Hi y'all, I will leave you here my masterlist (Jack Abbot, Michael Robinavitch, Gregory House and Aaron Hotchner fics so far). Feel free to leave characters or ideas request on the coments of this post (or in my "share your widsom" box on my profile).
Jack Abbot x Reader
♡ Don't look at me like that (soft smut)
♡ Guilty as sin? ( +18)
♡ Spioled life
♡ Goverment name
♡ Playing With Fire
Michael Robinavitch x Reader
♡ Renegade
♡ Renegade pt. 2 (soft smut)
Aaron Hotchner x Reader
♡ Responsable Guy
Gregory house x Reader
♡ Baby boy, Honeybee, God I love te way you look at me
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Summary: Aaron lies to himself about his feelings for you. He's past lost make him feel afraid of be open to a new relationship, but on the other hand, that same fear makes him push you away. Till you can't handle it anymore.
Tags: ansgt, confort, slowburn, no use of y/n, gender neutral, soft smutish, angry love confession.
Aaron Hotchner was a man wrapped in an impenetrable armor of heavy grief for his dead wife; But most of all, he was a man of rules and ethics — so dating a coworker was a total no—, you were independent, sharp, and fiercely protective of your own boundaries.
Neither of you crossed the line.
But the gravity keep pulling you together was becoming impossible for the rest of the team to ignore.
The first time the team truly noticed was during grueling case.
The local office was chaotic, phones ringing and local cops shouting, but at the central map table, the air was entirely still.
You were leaning over a series of geographic markers, your fingers tracing a pattern on the laminated map, when Hotch stepped up right behind you to look over your shoulder.
He didn't touch you. He didn't break a single rule of professional rule.
But he stood close enough that the crisp, clean scent of his ironed shirt and cedarwood cologne completely cut through you.
When you turned your head to point out a anomaly in the dump sites, your lips were barely inches from his jawline.
Hotch didn’t blink.
His dark eyes shifted from the map, locking onto yours with an intensity that felt entirely naked. For three long seconds, neither of you breathed. The noise seemed to mute completely, replaced by the heavy, electric charge of his attention.
Across the room, Morgan stopped mid sentence, while talking to JJ. His gaze going from you to Hotch. He slowly exchanged a long, highly knowing look with JJ.
She didn't say a word; she just raised her eyebrows, subtly shifting her posture to afford the two of you a sliver of privacy. They knew better than that.
Hotchner in a professional crisis was intimidating; an Aaron silently unraveling over his forensic was a boundary no one dared to push.
One day, after a long four weeks case, rhe tension only amplified when the cabin doors of the BAU jet closed.
On the long, dark flight back to Quantico, when the lights were turned off, the true nature of the friction came alive.
You were sitting across from him in the narrow leather seats, a stack of autopsy reports resting heavily on your lap. You were exhausted, your eyes burning from forty-eight hours of sleeplessness.
From across the small table, Hotch was trying hard to not look at you when you seemed to be distracted on your work.
His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing the strong, tense lines of his wrists, his tie loosened just a fraction.
He didn't offer a polite phrase or tell you to get some rest. Instead, just quietly tried to take care of you —or your work, whatever meant to be for you—.
So as the jet hit a sudden patch of turbulence, his large, warm hand shot forward to stabilize the table—his thumb catching the edge of your wrist, pinning your hand gently against the wood—, the contact was electric.
His skin was incredibly hot against your cold wrist, his thumb resting directly over your racing pulse.
You looked up, your breath catching in your throat. Hotch didn’t pull his hand back. He held your gaze through the dim, shadows of the cabin, his jaw clenching so tightly a small muscle ticked beneath his stubble.
By the time you returned to the BAU, the boundaries were completely gone.
Every folder handed over was a deliberate brush of fingers; every debate in his office carried a low, rough undertone that had nothing to do with the cases.
The tension was reaching its absolute capacity, a firework waiting for the single spark that would finally force Aaron Hotchner to admit what he had been burying for long months.
You?
You knew it since the day you meet him. "He is hot" you thought. And that was the beggining of your down fall.
You looked at him every time you thought nobody was watching. Not Reid, not JJ, not even him.
You traced the way his brows frowned in a hard case.
The way his hands moved as he signed your reports.
The way his face looked so relaxed when he was sleeping on the jet.
And you thought he would never look at you "he already married the loved os his life" you tell yourself everytime a spark would ligth up your heart.
But you didn't knew that he looked at you, even when his eyes wasn't on you, he knew.
He knew you looked at him when you thought he was distrated, when he was supposed to be sleeping.
He didn't say something, he like it, even though he didn't admit it.
But thhe calculations in his head had fundamentally shifted.
The moment he realized his chest went tight every time you stepped into a desolate dump site, his survival instinct—his need to keep you safe—completely overrode his logic.
He couldn't stop the monsters outside, but he could control the chess board inside the BAU.
During a case on a horrific killer in Vermont, you reached for the folder containing the bone trauma analysis.
Hotch’s hand flattened over the folder before your fingers could touch it.
"Prentiss, take this to the forensic anthropology liaison in Montpelier" Hotch commanded, his voice a flat, unyielding wall of authority. "I need you on here" he said now to you.
You blinked, your hand hovering in mid-air. "Aaron, the victim's skeletal trauma matches the skeletal anomalies from the Ohio case I cataloged last year. I should be the one navigating the bone fragments"
"Prentiss has the geographic familiarity" Hotch replied smoothly, not looking you.
"I need you here in Quantico, analyzing the historical data from the mainframe. It’s a better use of resources"
Across the table, JJ’s pen froze over her notebook.
She didn't look up, but her eyes darted toward Morgan, who slowly leaned back in his chair. They all knew your data analysis was flawless, but they also knew you were the finest field forensic the bureau had seen in a decade.
They didn't need to wait days or even weeks to get an analysis back.
So keeping you chained to a desk in Virginia while the team flew into a hot zone made absolutely no sense.
Unless, of course,Hotch simply couldn't handle the thought of you being within a five-mile radius of a primary kill site.
You swallowed the lump of frustration in your throat, assuming it was a one-time administrative thing.
But by the third case the pattern became undeniable.
You were being hidden.
You had spent years earning your place in a male-dominated field, fighting to be taken seriously among federal agents who dismissed academics. And now, the one man whose respect — and love — you craved more than anything was systematically sidelining you. pushing you away from the teeth of the profile.
He didn't think you could handle it.
You thought he underestimating you.
And that, you couldn't handle it.
After the team returned from a horrific scene in Detroit.
You walked up the stairs to Hotch's office,
Through the glass, you could see him. His jacket was off, his vest unbuttoned, his head resting heavily in his hands.
He looked broken by the weight of the cases, but the moment your shadow fell across his door, he straightened instantly, pulling the mask on, again.
You didn't knock. You pushed the door open.
"What is going on?" you said, your voice trembling with a mixture of raw exhaustion and deep, burning resentment.
Hotch didn't blink. He sat perfectly still, his dark eyes fixed on the folders you had practically thrown at him. But he knew what you meant "I made an executive decision"
"Executive decision?" You let out a sharp, bitter laugh, stepping closer to the desk "Is that what we're calling it now? Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you're pulling me off every high-risk extraction because you think I'm going to crack under the pressure. You're treating me like a kid, Aaron. You're underestimating my work, you're dismissing my knowledge, and by all means, you don't know me at all!"
Hotch stood up. Slowly. The sheer, imposing gravity of his frame cut through the amber light of the desk lamp, his broad shoulders casting a long, dark shadow that seemed to trap you against the door.
"I don't know you?" he asked, his voice dropping into that dangerously low, terrifyingly calm register that made your breath catch in your throat. He walked around the desk, his steps silent, until he was standing barely inches away from you, his heat completely surrounding you. "You think this is about all of that?"
He didn’t yell, but the sheer, compressed force of his tone made your voice die in your throat.
He took one more step, closing the remaining distance until his chest was nearly brushing yours, completely cornering you against the door.
"Aaron, you pulled me off the primary forensic retrieval in Vermont" you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though your heart was hammering wildly against your ribs. "You sidelined me in Detroit. You are actively keeping me out of the field because you think I'm weak"
"I don't think you're weak" he intercepted, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt entirely naked. "You want to stand here and tell me I don't know you? You want to claim I'm underestimating you?"
He leaned down slightly, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked violently beneath his shadow of stubble.
When he spoke again, his voice dropped into a low, devastatingly intimate register,the voice of a profiler who had spent half a year silently cataloging every hidden, fragile piece of your existence.
"I know that you drink your coffee black only when you've slept less than three hours, because you think the bitterness forces your brain to stay sharp" Hotch murmured, his eyes tracking the rapid, shallow rise and fall of your chest. "I know that you wear a silver ring on your right thumb that you only twist when you're trying to lie to me about being fine after a horrific pediatric autopsy"
You froze, your breath catching in your throat as your fingers instinctively twitched.
"I know the exact, microscopic shift in your posture when an unsub's history hits too close to you" he continued, his gaze drilling directly into yours, stripping away every single one of your defenses. "I know you haven't used your apartment’s balcony since the rainy season started because the sound of the downpour scares you. And I know that when we're on the jet, and the cabin lights go down, you reposition your watch to the inside of your wrist because the metal ticking against the leather seat keeps you awake"
"Aaron..." your voice was barely a whisper, a desperate gasp as the room seemed to shrink around you.
"So don't tell me I don't know you" Hotch growled softly, turning a dark, primal possessiveness. He reached out, his large, warm hand hovering just a millimeter away from your waist, the proximity sending a jolt of pure electricity over you. "This isn't a profile. I don't check the wristwatches of my other agents. I don't lie awake in my bunk listening to the rhythm of Prentiss or Morgan’s breathing to make sure they aren't having a nightmare"
He let out a sharp, ragged breath, his eyes flicking down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to yours, holding you completely captive.
"I am not sidelining you because I think you're weak" he confessed, his voice dropping into a rough, fiercely protective whisper that laid his entire soul bare. "I am sidelining you because every time you step into a hot zone, my chest goes so tight I can't breathe. I am trying to protecting you because the thought of a monster putting their hands on you is the only thing in twenty years of service that has ever made me want to throw away the badge. Now tell me again that I don't know you"
The silence that followed was heavy, volatile, and entirely stripped of any professional boundary. You stared up at him, your anger completely melting into a raw, dizzying realization: Aaron was terrified of losing you.
A sudden rush of warmth and disbelief flooding your chest as his words hung heavily in the dead quiet of the office. The anger that had fueled you just moments ago evaporated completely, leaving behind a raw, electric vulnerability that made it hard to breathe.
Slowly, your hands came up, your fingers trembling slightly as you raised them between your chests. You didn't push him away. Instead, you reached up and slid your palms along his strong, tense jawline, cupping his face. The contrast was striking, your cool hands holding the rough, warm stubble of his face, your thumbs gently resting against his cheekbones.
Hotch’s eyes flared at the sudden touch, a sharp breath hitching in his throat, but he didn't pull back.
He let his face rest in your hands, his large body leaning into your palms just a fraction, his gaze locked onto yours with a terrifying intensity.
You looked up into those dark, brilliant eyes, processing the sheer weight of what he had just confessed.
You knew exactly what he was saying.
You knew what the late-night watches, the protection, and the silent cataloging of your life meant.
You knew the profile.
But after six months of silence, months of agonizing slow burn and hidden glances, the intellectual realization wasn't enough.
You needed the truth to be spoken aloud.
You needed him to dismantle his own walls completely.
"Say it" you whispered, your voice shaking but unyielding as your thumbs traced the sharp line of his cheekbones.
Hotch’s jaw tightened beneath your palms, a heavy, internal war waging behind his eyes. He was a man who built his entire life on control, on keeping his deepest emotions locked away in a dark room where the monsters couldn't find them. To say the words out loud was to admit defeat. It was to admit he was completely vulnerable.
"You already know it" he murmured, his voice a low, rough gravel, his hands coming up to gently cover your wrists, holding your hands against his face.
"Aaron" you breathed, leaning in closer until your forehead almost touched his, your eyes demanding everything he had spent half a year hiding. "I need to hear you say it"
He stared at you, his dark eyes tracing every single detail of your face, drinking in the absolute sincerity and the love radiating from your touch.
The last remaining piece of restraint finally snapped.
The rigid, professional Unit Chief completely vanished, leaving only a man who was entirely, hopelessly yours.
He let out a long, ragged exhale against your lips, his hands sliding up from your wrists to firmly anchor themselves at the small of your back, pulling you flush against his chest.
"I love you" Aaron whispered, the words rough, heavy, and absolute as they tore from his chest. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot against your skin. "God help me, I love you"
The moment the words left his mouth, the suffocating weight of the last six months vanished, replaced by an intense, overwhelming gravity that drew him down.
Aaron didn't wait for you to reply. He couldn't. Having finally broken his own rules, the restraint that had defined him for so long dissolved completely.
His hands slid up from the small of your back, his large fingers tangling into your hair to tilt your head back as his mouth slammed down onto yours.
It was a desperate
Long.
A release of pure, hunger.
It was heavy, deep, and raw.
A collision of all the sleepless nights, the silent protection, and the agonizing friction that had been building between you.
He pressed you firmly back against the glass door of his office, his broad frame completely shielding you from the rest of the world, his body hot and solid against yours.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp into the kiss, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single millimeter of space left between you.
Your fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the rapid, chaotic thud of his heartbeat. Aaron groaned softly against your lips, his grip on your waist tightening like a vice, anchoring you to him as if he were terrified that if he let go, the monsters or the bureau would tear you away.
He kissed you like a man who had been starving in the dark, tracing the shape of your lips with an intensity that made your knees go weak.
When he finally pulled back, both of your breaths were coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
His forehead rested heavily against yours, his eyes still dark and blown out with a fierce, quiet passion.
His large hands moved up to frame your face again, his thumbs gently smoothing over your flushed cheeks, his chest heaving against yours.
"No more secrets" you whispered against his lips, "No more pulling me off cases without telling me why"
Hotch let out a low, rough exhale, a faint, incredibly rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked down at you.
"Promise" Aaron promised softly, his voice a deep, private.
He leaned down, pressing one more slow, lingering kiss to your lips —lazy and certain this time— before pulling you securely into his chest, holding you.
Summary: You are on your lutheal phase. Hungry, tired and an irritation that makes you cry, but most of all, you needed to feel safe. So, How Huse makes that work for you two?
Tags: no use of y/n, comfort, fluff, stablished relationship, loverbirds, non idiot house.
Autor note: this migth be silly but i like the idea, hope y'all too.
You were the complete opposite of everything House stood for.
You were warm, openly affectionate, and spent your days navigating the messy, fragile realities of human lives with genuine empathy.
Nobody understood how the two of you worked, but the entire hospital had long since accepted that you were the only person allowed to cross his invisible boundaries.
You would routinely wander into his diagnostics office when your caseload was slow, leaning over his shoulder to steal half his lunch or dropping a soft kiss on his temple right in front of his deeply uncomfortable fellows.
But when your lutheal phase rolled around each month, the dynamic shifted into a highly specific, unspoken routine.
The mattress shifted, the heavy, familiar dip of Gregory House rolling out of bed usually acting as your cue to start bracing for the morning.
But today, the alarm hadn’t even gone off, and the mere thought of planting your feet on out of bed made you feel tighten with a sudden, ridiculous wave of despair.
You blinked against the grey morning light filtering through the blinds, pulling the duvet tightly up to your chin.
Your body felt like it had been filled with lead overnight. Your lower back was humming with a dull, persistent ache, and your stomach let out a hollow, demanding growl that felt entirely personal.
From the doorway of the bedroom, the uneven clack-thump of House’s cane echoed against the baseboards. He paused, leaning heavily on the handle, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he took you in.
