Evangeline

Your breath catches in your throat from his words, desire builds in you until you know your pussy is soaking, until a heat begins to pool in your lower belly that only he can soothe. You spread your legs wider, gripping the edge of the counter with both of your hands, arching your back into him when you hear the rustle of his boxers being pushed down.

His hand pushes up your shirt as his fingers kiss your spine deliciously, pressing down to arch your back further, presenting your bare pussy to him and he notches his tip against your entrance. You push back on him, sinking an inch inside of you with ease, and the two of you share a raw moan of pleasure. He pushes in the rest of the way, groaning from the feeling of your warm, wet walls wrapped so tightly around him, and he doesn't stop until his cock is buried against your cervix.

"Goddamit," he says behind clenched teeth, "you're so tight around me."

You squirm your hips, begging for friction, and he places both of his hands on your hips until his fingers dig into the fat of your skin and begins to pound into you. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping for more. The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, molding your pussy to him, leaving no space inside of you empty for long as he repeatedly fills you to the brim.

"F-fuck Si," you stutter, lifting your hips with need, meeting his every thrust with one of your own.

His hips roll against your own, finding a rhythm of harmony between the two of you, delivering the same amount of pleasure with each last thrust. He slams against your cervix, and your pussy clamps down on his length. He pulls out until only the tip remains, and your pussy sucks him back in. Angling his hips, he finds your sweet spot with ease, hitting it with precision and leaving your toes curling against the tile of the kitchen floor.

"You feel so good baby," he praises, leaning down until his bare chest is pressed against your back, his hands finding their previous positions on your body.

You cry out when his fingers find your clit, pinching the sensitive bundle of nerves in between his calloused fingers before rolling and rubbing at the same pace of his relentless thrusts. His other hand finds your breasts under the sea of fabric, latching onto your nipple and twisting until it hardens from his touch. His thrusts continue to drive you towards your inevitable orgasm, each one hitting your sweet spot, then your cervix, then pulling out and stretching your entrance wide to accommodate his length.

"S-so close Si," you say breathlessly, your eyes shutting tight while you focus on every touch from him, every sensation.

Your words spur him on as his lips find your neck where he kisses over blooming bruises, his tongue parting his lips for him to lick the salty-sweet sweat of your skin, and you're completely lost in it. Your mouth hangs open ever so slightly as moans pour from you, drool drips from your chin, tears stain your cheeks from the sheer amount of pleasure running through your body.

"I know baby, I know," he whispers, kissing just below your ear, holding you up when your knees grow weak from the tender press of his mouth. "Cum on me lovie, for me."

His words turn to begs, which turn into groans of desire while he continues to fuck into you like he wasn't just fast asleep. With a wider stance, he digs into you, reaching deeper, fucking you faster, thrusting harder, anything to push you over the sweet edge your body so desperately craves. Your nails try to find purchase against the smooth countertops, trying to steady yourself when your legs grow numb and your mind can't focus on anything over then him.

A shiver runs down your spine, your body grows rigid, your muscles draw taut. His finger works your clit effortlessly, drawing your orgasm out of you as if you have no control over it. A broken moan falls from your lips when cum gushes from your entrance, coating his length, leaving behind rings of cream at his base. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around his length, pulsing with lingering pleasure, and Simon can't help but drop his gaze to where the two of you are connected.

"So beautiful," he says, more to himself than anything else. "That feel good?"

You nod your head frantically, dropping your forehead to the counter, the frigid stone cooling your body temperature. His hand runs down your spine again after he eases up on your clit when your body begins to jerk from overstimulation, and your back arches the more he thrusts into you. His grunts and groans turn rawer, the need for his own release building, and he turns his focus to that.

"Gonna fill you up, huh baby? That sound good?"

He knows the answer to it, which is why he wastes no time in drilling into you. Hips rolling against yours, fingers digging into any skin on your body they can find, his sounds of pleasuring ringing out in the small space around you two of you, and his release is crashing through him.

"F-fuck, oh fuck," he curses, his length twitching deep inside of you as he continues to rub against your raw walls with need.

With a few more thrusts and a guttural groan, long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, leaking out from his tip with every pulse of his orgasm, coating your walls in everything he has to give. His body stills, only the slightest thrusts and movements to draw his climax out for as long as possible remain, and your pant against the counter trying to catch your breath when his body collapses against yours.

He rests his forehead against your lower back, kissing the skin oh-so softly while he pulls out of you, hissing from the stimulation of his tip sliding through your tight entrance. Your legs shake, your arms feel weak, your body is beyond tired from what he just did to you. He drops down to his knees behind you to clean up the mess left in between your legs before lifting your panties back up and slapping your ass.

Simon leaves a kiss on the raw skin while standing up and turning you around to throw you over his shoulder. He stomps back to the bedroom, throwing you onto the mattress, and slides in right beside you. Pulling the sheets over the two of you, he wraps his arms around your body, making sure you're tightly secure before he begins to growl about how you are stealing his precious sleep from him.

│Masterlist│

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You closed the bathroom door with your hip, freshly brushed teeth still tingling, one hand dragging through your damp hair, the other tugging an oversized shirt down over your thighs. “You better not be getting crumbs in the bed again,” you mumbled through leftover toothpaste, the minty foam threatening to escape the corner of your mouth.

“Weren’t me,” Daryl called from the bed, already half-lounging, shirt open, one sock hanging on for dear life. He winced as he twisted to rub his shoulder.

You caught the motion immediately. “Mmm. Blame the dog all you want, but you were the one housing Carol’s cookies like you were in a hostage situation.”

He gave a soft, amused snort. “Least I ain’t the one leavin’ bobby pins in the sheets. Thought I got stabbed in the back last night.”

“Sounds like karma,” you said sweetly, coming to stand over him. “Karma for banning Dog from the bed when he’s clearly my emotional support animal.”

Dog, curled at the foot of the bed, lifted his head at his name and thumped his tail like he knew exactly which side he was on.

Daryl gave him a look. “He’s half a damn mattress. You’re the one always sayin’ you got no room.”

You crouched beside the bed, rummaging through a worn canvas bag until you found the tin Carol gave you. “Yeah, well, between him hogging the the bed and you flailing around like you’re in a bar fight with your dreams, it’s a miracle I get any sleep.”

You straightened and held the salve up. “And don’t even try that ‘I’m fine’ crap. I saw you breaking a sweat brushing your teeth earlier. Shirt off. Now.”

Daryl blinked at you. “Is this part where I get lucky, or the part where you put me in traction?”

“Both, if you play your cards right.”

He huffed and peeled the shirt off slowly. You stepped in and helped him when he winced, hands gentle but firm. The bruise was nasty, blooming purple over his shoulder.

You climbed up behind him on the bed, legs crossed, and dipped your fingers into the salve. The minty scent hit your nose first, sharp and clean. You worked it into the sore muscle, slow and steady. Daryl hissed, eyes slipping shut. “Told ya. Baby,” you teased.

“mkay this ain’t half bad”, he groaned, enjoying your touch.

You snorted. “That's right? Gonna start fake injuries now?”

He cracked one eye open. “Not if it means more of your talkin’.”

You softened, brushing your fingers gently over the angry bruise. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Only like me now?”

“I’m reserving love for when you stop dragging half the forest into the house with your boots.”

“That was one time. And it was your damn dog.”

“Blame the baby. Classic deflection.”

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple as you finished rubbing in the salve. “There. all better. Now maybe you’ll stop sighin’ every time you roll over like you just filed taxes.”

“I don’t sigh,” he muttered.

"You do. Like a single father of two, workin’ double shifts.”

That got his attention. He turned toward you, as gracefully as his bum shoulder allowed, and gave you a flat look. “What?”

He glanced down at your stomach and back up at you again. “You got somethin’ to tell me?”

“…Oh right, yeah. I totally forgot to mention that I’m pregnant with twins and planning on leaving you for a guy who runs a gas station so you can raise little Daisy and Cameron in a shack by the river. Surprise.”

He squinted at you, deadpan. “The hell is wrong with you… A gas station?”

“Real fancy too. Slushie machine and everything.” 

He tried to give you his signature scowl but couldnt help  cracking a smile “Jesus woman-“

You raised an accusatory finger, ready to burst out laughing, “Wait, wait, hold up, you actually believed me there for a sec, didn't you?”

He huffed and reached to wipe your mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Yeah, well… you got toothpaste on your face, smartass. Ye done runnin’ yur mouth now? M’ tired.”

“Get in before Dog steals your spot.”

Daryl groaned as he eased under the covers, joints popping like bubble wrap. “If I throw my back out tryin’ to lie down, it’s your fault,” he muttered, pointing a finger at Dog who’d circled the bed twice and then parked himself at the very edge—smug, territorial, already snoring.

“You hear that?” Daryl told him. “No respect. Not from either of ya.”

