top of you, head still nuzzled into your shoulder. The two of you are panting heavily, chests heaving against one another.

After catching his breath and leaving a trail of kisses beneath your ear, Jack lifts his head so he can look at you.

“Still embarrassed about those texts?”

The firefighter came in bloody, pissed off, and trying very hard to pretend he was not in pain. It was just after two in the morning, which meant the emergency department had settled into that strange night-shift rhythm where everything felt too bright and too quiet until it suddenly wasn’t.

Crus was at the nurses’ station attempting to fix a jammed printer. Shen was half a hallway down, talking to a drunk college student about the emotional consequences of a fractured wrist. Ellis was already pulling gloves on when the ambulance bay doors opened. And Jack was beside you at the foot of trauma two, expression calm in the way that meant he had already started building a plan before the stretcher crossed the threshold.

“Thirty-four-year-old male, firefighter, injured on scene,” the paramedic said as the stretcher rolled in. “Partial ceiling collapse during overhaul. Took debris to the shoulder and left flank. No loss of consciousness. Vitals stable en route.”

The firefighter on the stretcher opened one eye. “You make it sound dramatic.”

“You got hit by part of a ceiling,” another firefighter said, walking in beside the stretcher with the run sheet in one hand. “It was dramatic.”

The patient frowned. “I walked out.”

His teammate looked down at him. “You were carried out.”

“I assisted,” the patient said.

“You complained,” the other firefighter corrected.

You bit back a smile as you stepped toward the bed. “Sounds like he’s alert.”

The teammate’s mouth curved. “Unfortunately.”

Jack’s mouth did not move, but you felt the almost-smile in him anyway. Jack braced one hand on the rail. “On three. One, two, three.”

The team transferred the firefighter to the trauma bed. He hissed through his teeth, jaw tightening hard as you helped guide his injured side down.

“I’m fine,” the firefighter said.

Jack looked at him over the end of the bed. “That usually means you’re not.”

You almost smiled again.

The firefighter’s teammate noticed. His attention shifted to you, quick and interested, and his mouth curved like he had decided the night had improved.

You held out your hand for the run sheet. “And you are?”

“Mason Brooks,” he said, passing it over. “Station Four.”

You glanced down at the paperwork. “Patient’s name?”

“Ryan Hale,” Mason said. “Lieutenant. Stubborn. Hero complex. Bad at following directions unless there’s active fire involved.”

Hale turned his head on the pillow. “I can still hear you.”

“Good,” Mason said. “Maybe this time it’ll sink in.”

You scanned the sheet. “Any meds? Allergies?”

Mason shifted closer to the end of the bed. “No known allergies. No daily meds. Unless coffee counts.”

“At this hour, it does,” you said.

Mason’s grin widened. “See, I knew I liked you.”

Jack’s hand paused for half a second on the bed rail. Half a second. Nothing more.

You kept your attention on the patient. “Lieutenant Hale,” you said, leaning into his line of sight. “I’m going to cut through your shirt so we can look at your shoulder and ribs, okay?”

Hale grimaced. “Whatever you need.”

Mason leaned a little closer, eyes still on you. “That offer extend to the rest of us, or just him?”

Crus, who had just stepped into the room, looked up immediately. Shen appeared in the doorway at exactly the wrong time, chart in hand. Ellis stopped opening a pack of gauze. You did not look at any of them. You also did not look at Jack. You could feel him perfectly well without that.

“Patient first,” you said, sliding the trauma shears through the fabric of Hale’s shirt. “Flirting never.”

Mason laughed, low and pleased, like you had given him exactly the answer he wanted. His eyebrows lifted. “Never?”

Jack reached over and adjusted the monitor lead near Hale’s shoulder. He did not need to. You knew that because you had already placed it. Still, his forearm came briefly into your space, a clean line of muscle and restraint under fluorescent light.

“Brooks,” Jack said.

The room went still in the way a room could only go still while everyone inside it kept working. Mason glanced at him.

Jack did not look away from the patient. “She needs room.”

Mason lifted both hands, grin still there. “I’m out of the way.”

Jack finally looked at him. “More.”

Crus looked down at the supply cart with sudden, religious interest. Shen pressed his lips together. Ellis coughed once into her shoulder. Mason took one step back. But he did not stop smiling. That was probably what did it. Because he was not being creepy. He was not interfering. He was not saying anything you could not handle. He was just obvious. Obvious enough that everyone in the room knew exactly what he was doing. Obvious enough that Jack had to stand beside you and pretend he did not care.

You palpated carefully along Hale’s shoulder. “Left shoulder tenderness. Possible clavicle involvement.”

Jack moved with you. Again. He stepped in at Hale’s other side, close enough that the two of you fell into the old rhythm before you could think about it. You checked the shoulder. Jack checked the ribs. You reached for gauze, and he passed it to you before you asked. Your fingers brushed. Barely. It was nothing. It was everything. 

Jack kept his eyes on Hale. “Any trouble breathing?”

Hale shook his head. “No.”

Jack’s hand stilled near the bruising along Hale’s side. “Pain when you take a deep breath?”

“Some,” Hale said.

Jack nodded once. “Chest X-ray. Shoulder films. CBC, CMP. Pain control.”

You reached for the tablet beside the bed. “Already paging X-ray.”

Jack’s gaze cut to you. For one second, there he was. Your Jack. Not Dr. Abbot. Not the attending pretending he had not kissed you against your apartment door less than eight hours ago. Your Jack. The one who knew how you took your coffee on the night shift. The one who texted you to make sure you got inside when you drove home after dark. 

Then he blinked, and the wall came back up. “Good,” Jack said.

Not thank you. Good. Professional enough to pass. Intimate enough to make your stomach turn over.

Mason glanced between you again, and even though he could not possibly know, you hated that he sensed something. 

“So,” Mason said, looking at you while Jack checked the bruising along Hale’s flank, “you always make trauma look this easy?”

You reached for tape. Jack got it first. Again. He handed it to you without looking away from Hale. You stared at the roll in his hand for half a second before taking it.

“Only when men in uniform behave,” you said.

Crus made a strangled noise. Shen turned halfway toward the door like he needed a moment.

Ellis muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under her breath.

Despite yourself, your mouth curved. It was small. Barely there. The kind of smile you would have swallowed immediately if you had realized anyone was watching.

Mason saw it anyway. His own smile turned delighted.

“There it is,” Mason said.

You looked at him. “There what?”

Mason leaned lightly against the wall, still at the distance Jack had ordered him to keep. “That smile. I was starting to think you were going to make me work for it all night.”

Jack set the chart down. Quietly. Too quietly. Crus froze. Shen looked at Ellis. Ellis looked at you.

You kept your voice light, but final. “Mason.”

Mason held your gaze for one second, then nodded like he knew he had found the line.

“Too much?” he asked.

You gave him a pointed look. “Yes.”

Mason lifted one hand in surrender. “Got it.”

And he did. He stepped back, posture still easy, but his mouth finally closed, which you appreciated more than you wanted to admit. Jack moved to Hale’s other side, all precise hands and unreadable expression.

Jack glanced at Mason. “Anything else clinically relevant from the scene?”

Mason looked at him. This time, he did not smile. “No, sir,” Mason said.

Jack nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll take it from here.”

Mason looked toward Hale. “I’ll check back when they decide you’re not dying.”

Hale closed his eyes. “Bring coffee.”

Mason huffed. “You don’t deserve coffee.”

You smiled despite yourself. Mason saw it. Jack saw Mason see it. You knew because Jack stepped closer to the bed, blocking Mason’s line of sight like it was an accident. It was not an accident. Your breath caught. Mason’s gaze flicked to Jack’s back. Then to you. Then he nodded once, like something had finally clicked enough to make him curious.

“Nice to meet you,” Mason said.

You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”

Jack did not move until Mason left the room. Then the trauma bay exhaled. Crus was the first one brave enough to breathe like a person.

He looked at the supply cart. “I’m going to take these somewhere else.”

Jack did not look at him. “Good.”

Crus picked up a pack of gauze. “Great.”

Shen backed toward the doorway with the chart still in his hand. “I have a wrist fracture.”

Ellis gave him a look. “You personally?”

Shen ignored her and left. Ellis glanced between you and Jack, then dropped the unopened gauze onto the counter. “I’ll check on X-ray,” Ellis said.

Jack’s eyes stayed on Hale. “Thank you.”

Ellis left, too. Which left you with Jack, the patient, the beeping monitor, and the awful knowledge that Jack was standing close enough to touch you and still refusing to do it. Hale opened one eye.

“I’m on pain meds,” he said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice any of that.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. 

You pressed your lips together. “Notice any of what?” you asked.

Hale looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.

“Exactly,” Hale said.

The corner of Jack’s mouth almost moved. Almost. Then the wall came back up.

“Rest,” Jack said.

Hale shut his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

The trauma bay emptied out in pieces after that. Hale went to imaging. Mason left with the rest of Station Four. Crus disappeared the second Jack gave him another look, though you knew he would be back the moment he thought it was safe to breathe near you again. Shen pretended to have somewhere to be. Ellis actually did. Which left you at the counter outside trauma two, finishing the chart with one hip pressed against the cabinet and the leftover adrenaline of the call still humming beneath your skin.

Jack stood a few feet away, reviewing Hale’s orders on the computer. He had not said much since Mason left. That was not unusual for Jack during a shift. It was unusual for Jack with you. You were still trying to decide whether you should say something when another night shift nurse, Drew, slid up beside you with a fresh roll of tape in one hand and a grin already working its way across his face.