Normally, by this time, you were already halfway through your morning routine, offering him a bright, affectionate kiss or teasing him about whatever abrasive comment he’d made before his first cup of coffee.
But today? Today, you felt like a raw nerve.
House didn't say a word.
He just stood there, his gaze tracking the tight grip you had on the blanket, the slight puffiness around your eyes, and the way you immediately averted his gaze.
He knew your cycle better than you did.
For a man who claimed to despise human connection, his observational skills were terrifyingly when it came to you.
He could map the hormonal shift by the exact day you stopped laughing at his offensive jokes and started looking like you wanted to throw a coffee mug at his head—or sob into his chest. The luteal phase. The annual, monthly descent into purgatory.
"Get up" he grunted, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. "You’re going to be late. Cuddy’s already complaining about a backlog of discharge summaries"
You let out a small, pathetic whine, burying your face in the pillow. "I'm hungry" you mumbled, your voice muffled by the down comforter. "And everything sucks"
"The tragedy of biology" House remarked dryly, turning on his heel. "Eat a cracker. Move your ass"
It felt cold. It felt mean.
A tear actually leaked out of your left eye, dampening the pillowcase. You felt so incredibly unloved in that exact second.
Ten minutes later, you finally dragged yourself into the kitchen, wrapped in his oversized shirt, expecting to find him gone or at least ignoring you.
Instead, House was sitting at the counter, a travel mug of coffee in front of him.
Beside it sat a plate with three thick slices of sourdough toast, heavily slathered in butter and a thick layer of strawberry jam, alongside a small bowl of pre-sliced strawberries.
He didn't make a big deal out of it. He didn't even look up from his Game Boy.
"The toaster was acting up. Made too much" he said carelessly, tapping the buttons with his thumb. "Eat it so I don't have to throw it out"
You knew for a fact the toaster only held two slices at a time. He’d run it twice.
The knot in your chest loosened just a fraction. You walked over, sliding onto the stool next to him.
Instead of eating right away, you leaned sideways, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder, seeking the comforting, familiar scent of wool, coffee, and vicodin.
You needed the physical contact like oxygen today.
House stiffened slightly, but he didn't pull away.
He let out a long, theatrical sigh, shifting his weight so you could lean against him more comfortably while he continued to play his game with one hand.
"You're suffocating me" he muttered, but his shoulder dropped, anchoring you against him. "Eat your toast"
The hospital was a battlefield. By 2:00 PM, you were completely drained. As a social worker, your job required an immense amount of emotional labor, and today, your reserves were at absolute zero.
You had spent the morning dealing with an aggressive family refusing to accept a nursing home placement, followed by a heartbreaking case in pediatrics that nearly had you weeping right in the middle of the corridor.
Your stomach was roaring again, demanding carbohydrates and sugar with a vengeance. You were irritated, your skin felt entirely too tight, and you just wanted to crawl under your desk and hibernate.
You walked into the Diagnostics conference room, hoping to find a quiet corner to decompress.
Predictably, the ducklings—Chase, Foreman, and Cameron— were huddled around the whiteboard, arguing over a differential diagnosis.
House was sprawled in his regular chair, his feet propped up on the table, tossing his red and white ball into the air.
"Oh, good, look who it is" Chase muttered, looking stressed. "Maybe she can talk some sense into the family in 4B. They won't sign the consent form"
"Not my problem right now, Chase" you said, your voice sharper than usual. You tried to keep your tone level, but the irritation bled through.
Without saying a word, you walked straight past the conference table, approached House, and practically collapsed against his side.
You buried your face into the rough wool of his blazer, letting out a heavy, thoroughly exhausted sigh.
The three instantly froze, their pens hovering over their pads. Chase cleared his throat, subtly looking away, while Foreman looked, braced for House to snap at the sudden intrusion.
Instead, House didn't even miss a beat.
With an effortless, quiet familiarity, he wrapped his large arm around your waist, anchoring your weight against his strong side to support your fatigue.
"Out" House barked, his eyes fixed on his fellows. "All of you. Your incompetence is giving me a migraine, and your faces are annoying. Go look at the patient's spinal fluid again"
"House, we need to discuss the—" Cameron started.
"Out!" he roared.
The trio scrambled, grabbing their files and practically fleeing the room.
As the glass door clicked shut, the silence of the room rushed in, and with it, the heavy weight in your chest. You stood in his space your shoulders trembling slightly.
You felt terrible, you felt exhausted.
"Rough day?" he murmured, his voice a low, private gravel meant only for you.
Despite his gruff words, his actions were incredibly gentle, entirely attuned to what you needed.
House lowered, looking for your face, his eyes softening in that incredibly rare, private way that he only ever allowed you to see. He gave you a soft kiss on your temple.
"Lock the door" he said quietly.
You let go of him, walking to the door to do what he said.
You turned the lock.
When you turned back around, House was reaching into his small kitchen office.
He pulled out a large, brown paper bag from the bakery down the street—the expensive one with the artisan sandwiches. He tossed it onto the conference table.
"Wilson ordered too much food again. The idiot thinks he can eat a whole pastrami on rye and a side of potato salad. He left it in my office" House lied seamlessly, his voice casual.
You walked over to the table, opening the bag. Inside wasn't just a sandwich.
There was a massive, loaded roast beef sandwich with extra cheese, a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, and a giant, decadent chocolate fudge brownie wrapped in cellophane.
Wilson hated pastrami, and he definitely didn't buy chocolate brownies.
You looked up at House, your vision blurring instantly with hot, heavy tears.
The sheer comfort of the gesture, the subtle, quiet way he looked out for you without ever making you feel like a burden or forcing you to ask, completely broke through your defenses.
"Hey. None of that" House said, his voice dropping an octave as he saw the tears spill over your cheeks.
He walked to you, leaning heavily on his cane as he navigated around the table toward you. "I didn't buy the brownie for you to cry on it"
"I hate hormones" you sobbed softly, covering your face with your hands. "I feel like a crazy person"
House reached out, his large, rough hand grasping your wrist and gently pulling your hands away from your face.
He didn't mock you.
He didn't offer a medical lecture on estrogen and progesterone drops.
He just pulled you into his space, tucking you against his chest right there in the middle of the Diagnostics office.
He wrapped his free arm securely around your waist, holding you tight against him, letting you ruin his expensive shirt with your tears.
His chin rested on the top of your head, and his grip was firm, grounding you against the chaotic storm in your own body.
"You're not crazy" he murmured into your hair, his hand giving your hip a reassuring, affectionate squeeze. "You're just hungry. Eat the damn sandwich"
You didn't need to be told twice.
Sniffling, you let him guide you down to a chair.
Then, went to his whiteboard, picked up a marker, and began scribbling medical data of his case.
You unwrapped the roast beef sandwich with slightly trembling hands. The first bite was nothing short of a religious experience.
The salt, the carbs, the rich cheese, it felt like it was actively repairing your frayed nervous system.
House kept his back to you, the rhythmic, soft squeak of the marker acting as a comforting white noise.
He was giving you space to caveman your way through the food without judgment.
But every few moments, you’d catch his reflection in the glass.
He wasn't looking at his fake diagnostic tree; his eyes were tracked entirely on you, monitoring your breathing, checking if the tension was leaving your shoulders.
By the time you were halfway through the chocolate brownie, you felt human again.
The irrational urge to weep had receded, replaced by a heavy, cozy drowsiness and a overwhelming surge of affection for the stubborn man standing a few feet away.
You set the plastic wrap down and wiped your hands. "House"
"If you're going to apologize for weeping over baked goods, save your breath" he said, caping the marker with a loud click. He turned around, hooking his cane over his forearm. "It’s a well-documented medical fact that chocolate regulates the emotional erraticism of the female hominid. I merely saved Plainsboro from a domestic dispute"
"Come here" you said softly, ignoring his deflection. You held your arms out, your natural warmth returning in full force.
When you were in this phase, your need for love and reassurance was a physical ache, and you weren't about to let him hide behind his sarcasm.
House stared at your open arms like they were a trap.
He rolled his eyes, a theatrical display of immense suffering, but he closed the distance anyway.
Supporting his weight with his cane in one hand while his other arm slid behind your back, pulling you firmly against his chest.
You placed your hands on the back on his neck, pulling him down so you could face him easily.
His forehead resting on yours.
You lifted on your tip toes to kiss him.
It was slow.
Soft.
Full of affection.
He let out a low, gravelly hum in the back of his throat—a sound he only ever made when it was just the two of you, away from the prying eyes of the hospital.
The you pulled back.
"Better?" he muttered against your lips.
"Much better" you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his jawline. "Thank you"
"Yeah, yeah. You're bleeding my bank account dry with that bakery" he grumbled, though his fingers gently stroked the nape of your neck, a surprisingly tender gesture that sent a wave of comfort straight down your spine.
"Now get out of my office. I have a clinic shift to avoid, and you look like you're about to fall asleep on my desk"
You smiled, the heavy cloud finally lifting. You gathered your trash, gave his hip a playful squeeze, and unlocked the door.
As you walked down the corridor back toward the social work department, your body still felt heavy and tired, but the hollow, lonely ache in your chest was entirely gone.
Gregory House might have been the world's most difficult man to everyone else, but he knew exactly how to carry you through the storm, even if he had to blame it on Wilson's appetite.
Summary: Jack enjoys the effect he has on you, and he loves playing along with it, just fun, not feelings involved —that’s what he says to himself —. But boy, if you play with fire, one day you'll get burn.
The shift swap at the hospital was always chaotic, but for you, it was something different. It was the only fifteen minutes of the day that actually mattered to you.
You worked daytime as a ER nurse at the day shift on the pitt. Your scrubs were alredy stained from a twelve hour marathon of chaos by an accident on the higway, stitched-up lacerations, and endless charting.
You were exhausted, feet aching, and all you wanted to do was to go home.
But not before you get to se him.
Those fifteen minutes were goin
g to be like medicine for you. You alredy knew it, because it always worked like that with him.
You smelled cedarwood and leather, making you aware of his precense.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in" a gravelly, dangerously familiar voice rasped behind you.
You closed your locker door with a little more force than necessary, turning around with a perfectly practiced smirk. Jack Abbott stood leaning against the room doorframe, his dark scrubs looking smooth – as smooth as him –, a fresh cup of black coffee in his hand. He looked entirely too awake, too handsome, and too focused on you.
"I could say the same to you, Abbott" you replied, leaning back against the lockers and crossing your arms on your chest. "Try not to break my ER tonight. I actually cleaned Trauma 2 before I Ieave"
Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his dark eyes tracking the slight flush rising on your cheeks. He loved that from you.
He loved the way your eyes sparked when you got defensive when he was teasing you, and he especially loved how he could completely throw you off your balance with just a glance.
He knows you have a crush on him. Did you told him? No. But he knew how to read you. And he love the effect he has on you. The problem, is that he just did it for the game, for his fun. He swore he doesn't have feelings for you.
Truth was, that if you play with fire, you'd get burned.
"Trauma 2? Clean?" Jack chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated straight through your chest. He stepped away from the doorframe, slowly closing the distance between you, until he was standing just a foot away, towering over you. "I give it twenty minutes before a bar fight brings in half of South Side. You sure you don't want to clock back in and help me handle it, sweetheart? I don’t know if I can survive the night without my favorite nurse."
Your heart did a stupid, frantic flip against your ribs.
Sweetheart
He always did that, dropped these little loaded words casually, testing your boundaries, driving you absolutely crazy.
Ypu both had been playing this dangerous game of cat and mouse for months, a blur of heavy tension wrapped in sharp banter.
You liked him; Liked him so much it was terrifying, and you were almost positive that he felt the same —even though he wouldn't admit it —, but neither of you had crossed the line, yet.
"In your dreams, Abbott" your voice dropping a little lower as you looked up into his, now, dark eyes. "I’ve done my time. The floor is your problem now"
"A man can dream" Jack murmured, his tone losing a fraction of its playful edge, replaced by a sudden, heavy intensity that made the small breakroom feel completely devoid of oxygen.
He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against the stethoscope draped around your neck, a lingering, deliberate touch that sent a jolt of pure electricity down your spine. "You look tired."
"Well, thanks. You really know how to flatter a girl."
"I'm serious" Jack said, his thumb brushing a stray hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly gentle. His gaze dropped to your lips for a split second before snapping back to your eyes. "Go home. Get some sleep. Because tomorrow at seven AM, I’m going to be right here waiting to see you again"
You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively reaching up your hand to rest against his forearm. His muscle flexed beneath your fingers, hot and solid.
The teasing was gone, replaced by a thick, suffocating longing that made him want to pull you down into a kiss right there against the lockers.
"Is that a promise, Abbot?" You whispered, your eyes searching his for an answer, but not about that question, but the longing feeling of hope that he might feel the same for you, and this wasn't just a game for him.
Jack’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he took a took a deep breath. He stepped even closer, his chest nearly brushing yours, "Count on it" he growled softly. "Now get out of here before I find a reason to make you stay"
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, reluctantly letting her hand slide away from his arm as you grabbed your bag. Walking past him, but as you reached the door, you paused and looked back over your shoulder.
"Don't drink all the good coffee, Jack"
Jack smirked, the familiar, arrogant glint returning to his eyes as he raised his cup to you. "No promises, sweetheart. See you tomorrow"
The heavy click of the breakroom door closing behind her felt like a cruel joke. The cool, quiet hallway of the hospital suddenly felt entirely too large, entirely too empty without Jack’s presence pressing into your space.
You walked toward the exit, her fingers still tingling from the brief, electric touch of his hand behind her ear.
You were exhausted, but your mind was wide awake, spinning a thousand different scenarios of what almost happened against those lockers.
Twelve hours later, the morning sun was just beginning to bleed a pale, watery gold over the Pittsburgh skyline. You walked back through the automatic doors of the ER, your blue scrubs fresh, hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, and a tray of two large coffees clutched firmly in hands.
The night shift had clearly been a war zone.
The main floor was a chaotic symphony of buzzing monitors, ringing phones, and paramedics wheeling in a final stretcher from a morning pile-up.
At the center of the storm, standing by the main nursing station, was Jack.
He looked devastatingly wrecked. His dark hair was a messy, uncombed disaster from where he’d been running his fingers through it all night. His scrubs were wrinkled, a faint smudge of iodine was dried on his forearm, and his jaw was heavy with a dark shadow of stubble. He was furiously typing into a computer terminal, his shoulders tense.
But the moment the doors slid shut behind you, his head snapped up.
Out of all the chaos, the shouting doctors, and the sirens outside, his dark eyes locked instantly onto you.
The tension in his shoulders didn't just ease; it vanished. A slow, wicked, entirely exhausted smirk crawled onto his lips.
You walked over to the desk, ignoring the chaotic rush around, and set one of the large coffees right next to his keyboard. "You look like hell, Abbott."
Jack didn't even look at the coffee. He kept his eyes trapped on your face, leaning his forearms against the high desk so he could tilt his head down towards you. "Good morning to you too, doll. And here I thought you’d be happy to see me survived the South Side bar figth."
"Oh, I'm" you teased, leaning against the counter, your shoulder just inches from his. "But mostly because it means I get my floor back. Go home, Jack. You look like you're about to faceplant into the keyboard"
"Is that concern I hear in your voice?" Jack rasped, his voice rougher and deeper than usual from a night of barked orders and lack of sleep. He took the coffee, his fingers deliberately sliding over yours as he pulled the cup away, holding the contact just a second too long. "Careful. People might start thinking you actually like me"
"I like the coffee. You're just the middleman" she shot back, though her heart was already drumming a frantic beat against her ribs. The thick, suffocating morning tension was back, settling over them like a heavy blanket despite the buzzing ER around them.
"Ouch" Jack murmured, taking a sip, his gaze dropping to her mouth before slowly rising back to her eyes. "Cold-hearted. I love it"
"Abbott! We need you on Trauma 1 discharge before you clock out!" a nurse yelled from down the hall.