“I respect you just fine,” you said, settling in beside him. “But only one of you farts under the covers.”

“Alrigh’, stop. Don’t gotta put up with this shit in ma own bed.”

You giggled. The room went still, soft and sleepy. He pulled you into him, arm curling tight around your waist, his nose brushing the curve of your neck.

“Better?”

“Much,” he murmured.

Perfect. Until the ceiling creaked. Loud.

You both froze.

Another noise followed. Rhythmic. Familiar.

“…Is that Michonne?” you whispered.

“And Rick,” Daryl muttered, glaring at the ceiling.

You blinked. “They are not—”

“Oh, they are.”

A beat of silence.

Then you grinned. “Wanna be louder?”

He groaned. “We’re not doin’ that.”

“Why?’ you teased, tuning your body to face him and leaning on your elbows to hover your face over his. “Scared you’ll lose?”

“I ain’t racin’ Rick.” He paused, deadpan. “Man sounds like he’s wrestlin’ a hog.”

You choked on a laugh. “Then prove it.” Oh god, he thought. You already had your crazy sex eyes on.

“You really wanna start that righ’ now?”

“Only if you’re gonna finish it.” You moved on top of him, straddling his torso, trying to read his expression for any sign of dismissal. You didn't find any. His hands flew to your waist like a reflex.

“You’re a damn menace.”

“And you’re stalling,” you hushed, brushing your lips against his

“Ain’t gonna be no damn competition,” he muttered. “Ain’t even gonna be close.”

Then his mouth was on yours.

It was the kind of kiss that knocked thoughts loose—hungry, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth. You didn’t remember moving, didn’t realise your hips were grinding down on him until you felt the solid heat under you and his fingers dug into your waist.

“Jesus,” he groaned, voice ragged against your lips. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You didn’t answer—just kissed him harder, messier, hands sliding up his chest to push him further into the mattress. He didn’t resist. He wouldn’t dare. Not with the way you were moving like you’d catch fire if you stopped.

His grip tightened as he bucked up against you, mouth dragging hot down your jaw. “Ain’t even been a minute and you’re already—”

“Yeah?” you gasped, rocking down with more purpose now, chasing friction. “You got a problem with that?”

“Hell no,” he growled, sliding one hand up under your shirt. “Just tryna keep up, woman—”

“Good,” you breathed, grinding harder now, needing more. “Then don’t fall behind.”

And just like that, the game was on.

He sat up to be parallel with you. His hands moved along your bare back from under your shirt, all while you moved deliciously against his crotch, your faces pressed together, lips moving in sync, and tongues crashing like tidal waves. You couldn't help but moan into his mouth pathetically. 

He moved to take off his your shirt, and in one swift, powerful motion, he tore the flannel open, sending the buttons flying. Like a drowning man, he latched onto your bare chest as if it were his sole air supply.

“Christ Daryl…” you breathed, tilting back, enjoying the feeling of his hot mouth on your breasts. Well, more specifically, your rock-hard nipples. He leaned into his sloppy kisses, lowering you to your back while he climbed on top of you. Gradually, he moved lower and lower down your abdomen, making you so dizzy that the banging of the headboard upstairs was indistinguishable from your racing heart. Before you knew it, your underwear was gone, and its place was Daryl’s hand. Needless to say, you much preferred his hand there instead of your underwear.

His he moved up to nibble on your earlobe, his fingers rubbing your clit. Was this what hypnosis was like? He could tell you to do damn near anything and you would bark yes if it meant he wouldnt stop. 

Your body had a mind of its own, grinding against his hand as you clawed at his boxers.

The short gruffs and ragged breathing in your ear sent electricity down your body and straight to where Daryl was apparently trying to summon a genie. You felt the heat pool there as the butterflies in your stomach failed to settle. It only made you even wetter. If you weren't so mind-numbingly turned on right now, you would shield yourself from the embarrassment that down there was like a Slip n’ Slide.

  “You done makin’ a mess or you gonna keep humpin’ my hand like your tryna start a fire?” 

Ugh, smug douchebag. You can practially see the stupid cocky face he has on now. It took a few tries, the breathe kept logdng in your throat as whimpers escaped your mouth, until you finally retorted. “oh screw you asshole.”

“Asshole, huh? Must be doin’ somethin’ right.” That earned a frustrated groan from you. Right now, you are sitting between cloud nine and hell with this teasing. You shoved his boxers down and wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in his place. “Either you fuck me now or im going upstairs to join Rick and Michonne.”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Lining himself up, he plunged into you without any warning. You couldn't breathe. Your body went limp with the feeling of him. You gasped for air as your body drank him in. God, he felt like he was up in your stomach.

“shit baby…” he groaned. It took everything in him not to completely lose it a drill into you right there, but he knew you needed a second to get used to the stretching feeling. 

“Daryl…. “ you squealed a moment later. Oblivious to him, if he didnt move within the next 5 seconds you woud just about combust. “please move”

It was practically spoken as a cry, your face scrunching up in need. He pressed his mouth to yours not a second later while he did what you asked, setting a steady pace, one that had you clawing at his back, his ass, his arms, hell, anything to ground you in the overwhelming pleasure he was spoon feeding you with a ladle. But you needed more. He needed to pick up the pace like you both wanted him to, or else you really were going to impale him with bobby pins.

“Ain’t even gonna be close,’ huh?” you bit out, breathless and flushed.  “Then why the hell are we still playin’?”

Daryl just smirked, hand dragging slowly over the curve of your hip like he had all the time in the world. “‘Cause I like hearin’ you talk tough,” he rasped. “Makes it real sweet when I shut you up.”

“You talk big, Dixon,” you growled, rocking down against him. “Now back it up.”

His hands flexed around your hip, yanking, moving you down to meet his thrust, causing you to yelp at the sensation. “You sure?” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours, dark and hot. “‘Cause once I start, ain’t lettin’ you off easy.”

You glared, chest heaving. “Good. I don’t want easy.”

That did it. He moved his hand to your thigh and stretched it up to hook with his (good) shoulder, so you were completely sandwiched under him. The taster for what’s to come was one long, deep drag of his hips, which just about made your brain short-circuit. He chuckled at the fucked-out look on your face, “That mouth of yours’s gonna get you in trouble.”

“You promise?” you whispered, nails digging into his back. It didn't even sound like you when you said it, and yet you meant it. 

He huffed a laugh against your throat. “You’re about to wish I was still stallin’.” 

His hips began to pound into you, making you bounce with each unforgiving thrust. Your hair would be just short of a birds nest in the morning but all you could think about was daryls dick smacking into your pussy and making you feel like you had taken every recreational drug known to man.

“Fuck! Yes baby! Ohhh-“ The only way you could match the screams of pleasure that were coming from you was because after that, Daryl started muttering words of praise into your ears about how loud you were being. That’s great, buddy, just keep doing your thing, and ill gladly show this community the set of lungs I have on me.

The power with which he moved in and out of you, of course, had the headboard slamming against the wall so hard that Drayl would probably need to find some drywall tomorrow. The gross noises that your bodies made when joining together would have sounded like angels singing to you if it weren't for the noise of the headboard drowning it out… or your moans.

He dipped his head low, lips brushing your ear as your moan spilt out sharp and shameless.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he rasped, voice thick with approval. “Let ‘em hear it, baby. Let ‘em know who’s really winnin’ this little contest.”

 You clenched around him. God, you were so not gonna last. You would have cringed from embarrassment, but all of your dignity had vacated your body when you started squirming like a fish out of water.

Daryl let out a groan in response, peering down at your chest to see your breast jiggle up and down from his movements. “Atta girl. Let 'em know who’s giving it to ye this good.”

 You’d be lying if his words didn’t turn into mush, but who were you to take this lying down? 

“Maybe I’m just fakin’ it so i dont hurt your ego—oh, GOD— Daryl right there!”

He delivered a particularly brutal thrust to the spot he knew would send you over the edge. His pace was relentless, like he fucking hated you.  But that was far from the truth. The waves of pleasure he was single-handedly serving you said I love you better than any Valentine's note you had ever received in your opinion. The fricton between his pubic bone and your clit while he jammed himself into you repeatedly was a nice touch - to put it mildly.

“shit, shit, shit, baby your gonna make cum-“ it was so hard to speak full coherent sentences when he fucked you like this. The air from your lungs kept getting ejected every time he pounded into your cunt.

“That right?” Shit, you thought, he's using that voice he does when he speaks to judith. I'm done for. “Gonna come round this cock? Go ahead, baby, I gotcha”

“Ohhh fuck baby im cumming im cumming I’m- AH!”