“So,” Drew said.

You did not look up from the chart. “No.”

Drew laughed. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to,” you said.

Drew leaned his shoulder against the cabinet. “I was about to say Station Four was looking very heroic tonight.”

You paused. Across the counter, Jack’s typing stopped. Only for a second. Then it resumed. You felt your stomach tighten. Drew did not notice. Of course, he did not notice. He lowered his voice in the exact way people did when they thought they were being subtle and absolutely were not.

“Brooks was flirting hard,” Drew said.

You sighed. “He was doing a handoff.”

“Please.” Drew rolled his eyes. “He was doing a handoff, making prolonged eye contact, and trying to get your number through trauma paperwork.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. Tiny. Controlled. You saw it anyway.

“Drew,” you warned.

Drew smiled wider. “What? He was cute.”

“I’m not dating a firefighter,” you said.

Drew frowned. “Okay, but we love a man in uniform.”

Jack went still. Not enough for anyone else to call it that. Not enough to be obvious. But the air around him changed again. You hated that your first instinct was to look at him. You hated more that you could not. Because looking at Jack right now would say too much. Instead, you kept your eyes on the chart and forced your voice to stay light.

“We?” you asked.

Drew pointed the roll of tape at you. “As a community.”

You gave him a look.

Drew shrugged. “A broad and beautiful community of people with eyes.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Almost. Jack closed the chart on his screen. A little too carefully. You heard the click of the mouse. You felt it somewhere behind your ribs.

“I’m good,” you said.

Drew made a face. “You’re still doing that no-dating thing?”

You swallowed. The no-dating thing. Right. The harmless lie you had told people months ago when you and Jack had started becoming something neither of you had wanted to expose to hospital fluorescent lighting.

No dating. Too busy. Not worth the complication. 

A clean little excuse that had felt easy at the time.

Now, with Jack standing five feet away while another nurse encouraged you to go for a firefighter who had made him spend an entire trauma case pretending not to know you, it felt cruel.

“I’m good,” you repeated, softer this time.

Drew studied you for a second, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if Brooks comes back asking about you, I’m telling him you’re single and mysterious.”

“Drew,” you said.

He lifted both hands. “What?”

You pointed at him. “Do not do that.”

Drew grinned. “Fine. Single and terrifyingly unavailable.”

Jack looked up then. You felt it. His gaze on you. Not long. Not enough. Just a brief, controlled flick of his eyes that landed like a hand around your wrist.

Drew finally seemed to register the temperature of the room. His gaze shifted from you to Jack, then back again.

“Oh,” Drew said.

Your heart kicked once. Jack’s expression did not change.

“What?” you asked.

Drew blinked. “Nothing.”

“Drew,” you warned. 

“Nothing,” he repeated, suddenly fascinated by the roll of tape in his hand. “I’m going to restock three.”

He left too quickly. You stood there with your pen in your hand, your chart unfinished, and the awful knowledge that Jack was still looking at you. For one second, neither of you moved. Then Jack lowered his gaze back to the computer.

“Patient in four needs discharge papers,” Jack said.

Professional. Careful. A clean line drawn in the middle of the hallway.

You nodded, even though he was not looking at you anymore. “Okay.”

Jack clicked into another chart. You watched the muscle in his jaw move once. Then nothing. No comment about Drew. No sharp little confession. No hint that he cared whether Mason thought you were single, mysterious, available, unavailable, or anything else. Just Jack going quiet in the exact way that meant he was locking something down before it could get loose.

That was worse, somehow.

Because you knew him well enough to hear everything he refused to say. I know you are not going to go for it. I know you do not want him. I know this is not your fault. I still hated every second of it.

For the next twenty minutes, Jack stayed close. Not close enough for anyone to call it anything. Close enough that you noticed. He took the chart from your hand before Shen could reach for it. He stepped in beside you when Hale came back from imaging. He passed you gauze before you asked, tape before you reached, a fresh pair of gloves when yours tore at the wrist. Every touch almost happened. His knuckles almost brushed yours. His shoulder almost grazed your back. His hand almost settled at your waist when he moved behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the supply cart. Almost. Almost. Almost.

And each time, Jack pulled back before contact could become evidence. It was maddening. It was careful. It was so painfully him that you wanted to scream.

When Mason came back to check on Hale, Jack was already at your side. 

Mason stopped near the doorway, gaze flicking from Hale to you. “How’s he doing?”

“He’ll live,” you said.

Hale groaned from the bed. “Barely.”

Jack looked at the tablet in his hand. “No fracture. No pneumothorax. Observation for pain control and repeat exam.”

Mason nodded, but his eyes came back to you. “Good. I’d hate to think I left him in the wrong hands.”

You opened your mouth. Jack answered before you could. “She has it handled.”

The room went quiet. Mason’s brows lifted slightly. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you. His eyes stayed on Mason, calm and unreadable.

Mason’s mouth curved, slower this time. “I can see that.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. You set the tablet down before either of them could say another word.

“Lieutenant Hale needs rest,” you said, voice light but firm. “And I need both of you to stop having whatever conversation you think you’re having over his bed.”

Hale opened one eye. “Thank you.”

Mason laughed once, lifting both hands. “Fair.”

Jack finally looked at you. There was heat there. Frustration. Something too sharp to be professional and too controlled to be anything else. You held his gaze for half a second too long. Then Jack looked away first.

“Brooks,” Jack said, voice even. “You can check back in after he’s had some rest.”

Mason nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

He looked at you one last time. “Good seeing you again,” Mason said.

You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”

Jack moved before Mason fully cleared the doorway. It was subtle. A step to the side. A shift of his body. Nothing anyone could call possessive. But it put him directly between you and Mason’s line of sight. Your breath caught. Mason saw it. You knew he saw it because his expression changed just enough. Curiosity. Recognition. Not understanding, exactly. But close. Then Mason left.

Hale looked between you and Jack from the bed.

“I’m still on pain meds,” Hale said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice that either.”

Jack’s eyes closed again. You pressed your lips together. From the doorway, Crus made the mistake of appearing with Hale’s updated paperwork. He looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Hale.

“I can come back,” Crus said.

Jack turned his head. “Crus.”

Crus nodded. “Coming back.”

He disappeared immediately. You exhaled through your nose and grabbed the tablet from the counter.

“I’m going to restock,” you said.

Jack’s gaze followed you. “Now?”

“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Now.”

You made it halfway down the hall before Jack caught up. He did not call your name. He did not say anything at all. He just reached past you, opened the supply closet door, and said, low enough that only you could hear, “In.”

Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Please.”

That was worse. That was much worse. You stepped inside. The second the door clicked shut, Jack’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to turn you back toward him before you could take another breath.

“Jack—”

He kissed you. 

The word disappeared against his mouth. For one stunned second, you froze, caught between the metal shelf at your back and the heat of him in front of you. Then your body caught up faster than your brain did. Your hands found his scrub top, fingers curling into the fabric as Jack stepped closer and kissed you like he had been holding himself back all night. Because he had. You knew it in the way his mouth moved over yours.

Controlled, but only barely. Careful, but not calm.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you in once before he seemed to remember where you were and stopped himself from dragging you fully against him. When he broke the kiss, his breath was uneven. You stared up at him. Jack’s eyes were dark.

Your lips parted. “Oh.”

His jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“You’re jealous,” you said.

Jack looked toward the closed door like it had personally offended him. “I’m not doing this here.”

“You pulled me into a supply closet and kissed me,” you replied.

Jack exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”

You lifted your brows. “That wasn’t talking.”

Jack’s eyes cut back to yours. There he was. Irritated. Wound tight. Too handsome for your peace of mind.

“You’ve been acting strange all night,” you said.

Jack dropped his hand from your waist, but he did not step back. “I’ve been working.”

Your eyes narrowed, “You’ve been keeping me within arm’s reach.”

Jack did not answer. That silence landed harder than a confession.

You softened your voice. “Jack.”

His gaze stayed on yours, stubborn and hot and miserable.

“Is this because of Mason?” you asked.

Jack laughed once, short and humorless. “Mason,” he repeated, like the name tasted bad.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack looked away, but this time there was something grumpy and sharp tucked into the movement.

“Drew had plenty to say about him,” Jack said.

The memory came back immediately. Station Four was looking very heroic tonight. He was cute. Okay, but we love a man in uniform.

Your mouth curved before you could stop it.

Jack saw it. His eyes narrowed. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing,” Jack replied. 

You tilted your head. “You’re mad about what Drew said.”

Jack replied instantly. “I’m not mad about what Drew said.”

You gave him a look.

Jack’s mouth tightened. “He said you should go for it.”

You sighed softly. “He was teasing.” 

“He said everyone loves a man in uniform,” Jack replied, short, slightly clipped. 

You stepped closer, letting your hands smooth slowly up his chest.

“And you think I was looking at Mason in uniform?” you asked.

“I think,” Jack said, each word too controlled, “Brooks knew exactly what he looked like walking into that room.”

You hummed. “Did he?”

Jack's tone sharpened into a warning, “Baby.”

There it was. The first slip. The first crack in the professional distance he had forced between you all night. 

Your stomach flipped, but you did not let him off the hook. “He’s not the man I want to see in uniform.”

Jack went still. Not tense. Not cold. Still. Like the words had gone straight through him.