Jack let out a low, irritated growl under his breath, clearly hating the interruption.
He didn't move away from you.
Instead, he stepped even closer, his large frame entirely blocking you from the view of the central desk.
"I have to go, and then I'm officially off the clock" Jack whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate register that made your knees feel weak. "Don't start your rounds yet"
She blinked, her breath catching. "Why?"
"Because" Jack murmured, his thumb quickly, boldly brushing against the bare skin of your wrist, sending a wave of absolute heat straight to your core. "I would like to have you all for me for a few more minutes"
Before you could even utter a response, Jack gave you a slow, devastating wink, turned on his heel, and strode down the hallway toward Trauma 1, leaving you standing at the desk, completely breathless, with your heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
He wasn't just joking anymore. The game was changing, and as you watched his broad shoulders disappear down the corridor, you knew there was no way you were missing it.
The minutes felt like an eternity, but by the time you pushed open the heavy metal door to the rooftop, the chaos of the morning shift was fading behind.
The rain from the night before had stopped, leaving the Pittsburgh air crisp and damp. The rooftop was bathed in the quiet, coold air.
Jack was there, leaning heavily against the concrete wall —not on the edge of the roof this time—.
But he wasn't smirking.
He had his eyes closed, his head tilted back against the cold concrete. A jacket was slung over one shoulder, and his stethoscope hung loosely from his pocket.
The sheer, crushing weight of the night shift had finally caught up to him.
He looked more than just physically exhausted; he looked emotionally drained.
His shoulders slumped under a burden he usually carried with sarcastic armor. A critical trauma at 5:00 AM had clearly taken everything he had left.
The teasing, playful Chief Abbott was entirely gone, replaced by a man who was simply running on empty.
You didn't say a word, didn't drop a joke or wait for him to initiate your usual back-and-forth. The game was over.
You walked toward him, your footsteps soft. When you stopped right in front of him, Jack slowly opened his eyes.
They were bloodshot, heavy with fatigue, and completely defenseless.
He opened his mouth, probably trying to force out one last dry joke, but she shook your head gently, cutting him off before he could even start.
"Stop" you whispered softly. "No more talking"
Taking complete control, you stepped directly into his space.
You reached up, taking the heavy leather jacket from his shoulder and tossing it onto a nearby metal block.
Before he could question, you wrapped your arms securely around his waist, pulling his large, exhausted frame flush against your chest.
Jack froze for a fraction of a second, entirely stunned by the sudden boldness.
But then, with a low, ragged sigh that sounded like a man finally finding water in a desert, his defenses completely collapsed.
He let his heavy head drop forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck before sliding lower, resting his forehead right against you chest, right over your heart.
His long arms came around you, locking around your lower back like a vice, holding onto you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
"Just breathe, Jack" you murmured, your voice a soothing, steady balm in the quiet morning.
You now leaned your back against the concrete wall, absorbing his full weight without a single complaint.
Slowly, raising one hand and tangled your fingers into his dark, messy hair.
It was thick and soft beneath your fingertips.
You began to gently run your fingers through the strands, massaging his scalp in slow, rhythmic motions, deliberately soothing the tension out of him.
A deep, shuddering breath escaped Jack’s lungs. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you so close there wasn't a single breath of air between you both.
The steady, beat of your heart echoed right against his ear, a constant, comforting rhythm that seemed to quiet the residual adrenaline screaming in his veins.
The silence between both became profoundly intimate, entirely removed from the frantic world just dow the stairs.
There was no hospital, no trauma, no witty defense mechanisms. There was just the cool morning air, the scent of cedarwood and rain, and the undeniable warmth of your bodies tangled together.
"You have no idea" Jack rasped, his voice incredibly thick and rough against her scrubs, "how long I've wanted you to do that"
You smiled softly, your fingers never stopping the gentle, hypnotic rhythm through his hair.
You leaned your head down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right into the crown of his dark head.
"I have a pretty good idea" she whispered back, quiet certainty in your voice. "Because I've been wanting to do it for just as long"
Jack let out a faint, genuine chuckle—not his usual cynical laugh —, but a sound of pure, unadulterated relief.
He shifted slightly, tilting his face up just enough to look at you. From this close, his eyes weren't mocking or teasing; they were wide open, filled with a raw, quiet glow that made your breath catch.
"The game is definitely over, isn't it?" he murmured, his thumb mindfully tracing the side of your hip.
"Definitely" you said, looking down at him with an open affection you had hidden for months. "From now on, no more hiding behind jokes"
Jack stared at you for a long, quiet moment, a soft, peaceful smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. He reached up, his large, calloused hand gently cupping you jaw, his thumb tracing your cheekbones.
He leaned up, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, tender, incredibly romantic kiss, a quiet promise of everything that was finally been said.
When he pulled back, he rested his head right back against your neck, closing his eyes as your fingers resumed their gentle play through his hair. For the first time, Jack Abbott was perfectly content to let someone else take care of him.
Months had passed since that rainy morning, but the shift change at Pittsburgh Hospital still carried the same heavy, electric pull.
Only now, the entire pitt knew that when the clock struck 7:00, the day-shift nurse and the night-shift attending belonged exclusively to each other.
Yet, despite the countless nights spent tangled in the sheets of Jack’s apartment, despite knowing the exact rhythm of his breathing when he slept, you still hadn't figured out how to stop your heart from doing a violent, pathetic flip every time he looked at you.
The floor was relatively quiet, a rare blessing for a Friday evening. She was leaning over the central nursing desk, clicking her pen in a steady, anxious rhythm as she charted her final patient. She was wearing her standard navy scrubs, her hair up in a messy clip, looking the epitome of professional focus.
Then, the automatic doors of the ambulance bay slid open.
A rush of his scenet.
Your hand froze on the keyboard, fingers tightened around a pen. Even after all this time, your body reacted to his entrance like a visual code blue—an immediate, involuntary spike of adrenaline.
Jack Abbott strode onto the floor. He was wearing his dark blue navy scrubs, a heavy black jacket slung over one broad shoulder. His dark hair was slightly damp from the rain, and a fresh shadow of stubble cut along his sharp jawline. He was talking to a paramedic, his expression serious and commanding, the natural authority of an attending radiating off him.
You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. Get a life, you scolded herself mentally, forcing your eyes back to the monitor.
You made him breakfast this morning. You wore his t-shirt to sleep. There is no reason to be this flustered.
But Jack wasn't just anyone. And when his eyes flicked across the chaotic floor and locked instantly onto you, the rest of the room faded into white noise.
He didn't stop to log into a computer. He walked straight toward your desk, his heavy, purposeful steps making the nerves beneath your skin tingle. He stopped right on the other side of the high counter, leaning his forearms against the surface, tilting his head down to catch your gaze.
"Evening, sweetheart" Jack rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a familiar shiver straight down your spine.
"Jack" you replied, trying desperately to keep the voice level, though you could feel a betraying heat creeping up her neck. You offered him a teasing, practiced smirk. "You're five minutes early. Trying to set a good example for the residents?"
Jack didn't answer right away. Instead, a slow, wicked, entirely knowing smirk crawled onto his lips.
He loved this.
He knew exactly what he did to you.
He could see the slight tremor in your hand as you set the pen down, could see the way your chest rose and fell just a fraction faster. The fact that he still had this effect on you, even after months of being his, was a drug he couldn't get enough of.
"I missed my favorite day-shift nurse" Jack murmured, his voice dropping an octave, completely stripping away the clinical atmosphere around them. He reached across the desk, his large, warm hand sliding over the laminate surface until his fingers brushed against your wrist.
The brief contact felt like pure static electricity. You jumped slightly, your eyes widening as she instinctively looked around to see if any of the other nurses were watching.
"Jack, stop" she whispered fiercely, though she didn't pull her hand away. "We're on the floor"
"Nobody's looking, sweetheart" he teased softly, his thumb tracing the delicate skin over your pulse point. His eyes darkened, burning with a thick, heavy intensity that made the sterile air feel entirely devoid of oxygen. "And even if they were, I don't particularly care. Your heart is racing. Did a code come in, or are you just happy to see me?"
"It’s the coffee" you lied miserably, your cheeks now burning a brilliant crimson. You bit her lower lip, looking up into his dark, mocking eyes. "You're infuriating"
"I'm dedicated" Jack corrected smoothly, leaning an inch closer over the desk, his gaze dropping to her mouth before snapping back to your eyes, holding you captive. "And you're blushing. After six months, you still look at me like you're afraid I'm going to pull you into a dark supply closet"
"Because you usually do!" she hissed, a breathless laugh escaping her lips as she finally pulled her hand back to check a chart, desperately trying to regain her composure.
Jack let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest—a sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. He straightened up, slinging his jacket onto a nearby chair, but the intense, possessive warmth in his eyes never wavered.
"Trauma 1 is clear for you" You added, your voice still a little breathless as you handed him the shift-report clipboard. "Try not to drive the residents crazy tonight"
Jack took the clipboard, his fingers deliberately dragging across hers one last time, making your breath catch in your throat. He leaned down, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear as he whispered, "Go home. Take a hot shower. And leave the door unlocked. I'll be there"
Before you could even respond, Jack gave you a devastating wink, turned on his heel, and strode down the hallway toward the trauma bays.
You leaned back against the chair, letting out a long, ragged breath you hadn't realized were holding.
Heart still hammering against your ribs, skin still tingling from his touch. Six months later, and Jack Abbott still had the power to make you feel entirely defenseless, and as you watched him walk away, you realized you wouldn't have it any other way.
Summary: after almost losing your husband by his shadows. Months of therapy sessions have make your marriage come back to life, even the flame you once thought lost. But what happens when his beard —the one you love to feel against your skin— left an unmistakable friction burn on your neck right before hospital hours?
Tags: soft smut, mdni, stablished relationship, fluff, funny, team makes fun of reader, no use of yn, neutral gender reader, happy robby.
Autor note: Do you need to read pt.1? Not rlly but it would be worth it trust me.
Find here: Renegade pt.1
I saw that beard thing on tiktok and had to make it a fanfic, hope y'll like it. @jeliebers12564ever
After months of therapy, talks, love and patience, the atmosphere had completely shifted. The heavy, suffocating shadows between you and Robby were gone.
You stood by the kitchen island, a cup of coffe in one hand, watching Robby through the open layout of the house.
He was sitting at the dining room table, surrounded not by medical charts, but by a legal pad and a book on trauma-informed therapy.
He wasn’t wearing his iron suit. He wore a soft charcoal sweater, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and his jaw was relaxed. For the past four months, the days were sacred. No extra hours. No hiding at Pittsburgh Central.
He had spent those months in weekly therapy sessions, unraveling the ghosts of the pandemic and the loss of his mentor, finally clearing out the wreckage inside his mind.
As if feeling your gaze, Robby looked up from his notes.
The change in his eyes was the most profound victory of all. The hollow, distant stare that had made him look three states away was entirely gone. In its place was a warmth so steady and grounded it made your chest ache with gratitude. A slow, genuine smile tugged at his lip, the kind of smile you thought you had lost forever.
He took off his glasses, pushed back his chair, and walked into the kitchen.
"You're staring" he murmured, his deep voice carrying a playful, gentle rasp that was entirely for you.
"I'm appreciating the view" you replied softly, leaning back against the counter.
Robby didn't hesitate. He stepped directly into your space, completely closing the distance that used to feel like an ocean. His large, warm hands reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against his chest. He didn't grab you with the desperate, terrifying panic of the nurse's station; his touch was deliberate, worshipful, and entirely present.
"How was the final post-op check on the splenic laceration patient from today?" he asked, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles through the fabric of your shirt.
"Completely cleared. He's going home tomorrow," you said, looking up into his dark eyes. "And what about the daytimeattending? Did he survive his shift without hiding in a single supply closet?"
A soft, breathless laugh escaped Robby’s throat, his chest rumbling against yours. He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against yours, just breathing you in.
"Not a single one" he promised fiercely, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute sincerity. "I spent my lunch break talking to Jack on the rooftop, actually. A real conversation. No trauma to shield myself with. He told me I look less like a ghost these days"
"You do" you whispered, your hand rising to tangle into his dark hair, feeling the solid, living warmth of the man who had finally come back to you. "You look handsome, Honey"
"I am so sorry I made you wait so long in the dark" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, reverent register, his hands moving up to cup your face with a tenderness that made your soul ache. "I wake up every single day grateful that you didn't leave this house. Thank you for catching me when I finally let myself fall"
"Always" you promised.
When his lips met yours, it wasn't a reclamation born of grief anymore.
It was a slow.
Deep.
incredibly sweet.
A celebration of the life you were actively rebuilding together. It tasted like warmth, like safety, and above all, it tasted like a permanent reality.
That didn't last long.
The slow, tender kiss against the kitchen counter slowly heated both of you.
As your fingers remained tangled in his dark hair, the rhythm of his breathing changed. It shifted from a sigh of relief into a ragged, heavy intake of air.
Robby’s hands on your waist tightened, his grip turning possessive as he pulled you flush against his body. The kiss deepened, growing deliberate and heavy, filled with a sudden, overwhelming hunger that had been gone for a year. It was the spark of a fire you both thought the hospital had permanently extinguished.
His tongue parted your lips, tasting of the rich coffee.
Desperate.
Long-overdue desire.
A soft, involuntary gasp left your throat, your hands moving from his hair to grip the front of his charcoal sweater, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single millimeter of space left between you. He leaned his weight into you, pressing you back against the edge of the kitchen island. His jawline, shadowed by a thick, rugged layer of stubble, scraped firmly against the sensitive skin of your jaw and neck as he trailed his lips downward, his breath burning hot against your skin.
"Robby" you breathed out, your head tilting back as a wave of heat rushed through your veins. You tried to find a thread of logic, your hands weakly pushing against his broad shoulders. "Robby, stop... the morning crossover. We have to go to work—"
Robby didn't lift his head. His mouth found the vulnerable dip where your neck met your shoulder, biting softly, making your toes curl against the hardwood floor.
"Let them wait" he growled against your skin, his voice deep, rough, and entirely uncompromising. His hands slid down to the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you onto the edge of the kitchen counter so he could step between your knees. "Screw the hospital. Let Jack handle it a few more hours, I'm not going anywhere"
Any remaining protest you had vanished into the quiet kitchen. You wrapped your legs around his waist, bringing his mouth back up to yours as the flame took over completely, burning away the last remnants of the ghosts that used to keep you apart.
An hour and a half after that heated morning. You both where on your way to the hospital, but you had a problem, one his beard was gulty of.
The truck's heater hummed quietly as Robby navigated the morning traffic, a smug, entirely relaxed smile practically glued to his face. You, on the other hand, were staring into the passenger side visor mirror, frantically adjusting your collar for the sixteenth time.
"Robby, I’m serious. Turn the truck around. We need to go back" you groaned, pressing two fingers against the bright, rose-pink patch of skin stretching from your jawline down to your collarbone.
"We’re already twenty minutes late, sweetheart" Robby chuckled, his hand reaching across the center console to squeeze your knee.
"You don't understand" you complained, pulling your phone out to check the damage under better lighting. The friction burn from his beard was screamingly obvious. "They are going to notice. They are absolutely going to know. We never arrive in the same vehicle, we are late, and I look like I fought a weed-whacker and lost"
Robby stole a quick glance at your neck, his dark eyes darkening with a flash of that sudden, wicked hunger from an hour ago. "Let them look. I've been a ghost to this hospital for a year. Let them see that I'm finally alive"
"Easy for you to say! You're not the one who looks like this" you muttered, pulling your scrub top as high as the fabric would allow. "I should have worn a scarf. God, why didn't I buy a turtleneck? It's October in Pittsburgh, a scarf would have been perfectly normal!"
"It wouldn't" Robby pointed out, his smirk widening.
