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Now in a panic, you search for an exit. A path which will lead you to a secluded corner, or hall, or room where you can escape prying eyes as you...clean the evidence of what you've done off of yourself before finally washing it down the drain. "Just... A patient," you explain. You lie. To your attending, no less. "I wasn't paying attention."

You feel like you're going to be sick.

"I'll go change. I'm so sorry."

Before Abbot can so much as formulate a reassuring reply that you've done nothing which warrants an apology, you've already slipped past him, and are headed in the direction of the back hall which houses the machine that contains freshly laundered scrubs.

His jaw flexes as he considers. Your reaction being due to humiliation because the stain is from your period isn't wholly out of the question. But because of how low it is, and in such a neat little line at that, makes it unlikely.

He doesn't want to acknowledge the evident truth that lies obvious before him.

Jack grips the counter of the nurse's station tightly, trying his utmost to convince himself that it's none of his business. His patient the next room over is. But if he didn't want to make you his responsibility, then he shouldn't have spent the last few months cozying up to you. Buying you lunch, walking you to your car once your shift has ended, making easy conversation on your breaks (not to mention him changing to the time of his own to match up with yours).

With a quiet curse, he stomps off in search of you.

The fucking machine is malfunctioning. This can't be happening. Not now. Not to you. Not today. Standing in front of it with nothing to cover your modesty below the waist, you keep shoving your card in to earn yourself a new pair of bottoms, only for it to grant you an angry red display and a loud buzzer-like screech while its screen repeatedly states 'invalid input' instead.

"God, please," you quietly plead—jerking your head every time the sound of tennis shoes near, terrified that someone will see. Because if they do: what comes next? Will you be fired? Involuntarily committed? Be forced into a therapist's office as they dissect your brain to see what's gone wrong with you, specifically?

You can stop any time you choose. You're just not ready to yet.

Just as you've reeled your leg back—ready to kick the damn thing out of sheer spite—Jack quickly jogs to your side before you cost the hospital a couple thousand in repair bills.

"Hold on, hold on," he insists, shooting his arm out in front of you to hold you back before he shoves his own card in, types what must be some special, hidden code, allotted only for important big-shots like himself, and voilà: a new pair of pants are presented to you.

Snatching them away, you turn in the direction of the restroom, wanting to clean yourself up first so you don't soil your new garment, thus sending you back to square one again.

Just as you make to turn, however, you take note of where Jack's line-of-sight is currently stationed: between your legs. Rather, on the one which blood is currently running down and dribbling onto the floor from.

Countless tiny silver slashes are carved into your inner thighs, displayed prominently for him to take fleeting stock of before you finally race past and lock yourself in the women's restroom.

Now spiraling, you sink to the floor and shove your head between your knees. "One. Two. Three—"

An unwelcome knock sounds against the heavy metal door, causing you to jolt in surprise.

"Y/N," Jack starts "Sweetheart, just..." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're not hurting yourself in there, are you?"

You tuck your chin in close to your chest and blubber like a child. "No," is your succinct reply. You don't want to have this conversation. Don't want to provide elaborate answers to questions you don't know how to reply to. Or, much more, have no wish to.

He settles his palm over the door handle, but ultimately decides against it. Jack knows you have it locked, so he doesn't want to come off like he's attempting to force his way in. "Y/N, it's just you and me. Can you let me in so that we can talk? Please. Honey, I'm just worr—"

Click.

You figure the longer he stands out there, the more likely a crowd is to gather, curious as to what is transpiring at current. Nevermind that it's nobody's business but your own.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he gathers himself before making entry.

Once the door is shut securely behind him, and the lock pushed into place, he kneels with a groan before plopping down beside you.

"Gettin' old," he mumbles before settling back against the wall you're seated before.

He rolls his head to the side, frowning at the sight of you curled in on yourself. "I'm not gonna ask why. The reasoning can be different for everybody, I guess. But the one thing they all have in common, I'd assume, is feeling like they deserve it. Or...like it's an impulse they can't fight anymore. Maybe you don't want to."

Jack pulls himself closer to you before sliding an arm around your shoulders and tucking you against his side. "Honey, you need to talk to somebody. It's somethin' my therapist deals with. I can give you their number—a business card—whatever you want so that you can get the ball rolling."

You squeeze your eyes shut and lie your cheek atop your bent knee. "I don't know if I can."

He rubs his hand comfortingly against your arm. "What if you cut too deep at some point and hit an artery? There's other ways. Have you tried the ice cube method?"

You shrug. "Couple times."

"And?" He asks.

"It helped. Just...a razor is what I'm used to. Like it's a habit. An...old friend."

"Any friend worth their salt would never do something which would bring harm to you," Jack replies.

You loosen up and spread your legs in front of you, draping your new scrubs atop them before settling your head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry that—"

He shakes his head. "Don't apologize. I'd rather know than not. To look after you a bit better, if nothin' else."

You turn and cross your legs, now facing him. "That isn't your—your responsibility, or—"

He taps his own leg with his knuckle, the metal quietly reverberating from the action. "It helps: divulging the darkest parts of yourself to others who get it. So you can have a different perspective. Hear how they got through it so you can gain some hope that you will, too."

Unsure how to even continue, you stand and walk over to the sink. It's one way to cut this conversation short, you're sure.

Once you've wetted a paper towel, you bend over to begin cleaning your wound before applying a fresh Band-Aid from the first aid kit that's mounted beside the soap dispenser.

Until Jack takes the damp towel from you and kneels at your feet. Gently, he wipes away the dried blood which clings to your skin. "You think about doing this again, come to me. If it happens when we aren't here, then call me. I'll come running."

He slides his opposite hand up your calf. "Understand?"

You blink down at him stupidly, now at a loss for words. So you simply nod instead.

"Good." He nods to the first aid kit. "Band-Aid."

Once you've plucked the plastic box from the wall, you hand it to him. If you try unclasping it right now, with the way that your hands are currently trembling, the sterile supplies is likely to scatter across the tile floor.

Once Jack has peeled opened a Band-Aid and spread a small dollop of Neosporin across the absorbent pad, he applies it to your cut. Next, he takes your pants from where they sit on the lip of the sink and holds open the right pant leg for you to step into, followed by the left.

Once he's cinched the waist in the front and tied a pretty little bow, he stands. "I don't want you to worry," he says quietly, running his knuckles down your soft cheek. "What happened today stays between us. Alright?"

You nod yet again, grateful to him. You swipe away budding tears before taking the first aid kit back from him so that it can be returned to its rightful home on the restroom wall. "Thank you."

you pause to make him squirm in anticipation. "i was thinking," you murmur, tracing your finger along the couch's lines with your fingertip, a sign of nervousness. "we could try… being available to each other. like whenever one of us wants-" your face goes warm, "sex."

the newspaper lowers down to his lap so your husband can stare at you intently, but he doesn't move otherwise. he's seated with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his legs apart in a lazy manspread, looking way too composed for what you just suggested. your body is so tense right now that you feel the urge to take a cold shower before the conversation continues. why isn't he saying anything?

"available," he echoes your choice of words. "as in free use."

you nod, trying not to squirm in your seat. "mhm."

he hums, tongue running over the inside of his cheek, and his eyes drag over your body as if he's already imagining all the different ways he can catch you off guard and ruin you. just as you suggested.

"sweetheart," he murmurs quietly, folding the paper and setting it aside, "do you even know what you're agreeing to?"

you shrug, a guileless glint in your wide eyes. you couldn't seriously be asking him this. you, who cries within the first ten minutes of him fucking you and tries to crawl away from him when he's pounding into you, wants to be free use for him, constantly? "i trust you. there... shouldn't be any issues."

he leans back in his chair and lets a silence pass once more. he seems to be considering it. the longer he goes without talking the more you squirm. he lays a cheek in his palm, and continues. "and why do you want to be free use for me?"

your eyes widen and your lips press together. you're nervous but trying not to show it. "it's not just me, you know. both of us are available for each other. i just wanted to suggest it because it's been on my mind a while."

"mm. no other reason?"

you hesitate a second too long, and he notices immediately. his eyes narrow ever so slightly. "well," you fidget, toying with a thread on your shirt to break eye contact just long enough so you don't explode. "i just thought it might be exciting."

"exciting... how?"

you puff out a soft breath and try to play it off. "i dunno… like, getting dragged into a public washroom while we're out grocery shopping. or, like… in the car. pulling it over so we can go to the backseat. or while i'm doing laundry."

"so you mean you want me to be so desperate i can't wait and have to have you. right then, right there."

you fidget again, but nod. "mhm."

he laughs once under his breath. "that's cute. so if you're half asleep," he says, "and i want to wake you up with my cock inside you, you won't mind? or if we're on a hike and you're in one of those pairs of leggings i really like, i can put you up against a tree?"

you nod, but look away bashfully. "i said whenever."

he hums and looks away for a moment in an attempt to stay calm while he processes. then he looks back at you, tutting with a pitying look on his face. like you're a lamb up for the slaughter.

"you don't know what you just agreed to," he says affectionately, like he's sorry for you.

you frown, feeling like he's underestimating you. "yes, i do."

he smiles. "you really don't."

-

the first time he tries out your new agreement is when you're brushing your teeth with him the next morning. you're standing at the sink in just one of his old t-shirts, groggy, hair messy, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth as you blink blearily at your own reflection. he's behind you, pretending to brush his teeth too, but he's just looking at you.

your thighs are bare. the shirt rides up when you lean forward to spit into the sink, and he can see the crease where the back of your thighs meet your plush ass. he's entranced by the quiet way you operate when you're still half asleep and unaware of how good you look.

he swishes some water in his mouth and spits, setting his toothbrush back in the holder while watching you. you didn't notice he was ogling until you look up to meet his gaze in the mirror reflection to see him reaching around to pull you flush against his chest, lifting his hands under your shirt from behind to cup your tits. you don't wear a bra around the house, much to his convenience.

"just trying something fun," he murmurs into the curve of your neck, kissing the soft skin there. you tip your head a little, a pleasant feeling washing over your body as his thumbs roll over your perked nipples. he then wraps his hand around your throat to tip your head back. "aren't you so pretty?" he coos, one hand toying with your breast while the other gives your throat a light squeeze. it does nothing for your sanity. your brain might as well be slipping out of your ears.

you try to respond, but all that slips out is a helpless little whimper, the toothbrush still dangling from your lips.

"you're already shaking," he says softly, letting go of your throat only to glide his hand down the front of your shirt, past your navel, and into the waistband of your thin cotton panties. "and it's not even been a minute since i started. why're you acting like some helpless little virgin?"

you slip the toothbrush out of your mouth and drop it in the holder, using both hands to hold his wrist to keep yourself steady. "you're being mean," you breathe, embarrassed by how quickly he's unraveled you.

he hums, slipping his fingers inside your tight pussy to find you warm and wet. your hips jolt, but you don't move away. "i'm doing what you asked of me," he corrects you, his tone patient. "you said 'whenever,' remember?" he begins to lift up your shirt and tosses it onto the counter beside you, and your panties come off right after. then he pushes you forward so you're bent over onto the smooth marble in front of you.

he leans over your back, palm pressing down gently between your shoulder blades to keep you in place. "you know what your problem is," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, "you get way too ahead of yourself. then you ask for things you're not ready for."

"baby please," you whine, grinding your hips back, only for him to pull away. he's teasing you. you look back at him with frustration, wanting friction against your sopping core, but he's not allowing it.

you feel him hook a hand under your knee to prop your leg up on the edge of the sink for a better angle, and he tuts at how messy your little pussy is so soon. he spreads you as much as you can go, then nudges his clothed bulge against your core, listening to your breath hitch and breathy pants to leave your mouth. "hmmh... that spot... do that again,"

he hushes you patronizingly, tugging his pj pants just low enough for his cock to be free. you're completely bare in contrast. with a hand pinning you down and the blunt press of his cock between your thighs, he slowly, maddeningly starts to slip it inside with a purposeful roll of his hips, and the stretch immediately hits you. you feel so full with just the first few inches of his fat cock in you.

your mouth opens around a silent moan, eyes rolling back. your grip on the counter tightens while he rocks into you steadily, holding you firmly while his gaze flits from your hole sucking him in and the lewd look on your face in the mirror.

"you wanted this. look at yourself. look how pretty you are when you're being used."

you try. you really do. your eyes flutter open just long enough to catch sight of your own flushed, wrecked reflection, your hair a mess, mouth parted, as he slowly fills you up to the brink, tip kissing your womb. his hand gathers a fistful of your hair to tip your head up.

your head spins as he thrusts into you roughly, flesh slapping against flesh making nasty sounds that echo off the bathroom walls. "y-you're... haaa gonna be late f'work," you moan as he fucks into you deep and rough, his thick cock curving just right inside you to keep bumping against your sweet spots.

"shit... y'wanna talk about that now?" he tugs your hair a little to make you squeal, using it to keep you in place like it's a handle. "i'll grab breakfast on the way there," he says into your skin. "this is more important."

you reach behind blindly because you're desperate to feel your husband or hold him, but he pushes you back down, then leans down to push his chest flush against your back, his skin hot against yours. he nudges his cock deeper in you at the new angle, moving a bulky arm to wrap around your neck and fuck you in a chokehold.

he groans against your ear, rutting harder now, his rhythm starting to lose control while your back arches for him, trying to take more even though you're so full. his hips snap forward with more force and he chuckles into your ear when you let out a garbled, " 'm gonna cum..." followed by a loud mewl. he groans, slamming into that one spot that gets you to tighten up around him each time his mushroom tip gives it a kiss.

"hmm, ask nicely, sweetheart," he nips your ear and bottoms out with an obscenely wet squelch. "mmmm.... c-can i... fuck, c-cum? please, 'm gonna..." your eyes screw shut and your pussy gushes around his thick shaft, leaving your thighs slick and shaky.

he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep inside you so his cum can shoot as deep inside you as he can. he doesn't pull out right away. arms wrapped around your middle, nose pressed into your hair like he's anchoring himself.

"god," he mumbles, still pumping you full, and there's now a creamy ring where his cock enters your cunt. "filled your little pussy all up, didn't i? now i'll feel bad leaving you like this."

you're too wrecked to answer, slumped forward against the sink, letting him hold you up. he reaches for a washcloth by the towel rack and dampens it so he can clean you up, giving you little kisses the whole time while you cling onto him. he keeps praising you, too. "did s'good for me, pretty baby."

he leaves you with a soft peck on your cheek. "ill see you later tonight..."

-

it doesn't stop after that morning in the bathroom. that was just his warm up, after all; his first taste of what you gave him. the second the floodgates opened, there was no closing them. poor you.

there's the time in the gym changeroom, right after your shared workout ends. you're both sore and sweaty, and you duck into the locker room so you can grab your stuff and head home with him to shower. however, the second he sees your flushed skin and damp chest through your sports bra, he doesn't hesitate to tug you into one of the showers and sit down on the bench, tearing off your clothes and tugging you into his lap.

he'll stuff your panties in your mouth so your moans are muffled, and fucks up into you hard and fast with no shame, even as he hears people talking and shuffling about behind the flimsy shower curtain. "you're gonna make a mess on me, aren't you?" he murmurs against your ear. "you like knowing someone could walk in right now and see you like this? my sweet girl, cockdrunk in a gym shower?"

he makes you cum on his cock, stuffs you full of his seed and leaves with you once the coast is mostly clear.

next was the hike. you're halfway up the steep trail with him, on a quick break on the grass off the main path. you'd just bent over a little to re-tie your laces since your boots had been far too tight, when he'd come up behind you, grinding against you and palming your ass through your leggings in broad daylight.

"shouldn't bend over in front of me unless you want me to do somethin' to you," he mutters, voice low and warm at your ear as he presses himself closer, fingers kneading into the backs of your thighs.

he doesn't give you a second to argue before he's guiding you face first to a tree and dropping to his knees. he pulls your leggings down just enough to get what he wants, and the air hits your slick folds pleasantly. you whimper, bracing yourself as he spreads your ass to have your pussy fully presented to him.

"gonna be quick," he whispers, "just a little taste." he mumbles, before shoving his face right into your cunt.

you gasp loudly and your hands shoot up to brace against the tree bark right in front of you and dig into the wood. you tremble and let out a shaky breath when he licks a slow, nasty stripe from your pussy up to your clit, shaking his tongue a little so it slobbers over every inch of your drooling pussy lips, occasionally prodding your hole.

his hands are firm on your thighs to spread you open wider, dragging your hips back toward his mouth while he eats you out filthy and sloppy. his nose nudges your clit, tongue flicking in and out of you, then slipping deep inside.

you bite your lip and your eyes, wide and panicked, glance toward the trail. anyone could walk by since you're not that far off the path, hidden, but not well. if someone wandered off long enough, they'd find the two of you.

"god," he moans into you, closing his mouth around your pussy lips and sucking gently, then going back to make out with your pussy. "taste so fuckin' good, babe. made for me." your orgasm hits so fast that you barely have time to warn him, pushing back against him so you cream right into his mouth.

-

you intended to have one wholesome weekend without your man ravaging you on any available surface in the vicinity. a family gathering that your parents are hosting. you enter the countryside house with your husband's hand on the small of your back to guide you inside, smiling politely as your relatives greet you both with warm hugs and laughter. everyone is in a good mood, sipping drinks, chewing on appetizers. there's music playing, and scents drifting from the kitchen.

he lasts about twenty minutes into the evening before he leans down to whisper filth into your ear while everyone else is distracted in the dining room. "you keep looking up at me like that and you're not leaving this place without my cum dripping down your thighs."

you stiffen, body heating up with arousal instantly, even as your face stays composed for the sake of your family standing two feet away. your husband knows exactly what he's doing. he brushes his lips just under your ear again, letting his breath brush over your skin while his palm subtly slides down to squeeze your ass through your dress, making you yelp.

he's all over you most of the evening. hands holding your hips from behind, cupping your ass, arms around your waist, smelling your hair... blatant public displays of affection. he keeps whispering things. "you're dripping through this dress," he murmurs while you're getting drinks in the kitchen. "do you even know what you look like right now?"

you try to push him away, but he's already behind you, brushing your hair over your shoulder as if he's helping, just to kiss the back of your neck. he's all over you right up until you take a break to get away from the party for a bit before dinner. you choose your childhood bedroom as an escape, needing one second away from him before he decides to finger you at the dinner table or fuck you in one of the bathrooms, but he follows you shortly after.

you just entered your old room, not realizing the door didn't click shut behind you. you make it two steps before he grabs you and pins you down onto your back in your old twin bed.

you jolt. "baby! where did you- what are you- "

"shhh," he murmurs, lips already brushing your neck. "just missed you. five minutes."

your body reacts before your brain can catch up. you tip your head to the side for him, breath catching as he kisses behind your ear and tugs the straps of your dress down your shoulders and pushing it under your tits so he can cup your bare mounds. his thumbs brush over your nipples until they stiffen under his touch, and he groans at your soft whines, pinching and rubbing them with his fingers while he kisses down to your chest, laving his tongue over the swollen peaks. he's practically slobbering on them, one bulky hand playing with one while his mouth works on the other, sucking sharply and then releasing with a wet pop.

he drags your panties down and off your ankles, spreading you into a shameful position to get a good look at you.

"fuck, look at this mess," he thumbs over your pussy with light pressure, teasing you. "this for me?" you whimper a soft yes, causing him to chuckle softly. he leans over you again, playing with your hole while his other hand wraps around his cock to stroke it slow and firm from tip to base, aligning himself with your hole. he doesn't make it easy for you and put it in straight away, instead tapping his cock against your folds and listening to the nasty little squelches that come from you. he slides it up and down, delaying your pleasure to make you desperate.

you gasp and mewl, thighs already lifting for him as he lines up and starts to press in slowly. your body clutches around him immediately, the stretch making your head spin. "ohhh my- fuck," he groans, pushing in all the way until he bottoms out. "tight as ever. made to be fucked in."

you moan breathlessly and tip your head back, letting him start to plow into you. he doesn't waste any time in putting one leg up over his shoulder and thrusting so deep that his balls squish against the curve of your ass and his shaft forms a faint print in your belly from how huge he is. your head lolls back with each of his deep, grinding strokes.