“No?” Jack asked.

You shook your head. “No.”

The supply closet felt smaller suddenly. Too quiet. Too warm.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Careful.”

You continued despite Jack’s warning. “You are.” 

His mouth parted slightly. You let your gaze move over him, slow enough to be cruel.

“And you know exactly what you look like in your SWAT gear.”

Jack’s hand braced on the shelf beside your head. He was not touching you. Not yet. But his body crowded yours, all heat and restraint, and your pulse jumped like it had been waiting for permission.

“I pulled you in here because I was jealous,” Jack said, voice rough. “And now you’re talking about SWAT gear.” 

“No,” you said, fingers curling in the front of his scrub top. “I’m telling you, Mason could never.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hands.

You tugged him closer by a fraction. “He could never make me feel like you do.”

Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours.

“He could never kiss me like you do,” you said.

Jack kissed you again. Harder this time. The shelf pressed into your back as his mouth found yours, and you made a soft, startled sound that disappeared into him. Jack swallowed it like it belonged to him. His hand returned to your waist, fingers tightening once, and the possessive edge of it made your knees go weak. He kissed you like a man trying to prove a point he had no business proving at work. 

Then he pulled back just enough to breathe. You should have stopped. You did not. You caught his wrist before he could move his hand away.

Jack’s eyes sharpened. “Baby.”

You held his gaze and guided his hand back to your waist. “He could never touch me like you do.”

Jack’s fingers flexed against you. You moved his hand lower, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted to. He did not. His palm settled over your ass, firm and hot through your scrubs, and his jaw went tight enough to make your stomach flip.

Your voice dropped. “Never.”

Jack’s breath left him roughly. His hand tightened once before he forced it still.

“You need to stop,” Jack said.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his scrub pants and pulled him closer. Not much. Just enough. Jack’s hips pressed into yours, and the sound he made was low, wrecked, barely controlled.

You looked up at him. “He could never fuck me like you do.”

Jack snapped.

His mouth was on yours before you could take another breath. This kiss was not careful. Not at first. It was hot and rough and immediate, his hand tightening on your ass as he pinned you back against the shelf with the solid heat of his body. Your fingers twisted in his waistband, pulling him closer while his mouth opened over yours, swallowing the small sound that slipped out of you. For one dizzy second, there was no hospital. No night shift. No Mason. No Drew. No secret. Just Jack’s mouth, Jack’s hands, Jack’s body pressed hard against yours as if he needed you to feel exactly how much he had been holding back.

Your hand slid up his chest. Jack’s hips pushed into yours again, and your breath broke against his mouth.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He kissed you once more, deep and hungry, and then stopped like it hurt. His forehead dropped to yours. Both of you were breathing too hard. His hand stayed on you for one more second. Then his fingers loosened.

“Not here,” Jack said.

Your eyes opened slowly. “Jack.”

His voice was rough, almost unsteady. “Not because I’m jealous.”

Your fingers were still hooked in his waistband. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint pulled tight through every line of his body. He lifted his head enough to look at you.

“Not at work,” Jack said. “Not where anyone can walk in and make you pay for it.”

Your chest squeezed, even through the heat still crawling under your skin. “You think I’d regret it?” you asked.

Jack’s expression softened for half a second, but his voice stayed wrecked. “I think I care about you too much to find out in a supply closet.”

You stared at him. “That is so annoying.”

His mouth twitched, though his eyes were still dark. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” You let go of his waistband slowly, even though it cost you. “Responsible. Principled. Deeply inconvenient.”

Jack’s hand slid from your ass back to your waist. Just once. Firm. Careful. Then he let go. He leaned close again, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Finish the shift,” Jack said.

Your eyes fluttered. “And then?”

Jack stepped back, putting space between you like it physically hurt. His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your mouth before coming back to your eyes. “Then you come home with me.”

Your pulse jumped. You tried to smile. “And?”

Jack reached for the supply closet door, but he looked back before opening it. “And then you can say all of that again.”

You stepped out of the supply closet first. That had been Jack’s idea. He gave you thirty seconds, like that would somehow fix your mouth, your breathing, your pulse, or the fact that your whole body still felt marked by his hands. You made it three steps before Crus appeared at the end of the hall. He looked at you. You looked at him. Crus’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he looked at the supply closet door behind you.

You lifted a finger. “Don’t.”

Crus nodded immediately. “Wasn’t going to.”

Your eyes narrowed, “You were thinking.”

“I can stop,” Crus said.

You nodded once, “Do that.” 

Crus pointed vaguely toward the nurses’ station. “I’m going to go over there.”

You nodded. “Great idea.”

Crus took two steps backward before turning around completely. You waited until he disappeared, then pressed the heel of your hand beneath your collarbone like that would keep your heart where it belonged. Thirty seconds later, Jack came out. You did not turn around. You did not need to. You felt him behind you the same way you had felt him all night. Close. Controlled. Ruining your life with restraint. Jack passed you without touching you, but his voice dipped low enough that only you could hear. “Breathe.”

Your eyes closed for half a second. “Don’t start.”

Jack paused beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “I’m not starting anything.”

You looked up at him. “You absolutely started something.”

His mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the hall. “Finish the shift.”

You exhaled shakily. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”

Jack’s gaze cut to yours. For one second, the supply closet was there again. His mouth on yours. His hand at your waist. His voice against your ear. Then Jack looked away first.

“I didn’t say easy,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. He walked away before you could answer. You stood there for one more second, furious with him for being principled and even more furious with yourself for finding it attractive.

 You lasted eleven minutes. That was generous, considering the state Jack had left you in. Eleven whole minutes of pretending you could chart, restock, answer Drew’s question about room six, and not think about Jack’s mouth on yours in the supply closet. Eleven minutes of watching him move through the department like he had not just pinned you to a shelf and then ruined your life by being responsible about it. He was at the nurses’ station when you looked up again, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee, the other scrolling through something on his phone. His shoulders were relaxed. His face was calm. He looked controlled.

That annoyed you. It annoyed you enough that you reached into your scrub pocket for your phone. The photo was not new. You had taken it two nights ago in Jack’s bedroom, sitting on the floor in front of his mirror while he was in the shower. Your face was hidden behind your phone, one knee bent, your other leg folded beneath you. Lace hugged your hips, one strap sitting soft against your shoulder, the whole thing intimate and quiet and unmistakably meant for him.

It did not show everything.

It did not have to.

Jack knew what that set looked like in person. Jack knew what it looked like on his bedroom floor. You stared at the photo for half a second. Then you looked across the department. Jack lifted his coffee to his mouth. You selected the photo. Underneath it, you typed: For the record, Mason never got one of these.

You pressed send. Across the station, Jack’s phone lit up. He glanced down. His thumb moved over the screen. For one second, nothing happened. Then his coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. Your stomach flipped. Jack lowered the cup slowly. Very slowly. His jaw tightened.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Jack: Fuck. You’re beautiful.

Your breath caught. For half a second, all the smugness drained out of you. Then another message appeared.

Jack: And you know exactly what you’re doing.

Your mouth curved. You typed back. You: Good.

Across the station, Jack looked up. His eyes found yours immediately. Dark. Focused. Not even close to calm. Your phone buzzed again. Jack: Careful.

You slipped your phone back into your pocket and picked up the chart in front of you. Jack kept looking at you. You did not look back. That was the point.

For the rest of the shift, you behaved. Mostly. You answered call lights. You updated Hale’s chart. You helped Drew turn over room three. You gave Ellis the lab results she had been waiting for and listened to Shen complain about discharge instructions with the appropriate amount of sympathy. And every so often, you made Jack’s life worse. Not loudly. Never obviously. You were smarter than that. You brushed past him in the narrow hallway with just enough space between you for plausible deniability and not nearly enough for mercy. Jack’s hand tightened around the chart he was holding. You did not smile until you were past him.

Five minutes later, you reached around him at the counter for a roll of tape you did not actually need. Jack went still when your chest nearly touched his arm.

You kept your voice sweet. “Excuse me.”

His eyes cut to yours. “There are three rolls on the other side.”

You looked down at the tape in your hand. “I like this one.”

Jack’s mouth tightened. Drew passed behind you with a stack of blankets, looked between you and Jack, and immediately changed direction.

“Nope,” Drew said.

You turned toward him. “What?”

Drew kept walking. “I have no questions.”

Jack leaned closer under the cover of reaching for a pen. His voice dropped low enough that only you could hear. “You’re being a brat.”

Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him, all innocence. “Am I?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”

The word landed low in your stomach. You swallowed. Jack noticed. For one second, the corner of his mouth almost moved. Then he straightened, professional mask sliding back into place like he had not just knocked the air out of you with one word.

“Room four needs vitals,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, doctor.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth. “Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled because you had no survival instinct left. “Trying.”

You were not trying. You both knew it.

By six, the department had thinned into the gray, half-awake quiet that came right before day shift started filling the halls with fresh voices and clean coffee. Hale had been admitted for observation. Mason had not come back. Drew had given you exactly one suspicious look and then wisely chosen to become fascinated by a supply cabinet. Shen had avoided the trauma hallway entirely. Ellis handed you a stack of discharge papers without comment, then looked at your face for half a second too long.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

Ellis lifted one shoulder. “Nothing.”

You exhaled. “That sounded like something.”

“It was internal,” Ellis replied. 

You nodded. “Keep it that way.”

Ellis nodded in return. “Absolutely.”