"I don't care! I would have made up an excuse. Hypothermia. A sudden draft. Anything"
The moment the double doors of the pitt open, you instantly regretted every single life choice that had led you to this moment.
I should have gone straight to the second floor, you thought frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs as you walked a step ahead of Robby. I could have taken the side stairs, bypassed the bullpen entirely, signed the logs later... why did I come down here?
The easy answer was, Robby had your stethoscope because you forgot it down on a emergency consult the day before.
And you need it.
You walked in first —hoping you could rush to get what you needed and go up—, adjusting the collar of your dark blue surgical scrubs, a fresh cup of cafeteria coffee in your hand. Robby walked in just a step behind you.
The change in his demeanor was a dead giveaway to anyone who knew how to read him. The rigid, tightly wound Daytime Chief was gone. He walked with a relaxed, easy stride, his hands casually shoved into his pockets, a faint, entirely satisfied shadow of a smile resting on his face.
As you approached the central nurse's station. Dana was already there, adjusting her clipboard, while Perla and Princess were organizing a tray of intake files nearby.
"Morning, doctors" Dana greeted, her sharp eyes scanning both of your faces as you reached the counter.
"Morning, Dana" you said, forcing a calm, highly professional smile as you took a sip of your coffee.
Robby was living for it, knowing that you needed his locker key, he didn't rush.
Dana opened her mouth to read off the bed counts, but she suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes locked onto the left side of your neck and jawline. Right beneath your ear, stretching down toward your collarbone, the skin was completely flushed—a bright, unmistakable rose-pink patch of deeply irritated skin — left behind by a very specific, rough beard.
Dana’s lips pressed into a tight line. A knowing, heavily amused glint flashed in her eyes as she slowly looked from your neck, over to Robby, and then back to you.
Perla and Princess noticed the sudden silence. They leaned over the counter, their eyes tracking Dana’s gaze. Princess’s mouth instantly dropped into a tiny 'O' of realization, while Perla quickly covered a giggle with a chart folder.
Before you could sink loking to hide on Robby’s side, a deep, highly cynical voice cut through the bay.
I am going to die right here, you thought, utterly defenseless under their unblinking, hyper-observant stares. You had no idea what to say. The professional surgeon who could make split second life or death decisions was completely paralyzed by three nurses and a patch of beard burn.
"Well, well. Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. Thirty minutes past the crossover, no less"
Jack Abbott strolled out of Trauma Bay 1, a digital tablet gripped in his hand. He stopped dead in his tracks a few feet from the desk, his sharp eyes moving from Robby’s smug, unbothered expression straight to your flushed, burning neck.
Jack stopped. His heavy eyebrows slowly crawled toward his hairline, his face twisting into the most intensely suspicious, deeply amused expression possible.
He looked at the pink friction injury on your skin, then looked at the heavy stubble on his best friend's jaw, instantly connecting every single dot.
"Something wrong with the morning report, Jack?" Robby asked, completely unfazed, his arm sliding behind your back to rest firmly against your waist, anchoring you against him in front of everyone.
Jack let out a low, rough chuckle, tossing his tablet onto the central desk. He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes locked onto Robby as a slow, devastating smirk broke across his face.
"No, nothing wrong with the report" Jack murmured, his voice dripping with cynical satisfaction as his gaze flicked back to your burning face. He shook his head, leaning in closer over the desk so only the core circle could hear him. "I just didn't realize the daytime department was handling such intense trauma cases before clocking in. Looks like a pretty severe friction injury to me. Did you need to order a consult for that, or is the daytime attending handling the local treatment himself?"
You wanted to disappear. Robby just chuckled, his grip on your waist tightening as he pulled you flush against his side, letting you hide your face against his shoulder. For the first time in over a year, the embarrassment was entirely worth it.
Till the suffocating heat in your cheeks had officially crossed the line from embarrassment into pure, defensive irritation. You were a grown woman, a highly respected trauma surgeon, and you were currently being cornered at the central desk by three giggling nurses and your husband’s smug best friend.
You finally snapped your head up from Robby’s shoulder.
You narrowed your eyes, locking your gaze directly onto Jack’s incredibly smug, teasing face.
"Yes, we had a make-out session, so what?" you muttered, your voice flat, ringing out with a sharp precision that instantly cut through the giggles at the desk. "It’s called being married"
Princess snorted, quickly covering her mouth with both hands, while Perla’s jaw completely dropped. Dana just raised her eyebrows, a slow, highly satisfied maternal grin spreading across her face.
Jack didn't even flinch. He just let out a booming, delighted laugh, leaning his frame against the counter, thoroughly enjoying every second of your irritation.
"Not surprising at all, doc" Jack chuckled, his eyes twinkling with pure malice. "Just glad to see Robby finally following medical advice. I’d chart it as a full recovery"
You rolled your eyes, turning your glare onto Robby, who was still looking at you with that incredibly relaxed, entirely unbothered smile.
"Can I get my stethoscope back now so I can leave?" you asked him, raising an eyebrow.
Robby winced slightly, the smug smile finally dipping into a sheepish grin as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh... it's actually still in my locker"
You let out an exasperated sigh, throwing your hands up. You looked back at Jack, who was practically vibrating with laughter at this point.
"I hate you" you shot back at Jack, before cutting a sharp look back to your husband. "And you're coming with me to open that locker"
"Love you too, sis," Jack called out cheerfully as you turned on your heel.
You ignored him and walked straight toward the breakroom, your rubber soles squeaking aggressively against the linoleum.
Behind you, Jack clapped a heavy hand on Robby’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. "You're brand new Brother" Robby just smiled at him and follow you to finally find your stethoscope.
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Summary: For the world, Aaron Hotchner was a solid unreadable, intimidating men. For you, was everything. And for the team, it was the way he looked at you.
Tags: soft, mutual adoration, confort, full team on history, fluff, long, stablished relationship, proposal, no use of y/n, fem reader.
Autor note: I'm trying new ways of writing hope you'll like it. Still working on renegade pt.2 had this one on my drafts.
You didn't work as an agent at the BAU, your life was something entirely different from it. Still you always found time to make your way to the office — at least when the team wasn't miles away for a case — at this point it was usual for you to go a few minutes day by day.
The team, they could dissect a suspect's micro-expressions in milliseconds, map out a killer’s psyche from a single crime scene photo, and track the slightest shift in human behavior.
Which was exactly why they all lived for the moments you walked through the double doors.
Whenever you dropped by —whether it was to bring Hotch a forgotten file, drag him out for a mandatory lunch break, or just visit— the heavy, atmosphere of the office instantly shifted.
And, of course, there was the food.
"Tell me my nose isn't playing tricks on me" Morgan said, spinning around in his chair the moment the glass doors clicked open. A massive, devastating grin spread across his face as he spotted you carrying a large, tied-up box. "Please tell me those are your homemade cinnamon rolls"
"Fresh out of the oven" you laughed, walking down the steps into the office.
Instantly, the team descended. Garcia practically sprinted from her tech cave, her bright, colorful outfit contrasting beautifully with the drab office walls. "Oh, thank heaven! My sugar levels were reaching a critical, devastating low. You are an absolute angel sent from above"
"Save one for me before Spencer inhales the entire top row," JJ joked, stepping out of her office with a stack of papers, her tired eyes lighting up. Your cinnamon rolls were one of Spencer weakness, he could eat the entire box of you let him do so.
Within seconds, you were surrounded by the elite profiling unit, handing out homemade pastries like a mother hen tending to a flock of very exhausted, highly dangerous federal agents.
Rossi strolled out of his office, sniffing the air with an appreciative nod, while Spencer Reid began a rapid-fire, entirely unprompted lecture on the historical origins of yeast cultivation in 18th-century Europe, though his hand was already reaching into the box for a roll.
They loved you. To them, you weren't just the boss’s girlfriend; you were family. You were the tether that kept them connected to a normal, gentle world.
But as much as they loved the baked goods, the real reason the BAU looked forward to your visits was standing up in his office, watching from behind the glass windows.
Aaron Hotchner was a man carved out of granite. To the rest of the BAU, the media, and the unsubs they tracked, Aaron Hotchner was an unreadable, intimidating force of nature. He wore a permanent, stern scowl. His dark eyes were usually sharp, calculating, and heavy with the weight of the cases that kept him awake at night. He rarely smiled, his lips almost always pressed into a thin, unyielding line, and his posture was rigid, a suit of absolute professionalism.
But then, he looked at you.
Something changed.
Subtly, almost invisible.
Up in his office, Hotch set his pen down. The moment your laughter carried up through the glass, something extraordinary happened. The team, being the hyper-observant profilers they were, immediately stopped talking. Out of pure instinct, six pairs of eyes subtly drifted away from you and locked onto the glass office above. They were profiling the boss.
Hotch walked out of his office and stepped up to the railing.
The transformation was subtle to an outsider, but to the BAU, it was a seismic shift. The moment his dark eyes found you standing in the center of the BAU office, the harsh, rigid lines of his face completely melted. The permanent crease between his eyebrows vanished. His shoulders, usually pulled tight with stress, noticeably relaxed.
Softening.
Warmer.
Caring.
But it was his eyes that gave him away entirely. The cold, analytical sharpness vanished, replaced by an intense, overwhelmingly soft warmth. It was a gaze of pure, unadulterated adoration —a look so private and fiercely loving that it felt like he was looking at the only person left in the entire world—. As you walked towards him, a slow, genuine, and devastatingly handsome smile tugged at the corner of his lips, softening his entire face until he looked like a completely different man.
Back Down in the hallway, Morgan let out a low, quiet whistle, leaning closer to Prentiss. "Look at the man. Just look at him. He’s completely gone"
"It's fascinating" Reid murmured, chewing on his cinnamon roll, his analytical brain firing off data points. "Aaron's baseline heart rate and cortisol levels must drop by at least thirty percent the second she enters the room. His pupils dilate exactly four millimeters. It’s a physiological response to an intense oxytocin surge"
"Oh, hush, Einstein" Garcia whispered, clutching her hands over her heart as she watched Hotch make his way down the stairs toward you. "It’s not science, it’s pure, beautiful magic. Look at how he looks at her! Like she literally hung the moon and stars just for him. I am weeping. I am actively weeping"
"He deserves it" Rossi said quietly, a soft, paternal smile on his face as he watched his old friend. "Lord knows that man needs someone who can make him look like he actually remembers how to breathe"
Hotch reached the bottom of the stairs, entirely oblivious to the fact that his entire team was currently dissecting his emotional state. He walked straight to find you, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hey" he said, his deep, baritone voice dropping into a register that none of the agents ever heard in a briefing room. It was quiet, rough, and incredibly gentle.
"Hey, Boss" you teased softly, stepping forward to meet him.
Hotch didn't hesitate. In front of his entire team, completely ignoring the world, the files, and the Bureau politics, he reached out and placed a large, warm hand against the small of your back, pulling you gently into his space. He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple, his eyes closing as he inhaled the familiar, comforting scent of you.
When he pulled back just an inch, he looked down at you, that soft, private smile returning to his face. The rest of the world—and the six profilers blatantly staring at him—completely ceased to exist.
After a short time talking to him, the soft, intimate bubble that had enveloped you bothwas completely shattered.
The demanding chirp of the his office phone echoed down, followed almost immediately by the sight of the team moving back to work.
Hotch closed his eyes for a brief momento as he heard the phone, didn't even have to look up to know what it meant. The subtle tension returned to his shoulders, the Unit Chief armor locking back into place as his professional instincts took over. He looked down at you, his thumb giving the small of your back one last, lingering squeeze through your clothes.
"We have a case" he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet, genuine regret that only you could detect. "The state police just called. We’re wheels up in twenty minutes" he said at loud for all te team.
"Go save lives, Love" you replied softly, giving his arm a reassuring pat. "The team has their sugar. They're ready" you winked at him.
"Hey, thanks for the fuel!" Morgan called out, already snatching his jacket from his chair and tossing a file onto his desk. The rest of the team shifted into high gear with terrifying efficiency.
JJ was grabbing her phone, Reid was stacking books, and Prentiss was already heading toward the stairs.
Hotch grabbed the lunch box you’d packed specifically for him, giving you one last deep, melting look before turning to face the stairs. "I'll call you" he promised, his voice returning to its firm, authoritative baseline as he began barking out orders to the team.
...................
It was nearly three weeks later when the dust finally settled. The case had been grueling, stretching across three states and costing the team nights of sleep, but they had finally brought the unsub down. To celebrate making it back in one piece, you and Aaron had opened up your home for a long-overdue backyard dinner.
The evening was perfect. The harsh fluorescent lights of Quantico were replaced by the warm, amber glow of string lights stretched across your patio. The smell of Rossi’s secret marinade was wafting from the grill, and the sound of laughter echoed.
Garcia was in her absolute element. Equipped with a high-end digital camera she’d brought specifically for the occasion, she was flitting around the yard like a colorful butterfly, determined to document every single ounce of joy.
"Say cheese, my beautiful profiling family!" Garcia chirped, snapping a photo of Morgan and Reid aggressively debating the physics of lawn darts near the fence.
On the other side of the patio, you were leaning against the wooden railing, completely engrossed in a conversation with JJ. You were laughing, holding a glass of wine, listening to her recount a hilarious story about Henry's latest preschool antics. Your hair was slightly down, your face bright and relaxed in the evening air.
A few yards away, Aaron was standing by the food table, listening to Rossi talk about a vintage wine. But he wasn't actually listening to him.
Unbeknownst to you, his gaze had drifted right back to where you were standing. He was leaning against the table, a plate in one hand, completely captivated.
Garcia, panning her camera across the yard looking for the next candid shot, paused. She zoomed in on Hotch, and her breath caught in her throat. Through the lens, she saw it.
The granite man was completely gone. Aaron was looking across the patio at you with that exact, fiercely protective, intensely adoring gaze. His lips were parted in a soft, private smile as he just watched you laugh with JJ, his eyes shining with a quiet devotion so deep it looked almost sacred.
Click.
Garcia snapped the picture, her heart practically bursting.
A week later, back at the office, you dropped by the BAU to pick up Aaron for dinner. As you passed Garcia’s tech cave, she frantically waved you inside, her face practically glowing with excitement.
"Look at thr monitor. Look at it right now!" she squealed, pointing at her massive screen.
You leaned over her shoulder, and the breath left your lungs. It was the photo from the barbecue. On the right side of the frame, you and JJ were blurred in the foreground, caught mid-laugh. But the camera had perfectly focused on Aaron in the background.
He was looking right at you. The expression captured on his face was so profoundly tender, so utterly stripped of the darkness he carried every day, that it made your throat ache. He looked like a man who had found his entire universe in a single person.
Love.
Fate.
Longing.
"I call it 'The Profile of Absolute Love," Garcia whispered, a tear actually pooling in her eye as she looked up at you. "Because honeybee... the way that man looks at you? It’s like you’re the only piece of good left in the entire world"
And you knew it, you woke up every morning with him at your side, his smile.
Soft.
Warm.
His eyes, the look of them when his eyes landed on you, the way he looked at every space of your face. His gaze tracing it as if he wanted to make a picture of it on his mind, just for him.
His fingers, tracing your arms, your chin, your, lips.
Slow.
Carefully.
Caring.
But you just never thought that the outside world was witness of the love that the has for you. Not like this, so open, like he wanted to scream, but without words.
You stared at the monitor, the ambient hum of Garcia’s tech cave fading into a distant buzz.
Your throat felt tight, and a strange, beautiful warmth bloomed in your chest. You loved Aaron—deeply, fiercely— and you had always loved the quiet intensity of his eyes. But seeing it captured like this, frozen in silver pixels, was entirely different. It wasn't just a look of affection; it was a gaze of total surrender from a man who never surrendered to anything. It was raw, exposed, and utterly timeless.