"look at you," he whispers, eyes trained on your filthy expression. "getting ruined in your childhood room. all the innocent memories, corrupted by this one." he mocks you while fucking into you harder. you moan loudly, hands fisting at the sheets, then clawing his biceps, then running down his torso. you have no idea what to do with yourself right now. he's fucking you into oblivion and now you're completely out of it.

"bet your parents think you're still their good little girl," he pants, rocking into you, stretching you out with his fat shaft with every drag. you can feel every vein and the exact angle in which his cock curves inside you. "they don't know you're upstairs getting your pussy wrecked like this."

"fuck! baby slow down, ahn, we're gonna get caught mmfuck, please!"

"please what?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to an unbearable pace. "please fuck me harder?" he punctuates the question with a sharp thrust so deep inside you your vision swims. "or please fill me up in my little princess bed?" he coos, grinding his pelvis against yours. your mouth falls open in a silent scream as a particularly deep thrust hits your sweet spot, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine while your back arches off the bed, pressing your heaving tits more firmly against his chest. you can basically feel his heartbeat against yours, thudding in time with his sloppy thrusts.

" 'm gonna cum inside you," he grits, pounding into you hard, cock scraping against your plushy walls and the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every inward thrust. "goddamn, look at me. want you to -haa- remember this." your nails scrape his back. you're crying out softly, trying to stay quiet, but you're so close. you clamp down on him so hard when it hits that he chokes on a groan, hips stuttering as he starts spilling into you with a harsh jerk of his body.

his cock jerks and pulses as he hilts inside you, the thick head flaring inside you as he releases ropes of hot cum pumps into your greedy cunt, your womb quickly filling to the brim.

within seconds, excess semen is already bubbling out around his shaft, dripping down onto the sheets beneath your ass. your pussy clenches and ripples, desperately trying to milk every last drop of him, and he continues rocking his cock inside you as he cums, fingers moving to play with your clit, and you cum shortly after, gushing around his cock and adding to the mess on the bed.

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“If this is all it takes to rile you up, wait until something actually goes wrong,” Dr. Park had scolded. “Now do you want me to go easy on you, or do you wanna get better, Crybaby?”

You stayed. And he made you better. But the nickname stuck.

Crybaby became a term of endearment, a symbol of how far you’d come since your interning days, and was shortened to Baby somewhere down the line. “Baby, take this patient down to CT for me, will you?” and “Cut me an ET tube, Baby, six millimeters,” and—

“Good luck getting that consult, baby,” Jack Abbot says from the opposite side of the exam room, with his strong arms crossed over his chest. The nickname sounds different spilling from his lips. It always has. “The OR’s backed up with Westbridge patients. It could be hours before we get a room booked.”

“She doesn’t have hours…” you murmur under your breath, squeezing past Whitaker and Ogilvie as you part from your unconscious patient. “Excuse me…”

“W-What are you doing?” the former boy stammers.

“Getting us a consult…” you say, half-distracted, as you reach for the red telephone on the wall. You press the cool plastic to your ear and dial the ortho extension.

Jack watches attentively from the sidelines as you make the call upstairs. 

“You already sound like you’re gonna say no, so I’m just gonna ask quickly,” you say. “I know, I know— Terrible timing. But we both know I’m your favorite, so just hear me out.”

“Favorite…?” Ogilvie murmurs. “Wait— Who is she calling?”

“Park the Shark,” Whitaker answers solemnly.

“Or as I like to call him— Doctor Dick,” Jack says with a cynical smile. “On account of him being a dick.”

Whitaker nods in concurrence. “To everyone but her.” 

You hang up the phone and return to your spot at the patient’s bedside. “Ortho consult’s on its way,” you tell them, half-distracted, as you check the ketamine levels in her IV drip.

“How’d you do that?” Ogilivie squints.

“I asked nicely,” you shrug.

Brendon Park comes into the emergency department barely five minutes later, and brings a tense air in with him that matches the unsmiling look on his narrow face. The way his dark blue eyes lock on you the second he walks in can only be described as sharklike. 

“What do we got, Baby?” he asks you, and only you, utterly ignoring the other bodies in the room as he makes a beeline to your side. He smells of sea salt and sandalwood when he towers just behind you, standing several inches taller.

Jack swallows down the anger that swells suddenly in his throat like bile.

“Ten-foot fall onto a metal fence,” you tell him. “Tib-fib amputation— Pretty clean cut.”

“Sliced right through the bone like a guillotine,” Whitaker adds.

Park turns slowly, dark eyes zeroing in on the mulleted boy. “Was I talking to you?”

The boy’s cheeks flare red. He clears his throat. “Uh— No. No, sir.” 

“Let me see the X-ray,” the attending says to you, much softer in comparison, and follows you the short distance to the bulky machine in the corner.

“See?” you hum. “Not too bad, right?”

His eyes flit from the x-ray to your hopeful gaze. The corner of his mouth flickers faintly upward as he nods once in response. “Yeah. Should be pretty fun— Where’s the leg?”

“Double bagged on ice.” You motion across the room. 

Whitaker watches the older man walk past him with an unblinking gaze. “I didn’t know he smiled…” he whispers incredulously under his breath.

“Yeah, me neither, kid,” Jack mumbles, swaying softly in place, as he keeps his eyes locked on the two of you. 

His jealousy is misplaced, but inevitable. Everyone had a certain soft spot for you, but he couldn’t quite stand it from Park — the man who didn’t seem to like anyone or anything but his work and you. Jack knows it makes a part of you feel special, you are special, but he wants to be the only one making you feel that way.

“Tell him how we prepped the limb, Ogilivie,” you tell the MS3.

“Oh, please, not me,” the curly-haired boy mumbles under his breath, looking instinctively to Whitaker for assistance. He swallows hard when Brendon’s dark eyes snap to his. “Uh— Sterile saline in the inner bag, ice water in the outer bag. No direct ice to skin contact.”

Park nods and turns away, unwrapping the severed leg on the table below. “Good…”

“Thank you.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” the attending snaps. His eyes soften the second he turns to you. “Let me guess— You wrapped this?”

“How’d you know?” you grin.

“Because it’s neat,” Park quips drily as he pulls the bluing limb from the plastic. “And I don’t think Abbot suddenly developed fine motor skills.”

“Stop flirting with me, Shark,” Jack monotones.

“Antibiotics?” the man squints.

“Cefazolin and gent,” you answer. “And we’re already cleared her chest, abdomen, and pelvis.”

Park nods to himself, examining the severed leg with his gloved hands. “Clean wound… No rush injury… Rapid transport time…” he mumbles to himself, visibly pleased in a way that makes your stomach do a backflip. “Replantation is a go. I’ll go ahead and book an OR, get it taken care of for you.”

“Thanks…” you say, smiling a little wider than you realize. Because ever since the day he embarrassed you in front of all your coworkers, you’ve made it your personal mission to impress him.

“What’s the catch?” Jack quips from across the room. “You already got a packed OR so… What? You’re just doing us a favor out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Hell, no,” Brendon scoffs. “Baby’s gonna scrub in with me.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re not sure whether to be happy or horrified, ‘cause you haven’t done a surgery with him since you were an intern.

“Holy shit— Really?”

“Yeah. As long as you promise not to fuck up again,” Park deadpans, though there’s something distinctly soft in his eyes as he quips, “And if you can keep your guard dog on a leash for a few hours.”

Your eyes turn instinctively to Jack. You find his features slightly hardened but mostly emotionless. He shrugs despite the distant searing in his chest.

“She doesn’t need my permission.”

“Then why are you glaring like I’m about to steal your favorite toy, old man?” Brendon scoffs.

Jack’s eyes widen. His head swivels slowly over his shoulder, as if he were looking for someone standing behind him. “I know you’re not talking about me,” he quips drily.

“I would love the opportunity to scrub in, Dr. Shark— I mean, Park,” you stammer.

“Alright, then. Let’s go,” he nods, pulling off his gloves with a low pop as he storms back towards the door. “The rest of you, irrigate the hell out of this with three liters.”

“Wait— three liters?” Whitaker blurts.

Park glares. “Of saline, genius.”

“I… I knew you meant saline…”

You stop short in the doorway with Jack at your side, right before you turn to follow Park into the elevator. You flash him a wide-eyed look full of hope and distant worry, “You’re not mad at me, are you? For doing this with Shark?”

“I couldn’t be,” Jack scoffs.

“Well, then, I’ll let you know how it goes later?” you murmur sheepishly, shifting on your feet like a shy child. “Over dinner?”

“Sure,” he nods. “I’ll take you somewhere nice. You know, to celebrate.”

He gives you a soft smile that fades the second you’ve turned the corner. He feels the weight of his own insecurity sitting heavy on his chest. The notion that he’s much too old for you tends to follow him like a shadow, but it rears its mean, green, ugly head a little extra now. 

“Hey…” Robby greets, then slows his stride when he walks past the tree men leaving the exam room. “What’s the long faces for?”

Abbot flashes him an unamused gaze. “Shark attack,” he deadpans.

Robby nods sympathetically. “Yeah, that’ll do it…”

The familiar chaos of the ED wraps around you like a blanket when you come down from the OR — the beeping monitors, the rolling stretchers, the hundred different conversations. It feels welcoming, in a strange sort of way; it fuels you in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time. It feels less like you’re surviving your shift now, and more like you could solve every medical inquiry in this hospital if someone asked you to. 

You feel ten feet tall and lighter than air as you weave your way through the crowded emergency department. Jack can see it from where he watches you at the workstation with an eagle-eyed stare. Your scrubs are creased from your hours in the OR; your eyes are as wild as the distant smile sitting crooked on the very edges of your mouth. 

You plant yourself at the computer next to his, and Abbot pretends like he hasn’t been waiting for you this whole time.

“How’d it go?” he asks distantly, trying to be casual.

“Great,” you nod with a proud smile. “Like really great. There was a twisted artery, and I was the only one who caught it. I got to reroute it all on my own— It was crazy.”

Jack feels himself smiling despite himself, basking in the rays of your sunshine disposition.

“Really?” he hums, nodding once. “Good job, baby.”

You couldn’t possibly count how many times you hear that nickname on a daily basis, but it’s different coming from Jack. It’s warmer, more familiar — makes your stomach do backflips like it’s the first time you’re hearing the word from his mouth. You go dizzy accordingly, as your fingers flit across the keyboard below.

“I’m just glad I didn’t make a total fool of myself like I did the first time,” you scoff.

“Yeah, me too,” a familiar voice quips from behind you.

You glance over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of Dr. Park as he appears suddenly behind you, dropping a file on the desk next to you mid-stride. His sea salt cologne pervades your senses instantly, clashing with Jack’s softer, muskier scent.

“I thought I heard the Jaws theme playing…” the older man quips in a dry monotone.

“You should be proud, Abbot— Your resident was a star in surgery today,” Park says with a knowing smirk hinting at the very corners of his mouth, so subtle it’s barely there. “Can’t wait for her to be my protégé in the OR someday.”

Jack’s frown deepens when the man claps him hard on the shoulder as he walks back for the elevator, though not without tossing a “let me know when you need a letter of rec for that fellowship, Baby,” over his shoulder as he goes. 

He watches the younger attending until he turns the corner, and looks back at you with his jaw clenched a little tighter than before. His chest sears at the distant smile on your face, as the flames of his jealousy burn white-hot behind his ribcage 

“Well,” Jack hums drily after a beat of silence. “You guys are getting awfully close, aren’t you?”

You scoff like it’s funny to you, because the thought of Park the Shark liking anyone is funny to you.

“What? No,” you laugh, then shrug at the unconvinced look Jack gives you in response. “He’s just nice to me. That’s all.”

Jack lets out a sharp exhale through his nose in place of a laugh. He turns back to his computer and deadpans, “Yeah. Because he likes you.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Jack beats you to the punch. 

“And I don’t blame him, either. I think it’d make me a hypocrite if I did.”

Your face flares as a red-hot heat crawls up your neck. Your adrenaline-induced confidence fades into something softer as you struggle suddenly to meet the older man’s gaze. You glance down at the chart Park left, unable to hide the small smile on your mouth when you peer at Jack again from beneath your lashes.

“Where are we going for dinner after this again?” you wonder, half-sheepish.

The expression on his scruffy face shifts slightly, less tense but mischievous still. “We aren’t,” he says and logs out of the computer.

Your eyes narrow into a suspicious squint as you watch the man round the front desk. “What happened to ‘I’ll take you somewhere nice?’”

“Yeah…” Jack nods slowly, huffing sympathetically, as his hands curl around either end of his stethoscope. “I think we’re gonna miss that reservation, baby.”

Your stomach does a backflip.

By the time you make it to Jack’s place, the adrenaline has worn off just enough to leave you pleasantly exhausted. 

He can feel it in your kiss, as you straddle him on his sunken couch in the middle of his dim living room — so quiet compared to the ER that it feels like stepping into a completely different world. You prop yourself over his lap with your palms cradling his silver scruff and lick into his parted mouth in slow, languid motions. 

You’ve been at it for a while now. So long that Jack can feel your spit down to his chin. You could kiss him for hours and hours and never get bored — a testament to your youth, perhaps, because Jack doesn’t think he’s made out with someone this long since he was in college.

But, for you, he keeps his head tipped back against the sofa and his mouth obediently parted, letting you kiss him however you want — for however long you want. His wide hands fidget with anticipation on either side of your bare thighs, from where your shirt rides up to your hips. 

You’d changed immediately into one of his old tees when you arrived, after a shower your body had been craving all day. You smell like his body wash and lotion as you sit on his lap, running your hands down his clothed chest like soft drops of summer rain. 

Your fingers brush the tie in his dark navy sweatpants, and he tenses on instinct. You don’t seem to notice, though, as you leave a trail of wet kisses down his scruffy neck.

“Are you gonna fuck me tonight?” you mumble into his pulse. “’S why we didn’t go out for dinner tonight, isn’t it? ‘Cause I’ve been thinking about it all day…”

Jack goes dizzy at your words — at the otherwise innocent mouth they spill from. His stomach warms, and he jerks back from you before he means to; his mouth wet and rosy from the intensity of your kisses.

“Yeah, fuck— Yeah, I just…” he trails off, though it’s more of a dismissal than a true affirmative. “I just gotta go to the bathroom real quick, yeah?”

“Okay,” you smile politely, unaware of his subdued panic that he’s learned to keep well-hidden. You slide off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. “Sure.”

Jack rises from the sunken sofa with a low grunt in the back of his throat. There’s a slight limp in his step from where the long day has taken a toll on his prosthetic. “Feel free to make yourself at home while I’m gone,” he tosses mindlessly over his shoulder, before he disappears down the dim hallway, making an immediate beeline for his lamplit bedroom.

There’s a bottle of sildenafil in his nightstand drawer, with only one pill taken out of it — which he thinks is somehow even more embarrassing. He’d only taken it to masturbate once, after his SSRIs plummeted his libido and he was itching for a release after a long day. 

The small orange bottle feels strangely heavy in his hands now, as he tips his head back to shake one of the tiny blue pills into his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows it dry. The pills rattle faintly when he sets the bottle down beside him again. 

He drops onto the edge of his bed, mattress squeaking under his weight. He rests his elbows on his knees and hunches over to dig his palms into his eyes. He tries to will himself hard for you, even though he knows that isn’t exactly how that works.

He thinks of you — all young and pretty and waiting for him out there — wasting your youth on an old man who can’t get hard to save his life. It leads to a cycle of self-hatred that prevents him from getting turned on at all. And it’s maddening.  

The ajar door creaks quietly as you push it open without knocking.

You slink inside the dim bedroom and freeze at the sight of the man on the bed, like you weren’t expecting to find him there. Jack’s head whips to your form across the room and spins when he finds your underwear peeking out from the bottom of his shirt — a soft orange color patterned with dark black bats, several months out of season.

“What are you doing?” he squints teasingly, blanketed half by shadow and half by golden lamplight.

“What are you doing?” you retort. “I’ve been waiting out there forever.”

“It’s only been five minutes,” Jack scoffs.

“Yeah, tell me about it…”

You’re all but skipping to his side then, bare feet padding along the thin carpet as you go. The thin fabric of his shirt swishes around your thighs when you walk to stand between his. When you wrap your arms loosely around his neck and duck down to kiss him, Jack tips his chin back and opens his mouth to welcome you — until the open drawer beside you catches your attention, as well as the orange pill bottle sitting on the corner of the nightstand, as if he’d just pulled it out of there.

“What’s that—?”

“Nothing,” Jack answers, a little too quickly, and reaches less than casually around you to chuck the bottle into the drawer again. The pills rattle loudly in the quiet bedroom when he shoves it shut a second later.

He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’ve already gotten a glimpse of the label. Your gaze is soft with sympathy and glittering with something wild that he can’t quite place.

Jack says nothing for several long moments, and instead waits for your response.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed…” you murmur when you catch his scruffy cheeks flaring a soft pink.

“I’m not embarrassed,” he blurts, less than convincingly, eyes shifting away and back again. “I’m just… selectively unthrilled with this timing…”

Your nose scrunches at the shy smile you give him. His warm hands settle again on your waist while your fingers twist in the silver curls at the nape of his neck. Your eyes soften with something tender when you wonder shyly, “Is that why… Is that why you haven’t wanted to… you know?”

“No,” Jack answers instantly, then tilts his head to think for a moment. “Well, I mean— a little, I guess, but… I only take ‘em ‘cause of my SSRIs, you know? It’s not… It’s not because of you or anything.”

“Okay…” you nod and struggle to meet his gaze when you ask, “Do you know, like, how long it takes to kick in… or whatever?”

“Last time I tried, it took about twenty minutes—”

“Last time?” you echo with raised brows.

“I was just trying it out!” Jack defends with a crooked smile, slightly egged on by your misplaced jealousy after stewing in his own all day. “I was by myself when I took it, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It does make me feel better, actually…”

Jack’s light eyes narrow. “What’s that look for, huh?”

“Nothin’…” you lilt quietly, with a poorly hidden smile. “I just… I think it’s kinda hot… That’s all…”

His expression flickers in an instant — surprise first, suspicion second, then something darker third. A white-hot desire threads through the distant embarrassment still swimming in his stomach.

“Yeah?” he presses lowly, with a voice like honey.

“Yeah…” you nod once, unable to take your eyes off his prying stare. 

He studies you for another beat, before huffing a quiet laugh of disbelief. 

“You’re somethin’ else, baby, you know that?” he mumbles with a shake of his head, smoothing his calloused palms slowly up your bare thighs until they disappear under his shirt.

“I know…” you mutter on bated breath, trying and failing to be casual when you ask, “What do you wanna do then, huh? You know, for the next twenty minutes, anyway?”

You fight back a shiver when his thumb brushes over the center of the delicate mound peeking beneath the hem of your t-shirt, concealed by the thin cotton panties you wear. 

Jack hears your breath catch in his throat. His darkened gaze flits from your Halloween-patterned underwear to your heavy eyes, now glazed over with a layer of honeyed desire. 

A sly smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

“I think I have a few ideas…”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t undermined my calls in front of the whole floor.”

“If I hadn’t—” You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “My triage was sound, Abbot. You were moving too fast, skipping steps, making calls based on gut instinct when we had time to be methodical. And because you couldn’t hear that, we lost a patient.”