From the attending station, Jack signed off on a chart and handed it to Crus. Crus took it carefully, like it might explode.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Crus shook his head. “Nothing.” Jack stared at him. Crus swallowed. “Lots of nothing this morning.”

You pressed your lips together and turned away before you could laugh. Jack’s gaze found you anyway. It landed on the side of your face, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. You looked down at the chart in your hand and tried to remember how to read. When your shift finally ended, you made it to the staff room before Jack did. 

A little after seven, you changed out of your scrub top with fingers that were not as steady as you wanted them to be. You shoved your things into your bag, checked your phone, then checked it again, even though nothing had changed. Jack had not texted. He did not need to. You both knew where you were going. Still, when you stepped into the hallway and found him waiting near the exit, your breath caught. He had changed into a dark jacket over his T-shirt, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding his keys. He looked tired. He looked composed. He looked like the man who had stopped himself in a supply closet and expected you to survive that information.

Jack’s eyes moved over you once. “You ready?”

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Are you?”

His jaw shifted. You watched him fight a smile and lose by half an inch. “Car’s this way,” Jack said.

You followed him into the parking garage without another word. The walk to his truck felt longer than it should have. Neither of you touched. Neither of you spoke. Your hands kept brushing close enough that you could feel the almost of it, and by the time Jack unlocked the truck, you were so aware of him it felt embarrassing.

He opened the passenger door. You looked up at him. “Still being responsible?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Trying.”

You quirked a brow, “How’s that going?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Poorly,” he said.

You slid into the seat before you could do something stupid in the parking garage, too. Jack closed the door with more care than necessary. The drive to his place was quiet. Not awkward. Just charged. The kind of quiet that had weight. The kind that pressed between your ribs and reminded you of everything waiting on the other side of his front door.

Jack kept one hand on the wheel. The other rested near the gear shift. Halfway there, you reached over and touched his wrist. Jack’s fingers flexed once, but he did not look away from the road.

You traced your thumb over the inside of his wrist. “You okay?”

His throat moved. “No,” Jack said.

Your chest tightened. He glanced at you then, quick and honest in the dark cab of the truck. “But I will be.”

You nodded and left your hand where it was. Jack turned his wrist beneath your touch and threaded his fingers through yours. It was the first real contact since the closet. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles. Slow. Controlled. The way he did everything when he was trying not to lose his mind. You looked down at your joined hands and felt your pulse jump. He was touching you now. He was still holding back.

Jack pulled into the small driveway behind his townhouse and cut the engine. For one second, neither of you moved. Your hand was still in his. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, slow and absent, like he was reminding himself you were there.

You looked over at him. “Jack.”

His eyes stayed forward. “I know.”

You waited. Jack exhaled through his nose, then turned his head enough to look at you. The porch light cut across his face, catching the tired set of his eyes, the rough edge of his restraint, the stubborn line of his mouth. He looked like he had survived the shift. Barely.

“You coming inside?” he asked.

Your heart kicked. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he opened his door. You watched him get out, watched him come around the front of the truck, watched him open your door like the silence between you was not doing half the work for him. He held out his hand. You took it. Jack helped you down, then let go immediately.

You frowned. “Really?”

He shut the passenger door. “Inside.”

The word landed low in your stomach. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and followed him toward the back door. He did not touch you while he unlocked it. He did not touch you when he stepped aside to let you in first. He did not touch you when the door closed behind him, and the lock clicked into place. That was how you knew you were in trouble. You stepped into the familiar quiet of his townhouse, and something in your chest softened before you could stop it. His boots were lined up neatly by the door. Your shoes from two nights ago were tucked beside them. The mug you always stole was upside down in the drying rack. The blanket you liked was folded over the back of the couch, neater than you had ever left it.

The sweatshirt you kept stealing was draped over the stair railing. Evidence. Everywhere. Tiny, domestic evidence that you belonged here. Jack set his keys in the bowl by the door. You watched his hands. Slow. Controlled. Infuriating. Then he turned back to you.

“Bag down,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. You lifted your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

His eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

You stared at him for a second. Then, because apparently you had learned nothing from the supply closet, you smiled. “Is this the part where you get bossy?”

Jack stepped closer, not rushing, not touching, just taking up space until the air between you felt thinner. “This is the part where you listen.”

Your stomach flipped. “Because I sent you a picture?”

Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “Because you sent me that picture at work.”

“You liked it.”

His eyes darkened. “I loved it.”

The honesty in his voice nearly ruined your smugness. Nearly.

You tilted your chin up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”

Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft. Not yet.

“The problem,” he said, “is that you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop gently beside your feet. “There,” you said. “I listened.”

Jack glanced at the bag. Then back at you. “Good.”

The single word moved through you like a hand. You swallowed.

His expression shifted by half a degree, the corner of his mouth barely moving.

“There she is,” he said quietly.

Your pulse jumped. “What?”

Jack stepped closer. “You were very brave at work,” he said.

You held his stare. “Was I?”

His hand came to the wall beside your head, not touching you, not yet. “Sending pictures. Brushing past me. Reaching for things you didn’t need.”

Your back met the door. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You had a lot to say for someone who still had a shift to finish.”

Your breath came shallow. “You told me to finish it.”

“I did,” Jack replied.

You inhaled. “So I did.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “You made it difficult.”

You smiled, slow and sweet. “Good.”

His hand finally came to your waist. Firm. Warm. Possessive enough to make your knees feel unreliable. Jack leaned in, his mouth near your ear.

“That’s the last time you say that without thinking first,” he said.

Your eyes fluttered shut. For one second, the brat in you went quiet. 

Then you opened your eyes and turned your face toward his. “Or what?”

Jack went still. The room changed. His hand tightened at your waist once, not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he had heard every bit of challenge in your voice. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. But there was something else there, too. Something tired. Something honest. Something that made your chest ache even while your body was still humming from the way he had you against the door.

“Or,” Jack said, voice low, “you’re going to make me forget what I actually need to say to you.”

Your smile faded. “Oh.”

His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah,” he said.

You softened under his hand. “Jack.”

He looked at you for a long second. Then the confession started, quiet and rough and bigger than the jealousy. “I hated it,” he said.

Your chest went still. You searched his face. “Mason?”

Jack shook his head once. “No.”

You waited. His jaw worked like the words were fighting him on the way out. 

“I hated standing there like I didn’t know you,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. He looked away, but only for a second. When his eyes came back to yours, there was no professional distance left in them.

“I hated hearing him talk to you like you were available,” Jack said. “I hated Drew saying you should go for it and knowing I couldn’t say a damn thing.”

You lifted your hand to his chest. “Jack.”

“I know why we’re careful,” he said.

His voice was low. Controlled. But not cold anymore. Never cold. “I know why it matters. I know what people can be like, and I know your career matters more than me needing to prove a point in a trauma bay.”

You stepped closer. “It’s not more than you.” Jack’s expression shifted. You held his gaze. “My career matters. So do you.”

He swallowed once. “I know you didn’t want him,” Jack said.

“I didn’t,” you agreed. 

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “That was never the problem.”

You took another careful breath. “Then what was?”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said it. “Careful felt a hell of a lot like pretending tonight.”

Your breath caught. 

His eyes stayed on yours, tired and dark and finally honest. “And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

The room went quiet. The kind that settled around the two of you and made every other sound disappear. You stared at him. Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. For the first time all night, he looked uncertain. That did something worse to you than the jealousy had. Worse than the supply closet. Worse than his hand on your waist, his mouth at your ear, his voice telling you to finish the shift.

You slid your hand up his chest. “You’re in love with me?” you asked.

His eyes searched your face. “Yes.”

The word was simple. No defense. No sarcasm. No place to hide. Your heart folded in on itself.

You touched his jaw. “Good.”

Jack’s brows drew together. “Good?”

You nodded, your thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble along his cheek. “Because I’m in love with you too.”

Jack’s breath left him slowly. Your chest ached with it. “With me?” he asked.

You gave him a look, even though your eyes were starting to sting. “Jack.”

His mouth curved faintly, but the vulnerability in his eyes stayed. “I had to ask.”

You shook your head. “You did not.”

“I did,” Jack replied. 

You shook your head again and stepped closer until your body nearly touched his. “You are a ridiculous man.”

Jack’s hand finally settled more firmly at your waist. Like he had needed to hear it first. Like he had been waiting for permission to believe you. You covered his hand with yours and pressed it harder against you. His eyes darkened.

“There,” you whispered. “That’s better.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “You have been a problem all night.”

Your mouth curved. “I have?” He gave you a flat look. You widened your eyes. “Was it the photo?”

Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. “Among other things.”

“I took that for you,” you said. 

Jack nodded once. “I know.”

You slid your hands down his chest, watching the restraint settle back into his body for a very different reason now. “No one else gets that,” you said. 

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His thumb moved once against your waist. You let your voice soften into something sweet enough to be dangerous.

“No one else gets me in your room,” you said. “No one else gets your shirt on my floor. No one else gets those pictures.”

Jack’s breathing changed.

You lifted your chin. “And no one else gets to touch me the way you do.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. There he was. The same heat from the supply closet. The same jealousy. The same need. But now there was no hospital around it. No door someone could open. No chart waiting. No secret making him stand five feet away. Just Jack’s townhouse. Jack’s hand on your waist. Jack looking at you like he had finally stopped pretending.

“You said something like that earlier,” he said.