Everything went white as every nerve in your body contorted with pleasure. It spread like a Mexican wave, starting from your lower abdomen and travelling all the way to your toes. The only thing reminding you that you hadn’t died and gone to heaven was Daryl’s erratic thrusts, which didn't falter; if anything, they sped up if that was even possible. He was chasing his own high. There were many things that turned you on in the world, but this was at the top of that list. Him going feral, using your body to guide him over the egde, hips stuttering and dick twitching inside of you. God, this was top-quality fuel for wet dreams.

He let out a few strangled moans before he came inside you, the feeling of him spilling inside of you made you grin with content, sighing like you were on a spa retreat. Except this retreat wasnt so much relaxing as it it was fucking mindblowing and would definitly reult in you walking funny.

His movements slowed, now just a soft rolling of his hips. You didn't want this to end. You wanted to stay like this forever. You were still breathless beneath him, and your heart was trying to remember how to beat in a rhythm that wasn’t wild. The weight of his body anchored you in place like gravity had finally done its job right.

Daryl was sprawled over you, chest heaving, forearm braced beside your head, trying not to crush you with the full weight of him, not that you minded. His skin was flushed and slick against yours, sweat cooling in the hollow between your breasts where his lips had been minutes ago.

He shifted slightly, lifting his head to look at you. Your skin was dewy, and you sported that after-sex glow that drove Daryl crazy. His hair hung down in damp, dishevelled strands, clinging to his temples. His eyes were heavy-lidded but alert, scanning your face.

“…You okay?” he asked, voice rough and warm, moving your hair from your face.

You couldn’t quite speak yet, so you gave a nod and a dopey smile. “Legs are noodles. Brain’s soup. So yeah. M’ great.”

That earned you the tiniest smirk, soft and crooked. “Good.”

His nose brushed yours before he leaned in to kiss you, slow and sweet this time. Nothing rushed. No competition. Just him, kissing you like he had all the time in the world. You melted into the kiss, humming contentedly, arms looping around his neck as he hugged you impossibly closer like you could disappear any second.

And above you, the ceiling had gone still. No more creaks. No more rhythmic thuds. No more Rick and Michonne ‘wrestling’ as they liked to call it.

You pulled back from the kiss with a dazed laugh. “Oh my god. They’re quiet now.”

Daryl blinked, then turned his head lazily to glare up at the ceiling like it had betrayed him. “Told ya. Ain’t even a contest.”

You giggled beneath him, threading your fingers through his hair. “Bet they heard us and got embarrassed.”

He huffed and rolled over you slowly, careful of your limbs as he settled at your side, immediately pulling you with him so you were nuzzled into his chest. You let him, splaying over him like it was instinct. His body was warm and solid and safe, the aftershocks of everything still tingling across your skin.

“I think I died for a minute,” you mumbled into his collarbone.

He chuckled against your hair. “Nah. Just blacked out. You’ll live.”

You swatted at him weakly. “Don’t be smug.”

“Too late,” he drawled. Then, quieter, brushing a thumb along your hip: “You’re real loud when you want somethin’.”

You grinned against his skin, your cheeks still flushed. “So are you.”

There was a moment of silence before you added, “Kinda proud of us.”

Daryl raised a brow. “Think we scared ‘em off?”

“Hell yeah, we did.”

You raised your arm in the air to gesture a fistbump, which he chuckled at, but nonetheless accepted. “Atta girl.”

You let out a happy sigh, his hand settling on your back again, moving slowly. Comforting. Claiming. Gentle in a way that made your heart grow a little.

From somewhere at the foot of the bed, Dog gave a low groan — the kind that sounded both scandalised and mildly betrayed.

You lifted your head, breath still uneven. “Oh Jesus, Dog, I’m so sorry—”

He was glaring. Or as much as a dog could glare. Ears flat, eyes narrowed, the judgment rolling off him in waves.

Daryl glanced down at him and snorted. “Don’t give me that look. You knew what this was.”

You buried your face in Daryl’s shoulder, laughing. “He’s mad ‘cause he’s not the favourite anymore.”

Daryl scoffed. “Was I even the favourite to begin with?”

You hummed, still grinning. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re both my good boys.”

Daryl raised an eyebrow, his voice low and smug. “Only one of us had you seein’ stars.”

You pulled back just far enough to give him a look. “Only one of you drools in his sleep.”

Daryl blinked, then smirked. “Says the woman who talks in her sleep.”

Your mouth dropped open in mock horror. “I do not.”

He shrugged, smug. “ I got woken up last week by you mutterin’ somethin’ about a peanut butter apocalypse.”

You chuckled, and Dog, ever the drama queen, flopped down with a heavy sigh, clearly done with both of you.

Daryl brushed your damp hair from your cheek, his thumb lingering at your jaw. “You alright?” he asked softly.

“Mhmm.” You leaned in to kiss him again, slower this time. “Better than alright.”

_______________________________________________________________

You sat at the table like someone recovering from a war injury. Every muscle in your body ached — wonderfully so, but they still hurt like a bitch — and breakfast was the last thing on your mind. Beside you, Daryl was the picture of serenity, casually sipping coffee like he hadn’t just destroyed your back six hours ago.

Rick gave you both a look. The kind that said he’d rather be literally anywhere else. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, poking at his eggs like they’d betrayed him. “Y’all don’t even try to be subtle, do you?”

“Didn’t know we had an audience,” Daryl said, not looking up from his mug.

Michonne arched a brow, clearly amused. “You didn’t need one. The walls are thin, Dixon. Thin.”

You winced and nursed your coffee like it could fix your dignity. You gave Daryl a knowing look and smirked, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t apologise,” Michonne said, smirking. “Just… damn.”

Rick looked between the two of you again, brow furrowed. “That wasn’t a competition, right? Like — there was no actual scoreboard?”

You glanced sideways at Daryl, trying to hide your grin. “What do you think?”

Daryl gave a faint smirk, eyes fixed on his plate. “Told you it wasn’t gonna be close.”

God damn, you could go for round 5 right here on thid counter.

Rick groaned. “Oh, come on.”

Michonne laughed into her coffee. “That’s it. I’m sleeping on the couch from now on.”

From the hallway, Carl appeared, bleary-eyed and deeply unimpressed. “Why are you guys being weird?” he asked, grabbing a slice of toast.

Rick straightened. “We’re just having breakfast. Sit down.”

Carl shook his head. “Not today. Not when the house sounds like a zoo at night. I’m taking this to my room. And since when did we bring back rules from the old world?”

He walked off without waiting for a reply.

You, Daryl, Rick and Michonne all burst out laughing.

You leaned into Daryl’s shoulder and murmured just loud enough for him to hear, “Guess we won the gold, huh?”

—————

The door creaked softly as Daryl pushed it open with his shoulder, carrying the still-warm laundry basket. He nudged it into the room with his boot and set it beside the dresser with a grunt, already pulling off his flannel as he turned.

You were exactly where he’d left you hours ago—curled up on your side in the middle of the bed, one arm draped over a hot water bottle, the other tucked under your cheek. His boxer briefs sat low on your hips, waistband slightly twisted, and your bra—God help it—looked like it was clinging to life by stubborn elastic and nostalgia. It had to be at least five years old. The only clean one left.

His chest did something sharp and soft all at once.

The sight of you—tousled, flushed from cramps and exhaustion, surrounded by pillows like a nesting creature—hit him square in the sternum. You looked miserable. And beautiful. And absolutely like his.

He crouched down beside the bed, pressing a warm kiss to your temple.

You stirred, eyes blinking open slowly.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough from the day. “You eat?”

“Wasn’t hungry,” you murmured, not moving a muscle. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, well. I did your laundry.” He said it like an accomplishment.

You gave him a lazy look. “I’m very proud of you.”

Daryl exhaled a breath that might’ve been a laugh, but it came out more like a resigned huff. His hand moved to rest gently on your side, hovering just above the hot water bottle.

“You want somethin’? Painkillers? Soup?”

You shook your head. “Someone else’ll need it more. Just stay.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed in behind you, stretching out on his side and pulling you back gently into his chest. One arm curled around your chest, the other folded over the hot water bottle, pressing it snug against you.

Silence settled between you, not an uncomfortable one but peaceful. Then—soft as breath—he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Just one. Barely a touch and you didn’t react.

Another followed, slower this time. Then another, tucked behind your ear, the kind that made your skin prickle.

You let out a soft noise, not quite a sigh, and shifted a little closer.

His lips found the curve of your neck. The dip behind your jaw. Fuck. Why did you have to be on your fucking period when your ridiculously hot boyfriend wants to bump uglies with you.

“Daryl…” you murmured, half-warning, half-weary.

“I know,” he said, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Just wanna help.”

You tilted your head back slightly, letting him in.

“Ain’t scared of a little blood,” he whispered, like it was nothing. “Just wanna make ya feel better.”

You didn’t speak. Just exhaled—deep and shaky—and let your body sink into his.