"I... I don't even know what to say, Pen" you whispered.
"You don't have to say anything, honeybee" Garcia said softly, her usual bubbly energy settling into something incredibly sweet. "The picture says it all"
Without telling you, Garcia quietly pulled up her email client, attached the high-resolution file, and hit send. The recipient: [email protected].
Upstairs in his office, the quiet chime of a new email broke Aaron’s concentration. He moved his mouse, clicking open the message from his technical analyst. He expected a case update, a lingering data sheet, or perhaps a humorous meme Garcia used to lighten the mood.
Instead, the image loaded.
Aaron froze. He sat back slowly in his leather chair, the heavy silence of his office wrapping around him. He stared at the photograph for what felt like hours, his analytical brain completely off. He looked at the way his own shoulders were relaxed, the way the harsh lines of his face had entirely dissolved, and most of all, the way his eyes were locked onto you in the background. The way a soft, small smile lingered on him.
He had spent years profiling human behavior, calculating risks, and predicting the next move. But looking at himself through Garcia's lens, the absolute truth of his own soul was laid bare. He had loved you for years, but in this exact, quiet moment, a profound, unshakable clarity washed over him. The weight of the past, the darkness of his job, the walls he built to protect himself, broken.
I need her to be with me for the rest of my life, he thought, the realization striking him not with panic, but with a deep, settling peace. I'm not letting another day go by without making her my wife.
The drive back to your home later that evening was quiet, but it wasn't the heavy, exhausted silence that usually followed a long week at the BAU.
Aaron was unusually grounded, his hand resting firmly over yours, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over your knuckles.
When you walked through the front door, you tossed your keys onto the entryway table and turned around to ask him what he wanted for dinner.
You didn't get the words out.
Aaron hadn't even taken off his suit jacket. He closed the distance between you in two long strides, his large hands coming up to gently cup your face, his fingers tangling into your hair. He leaned down and kissed you. Not a rushed evening greeting, but a deep, breathless, incredibly reverent kiss that made your knees feel weak.
When he finally pulled back just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was slightly ragged, and when you opened your eyes, you saw it. Right there, inches from your face, was the exact same look from Garcia's photograph. The adoring, melting warmth that belonged entirely to you.
"Aaron" you whispered, your heart doing a sudden, nervous flip. "I love you"
"I love you too, darling" he murmured, his deep baritone voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your breath catch. He took a slow step back, his hands sliding down your arms until he was holding both of your hands tightly in his. "And for the first time in a very long time, everything is perfectly right"
He took a deep breath, and before your brain could even process what was happening, Aaron Hotchner—the unyielding, stoic Unit Chief of the BAU—dropped down onto one knee on the hardwood floor of your entryway.
Your gasp echoed in the quiet apartment, your hands instantly flying to cover your mouth as tears rushed to your eyes.
He didn't have a velvet box. He hadn't planned a grand dinner or a speech. He just looked up at you, completely stripped of his professional armor, his dark eyes shining with a fierce, unwavering devotion.
"Garcia sent me the photo today" Aaron said softly, his voice trembling just a fraction, though his gaze never wavered. "And looking at it... I realized something I think I’ve known since the very first day you walked into my life. I spent so long thinking I had to keep my world dark to keep you safe, but the truth is, you are the only reason I can find my way out of the dark at all"
He squeezed your hands, his fingers warm and solid.
"I don't want to just come home to you anymore. I want to build a life with you. I want the promise of you every single morning and every single night. I know my life is complicated, and I know the world we live in can be ugly... but if you'll have me, I promise to spend every day of the rest of my life loving you exactly the way I was looking at you in that picture"
Aaron swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours with a beautiful, desperate vulnerability. "Will you marry me?"
The tears finally spilled over your cheeks as you instantly dropped to your knees right in front of him, throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder.
"Yes" you choked out, sobbing softly against his suit jacket as his massive arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you so close that the space between you completely disappeared.
"Yes, Aaron. A million times, yes"
Holding you in the quiet of your home, Aaron let out a long, shuddering breath of pure relief, his lips pressing a fierce, grateful kiss against your neck. Right here, in the warmth of his arms, the ground was finally solid.
.................
Days after that — when Aaron had already bought a ring for you —. You both agreed that it was time to tell the team the good news.
Morgan was leaning against his desk, turning a pen over in his fingers while reviewing a localized map. JJ and Emily were standing near, speaking in low tones about a minor detail from their last report. Reid was entirely buried behind a massive stack of research journals, while Rossi stood nearby, pouring his first proper cup of espresso.
The heavy doors of the BAU clicked open.
The team looked up out of pure habit. You and Aaron walked down the steps together.
"Morning, team" Aaron announced. His voice carried its usual deep, steady authority, but as he stepped into the room, there was a subtle, almost imperceptible lightness to his posture.
He didn't look at his desk, and he didn't immediately ask for the morning briefing. Instead, he stole a quick, highly private look down at you, a soft, knowing glance full of an unspoken, shared secret.
"Hey, look who's here!" Morgan smiled, tossing his pen onto the desk. "Two mornings in a row? We're getting spoiled. Tell me there are more pastries, or I'm going to be deeply disappointed"
"Good morning, honeybee!" Garcia’s voice chimed enthusiastically as she stepped out of her tech cave, her bright earrings jingling as she walked over to join the circle. "You look absolutely radiant today"
You smiled at them "Sorry D but there is no cinnamon rolls today" you looked back at Morgan. "Thanks Pen you look absolutely brilliant today dear".
JJ agreed warmly, offering you a bright smile. "How are you doing?"
"I'm doing amazing, actually" you said, your voice full of an excitement you could barely contain.
You stood right beside Aaron, matching his steady frame. You caught his eye one more time, seeing that devastatingly handsome, proud smile tugging at the very edge of his lips. He gave you a tiny, encouraging nod.
With a dramatic, playful sigh, you lifted your left hand, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face—ensuring your fingers stayed raised just long enough for the bullpen lights to catch the brilliant, sparkling diamond resting securely on your ring finger.
For a second, time completely stopped in the BAU.
Garcia was the first to process the visual. Her eyes went wide. She let out a sound that wasn't even human, a high-pitched, breathless squeak
"Oh..." Garcia gasped, clutching her hands over her mouth, her entire body shaking. "Oh my god. Oh my god! Is that—is that what I think it is?!"
JJ’s gaze snapped down to your hand, and her jaw dropped. "No way" she whispered, a massive, brilliant smile breaking across her face as she took a step toward you. "Aaron?!"
"Shut up" Morgan muttered, his head snapping from your hand to Hotch's face, his eyes full of pure shock before a huge, triumphant grin took over. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the bullpen. "No kidding! The man finally did it!"
"Statistically speaking" Reid blurted out, his head popping out from behind his tower of books, his eyes wide as he stared at the ring, "the probability of Aaron proposing without a meticulous six-month logistical plan was incredibly low, but according to my current visual data—"
"Reid, stop talking about math!" Emily laughed loudly, completely abandoning her files and rushing over to throw her arms around your shoulders in a massive, tight hug. "Oh, congratulations! I am so, so happy for you both!"
Rossi didn't say a word at first. He just stood by the railing, a deeply satisfied, incredibly proud paternal smile spreading across his face. He lifted his espresso mug toward Aaron in a silent, respectful toast. "About time, Aaron" he murmured softly. "About damn time".
Within seconds, the entire team devolved into absolute, joyful chaos. Garcia practically tackled you next, weeping tears of pure joy onto your shoulder. "I knew it! I knew 'The Profile of Absolute Love' would do its magic! I am printing that photo on canvas! I am framing it! Oh, look at you two!"
Through all the shouting, the hugs, and the laughter, you looked over at your new fiancé.
Aaron was standing right there, completely surrounded by his team. Morgan was aggressively clapping him on the shoulder, shaking his hand with a fierce grin, while Rossi stepped up to give him a warm nod of approval.
For the first time he was smiling completely.
openly.
brilliantly.
His dark eyes found yours through the crowd of celebrating agents, looking at you with that exact, timeless look of absolute adoration. He ignored the chaos, reached out through the huddle, and took your hand, locking his fingers tightly with yours.
"So" Morgan chuckled, leaning back against the desk with his arms crossed, looking at his boss with immense respect. "Are we officially calling her the First Lady of the BAU now, Hotch?"
"She's been the boss of this entire operation for years, Morgan" Aaron replied smoothly, his deep voice full of pride as he squeezed your hand. "We're just making it official"
Summary: You have been dating Jack for a while. At this point, you usually called him Honey, he called you sweetheart. But, how does he feel when you don't use that nickname by accident?
Tags: no use of y/n, short story, nurse oc, safe for work.
Autor not: So is search everywhere and couldn't find what Jack's full name is, so I made one up (hope Im just not dumb)
The nickname had started so naturally that neither of you could even remember the exact moment it became permanent. He was Honey when he handed you a fresh cup of coffee before a long night, Honey when you were stealing a quiet moment in the breakroom, and Honey when you just wanted him to look up from his charts and smile at you.
But tonight, the night shift from had officially broken you.
The triage desk was a war zone of incoming ambulances, and as a nurse, you had been running on your feet for 6 straight hours. Your lower back was killing you, your scrubs felt heavy, and by 4:00 AM, you were a walking zombie. You dragged your feet up to the central desk, your shoulders completely slumped, carrying a stack of intake charts that needed a physician's signature.
Jack was standing there, reviewing a stack of lab reports. Hearing your familiar voice, he instantly straightened up, his dark eyes softening and a warm, tired smile taking over his sharp features as he prepared to greet his favorite person.
"Hey" you muttered, dropping the heavy folders onto the desk. You didn't look up, instead leaning your forehead against the cool, laminated surface of the nurse's station with a heavy, exhausted sigh. "Jack, I need you to sign off on the admission orders for bed four and six. I need to clear them before another ambulance arrives"
The smile vanished from Jack’s face so fast it was almost comical.
He froze mid-motion, the pen in his hand hovering over the paper. His dark eyes went wide, tracking the back of your head as you kept your face pressed against the desk. Jack. You had called him Jack. Not Honey. Not even a sleepy, slurred variation of it. Just his strict, official, government name.
Jack’s internal alarms immediately went into high alert. In his mind, there was only one reason his usually affectionate girlfriend would drop the nickname and use his real name at the central desk: She was furious with him.
Instead of asking about it —because Jack Abbott was a man of action — he immediately went into overcompensation mode. He was going to fix whatever invisible mistake he had made, and he was going to do it right now.
"Right. Of course. On it" Jack said, his voice dropping into an unusually eager, attentive cadence.
He snatched the charts and began signing them with frantic precision. But he didn't just sign them. He grabbed a brightly colored highlighter from the cup —the expensive ones you loved that he gave you once as a gift — and neatly highlighted the lab values for you.
"I'll take care of the digital entry too" he offered quickly, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "You shouldn't have to stare at a screen right now. I'll log into the system under my credentials so you don't have to deal with the administrative bureaucracy"
You kept your head down, letting out a vague, muffled hum of approval. You were too tired to notice the slight edge of panic in his helpfulness.
Seeing that the charts weren't enough to crack your icy exterior, — because you haven’t looked at him once — Jack stepped it up. He quietly backed away from the desk and jogged over to the breakroom. He went straight for his private locker. He pulled out the high-quality, thermo of gourmet coffee he had brought from home —the one he usually guarded with his life— and poured the remaining hot liquid into a clean foam cup. He even grabbed a small packet of chocolate chip cookies he had been saving for his 6:00 AM snack.
Two minutes later, Jack reappeared at the nurse's station. He carefully set the steaming cup and the cookies right next to your arm. By that moment you were alredy looking up from the desk — as you sat at the other side of it —wondering why he was running to the breakroom so suddenly.
"Here" he murmured, his voice incredibly soft, almost tentative. "I know the floor was brutal tonight. Drink this. It's the good one. And take the cookies. You skipped your midnight meal break, and your blood sugar is probably low. I can go down to the cafeteria and grab a hot sandwich if you want? You need a break?. I'll cover your remaining vitals round"
You just stared at him, blinking heavily. You looked at the signed charts, the highlighted notes, the gourmet coffee, the cookies, and then up at Jack again.
Standing there, practically hovering over the counter. His broad shoulders were tense, his salt n pepper hair was slightly disheveled from nervously running his fingers through it, and he was looking down at you with the expression of a giant, worried puppy waiting to see if he was still in trouble.
"Jack..." you began, your voice slurred with pure exhaustion. "What are you doing? Why are you doing my data entry? And all of the coffe, the sandwich?".
He flinched slightly, his jaw tightening at the second use of his real name. He couldn't take the suspense anymore. His tough, confident and right hand nurse, had completely cracked him under the weight of the silent treatment.
He leaned across the counter, closing the distance between you until his face was just inches from yours, his dark eyes burning with genuine, anxious concern.
"Are you mad at me?" Jack finally blurted out, his voice a low, frantic whisper meant only for your ears. "Did I do something? Did I leave the kitchen messy this morning? Did I text something stupid during the shift crossover? Because whatever it is, I swear I didn't mean to, and I'll fix it. Just please stop calling me Jack. It's killing me"
You stared at him, your fried brain trying to process his sudden spiral. Then, a tiny, involuntary smile broke through your intense fatigue. Looking at this huge, protective man looking completely vulnerable just because of a missing nickname was the most endearing thing you had ever seen.
"I'm not mad, you idiot" you laughed softly, the sound a tired rasp. You reached out, your hand automatically sliding up his forearm, feeling the warm, under his navy scrubs. "My brain is completely cooked. I've been running triage for hours. I forgot how to use my normal vocabulary. I promise you're not sleeping in the doghouse"
Jack let out a massive, audible sigh of relief, his broad shoulders visibly dropping three inches. The worried tension completely left his face, replaced by that familiar, devastatingly handsome smirk. He turned his hand over, locking his large fingers tightly with yours, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.
"Don't scare me like that ever again, sweetheart" he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that deep, private register. "My heart can't take that kind of clinical rejection at four in the morning. I thought my sweet talking girlfriend privileges were permanently revoked"
"Never" you whispered, getting up the chair and leaning your cheek into his palm as he reached up to cup your face. "Thank you for the coffee, Honey"
Jack’s smile widened, bright and completely relieved, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with newfound confidence. "Much better. Now finish that coffee, and then I'm personally escorting you to the on-call room for a nap. And I'm guarding the door so no one dares to disturb my nurse"
Note: i saw this on a tiktok and saw Jack in it. So have to write about it lol
Summary: Traumatized by the pandemic and the loss of his mentor, Robby, emotionally detaches from his wife, you. As you reache your breaking point and consider divorce, making you both have a tense, public encounter at the nurse's station, leaving him with a ultimatum.
There was nowhere for me to stay
But I stayed anyway... leet me see your face. - Renegade by Taylor Swift -
Inspired by that song and Parachute by Hayley Williams.
Tags: ansgt, stablished relationship, marriage, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, no smut.
Note: you voted for this one and won, hope you like it!
You stood by the sinks on the bathroom. Tired – of your marriage, of the hospital, of your hole life falling apart – small dropes of water falling trougth your face. You went to the bathroom to take a breath, get yourself together before having to face him. Looking at the mirror as you stared at your reflection "C'mon you can do this" you whispered to you.
You were a attending trauma surgeon, a woman who made split-second decisions to slice and saved lives under pressure. But right now, you couldn't even make a decision about your own life.
You walked out of the bathroom, salute a few interns as you reached the elevator heading down trauma bay to see a patient. One last breath as the elevator doors opened. You reached the nurse station "Hi, Dana" you forced a smile as she looked back to you whit a genuile smile. I wasn't that you didn't like her. God she was like your mom sometimes, you could trust her your own life, but right now, you were at your lowest and tried to make it seem like it wasn't like that – even though Dana knew how to read you – "Hi honey, I missed your face. What brings you down at hell?" mid-size smile left your face. Dana just nodded, pressing her lips. "Oh." That's all she said.