Your stomach dipped. “I said a lot earlier.”

His mouth curved, slow and rough at the edges. “You did.”

You held his gaze. “Which part?”

Jack’s other hand came to your hip. “The part where you said he could never.”

Your pulse jumped. You let your hands slide lower, fingers catching lightly at the waistband of his jeans this time.

“He couldn’t,” you said.

Jack stepped into you. Your back met the door again. The sound was soft. The shift in him was not. He crowded you slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, every chance to push back, every chance to choose something else. You chose him. You hooked your fingers more firmly into his waistband and pulled him closer. Jack’s breath caught.

You looked up at him. “He could never make me feel like you do.”

His hand slid from your waist to the door beside your head. 

You smiled, because apparently you had not learned a single thing. “He could never kiss me like you do.”

Jack leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. His voice was low. “You’re still being a brat.”

Your stomach flipped. You held his stare. “Maybe you’re still jealous.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “Yes, baby,” he said. “I’m jealous.”

Your breath caught. His mouth brushed yours, barely a kiss. “But I’m also in love with you,” Jack said. “So if you want to keep being a brat about it, you’d better be very sure.”

Your fingers tightened in his waistband. You smiled against his mouth. “I’m sure.”

Jack kissed you then. Not like the supply closet. Not like a man trying to steal something before the rest of the world noticed. This was slower. Deeper. Worse, somehow, because there was nowhere for either of you to go now. No alarms. No monitors. No hallway footsteps. No coworker who might round the corner and force Jack to become Dr. Abbot again. There was just his townhouse. The locked door at your back. His hand at your waist. His mouth moving over yours like he finally had permission to take his time. You made a small sound into the kiss and felt his fingers tighten.

Jack pulled back just enough to breathe. “Say it again.”

Your eyes opened. He was close enough that his nose brushed yours, close enough that you could see every careful piece of him coming apart.

You swallowed. “I’m sure.”

Jack’s gaze darkened. “Not that.”

Your chest went soft. Oh. You slid your hand up the side of his neck. “I’m in love with you.”

His breath left him. For one second, he did nothing but look at you. Then Jack kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other pressed at your waist and pulled you fully against him. You went willingly. Of course you did. You had been going willingly all night, even when you were being impossible about it. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled. You did it again, just to hear it.

He broke the kiss with his lips still brushing yours. “Careful.”

You smiled against his mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep not listening,” Jack replied. 

You tugged at his shirt. “Maybe you should do something about it.”

Jack went still. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to feel the air shift.

Then his hand covered yours, stilling your fingers against his chest.

“You are really committed to testing me tonight,” he said.

You opened your mouth, but Jack kissed whatever answer you had been about to give right out of you. Your back hit the door again, softer this time, his body crowding you in. He did not trap you. Not really. The space was there if you wanted it. You did not want it. You wanted him closer. You slid both hands beneath his jacket and shoved it off his shoulders. Jack let you get one sleeve down before he helped, shrugging out of it and dropping it somewhere near your abandoned bag. Your fingers went right back to his shirt. Jack caught your wrists.

You huffed against his mouth. “Jack.”

His grip stayed firm. “Slow down.”

“I waited all shift,” you replied. 

Jack exhaled. “You teased me all shift.”

You lifted your chin. “You survived.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. Your pulse jumped. “That mouth,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “You like my mouth.”

His gaze dropped to it. “I love your mouth.”

The words went straight through you. Before you could recover, Jack’s hand slid to the hem of your top. His eyes lifted to yours. You nodded. Only then did he pull it up. You raised your arms, and Jack drew the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without looking away from you. His gaze moved over your bare shoulders, your chest, the rise and fall of your breathing. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he was taking inventory of every inch he had been denied all night.

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

“I know,” he said.

His hand came back to your waist, his palm warm against your skin. His thumb brushed the line where your bra met your ribs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. You reached for his shirt again. This time, he let you. Your fingers dragged the fabric up his stomach, over his chest, and Jack ducked his head enough for you to pull it off. You dropped it beside your scrub top and forgot about it immediately. Because Jack was there. Warm skin. Bare chest. The muscles in his stomach shifting as he breathed. The dark look in his eyes when he realized you were staring. Your mouth went dry.

Jack’s hand slid up your side. “Still thinking about Mason?”

You almost laughed. It came out breathless instead. “No.”

His brow lifted. “No?”

You set both hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I told you. He could never.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. You felt it under your fingers, that tiny fracture in his control.

“He could never what?” he asked.

You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted to hear it. You also knew you had spent the entire shift making him wait. 

So you gave it to him. “He could never make me feel like this.”

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “Good girl,” he said.

Your knees nearly gave out. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss turned messy for the first time. Not uncontrolled. Jack was never uncontrolled. But rougher. Hungrier. His hand slid to your back, unclipping your bra with a practiced motion that made your entire body go hot.

You broke the kiss to look at him. “That was fast.”

His mouth brushed the corner of yours. “I’m a doctor.”

You laughed once, breathless and ruined. “That is not a medical skill.”

Jack slid the strap down your shoulder. “It is today.”

Your laugh caught when the bra slipped down your arms. Jack’s gaze followed. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Not in some obvious, theatrical way. But enough that your teasing vanished. 

His thumb brushed beneath your breast, barely touching. “Fuck.” Your breath shook. Jack looked back up at you. “Beautiful.”

Your chest tightened at the softness in his voice. You reached for him again, but Jack caught your wrist and pressed your hand back to the door beside your head.

“Not yet,” he said.

You stared at him. “Not yet?”

His mouth curved faintly. “You heard me.”

You swallowed. Jack leaned in, his lips brushing your jaw, then the sensitive place beneath your ear. His hand moved slowly down your body, over your ribs, your waist, your hip, stopping at the waistband of your scrub pants.

“You were very brave at work,” he said against your skin.

Your eyes fluttered. “Was I?”

“Sending that picture,” Jack said. “Brushing past me. Reaching around me for tape you didn’t need.”

You gripped the doorframe with your free hand. “I liked that tape.”

Jack’s teeth grazed gently beneath your ear. Your breath caught. 

“You liked making me watch you pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose,” he said.

You turned your face toward his. “Maybe.”

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. Your hips shifted toward him before you could stop yourself.

Jack’s mouth curved against your jaw. “There she is.”

You hated how much you loved when he said that. You hated more that he knew.

Jack drew back enough to look at you. “Say my name.”

Your lips parted. “Jack.”

His eyes darkened. “Again.”

You swallowed. “Jack.”

He kissed you once, deep and slow, then hooked his fingers in your waistband and started to pull. You lifted your hips from the door just enough to help him. Jack lowered your pants inch by inch, taking your underwear with them, his eyes on yours until the fabric slipped down your thighs. You stepped out of them. He stayed standing. Still half dressed. Still in control. Still watching you like he had all the time in the world. You were bare in front of him, goosebumps erupting across your skin. Jack followed your gaze. His mouth twitched. 

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s cold.”

Jack’s hand slid to your bare hip. “Baby, you are shaking for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.”

Your face warmed. “You’re very smug right now.”

“I’m very patient right now,” Jack corrected. 

You gave him a look. “Are you?”

Jack’s eyes moved over you once, slow and devastating. “No,” he said. “But I’m trying to make a point.”

Your stomach dipped. “What point?”

He stepped closer, his jeans brushing your bare thigh. “That you are going to remember exactly who you came home with.”

Your breath left you. Jack’s hand came to the back of your neck, tipping your face up.

“Who did you come home with?” he asked.

You stared at him. “You.”

His thumb brushed the side of your throat. “Say my name.”

“Jack.”

His mouth ghosted over yours. “Good girl.”

You surged up to kiss him, but Jack pulled back before you could catch his mouth. You made a frustrated sound. He smiled then. Just barely. Mean enough to make your pulse trip.

“Upstairs,” Jack said.

Your body went still. “What?”

His hand slipped from your neck to your jaw, holding you there gently. “Upstairs,” he repeated.

You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Like this?”

Jack’s gaze dropped over you. Then came back to your face. “Yes.”

Your breath caught. You glanced toward the stairs, then at his jeans, still very much on, still entirely unfair. “You’re dressed.”

“I am,” Jack replied.

You glared. “That seems uneven.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “You had your fun at work.”

You blinked at him. “So this is revenge?”

His expression softened for half a second, just enough to remind you that underneath all of this, he loved you. Then his thumb brushed your lower lip. “No,” Jack said. “This is me taking my time.”

Your stomach flipped. You turned toward the stairs, trying very hard to pretend your legs felt steady. They did not. Jack stayed close behind you as you started up, close enough that you could feel the heat of him without him touching you.

You looked back over your shoulder halfway up. “You coming?”

His eyes dragged over you, slow enough to make you regret the question. “Keep walking,” Jack said.

You faced forward immediately. Behind you, Jack made a low sound that might have been amusement. You gripped the railing and kept going. By the time you reached his bedroom, your skin felt too tight, every nerve lit with the awareness of him behind you. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the hallway and the weak morning light edging around the curtains. You had been in this room before. You knew the dresser. The bed. The chair in the corner where Jack folded his clothes too neatly. The mirror where you had taken the picture that had started all of this. But with Jack behind you and your clothes scattered downstairs, it felt different. It felt like a consequence. Jack stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. You turned toward him. He looked at you for one long second. Then his gaze flicked to the bed. “Sit,” Jack said.