“We lost a patient because the situation was already a mess when they came through the doors.” His jaw was tight. “Not because of me.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Jack let out a dry, humorless sound —not quite a laugh— and shook his head, looking away. He pulled out the chair from beneath the counter and sat down heavily. “You’re so damn sure of yourself for a resident.”

Maybe you were. Perhaps you were as certain as he was immovable.

But you were also right. It wasn’t arrogance, your approach had been methodical, controlled, built on protocol and pattern recognition. Jack’s had been all instinct and speed, the kind of approach you took when you’d been doing this in a combat zone and didn’t have the luxury of time.

Jack’s calls were all aggression: rapid assessment, immediate intervention, full force. Even Robby had backed him in the moment.

Your calls were all strategy. Systematic. Prioritizing the most salvageable in sequence, working through the board steadily instead of attacking the loudest problem first. It took a fraction more time, but would’ve been more efficient. Less chaos. Better odds.

But Jack was immovable. Had refused to even entertain it.

“I was right, you know,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at him steadily. “Systematic triage was the right call.”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, not looking at you. “If you wanted to move at a crawl while people bled out.”

“That’s not what happened and you know it.” Your voice stayed even. “A mass casualty isn’t a combat zone. I’m sorry, but you can’t just default to battlefield medicine every time volume spikes. The situations are different.”

“Are they?” He finally looked at you, and there was something sharp and certain in his expression. “Because from where I’m standing, chaos is chaos. You work efficiently, you work hard, you make the call and you move. Hesitation costs more than mistakes.”

“And recklessness costs more than caution.” Your tone rose slightly. “They weren’t all critical. Some of those patients could’ve waited four minutes. Four. But you had everyone sprinting, doubling up on rooms that didn’t need two people, leaving the actual criticals understaffed—”

“I had a system—”

“You had a reflex.” The word landed harder than you meant it to, but you didn’t take it back. “There’s a difference.”

Silence fell over the on-call room after that. He looked away. You did the same.

Things with Jack had always been like this. You two could never agree on approach, could never seem to get through a complicated case without ending up on opposite sides. Usually Robby or one of the charge nurses stepped in before it fully escalated.

But now it was just the two of you. With however many hours left to argue without anyone running interference.

It got boring. Really fast.

The lockdown was meant to get the two of you to talk. There were no charts, no phones, no computers. Someone had even taken the coffee maker’s power cord, which felt personal. Nothing to do but sit in the pale fluorescent hum of the on-call room and stew.

But talking was the last thing either of you wanted. So you found ways to pass the time, even in the limited space.

You were sitting cross-legged on the cot, running a pen cap absently between your fingers, end over end, just to give your hands something to do.

Jack, however, had exhausted the options available to him. He’d leaned back in the chair until it creaked, stared at the ceiling, stretched his neck, and was now just… sitting. Still. Watching you with the attention that came from a man who was very good at staying alert when there was nothing to be alert about.

“Are you just going to stare at me?” you asked, not looking up from the pen.

Jack clicked his tongue, but didn’t look away. “Why, does it bother you?”

You stilled for a moment, pen balanced between two fingers. Then you made yourself keep spinning it. “Try with annoying.”

“Right,” he said, with the smallest nod. “Your undying problem with me.”

“It’s not a problem with you,” you said, faster than you meant to. “You just happen to get under my skin.”

“Don’t like being contradicted?”

“Don’t like being dismissed.” You corrected, eyes still down. “There’s a difference.”

“I never dismissed you.” His voice was quieter now, the edge of it softer.

“You talked over me in front of the whole floor, Abbot.”

A pause.

“…Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “I did.”

You looked up at that, because you hadn’t expected it. He was looking at his hands, forearms on his knees, that same careful stillness.

“You say things like that,” you said, more quietly now, “and then I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You can’t stand me because I push back,” he said. “That’s all it is.”

“Which is the same reason you argue with me.”

“We wouldn’t argue if you’d slow down long enough to see that sometimes the instinct call is the right one.”

“And sometimes the methodical one is,” you returned, without heat. “Neither of us is always right, Jack.”

He looked at you then. And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

“Hard calls aren’t always the right ones,” you said, eventually.

“No,” he agreed, which surprised you again. “They’re not.”

That small honesty didn’t resolve anything, exactly, but it loosened something in the air. You both retreated into quiet for a while, and you ended up stretched out on the cot, not really sleeping, just resting your eyes.

“So,” you said eventually, loud enough to carry across the room. He shifted in the chair, indicating he was listening. “Why are you so intent on not hearing me out?”

“I hear you out.”

“You hear me talk,” you corrected. “That’s different.”

A pause. “…Fair.”

“All that experience and you can’t stand being challenged by a resident.”

“I can stand it fine.” A beat. “It’s more that you challenge me like you’re not a resident.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was watching you, the way he did — steady, unreadable, but not unkind.

“When you’re not in combat mode,” you said, “you’re actually not terrible to work with.”

“High praise.”

“I mean it.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You’re a good doctor,” he said, simply, like he’d been sitting on it. “Better than most residents I’ve seen come through. That’s not nothing.”

You blinked. “…Thank you.”

“Don’t get used to it.” But there was something close to dry warmth in his voice.

“Are we in confession time right now?”

“Apparently.”

You stared at the ceiling again. “Okay then.” A breath. “That shift, two months ago—”

You felt him go still across the room before you even finished the sentence. You’d wondered when one of you was going to bring it up. Or if either of you would ever.

“The overnight after the pileup,” you said, since he wasn’t stopping you.

“Yeah,” he said, carefully. “I remember.”

“If Kwame hadn’t walked in when he did—”

“Don’t,” he said. Not harshly. Just quietly.

“I’m just asking.”

A long pause.

“I don’t know,” he said. Which meant he did.

FLASHBACK

It had been a brutal forty-eight hours.

The tail end of a double shift —your second in a row, covering for a sick colleague— and the ER had not let up. A multi-car pileup, a pediatric sepsis case that had everyone on edge, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, Jack had been in the thick of a SWAT callout that had gone longer and uglier than expected. He’d shown up at the end of the overnight still in tactical gear, blood on his sleeve that wasn’t his — mostly — and a gash along his forearm that he was absolutely refusing to acknowledge.

You’d noticed it when he reached past you for a chart.

“That needs to be looked at,” you said.

“It’s fine.”

“Abbot.”

“I said it’s fine.”

You’d looked at him directly, and he’d held your gaze for a second before his eyes cut away, the particular kind of surrender that wasn’t really surrender, just acknowledgment. He followed you to one of the empty curtained bays at the quieter end of the floor.

“Sit,” you said, snapping on a glove.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and you pulled the rolling stool close. This was the thing about Jack at the end of a long call — the combat-ready stillness was still there, but something underneath it was tired in a way he didn’t show anyone. You’d only seen it a handful of times.

You didn’t comment on it. Just worked.

You cleaned the gash carefully, assessing the depth, asking him in clipped clinical questions to keep him talking while you worked, not because you needed the distraction, but because silence with Jack at 4am felt like standing too close to something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Hold still,” you murmured, repositioning slightly to get a better angle.

“I am holding still.”

“You’re tensing.”

“That’s just how my arm looks.”

You glanced up at him. He was watching you work, attentive and unhurried, and for a second your eyes met and neither of you looked away immediately.

You refocused.

“This is going to need a couple of sutures,” you said.

“Fine.”

“You’re not going to argue with me?”

“On this one,” he said quietly, “no.”

You worked in silence after that. The floor was dim, the curtain drawn, and the particular hush of a hospital at 4am had settled over everything. You were close enough to him that you could feel the warmth of him, closer than you’d needed to get, technically, but you hadn’t moved back.

His free hand had drifted, at some point, to rest near your knee on the stool — not touching, just near.

You tied off the last suture, and when you looked up he was already looking at you.

“There,” you said, softer than you meant to.

“Thanks,” he said, equally quiet.

Neither of you moved for a moment. The space between you was very small.

Then his hand did move, slow and deliberate to the edge of the stool, and when you didn’t pull back, he tilted forward slightly, just enough, and when your eyes met again there was a question in his that you answered by closing the distance first, just barely, and then his mouth was on yours.

It was careful at first. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that had been thought about more than either of you had been willing to admit to yourselves.

His hand came up to the side of your face, and you’d caught the front of his tactical shirt in your fingers, and the quiet of the floor seemed to seal around the two of you—

“Yo, has anyone seen—” Kwame’s voice preceded the curtain being yanked back by about half a second. He stopped. Stared. “Oh. Oh damn. I-my bad. Sorry. I’ll— yeah.” The curtain closed again.

You both pulled back.

Jack pressed his lips together, looking at a point just past your shoulder.

You let go of his shirt.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

“I should finish charting,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said.

You both looked everywhere but at each other as you gathered the suture kit.

END OF FLASHBACK.

You knew what the unfinished question in Jack’s voice had meant. The same question lived in your own chest, coming back at inopportune moments, quiet moments, end-of-shift moments, the moments when you found yourself in the same corridor as him and had to actively choose not to look.

If Kwame hadn’t walked in, you didn’t know exactly how it would have ended. But you knew neither of you would have stopped.

Instead, you’d both been interrupted, and then pretended —very, very badly— that it hadn’t happened. Things didn’t get easier after that. If anything the tension shifted into something harder to name, not the hot friction of a straight-up argument, but something underneath it. A current.

Sometimes, in the middle of a disagreement with him, when his voice got that low, firm quality and he leaned in slightly without realizing it, all you wanted to do was close the distance and settle it some other way. Which was an insane thing to want. You were a resident. He was an attending. It was already complicated enough.

And Jack —who was not prone to thinking about things he couldn’t act on—had found, to his own quiet frustration, that he thought about it anyway.

You’d announced you were taking a shower mostly to get some space. The bathroom was small enough that the hot water ran out in under five minutes, which was probably fine, you didn’t need long. You just needed to stop being in the same twelve square feet as Jack Abbot for a little while.

It didn’t help.

The moment you were alone with the sound of the water and nothing else to focus on, your mind went exactly where you’d been keeping it from going all night. The curtained bay. 4am. His hand on the side of your face.

Damn him for bringing it up.

You’d managed, more or less, to keep it in a locked room in the back of your head for two months. You’d been professional. You’d been focused. You’d argued with him about triage protocols and talked yourself into believing that was all there was between you: friction, disagreement, the particular frustration of two people who were too similar in the ways that caused problems.

You turned off the water and stood there for a second, dripping, trying to recalibrate.

You reached for where you’d left your clothes.

They weren’t there.

You stood very still.

They were on the cot. Where you’d left them before you got in, because the bathroom had no counter space and you’d been distracted and hadn’t thought it through.

You wrapped the towel firmly around yourself, tucked the corner in, and opened the door.

Jack was sitting on the edge of the cot, your clothes next to him, which meant he’d noticed, which meant he’d been aware of it the whole time and hadn’t said anything. His head turned toward you the moment the door opened, instinctive, and his eyes moved over you once before he looked away. Deliberate. Respectful.

You crossed the room toward him. He looked up again when you were close, and the careful neutrality on his face had the particular quality of someone working to maintain it.

You reached for your clothes.

He stood up. Not for any reason you could name —there was no reason, the room was small but not that small— he just stood, and now he was right there, and he was taller than you in a way you were suddenly very aware of.

You looked at him. He looked at you.

You took one step closer, slow, measuring. And that was all it took before the thread holding both of you back finally, decisively, snapped.

Jack’s lips met yours with a certainty that surprised you, not rough, not tentative, just decided. Like a call he’d already made and was done second-guessing. Both his hands came up to frame your face, and you kissed him back, your fingers curling into the front of his scrub top.

It wasn’t a small kiss. It was the kind of kiss that had been sitting in the back of a throat for two months, getting heavier.

He pulled you closer by your hip, the towel the only thing between his hand and your skin, his fingers pressing in like he was trying to feel through it. You caught his lower lip between your teeth and felt him exhale hard through his nose, his grip tightening.

His tongue slid against yours and you grabbed a fistful of his hair, and the sound he made against your mouth —low, involuntary— sent heat straight down your spine.

The kiss deepened. All the friction of the last however-many hours, all the clashing and the arguing and the careful distance, collapsed into it. You tugged at his hair and he groaned into your mouth, his arm pulling you flush against him, trying to close every last inch of space between you.

He was the one who broke it.

His hand stayed on your hip, deliberate, so you’d know, and he pulled back just far enough to look at you, his breathing uneven. His eyes moved from yours to your mouth, to the line of your throat, then back up. Darker than usual.

The question was there without him having to say it.

You nodded. Once, clear.

That was enough.

His mouth was back on yours with the same certainty as before, and this time neither of you were holding anything back. You worked at the hem of his scrub top, pulling it over his head without breaking the kiss for more than a second, and the towel hit the floor a moment later, leaving you bare—your tits heavy and nipples already tight from the cool air and the heat of his gaze. His eyes raked over them, then lower, lingering on the slickness already glistening between your thighs.

His hands moved over you, warm and unhurried now that he wasn’t reining himself in anymore—one palm cupping the swell of your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you arched, the other sliding down to grip your ass and pull you tighter against the hard length of his cock straining through his scrubs.

You two found your way to the cot in a series of half-steps, his lips moving to your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder. It was narrow —barely wide enough for one person, let alone two— but neither of you suggested the floor and neither of you suggested doing this differently.

Stubborn. Both of you, constitutionally incapable of the easier option.

He laid you back against it and followed, caging you in, and when his mouth moved lower, to your collarbone, the valley of your tits, he took one nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, tongue flicking over the peak before switching to the other. Your hand stayed tangled in his hair, and you let yourself stop thinking about anything except this.

He was thorough. Annoyingly, devastatingly thorough, in the same way he was thorough about everything, like he was making up his mind about something and wasn’t going to be rushed. His mouth traced a slow path down your stomach and lower, spreading your thighs with steady hands. When his lips pressed to the inside of your thigh you made a sound that you immediately wanted to reclaim.

“Jack—”

“Yeah?” His breath was warm against your skin, so close to your cunt you could feel the heat of it.

“You know what.”

He pressed a kiss just below your knee. “Not sure I do.”

“Don’t—” He kissed the inside of your knee. “—be a—” the middle of your thigh— “—you know what you’re doing.”

You could feel him almost smiling against your skin. “I really don’t.”

His breath ghosted over your clit and you tried to close your legs on instinct, more out of principle than anything else. He stopped it easily with one forearm across your thighs, and when he looked up at you the expression on his face was the same one he got when he knew he’d made the right call and was waiting for you to admit it.

You hated it. You also needed him to keep going immediately.

“Fine,” you said, with as much dignity as you could manage flat on your back. “Please.”

“Was that so hard?”

“Incredibly.”

He laughed,— a real one, quiet and warm— and then his mouth was on your cunt, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling slow circles before flicking fast over the swollen bud. His fingers parted your folds, sliding two thick ones inside your wet heat, curling against that spot while his tongue worked your clit relentlessly.

You were right at the edge embarrassingly fast, your breathing wrecked, your hips pressing toward his mouth without permission, cunt clenching around his fingers… when he stopped.

Pulled back. Completely.

“What—” you opened your eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

He was looking at you with that infuriating almost-smirk, his chin resting on the inside of your thigh like he had all the time in the world, lips shiny with your arousal.

“Jack.”

“You were saying?”

“I will actually never speak to you again.”

“Mm.” He pressed a single soft kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, tongue dipping once more into your cunt just to tease. “No you won’t.”

He was right, which made it worse. You grabbed his hair again in something that was closer to dragging than guiding, and he came willingly, his body covering yours, his mouth back on your throat.

“I hate you,” you told him.

“Yeah,” he said, against your collarbone. “You mentioned.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure.” His lips curved against your skin. “You want me to stop?”

“If you stop I will end you.”

He laughed again, and then his hips shifted against yours. He shoved his scrubs and boxers down just enough to free his cock—thick, hard, the head already slick—and dragged it through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your entrance and brushing your clit with every slow pass until you whimpered.

The pace he set wasn’t slow. Neither of you had the patience for slow at this point. He thrust in deep in one smooth stroke, filling your cunt completely, stretching you around his cock. The cot frame protested audibly with every movement, knocking rhythmically against the wall as he fucked into you hard and steady, and at some point one of the legs gave a sharp crack —not breaking, just threatening to— and you both stilled for half a second.

You looked at each other.

“If we break this cot,” you said, “I’m blaming you.”

“Obviously,” he said, and his hips rolled against yours again, cock driving deeper, hitting that spot that made your eyes roll back, and you forgot what you were going to say next.

He’d shifted the angle slightly, and you felt it differently now, his pelvic bone grinding against your clit with every thrust, his cock dragging along your walls, filling you over and over. Your nails found his back and stayed there, and he made a low sound that rumbled against your ear, and all the careful professional distance of the last two months burned off completely.

When you came it was with your cunt pulsing hard around his cock, walls clenching tight, thighs shaking, your face pressed into his shoulder and his name leaving your lips in a way you’d never said it before. He followed shortly after, thrusting deep one last time as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his breath rough and uneven at your ear, cock twitching with each pulse.

Then everything went quiet except the two of you trying to remember how to breathe.

He didn’t immediately move off you. His weight settled, cock still softening inside your pussy, and you let it.

After a while he shifted to the side, which on a cot this narrow meant he was still pressed against you, one arm crooked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. You stayed where you were, recovering, feeling the slow drip of his cum leaking out of you.

“That was—” you started.

“Yeah,” he said.

“We’re going to have to talk about this.”

“I know.”

“Not right now.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not right now.”

You were quiet for a moment. The on-call room felt different than it had four hours ago. Smaller, warmer, the fluorescent hum somehow less hostile.

“You still think your triage call was right,” you said.

“I do,” he said. “You?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Good,” he hummed, and there was something almost satisfied in it. “I’d be worried if you’d changed your mind.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was already looking at you, that steady, attentive quality he had, the one that had annoyed you for months and that you understood now, in a different way.

“You’re impossible,” you told him.

“So are you,” he agreed. And then, quieter: “It’s not the worst thing.”

You looked at him for another moment. Then you settled back, shoulder against his, and stared at the water-stained ceiling of the on-call room.

“When they let us out of here,” you said, “this is going to be complicated.”

“Probably.”

“Are you worried about that?”

He considered it, the way he considered most things, fully, without rushing.

“No,”

You thought about it.

“Me neither,” you said.

Outside, the hospital kept going. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed. A gurney wheel squeaked past the door. The shift went on without you.

You should’ve expected it, honestly. Thinking he’d stay. Letting yourself believe that maybe there was actually something between you beyond lingering looks and late-night conversations in empty hallways.

You felt stupid.

Waking up to Jack’s side of the bed—your bed—cold and untouched, with no note, no text, nothing to indicate he’d even been there after you’d finally fallen asleep.

Your stomach dropped so hard it made you nauseous.

For a few seconds, you just stared at the empty space beside you, blanket wrinkled where he’d been hours earlier. The faint smell of his cologne still clung to the sheets, stubborn and cruel. Your chest ached so suddenly your eyes burned.

Rolling onto your back, you looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard.

You should’ve seen this coming.

You should’ve known better than to read into it.

Jack was kind. Attentive. Easy to fall for if you weren’t careful. And you hadn’t been careful at all.

A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand over your face. God, this was humiliating.

You’d spent so long wanting him that somewhere along the line, your brain had started turning every small thing into something bigger. The lingering touches. The way his voice softened around you. The looks that lasted just a second too long.

And last night—

Last night had felt real.

Not rushed. Not careless. He’d touched you like you mattered. Like he wanted to memorize you. Afterwards, he’d stayed tangled up with you beneath the blankets, warm and half-asleep, his hand resting lazily against your waist while the early morning light spilled across your apartment.