"Yes, oh."
You had talked about it with her before. At a breakfast you once shared at the hospital cafeteria, you had sat over cold coffee and confessed the terrifying truth – you were thinking about a divorce –. You had mourn, telling her you couldn't keep drowning in his silence. Dana had just held your hands back then, her eyes heavy with maternal sorrow, knowing that the brilliant man she used to see run the daytime floor, was slowly dragging you into the abyss with him.
"He's in Trauma 2," Dana added softly now, her eyes dropping to your hands, taking them in hers. "Be careful down there, okay?" You smiled at her, "Will do, thanks". As you left her hands, walking towards trauma 2 you could feel your heart rate speeding.
By looking at the man standing a few feet away reviewing a chart on the digital monitor, your hands were trembling inside the pockets of your coat.
To the rest of the hospital, you were two highly respected professionals who worked the same brutal hours, occasionally crossing paths in the trauma bays when a patient needed immediate surgical intervention. It was private, but it wasn't a secret. Jack and Dana were two of the few people who where lucky enough to know about your marriage. There were kissed, no hand-holding in the hospital – or the parking lot ‐ Perla and Princess suspected something based on the way your eyes lingered on him sometimes, but not the truly the depth of it.
They didn't knew that your marriage was bleeding out on the table.
Robby didn't look up from the monitor. His face was a mask of exhaustion. The lines around his eyes had grown deeper over the last few years, etched into his skin by a ghost that refused to leave him. First, it was the crushing loss the man who had taught him how to lead an ER. Then came the brutal, relentless waves of the pandemic years, where he had watched the world fracture under his watch. It had broken something fundamental inside him. A quiet wall he had built to survive the horror.
The problem was, that wall had locked you out, too.
You watched his gazed went down to the tablet, his fingers navigate the screen. He looked so close, yet he felt three states away. You remembered the day you married him —long before the weight of this hospital had settled on his shoulders —. You had jumped into this life with him blindly, completely exposed, trusting him with everything.
You had thought he was always going to catch you.
"The patient in Trauma 1 has a grade-three splenic laceration" Robby said, his voice entirely professional, completely detached. He didn't use your name. He didn't look at you. "He’s stable for now, but he needs an OR before the shift ends"
"I'll take him up myself" you replied, your voice tight, aching with a grief that had nothing to do with medicine.
You stepped closer to him, the proximity making your chest tighten. You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab him by the shoulders and ask him when. When did he decide to just give up on the two of you? When did he decide that protecting his own mind meant abandoning the woman who he promised to love? If he had just told you what he needed, if he had just asked you to hold the weight for him, whith him. You would have done anything.
"Robby" you said quietly, dropping the professional tone for just a moment.
His shoulders tensed. He finally looked up from the screen, his sharp eyes meeting yours. For a fleeting moment, you saw the raw, fractured men behind the mask. The look of love. But almost instantly, his expression went flat.
"We're need to get him up soon" he muttered softly, stepping back, creating that agonizing distance that had become your daily reality.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, a bitter realization settling deep into you. You had spent the last years waiting for the husband you loved to reach out. You had never stopped loving him, not once. Not when he decided to take extra ours, not when he didn't hesitate to leave earlier before you woke up. Never stopped hoping he would turn around and fight for you. You didn't took it personal, yet.
But as you stood there in the quiet room, watching him turn back to his charts, you finally understood.
You had stayed in a place in where you didn't belong anymore, believing his love was absolute. Now, you knew better. You had left yourself completely unprotected, and the impact was cold.
"Right" you whispered, your voice hardening into the clinical precision he demanded. "Send the patient up to OR 4. I'll be waiting" You were going to wait and take the patient up yourself, hoping it will buy you some time with your husband. But no.
You turned on your heel and pushed through the heavy double doors. The rubber soles of your shoes squeaked against the pristine floor. You were going to save a life today, because that’s what you were trained to do. But as the doors swung shut behind you, you wondered who was going to save the two of you from the slow, quiet crash you were both heading toward.
Hours latter, by 6:30 PM, you have finished.
You walked out of the elevators, your shoulder muscles aching from the heavy five-hour splenic laceration repair you had just finished. You were still in your surgical scrubs, a cup of coffee in your hand. You didn't want to go down to the floor, but you needed to sign off on the post-op transfer logs at the central desk.
You needed to face him again.
The hospital didn’t have privacy, it was an open glass partitions and exposed desks where everyone saw everything. Robby was sitting at the central nurse station. Dana, was standing over his shoulder, tapping a clipboard as she gave him the end shift bed counts.
A few feet away, Perla and Princess were whispering over a tray of chart folders. The moment you stepped into the bay, their eyes flicked from you to Robby, their heads leaning closer together. They knew something was going on between the two of you, even if they couldn't prove it.
"Trauma surgeon on the floor" Whitaker muttered, passing you with a tray of sutures, nodding respectfully.
Langdon was nearby, flipping through a tablet.
You ignored them all, walking straight to the central counter.
Robby didn't look up immediately. He was staring at a lab report, his face pale, his eyes hollow.
"I need your signature for the OR 4 transfer, hes stable to get down again" you said, your voice professional.
Robby took the pen, his movements robotic. "Patient tolerated the procedure?"
Dana left leaving you two sapce (or saving herself from that moment).
"Yes" you said, leaning in just enough so no one would hear. Your voice dropped, cracking. "But I'm not. I'm tired, Robby. I'm tired of living with a ghost. I'm tired of you using your a shield to stop you from giving me anything at all. Do you just don't want to love me anymore?"
Robby’s hand froze on the paper. The tip of the pen dug into the chart, leaving a dark, bleeding ink stain.
"Not here" he whispered, hand on his face, trying to control himself, his jaw clenching so hard the bone showed through his skin.
"Then where?" you challenged softly, the tears stinging the backs of your eyes.
You turned to leave, the rejection burning in your chest, ready to walk out of the hospital and finally call a lawyer. You couldn't let his damage completely damage you anymore.
But as you turned your back, Robby’s hand shot out.
His fingers wrapped around your wrist, squeezing your hand with a desperate, terrifying strength.
The entire desk went dead silent. Dana stopped talking mid sentence. Perla and Princess completely stopped pretending to work, their mouths dropping open. Langdon slowly lowered his tablet.
"Don't" Robby choked out, his voice cracking. You faced him again. He looked up at you, his eyes wide, filled with a sudden, agonizing panic. "Don't leave" You didn't say it, but he new. He it was just a mattered of time for you to get tired of this, of him.
"I can'tdo this anymore" you whispered, looking down at his hand on your wrist, your heart breaking all over again.
"Hey. What's the circus about?"
A deep, authoritative voice broke through the suffocating tension. Jack Abbott, just walked through to start his turn. He took one look at Robby holding your wrist, at your tear-stained face, and at the staring staff and his cynical expression instantly hardened into something protective.
Just as you had found shoulder to cry in Dana’s quiet wisdom. Robby had found his own in the lonely rooftop with Jack a week before.
"She needs her husband. If you keep hiding behind your trauma, you’re going to lose the best thing in your life. Go home, talk to her, and stop fighting this battle alone". Jack’s words echoed in his mind since then.
Jack stepped up to the situation, his massive frame deliberately shifting to block the view of Perla, Princess, and the rest of the room. He clapped a heavy hand on Robby's shoulder, his grip firm.
"Dana, take the nurses and clear the beds. Langdon, go check on trauma 6" Jack ordered, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. They scrambled, dissolving into the hallways. Jack looked down at Robby, his voice dropping to a fierce, quiet rasp. "Robby. Let go of her wrist before you make a fool of both of you".
Robby's fingers slowly loosened, slipping away from your skin. He looked at his hand, then up at you, the realization of what he was losing finally hitting him.
You didn't wait for him to speak. You turned and walked out of the hospital, the cool night air hitting your face as you stepped into parking lot looking for your car, wondering if the man you married had the courage to finally face you.
The drive back to your house was pure silence.
You had left the hospital first, but you knew Robby wasn't far behind. Jack had taken over the floor early; there were no excuses left. No more extra hours to hide behind. No more charts to use as a shield.
When you pulled into the driveway of the home you had bought together years ago. You left the car keys on the kitchen counter and went straight to the living room.
You didn't turn on the lights. You just sat on the edge of the sofa, wrapped in the shadows, watching the headlights of Robby’s bike cut through the darkness.
The front door clicked open. The lock turned.
Robby stepped into the house. He didn't took off his jacket immediately. He just stood in the hallway, his tall frame silhouetted by the porch light, his breathing heavy . There was a man who looked terrified.
He walked into the living room, his boots heavy on the floor, and stopped a few feet from where you sat.
"You were right" He said, his voice breaking instantly in the quiet house. It was the rawest, most vulnerable he had sounded in over a years.
"What you said... about me, because I hate myself. I do. I hate waking up every day feeling like I'm still trapped in that nightmare. I hate that I couldn't save him. And I’ve been so goddamn scared that if I let myself feel any of it, I’d fall apart completely."
You didn't move. You stayed on the edge of the couch, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. "So you decided it was safer to let our marriage fall apart instead?"
"No" he choked out, taking a desperate step closer, dropping to his knees right in front of you. Now, this was just the man who had promised to love you forever, crying. "No, please. I never wanted to do this to you, to us. I thought... in my sick, twisted head, I thought if I kept my distance, my darkness wouldn't touch you. I thought I was protecting you from the mess inside my head."
"You weren't protecting me, Robby. You were pilling me apart" you whispered, a tear finally escaping your eye and slipping down your cheek. "I didn't marry a perfect, doctor. I married you. I wanted you. I wanted to be there for you, to love you. I would have done anything if you had just let me".
Robby looked up, his face glistening with his own tears in the dim light filtering through the window. He reached out, his hands trembling violently as he laid them over your hands. This time, he didn't squeeze with the desperate panic. His touch was gentle, pleading, begging for a mercy he wasn't sure he deserved.
"I am so sorry" he whispered, his forehead dropping heavily against your knees, his shoulders shaking as the dam finally broke completely.
"I'm so sorry I left you alone, I'm sorry I didn't let you love me. I'm sorry if you felt like I didn't loved you any more. I do, good I love you more than anything in my life". He looked up at you, his eyes red, his face full of tears. You free your hands of his, looking for his faces, tracing his checks with your thumbs.
"Don't leave, please. Don't give up on me. I'll get my shit together. I'll see a therapist, I'll talk to Jack, I'll do whatever it takes. Just don't leave this house"
Looking down at his dark head resting against your hans, the anger that had sustained you all afternoon began to melt into something aching and profound. He was a broken men who had finally run out of places to hide.
He was broken, yes, but he was finally here. Really here, for the first time in years
Slowly, deliberately. You raised one hand and gently tangled your fingers into his hair, just like you used to before.
Robby let out a sharp, ragged breath at your touch, his entire body shuddering with a relief so intense it felt physical. He moved his head looking for your touch, his tear-filled eyes searching yours, desperate for a sign that the fall was over.
"Love, It’s going to take time" you said softly. A faint smile on his face, hearing you calling Lovre, his love, after all of this time was like water on a desert. Your voice steady but thick with emotion. "And it’s going to be ugly. You have to let all that damage out, and you have to let me help you. No more supply closets to cry alone, no more silence, no more hiding behind the ER"
"No more" he promised fiercely, leaning up to press his forehead against yours, his hands moving up to cup your face with a reverence that made your soul ache. "No more hiding. I swear to god"
When his lips finally met yours, it wasn't the desperate. It was a slow, tear strained, incredibly tender reclamation of the vows you had made before the world got heavy. It tasted like love, like grief, but above all, it tasted like a beginning.
But as Robby pulled you up onto his lap, on the couch, as you both hold each other, crying, letting go of the weight of the pain. With him, wrapping his arms around you so tightly that the space between you disappeared, you finally felt the ground beneath your feet. He wasn't letting you fall anymore. He was catching you.
Sooo, does this deserve a part 2? Or am i just carzy? Hope you like it as much as i do! I love imagine this broken robby on his knees whit his bubba eyes looking up, kinda hooot lol.
Hi guys! I know i haven’t post i a while. I lost the inspo lol. But i have had a few ideas i wanted to show you'll and ask for your opinion. Tell, of all of those ideas, what do you fancy to read more?
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Summary: You have been dating Jack for a while. Living togheter meant that your life would be like a fancy dream of confort and love. Jack loves to make you happy by his own work.
Tags: Age Gap, Older Man/Younger Woman, Doting Partner, No Kids, Healthy/Stable Relationship, no use of y/n fem reader.
The time when he arrived home was Jack’s favorite part of the day. He loved the contrast. He loved that he spent twelve hours fighting chaos in the hospital, only to come home to a life that was soft, quiet, and completely taken care of by his own hand.
When you both decided early on your relationship that you wouldn't have children, you don't "work" you do your art as a hobby and a way to earn your own money. Jack had been entirely proud of that, he just wanted you to be happy by his side. He was a successful, his salary was more than enough to fund a comfortable, luxurious life for the two of you. He didn't want you dealing with the stress of a corporate ladder or a grueling schedule. His protective instinct was old-school and fierce: he wanted to be the provider, and he wanted you to simply enjoy the life he built for you.
It was 4:00 PM on a Thursday, and the house was bathed in the warm, golden light of late afternoon. Jack’s night shift didn't start until 7:00 PM, which meant these few hours before he left were the most guarded moments of his week.
You were curled up on the sofa in the living room, reading a book, wearing a soft cream-colored silk lounge set—one of the many gifts Jack had delivered to the house "just because"
The front door opened, and Jack walked in. He had spent the morning at a his work as a military med. Dressed in the militar suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and commanding frame. He looked tired, but the moment his eyes found you on the sofa, the tension visibly left his jaw.
"Hey, sweetheart" he murmured, his deep, gravelly voice instantly warming the room.
He didn't even drop his bag first. He walked straight over to the sofa, leaned over, and captured your lips in a slow, deep, possessive kiss. His hands, warm and slightly rough, cupped your face, holding you as if checking to ensure you were still exactly where he left you.
"Hi" you smiled against his lips as he finally pulled back. "How was your day?"
"Boring. We just had a few injures, nothing serius," he grunted, finally setting his bag down and rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his forearms as he walked into the kitchen. "Did your new shoes arrive?"
"They did. Jack, they’re beautiful, but I don't even have an occasion to wear them yet" He had bought you a pair of fancy Jimmy Choo heels.
Jack let out a low chuckle, pouring himself a glass of water. "The occasion is that you wanted them. Honey. I like knowing you have exactly what you want, when you want it. Put them on for dinner tomorrow."
He walked back into the living room, but instead of sitting on the armchair, he sat right next to you, pulling your legs across his lap. His large hand settled on your ankle, his thumb rubbing circles against your skin in a casual, deeply familiar gesture of ownership.
You smiled and enjoyed that for a moment, knowing that he was just coming from work and stille had time to massage your feets make you feel a bit gulty. He was the one who deserved that. And so you shifted your position while sitting on his lap. He just looked at you with a wondering gaze. You place your hands on his shoulders giving him a massage.
He pulled you closer, his large arms locking around your waist like a vault. His shoulders were tight from hours of carrying the tension of the ER and the literal weight of saving lives. As your fingers began to press into the knots near his neck, a low, moan vibrated deep within his chest.
"What is this for?" he rasped, though he didn't make a single move to stop you. Instead, his hands slid down from your waist to grip your thighs, anchoring you firmly against his lap so you wouldn't lose your balance – or just because he really like to squeeze them – "You've been on your feet all morning" you murmured, leaning in closer so your breath brushed his ear. "Let me take care of you for once."
"You smell like that vanilla oil I got you" he noted, his rough cheek brushing against your temple as he inhaled deeply, letting out a heavy, content sigh.