His mouth moved down your neck again, a trail of heat and softness. His hand left the hot water bottle, sliding under the hem of the boxer briefs with aching slowness, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip, gently tugging them down midway to your thighs. He wasn’t in any rush. Just learning you again, re-mapping the places that made you melt.

He paused when he reached your ass, warm hand resting there like a question.

You answered by pressing back into him, nudging his chest with your shoulder.

His breath hitched.

When his hand moved higher, cupping your breast, you inhaled sharply from the slight aching pain in your breast, but he adjusted instantly. Less pressure. Just his thumb brushing in slow, lazy circles.

“This ok?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed. “Yeah.. just a little sensitive there.”

“This better?” He whispered in to your ear as he fondled your breast with touch lighter than a feather. The pad of his thumb brushed in small, reverent strokes until you were sighing under him, lips parted.

The ache began to shift. Soften.

You nodded against the pillow, breath catching. “Yeah.”

He shifted behind you, still spooned close, and tugged his shirt off with a quiet grunt. You felt the movement more than saw it—heat leaving his skin, muscles shifting as he folded the shirt one-handed and reached around to tuck it beneath your hip. Not a word spoken. Just quiet care.

With your—his—boxers shoved halfway down your legs, your ass was bare to the air and to him. And God, the sight of you like that—soft and flushed and waiting—nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.

He let his hand trail over you slowly, reverently, palm broad as it curved around your hip. His fingers found the swell of you and gently coaxed the skin apart, just enough to look. Just enough to see. And what he saw made him go still.

You were slick. Puffy and red from arousal and heat, blood already painting the inside of your thighs in thin, sticky streaks. The swollen, glistening part of you twitched under his touch, like you were straining toward him even in stillness. He swallowed hard—almost too hard. The blood pounded in his ears. His cock throbbed behind his jeans, still confined while you were laid bare like some fever-dream offering he hadn’t earned.

He very nearly came from the sight of you alone.

But he breathed through it, slow and thick, grounding himself against the frantic need clawing up his spine. When he finally moved, it was with painstaking care. He shoved his jeans down with one hand, just enough, fumbling a little, dragging the waistband low with a soft hiss between his teeth. His skin met yours—fever-warm, flushed, raw with want.

One arm slid under your head again, curling you tight to his chest, while the other found your bare hip, steadying you. Then he reached down and aligned himself—his knuckles brushing your thigh, his cock nudging against the blood-slick heat of you.

You made a sound then, soft and helpless, and clutched the sheets tighter beneath your fingers. The heat of his chest behind you anchored you in place.

“You okay?” he rasped, voice breaking as his mouth brushed your hairline.

You turned your head just enough for your nose to brush his jaw. Your eyes fluttered. “Mhmm.” It came out weak. Boneless. But full of trust.

And that was all he needed.

He pressed in slowly, inch by inch, the stretch so gradual it felt endless. His cock eased through the mess—slick from blood—until he was seated fully inside you, hips flush to your ass, chest pressed tight to your back.

Your breath hitched. He kissed your neck.

And then he moved. Barely. Just a roll of his hips, gentle and deep, like the steady ebb of a tide pulling you toward him. One arm circled your waist and locked you against him, the other splayed over your lower belly, warm and unmoving, holding the pressure there like a balm.

You couldn’t move with him holding you like that—not that you wanted to. You were cradled completely, surrounded by heat and skin and muscle, your body shaking with every slow thrust that pushed you further into the sheets. This was home. The curve of his hand on your stomach. The heat of his breath on your neck. The way he whispered things into your skin that weren’t quite words.

Everything about his touch was slow. Grounded. Purposeful. Each movement was measured, coaxing instead of claiming, like he wasn’t just trying to fuck you—he was trying to put you back together.

Your bodies rocked together in a rhythm that belonged to no one else. Every slow glide of his cock dragged against places that ached with tenderness, with craving. The cramps you’d been drowning in all day were fading now—swallowed under the warmth building low in your belly, in the soft clench of your muscles around him.

The wet sounds between you were obscene—messy and constant, every stroke echoing off your slick walls, made worse by the blood that had smeared between your thighs and now soaked into Daryl’s shirt beneath you. You could feel it dripping slowly down the side of your ass, warm and unbothered, painting both of you in a truth that didn’t disgust him, didn’t slow him. He never flinched. Just kept you close, kept moving, soft groans slipping from his throat every time you clenched tighter. If anything, it turned him on more.

He didn’t let up. Didn’t falter. Every thrust was slow and deep, every exhale catching at the end like he was barely holding himself back. His arm squeezed tighter around your waist. He kissed the place behind your ear. You felt the shiver run through him, through you, through everything.

“Daryl…” you breathed into the pillow, your voice thinned with tension, pleasure crawling up your spine in slow, tightening coils. You were already hovering—your body flushed, hypersensitive, every inch of you alive with the stretch of him, the weight of him behind you, the unbearable goodness of how slowly he moved inside you.

“You close, baby?” he murmured, lips grazing your temple. His voice was tight, breath hitching like he was holding something back.

“Right there,” you whispered. “Right there…”

You weren’t thinking when you said it.

“Deeper.”

His whole body stilled—just for a second. And then something shifted.

He didn’t speed up. He didn’t lose rhythm.

But God, he sank deeper.

His hips rolled forward with a deliberate press, burying himself in you inch by inch until he bottomed out, staying there for a heartbeat like he needed to feel every shiver of you wrapped around him. The arm around your waist tightened, anchoring you back into his chest, and he let out a groan that sounded like it had been waiting all night to escape.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice frayed. “This what you want?”

You couldn’t speak—you just moaned into the pillow, a long, trembling sound, your body going slack in his arms. It was almost too much—being so full, so stretched, the slick glide of him now drowned in the mess between you. His cock moved slow and heavy inside you, dragging over every nerve ending, grinding so deep you saw sparks behind your eyes.

It wasn’t rough. It was intimate—filthy only because of how much there was to feel.

But he didn’t stop. He just held you tighter. So tight that your bodies were like one, wrapped in his arms, there was no space between your bodies. He kissed the nape of your neck; whispered things you couldn’t hear properly, not over the sound of your own heartbeat crashing in your ears.

Your body tensed when you came, thighs trembling as your orgasm rippled through you like fire spreading across dry leaves. Crying out into the pillow, your cunt clenched around him so tight it knocked the air from your lungs—and from his. He let out a low, desperate groan, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he followed, cock twitching deep inside you.

He came with a low, drawn-out moan, hips barely moving now, just rocking into you in soft, greedy rolls. His come flooded you in long, hot pulses, mixing with everything else already dripping down your thighs.

Still, he stayed buried inside you. Still moving. Still holding you like he never wanted to let go.

And you—soaked, aching, trembling—just curled tighter into his arms, breath catching in your throat as your body finally began to go still.

“Ya feel any better?” Daryl murmured against your cheek, his voice low and husky, lips brushing your skin like he didn’t want to break the spell. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and lingering, like he was letting himself savor it.

You nodded, lips parted, still catching your breath, your body heavy and molten in his arms. “You even gotta ask?” you croaked, your voice rough and raspy with exhaustion and satisfaction.

He chuckled against your skin—one of those rare, quiet laughs that vibrated low in his chest and made your belly flip. He kissed your cheek again, softer this time, the scratch of his stubble grazing your flushed skin as he nuzzled in like he couldn’t get close enough.

The room exhaled around you. The hum of the fan, the creak of the old mattress beneath your tangled limbs, the faint rustle of leaves brushing the window—everything slowed, stilled.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

His hand was sprawled across your stomach, warm and firm, fingers absently tracing slow, lazy circles over your skin like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Your legs were a tangled mess beneath the sheets, your thigh slung over his, one of your feet tucked under his calf for warmth. The air smelled like sweat and sex and detergent. It smelled like you two.

You broke the silence first, your voice small and thick with sleep. “Thank you.”

He didn’t move. Just gave a quiet huff against your ear, teeth grazing the lobe as he nibbled on it with deliberate laziness. “Whatcha thankin’ me for?” he muttered, more amused than curious.

You sighed, the sound melting into a smile as you sank deeper into him. “Just… today,” you mumbled, your words almost slurred from how soft and warm you were.

“For helpin’ me with everything,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and leftover breathlessness. “With Karen’s post. With Derek’s piece-of-shit car. Maggie’s endless damn shopping list. My laundry and—uh…”

Your stomach flipped, and not from nerves. Just the memory—hot, sticky, vivid—of the things he’d just done to you, and what exactly had happened on that now thoroughly ruined duvet. You trailed off, blinking at the ceiling, your brain momentarily short-circuited by the phantom echo of his grip, his pathetic groans, the way he’d filled you so completely—

He chuckled low against your neck, a lazy, sinful sound, like he knew exactly what image had just hijacked your thoughts and stolen the words clean from your mouth.