You’d let yourself think maybe this meant something.

Maybe that had been your mistake.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you finally forced yourself to sit up. The apartment felt too quiet now, almost painfully so. Your eyes flicked toward the bedroom doorway half-expecting him to appear somehow, apologetic and disheveled, explaining that he’d just gone to grab coffee or something equally stupid.

But the apartment stayed silent.

Of course it did.

You pushed yourself out of bed and grabbed some comfortable clothes before heading to the bathroom. The floor felt cold beneath your feet. Everything did.

The shower steamed quickly, fogging the mirror while you stood beneath the hot water longer than necessary, trying not to think about him.

It didn’t work.

Your mind replayed everything anyway.

The way he’d looked at you across the room for weeks now. The hesitant flirting. The tension that had built so slowly it almost felt inevitable. The way he’d kissed you last night—careful at first, like he was giving you the chance to stop him.

You’d liked Jack for God knows how long. Longer than you wanted to admit.

And stupidly, selfishly, you thought maybe he felt the same.

You thought last night had been some kind of turning point at the very least. That maybe things would be different now.

He’d been everything you imagined. Gentle when you needed him to be, teasing when he noticed you getting nervous, warm in a way that made you feel safe enough to forget yourself for a while.

Which honestly just made this hurt worse.

Maybe it was for the best that he wasn’t there.

Because if he had stayed only to tell you it didn’t mean anything, you weren’t sure you could’ve handled hearing it out loud.

As you stepped out of the shower, warm steam curling around the bathroom, you reached automatically for the towel hanging nearby and wrapped it tightly around yourself. The fabric clung damply to your skin while you stood there for a moment, staring at your blurred reflection in the mirror.

God, you looked exhausted.

Maybe it was a good thing you had today off.

At least this way, you didn’t have to walk into work pretending everything was fine. You didn’t have to deal with knowing looks or questions or the possibility of running into Jack before you’d figured out how to act normal again.

The thought alone made your stomach twist.

You could stay home. Hide for a day. Nurse your wounded ego in private.

Because really, what had you expected?

That he’d stay the morning? Make coffee? Kiss your forehead before leaving? Maybe linger awkwardly in your kitchen while the two of you tried to navigate whatever this was supposed to become?

The more you thought about it, the more embarrassed you felt for ever imagining it in the first place.

Jack hadn’t promised you anything.

That was the worst part.

He hadn’t lied. Hadn’t manipulated you. He’d just…left.

And somehow that hurt more.

You wiped a hand across the fogged mirror before looking away again almost immediately. Your chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of disappointment you couldn’t even fully justify.

Because technically, nothing bad had happened.

Two adults slept together. That was it.

Except it hadn’t felt casual to you.

That was the problem.

Drying off slowly, you tried to focus on anything other than the memory of him in your bed. The warmth of his hand against your waist. His tired voice sometime in the middle of the night asking if you were okay. The way he’d looked at you like you were something fragile and precious all at once.

Your throat tightened.

You needed to stop replaying it before you drove yourself insane.

Today would be easy. Quiet. You’d clean the apartment, maybe order takeout, maybe sleep half the afternoon away. Anything to keep your mind occupied long enough for the ache in your chest to dull into something manageable.

You could get over one stupid night.

You had to.

* * *

Jack couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat.

It sat there heavily as he drove, fingers tightening against the steering wheel every time his mind drifted back to the night before—which was constantly.

Your smile.

Your laugh.

The way you’d looked at him like you actually wanted him there.

And then the memory that followed immediately after: slipping out of your apartment while you slept peacefully in bed behind him, too much of a coward to stay long enough to face the morning after.

Jack Abbott wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he hadn’t enjoyed himself.

He did.

God, he did.

He was with you.

That alone had felt dangerous enough.

But sometime during the night, after the adrenaline and want had settled into something quieter, something softer, panic started creeping in beneath his ribs. Slow at first. Then all at once.

The intimacy. The closeness. The domesticity of it all.

Your head resting against his chest. Your sleepy voice mumbling his name. The way you’d curled closer to him in your sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It started to suffocate him.

Not because he didn’t want it.

Because he wanted it too much.

Jack liked you—a lot more than he should’ve allowed himself to. And that was exactly the problem.

There were too many things stacked against this from the beginning. The age difference. His leg. The baggage he carried around everywhere no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

And then there was the biggest thing of all.

His wife.

Even now, years later, the word still hollowed something out inside him.

When he lost her, it felt like losing entire pieces of himself alongside her. She’d been sick for so long that grief had settled into their home before death ever officially arrived. By the end, everything smelled like hospitals and medication and exhaustion.

He remembered sitting beside her hospital bed late one night, her hand frail and cool in his while machines hummed softly around them.

“You can’t hide behind me forever,” she’d said quietly.

Jack’s throat tightened painfully at the memory.

Her eyes had been glassy with exhaustion, but she’d still managed that stubborn little smile he used to love so much.

“You will find someone else,” she told him. “You will be happy. You will live. Do you hear me?”

He remembered shaking his head immediately. Like the idea itself offended him.

But she’d squeezed his hand with surprising strength.

“Jack.”

He’d tried.

He really had.

He went through the motions after she died. Learned how to exist again. Learned how to go to work and laugh at jokes and survive holidays and come home to an empty house without feeling like he was drowning every second of the day.

But moving on?

That part felt impossible.

Because every time he started wanting something again—wanting someone—guilt wrapped around his throat like a hand.

And with you, it was worse.

You made him feel calm in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Less exhausted. Less haunted. You made him feel like himself again, or at least a version of himself he thought had died alongside her.

That terrified him more than anything.

So he ran.

Like a coward.

Jack grimaced, dragging a hand down his face as he stopped at a red light. He could already picture your reaction when you woke up. Confusion first. Then hurt.

Maybe embarrassment.

The thought made his chest ache.

You probably thought he regretted it.

Maybe part of him did—not because of you, never because of you—but because now there was no pretending this was harmless anymore.

He’d crossed a line emotionally long before last night. Sleeping with you had only made it impossible to ignore.

Jack would understand if you hated him after this. If you decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

He left without a word. Without an explanation. Without even giving you the chance to wake up beside him.

Who does that to someone they care about?

The answer came immediately.

Someone selfish.

Jack let out a humorless laugh under his breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.

Maybe being alone was just something he deserved.

* * *

By the time Jack’s shift rolled around, he still felt like shit.

Barely slept. Barely ate. Spent most of the morning replaying every stupid decision he’d made in the last twelve hours until his head hurt.

And somehow, walking into the hospital made it worse.

Because there was a very real chance he’d see you.

“You look awful,” Robby stated casually as he fell into step beside him toward the locker room.

Jack snorted dryly, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder. “How nice of you.”

“I’m serious,” Robby said, glancing over at him. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it too.”

Robby let out a quiet hum before smirking slightly. “What’s gotten you all pissed off? Didn’t you go home with Honey last night?”

Jack’s throat tightened instantly at the nickname.

You.

The memory hit him hard and fast—your laugh at the bar, your hand brushing his arm, the way you’d smiled against his mouth later that night like you couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.

His chest twisted painfully.

“Nothing happened,” Jack lied.

The words came too easily. Too practiced.

Robby shot him a look that practically screamed bullshit.

Jack avoided it, jaw tightening as he pushed through the locker room doors. He could already feel irritation prickling beneath his skin, sharp and restless. Mostly at himself.

“Really?” Robby followed after him, unconvinced. “Because at the bar, you guys were practically all over each other.”

Jack said nothing, yanking open his locker harder than necessary.

“Not to mention all the flirting before that,” Robby continued. “I mean, everyone’s been noticing it for—”

“Can we just drop this?” Jack snapped.

The harshness in his voice cut through the room immediately.

Robby blinked, caught off guard.

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting it, but the guilt and anxiety clawing around inside him had left him with almost no patience for this conversation.

For any conversation, honestly.

Robby studied him for a second longer, expression shifting from teasing to something more cautious.

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Jesus.”

Jack dragged a hand down his face and looked away, shoulders tense. He could feel Robby still standing there beside him, probably trying to figure out what the hell had happened between last night and now.

Jack wished he knew too.

Because last night had been good. More than good.

It had felt easy being with you. Natural in a way that scared the hell out of him. Somewhere between your apartment and waking up beside you this morning, something inside him had started spiraling.

And now he was here, exhausted and miserable and completely unraveling.

“Look,” Robby said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Whatever happened…you should probably talk to her.”

Jack’s stomach dropped.

He busied himself changing into his scrubs just to avoid reacting.

“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, though the word sounded hollow even to him.

Because he should.

But he had no idea what he’d even say.

* * *

You were sprawled across your couch by the time evening settled in, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table alongside crumpled napkins and a glass of water you kept forgetting to drink.

The apartment was dim except for the television casting flickering light across the room.

You’d spent most of the day trying not to think.

It hadn’t worked.

Every distraction eventually circled back to Jack somehow. Folding laundry reminded you of him leaving his shirt on your bedroom floor. Making coffee reminded you that he hadn’t stayed long enough for morning coffee in the first place. Even the silence in your apartment felt wrong now, too big and empty after having him there the night before.

It was pathetic, honestly.

One night.

That was all it took to completely throw you off balance.

You flipped absently through channels, not really watching anything. Some sitcom laugh track filled the apartment for a few seconds before you changed it again with a grimace.

Nothing held your attention long enough.

Your chest still felt bruised.

When your phone buzzed loudly beside you, you startled slightly before grabbing it off the couch cushion. Trinity’s name lit up across the screen.

You let out a dramatic groan before answering.

“Hello?” you muttered, already exhausted.

“You sound like shit.”

Of course it was Trinity.

You closed your eyes briefly, sinking further into the couch. Her shift would be ending around now, which explained the call. Apparently your misery had become detectable through the phone.

“What do you want?” you sighed. “It’s late.”

“It’s seven.”

You groaned louder this time, dragging a hand over your face.

“Fine, whatever,” you mumbled. “What?”

“Just checking in on you.”

“Oh, I’m doing great,” you replied flatly, stabbing your takeout with more force than necessary. “Absolutely fantastic.”

Trinity hummed knowingly on the other end of the line.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I can tell.”

You shoved food into your mouth mostly to avoid talking.

For a second, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched just long enough to make your stomach tighten uneasily.

Then—

“Look,” Trinity started carefully, “I saw Abbot come in.”

Your grip tightened around the fork immediately.

“He looked awful.”

Something in your chest twisted painfully at that, equal parts concern and anger.

You hated that you still cared.

“Did something happen?” she asked gently.

You stared blankly at the muted television.

A couple on-screen laughed at some joke you couldn’t hear.

“I don’t really want to talk about him,” you said quietly.

Trinity paused.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “That bad?”

You let out a humorless laugh under your breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

The embarrassing part was that technically nothing catastrophic had even happened. No screaming fight. No betrayal. No cruel words exchanged.

Jack just left.

And somehow that hurt enough to hollow you out anyway.

“I overheard him talking to Robby earlier,” Trinity continued cautiously. “He told him nothing happened between you guys.”

Everything in you went still.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.

You stared down at your untouched food, throat tightening painfully as heat rushed to your face.

He said that?

For a second, you genuinely thought you might be sick.

“Is that true?” Trinity asked carefully.

The silence on your end probably answered for her.

You swallowed hard, trying to force your expression back into something neutral even though she couldn’t see you.

“Yeah,” you stammered finally, your voice sounding thinner than you intended. “Nothing happened.”

The lie scraped against your throat.

Trinity immediately caught it.

“Okay, no,” she said firmly. “I know that voice.”

You pressed your lips together hard enough for it to ache.

“Look, if he did something—”

“He didn’t,” you interrupted quickly. Too quickly. “I promise. I’m fine, okay?”

Fine.

Right.

You were currently sitting alone in your apartment trying not to cry over a man who apparently told people nothing happened between you after spending the night in your bed.

Fine wasn’t exactly the word for it.

Trinity went quiet for a moment.

When she spoke again, her voice softened.

“I’m coming over.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Trin—”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m not in the mood,” you said quickly, sitting upright now. “Please don’t.”

“Huckleberry will survive one night without me.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly at the mention of Dennis.

It disappeared just as quickly.

“Trinity,” you sighed tiredly. “I really just want to be alone right now.”

“No,” she replied bluntly. “You think you do.”

You dropped your head back against the couch cushion with a frustrated groan.

“I’m coming into work tomorrow,” you muttered weakly, like that somehow fixed things.

“So am I.”

“I mean it,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your voice now. “Can you just leave me alone?”

The question came out quieter than you intended.

Smaller.

And that seemed to hit Trinity immediately.

Her tone gentled again.

“You’re in the middle of a crisis,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Your throat tightened so painfully you couldn’t respond.

Because that was the worst part, wasn’t it?

You felt ridiculous for hurting this much.

Nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

* * *

You didn’t even bother trying to look presentable by the time Trinity showed up.

There didn’t seem to be a point.

You were still wearing one of your oldest oversized shirts, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath your eyes. The takeout containers were still scattered across the coffee table exactly where you’d left them, the television still playing quietly in the background more for noise than entertainment.

The knock at the door came sooner than you expected.

You opened it slowly, immediately spotting the duffel bag slung over Trinity’s shoulder and the look on her face.

A mixture of concern and irritation.

Your stomach twisted.

“You’re fine my ass,” she said the second she stepped inside.

You rolled your eyes weakly, stepping aside so she could enter.

Trinity brushed past you into the dining area like she owned the place, dropping the duffel bag heavily onto the table before unzipping it with purpose.

“What’d he do anyway?”

You lingered awkwardly a few feet behind her, arms folding tightly across yourself. You still felt strangely numb from the phone call earlier. Numb from the entire day, honestly. Like your body had just decided to shut parts of itself down to keep from fully processing the embarrassment of all this.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled.

Even saying the words made heat crawl up your neck.

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

Trinity stopped rummaging through the bag long enough to shoot you a dry look over her shoulder.

“It’s not stupid if it upset you this much.”

Your eyes dropped immediately.

That somehow made it worse.

Because you were upset. Mortifyingly upset. More upset than you had any right to be after one night together.

But it wasn’t really just one night, was it?

It was weeks—months—of tension and hope and carefully buried feelings finally bubbling over into something real. Or at least you thought it was real.

That was the humiliating part.

You’d let yourself believe it meant something more to him too.

Trinity turned back to the bag and started unloading supplies onto the table.

Two large bottles of alcohol.

A bag of chips.

More snacks.

You blinked. “Jesus.”

“I came prepared.”

Despite everything clawing at your chest, a weak laugh almost escaped you.

Almost.

You leaned heavily against the doorway instead, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

“Abbot and I hooked up,” you admitted finally.

The words came out flat. Hollow.

Trinity froze mid-motion.

A heavy silence filled the room as she slowly turned to look at you properly.

“…Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked carefully after a moment. “You’ve been thirsting over him for how long now?”

Normally, the comment would’ve embarrassed you enough to protest.

Now it just hurt.

You swallowed hard, staring somewhere over her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes.

“He left before I woke up, Trinity,” you said quietly.

The room felt painfully still.

“And you told me he’s going around saying nothing happened.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.

You hated yourself for it immediately.

Trinity’s expression hardened almost instantly.

“Oh.”

You looked away quickly, jaw tightening as emotion surged hot and ugly in your chest again.

The worst part was how badly you wanted there to be some explanation. Some reasonable excuse for why he left like that.

An emergency call.

Panic.

Regret.

Anything.

Because the alternative—the possibility that last night genuinely meant more to you than it did to him—felt unbearable.

Trinity nodded slowly, crossing her arms.

“So he’s a dick.”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because even now, even after the humiliation and hurt and confusion, some pathetic part of you still wanted to defend him.

Jack had been kind to you. Gentle. Careful with you in ways that didn’t feel fake.

People didn’t look at someone like that if they felt nothing…right?

Your chest tightened painfully.

Unless you imagined all of it.

Trinity stepped closer, her voice firmer this time.

“He’s a dick,” she repeated. “I don’t care what his reason was. You don’t do that to someone.”

You rubbed tiredly at your face.

“I don’t know if I want to be mad at him,” you admitted softly, “or myself.”

And there it was.

The awful truth sitting underneath all the hurt.

You missed him already.

Trinity’s expression softened immediately.

“Oh, Honey.”

The sympathy in her voice nearly undid you.

“I’ll help you get over him,” she said gently after a moment.

You let out a weak laugh. “That might take a while.”

“Not tonight,” she continued, ignoring that. “Tonight we’re drinking.”

She grabbed one of the bottles and held it up slightly.

“Tomorrow we can spiral. Only a little, though.”

Another reluctant laugh escaped you, watery around the edges.

“And once you’re in a good place,” Trinity added, finally smiling a little, “you’ll go guy hunting.”

You snorted quietly, shaking your head.

“That sounds horrific.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Trinity nudged your shoulder lightly as she passed.

“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got time.”

Something in your chest ached again at the casual warmth of it.

Because right now, with Jack pulling away and your pride lying in pieces somewhere beneath the weight of the last twenty-four hours, Trinity showing up anyway felt dangerously close to enough to make you cry.

* * *

By the time morning rolled around and your alarm started blaring from somewhere beneath the couch cushions, you were immediately aware of the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes.

You groaned quietly, squinting against the weak morning light filtering through the apartment windows.

Right.

You and Trinity had apparently decided that splitting an entire bottle of whiskey on a work night was a reasonable coping mechanism.

In your defense, it had briefly worked.

Somewhere between drunkenly ranting about emotionally unavailable men and Trinity threatening to fight Jack in the hospital parking lot, the ache in your chest had dulled enough for you to breathe again.

Unfortunately, now you just felt emotionally devastated and hungover.

Fantastic.

You fumbled for your phone, finally silencing the alarm before letting your head fall back against the couch cushion with a miserable sigh.

At least you weren’t sick.

You’d dealt with enough brutal hangovers in college to know this could’ve been much worse. Still, the headache pulsing through your skull and the sluggish heaviness dragging at your limbs told you pretty clearly that you weren’t exactly going to be operating at full capacity today.

Which was unfortunate considering you had to spend the next twelve hours pretending your life wasn’t actively imploding.

Fuck.

You slowly pushed yourself upright, wincing immediately at the stiffness in your neck from sleeping on the couch. The television was off now, but the aftermath of last night remained scattered across the coffee table—empty glasses, crumpled snack wrappers, half-open takeout containers.

The apartment smelled faintly like alcohol and regret.

Honestly fitting.

A quiet groan pulled your attention downward.

Trinity was sprawled out on the floor beside the couch, somehow still asleep despite your alarm going off for nearly a full minute. One of your couch cushions was shoved beneath her head at an awkward angle, and your throw blanket barely covered half her body.

You stared at her for a second.

“…You look dead.”

She responded with an incoherent mumble.

You nudged her lightly with your foot.

“We’re gonna be late for work,” you muttered, your own voice rough with sleep.

Trinity made a wounded noise into the cushion.

You scrubbed both hands over your face before grimacing immediately at the taste in your mouth.

Jesus.

Your expression twisted in disgust.

“I think my breath just violated several human rights.”

That finally got Trinity to crack an eye open.

“You’re so dramatic in the morning,” she mumbled.

“And you smell like whiskey.”

“So do you.”

Fair.

You sighed heavily, glancing toward the hallway. The thought of going into work today made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

Because Jack would be there.

The reality settled heavily over you again, chasing away the remaining haze of sleep almost instantly.

You’d have to see him.

Pretend things were normal.

Pretend hearing that he told people “nothing happened” hadn’t quietly shattered something inside you.

Your chest tightened.

God, this was going to suck.

“Did you bring a change of clothes?” you asked, forcing your thoughts elsewhere.