"I used it after my bath" you murmured. You ran your fingers through his thick, silver-streaked hair, feeling the tight muscles of his neck finally begin to unwind under your touch. "You look exhausted, Jack. You should rest for an hour before you have to change.
Jack let out a long, heavy breath, his head dropping forward slightly to give your hands better access. He closed his eyes, a rare, completely relaxed smile softening the rugged lines of his face.
"I am resting" he said. "This is the only part of the day where nobody wants anything from me. Nobody's bleeding, nobody's calling for me. It’s just you. You’re the only beautiful thing I get to look at before I go crawl into that trauma bay for twelve hours." he whispered, his voice dangerously low as he reached up with one hand to cup the back of your neck, pulling you down into a slow, deeply possessive kiss that made you completely forget who was supposed to be taking care of whom.
You broke the kiss for a brief moment. "I think i have a better idea for your stress" you smiled, tracing his jawline with kisses. His grip tightening on your sides. "Show me" He growled as you began to so.
An hour latter, you both took a bath, and 6:00 PM, the atmosphere shifted slightly. Jack was in his dark blue scrubs, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, running a hand through his hair.
You walked in, holding his freshly done coffee on a thermo, and his ID. He caught your reflection in the mirror and turned around, his expression softening into that quiet, intense adoration he reserved exclusively for you.
"I hate the night shifts" he admitted, his voice dropping an octave as he took the thermo and set it down, pulling you by the waist until your chest was flushed against his. "Knowing you're here in this big bed alone makes the ER feel twice as long."
"I'll be fine, Jack. I have my book, and I'll probably sleep and wait for you to come back tomorrow" you teased gently, wrapping your arms around his neck.
"Good" he murmured, his hands sliding down to the small of your back, holding you. "I left my credit card on the kitchen island. Dana mentioned some new spa opened downtown; I want you to call them tomorrow and book a full day. Get a massage, get your nails done. Spend whatever you want."
"Jack..."
"Let me spoil you, sweetheart," he interrupted gently, his tone leaving no room for argument. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm. "I face a lot of grim things during a twelve hour night shift. Knowing you are home, safe, warm, and living a beautiful, peaceful life... that’s what keeps me grounded. You're my peace."
He kissed you one last time "I love you" you said "Love you always Hon" he replied —a hard, lingering promise—before he leaves.
As you watched his car pull out of the driveway from the front window, you felt completely wrapped in his security. He was heading into the chaotic, bleeding heart of the Pittsburgh night, but he had left you in a sanctuary of absolute comfort, completely taken care of by a man who loved nothing more than being your shield.
Inspired by the song, Gulty as Sin? By Taylor Swift. And an scene from the devil wears prada.
Summary: You have been working at the night shift for a year now. By that time, your relationship whith Jack has been "professional". Only broken by the times that you and him were tired enough to keep playing pretend. But three was a problem, your long term relationship of tree years.
♡ Without ever touching his skin, how can i be Gulty as Sin? ♡
Content: Workplace dynamics, emotional angst, implied emotional infidelity, soft smut +18 mdni, slowburn, hurt/comfort, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n
You and Jack had your own specific frequency. For over a year, you both had existed in a state of "almost." It was in the way his hand lingered on your waist when he moved past you in a trauma bay, or the way he’d lean over your shoulder to check a chart; And his scent, expensive cologne mixed with soap, overwhelming your senses. The login glances, and late night coffes.
Jack was never subtle.
He didn't made a secret that he wanted you. But there was a wall between you: a three year long relationship with a man who was safe, familiar, and increasingly distant.
One nigth, after a hard time you had by almost losing a patient. You decided to take some time alone on the roof. Jack let you have it, but no for long, he went to look for you after a while.
You were leaning against the railing, finally breathing for the first time in hours. You thought you were alone until the sound of the door make you sigth. You didn't look at it, you knew that only one person would've notice that you were missing (or you were hoping for him to do). You hear his steps getting closer, as your heart began to beat faster. You were used to his precense around the hospital, but something was different when the two where alone, with no witness of the way you almost cross a line you swore you never would.
Jack didn't say anything at first. He just walked up and stood beside you, his presence was heavy. He looked tired: scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess, the usual sharp light in his eyes dimmed by exhaustion. He reached your side and leaned against the ledge.
"Hell of a shift," he murmured, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
"The worst," you agreed, "I thought we were going to lose that kid in Bay 4."
"We didn't," Jack said firmly, turning his head to look at you. "Because you caught the arrhythmia before the monitor even flagged it. You were brilliant today. As usual."
The compliment hung in the air, heavier than it should have been. You felt that familiar flutter in your chest, the one you had spent months trying to suppress. You looked down at your hands, trying to find something to say that wasn't incriminating. "I was just doing my job, Jack."
He let out a short, dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. He moved then, stepping closer, you turned and faced him, loking at him for the first time since he arrived.
He reached out for your hand; His thumb grazing your fingers, like asking for you approval for him to get closser.
He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and swirling with a frustration he was tired of hiding.
You didn't step back, you look at him Your pulse was a mess, and your vision blurred with tears you refused to let fall, feeling the weight of the day, and way worse, the weight of your feelings, frustated.
The truth was, you craved him with a desperation that terrified you. But there was still a life waiting for you, the shadow of a relationship that felt more like a prison.You hadn't felt like you were going "home" in months; you were just going back to a house where you both existed in a deafening silence.
One tear spilled over, followed by another, until you completely broke. You didn't just cry, you crumbled under the exhaustion of pretending everything was okay when your world was falling apart. You covered your face with your hands, a small, broken sob escaping your throat.
Jack stepped into your space and pulled your hands away from your face, pulling you into a hug. His arms wrapped around your body. One hand came up to guide the back of your head, pressing it against his scrubs, while the other held you so close you could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart.
He let you cry, shielding you from the wind and the world. Now, he was just the quiet, solid presence of a man who was willing to be your anchor while you drifted.
"I've got you," he murmured into your hair, his voice low and graspy. "Just breathe. I've got you."
You stayed there for a long time. Jack didn’t pull away. He stood like a shield against the cold night air, his chin resting on top of your head, his hands rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back, trying to give you some comfort.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your face flushed and your eyes still puffy. You felt exposed.
"I'm sorry, I should go," you whispered, though you didn't move an inch. "They will be wondering where are we."
Jack’s jaw tightened, that flicker of frustration returning for a fleeting second before he suppressed it. "Go," he said softly.
You pulled back and walked away, feeling the cold air as your body missed the heat of his. As you reached the door he spoke, making you stop in front of it.
"You know," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low growl. "If it wasn't for your stupid boyfriend, I would’ve given you a reason to smile months ago." You didn't look back at him, you couldn't face that truth.
The air in your lungs vanished. You haven’t tell him (or anyone) that you relationship had become a dead flower that you stopped watering a long time ago. And you thought you made a good job hiding your sadness in the hospital. You finally looked back at him, after a moment of silence that felt eternal, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Jack..."
"Don't," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I know the rules. Three years. The amazing men at home. The loyal girlfriend. I get it." He listed, like a mantra.
He took a long drag of the cold air, looking back out at the city, his jaw tight.
"But every time I see him pick you up late, or I hear you mention his name, I want to lose my mind. Because I know I could take better care of you. I know I’d actually look at you when you’re talking about your day. And I sure as hell wouldn't let you be this sad and empty"
You were speechless, you couldn't find anything to say, not something that wasn't a plead for him to save you from the shadow of a men you have loved once, and that you were hoping it will come back one day.
He didn't wait for a response. He walked towards the door, ignoring you, leaving you shivering in the wind, and with the heavy weight of what he just said, and the sudden change of atmosphere: moment of love and care, turned into a messy confession that feels like an offer that you don't really want to lose.
A month after that day......
Everything had changed. You finally broke up with your boyfriend. The breakup hadn't been explosive; You didn't announce it. You didn't tell your coworkers (as usual). You just showed up to your shifts with slightly redder eyes and a quietness that didn't suit you.
Jack noticed. Of course he did. Tha last months you have been the only thing in his mind. His eyes never leaving you, and he have analyzed every smile, every breath; Trying to learn the way that you show the world the things that you don't say. Getting into your world like a secret spy.
And so he did it again.
For a week, he watched you. He noticed you weren't checking your phone during breaks. He noticed you didn't have that energy to get home right at the end of the shift, you have been doing extra hours.
He watched the way you moved slower, heavier, and it drove him insane.
It finally happend on the breakroom during a shift. You were stading aside of the sink, staring into a cup of coffe, lost in the quiet grief, when the door opened as he walked into the room.
Jack didn't say a word. He walked straight up to you, invading your space until you had to look up.
"It’s everything fine?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"What?" you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Something happend" he countered, his eyes scanning your face with clinical precision that quickly turned into something primal. "You look like someone who doesn't has somewhere else to be. You’re sad, you’re exhausted, and you haven’t mentioned him once."
"Jack, I really don't want to..."
He didn't let you finish. He reached out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "He’s gone, isn't he?"
You didn't answer, but the way you hesitate was enough. Jack didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He leaned in, his lips crashing against yours with a desperation that had been building for months. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a claim.
For a moment, you melted into him, your hands bunching the fabric of his scrubs. But then, the reality hit. You pulled away, breathless, your hands pressing against his chest.
"Jack, wait... we can't. We just broke up. It’s too soon. I'm a mess, and I’m..."
He cut you off with another kiss, deeper this time, his hand on the back of your neck getting you closer, holding you into his lips. When he pulled back just an inch, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.
"I don't care if you two broke up yestarday or today" he murmured against your lips.
"But we are at the hospital " you tried again, your voice in a fragile whisper "And my head is all over the place, and I haven't even moved all my things out yet, and..."
Jack kissed you again, a short, sharp spark that silenced you. He moved his lips to your neck, his hands on your hips, his teeth grazing your pulse point. Your hands tracing it's way to his neck, wraped around it, getting him closser.
"Is that all?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Keep talking. I have all night to kiss the excuses out of you."
You felt your knees weak by his words. The sadness that had draped over you for the last days was being burned away by him. You realized you didn't want to fight it, you are tired of it.
You let out a long, shaky exhale, almost like a moan. Your head tilting back to give him better access to your neck. "Okay," you breathed "I’m out of excuses."
Jack pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. The frustration was gone, replaced by a look of pure desire.
"Thank god," he rasped.
He didn't waste another second. He took you up onto the counter, his hands sliding up your thighs as he pulled you against him. Your legs crossed on his back, trying to pull him even more closer. Your hands playing with his hair as he traced kissed along your neck to your lips, giving your shivers.
His hands started to get into your scrubs, trying to get the top out. The feeling of his hands against your skin making you let out a moan that he caught whit his lips "Easy there sweetheart, keep it low" he said against your lips. You cup his face with your hands pulling him back, just an inch. "Jack... we are at the hospital... they need us back there" his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm against yours.
"Let them wait," he rasped, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low growl that made your knees go weak again. You would've falling if you weren't sitting on the counter. His lips trying to find yours again.
The kiss this time was slow, possessive; He had been waiting for this moment long enough, and now that he finally had you, he wasn't going to let go that easy.
"Jack..." you called him in a whisper again. It's not like you wasn't enjoying this moment, but anyone, at any time; Could walk trougth that door just to find the two of you like that.
"I know," he murmured as he pulled back again. His thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, his gaze dropping to follow the movement. "And that’s the only reason I’m still with my clothes on" he said loking back a you, with a smirk on his face. You laugh at it. You gave him a last, lingering kiss. He smiled, lust replaced by a look of pure devotion.
"Let’s go finish this shift so I can take you home...my home." He helped you to get off the counter, guding you, with a hand on your back, to the door.
He pushed the door open, the chaos of the hospital rushing back in to meet you both. You stepped back into the hospital, but as you moved toward the nurses station and he headed for the trauma bays, you felt the weight of his gaze following you.
For the first time in a year, the rest of the shift didn't feel like a marathon. It felt like a countdown. Every time your paths crossed in the hallways, the silent, burning promise in his eyes told you the same thing: the wait was over.
Summary: Inspired by the song "Tears" of Sabrina Carpenter. While most see his stoicism, she sees his devotion for her. We see Aaron being a responsable guy. Hotch proves that peak responsibility is the ultimate most seductive love lenguage.
Content: yearning, high standards, gender neutral, a little (too little) smut at the end, no use of y/n, one shot.
You've met Aaron at your workplace, the university where you were working as a professor. Aaron had been invited to give a lecture on campus, and since your class was Forensic Psychology, you were interested in hearing the head of the BAU speak about his experience in the criminal field.
You approached him after the lecture to express your interest in some topics he mentioned earlier. Since then, you and he started to keep in touch, casually at first (in case he needed you for a case, or so he said in the beginning). After a few months, you confessed your feelings for him, and after a few dates, you both decided to make it a formal relationship.
Nowadays
Now, you were in his office. He was in his element: stoic, focused, and impeccably efficient. Most men his age would be complaining about the exhaustion of the job, but Hotch simply wore it like a well-tailored suit.
You sat on the edge of his guest chair, waiting for him to finish so you could grab dinner, but your focus wasn't on that. It was on the way he moved.
Earlier that day, while you were caught in a lecture cycle at the university, he’d sent a simple text:
“I’ve handled the dry cleaning and picked up the specialized bulbs for your office lamp. I'll be by at 6:00 to install them.”
And he did. By 6:00, he was already at your office, fixing a lamp that you had mentioned at dinner the night before had suddenly stopped working. No drama, no needing to be asked, and no needing to be reminded. Just a man taking care of business.
And you couldn't stop thinking about it....
Earlier that day
He had entered your office without knocking, not wearing his blazer as usual. Bulbs in one hand and a small toolbox in the other. You were sitting at your desk and looked back at him as he opened the door.
"Hi love, I just came to fix your lamp. I had some free time today," he said as he walked to your desk, placed everything down, and leaned in to give you a soft, brief hello kiss.
"Aaron, you didn't have to; I know you have a lot of work," you said, but he was already rolling up his sleeves, showing his toned arms.
"You need that lamp to work. The sunlight in here isn't the best, and that’s why you have headaches by the time you’re done working. I can't let that keep going."
You didn't answer; you just watched him, amused by the man in your office using his free time (which he barely has) to fix your lamp.
When he was done with the lamp, he broke the quiet.
"Try it," he said. You turned on the lamp and it worked,of course it did, he had just fixed it. You looked back at him with a smile, standing up from your chair.
"Thanks, I really appreciate it," you said as you pulled him by his tie to kiss him a move that caught him completely off guard.
Aaron stood frozen for a split second, his body reacting to the sudden tug on his silk tie before his brain could even process the transition from "handyman" to "boyfriend." But he was a profiler, and he adapted quickly.
His hands, still dusty from the toolbox, found your waist to steady himself. He didn't pull away; instead, he leaned into the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a surprising hunger. When you finally let go of his tie, he didn't move back. He kept his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing a little heavier.
"I think I can get ussed to this," he murmured in your lips, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly vibration that always made your heart skip.
"Just keep beeing the men that you are" you said as you gave him another kiss, but this one was softer, his hand moved from your waist to cup your face. Breaking the kiss he added "We are having dinner tonight"
"We are," you whispered, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart through his white shirt. Aaron let out a soft, rare huff of a laugh.
"You know," he said, his thumb grazing the line of your jaw, "most people would just say 'thank you.' You’re the only person who thinks a minor household repair is an invitation to seduction."
"Most men don't think is that important Aaron. It's a very specific niche."
He smirked, that small, private curve of his lips that the rest of the world never got to see. He pulled back.
"Come on," he said, taking your hand in his, his grip firm and grounding. "The reservations are for 7:00, and I’d like to get through one meal without a consultation call. But for the record..." He stopped at the door, pulling you close for one last, lingering kiss that tasted like a promise. "...if you liked the lamp, just wait until I get around to that loose floorboard in your hallway this weekend."