You sat. Jack did not move right away. He stood near the closed bedroom door, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, hair slightly mussed from your hands, and looked at you like you were something he had been waiting all night to get alone. Your knees pressed together on instinct.

His gaze dropped briefly, then came back to your face. “Don’t hide from me now,” he said.

Your breath caught. You eased your knees apart. Not much. Enough.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Good girl,” he said.

The praise went straight through you. You gripped the edge of the mattress. “Jack.”

He stepped closer. “What?”

You looked up at him, bare and aching and already tired of him being so controlled. “Come here.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That sounded like an order.”

You lifted your chin. “Maybe it was.”

His eyes darkened. For a second, you thought he might make you take it back. Instead, Jack crossed the room slowly, each step measured, until he was standing between your knees. Close. Still too dressed. Still too smug. You reached for his waistband. Jack caught your wrist. Your pulse jumped.

His grip was gentle, but it stopped you completely. “No,” he said.

You blinked up at him. “No?”

Jack’s thumb moved over the inside of your wrist, the same place you had touched him in the truck. “You’ve had your hands where you wanted them all night.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You sent me a picture at work,” Jack said. “You brushed against me every chance you got. You reached around me for tape you didn’t need.”

“I liked that tape,” you murmured. 

“And now,” he said, ignoring you completely, “you think you get to decide when you touch me.”

Your mouth went dry. Jack looked down at your hand, still caught in his. Then his other hand moved to his belt. The buckle clicked open. Your fingers went still.

His gaze lifted to yours. “There she is.”

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

He slid the belt free slowly, leather dragging through denim, the sound quiet and devastating in the dark room. Your thighs tensed around his legs. Jack folded the belt once in his hand. Then he stopped. His expression changed, just enough that the heat in the room made space for something steadier.

“Tell me no, and it goes on the floor,” he said.

Your chest rose and fell once. Then again. You looked from the belt to his face. He was not smiling now. He was waiting. Making sure. Letting you choose.

“Yes,” you said.

Jack did not move. “Yes, what?”

Your pulse beat hard beneath his fingers. “Yes,” you said, quieter now. “Use it.”

Only then did Jack move. He brought your hand to your other one, gathering your wrists together with a care that made your throat tighten. He looped the belt around them once, then again, not tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to frighten you, just enough that when he held the end in his fist, your hands belonged exactly where he put them. Jack slid one finger beneath the leather, checking the space. Your stomach fluttered.

“Too tight?” he asked.

You shook your head. His eyes held yours. “Words.”

“No,” you said. “It’s not too tight.”

“Good.” He lifted your bound wrists and kissed the inside of one. The gentleness almost ruined you. Then he guided your hands above your head and pressed them to the mattress as he leaned over you. Your back met the bed. Your breath left you. Jack hovered above you, one hand holding the end of the belt, the other planted beside your head. His body did not cover yours yet. Not fully. He was making you feel every inch of space. Every second of waiting. Every consequence of what you had done to him all night.

“You still feel brave?” he asked.

You swallowed. “A little.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “A little?”

You tugged experimentally at the belt. His hand tightened. Not rough. Certain. Your body reacted before you could pretend it hadn’t.

Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Oh,” he said softly. “More than a little.”

Your face warmed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes,” Jack said. The honesty made your stomach drop. He leaned down, mouth brushing your jaw, then your throat. “I loved the photo.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

“I loved knowing you took it for me,” he said against your skin. “Loved knowing no one else gets that.”

His mouth moved lower, over your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Your wrists shifted above your head. Jack held them there.

“But you knew exactly what it would do to me,” he said.

You arched when his mouth brushed your breast. “Jack.”

He paused. His eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again,” he said.

Your mind felt slow. “What?”

“My name.”

Your breath shook. “Jack.”

His mouth closed over you. Your back arched off the mattress. Jack’s grip on the belt held firm, keeping your hands above your head while his tongue moved over you with the same patience that had been ruining you all night. You pulled against the restraint. He did not let you move. You made a frustrated sound.

Jack lifted his head. “What do you want?”

You stared at him. “You.”

“You have me,” Jack answered. 

You exhaled, “Jack.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Use your words.”

Your thighs shifted restlessly. “Touch me.”

He kissed the center of your chest. “I am touching you.”

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to never stop hearing him sound like that. “More,” you said.

Jack’s eyes darkened. “There you go.”

He kissed lower. Slowly. Too slowly. Down your stomach, over your hip, along the inside of your thigh until you were trembling before he had even put his mouth where you needed it. You tried to reach for him. The belt stopped you. 

Jack looked up from between your thighs. “Hands stay there.”

Your breath caught. “You’re holding them there.”

“I know,” he answered. 

You huffed. “Then why are you telling me?”

His mouth brushed your inner thigh. “Because I like hearing you try to listen.”

Your eyes closed. “You’re impossible.”

Jack kissed higher. “You love me.”

Your chest went soft and hot at the same time. “I do,” you whispered.

Jack went still. Not completely. Just enough. Then his eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again.”

Your breath caught. His hand loosened on the belt slightly, not enough to free you, just enough for his thumb to brush over your knuckles.

You looked at him, your chest tight, your body aching. “I love you,” you said.

Jack’s expression shifted. For one second, all the teasing left him. All the controlled heat. All the jealousy. There was only Jack, looking at you like he had heard something sacred. Then he turned his head and kissed the inside of your thigh.

“I love you too,” he said against your skin.

Your eyes burned. Then his mouth found you. Your thoughts scattered. “Oh—” Your back arched. “Jack.”

He hummed low, one arm hooking beneath your thigh to hold you open, the other still keeping the belt steady. His mouth moved like he had been waiting all night for this too, like every second of restraint had sharpened into focus. You tried to close your thighs around him. He did not let you. “Jack, please.”

He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Please what?”

You made a sound that was almost a sob. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s better,” he said.

Then he went back to you. You lost track of the room after that. There was only Jack’s mouth, his hand, the belt around your wrists, the rough warmth of his voice when he told you to keep saying his name.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His fingers joined his mouth, careful at first, then certain when your body opened for him. Your hips moved. Jack held you down with one forearm across your lower stomach.

“Stay,” he said.

You shook your head against the mattress. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Jack replied. 

You started to say, “Jack—” 

“You wanted to make your point,” he said, voice rough. “Make it.”

You blinked down at him, dazed. “What?”

His fingers curled. Your whole body jerked. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on yours. “Who makes you feel like this?” he asked.

Your breath came in short, broken pulls. “You.”

He did it again. You cried out. “Say my name,” he said. 

“Jack,” you said immediately. 

His fingers curled inside you. “Again.” 

“Jack, please,” you moaned. 

His mouth returned to you, and the sound you made was not quiet. You pulled hard against the belt, your body tightening, thighs trembling around his shoulders. Jack did not stop. He did not rush. He kept you there, right on the edge, until you were almost crying with it.

“Tell me,” he said.

You could barely think. “Only you.”

Jack’s fingers slowed. Not stopping. Threatening to.

Your eyes flew open. “No, no, please.”

“Only me what?” he asked. 

Your breath broke. “Only you can make me feel like this.”

His eyes flashed. “Keep going.”

You shook beneath him. “Only you can touch me like this.”

“Good girl.”

Your body tightened at the praise. Jack felt it. His mouth curved against you, and then he gave you exactly what you had been begging for. 

You came hard.

Hard enough that your vision went white at the edges. Hard enough that your voice broke around his name. Hard enough that your wrists strained against the belt and your back bowed off the mattress while Jack held you through it, mouth and fingers working you through every second until you were shaking too much to do anything but take it.

“Jack,” you gasped. “Jack, Jack—”

“That’s it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “There you go.”

You were still pulsing around his fingers when he lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. He looked absolutely ruined. And somehow, somehow, he was still wearing his jeans.

You stared at him through the haze. “That is so unfair.”

Jack’s mouth curved. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and your whole body twitched. “Careful,” he said.

You laughed once, breathless and weak. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack kissed your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, moving back up your body with devastating patience. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply. You tasted yourself on him and whimpered. Your wrists shifted above your head. The belt held.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His eyes searched your face. “Tell me.”

Your chest rose and fell beneath his. “I’m okay.”

The last bit of tension in his jaw eased. His thumb brushed over the inside of your bound wrist. “Still good?” Jack asked.

Your throat went tight at the care in it. “Yes,” you said. “Still good.”

“Any pain?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “No.”

His gaze stayed on yours for one more second. Then the heat came back into his face. Slow. Certain. Dangerous. “Good,” Jack said.

You reached for him on instinct. The belt stopped you. Your breath caught. Jack looked at your wrists, then back at your face.

His mouth curved faintly. “I didn’t say you were done listening.”

Your stomach flipped. “Jack.”

He stood at the edge of the bed, shirtless and still in his jeans, the loose end of the belt wrapped securely in his hand. You were naked beneath him. Still shaking. Still trying to catch your breath. Still so sensitive that the way he looked at you felt like another touch. Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. Then he said, “Watch me.”

Your mouth went dry. He kept one hand on the belt as his other moved to his jeans. The button was already open. The zipper followed. The sound moved through the room like a warning. Your wrists shifted again.

Jack’s eyes flicked to them. “Hands stay there.”

You exhaled, “They are there.”

His mouth curved. “Good girl.”

Your breath caught. Jack pushed his jeans lower on his hips, just enough, and your whole body went hot. He was hard. Thick. Flushed. Affected. For all his control, for all his patience, for all the ways he had made you fall apart first, there was no hiding what you had done to him.