You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.

“—And everything else,” you muttered, cheeks warm, eyes still shut as your grin spread. “So… thanks.”

His arms tightened around you, drawing you in until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell against your back, the way his chin tucked over your shoulder, the way his palm splayed across your stomach like he was trying to keep something in—like he was holding it there on purpose.

“Any time,” he said, voice quiet but undeniably smug.

You didn’t need to see him to know he was grinning like a bastard. You could feel it in the curl of his fingers on your belly, in the warmth radiating off his skin, in the way his leg shifted just enough to trap you there, locked in place under the weight of him.

Neither of you moved to clean up. Not even a little.

The sheets were a disaster—sticky, rumpled, probably ruined—but you didn’t give a damn. Getting up now would’ve felt like ripping the covers off someone who just got comfortable for the first time in hours. Maybe days.

And Daryl was too warm. Too firm. Too solid and there to even think about letting go.

Wrapped up in him like that, in the heat and the stillness, in the smell of sweat and his shampoo and that faded aftershave he swore he didn’t wear—you didn’t feel like moving. You barely felt like breathing.

The mess could wait. Hell, it could dry there for all you cared. That was tomorrow’s problem.

————

Tomorrow came.

And you were barely conscious when the knock hit the door.

"Ten minutes!" Michonne's voice rang clear from the hallway. "Get up or I'm leaving without you!"

Your voice was croaky from sleep. "If someone doesn't kill me by the end of the day, I'm gonna."

Daryl snorted through his nose and got off you, using a shirt to clean himself which quite honestly looked straight out a horror movie but he didn’t bat an eye. He sat up, scratching his ribs and yawning like he didn't just look stupid hot doing the bare minimum. "S'posed to be your favourite route," he mumbled, standing up and tucking himself in while walking to the dresser. "You know that stretch better than anybody."

“Could’ve drawn y’all a map…. Ugh whatever" you muttered, rolling to your feet and stumbling toward the bathroom.

By the time you finished brushing your teeth, Daryl was already dressed and waiting for you downstairs.

"Damn miracle you didn't shrink your own shit," you teased, rifling through the basket for your usual patrol shirt.

But the second your fingers closed around the cotton, your stomach dropped.

It felt wrong. Tighter. Like a sock that had been boiled alive.

"Mm. Okay." You frowned, tugging it out and inspecting it. "Maybe it just feels smaller."

It didn't just feel smaller.

You wriggled into it anyway— mostly because you were short on time, and bras were non-negotiable with the way your boobs felt like two bags of wet sand—and the shirt clung like paint. You had to yank it down just to stop it from riding up your ribs. It hugged your shoulders, pulled across your chest, squished your boobs together like a stripper and absolutely refused to be kind to your underarms.

Your pants were worse.

You had to hop, wriggle, and physically stuff yourself into them like pastry dough. They fought you the whole way up

-scraping your thighs, pinching your hips—and by the time they buttoned-barely-you were flushed, sweaty, and on the verge of losing your entire will to live.

"Oh,fuck no."

You stomping out into the hallway , arms stiff at your sides. "Daryl!"

He bolted up the stairs, as if you were in danger or something. Yeah in danger of losing my shit.

When he got to the hallway and saw you the reaction was instant.

Like lightning to the base of his skull. His eyes went wide and took a step back as if you were a fire hazard . “…Shit.”

“Shit is right,” you snapped, tugging your shirt down. “What the fuck did you do to my clothes? Did you boil them? Did you sacrifice them to a demon? I look like a glazed ham.”

He tried to meet your eyeliner but eyes eyes were stuck to your body and how you looked in those tiny pieces of fabric. “I—uh—I just washed ’em. Like clothes. With the soap and the—uh. You know. Laundry stuff.”

You jabbed a finger at him. “I told you not to touch the delicates! There’s a whole basket just for—oh my God, is this a wedgie or a medical emergency?”

You twisted, trying to unstick the pants from your ass. Every part of you squeaked with friction. It felt like denim shrink-wrapped around your soul.

And the worst part was Daryl - just standing there, staring, like he’d never seen woman in his life.

Fuck, you thought. He’s got his sex face on.

“Don’t,” you warned. “Not one word from you.

He took another step back, hand raised in surrender, but the smirk on his face betrayed him. “Ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Just—y’know. That shirt’s workin’ real hard, is all.”

“You ruined my entire wardrobe!” you screamed. “Look at me! I mean I can’t go out like this!”

Daryl dear-in-headlights Dixon, ever the poet, only grunted in response and you swore he had a bit of drool on him. Well that and the tent he was pitching in his jeans.

You sighed, defeated, dragging your jacket from the hook. “You’re doing my laundry forever now.”

"Yes, ma'am." His voice was low, quiet as if he hadn’t meant to speak.

"I swear to God," you added, pulling your belt tight,"if i so much as bend over my pants are gonna rip.

Daryl was still staring. Eyes glued to your hips like a man possessed.

Alexandria had welcomed you for the most part, after Deanna had done a polite questioning of each one of you. But no matter how much Rick wanted you all to try, it still didn’t feel like a home. The thing that you were the most grateful for was that now Carl and Judith had a roof over their young heads. They were of the ages that they could adapt to this change, that sticking it out in the wilderness hadn’t stuck to them. It had to you. You had struggled to settle for a moment since the prison had been destroyed, and you had no intention of doing so now, feeling distrust towards that were now your neighbours.

It was obvious that you should have calmed with the absent presence of nearby walkers that could find you in your sleep, that you should feel safe that there were walls protecting you. And it wasn’t that you didn’t want to, you simply just could not allow your guard to slip. These people, the ones that you did not know would smile at you, and every time they did you would send them a suspicious glare. For all you or the others knew, this was all an entrapment, a facade of deception much like the promise of Terminus had been. A sigh left your lips as you took up your stance on the porch; Daryl had been your company until he had been signed to recruitment alongside Aaron, the man that had found you all sheltered in that weathered barn.

Whatever Deanna had in mind for your participation within the community was beyond you, having yet to be revealed. Perhaps you did not belong anywhere and everyone would move on with their lives without you. If only you had an inkling of patience, then you could pretend, similar to how Carol was. You could wear the false smile that she did and act harmless, conversing about the weather and such as if the world had not been plagued by the dead. But undoubtedly that would all blow up in your face, you’d reach a limit of false pretences and lash out.

“Y/n.” At your name being spoken you turned to find Abraham watching you, him understanding the weight of trauma to a degree more so than others. He could tell by sight alone that you were still not convinced of this place and all that it could be. That it was safe. It was as if paranoia had overtaken the logical side of your brain, making you suspicious of everything. Abraham cleared his throat, noticing each shift that fell upon your features. “Are you coming with us? We’re all just about to head out…”

He was sceptical at the prospect of leaving you alone/ for all he knew you would take it as an opportunity to escape, although you were by no means a prisoner. And if you were to venture outside of the walls, it would remain a mystery if you were going to return. Alexandria was a chance for you all to be together, and safe, even if you had yet to realise that yourself. “I-“, the wariness in your eyes spoke volumes. You didn’t want to say it, but Abraham could tell that you had no wish to attend. But if you did not, then there was the possibility of you disappearing, and that would undoubtedly tear up the others.

Hesitantly, as though he were approaching a wild creature, the redhead took a step towards you. To his relief you did not stumble backwards and away from him, instead you remained still. “I really think you should come with us. I won’t leave your side if you don’t want me to.” Although he had made sure that he spoke to you softly, there was still visible hesitation in your stance. You were about to say something, most likely decline again, however whatever words had been balanced on the tip of your tongue were clipped by another voice.

“She ain’t goin’.” It was Daryl, and as you turned to look at him, you rook note that he was wearing long sleeves rather than a flannel that he had intentionally torn. “She’s comin’ with me.” He nodded at you, and whilst Abraham would not admit it out loud, he felt relief. He knew that Daryl would keep you safe no matter where the two of you went. And if you did journey into the nearby woodland or further, Daryl would make it his responsibility to ensure that you returned. Anyone in your little group of survivors would know that.

It had surprised Abraham when he had first met the pair of you that you were friends, and nothing beyond that. Friends did not look at just friends the way Daryl and you did. It was as though the two of you were in a relationship already, although it was only the pair of you that hadn’t realised that yet. And eh was not surprised either when you finally piped up, with your shoulders now relaxed and looking as though you were about to run away. “You go ahead,” you urged Abraham, “I’m gonna go with Daryl.”

There was no hesitation. Nothing. You were willing to go wherever Daryl was, and that was more than enough for Abraham to know that you would be safe. As you turned towards Daryl, gesturing for him to go onwards and take you where he had in mind, he shot you a boyish smile. No one made Daryl smile like that, Abraham thought, even if he had known him a shorter amount of time than you and the others. He watched as the two of you walked away, down the middle of the street with newfound life in your steps. You bumped shoulders with Daryl, causing the man to laugh. Two idiots in love, Abraham thought with a tempered smile, even if neither of you knew it yet.