Trinity hummed vaguely in response, still half-buried in the floor.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said, shuffling toward the bathroom with all the grace of a dying Victorian woman. Every part of your body felt sluggish and heavy, like sleep and alcohol still clung stubbornly to your skin.

“If you’re not ready when I’m done,” you added tiredly, “I’m leaving without you.”

Trinity slowly lifted her head from the cushion, squinting at you with narrowed, deeply offended eyes.

“You’re cruel,” she muttered.

You snorted weakly.

“No,” you corrected. “We’re stupid for drinking that much when we both had work the next day.”

“Worth it,” she grumbled immediately.

You paused in the hallway, glancing back at her.

And despite everything—the headache, the exhaustion, the dread already coiling in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jack—you felt something small in your chest loosen.

Because you hadn’t been alone last night.

Trinity noticed your expression soften slightly and pointed at you accusingly.

“Don’t get emotional,” she warned. “I’m too hungover to comfort you right now.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Small. Tired. Fragile.

But real.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Trinity mumbled, finally dragging herself upright with the energy of someone being forced out of a grave.

You shook your head faintly before disappearing into the bathroom.

The second the door shut behind you, though, your smile faded.

And there it was again.

That ache.

The one sitting quietly beneath everything else. Beneath the hangover and exhaustion and forced laughter.

Jack.

You leaned heavily against the sink for a moment, staring at your reflection.

Then, quietly—

“You need to get it together.”

Because in less than an hour, you’d have to look him in the eye like he hadn’t hurt you at all.

Trinity had been quick to kick you out of your own bathroom the second you finished getting ready.

“You’ve used up your allotted hot water privileges,” she’d informed you through the door while you were still brushing your teeth.

Now, dressed in clean scrubs and feeling only marginally more human, you leaned against the kitchen counter sipping weak coffee while waiting for her to finish.

The shower had helped a little.

At the very least, you no longer looked like you’d crawled out from the wreckage of an emotional catastrophe.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean you felt much better.

Your body still carried the sluggish heaviness of too little sleep and too much alcohol, and somewhere beneath the lingering hangover sat the dull, constant ache of having to face Jack today.

Twelve hours.

Twelve whole hours of pretending you were fine.

You could do that.

Probably.

Hopefully.

The bathroom door finally opened, releasing a cloud of steam before Trinity sauntered out adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie.

“You look less tragic now,” she announced.

“Thank you,” you deadpanned.

“You still look tragic,” she added after a beat. “Just…slightly moisturized.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag from beside the couch.

The walk to the bus stop was quiet at first. Morning air bit lightly against your skin while the city slowly woke around you, traffic humming in the distance. Your stomach twisted tighter the closer it got to shift change.

You kept thinking about walking through those hospital doors.

About seeing him.

About not knowing how he’d look at you after all this.

Would he act normal?

Awkward?

Distant?

Would he avoid you entirely?

The uncertainty was eating you alive.

“You sure you don’t want me fighting Abbot?” Trinity asked suddenly beside you, pulling her hair into a ponytail as the two of you stopped near the curb. “Because I’m not above a good fight.”

A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Don’t waste your time,” you said, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Besides, I’m trying to hype myself up for my man-hunting phase.”

Trinity let out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, that makes one of us.”

You glanced sideways at her.

“Oh?”

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, expression flattening.

“Garcia still icing you out?” you guessed.

Trinity scoffed softly.

“She’s more of a fuck-and-have-ramen-after kind of gal.”

The attempt at casualness didn’t quite land.

You caught the slight tightness in her voice immediately.

“She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want anything beyond casual.”

Something uncomfortable settled in your stomach at that.

At least Garcia told her.

At least Trinity wasn’t left waking up alone wondering whether any of it meant something at all.

Guilt bubbled low and sour in your chest almost instantly.

Not toward Trinity.

Toward yourself.

Because part of you still felt ridiculous for being this hurt over Jack. Like maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you’d built the whole thing up too much in your head.

But then you remembered him looking at you so softly the night before.

Remembered the warmth of his hand against your skin. The way he’d stayed tangled up with you afterward instead of leaving immediately.

And then you remembered waking up alone.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Is there anyone else you’re interested in?” you asked quietly, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling further.

Trinity shrugged.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

You hummed softly in acknowledgment just as the bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes.

The doors folded open.

You followed Trinity inside, both of you moving sluggishly from exhaustion as you found seats near the back. The bus smelled faintly like coffee and damp jackets, morning commuters staring blankly ahead in silence.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You rested your head lightly against the cool window, watching the city blur past outside while anxiety churned steadily beneath your ribs.

The closer you got to work, the worse it became.

You hated this.

Hated that one person suddenly had this much power over your mood. Hated that the thought of seeing Jack again made your stomach knot with equal parts longing and dread.

Beside you, Trinity glanced over quietly.

“It’s probably for the best we’re on day shift,” she said after a moment.

You frowned faintly. “Why?”

“There’s more options on day shift anyway.”

You snorted softly, immediately understanding what she meant.

“Right,” you muttered. “The man-hunting thing.”

“Exactly.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging weakly at your mouth before fading almost instantly.

“If you say so.”

Because right now, the idea of looking at anyone that wasn’t Jack somehow felt impossible.

And that was probably the most pathetic part of all.

* * *

Once you arrived at the Pitt, you felt yourself tense almost immediately.

It was instinctive. Unconscious.

The second those familiar hospital doors slid open and the sharp scent of antiseptic hit your nose, your body seemed to remember before your mind fully caught up.

Jack would be here.

Morning handovers. Patient updates. Shift overlap.

There was no avoiding him.

Your stomach twisted painfully as you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, forcing yourself to keep walking beside Trinity.

You just had to act normal.

That was the goal.

Be professional. Be mature. Don’t let him see that he’d gotten under your skin this badly.

You could survive twelve hours.

Probably.

The emergency department buzzed around you the moment you stepped fully onto the floor. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Stretchers rolling past. Nurses moving quickly between stations while doctors rattled off orders over exhausted conversations.

Normally the chaos would stress you out.

Today, it almost felt comforting.

Familiar.

Grounding.

The Pitt had a way of swallowing personal problems whole if you let it. There was always another patient, another emergency, another crisis demanding your attention before you could spend too long drowning in your own thoughts.

You needed that today.

Needed something louder than your own heartbreak.

You followed Trinity deeper into the department, trying to focus on the movement around you instead of the nervous pounding in your chest.

Then you heard his voice.

Low. Rough with exhaustion.

Your entire body reacted before you even saw him.

You looked up automatically just as Jack exited one of the trauma rooms with Shen close behind him, the two of them discussing something quietly.

He looked terrible.

Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily across his features. His shoulders seemed tighter than usual, posture rigid in that way people got when they were running purely on caffeine and stubbornness.

Like he was holding himself together with tape and string.

Your chest ached immediately.

Which honestly just annoyed you at this point.

Because really? After everything, your heart still fluttered the second you saw him?

Pathetic.

Jack glanced up mid-conversation.

For one brief, terrible second, your eyes met.

And there it was.

That awful pull.

Something in his expression shifted instantly the moment he saw you. Like surprise mixed with guilt mixed with something softer he couldn’t quite hide in time.

Your stomach flipped painfully.

You looked away so fast it almost made your neck hurt.

Before he could notice how affected you still were.

Before you could start hoping he’d stop you.

Say something.

Anything.

Beside him, Shen continued talking, oblivious, but Jack had stopped hearing almost every word coming out of his mouth.

Because you were here.

And you wouldn’t look at him.

The realization landed heavily in his chest.

He watched you turn away immediately after spotting him, watched your shoulders tense subtly as you kept walking beside Trinity like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t spent the last twelve hours replaying your face in his head over and over again.

Guilt twisted viciously beneath his ribs.

Of course you were avoiding him.

What else did he expect after what he did?

Jack swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away before he did something stupid like follow after you.

Because the expression on your face just now—

You looked hurt.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Hurt.

And somehow that felt worse.

“Abbot?”

Shen’s voice snapped him back into the present.

Jack blinked once, dragging a hand tiredly down his face.

“Sorry,” he muttered roughly. “What were you saying?”

Meanwhile, you forced yourself to keep moving.

Professional.

Normal.

Fine.

You could do this.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dana called from the nurses’ station, dry amusement lacing her voice the second she spotted you approaching.

Beside you, Trinity snorted.

“Hey, Dana.”

You tried for a smile despite the way your pulse still hammered unevenly beneath your skin.

“Hope you had a nice day off, Honey,” Dana added casually, though the knowing glint in her eyes made heat immediately creep up your neck.

You wondered briefly if everyone at this hospital could smell emotional disaster on people.

“No different than any other day,” you said carefully.

The lie felt brittle.

Dana hummed softly, clearly unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t push.

She turned back toward the chart in front of her.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, grateful for the escape.

But even as you started settling into work mode, pulling yourself into the rhythm of the department, you could still feel it.

Jack’s presence somewhere behind you.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

And despite every effort not to, some awful part of you was still painfully aware of him.

——

Since speaking to Jack, you’ve made it more than clear that if he’d just make up his mind, you would have no problem settling down. You enjoy his company more than the sex. You enjoy cooking for him when he walks into your apartment like a zombie after long shifts. You enjoy the domestic qualities of your whatever-ship – even if they only last a few days, weeks, or months. When you have long conversations about nothing and everything – from your childhood nicknames to your favorite character in a stupid children’s movie –  you can easily imagine your life with him five years down the road. 

But when things become too real, too serious, too lovey-dovey, he pulls away and claims he’s not in the right headspace. 

‘I’m always at work. I can’t be there for you like you want me to.’ 

‘You should find someone else that’s serious.’ 

‘You’re too good for me.’

‘I’m just a depressed widow missing a fucking leg. I’m holding you back.’

Now, the excuse is that he doesn’t go to therapy enough. 

You don’t make a big deal out of it this time around. You don’t shut down and bawl into your hands while he hugs you. You don’t hide in your room and choose isolation for weeks instead of going out and finding someone new to hook up with. 

You just stand up and head to the bathroom. You turn the shower on and let the room fill with steam while you pump face wash into your palm. “If that’s what you need, I won’t fight you on it.” 

“I still want you in my life,” Jack tells you. 

You stare at his reflection for a few seconds with pure confusion. “I can’t be your friend,” you tell him. You get back to scrubbing the makeup and sweat from your face while an even more confused Jack lingers behind you. 

“Well, why not?” 

“Because we have sex and we were really close to getting into a relationship.” 

“Can we try?” 

“To be friends or get into a relationship?” 

“What do you want?” 

“For you to make up your mind,” you state. “But whatever you want, I guess. I don’t want anything happening to you because you lost your favorite fuck.” 

Jack makes a sound that closely resembles a dying hyena. “What does that even mean?” 

“That I’m the girl you love to fuck the most. You know, among all the other women you fuck.” 

“Don’t say fuck,” he admonishes. 

“Sorry,” you laugh. “Shall I say, make love?” 

Jack groans and presses his body against your back. “You’re not a favorite fuck. There’s also not a million other women I have sex with. You’re the only one.” 

You bend down to wash your face off and try to fight off the lump in your throat. You want to ask him why he’s struggling so hard to commit to you when he enjoys your presence. And, it’s only you he has in his house and his bed. 

Figuring that out will probably give you a massive headache, so you choose to brush it off and accept whatever offer he throws at you.

“Your shift starts soon,” you say as you wipe your face off. “You should go.” 

He nods and slowly backs out of the bathroom. He doesn’t kiss you or tell you goodbye. He just grabs his stuff off the bedroom floor and walks out. 

Week 1 of the Situation. Jack. 

Jack can’t stop rubbing his chest as he makes the short drive back to his apartment. He’s had to pull over a few times to assess his symptoms and track everything he’s consumed in the past twenty-four hours. 

He takes note – for the fifth time – that he hasn’t had too much beef jerky or consumed copious amounts of caffeine or fatty foods. All he can think about is the consuming guilt from watching the fed-up expression on your face when he told you he couldn’t commit. 

He knows he can’t keep doing this to you. At one point, he has to let you go so you can find someone who can give you what you want. Someone who doesn’t think twice about settling down with you. Someone who doesn’t back away when things start to feel entirely too domestic. 

But this is easy for Jack. He doesn’t have to fight his avoidance issues because what you have is casual. He knows he doesn’t deserve you, and you know you should seek someone who will fulfill your deepest desires. He also sticks to this entanglement because even if he doesn’t let himself give you the title of his girlfriend, he has you in most ways: in every room of his home with your clothes shoved into his dresser, your name and face in every app on his phone, and your weird food concoctions littering his fridge. 

Thinking about this only worsens the guilt that shoots through his chest. Jack keeps whispering, “I know I need to stop. She’s right, it was almost a relationship, I need to leave,” but he also knows he won’t go through with it. 

Jack parks his car in front of his place and takes himself to the front door. As he pushes his key into the doorknob, he hears rustling and heels clacking against the floor. The movement doesn’t completely faze him, but what does are the heels he clearly hears – and sees – when he steps inside. 

You’re running across the house like a chicken with its head cut off. You’re throwing things into your bag, running into his room, then reappearing with something else he can’t really see. You’re mumbling to yourself while you’re doing this, too, and it’s mesmerizing.

Jack kicks off his shoes by the door and watches you scramble to get your life together without thinking much. He doesn’t even question why you’re ready for work when you’re usually lounging in the living room with a cup of coffee on Saturday mornings. 

“Why are you staring at me?” you question, annoyance loud in your tone. 

He shrugs and pushes himself off the door. “You look good, is all,” he tells you as he walks up beside you. 

You scoff and continue to search through your bag for the fiftieth time in less than five minutes. “Have you seen my cool headphones? Where are they? I can’t find them.” 

“Cool headphones? The big bulky ones?” he asks, trying to make himself useful so you don’t kick him out of his own home. 

“No,” you tell him and stomp into the living room. “The cool ones.” 

“You have to be more specific.” 

You groan and fall back into his couch cushions. “The ones you got me for Christmas.” 

“The Koss headphones?” Jack exclaims, finally understanding what you’re referring to. He quickly goes into the living room and grabs the small basket beneath the coffee table. It’s full of all the things you leave between the couch cushions and scattered across the kitchen island. He throws them onto your lap with a quiet ‘here.’ “I forgot to tell you that I put them in there. All of your CDs and books and stuff.” 

You sit up and softly pat his cheek, then jump off the couch to shove them into your purse. Jack runs a hand over his mouth to smooth out the forming smile and follows behind you. As you’re going through the checklist of things you need – half of which aren’t required in a copy editing office – Jack nuzzles up behind you. His nose is nudging the shirt that’s loose against your shoulders and inhaling your musky perfume. 

“Stay a bit longer. What about breakfast?” 

You groan against his grasp but give up on moving. “You were late for breakfast, and I wasn’t going to be late to work because of it.” 

Jack moves an arm from around your body and checks the time on his watch. “Fuck,” he groans, and the same pain he experienced in his chest a couple of minutes ago returns. “I’m sorry. My shift ran long, and I had to pull over a few times cause of some pain. I should’ve called or texted.” 

You spin around and grab his shoulders, studying his face and the way his chest rises and falls. “Are you okay? Were you hurt at work, or was it your leg? I told you to take more breaks if you’re going to be working longer shifts.” 

Jack rolls his eyes and tries stepping away from whatever assessment you’re making. However, you pull him back and give him a stern look that forces him to stand still. “It’s just some chest pain. It’s probably heartburn.” 

“It was that bad?” you ask. 

He shrugs. “I’ll live. It was worse a bit ago.” 

You rub his chest and offer an empathetic smile, then move around him and immediately open the fridge. “I’m making you something to help with it. I left a couple of things in here a while ago when I had bad chest pain.” 

“It’s fine,” Jack tells you, but he doesn’t go out of his way to stop you. He’s always liked the way you take care of him when he’s under the weather. You come up with these teas and soups your mother used to make for you when you were in the same situation. You will apply creams and ointments to his aching leg or to his nose and chest when he’s sick. It feels nice when he’s the one always taking care of other people. 

You set a glass in front of him two minutes later and say, “Drink up.” 

“Is it bad?” 

You shake your head. “Be a big boy and drink it. And be fast, I have to go.” 

He chugs the drink and raises a brow when he’s done. “Thank you,” he tells you, then sets it down on the counter with a loud ‘clink.’ “Do you really have to go? Or can you give me just a few minutes?” 

You roll your eyes at him and pull your purse on. “I have to leave, but what do you need?” 

Jack throws you a smirk. “A quickie…” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Why?” he cries. “I’ll be fast.” 

You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his stomach. “I know you can be, but I’ve been late a couple times this past month – because of you, might I add – and I can’t be late again. Especially if it’s just for sex that I’ll definitely have at some point this week.” 

“Ouch,” Jack hisses, then pinches your sides. “I don’t like rejection.” 

You crinkle your nose at his remark and pull away with a little shove. “I don’t like rejection either,” you say. You grab your lunch bag and water bottle sitting on the table and rush over to the door. You take your keys off their designated hook and open the door. Before you leave, you look back at him leaning against the kitchen island, happily looking at you – and your ass in your work pants. “You should have some of the yogurt I bought with a bunch of fruit instead of eggs and bacon. Even if the bacon isn’t as fatty, it might make your heartburn worse. I also can’t make it after work, but I’ll send over some meal prep ideas that won’t kill you. Please make them. You never cook.” 

“Okay,” he whispers. “Have a good day, pretty.” 

You nod and rush out of the door, locking it behind you. 

When Jack can hear you peel out of his driveway, he takes a minute or two to release the air in his lungs that he couldn’t exhale while he was talking to you. He drags his hands over his face, pressing his thumbs into his eyes again—as if, by pushing hard enough, he could flip a switch inside his brain and completely give himself to you.

“I don’t deserve this,” he tells himself. He grabs the glass on the counter and lifts it, moving it up and down and thinking about how something used to be there. Something you made for him because you were worried. “I wonder who the lucky person is who gets to spend forever with her.” 

Jack doesn’t do anything for the rest of the day until you send over a few meal prep ideas. 

Sweetie: Make at least one of the meals I sent. If I come over and there’s nothing in your fridge, I will send you to a nursing home.

Week 3 of the Situation. Jack. 

Jack’s annihilating alarm jolts him awake from a peaceful dream you starred in. 

Your head was in his lap, and he was toying with your earlobes while you talked to him about office drama. He was watching you from above, and you had to stop a couple of times to giggle because the look on his face was too smitten with your appearance. 

This has happened twice now, and it’s getting ridiculous. He only has dreams about you when you can’t spend the night at his place. So far, it’s been five times. 

Five times since last week. 

Jack turns and groans into your pillow. “What the fuck?” he exclaims. 

He doesn’t quite understand the reasoning for his change in attitude towards his incredibly flawed relationship with you. It’s only been three weeks since he told you he couldn’t have a serious relationship, and it has been gnawing on every single part of his body. 

Some days, his chest will hurt, other days it's his leg – even if it’s only been one hour into wearing his prosthetic and hasn’t stood up long enough – and some days, like today, it’s his head. Even though he just woke up, his head is already throbbing, and he knows he’ll have to take a fifteen-minute break at work to shut his eyes and pray the headache away. 

At first, he thought it was from the guilt after he broke the news, but now it’s the discovery that you’re becoming okay with his decision to be casual. 

Jack has noticed that you have skipped on sleepovers, dinner dates, and weekly grocery shopping, where you act as his dietitian for an hour or two. You might have helped him out with meal prep and his so-called ‘heartburn’ two weeks ago, but since then, you have only been around for one sleepover and breakfast date. If he’d even call it that, considering it was eating fast food breakfast in his car before the cut-off time. 

You also only have sex with him and then turn away from him afterwards. You don’t cuddle him like you used to or kiss him all over as a ‘thank you’ for the good head and intense positions. You just hug yourself and drift off to sleep.