As you walked out of the University building, his hand resting protectively on the small of your back, you noticed the way he scanned the parking lot, the habitual alertness of a man who spent his life hunting monsters.
He reached the black SUV and pressed the remote, the lights flashing once in the dim concrete structure. He opened the passenger door for you with his usual practiced gallantry, but as you started to climb in, you stopped short.
There, resting carefully on the back seat, was a sprawling, vibrant bouquet of your favorite flowers. They were fresh, still dewy, and their fragrance immediately filled the car, cutting through the scent of leather.
You took the flowers from the backseat and turned back to him, stunned. "Aaron? When did you even have time to do this? You’ve been in briefings since five this morning."
He didn't boast. He didn't even look proud. He just stood there, holding the door, his expression one of calm, quiet competence.
"I called the florist between the crime scene transition and the drive to the university," he said simply, as if it were just another task on a checklist. "I knew you had a long day of lectures. I wanted you to see something beautiful when the shift was finally over."
You looked at the flowers, then back at the man who had managed to profile serial killers, fix your office lamp, finalize a federal budget, and remember your favorite blooms all in the same twelve hour span.
"A little initiative goes a very, long way, Agent," you murmured, leaning back against the seat and looking up at him with a look that made his breath hitch.
Aaron leaned into the car's frame, his shadow falling over you, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register. "I'm a man of my word. I told you I’d take care of things."
He reached out, his thumb grazing your cheek as he watched your reaction. "Now, let’s go..." he sad giving you a brief kiss, pulling back and closing the door as he walked to the other side and getting in the drivers seat.
As he was getting ready to leave, usnfortunately, he did got a call. As the phone rang on his pocket he closed his eyes as he cursed by the soung of it. You just looked at him with a smile, you knew that this was part of his world. He answered "Hotchner..." you just waited for him to finish his call.
Aaron sighed, his forehead resting against the steering wheel for a fleeting second before his professional mask snapped back into place. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a silent apology. "I have to go back," he said, his voice tight. "The Seattle case files need to be finalized before the Director's briefing at 08:00. I can't push it to the morning."
You didn't hesitate. "I'm coming with you."
"Love, you have your own work..." He replied
"Which I can do just as easily at your desk as I can at mine," you interrupted, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "Besides, I’d rather be in a quiet office with you than in a quiet house without you."
A small, grateful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted the car into gear, and the drive to Quantico was filled with a comfortable, familiar silence.
When you arrived at the BAU, you took your place in the guest chair, spreading your students' midterms across the small side table. That’s the reason why you are now in his office, working, or that’s what you were supposed to be doing. But no, you couldn't help to keep playing the imagine of Aaron fixing your lamp earlier that day.
For a while, you both worked in a shared, focused trance. It was a strange kind of intimacy. Occasionally, you would look up from a particularly poorly written essay to see him deep in thought, his pen tapping against his chin as he analyzed a crime scene photo. The intensity in his eyes was captivating.
About an hour in, he reached for a stack of files on the corner of his desk, his movements precise and weary. You watched the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders, the way he rubbed his eyes before diving into the next folder.
“Aaron,” you said softly, breaking his concentration. He looked up, his dark eyes instantly locking onto yours. “Almost done. Five more minutes. I know you’re hungry.” he said.
“It’s not about that,” you said, closing the folder of midterms you had been grading and standing up. You walked around the heavy desk, moving into his personal space. Aaron didn't move away; he simply watched you, his body leaning back slightly as you approached, his gaze following your every movement with an intensity that never failed to make your heart race.
You stopped right beside his chair. Without a word, you reached out and ran your fingers through his hair.
Aaron let out a long, weary sigh. He didn't pull you onto his lap (not here, not in the office) but he did something much more intimate. He turned his chair toward you and leaned forward, resting his forehead against your stomach.
His hands came up to grip your waist, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of your dress as he grounded himself. You felt the heavy weight of his head against you, a silent surrender from a man who spent his life being everyone else's pillar of strength.
“Thank you” you whispered, resting your hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles. Going back to play with his hair. "For what?" He asked
“fixing my lamp? Handling the dry cleaning? Picking up lightbulbs? The flowers” You said looking down at him, even though he wasn't looking at you.
“It’s part of the job,” he murmured, his voice muffled against you, vibrating through your skin. You tilted his chin up so he had to look at you.
“That’s not part of the job, Aaron. That’s just you being… you.”
Aaron looked up at you, his dark eyes softening in a way that would have shocked his team. “Those things are for you. They’re the only things I do that actually feel like they matter at the end of the day.” He stood up then, his height making you look up. He reached for his blazer, but instead of putting it on, he wraped it around you and checked his watch.
“Forget the restaurant,” he said, his voice regaining its gravelly, authoritative edge, though his eyes remained warm. “It’s late, and you’re exhausted. I’m going to take you home, and I’m going to cook. I saw you have the ingredients in the fridge, I’ll handle everything. You just sit down and breathe.”
You smirked, sliding your hands up his chest to play with the top button of his shirt. “So, you’re taking initiative again? Cooking for me after a sixteen-hour shift?”
“I’m being a responsible guy,” he countered, a rare, wicked glint appearing in his eyes as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Isn't that what you said gets you... in a mood?”
You felt a shiver run down your spine as he pulled back, looking at you with a challenge in his gaze.
“It does,” you whispered, your voice thick with a sudden, sharp heat. “And if you’re going to be that responsible, Aaron… if you’re going to take care of the house and the dinner… then I suppose it’s only fair that I take care of you for the rest of the night”
Aaron’s jaw tightened, his grip on your hand firming as he led you toward the door.
“In that case,” he rasped, "we really should get home. I’m a very efficient cook when I have the right… motivation.”
You just laugh and kiss him "I love you, Agent" he smiled, he loved you too, more tha even his actions could show "I love you too, My dear" and he kissed you again.
Hey there! I like to do and imagine characters in differents situations based on differents songs (because i love music). Hope you like it!
Jack Abbot ☆Don't look at me like that☆ #oneshotfic
《Kinda inspired by the quin audio book》
♤Summary: You have had a crush on Abbot for a long time, something that you had always made clear to him. Him? Well, he always put on a wall because of the age gap, the hospital rules, and his own rules. But sometimes, rules are made to be broken.
♤Content: age gap, teasing, work tension, tattos, sexual tension, nicknames, yearning, filtring. Not use if y/n, gender neutral.
The air in the breakroom at the hospital was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and the hum of the vending machine. Jack was leaning against the counter, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his navy scrubs. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, a dusting of silver in his stubble, and a calm, commanding presence that made the chaotic hospital floor feel manageable.
You were sitting at the small table, supposedly focusing on your coffee, but your eyes kept drifting to him. You were young, vibrant, and made no secret of the fact that you found your atending incredibly attractive.
"You're staring again" Jack said without looking up, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stirred his coffee.
"I'm observing" you countered playfully, leaning your chin on your hand. "There’s a difference. Besides, I was just thinking that for a man who spends all his time around sterile equipment, you have a very... interesting aesthetic."
Jack finally turned, leaning his hip against the counter. He crossed his arms, and the movement caused his sleeves to ride up, revealing the intricate, faded black ink that peeked out from under his cuffs and crawled up his forearms.
"Is that so?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone.
"I like them" you said, bolder now, letting your gaze linger on the dark lines of a compass rose on his wrist. "They make you look less like a doctor and more like someone I’d want to get into trouble with"
Jack let out a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head. He took a slow step toward you, the atmosphere in the tiny room shifting instantly. He loomed over the table, not in a way that was meant to intimidate, but in a way that made you acutely aware of the twenty-year gap between you. He looked at you, seeing the youthful spark that he’d long since traded for medical expertise and graveyard shifts.
He reached out, his large, warm hand momentarily brushing the table near yours. His expression softened, but his eyes held a firm, cautionary boundary.
"You're a firecracker" he murmured, his gaze intense. "But you're playing a game you don't realize is rigged, kid. I've spent more years in this ER than you've spent out of grade school"
"Age is just a number, Jack. You of all people should know that" you challenged, your heart racing.
Jack leaned in closer, the scent of his woodsy cologne and hospital antiseptic swirling around you. He flashed that signature lopsided, cynical grin (the one that made you weak in the knees) and shook his head slowly.
"It’s a nice thought" he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "But let’s be realistic here, darling, I have tattoos older than you"
He straightened up, took a final swig of his coffee, and gave you a patronizing but strangely tender pat on the shoulder.
"Go finish your reports. Some of us have to go pretend we’re not ancient"
he added, winking before he disappeared back into the chaos of the ER, leaving you breathless and more determined than ever.
--------‐-----
That night, the hospital was finally quiet—that eerie, 4:00 a.m. quiet where the only sound and the distant beep of a monitor. Jack was in the nurse station.
He was supposed to be finishing his charts, but the cursor was just blinking at him, mocking his lack of focus. His mind kept looping back to the breakroom. Specifically, to the way you had looked at him,without fear and with a fire that made his tired blood feel a little warmer.
“I have tattoos older than you” he muttered to himself, rubbing his face with his hand. He’d meant it as a brush-off, a reminder to himself as much as to you. But the way you’d smirked back...
Against his better judgment (the judgment he usually applied to trauma surgeries and hospital budgets) he pulled his phone out. He didn’t even have to search long. He’d seen your name on the duty roster a thousand times.
He found your profile. It was exactly what he expected: bright, full of life, photos of you laughing with friends, a sunset at the beach, a close-up of a book you were reading. You looked so... young. Not just in age, but in energy.
He scrolled down, his thumb hovering over a photo of you from a few years ago. Then he looked at his own hand, the weathered skin, the faded ink of the compass on his wrist he’d gotten in Chicago before you were even born.
"You're an idiot, Abbot" he whispered, staring at your smile on the screen.
He should have locked the phone. He should have gone back to his reports. But instead, he found himself looking at a photo of you from just last week. You were wearing a sundress, looking nothing like the girl in scrubs he saw every day. His heart, usually a very predictable organ, did a strange, uncomfortable thud against his ribs.
Suddenly, he heard a voice that at this point was something that he would recognize anywhere. "Can I present a case Dr. Abbot" you asked. He didn’t said anything, trying to hold himself and play it cool, he just nooded and follow you to the patients room.
You decided to play it cold. Very cold. Hoping that your new "game" would tease him enougth for him to cross his limits.
When you walked into the trauma bay, you didn't look at him. You didn't smile. You kept your head down, focused on your charts, and spoke only in concise, professional updates.
"Patient in Bay 4 is stabilized, Dr. Abbot. BP is 120/80. I’ve started the saline drip" you said, handing him a clipboard without meeting his eyes. Your voice was flat, clinical, and completely devoid of the flirtatious spark from the parking lot.
Jack took the clipboard, his fingers brushing yours for a split second. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at you. He was expecting the "firecracker." He was expecting a smirk or a comment about his age. Instead, he got a stone wall.
"Thank you, Dr. _______" he replied, his voice equally professional, though there was a slight tension in his jaw.
For the next four hours, it was a game of cat and mouse. Every time he tried to catch your eye, you were busy with a patient. Every time he lingered near the nursing station, you conveniently found a reason to head to the supply closet. You could feel his gaze following you, heavy and questioning, but you didn't give him an inch.
Finally, around 6:00 a.m., you were in the breakroom pouring yourself a cup of the world's worst coffee. The room was empty, or so you thought.
The door swung shut with a definitive click. You didn't turn around. You knew the sound of those heavy boots anywhere.
"Something wrong with your vocal cords tonight?" Jack’s voice drifted over your shoulder, low and dangerous. He wasn't across the room; he was right behind you.
"You’ve been avoiding me since our last coversation" he said.
"I'm being professional, Doctor" you said, finally turning around. You leaned against the counter, clutching your mug, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Isn't that what you wanted? Focus? Lack of distractions?"
Jack stepped closer, invading your space until you were trapped between him and the counter. He placed his hands on the laminate on either side of your hips, leaning down until your faces were inches apart. The smell of his coffee and that sharp, clean scent of his soap hit you like a wave.
"Don't do that" he growled, his eyes dark and fixed on yours. "Don't play the 'good soldier' now. Not after what you said"
"I don't know what you mean" you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs so hard you were sure he could see it.
Jack leaned in even closer, his forehead almost touching yours. He looked exhausted, but the look in his eyes was anything but tired.
"You're driving me insane" he admitted, the "Chief" persona finally cracking. "I’ve spent the last four hours trying to figure out if I imagined everything. I’m twenty years older than you, I should have more sense than this... but if you don't stop looking at me like I’m just 'the boss,' I’m going to do something that’s going to get us both sent to HR"
You don't answer. The silence in the breakroom becomes heavy, charged with a tension so thick it feels like the air before a lightning strike. You don't say a word. You don't need to.
You simply let the "professional" mask slip away, replacing it with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration. Your eyes soften, tracing the lines of his face, the silver at his temples, the weariness around his eyes, with a warmth that speaks louder than any confession. A slow, playful half-smile tugs at your lips, a silent acknowledgment that you know exactly the effect you’re having on him.
Jack’s breath hitches. He’s spent decades reading people, diagnosing symptoms, and predicting outcomes, but the way you’re looking at him right now is a variable he can’t control.
"Damn it" he whispers, his voice breaking into a low, rough growl.
His eyes drop to that half-smile of yours, and for a second, the weight of his title, the hospital rules, and the twenty-year gap between you simply vanish. He lets out a defeated, shaky breath, his forehead finally dropping to rest against yours.
"You’re going to be the ruin of me, aren't you?" he murmurs against your skin, his hands tightening on the edge of the counter. "I’m supposed to be the one in charge, the one with the answers... and you look at me like that, and I can't even remember my own name"
He doesn't move away. Instead, he shifts one hand from the counter to your jaw, his thumb grazing your lower lip with agonizing slowness. His touch is hesitant, almost reverent, as if he’s still trying to convince himself that this, that you, are real.
His gaze locking back onto yours, intense and promising. "Are you kissing me or not?" You asked, almost in a whisper, he was close, but something make it feel like it wasn't enougth.
He leans in, his lips a hair’s breadth from yours, he murmured, his voice a dangerous, velvet growl against your lips. "That’s a bold move, darling"
He didn't wait for your comeback. He crashed his lips onto yours with the pent-up frustration of a man who had been holding back for way too long. It wasn't a gentle first kiss; it was deep, demanding, and tasted of coffee and desperation. It was a kiss that acknowledged every year of the age gap and decided to burn it all down.
His stubble grazed your skin, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as if he wanted to memorize the very breath in your lungs.
When he finally pulled away, just an inch, he was breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes were dark, a storm of heat and chaotic realization.
"You're going to be my favorite mistake sweetheart" He let out a shaky breath, pressing one last, lingering kiss on your mouth before forcing himself to step back. He adjusted his scrub top, trying, and failing, to look like the composed professional who had walked in five minutes ago.
His gaze lingering there just long enough to make your head spin before he forces himself to straighten up. He clears his throat, trying to claw its way back to the surface, though his eyes are still dark with heat.
"Get back out there" he said has he stood in front of the door, and looking back at you he added. "If I see you in the halls, you better look like you’re thinking about medicine and only medicine. Because if you give me that look again, I’m locking this door and the hospital can run itself"
He turned the handle, pausing one last time to look at you over his shoulder, a wicked, triumphant glint in his eyes.
"See you later, firecracker"
he says, his voice still a bit strained. As he opens the door to head back into the Pitt, letting you there, still trying to figure what had just happened in that small room, wondering, is this is the start of something new.... something you have been waiting for a long time.
_____________
Hey there! This is my first fic, hope u like it. I was thinking if this deserved a part 2.
Also, english is not my first lenguage so hope this is well written :)