You liked Aaron and Eric, despite your previous nerves towards them. Slowly in the time that you ha been in their home, you had started to warm to them. It brought an honest smile to Daryl’s face as he watched you from across the table, a hefty glass of wine in your hand as you spoke and laughed. To see you so free and so yourself warmed the often brooding man. It was a sight that he had dearly missed since the fall of the prison, and whilst he knew that you had seen it as home, he wanted you to give this place a chance of refuge for you too. At first he had been uncertain himself, but he was beginning to realise that it wasn’t all that bad, especially since you were here.

“-wouldn’t have gone to that anyway. Too many people for both of us.” Daryl reasserted himself in the conversation at the sound of your voice, watching as you shuddered at the prospect of being in a room filled with too many breathing bodies. You were referring to the party that was being hosted in a celebration of your group’s arrival. He saw how you gulped down some of the wine, placing it back onto the table beside your empty dinner plate.

“But if you were to put ‘er in a room of walkers, she’d have no problem.” He smirked as you groaned at his words, Aaron and Eric laughing at your reaction. Daryl knew better than anyone that you could handle yourself against the undead, you were swift with every execution. He remembered how valiantly you had fought at the Greene Farm with the horde, the movements your body made as you avoided gnashing teeth and becoming encircled by the creatures that would without a doubt eat you alive. You had been fearless, and you still were, even if you had yet to grow fond and comfortable towards the new territory that you were in.

“Only because my life would depend on it.” You threw back at the man that had called you out. It was something that you and Daryl shared; the lack of desire to be in too close a proximity with large social groups. Your aversions of such had drifted the two of you together, with the inclusion of Carol whenever she decided to join you both. Too many people banded together made you anxious, and you had become the most comfortable when the two of you were out of earshot of such a gathering, sitting together in occasional silence that was not awkward in the slightest.

“So…” Eric dragged through his humoured tone, and you were invested in what he was going to change the topic to. “How long have you been together?” With that enquiry hanging in the air, you were glad that you hadn’t had a mouthful of wine. Daryl on the other hand had been mid gulp, causing him to choke as he tried to swallow it down. Your eyes were wide as you looked at Aaron’s husband, whom had placed it as though it was a casual piece of conversation. The flesh of your face and neck felt scalding, as your heart beat profusely within your chest.

“Ya what now?” Daryl asked, looking as shocked as you rightly felt, wiping his mouth as his eyebrows furrows whilst he glanced between you and the men that you shared the table with. “We ain’t-“, he shook his head, his foot bouncing nervously beneath the tabletop, and you placed the sole of your boot upon it to calm his apparent nerves. No one had ever asked you that! Perhaps some had expected it on previous accounts, but never had the enquiry been directly fired towards you, or Daryl for that matter as far as you knew.

A part of you felt disappointed at how Daryl had answered, but it was only the truth. He couldn’t like you in that way, and you had never received an inkling of suspicion that he did. Nothing of the sort had ever been mentioned, not even in passing, between you. It didn’t seem as though it would be impossible, Daryl spent more time with you than anyone else. But it was absurd, wasn’t it? Eric looked at you amidst Daryl’s half denial, and you found that you could not even answer properly for yourself. “I- uh.”

“Wait.” Aaron cut the tension with his own confused tone. “You’re not together?” It made a stifling silence erupt, and he much like his partner had, looked to and fro at the space that distanced you and your friend. There was an obvious unsettlement that passed through you and Daryl both, as though each of you were trying to configure your own honest responses. You had always been close with him, and he with you; there couldn’t possibly be more to it, could there? As you thought long and hard whilst shuffling through your brain for the most truthful answer that you could muster, you found yourself to be submitted to the power of a headache.

Daryl wore a frown that was often nothing unusual, however it appeared as though he was attempting to read your mind despite it being impossible. The way his pupils imbedded into the targets of your own had your heart palpitating. Too much pressure, you told yourself, and although the instinct to flee had arose in your being, you remained firmly seated. “We ain’t, are we?” As he expectedly looked at you, he internally began to dissect every moment that you had shared together and what each one meant, realising the meaning of every memory could have been far greater than either of you could have realised at that specific time.

“Go ‘way, I already tol’ ya to leave me be.” Daryl was disgruntled, agitated from being bed bound due to his injuries. He would have been fine, or so he had convinced himself, and far more than capable to lick his own wounds than have Hershel nurse them for him. The only reason that anyone had been mildly concerned for him was because he was one of, if not the best at killing those things that had once been human. If they didn’t have him, then they would have even less chance at surviving.

The Greene’s had no intention of allowing any of them to stay out on their land for much longer, no matter how much Rick tried to convince and bargain with the man in charge. He nor his family wanted them here, the haven that had been extended to them was only temporary, and the time they had here was dwindling. It was fine by Daryl, he had never belonged anywhere, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think that would change. Carol had visited him, and Daryl was certain that the only reason she had even bothered was to show her appreciation for looking for her daughter.

He didn’t want to see her again, once had been enough. A mom ok lightly tapped on the door, the same sound that had disrupted him from his rest. “Hell, just come in then. If you ain’t gonna-“ his own words were cut short as the door opened, the figure not being who he had expected. It was you, appearing bedraggled, leaves intwined in your hair like braids, mud encasing your clothes. Daryl furrowed his eyebrows, vacantly remembering that he had not caught a glimpse of you since he had managed to return to the farm. He hadn’t thought much of it, and now he was confused. “Where’ve you been?”

A sigh escaped you, one of exhaustion rather than attitude directed towards him, and you sat down, slumping on the side of the bed. “I followed you out there,” you said without boasting or pride, as though it had been a normal thing for anyone to say, “until I lost track that was. Found the horse you rode out on though.” Your eyes darted around the room, until they fell upon Daryl. He huffed, sitting up as much as he could without causing himself more pain. It appeared as though he was trying to study you and find out what your angle was.

“Tha’ was stupid.” Daryl bluntly stated, obviously considering the actions that you had taken. It felt strange to be sat here, talking to you, alone. You’d spoken before of course, but never without anyone else nearby. It was a good kind of strange, Daryl realised despite him wanting to push the feeling away. “What’d you do it for? Ya got some kinda death wish or somethin’?” He had not expected for anyone to have gone after him, lest of all you. You were quiet when your input was not required, and you did not seem particularly close to anybody. A loner. Just like him.

“Because no one should be alone.” He could tell you were nervous, you were picking at the dead skin around your nails, a habit that he had himself. “Not Sophia.” The mention of the little girl made everything make sense. At least he wasn’t the only one that cared what happened to her out there to her. You looked at him, directly in his eyes, and for the first time Daryl realised the colour of your irises. They were nice. “And… not you either.” That had him stumped. Since when did anyone care about him? “I just wanted to check you were alright before cleaning myself up.”

You got up to leave, and as you did you felt a light touch on your arm that made you startle. It was the end of Daryl’s fingertips, and you even surprised yourself from not instantly removing them from you. “I ain’t good at this,” Daryl admitted, reminding you of the nervous mare that you had returned to the stables. “Bu’ thanks.” You nodded briefly at him, unsure of how to respond, before you vacated from the room, not knowing that after that interaction, you and Daryl would find yourselves drawn to one another’s company.

We ain’t, are we? The words hung heavily in the air, haunting you down to your bones. The answer was not to be so simple, not when the lines blurred so seamlessly. Aaron and Eric could both sense the bouts of tension clouding the scene, and so with little disturbance, they excused themselves from their own dining area. “Are we?” You asked Daryl when the two of you were alone, staring across at him in all of his rugged aura. It made your stomach twist as Daryl leaned forward, his blue eyes burning upon you, causing invisible flames of heat to rise beneath your skin. “It’s okay if you don’t-“

Daryl had moved faster than your mind could process; one second he had been seated opposite you, and in the next he pulled you out of your own and placed his lips upon yours. It was uncoordinated, and it made you wonder if Daryl had kissed many people before if at all, but despite that it felt right. The bitter sweet taste of wine had stained his tongue, fragrantly sliding upon your own as the kiss became a little more heated. His hands firmly grasped your hips as he tugged you closer, the two of you only removing yourselves from one another when your teeth accidentally clashed, drawing the pair of you back into reality.

Your chest rose and fell steadily as you regained your breaths, and you stared at Daryl wide eyed and with swollen lips as he too grounded himself. “That was needed.” You stated, nodding your head at your own words, speaking for not only yourself but everyone that had surely been awaiting for something like that to transpire between you. In all the time since the outbreak had occurred, your focus had never been on anything other than surviving through to the next day, and then the next and so forth. Now you no longer had to just survive, you could live and create a life for yourself in Alexandria.