Jack sits up on his bed and turns the lamp on. Then he grabs the pen and journal sitting on his nightstand and flips it open to the third page. The first two pages are just about the weird dreams he had after taking melatonin because he wanted to see what you thought about them. 

On the third page, he writes about this dream. Every single thing that happened from start to finish as it’s fresh on his mind. He wants to read it the next time you cancel plans, so he won’t have to make that drink again. 

Week 5 of the Situation. Jack. 

Jack is on the roof with a black leather journal in his hand when Robby finds him. He’s behind the railing, leaning against the iron as he reads another dream entry. 

“I thought you went home,” Robby says, pressing his side against Jack’s shoulder. 

Jack shuts his journal and shoves it between his armpit. “I was going to.” 

Robby stares at his miserable composure and hums. “What’s been up with you recently? I keep getting word from the night shift that you’ve been off your game.” 

“Not off my game,” Jack mumbles. 

“So everyone down there is lying for the fun of it?” 

He shrugs. “I’ve just been having…  romance problems…” 

“Oh yeah? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that,” Robby says as he squishes his chin between his fingers. “I thought you and your girl were okay. Wasn’t she okay with you going casual?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Is she not taking it well?” 

Jack scoffs and drops his head. He pushes his body against the railing and peers down at the ledge. “She is taking it well. More than well.” 

Robby doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Jack for a minute or two, studying the way the crease between his eyebrows has gotten deeper since he told him about the change in his relationship flow a month ago. He hasn’t ever seen Jack like this, and it’s astonishing. 

“Show me the journal,” Robby says.

“No way,” Jack answers. 

“Show me the damn journal,” he says again, his voice hard and scary and too similar to the tone he uses with Gloria, or the new intern he can’t seem to like. 

Jack grunts a few curse words and slams the journal into Robby’s palms. “Just don’t read it out loud.” 

Robby opens the journal and glances over the first two pages. It doesn’t matter much to him that Jack had magically grown his leg back like a starfish. What draws his attention are the pages after. 

It’s a dream about you and Jack on a vacation after he asked you to be his girlfriend. You were dipping your feet in the sand while Jack fed you apple slices coated in caramel. Jack couldn’t stop kissing you and telling you how much you meant to him. He was being open and vulnerable about his feelings, and you were happy to be there. 

Jack retold the entire dream and ended it with the time and date like he usually did with the previous entries. The only difference was that he added something else after. 

I don’t want to say that I don’t know why I keep dreaming about you. The truth is, I know why. 

I don’t like the way you keep pushing me away after sex. I don’t like that you keep pushing me away when I want to kiss you. I don’t like the way you’re pulling back the way that I always do. I now understand how it feels, and it is absolutely killing me. 

I don’t think I deserve to feel the way I do because I chose this. I wanted this. I wanted you in my life, in my bed, in every single corner of my house, but I did not want to label it because it would make it all too real. I would have to burden you with my every thought and past trauma, and I don’t want to ruin you. You are too perfect for me. 

This past month has terrorized me from the inside out. I can’t sleep, eat, work out, or perform emergency surgery without thinking about you. I can’t function because you cancelled our plans. I can’t function because I won’t stop thinking about you, finding the one person who has beaten me to loving you forever. 

I can’t let you go, and I need to get my shit together. 

Robby doesn’t read past the second-to-last entry. He shuts the journal and gives it back to Jack. “I suggest you work this out and tell her how you really feel… Before you end up accidentally killing a patient.” 

“What if she doesn’t want me anymore and is just trying to find a way to seriously end this?” 

“I think she does want you, but she’s pulling away so she won’t get hurt again.” 

Jack nods and thanks Robby as he goes back to the chaos downstairs. When the door closes, he grabs onto the iron bar and bends down to cross over to the ledge. But then he receives a notification from his phone. 

He pulls out his phone, and your name pops up on his screen. 

Sweetie: I used the spare key to come in last night. I wasn’t a fan of my bed and missed yours. Hope that’s okay. 

Sweetie: I made banana pancakes with your mushy bananas. They’ll be warm when you get back. 

Jack: I’ll be there soon. Thank you, pretty. 

Jack shoves his phone into his pocket and steps away from the ledge. He doesn’t know when he’ll end up telling you how he feels, but he plans on brainstorming on his way to see you. 

Week 7 of the Situation. Jack.

Jack doesn’t exactly tell you how he feels in the most obvious way. He doesn’t sit down with you and explain that he no longer wants to do casual and that he’s ready to commit and work on himself as long as that’s what you want, too. 

No, he does this in a way that only makes sense to himself. He tracks the food you bring into his house and stocks it before you have the chance to replace it. He takes this method to the bathroom, where you keep a handful of your skin and body care – an amount that used to be larger, but you took half back to your place after week two of your arrangement. Jack also tries to cook, even when you’re not around to watch him, partially because it’s getting fun, but also because it avoids your lectures on keeping himself healthy. 

The most obvious method of his deeply flawed plan to win you over is begging for your presence whenever you mention having some free time. 

“Come over, even if it’s for an hour.” 

“Since you don’t have to go into the office for the next two days, how about you come and stay at my place. You like my bed more anyway.” 

“I saw a new coffee shop on my way home. Let’s go tomorrow when I get off my shift.” 

“If you’re free this Sunday night, we should get margaritas at that place you love.” 

Sometimes it works, other times, it fails. He keeps track of that, too. 

Recently, you’ve been going out more without an explanation of where you’re going. You’ll just say, “Sorry, I have plans this weekend.” 

Jack will ask, “Oh, is it with that one friend that moved back to Pittsburgh from New York?” 

You’ll shake your head and look away from him. You’ll scratch your head or fiddle with your earlobes while saying, “No, another friend. You don’t know them.” 

Jack won’t ask questions anymore because frankly, he doesn’t want to know. Your inability to look at him when giving him an answer is an answer within itself. He just doesn’t want to believe that you’re taking the casual thing seriously. 

He knows he should chill out with his excessive acts of kindness now that he knows you’re dating, but he does the complete opposite. 

A day ago, you were lying in Jack’s bed, staring at the ceiling while he got ready for his double shift. He was covering for Robby while he took care of some personal matters, and hated him for it because it was taking him away from you.

“What are your plans for the night?” he asked as he slid on a long-sleeve shirt. 

“Nothing much. I think I’ll go for a run and then go home to answer a few emails.” 

“So, no going out tonight or tomorrow?” 

“No, just staying in. Why?” 

“Can you be here when I get back tomorrow?” 

“You’ve been wanting to spend more time with me, recently. Is everything okay?” you asked. 

Jack shrugged, trying to dust off the fear that previously weighed on his shoulders. He was worried you’d say that you did have plans, and wouldn’t be able to spend time with him – again. “Yeah, I just want to see you more. Is that okay?” 

You didn’t know what to do with your body – whether to dramatically raise your shoulders, purse your lips or sink back into his mattress – so you just looked into his eyes to figure out what was really up with him. He was a bad liar, and you could feel it in your bones that he was choosing not to tell you something. 

“I guess it’s okay.” 

Jack walked up beside you and placed his hands on both sides of your face. He bent down and kissed your forehead, then lingered above your lips before placing the softest kiss on your mouth. “We can order some food, watch a show, or a movie.” 

“Or I can cook.” 

“Or I can cook,” he told you. 

You lifted your head and kissed him again. “No. I’ll cook, and it’ll be warm for you when you get back.” 

“I’ll be here at eight, alright?” 

When he got back from his shift, he was indeed welcomed by a bowl of chicken pasta with half of the greens section at the grocery store. He didn’t mind, though, because it was incredibly delicious. 

Now, he’s sitting on the couch with you pressed against his side, arms wrapped around his bicep with enough force to nearly cut off his circulation. You put on a horror movie about forty-five minutes ago and it’s more gory than anything. You can typically handle horror movies, but this one is on another level. 

“We should probably switch the movie,” he tells you with a chuckle. 

“Just pause it and turn on the lamp. You shouldn’t have turned off the lights.” 

“You asked me to!” he exclaims with a laugh. 

You cling to him as he pauses the movie and turns on the living room lamp. Then you almost climb onto his lap as you try not to recount the scenes you just watched. “Can I spend the night?” you ask him, hands shaking against the groove of his bicep. 

He kisses the top of your head and hums in approval. “Of course you can.” 

You sit in silence with him as you forget about the chopped off limbs and the crazy jump scares you couldn’t prepare for. He rubs your hand and continues peppering your head and temples. 

Jack thinks about replicating this moment until his deathbed. Maybe without you clinging to him like a koala over a mediocre horror film, but holding you and vice versa after long days and nights or simply just because. 

He thinks about what Robby told him two weeks ago: “I suggest you work this out and tell her how you really feel… I think she does want you, but she’s pulling away so she won’t get hurt again.” 

Jack realizes this is the perfect time for him to spill his guts.

His heart starts racing, and the sharp pain he experienced a month ago returns. He grunts and shifts his body so that he’s facing you, but your hands are still clinging to him. “I think we need to talk,” he whispers to you. 

You nod, and for a second, your face loses its cool. You go from being scared to shut your eyes to worried that you’ll be kicked out in the next five minutes. “Is this too much?” you ask him immediately. 

Jack profusely shakes his head. “No! No, it’s not too much. It’s actually the opposite. I really enjoy this,” –  he signals between you two and the way you were trying to step into his skin,  “And I want it to keep going.” 

You slowly nod. “Okay… So what do you want to talk about?” 

“There is a reason why I’ve been wanting to spend more time with you. I want you around for –” 

A series of notifications fills the air, and you and Jack both turn towards your phone that illuminates on the coffee table. The first notification is from someone named Daniel, and the other two are from Hinge. 

Jack looks at you once the screen fades to black and nearly chokes on a breath, realizing he hasn’t actually been breathing. “Uhm, so, actually, don’t worry about it,” he tells you as he pulls away. He grabs your hand and sets it on your lap, then takes the empty bowls and forks and stands to discard them in the sink. 

“Are you mad?” you ask him. 

He’s glad he isn’t looking at you, because he’d probably let go of the tears burning his tearducks. “I wish you had told me is all.” 

“Told you that I’m on dating apps?” 

“Yeah,” he says in a wobbly tone. He drops the dishes in the sink and turns the water on as hot as it can go. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

You stand and rush over to the kitchen. You turn on the lights and walk up beside him, staring at the way he hisses when the steaming water settles on his skin for too long. “I didn’t think it mattered,” you tell him. “I thought you couldn’t do a serious relationship, so I wasn’t going to waste my time waiting on you to figure yourself out.” 

Jack shuts off the water and turns to face you. His wet hand grips the counter for some kind of stabilization. “I’m not saying you’re in the wrong. I know I was being an asshole, and I understand why you wouldn’t want to wait.” 

“So then what are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that you should have told me you were on dating apps.” 

You roll your eyes and let out a broken laugh. “Why should I have told you? So that you could have a reason to join them, too, and find the next person to terrorize for a year?” 

Jack drags himself away from you and stumbles against the floor like he’s just been shot. “I don’t want to be on dating apps,” he mutters and pulls himself to the living room. He sits down and stares at the moving screen that has shifted from the paused movie to a bunch of paradise vacations. 

You follow him and stand at the edge of the couch, a couple of cushions away. “So what do you want?” you reply in the same tone and cadence. You wipe at your face even though your tears haven’t fallen, and bite down on your lip to stop it from wobbling. 

Jack doesn’t answer. He looks at anything but you. “I think it’s best that you leave tonight. I’ll talk to you later.” 

“No,” you tell him as the first tear falls. 

“I just need some time.” 

“What were you going to tell me?” 

“It’s not important.” 

“I know you’re lying,” you say. You move closer and closer, pushing him to the edge so he can admit to whatever he’s hiding. “Jack, just tell me. Please.” 

“Go home, pretty. I’m not the one you want.” 

“You don’t know what I want!” you cry out, painfully loud. “You’re jealous about this man you know nothing about and upset that I’m on dating apps, but you literally told me you couldn’t commit to me. I just don’t get it. Do you want me or not?” 

Jack covers his face and tugs at the curls bordering his forehead. He can feel a piece of his world collapse, and as much as he wants to grab whatever he can before it gets away from him, he just sits and cries into his hot palms. 

“I don’t think it matters what I want anymore,” he tells you. “There is someone on your phone begging for you and can probably give you exactly what I can’t.” 

You kneel in front of him and rest your hands on your thighs. “I know that you want to be with me, I just need you to tell me,” you plead. “You don’t have to lie, and you know I would love to be official with you. I’ve told you this a handful of times. But it’s getting tiring, and I can’t stick around for you. So if you want me to leave, I’ll leave, but I’m not coming back.” 

Jack looks up from his palms and at your wet face. His red eyes meet yours – stained with mascara and the soft eyeliner you’ve rubbed off. He needs to say something. He needs to admit that he wants you and he is willing to be vulnerable in exchange for your infinite presence. The issue is, he can’t get over how much distress he has caused you. He was wasting your time and doesn’t want to accidentally hurt you again if he decides to commit and comes across some turmoil along the way. He’d much rather you find peace, even if it means with someone else. 

“I want you to leave,” he whispers. 

You wipe your tears and nod. You stand and head to his bedroom, where you collect your things and throw them into the large basket you stole from the coffee table. You re-enter the living room and glance at Jack’s folded position. 

You think of saying something, but decide that silence is better than adding to the fire. 

You step into your shoes by the door and grab your keys. Then you leave. 

When your presence is completely gone, Jack falls back onto the couch and sobs into his hands. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says to himself, over and over again. “You were supposed to patch things up, and now look at what you’ve done.” 

When his crying died down, Jack put his shoes on and went down to the corner store a couple of blocks away from his place. He bought a bottle of cheap whiskey and a pack of cigarettes. 

He hadn’t smoked in nearly two decades, but his body was falling apart every second, so smoking was the least of his worries. 

Jack smoked two cigarettes in front of the shop, then gave the pack to someone asking to bum a smoke. 

He chugged half the bottle of whiskey on his way back home and then fell asleep on his couch, right where you had lain an hour ago. 

Week 8 of the Situation. You. 

You were on a date with Daniel, a high school teacher who taught biology. He had just taken you to his school’s elite science fair, where you judged a bunch of fifteen-year-olds' complex projects. It was unlike other science fairs you had been to, where everyone was in third grade, showing off the projects their moms helped them with. It was more like robotics, but with less computer science.

“It feels wrong judging children,” you say between bites of a vegetarian burger. Squash has replaced the meat, and you’re not quite sure you like it. You swallow it down without much chewing and continue with your words. “It feels better when you’re judging adults.” 

Daniel laughs and bites down on a tofu fry. “How come?” 

“We have experienced more rejection than they have.” 

“Huh,” he says with a shrug. “Now that you say that, I might have to drop out of the next science fair.” 

You laugh. You try to find something else to say to fill the silence, but nothing comes to mind. You let Daniel ramble about the next science project he’s going to give his students. You listen, but you don’t really keep up. You just know that you’d hate him as a teacher, and glad you’re in your thirties rather than in your teens. 

Daniel talks for another thirty minutes during the date. You push your food around the plate and think about what it’d be like going on a date with Jack. He would ask you what you’re craving, and then find a place that matches that. He wouldn’t force you to eat at a place that didn’t pique your interest – even though you’d tell him he should choose a place he liked, too. 

Jack would also never spend the entire date talking about himself. He would find a way to insert you, and then spin the entire conversation so you spend the next hour or two talking about yourself. 

Daniel is the opposite. After the science fair, he asked if you were hungry, then said, “Same. I’m craving his vegetarian spot in the city, let’s go.” 

You weren’t mad, just annoyed. You didn’t exactly want to eat squash covered in a million seasonings and deep-fried just to make it feel like chicken for half a second. You also didn’t want to sit in silence while a man talked your ear off about humiliating teenagers in front of their peers. 

You zone him out until your waitress comes to the table with a confused look on her face. “Hi! I wanted to ask if you know someone named Jack. He’s at the front and won’t stop pointing at you. He says he has an emergency that requires your help.” 

You look at Daniel, who’s just as puzzled as you and the waitress are, and turn into a stuttering mess. “I do know a Jack… I just don’t know what would be an emergency. Uhm… yeah, just tell him I’ll be right there.” 

The girl nods and rushes back to the front of the restaurant. 

Daniel laughs a bit and asks, “Is that your ex or something?” 

You shake your head. “No. He’s just… I don’t know. He’s my Jack?” you say, and immediately regret calling him yours. “I mean – We never labeled it, and we cut things off last week. He’s been texting me, but I don’t answer. I guess he thought I was dead.” 

“Why would he think that?” 

“I usually always reply even when we’re rocky,” you say, then grab your bag and get up from the table. “I have to go, though. Thank you for the meal.” 

You walk to the host stand, where Jack is, rocking back and forth. He oogles you despite you only wearing a black long-sleeve shirt and black jeans. It’s nothing special, yet he is completely enamored. 

You grab his hand and say a quick ‘thank you’ before dragging him out of the restaurant and into the nearly empty parking lot. You quickly find his car and stomp over to it, where you push Jack against the back door. 

“What the hell?” you seethe. “Why did you show up here? And how? Who the hell told you?” 

Jack lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Calm down, let me explain.” 

“No! I thought we ended this. And now you’re showing up to this date unannounced like some sort of stalker. Are you insane? Should I call the –” 

“I love you,” Jack breathes out, cutting off your rambling. 

“Fuck you,” you spit. 

Jack shakes his head and sets his hands on your shoulders. “I love you. I really do. I tried telling myself that what I was feeling wasn’t real. That I just wanted more sexual intimacy or something, but that was all a lie. I have been depriving myself of you because I thought I would ruin you by being open and raw.”

“You wouldn’t ruin me,” you whisper. 

“I know that now. I have spent the past week thinking back on every single conversation we’ve had, and I finally realized that I have been making decisions without asking how you really felt. I haven’t even asked you what I could do better, and I am a fucking idiot for that. I am so sorry, pretty.” 

You grab his face and press a wet kiss to his lips. “I love you,” you say between desperate brushes of your lips and tongues. “You would never ruin me by telling me how you feel. You would never ruin me by telling me what led you to this version of yourself. Do you hear me?” 

Jack brushes his forehead against yours and releases a shaky exhale from the depths of his lungs. His tense shoulders drop, and he melts into the hug you’re pulling him into. “I’m sorry that I’ve spent a whole year just dragging you along. I know that it’s been extremely painful for you. I will spend every single day of my life making it up to you.” 

“Thank you,” you say, and shut him up by strengthening the hug until he releases the last few tears hiding in his eyes. “I accept your apology.” 

Jack chuckles against your head. “I want you to be my girlfriend,” he mumbles. 

“What?” you exclaim and pull back. “Even if I was just on a date with someone?” 

“Did you like him?” 

You shake your head. “Not really.” 

“Then I don’t care,” Jack replies. “Be my girlfriend, please. I’ll even beg on my knees.” 

“Don’t,” you say and swat at his chest. “I will be your girlfriend, Jack.” 

“Finally,” a voice says behind you. Daniel. 

You turn right before you go into another series of kisses with Jack, and pull him into your chest as if it’ll hide him from the man you were just inside with. “Daniel! I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I’m just glad this happened right after the first date and not after we married or something.” 

You cackle. “Oh, okay. Very confident man, you are.” 

“I hope this goes well for you two.” 

“Thanks, man, have a good night,” Jack tells Daniel, then returns to look at you, who’s a laughing, dying mess. “Him, really?” 

“I don’t know. I was a bit sad when he asked for a date.” 