Your voice came out thin. “Jack.”

His hand wrapped around himself. You pulled against the belt before you could stop yourself.

Jack’s gaze snapped to yours. “No,” he said softly.

You swallowed. “I want to touch you.”

“I know,” he replied. 

“Please,” you said, barely a whisper. 

His hand moved once, slow and firm. Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Jack watched your face as he touched himself, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, the muscles in his stomach shifting with the effort of his restraint.

“This is what that picture did,” he said. Your body clenched around nothing. His mouth parted slightly as his hand moved again. “This is what you did every time you brushed past me,” Jack said. “Every time you looked at me like no one else in that hospital knew what you were thinking.”

“Jack,” you whispered.

His grip tightened around the belt. “Say my name again.”

You obeyed. “Jack.”

His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened, and the look on his face nearly ruined you all over again.

“Only me?” he asked.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Only you.”

His hand moved over himself again. You whimpered. Jack’s gaze dragged down your body, then back to your face. “Only I get you like this?”

You nodded quickly.

His eyes narrowed. “Words.”

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Only you get me like this.”

Jack’s breathing changed. You could see it now. The crack in him. The place where his control had thinned to almost nothing. He touched himself once more, slower this time, deliberately enough that your thighs shifted apart without you meaning to. 

His mouth curved, rough and pleased. “Look at you.”

Your face went hot. “Jack.”

“You came two minutes ago,” he said, his hand moving over himself again. “And you’re still looking at me like that.”

Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.

Your breath shook.

His mouth curved. “Tell me.” Jack’s thumb moved over the head of himself, and your wrists strained against the belt. You glared at him weakly. His hand slowed. You made a small, desperate sound. Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me what you want,” he said.

You answered immediately. “You.” 

Jack grinned. “You have me.”

Your breath shook. “I want you inside me.”

Jack went still. There it was. The shift. The end of patience. He let out a rough breath, then leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding the belt.

His mouth hovered over yours. “Say it again,” he said.

You lifted your hips toward him. “I want you inside me.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Good girl,” Jack said.

Then he kissed you. It was not gentle. It was not patient. Not anymore. Jack kissed you like the last piece of his restraint had finally snapped, one hand still gripping the belt above your head while the other braced beside your shoulder. His body came down over yours, hot and solid and finally close enough that you could feel how much he wanted you. You arched into him. Jack groaned into your mouth. The sound went straight through you.

Your wrists pulled against the belt on instinct. “Jack.”

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “I know.”

You gasped. “You don’t.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Don’t I?”

You shook your head, already gone enough to be honest. “I need you.”

Jack’s expression shifted. Something hot. Something pleased. Something almost undone. His hand tightened around the belt. “Say my name.”

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

His mouth brushed yours. “Good girl.”

You whimpered, hips lifting toward him. Jack’s gaze dropped between your bodies. Then he cursed softly under his breath.

“Turn over,” he said.

Your pulse jumped. You stared at him. “What?”

His eyes came back to yours, dark and focused. “Hands stay where they are. Turn over.”

Your stomach flipped hard. “Jack—”

He leaned down, mouth at your ear. “You said he could never.”

Your breath caught.

His lips brushed the side of your jaw. “You were right.”

You swallowed. Then you nodded. Jack loosened his hold on the belt enough to guide you carefully, never letting the restraint pull too hard, never letting your wrists twist uncomfortably. Even now, with his control hanging by a thread, he moved you like you were something precious. Something his. You rolled onto your stomach, then shifted onto your knees when his hand settled at your hip. The belt stayed around your wrists. Your hands pressed into the mattress above your head, and Jack gathered the loose end in his fist again, holding it with just enough tension to remind you that he could move you exactly where he wanted you. Your cheek brushed the sheets. Your whole body trembled. Behind you, Jack went quiet. Too quiet. You turned your face enough to look back over your shoulder.

He was staring at you. His jeans were pushed low, his hand wrapped around himself, his chest rising and falling like the sight of you had cost him something.

Your voice came out soft. “Jack?”

His jaw flexed. “You have no idea what you look like right now,” he said.

Your thighs pressed together. Jack’s hand came to your ass, broad and warm, smoothing over the curve of you once before gripping. Your breath caught. “Open,” he said.

You shifted your knees apart. His hand tightened. “More.”

Your face went hot, but you listened. Jack exhaled roughly. “That’s it,” he said. “Good girl.”

The praise made you clench around nothing.

Jack’s thumb dragged along your hip. “Look at you.”

You swallowed. “What?”

His hand tightened, just enough to make your body answer before your mouth could. “So good when you want something.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Jack.”

He bent over you, his chest brushing your back. His mouth found your shoulder. “You were very mouthy downstairs,” he said.

You shivered. “You liked it.”

His teeth grazed your skin. “I did.”

His hand slid along your side, then down between your legs from behind. You jerked when his fingers found you. Jack made a low sound against your shoulder. Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.

Your breath shook. His mouth curved against your shoulder. “Tell me.”

You closed your eyes. “I want more.”

“More what?” Jack asked. 

You made a frustrated sound. “Jack.”

His fingers slowed. You almost sobbed. “More what?” he repeated.

You turned your face into the sheets. “More of you.”

His breathing changed behind you. “There you go,” Jack said.

He withdrew his hand, and you heard him shift behind you. Your body went tight with anticipation. Then Jack paused. One hand slid up your spine, warm and grounding. “Hey,” he said.

You turned your face enough to see him. “What?”

His eyes searched yours. “Still good?”

Your chest softened. “Yes,” you said.

Jack’s thumb brushed along your back. “No pain?”

You replied instantly. “No.”

“You need me to stop, you tell me,” Jack said. 

“I know,” you whispered. 

His gaze held yours.

You swallowed. “I promise.”

The last bit of tension in his face eased. Then the heat returned. Slow. Dark. Certain. Jack reached toward the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. You heard the quiet tear of foil, the rustle of movement, the sound of his breath catching once as he rolled the condom on. The waiting nearly killed you. You shifted back toward him. Jack’s hand landed on your hip.

“Still,” he said.

You bit your lip. He noticed. His thumb pressed into your skin. “Don’t.”

You released your lip slowly. Jack’s hand moved from your hip to your jaw, turning your face just enough for him to see you.

“That’s mine too,” he said.

Your breath left you.

He leaned over you, mouth brushing yours from the awkward angle. “Say it.”

Your eyes stung with how badly you wanted him. “Only you.”

His eyes darkened. “Only me what?”

“Only you get me like this,” you answered. 

Jack kissed you hard. Then he pulled back and lined himself up behind you. The first press of him made you gasp. Jack froze. One hand stayed on your hip. The other still held the belt.

His voice was rough. “Talk to me.”

You shook beneath him. “Don’t stop.”

His jaw tightened. “Baby.”

“Please,” you said. “Please, Jack.”

He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch. Careful enough to make you ache. Deep enough to make your hands curl uselessly against the mattress. Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack stopped when he was only halfway inside you, his fingers digging into your hip like he was fighting himself.

“Breathe,” he said. You tried. It came out broken. He bent over you, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice low against your skin. “That’s it,” Jack said. “Take your time.”

You turned your face toward him. “I don’t want to take my time.”

A rough laugh left him. It barely sounded like a laugh at all. “You never do when you’re being a brat.”

You pushed back against him. Only a little. Enough.

Jack’s hand tightened on the belt. “Careful.”

Your breath hitched. “Make me.”

Jack went completely still. For one second, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing. Then his hand slid from your hip to the back of your neck, not pressing, just holding you there. His mouth brushed your ear. “There she is,” he said.

Your whole body went hot. Then Jack pushed the rest of the way inside you. You cried out. He groaned at the same time, low and broken, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his body finally met yours completely. For a second, neither of you moved. You could feel him everywhere. The weight of him behind you. The belt at your wrists. His breath against your skin. The stretch. The fullness. The way your body had no idea what to do with finally having him after waiting all shift.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His hand tightened at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Jack.”

He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Your eyes rolled shut.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s my girl.”

The words broke something open in you. You clenched around him, and Jack’s rhythm faltered. His curse was rough against your shoulder. “Do that again,” he said.

You barely managed a breath. “What?”

His hips rolled into yours, deeper this time, and your voice broke. “That,” Jack said. “When I call you mine.”

Your wrists pulled against the belt. “I am yours,” you gasped.

His pace changed. Not fast yet. Not careless. Just harder. More certain. Each thrust pushed you higher on the bed, and Jack held you where he wanted you, one hand gripping the belt, the other locked at your hip.

“You spent all night trying to make me jealous,” he said.

You shook your head against the sheets. “No.”

Jack thrust into you again. Your answer turned into a moan. “No?” he asked.

“I was trying to remind you,” you breathed. 

His hand stilled on your hip for half a second. Then his body covered yours again, chest against your back, mouth near your ear. “Remind me of what?”

You turned your face enough to find his eyes. “That I’m yours.”

Jack’s expression broke. Just for a moment. Then his mouth found yours, messy and desperate from the angle, and he kissed you while he started moving again. This time, he did not hold back as much. The bed shifted beneath you. Your breath came in short, helpless sounds. Jack kept his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and low and entirely yours. “Who makes you feel like this?”

“You,” you gasped.

His hips drove into yours again. “Say my name.”

You gasped. “Jack.”

“Again,” he said.