“I ‘gree.” Daryl rubbed over his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, reminiscing how your lips had felt on his only moments before. It made blood rise to your cheeks as you watched the small smile he tried to conceal behind his fingers, as though he was embarrassed to show himself experiencing happiness. “Guess we are together, huh?” He seemed nervous to be speaking those words, as though he was the same man that had laid in the bed in the Greene house, having to recover from the wounds that he had gathered on his outing.

jack exhales through his nose and sits up. there it is. just like clockwork the mattress dips, the air shifts, and suddenly you’re alone even though he’s still right there. he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, before reaching down to grab his boxers off the floor.

you watch him. you don’t even try not to. “where are you going?” you murmur just loud enough for him to hear. you don’t even need to ask anymore, yet, you still do.

“we’ve got a shift in a few hours,” he replies, already reaching for his pants. “probably should get a decent nap in.” he keeps his eyes on his clothes, focusing on getting dressed rather than facing you.

you push yourself up onto your elbows, sheet slipping down your naked torso without you noticing. “you could always nap here.” it comes out light, like you don’t care either way (you do).

he pauses, and you wonder if for the first time in forever, he’ll take you up on the offer. his hand stills where it’s halfway to his shirt. his shoulders tense just slightly before he keeps going, pulling it over his head. “i sleep better at my place.”

your stomach sinks. stupid, stupid girl. it’s such a normal answer. practical, logical, and very him. you nod anyway, even though he’s not really looking at you. “right. yeah. makes sense.”

he glances over then, like he’s checking your reaction without wanting it to look like that. you’re already reaching for the edge of the sheet, fixing it around yourself, pretending you didn’t just offer him something that felt a little too close to asking him to stay.

“i’ll see you tonight,” he adds, like it’s enough to lift your spirits.

you hum, nodding once. “yeah. see you.”

he grabs his watch off your nightstand, fastening it around his wrist. your eyes track the movement automatically. you notice stupid things about him. the way he’s always precise and controlled, especially now.

he steps closer to the bed again and your heart does something annoying in your chest. the feeling is something hopeful and something you immediately hate. he presses a kiss to your lips. it’s soft enough to distract you for the meantime. after a beat too long, he pulls away. “get some sleep,” he murmurs, ruffling your hair with his hand.

you nod again because what else are you supposed to do? he turns, grabs his keys, and heads for the door. there’s no hesitation. no looking back. he used to look upset he had to leave. that affection faded sometime between the last few months.

the door shuts with a quiet click, and just like that it’s over. you sit there staring at the spot where he was standing like he might walk back in and say just kidding, i’ll stay. but of course he doesn’t. you let out a slow breath and fall back against the mattress with a thud, staring up at the ceiling again. the fan is still spinning in its useless way.

your skin still feels warm where he touched you. your apartment still smells like him. which doesn’t soften the blow. you drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply. “so stupid,” you mutter to yourself, voice muffled against your palm. this was your idea—you have to remind yourself that daily. well, you didn’t propose the idea officially, but you let it happen. days like this, no questions asked, no expectations, and absolutely no labels.

casual was the way he preferred to describe it. he said it to robby once after he asked what was going on between you two. you were standing right beside him, looking at him with both hope and curiosity. then he used that six letter word, and you deflated like a balloon. but you didn’t argue against it. so, you don’t have the right to feel like…this.

you turn onto your side, facing the empty space beside you. your fingers brush against the sheets, still faintly warm. you press your lips together, eyes stinging. “it’s casual,” you whisper, reminding yourself of the rules. you close your eyes, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. the worst part isn’t that he left. it’s that you already know he’s going to walk into the hospital tonight, look at you like nothing happened, joke with you like nothing happened, and you’re going to let him.

“fuck,” you curse, keeping your eyes up to stop the tears from falling. your fingers scrunch the sheets, gripping them hard enough to hurt. get it together. “you agreed to it,” you mutter, reminding yourself one more time before attempting to get some sleep.

~

stepping through the ambulance bay doors of the PTMC always feels like a fever dream. like stepping out of the hospital at the end of every shift leads you right back through those automatic doors. a coffee is tucked into your hand, hair pulled back, and a neutral smile gracing your lips. it’s become easy to pretend like you didn’t spend half your afternoon staring at your ceiling, trying to convince yourself you’re fine. you tuck your bag under the desk and log in, fingers moving automatically across the keyboard.

“you’re early,” dana notes from beside you, not even glancing up from her screen.

you shrug, scanning the board. your leg bounces rapidly under the table. “couldn’t sleep.” it’s not a lie…just not the full truth.

“join the club,” she mutters.

you hum in response, already pulling up your first chart. “what’s the damage?”

“room four’s been waiting too long and is about to bite someone’s head off, six is chest pain, eight’s a disaster-”

“when is eight not a disaster?” you mumble, grabbing a pen and mentally preparing yourself.

dana snorts. “fair.”

you’re halfway through reading when the doors swing open. you don’t even have to look. your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulders tightening just slightly, grip on your pen shifting, something low in your stomach pulling tight.

jack abbot walks in like he always does. his strut is steady and grounded. the emergency department chaos bends around him instead of the other way around. he’s clad in a black scrub top, sleeves pushed up, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck. his hair is still a little damp. you hate that you notice that. his eyes sweep the department once, before landing on you. his face stays blank, but his eyes are intense as ever. he looks away before you can react.

“abbot,” dana calls, lifting her chin. she looks him up and down, not impressed (she never is).

“dana,” hearing his voice is like tasting water in a desert. he sounds normal. like maybe he spent his time outside of work alone, or doing something productive. like he didn’t leave your apartment a few hours ago with your taste still on his mouth.

you swallow, forcing your eyes back to the screen. don’t make it weird. he steps up to the station a second later, fingers drumming against the counter. “what’ve we got?”

you glance at his fingers, then at him. he’s already looking at you. he’s good at this. no tension. no hesitation. just that same slightly amused look he gives you every shift. you clear your throat. “room six. chest pain, fifty-eight year old male. ekg’s…not great.” you keep your eyes on the screen, a subtle way to evade eye contact. he leans in slightly to look at the computer, shoulder brushing yours for half a second.

“not great how?” he asks. you can smell his shampoo and conditioner, the same ones you use when you’re over his place.

you click through the results, pointing with your pen. “st elevation in the inferior leads. troponin’s pending but i’m not waiting on it.”

he nods once, focused now. “good.” your chest warms at that.

“cath lab?” you ask.

“yup. page cardiology,” he says, already straightening. “let’s not waste time.”

“on it.” you pick up the phone, dialing quickly, slipping into that rhythm you know too well. you don’t think about him. when you’re working, you have no time to think. that’s one perk of being apart of the medical field.

by the time you hang up, he’s already halfway down the hall, calling out orders, pulling a team together and teaching med students. you watch him go for a second longer than necessary.

“eyes forward, doctor,” dana murmurs under her breath. her eyes are narrow, looking you up and down like she did to abbot before.

you blink, snapping back to your screen. “i was looking at the board.”

“mmhmm.” she hums. you can’t get anything past dana. she’s seen it all, and knows it all too well. “well, i’m out of here. gotta go before i’m pulled back in.”

“sleep well,” you blow her a kiss as she shuffles out the doors. when the doors close, you watch her grab a cigarette. you chuckle, shaking your head.

the next hour moves fast. patients come in, patients go out. you send out orders, labs, reassessments. you’re moving constantly, barely sitting, barely breathing, exactly the way you like it. it drowns everything else out.

“hey.” you turn at the sound of his voice. jack’s standing a little too close again, tablet in hand, looking at you like he’s been talking for longer than you realized. “you with me?” he asks, brow lifting slightly.

you run a hand over your face. “yeah. sorry. what?”

his mouth twitches. “i asked your plan for room four.” he crosses his arms over his broad chest. the same broad chest that you littered with hickies just hours befor—

right.

focus.

“uh, probably gallbladder,” you say, pulling the chart up on the computer. “pain after eating, radiating to the back, she’s nauseous-” you list the symptoms on your fingers. he watches you as you talk. “i was thinking ultrasound to start,” you finish.

there’s a beat before he nods. “good call.” you exhale softly, tension easing just a little. “you look tired,” he adds, shifting seamlessly between work and personal. it catches you off guard.

you shrug, keeping your tone light. “couldn’t sleep.”

his gaze lingers on you. “join the club,” he mutters instead, echoing dana from earlier.

you huff out a small laugh. “original.”

“i try.” he smiles sweetly. his dimples poke out from his cheeks. ugh you love those dimples.

for a moment, you just stand there, staring at each other. then, someone calls his name from down the hall and the bubble bursts. “abbot!”

he glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “don’t let four crash on you,” he says, already stepping away.

you roll your eyes. “no promises.”