“You won’t have to worry about dates with men who take you to vegetarian places ever again,” Jack says against your lips. “Unless that’s what you want, then I guess I’ll accept. But you did just agree to be my girlfriend, so I hope the answer is no.” 

“I want you,” you tell him. 

“Then it’s settled. You’re mine, and I’m yours forever. Even if I’m a bit fucked up.” 

You could hear the rattling sounds of the lock of the front door, turning around in the bed sleepily. The bump was large enough to make it harder for you, but you still managed, even though you remembered Jack’s words to be careful and call him with every possible emergency. 

He was in the doorway the moment the sun was peeking through the curtains in the bedroom, exhaustion etched across his face. Taking in your very much pregnant form, oversized shirt on, tangled in the simple white sheet (because you were sweating like a pig through the night because of the flushes of heat by hormones), he finally pushed towards you, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning close.

You shifted to him with a lazy smile spread on your face. “You home already?” 

Jack let out a small laugh, his hand reaching for your bump. “What, you didn't miss me?” 

Your head fell onto the pillow, when your hand rested atop of his on your belly. Noticing his worry in his expression, you couldn’t help but wonder.

“Something troubling you?” you asked, your fingers caressing his skin over his knuckles that were growing dry from the constant use of sanitizer in the hospital. 

His eyes fell onto your belly, a sigh rumbling through his chest as he tried to find the right words. 

“Treated a heavily pregnant woman tonight. She was going through what she called a wild pregnancy, that means no medical care, no midwife, nothing… And– she and the baby almost didn’t make it, because she suffered with so many conditions, preeclampsia mainly. We had to get the baby out as soon as possible because she went into cardiac arrest and she was seizing… Everything went so fast, that after I stepped out of that emergency room with the baby alright and the mom taken up to the OR, all I could think about was you. How I wouldn’t let you do that to our baby, to yourself. And in my mind I went through every exam I was with you in the past months, if we did everything right, if you’re gonna– I–” he choked on his own words, causing you to sit up, cupping his face into your gentle embrace. 

“Jack. Look at me.” you made the old man stare into the depths of your soul through your eyes. Smiling softly, you traced his wrinkles near his eyes, his dimples at his cheeks. 

“I was so fucking scared, babe.” he whispered, sighing in relief. 

“I know. And safe to say there are very few times when you are… But I’m okay. We both are. Your loves are in the very best hands.” you assured him. 

With a nod he inhaled sharply, tears glistening in his eyes a little. “You have no idea how much I love you. You are so brave for going through all those hormonal procedures, just to have a tiny little life, a mixture of us both. Incredible.”

It was funny to see someone as doctor Abbot being this emotional. But you knew this side of him, apart from that cocky and flirty, sometimes serious persona, there was a man that deeply cherished his family, his home, everything he loved and that made sense to him. 

Your fingers still mapped his features, brushing a few strands of his curls from his forehead. 

“And I love you. You’re the world's best dad already. I can only imagine how spoiled our child will be.” laughing softly, you pecked his nose.

Jack's large hands rested on your bump spreading over it, every time he did that you felt utterly safe and relaxed. Any time he sensed you’re worried or uncomfortable, he did this little gesture, as if protecting you and your little one, giving you a feeling of comfort. 

“Promise me… When you feel something is wrong, you tell me, okay?” His worries didn’t vanish, his eyes were full of it. 

“As a million times before, fine, I promise. I’ll tell you.” you mumbled and leaned in for a kiss to shut him up. His hands stayed on your belly, while he sighed into your mouth, almost melting into you. He was down so bad for you. 

But the intimate moment was ruined by your yelp, your body jumping a little. 

“Jesus christ–” 

Jack was in awe, his eyes hazy from the kiss but wide when he stared at you, lips still parted. 

“That was–” 

You huffed in frustration, a frown etched on your face. 

“I thought it ended by midnight, but she was giving me a hard time every possible minute with those strong kicks. I almost peed myself when having dinner.” 

A gasp slipped past his lips. “Wait a minute, what– she?” 

You gulped and pursed your lips, trying to brush it off. “Ugh, what? I haven't said that. You’re tired, Jack.” 

“No, no, no. How come– you know the gender of the baby and you didn’t tell me?” he cocked his brow like he did in the hospital or when he was about to lecture you about something. 

Sighing helplessly, you bit your lip. “I wanted to surprise you. Have some nice dinner, candles, you know… and tell you. I even bought a pink card with a pink pacifier.”  

After a while his face melted into something that looked like devotion and love at the same time. 

“I don’t deserve you.” he pushed you gently to lay you on your back and he rolled up your oversized shirt to reveal the bump. 

“You big mouth…” you laughed and then propped on your elbows to watch him kiss your stretched skin around your navel. 

Having him between your legs was probably your most favourite way to have him. 

“Hello, princess. I’m your daddy.” he muttered into your skin, smiling widely, his stubble grazing it. 

A core memory was carved into your brain, the way your husband spoke to your daughter that was growing strong each day in your belly was something you always wished for to happen. 

“I’m gonna take care of these stretch marks… give you a nice bath and then massage you with that oil you bought online… ‘m gonna take care of my girls.” long gone was his exhaustion of the night and he nuzzled with your pregnant curves. 

Jack had been patient for exactly forty-three minutes.

He knew because he’d checked the clock three separate times, then deliberately stopped checking so he wouldn’t seem like a grumpy old man—even though, tonight, he was starting to feel like one.

From the bedroom, he could hear the faint clinks of bottles and drawers opening and closing in the bathroom. The soft hum of your voice as you muttered to yourself. Water running. More bottles.

“Baby,” he called, not loud enough to sound annoyed—just enough to remind you he existed. “You fall in there or start a pharmacy?”

“Almost done!” you called back.

He exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand over his face. He was stretched out on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other tapping idly against his stomach. Waiting. Thinking.

Too much thinking.

When you finally stepped out, the scent of your cleanser and something floral followed you. Your hair was pushed back with a headband, your face still slightly dewy, glowing in that way he didn’t have words for but definitely appreciated.

“There you are,” he said, sitting up a little. “Was starting to think I’d been replaced by serums.”

You rolled your eyes, walking over. “It’s called maintenance.”

“An hour of maintenance?” he raised a brow.

“It matters,” you said, climbing onto the bed. “I don’t want to be all wrinkly and gross by the time I’m 50.”

The second it left your mouth, you felt it.

The shift.

Jack didn’t say anything at first, but something in his posture tightened—just slightly. His gaze dropped for a second, jaw setting in a way you recognized immediately.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

“Jack—” you started.

“Wrinkly and gross, huh?” he said, not sharp, but not light either. His voice had that edge—quiet, controlled.

“That’s not what I meant—”

He let out a small huff, looking away as he rubbed at his jaw, fingers brushing over the very lines you hadn’t meant to point out. “No, I get it.”

“Jack.”

“You don’t gotta walk it back,” he added, still not looking at you. “I know what I look like.”

That stung more than if he’d snapped.

You shifted closer, frowning. “Hey. That’s not—”

He shook his head slightly, a humorless half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Grey hair, lines, whole package. Comes with the territory.”

There was something quieter under it. Not anger.

Insecurity.

That did it.

“Jack,” you said more firmly, reaching for him. “Look at me.”

He hesitated, then did.

And you softened instantly.

“It’s different,” you said.

That made his brows pull together. “Different how?”

“You—” you shook your head, searching for the right words, a little flustered now. “You look hot with the wrinkles and the salt and pepper hair. It’s not the same thing.”

There was a pause.

Then something in his expression shifted—sharp, interested.

“Say that again.”

You blinked. “What?”

Before you could react, his hand caught your wrist, and with an easy pull, he guided you forward—right into his lap.

“Jack—!” you laughed, startled, your hands landing on his shoulders for balance.

“Go on,” he murmured, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you there. “It’s different, huh?”

Your cheeks warmed. “I already said it.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning in slightly, voice dropping. “You rushed it.”

You tried to look away, but his hand came up, fingers hooking lightly under your chin to turn your face back toward him.

“Say it again,” he said, softer now—but there was a teasing glint in his eyes.

You huffed, but there was a smile tugging at your lips now. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you take an hour to wash your face,” he shot back. “We all got flaws. Now—say it.”

You rolled your eyes, but you gave in.

“It’s different,” you repeated, quieter this time. “You look hot with the wrinkles… and the whole salt-and-pepper thing.”

His grip on your waist tightened just slightly.

“Yeah?” he said, studying your face like he was trying to decide if you meant it.

“Yeah,” you said, more certain now. “Like… actually hot. Not just saying that.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, something easing in his expression.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You keep talking like that, I might start believing you.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly through the hair at his temple—the very strands he’d been self-conscious about. “You should.”

His eyes flickered, then he caught your hand, pressing a brief kiss to your knuckles before pulling you a little closer.

“Took you long enough to get in here,” he added, voice back to its usual low warmth.

You laughed softly. “You were the one sulking.”

“I wasn’t sulking.”

“You were absolutely sulking.”

He smirked. “Maybe a little.”

You shifted comfortably against him, arms settling around his shoulders. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Still got you sitting in my lap, though.”

You snorted. “That’s not a win, that’s me forgiving you.”

“Sure it is,” he said, leaning in just enough that his forehead brushed yours. “Now get comfortable. I’ve been waiting all night.”

his hand.

bare.

you blink, like maybe you imagined it. but when he reaches for a pen, it’s still there—no ring, no familiar black metal you’ve gotten so used to seeing. it was never an issue jack wearing it, you understood why he still did. but still your chest tightens, not entirely sure why.

“jack,” you say quietly.

he hums, distracted. “yeah sweetie?”

“your ring…”

that gets his attention.

he pauses, just slightly, before looking at you. really looking this time, like he knows exactly what you’re asking without you having to finish the sentence.

“oh,” he says softly.

there’s something in his expression—steady, but careful.

you don’t push right away. “did you… forget it?” you ask, even though that doesn’t sound right. he’s not the type to forget something like that.

“no,” he answers.

just that. no.

you nod slowly, but your thoughts are already running ahead of you. “okay.”

it’s quiet for a second too long.

“you’re wondering why,” he adds.

you let out a small breath, offering a half-shrug. “i mean… yeah. a little.”

he studies you for a moment, like he’s deciding how to say it. then, without a word, he gently takes your hand.“come on,” he murmurs.

he leads you down the hallway, away from the noise and movement, into an empty consult room. the door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly everything feels a little more still. more private.

more real.

you turn to face him. “you didn’t have to—”

“i wanted to,” he says, cutting you off gently.

you search his face. “jack…”

he exhales, running a hand through his hair before letting it fall again—bare, unguarded. “i’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admits. “long before you asked anything.”

“i didn’t ask,” you say quietly.

“i know.” his gaze softens. “that’s kind of the point.”

there’s no pressure in your expression, no expectation—just concern. and somehow, that made it harder to ignore.

“i kept it on because… it felt like the right thing to do,” he continues. “respect. habit. maybe a little bit of not knowing how to let go.”

your chest aches a little at that.

“but that’s not where i am anymore,” he says, voice steady now. “not really.”

you swallow. “and taking it off… that means you are?”

“it means i’m ready to be honest about where i am,” he says. “with myself. with you.”

your eyes flick back to his hand again, then up to his face. “because of me?”

“not just because of you,” he corrects gently. “but you’re a big part of it.”

something warm and fragile settles in your chest.

“i didn’t want you to feel like you were… second to something i’m still holding onto,” he adds. “because you’re not.”

your breath catches slightly.

“you deserve more than that,” he says, quieter now.

for a moment, you don’t know what to say. so you step closer instead.

“you didn’t have to prove anything to me,” you tell him softly. “i never thought i was—”

“i know,” he says again. “but i needed to prove it to myself.”

that lands differently.

more certain. more grounded. your fingers brush against his, lingering where the ring used to sit. it feels strange, but not wrong.

just… new.

“are you sure?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “about this? about… us?”

his answer isn’t immediate—but it’s not hesitant either.

it’s deliberate.

“yes.”

the way he says it makes your chest tighten in the best way. “i wouldn’t be doing this if i wasn’t,” he adds, lifting his hand slightly, like it speaks for itself.

you smile a little, something soft and almost shy. “okay.”

“okay?” he echoes, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“yeah,” you murmur. “okay.”

there’s a pause—one of those quiet, heavy moments where everything feels like it’s shifting into place.

and then his hand comes up to your face, fingers gentle against your cheek.

“come here,” he murmurs.

you don’t hesitate.

the kiss is soft at first—careful, like he’s still giving you time to pull away if you want to.

you don’t.

instead, you lean into it, your hand sliding up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm. he deepens the kiss just slightly, still slow, still warm—like he’s memorizing it.

like he’s choosing this.

choosing you.

when you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you a little breathless.

“that was…” you start.

“yeah,” he says softly.

you smile, eyes still closed for a second. “you’re really doing this.”

“i am.”

your fingers lace with his again, more certain this time.

“no going back?” you tease lightly.

he huffs a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb over your hand. “no going back.”

and the way he looks at you—steady, open, completely there—makes you believe him.

for the first time, it doesn’t feel complicated.

At least, that’s what you had convinced yourself. Because the alternative was too humiliating. You had always had a habit of falling too hard and too fast. You were too sensitive, cared too much, got attached too quickly. You were planning future vacations and creating Pinterest boards for the apartment you would eventually move into just a month or two in. And when it was all over, it was always you who was falling apart while you watched from afar as the other person always seemingly escaped unscathed. 

Your friends wouldn’t say so, but you knew they found it all a bit pathetic. With Jack, especially, they hadn’t understood the draw. They had teased about his age, referred to him as grandpa in your conversations, pointed out his weird schedule, how you rarely saw him because of it. They thought you probably didn't even know him very well, that whatever infatuation you had was just a carefully curated delusion.

But they didn’t see what he was like when you were alone together. How could they know about the times when he made you dinner in his kitchen when you were too busy to even think about what to eat? How he had twirled you around in your socks on the linoleum floor while Dancing in the Moonlight spun on his record player. 

They didn’t see all the times he quietly ran his fingers through your hair the way you liked when you were sad. He never made you feel like your feelings were too heavy or a flaw, which was foreign to you. It was why you had been left reeling when he ended it.

“I don’t understand.” You were shaking your head, sure you had misheard him. Sitting across from him outside your favorite coffee shop, holding the shaken espresso he had insisted on buying for you, that you now understood to be some kind of fucked up consolation prize. 

“I just…” He tore his gaze away from yours, as if it would lessen the blow if you couldn't see his hazel eyes glint green in the sunlight when he said it, “I don’t think it’s working.”

You had never gotten more of an explanation than that, too in shock to ask anything in that moment. You weren’t sure, but you thought you must’ve asked him to leave because the next time you looked at the seat where he had been it was empty and your iced coffee completely melted. 

You were aware, as you always were, that to everyone else who didn’t attach themselves like cling wrap to their significant other, three months wasn’t a whole lot of time to date someone. Especially when you were adults on opposite work schedules. You hadn’t even said the L word yet, but that was just because you knew from experience that it was better for everyone if you waited until the six month mark to do that. You were very much in love with Jack Abbot, but you thought you'd scare him off if you were the first to say it. All the rules you had to set for yourself to make yourself more like a cool girl and less like Velcro in your relationships.

With Jack, you had followed the rules. You had made sure not to call too often, not to cry in front of him, not to seem too eager to spend more than just a night together, leave in the morning after coffee, don't leave your toothbrush behind in his bathroom, and on and on the list went. You liked him so much, you were extra careful. And you thought it had been working.

Until it wasn't.

And now it had been a little over a month since he had broken up with you and you were at the bar. This definitely broke the rules, but what did it matter if he thought you were a crazy ex girlfriend? You were still just an ex.

And when he walked into the bar that night, you pretended not to notice. You ignored the thrum of your pulse in your ears when you heard his rough voice give the bartender his usual order. Whiskey, neat, with a twist. You kept your attention on the bouncer that had been talking with you the last twenty minutes, hoping Jack saw him and felt green waves of envy. It was needless, though. The bouncer was loyal and married with kids. Had been showing you pictures of his wife and kids just five minutes earlier. But that was just fine, as long as it looked like something else altogether to Jack.

You knew you looked hot tonight, you had dressed this way intentionally. Knee high black boots, red crushed velvet maxi skirt with a long slit that stopped mid thigh, and a black mesh top with intricate floral patterns down the sleeves. The New Year had just passed so it was probably too cold for the outfit, but you also knew how crazy it drove Jack when you showed a little skin.

He had taken a seat at the bar top, but you were at a table in his line of sight, as was the bare skin of your thigh. And you felt it, when he noticed you. The heat of his gaze was unmistakable. His eyes were so intently focused on the slit in your skirt it felt like his hands were already on you.

The bouncer left you after a couple of minutes, called back to the door, and you heard it when Jack immediately stood and began to walk towards you.

He sat at the chair across from you, setting his glass on the table, "What're you doing here, kid?"

You allowed your eyes to trail up to his. It hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would, seeing him up close like this again. A knife twisted in your side at the tired look in his eyes, the gray stubble across his jaw that you longed to run soothing fingers across.

Reaching towards his drink, you pulled the spiraled orange peel from it and placed it between your teeth, chewing it lightly. 

"That seat's reserved for people who actually intend to fuck me." You said, jaw clenched.

He laughed softly, "Well I guess I'm in the right seat, then."

You grimaced, "That's not funny."

"I wasn't joking."

You narrowed your eyes at him before leaning back in your seat and crossing your arms over your chest, abandoning the orange peel on the table in front of you, "Okay, well it's reserved for people I intend to fuck, then. So, if you could find another seat…"

"You think I don't know you came here to see me? The same place we had our first kiss? Dressed like that and flirting with strangers in front of me?"

Your lips twisted upward in satisfaction when he couldn't help the hungry look in his eyes when they landed on the bare skin of your thigh, running a hand across his jaw in agitation.

You rolled your eyes, "Is your name on the deed to the bar or something?"

His eyes darted back to yours and the corner of his lips tugged up into a smile, "I don't remember you being so prickly. You used to be sweet."

"Yeah, well, breaking up with someone out of the blue and for no reason will do that to a person. I'm not a doormat."

He sighed and shook his head, "Come on, really?"

"What?" You asked sharply, "Did I mischaracterize it? Because that's how I remember it."

He leaned on his forearms so he was closer to you, his probing eyes locking on yours, "You wanted to end it, too. I was just the one to pull the plug."

For a second you thought maybe you were hallucinating. You actually physically recoiled from him in surprise, waited for him to repeat himself. But he didn't.

An incredulous laugh tore out of your throat, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

He shook his head, "You weren't in it at all the last few weeks."

"Jack," You said breathlessly, "That could not be further from reality and I think it's fucked up that you would try to blame me for the fact that you ended something special for no good reason."

"I'm not blaming—"

"I mean I would've done anything you asked, I was fucking in love with you, so for you to say that I wasn't in it whatever that even means to you, is frankly deranged."

He seemed taken aback and it took you a few moments to even catch up with what you had said in your annoyance, but once you had, your chest tightened with panic.

"What did you just say?" He asked slowly.

You felt short of breath and you stood in such a hurry, you rattled the table and almost knocked Jack's drink over, "You're right, I shouldn't be here."

"No, hang on—" Jack secured a firm hand around your wrist, "Sit back down."

You tugged lightly, "I have to go."

"Hey," Eric, the bouncer, made his way over to the two of you, chest puffed out. But Jack made no move to release you. "This asshole giving you trouble, baby?"

You smiled sweetly at him, "I'm okay, Eric."

Jack laughed humorlessly, "'Baby', huh?"

"Don't do something stupid, man." Eric said, stepping closer to Jack.

You had never known Jack to be aggressive in any way, so when he stood up and gently pushed you behind him, you were floored.

"Why don't you back off my girl, hm?" Jack said, deathly quiet.