“Jack, please,” you cried out. 

His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back into him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Please what?”

You were shaking now. “Please don’t stop.”

Jack exhaled. “I’m not stopping.”

You began, “Jack—”

“I’ve got you,” he replied. 

Your eyes burned. He did. He had you. Every part of you. The secret part. The soft part. The bratty, aching, desperate part that had sent him that photo and brushed past him all shift because you wanted him to know no one else even came close.

“Only you,” you said, voice breaking.

Jack’s rhythm faltered. “What?”

You swallowed a moan. “Only you can make me feel like this.”

His grip tightened. “Keep going.”

Your body tightened around him. “Only you can touch me like this.”

Jack made a rough sound behind you. “Good girl.”

You were close again. Too close. Already. It rolled through you fast, heat building low in your spine, your thighs starting to shake. Jack felt it. Of course he felt it. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you exactly where you needed him. You sobbed his name.

“There,” he said. “That’s it.”

“Jack, please,” you begged. 

“You going to come for me again?” Jack asked. 

You nodded desperately. His fingers slowed. Your eyes flew open.

“Words,” he said.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”

“Only me?” he asked. 

Your breath broke. “Only you,” you said. “Only you can make me come like this.”

Jack’s control snapped. He drove into you hard enough to make you cry out, his fingers working you in tight, perfect circles, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice wrecked in your ear.

“Come for me,” he said. “Say my name and come for me.”

You did.

You came with his name in your mouth, your whole body locking down around him as the pleasure ripped through you. It was harder than the first one, deeper, dragging every sound out of you until you were shaking beneath him, helpless against the belt and his hands and the way he kept talking you through it.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “Good girl. I’ve got you.”

You barely heard him over the rush of your own pulse. But you felt him. The way he held you. The way his rhythm turned uneven. The way his breath broke when your body kept tightening around him. He lasted three more thrusts before his control finally broke. You felt it happen. In the sudden uneven snap of his hips. In the way his hand tightened around the belt. In the rough sound that tore out of him when your body kept clenching around him.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt his whole body go tense behind you, every muscle locking as he drove in deep and stayed there. Your name left his mouth. Low. Broken. Almost helpless. Then he came hard, hips jerking once, twice, his breath hot against your skin as he buried himself as deep as he could get and held you there through it.

For a few seconds, Jack did not move. He just breathed against you, heavy and uneven, his chest pressed to your back, his hand still wrapped around the belt like letting go too soon might undo him completely. For a moment, everything went still. Jack’s body was heavy over yours. His breath was hot against your skin. His hand loosened on the belt, but he did not let go completely. Not yet. You both stayed there, tangled and shaking, while the morning light edged slowly around the curtains. Then Jack kissed your shoulder. Once. Twice. Softer each time.

“You with me?” he asked.

Your throat felt raw. You nodded. 

His mouth brushed your skin. “Tell me.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m with you.”

Jack exhaled against you. Then, carefully, he shifted his weight and eased out of you. Your body twitched at the loss. Jack noticed. 

He kissed the back of your neck. “I know.”

You laughed weakly into the sheets. “You do not get to be smug right now.”

His mouth curved against your skin. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you replied. 

“A little,” Jack admitted. You huffed, but it came out soft. His hand moved to your wrists. The belt loosened immediately. Jack unwound it with careful fingers, taking his time now for a different reason. When your hands were free, he caught both wrists and brought them down slowly, rubbing warmth back into your skin with his thumbs. You rolled carefully onto your back. Jack sat beside you, still breathing hard, still bare, still looking at you like he was trying to memorize whether he had hurt you anywhere. He checked one wrist, then the other. His thumb brushed over the place the leather had been.

“Okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Okay.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Really?”

Your chest went soft. You reached for his face. “Really.”

Jack turned his head and kissed your palm. The room went quiet again. Not charged this time. Warm. Full. He leaned down and kissed your wrist. Then the other. You watched him, throat tight.

“You know,” you said softly, “Mason really could never.”

Jack froze for half a second. Then his shoulders shook once with a quiet laugh. He looked up at you, exhausted and amused and so painfully yours that your chest ached.

“Baby,” Jack said. “I’m begging you.”

You smiled. His mouth curved. Then he climbed back onto the bed and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other hand still holding yours like he was not quite ready to stop touching you. You tucked your face against his neck. Jack kissed your hair. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then you felt his thumb move over your knuckles. Slow. Absent. Tender.

“Still jealous?” you asked.

Jack sighed against your hair. You felt his mouth curve. “A little.”

You pinched his side weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your fingers. “Completely in love with you,” he said. “The jealous part is secondary.”

Your heart folded. You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Secondary?”

Jack’s eyes softened. “Very secondary.”

You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and sweet and nothing like the door. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “No more pretending,” he said.

Your chest tightened. You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “No more pretending.”

Jack kissed you again. And this time, there was nothing careful about the way he held you.

Only sure.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : 18+ content MDNI!!, enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, drunk sex, soft romance, explicit sexual content, p in v, NSFW, smut, unprotected sex, consensual sex, soft intimacy.

a/n : this is it 🫣 still figuring out how to write nsfw without doing too much lol hope you liked it and be ready for the next few chapters haha

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 13 : The Space Between Us

Four days.

Four days since the trauma bay.

Four days since you ignored every instinct telling you to protect yourself and focused entirely on protecting the patient instead.

Four days since the disciplinary meeting.

Four days since being told, in very careful administrative language, that what you did was reckless, unauthorized, and absolutely not something a resident should have attempted.

Four days off. Only four days because you actually saved the patient. That was the final decision. Four days away from the hospital. Four days away from patients. Four days away from the ER. Four days away from Abbot.

The first day, you slept. Mostly because the adrenaline crash finally caught up to you.

The second day, you cleaned your apartment twice and reorganized your kitchen despite never caring what your kitchen looked like before.

The third day, you spent six straight hours staring at random television without remembering a single thing you watched. At some point you’d spent twenty minutes staring out your living room window watching a pigeon fight another pigeon over a piece of bread.

That was where your life was now. A thrilling descent into bird-related entertainment.

Your phone rang. You glanced at the screen. Ethan. For a second you actually forgot about him. Then you remembered. You answered. “Hello?”

“Hey, Doctor.”

A smile immediately appeared in his voice. You rolled your eyes. “I’m off duty.”

“Good. Then you can’t use work as an excuse.”

You laughed despite yourself. “What do you want?”

“Ouch.”

“You’re surviving.”

“Barely.” His dramatic sigh made you snort. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out tonight.”

You leaned back against the couch. “Out where?”

“Nothing fancy. Just a bar. A drink. Maybe two.” He paused. “A normal evening.”

The words actually sounded appealing. A normal evening. No trauma pages. No crashing patients. No disciplinary meetings. No Abbot. Just… normal. And God, you were bored.

“Okay.” The answer left your mouth before you could overthink it. The silence on the other end lasted a second.

Then, “Wait. Really?”

You laughed. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Nope. Too late.” His grin was practically audible. “We’re going.”

A few hours later, you found yourself sitting in a crowded bar wondering how exactly you’d ended up here. The place wasn’t fancy. Just warm lighting, decent music, and enough people talking that individual conversations disappeared into the background.

Normal. Exactly what Ethan had promised. He sat across from you with a drink in hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You have a face.”

“A face?”

“A face.”

“I always have a face.”

“You know what I mean.”

His grin widened. “I honestly thought you’d cancel.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s realistic.”

You took a sip of your drink. “I showed up.”

“You did.” His eyes softened slightly. “And I’m glad.”

You looked away first. Not because the comment was particularly intense. Just because it was easier. The conversation drifted naturally after that.

Work. Movies. Terrible patients. Terrible dating stories. You found yourself laughing more than expected. More than you had in days. Maybe weeks.

It felt good. Easy. Comfortable. And for a little while, you almost forgot everything waiting for you back at the hospital.

Almost. Because every now and then, completely without warning, your mind would drift. To a trauma bay. To a pair of hands removing your gloves. To a quiet voice saying:

“You’re going to be okay.”

You immediately took another drink. Ethan noticed. “You alright?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

A lie. Not a huge one, not a devastating one. Just enough to keep the evening moving. Across the table, Ethan smiled and launched into another story and you forced yourself to listen. Because tonight wasn’t supposed to be about Abbot. Tonight was supposed to be about moving on.

The night had gone surprisingly well. A few drinks, a lot of laughing. Enough alcohol that both of you were feeling it. Not…drunk. Not really. Just comfortably loose around the edges, or at least you had been.

Ethan had moved his chair closer at some point. You hadn’t really thought about it. Until his hand landed on your knee. You froze for half a second, not dramatically, but just enough to notice it. Ethan smiled. “You okay?”

You gently moved his hand away. “Yeah.” The smile didn’t disappear. “You sure?” Something about the question immediately made you uncomfortable. Maybe because you’d only been here a few hours. Maybe because of the alcohol. Maybe because you suddenly realized where he thought the evening was headed.

You took a sip of your drink. “I think I’m gonna head home soon.”

His expression changed slightly. “Already?”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“Yeah, but…” His grin returned. “Night’s still young.”

You laughed awkwardly. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” You knew exactly what he was suggesting now. And you weren’t interested. Not tonight. Probably not with him. Ethan leaned back.

“Oh.” The disappointment was obvious. You felt bad for about three seconds. Until he kept talking. “I thought that’s where this was going.”

You blinked. “What?”