My girl? You had a passing thought that maybe you had fallen and hit your head at some point earlier in the day. Surely that was the only logical explanation for whatever this fever dream in front of you was.

"She never mentioned a boyfriend, only an ex." Eric and Jack were now eye to eye, nearly chest to chest as they sized each other up.

"Um, boys?" You moved around Jack so you were standing to the side of them both, "I'm fine, okay? Eric? Eric." Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from Jack and looked down at you. You nodded reassuringly, "I'm good. Promise."

He took another long look at Jack before backing away, "You'll shout if you need me?" You nodded, and then he went back to the door.

"The two of you sleeping together?" He was more on edge than you had ever seen him. Knee bouncing as he sat back down. Jack was always the picture of calm and collected, especially in a crisis. So to see him so worked up now, really over nothing, was foreign to you. "He was acting awful… Familiar."

You sighed, "No. I know him from the library. He comes in for our Adult Literacy Program."

His knee stilled when your words registered and he looked over at you before sighing and running a hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head, "M'such an idiot." He murmured.

You chewed on your cheek and turned to look towards the door, "I'm gonna go home, Jack."

His head shot back up, "Wait, can we just talk for a minute, please."

This was what you wanted, you thought. For him to be asking for you, desire seemingly reignited. But not like this. You wanted to have the upper hand this time and you had revealed your hand too quickly. He was in control again.

"I'm sorry." You said softly and excused yourself from the table.

SEPTEMBER

It was a beautiful fall day, perfect for the outdoor flu shot clinic you were running out of the library. You were running around with your clipboard in your hand, pen occasionally between your teeth as you checked in with all the professionals who had volunteered to administer the vaccine, pharmacy techs and nurses from the community.

But while you were doing so, you spotted a man you didn't recognize. Head full of thick, graying curls and an easy smile as he spoke to one of the nurses you had checked in with a few minutes ago. You frowned and looked down at your clipboard. The only volunteer you were missing was a Mrs. Dana Evans, RN.

"Excuse me, sir?" You politely tapped him on the shoulder, "The clinic's not open yet, you can wait inside until we're ready—"

"Oh, I'm not here for the shot, already vaccinated."

You nodded slowly, "Um, okay, well this is a private event so if you could—"

"Sorry," He chuckled quietly, "I'm Jack Abbot, I work at PTMC. One of our nurses, Dana Evans, said she was supposed to volunteer here, but something came up. She asked if I could cover for her." He pulled out his hospital ID, the word DOCTOR written under his name and photo.

You looked up at him quizzically, "We don't get a lot of doctors volunteering here."

He cocked his head to the side, "Why, because they think it's below them?"

"No, I think it's because most of them haven't administered a vaccine in so long that they have no idea how to do it anymore."

He huffed a laugh, "Well, you don't have to worry about that, I know how to use a needle."

He winked at you and, well, he was very handsome. It made your knees weak. You cleared your throat and broke eye contact, "Okay, well, thank you for being here, Dr. Abbot. Just don't maim anyone, please."

"Just, Jack, if you don't mind." He reached out a hand to shake yours, "I don't think I got your name."

Almost against your will, your brain registered his toned arms and prominent veins that snaked down from his biceps to his hands. And the freckles, God, the freckles that dotted his skin were gorgeous. You swallowed hard as you took his hand and gave your name.

"You organize this by yourself?" He asked, dropping your hand.

You nodded, "Yeah, every year. We usually get a decent turn out."

"That's really good. You're saving lives, you know?"

You bit your lip, and shrugged, "I suppose. The community's really important to me, it's part of why I became a librarian. Libraries were always there for me when no one else was." You realized you had overshared too late when you noticed the gentle smile on his face, "Sorry, um, I just really love the library."

"Don't be sorry," He shook his head, "It's sweet. You're sweet."

You laughed nervously and hung your head, hoping you weren't as transparent as you felt. Sweet. Just one word and it felt like he had reached inside your chest and pulled your heart out with his bare hand.

"Well, I should get back to it. I'll, uh, see you around?"

His grin widened and he nodded, "Counting on it."

You spun away and— Walked directly into the table behind you, nearly losing your balance as your thighs slammed into the hard surface. Oh, awesome.

You didn't turn back to see if he had seen (of course he had, there was no way he could miss it), but you did hear an unmistakable chuckle as you scurried away.

Humiliated, you avoided him the rest of the event. If the snacks or water needed to be refilled by his station, you had one of your other librarians do it.

Hours later, when the clinic had ended, you were beginning to put away all the folding chairs when a voice came up behind you, "Thought you said you'd see me around?"

You jumped, turning to face him and he laughed, "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I just couldn't help but notice you handed out everyone else's snacks and waters yourself, except the ones near me."

Catching your breath from the near heart attack he'd given you, you shook your head, "That… wasn't intentional."

"Oh, no? Was it also unintentional when you went by and thanked every volunteer for their help except for me?"

No, it had all definitely been intentional. You hung your head, "I didn't think you'd notice."

He blew out a long breath between his lips, "Man, I must be more rusty than I thought."

You frowned, "What?"

"I've been trying to flirt with you all day, but I must have done an awful job if you were avoiding me."

You bit your lip, tried to figure out if he was fucking with you somehow. It wasn't that you hadn't been flirted with before, you had. But Jack Abbot struck you as the kind of man who just flirted with everyone all the time at baseline, never meaning anything by it. So it had mortified you when you had gotten so flustered.

Deciding he was probably being genuine, you smiled, "I wasn't—I mean, I was avoiding you, but only because I thought I was being pretty embarrassing earlier."

He hummed, "Well, I thought you were adorable. You should walk into tables more often." You laughed and his grin widened, "When you've finished up here would you want to grab a drink with me?"

"Yeah," You said immediately before you could think on it too much, "Yeah, I'd like that."

He was waiting outside for you once you clocked out and walked you to his car, "Where are we going?"

"I know a place," He opened his car door and gestured for you to get in.

You smirked and climbed in the car, watched through the window as he smiled back at you and gently closed the door.

JANUARY

The snow crunched beneath your boots as you walked away from the speakeasy. Your breaths steamed out in front of you and you tightened your arms around yourself in an attempt to keep the heat in. It wasn't long before you heard an additional pair of shoes behind you and you rolled your eyes, "Jack, I said I don't want to talk."

"I know," He slowed once he caught up to you, "But could you at least let me drive you home? In complete silence?"

"I don't mind the walk."

He scoffed and shrugged out of his jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders, "You're gonna get sick and then you're gonna have to come see me, which seems like the last thing you want."

"There are other doctors in Pittsburgh."

He laughed, "Sweetheart, you ever see a doctor in this city that's not me, I'd consider that infidelity."

You hummed, "Sounds like a you problem. Didn't you promise me silence?"

"Yeah, that was taken off the table when you refused to let me drive you."

You stopped cold on the sidewalk, causing him to nearly walk straight into you, "You can't walk me all the way home without a jacket, you'll freeze."

He raised his eyebrows, "So you agree that it's too cold to walk?"

You really didn't want to get in his car. You'd be warm and enclosed in a place where the smell of him infiltrated your every sense. He'd be close enough for you to touch. To remember all the times you'd made out with him in that car like a couple of teenagers. Including the day you met.

You chewed the inside of you're cheek, "You'll be quiet the whole ride?"

He made an X over his heart with a finger, "Promise."

You leaned your head back to look at the sky, thought about begging God to intervene on your behalf, remembered you didn't believe in God, and sighed, "Fine."

And so Jack walked you back to his car, opened the passenger door just like he had a few months ago, closed the door gently before walking over to the driver's seat.

You crossed your arms over your chest and turned to look out your window. It was bad enough the whole car smelt like him, like his bed, like his clothes. If you looked at him too, you thought you might combust. Or worse, cry.

So you sat like that in silence for a minute or two. Until you felt the warmth and heaviness of his hand on your thigh.

You whipped your head around, "You promised—"

"I said I would be silent," He murmured, "I never said anything about touching you."

You stared stubbornly down at his hand on your leg. His fingers were slowly fingering the edge of the slit in your skirt, teasing.

You scowled in his direction, "This is cheating."

"I didn't know we were playing games." He glanced in your direction, then back to the road, "Besides, I thought we were on the same team." He said softly.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the window, "It was you who broke up with me, Jack." You said quietly. But you made no move to push his hand away.

His fingers slipped past the fabric of the skirt and you were struck dumb by the feeling of his calloused fingers stroking gently against your inner thigh, "Starting to think that might have been a misunderstanding."

You felt your resolve slipping. You started the night hurt and confused, as you had been for several weeks now, lashing out like a wounded animal. He had tamed you so easily, a few gentle words and the stroke of his fingers against bare skin and you were putty in his hands again. It would've made you angry if not for the desperate yearning that grew and expanded in your chest with every moment that passed.

When he pulled into the parking lot of your apartment complex, you were practically vibrating in your seat. Jack had grown more brazen, slipping his hand higher and higher between your legs. You had conceded a couple of minutes ago, spreading your legs to provide him more access and had heard his sharp intake of breath when he noticed.

He parked the car, removing his hand from your leg as he did, and then you both turned at the same time to watch the other.

"We should probably talk," Jack said.

You inhaled slowly and shook your head, "You promised me silence."

He tilted his head, gave you a look that suggested he was fighting a losing battle against himself, "C'mon, kid." He said softly, "We shouldn't be doing this if we're not gonna sort this out first."

You unbuckled your seatbelt, "You should've thought about that before you put your hand up my skirt."

He scoffed, but was unable to argue further because you were climbing across the cabin of the car so you could straddle his lap. You had to hike your skirt up all the way to your waist to accommodate the spreading of your legs and Jack slowly inhaled through his mouth at the sudden feel of you on top of him.

"Until we get out of this car," You whispered, forehead leaned against his, "No more talking. Please."

His eyes latched onto yours and his hand cradled the side of your head, anchoring you to him. He nodded against you, helpless to deny both you and himself a taste, just a taste, he told himself.

His first kiss was hesitant, almost like he couldn't believe he was here again, tasting you like it was the first time. He kept his hands on your face, slipped his tongue into your mouth, thought that kissing you again felt like having his favorite dessert again after going years without. He knew this taste, this feeling, but having been denied it so long it felt like the voltage had been ramped up, every sound and sensation feeling brand new because of the intensity.

You had your hands in his hair, pulling at it as you whimpered into his mouth and ground your hips down onto his growing erection. Most of his time with you had been seared into his brain, but he had somehow forgotten how needy and desperate you had always seemed to be. You had always kissed and fucked like you thought it was the last time you would ever do it and it drove him insane every single time. So insane, in fact, he was starting to think he might cum—

There was a tapping on the glass of his window and the cabin of the car lit up with sudden light.

"Oh, fuck," You cursed and scrambled off him, rushing to pull your skirt down to cover yourself.

Oh fuck was right. A security officer for your complex was staring disappointingly into the car, gesturing for Jack to roll down the window. He sighed heavily before he complied and cleared his throat, "Evening, officer."

The officer gave Jack a bored look, "Do either of you live here?"

Mortified, you pulled your hands from your face and looked towards the officer, "Hey, Trey. Slow night?"

Jack fought a smirk at your attempt at a joke, covered it with a cough into his fist.

Trey sighed, "Think you'd mind moving the party inside so I don't have to call the cops?"

"Of course—" Jack started to say, but you cut him off.

"He was just leaving, actually," You said and began to climb out of the car, avoiding Jack's piercing stare, "Sorry, Trey. Won't happen again."

Jack watched through the windshield as you walked off with Trey, not even looking back at him. He debated following after you, ask you why the fuck you would just walk off like that after driving him nearly out of his damn mind.

In the end, he leaned his forehead against his steering wheel, counted to thirty and then backwards to zero, and then drove home.

NOVEMBER

It had been two and a half months since Jack had first met you, since he became absolutely enamored by every thing about you. The way there was constantly a pen somewhere on your person, be it in your hair, behind your ear, or between your teeth. How you smiled easily and everyone fell in love with you the second you opened your mouth. He didn't think you knew it, the power you had over people. But he saw it every time, the quick descent for even the most grumpy of visitors at the library. You'd have them laughing and smiling just a minute into a conversation. Much like how you had charmed him that first day.

Constantly, he found himself thinking, that's my girl. And, recently, with more frequency, I love you.

But he hadn't said it yet because he couldn't get past the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind that something was off. That you weren't in it the way he was. You gave him the sweet eyes you gave everyone else and he started wondering if he had just fallen in love with you the same way everyone else did. That there was nothing special or unique about it to you.

He had been confident after your first couple of dates, and then more so when you began staying the night or the weekend.

But you never stayed more than two nights in a row, even if he asked you to. He cleared a drawer out in his apartment, a shelf in his closet, but you kept living out of your duffel. You never left your toothbrush, even after he showed you where he kept his in the medicine cabinet, made space for yours. And they were little things, sure, things that maybe he would've ordinarily dismissed if it wasn't for the fact that he felt completely head over heels for you. And he wasn't sure how to be with you if you didn't feel the same.

And then, he had asked to meet your friends. He had asked you to come over for dinner over the phone and when you said you couldn't, that you had plans with friends, he asked about those plans.

"Oh," He said, trying to keep his tone casual, "Is it a girls only thing or are significant others going?" Because he knew enough about your friends, when you had talked about them, to know that most of them had long term partners.

You had admitted that it was an insecurity of yours, that you often felt like the only one without a partner.

"Uh, I think… I think partners were invited, yeah."

He let the silence fall, thought you would invite him yourself. But then second after second passed and he couldn't help it, "Okay… Do you think I could come along?"

He felt humiliated when you didn't immediately say yes, when he heard only static and your faint breaths for nearly a minute.

"Yeah, that would be… nice." You said finally.

"Look, I don't…" He ran a hand through his hair, "I won't come if you don't want me to."

"No, no, I want you to." You said quickly, "I do. I just, they can be… difficult sometimes. When I introduce them to someone new."

"Okay. I can handle it."

And he thought he could. But it was clear from the moment he sat at the table that they didn't want him there. That they thought he was just the flavor of the month and he'd be gone soon. Apparently, you did this whole thing often. Bringing new partners around. And again, he was left feeling like the connection he thought the two of you had wasn't all that special.

When he drove you home in silence that night, he saw you turn to him in his peripheral, "Is everything… okay?"

He wasn't sure if he was overreacting or not and probably, he should have just honestly communicated what he was feeling. But then he thought, why bother? In the grand scheme of things, you hadn't been seeing each other all that long. Why burden you with his emotional baggage? Why beg for you to love him the way he was trying to love you when you seemed so disinterested?

"Yeah, everything's fine." He glanced your way and smiled.

"Do you want to come upstairs?" You asked when he parked in front of your building.

He shook his head, "No, that's okay. I have some errands to run early tomorrow, I wouldn't want to wake you on your day off."

You watched him for a moment before nodding, "Yeah, okay."

You reached a hand up to cup his cheek, scratched at his stubble lightly, just the way he liked before kissing him. Jack savored it, the feeling of your mouth against his, the taste of your tongue in his mouth and your fingers running through his hair. He pulled away first, pressed a kiss to your forehead and gave you a slight smile, "Goodnight, kid."

He broke up with you less than two weeks later.

JANUARY

You were re-shelving some returned books that evening when you felt the presence of a patron nearby, staring at you, likely waiting for some sort of assistance. "I'll be with you in just a moment." You said, as you always did, to make sure they knew you knew they were there.

"Not a problem, I'm pretty patient."

You spun to see Jack standing there, leaning against a chair and smirking at you.

"What're you doing here?"

He shrugged, "I didn't know how else to get you to talk to me. I've been calling you for days."

Every time you saw him again, your stomach twisted painfully. After your brief lapse in judgment the other night, you had decided it would be best to just lock him out for good. You didn't want to hear what he had to say because how could he possibly justify all the hurt he had caused? There was nothing stopping him from doing it again once he got bored or when you did something to scare him off. Which was bound to happen, just as it had the first time.

"I thought you would get the hint." You said pointedly and walked around him to get to the trolley with returned books on it.

"I really just would like you to hear me out. Just for a couple of minutes, okay? And if you still want me to go, I'll go. You'll never hear from me again."

You threw up your hands in exasperation as you grabbed some books, "Fine. Be my guest."

"I broke up with you because I didn't think you liked me as much as I liked you."

Your hand froze still on the book you were re-shelving and you turned your head to look at him, "Bullshit." You spat.

He put a hand over his heart, "Honest. I had no idea you were in love with me."

You scoffed, "How could you—God, I could barely ever breathe around you because I liked you so much." The backs of your eyes burned, and you brought a hand to your chest, "It still feels like that, actually."

"You always had your foot halfway out the door—"

"That's not true—"

"I made room for you!" He was whisper shouting, conscious that they were in a library, "I made room for you in—in every corner of my life. I invited you to everything, I wanted to show you off everywhere we went. I wanted to be with you all the time, I was always asking, begging you to stay, and you never seemed to want to." He ran a hand through his hair, "You wouldn't even leave your toothbrush at my place."

You stared at him, dumbfounded, and then shook your head, "No… No, those were tests."

He frowned, not sure if he had heard you correctly, "What?"

Finally, you sighed and sat at an empty nearby table and Jack followed, "When… When you invited me to stay over for longer, or to… to leave my toothbrush, you were testing me to see if I was going to be a clingy girlfriend. And I wasn't. I always said no. I followed the rules."

He stared at you for a long time, taking in what you had said and softened his voice, "Baby, what rules?" He asked softly.

Your eyes were glassy and you pushed your palms into your eyes, "I have… rules that I follow at the beginning of every relationship so that… So that I don't seem as attached as I am."

He shook his head, "And why would you do something like that?"

You laughed humorlessly and looked up at the ceiling, as if to force the impending tears back in your eyes, "Do you know the feedback I always get when men inevitably leave me?" You sniffled and looked at him, "That I'm too clingy or needy. Or I want to move things along too fast and they want something more casual. That it freaks them out how into them I am and they just don't want to hurt me. That I said I love you too soon and it scared the shit out of them. And I liked, loved, you so much I was desperate to make sure that didn't happen with you."

You shook your head and looked down at your hands, "I guess I over corrected."

Suddenly, Jack was angry. Not at you, but at every man who had ever made you feel like you were too much.

"Hey, look at me," He said softly, waited for you to oblige him, "You should never ever feel like you have to dim your feelings or make yourself more palatable for anyone. And you absolutely do not have to do it for me."

You didn't seem like you believed him, so he went on, "The girl I fell in love with wears her heart on her sleeve and cares so damn much about everything. I knew who I wanted from the moment I saw you and it's the girl who organizes events to keep her community safe and walks into tables when someone flirts with her."

Finally, you laughed and looked up at him, "You mean that?"

"Yeah, I told you, you should walk into tables more often. I'm a sincere guy."

You laughed again and then hiccuped, "No, not that. When you said you love me?"

He leaned his forehead against yours, "Yes, I love you. And I want you to leave your toothbrush in my medicine cabinet."

You took in a shaky breath and closed your eyes, "Do you think me and my toothbrush could come over tonight?"

He cradled your cheek with his hand, stroked his thumb along your cheekbone, "It's an open invitation. Whenever you want for as long as you want."

You sighed and closed the distance between you, kissing him gently and slowly.

"You know, now that you've said this," You swallowed and opened your eyes, "That I can be as in love with you as I want and act like it, that you've unleashed a monster?"

He shook his head slowly, "If you're a monster, I'm a monster."

You snorted, "Very poor reference to The Notebook."

He faked offense, "I thought it was pretty romantic, actually. My point is…" He forced eye contact with you again, "You are with a man who has absolutely no shame showing how in love with you I am. And I am very in love with you. So, do your worst. You won't scare me off."