“that’s reassuring.” and he’s moving on to the next thing.

you stand there, staring at the chart in your hands. your chest feels…tight. not in a bad way either. you always react like this to him. this is what he does. he’s kind and attentive. he listens to you, trusts your judgment, jokes with you like you’re the easiest part of his day. and none of it is supposed to mean anything more than that. it’s starting to hurt.

“you good?” lena asks, glancing over her thin glasses. she tucks her red bangs behind her ear while the rest of her hair stays pulled back into a ponytail.

you nod quickly, already busying yourself with the nearest object. “yeah. just tired.” your hands land on a pen. you click it repeatedly.

she nods and hums, not convinced. you know she means well, but you can’t look at her. if she’s looking at you with that knowing look, you might just break down, and that’s the last thing you need. so, you don’t look at her. you don’t look down the hall where he disappeared. you just keep working.

~

central seven smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. burns always do that. you’re standing at the bedside, gloves snapped on, eyes scanning the injury while the patient talks a mile a minute. adrenaline will do that to you. she’s in her late thirties, maybe early forties. pretty in a put together way, even with her hair slightly frazzled and her voice pitched a little too high.

“it was the pan,” she’s saying, wincing as you gently adjust her arm. “i didn’t even realize how hot it was until—god, it hurts.”

“i know,” you murmur, voice steady. “you’re doing great. just keep your arm still for me, okay?”

she nods quickly, eyes flicking between you and him. jack stands on the other side of the bed, gloved hands resting lightly against the rail, watching you work. he’s quiet, letting you lead, only stepping in when needed. it’s natural when you work together.

“second-degree,” you say, glancing up at him briefly. “no blistering yet, but it’s heading there.”

he nods once. “agreed.”

your shoulder brushes his when you shift closer to the patient. you pretend it doesn’t register. the patient, unfortunately, does not. “are you two always this in sync?” she asks, a breathy little laugh slipping out despite the pain.

you offer a polite smile, already reaching for more gauze. “we try.”

jack huffs quietly, something amused in it. “she’s the one doing the work.” he praises and your warmth blooms in your chest.

“team effort,” you correct, not looking at him.

“sure,” he agrees, but there’s that low, teasing tone. the same one he uses in more private situations.

you clear your throat slightly. “i’m gonna grab the silvadene,” you say, stepping back. “be right back.”

he gives you a thumbs up. “i’ve got her.”

you slip out into the hallway, the noise of the department swallowing you up again. it takes maybe two minutes max to grab what you need, maybe a little longer because you stop to answer a quick question from a nurse, scribble an order, check a lab.

when you push the door back open with your hip, you pause. the patient is smiling. not the tight, pained smile from before. she has that admiration in her eyes. the same type you have when you look at him. jack’s standing a little closer than he was when you left. not inappropriate—never that—but closer. one hand braced near her arm, the other adjusting something on the tray.

“guess i’ll have a pretty good scar to show off, huh?” she’s saying, voice lilting.

jack glances up briefly, a small, smile tugging at his mouth. “we’ll try to keep it minimal.”

“mm,” she hums, eyes lingering on him a second too long. “well…if i need a follow-up, i wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”

your stomach drops. he doesn’t react the way you do. of course he doesn’t. he just chuckles. “always happy to treat a patient again.”

you step further into the room, setting the supplies down a little harder than necessary. “okay,” you say, voice back to clinical and controlled. “let’s get this dressed.”

jack shifts back immediately, giving you space without question. you focus on the burn and the steps. on anything but the way the patient keeps glancing between you and him.

you finish quicker than usual. “i’m going to have someone else take over from here,” you say suddenly, pulling off your gloves and tossing them in the bin.

jack raises a brow. “you don’t have to-” he starts.

“dr. ellis is better with burn care,” you cut in smoothly, already stepping toward the door. “i’ve got a few things i need to catch up on anyway.”

jack isn’t the only one with oddly reasonable excuses. he studies you for a second longer, forehead creased from confusion. “ok.” he’s reluctant to say.

you ignore the weird twist in your chest at that and step out into the hallway, already scanning for parker. “ellis,” you call, waving her over. “can you take over nine? second-degree burn, i’ve started dressing it but-”

“yeah, of course,” she says easily, already snapping on gloves and heading in.

“thanks.” you don’t look back. you don’t look at jack. you just keep moving.

~

the rest of the shift blends together. you throw yourself into it harder than usual. you pick up more patients, more notes, more anything to keep your brain too busy to circle back to that room. to the way he didn’t-

you stop that thought before it finishes.

by the time things finally start to slow, the clock creeping toward the end of your shift, your shoulders ache and your eyes burn from staring at screens too long. you’re hunched over the computer, typing out your last note, when a familiar presence settles beside you.

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

your fingers still for half a second. then keep typing. “have not,” you murmur, voice absent of its usual warmth.

jack leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “mm,” he taps his fingers next to your keyboard.

you finish the sentence you’re on before finally glancing up at him. “i’ve been busy.”

“you reassigned my patient.” there it is.

you shrug, turning back to the screen. “parker is better with that stuff.”

“since when?” he huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“since always,” you say a little harsher than you intend. you take a deep breath before continuing. “and i had to catch up on charting,” you add, clicking through another tab.

you can feel him looking at you. “everything alright?” he asks, leaning close enough that you can feel heat radiating him. that almost gets you.

you force a small smile, glancing up at him again. “yeah. why wouldn’t it be?”

his gaze lingers. searching for something. “just asking,” he says finally.

you nod once. “well, i’m good.”

no one talks for a moment. he shifts slightly, looming over you while you try to work. you swallow, skin burning from his gaze.

“you wanna come over tonight?” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “or…we could go out or something.”

your heart stutters. of course that’s what he follows it up with. he says it like it’s nothing. you should say no. you should say you’re tired. you should say you have plans. you should say literally anything that puts space between you and this thing that keeps pulling you back in.

instead, without thinking, you say, “uh, sure.” and the cycle continues.

his mouth twitches slightly, something satisfied flickering there before he looks away. “i’ll text you when i get home,” he smiles.

you nod, turning back to your computer before he can read anything on your face. “okay.”

he lingers. then pushes off the counter and walks away. after he’s out of sight, you sit there, staring at the screen without really seeing it. once again, you bring it onto yourself.

~

his couch dips under your weight. the leather is worn in just enough to feel lived in but still structured. everything in his place feels like that. modern decorations, muted colors, nothing unnecessary. you’re sprawled across it, back pressed into the armrest, one leg hooked loosely over his shoulder.

he’s between your legs, hands holding your thighs to keep you open. your fingers are tangled in his curls before you realize you’ve reached for him. “jack-” it slips out, breath catching halfway through his name.

he hums against your skin, low and satisfied, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s taking his time on purpose. he always does this. his thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin, and it’s enough to make something uncomfortable settle in your ribs.

you let your head fall back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut, chest rising too fast. “you’re-” you cut yourself off with a shaky breath, grip tightening in his hair.

he moans in response, not letting up. just keeps going until your voice breaks and your body follows, tension snapping all at once. your climax hits hard. you arch as a breathless sound falls from your lips. he stays between your legs, licking you entirely clean before coming up for air.

you’re still catching your breath when he shifts up beside you, one arm sliding around your waist, tugging you into him like it’s second nature. he wipes your slick off his mouth and chin with his arm, licking his lips clean. your cheek presses against his shoulder, his skin warm, steady.

his hand comes up to your arm, fingers brushing lightly over your skin, slow and absent. “have fun?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it is anywhere else.

you huff a quiet laugh, still a little dazed. “yeah.”

he hums, like he expected that answer. his thumb keeps moving against your arm. up, down. up, down. it’s stupid how that alone makes you feel woozy. “you want something to eat?” he asks, turning his head slightly toward you. “i’ve got-” he pauses, scratching his chin. “i don’t know. something. probably.”

you smile. “yeah, i-” your phone buzzes against the cushion beside you. you glance over without thinking, reaching for it. a name you haven’t seen in a while lights up the screen. your face softens instantly.

no way you’re still alive. drinks?

you let out a small laugh, the sound light and surprised. “oh my god.” you type back quickly, thumbs moving without much thought.

next to you, jack stills. every muscle in his body tenses. his throat bobs as he swallows. he tries not to care, but that sound—that giggle—is reserved for him. his hand slows against your arm before stopping completely. “what?” he asks, attempting to sound nonchalant:

you shake your head, still smiling at your phone. “nothing.” you don’t mean it like that. you really don’t.

his jaw tightens just slightly. “doesn’t look like nothing,” he rasps, memorizing the cracks in his wooden floors.

you shrug, setting your phone face down on the cushion. “just a friend i haven’t talked to in a while.”

“mm.” he doesn’t ask who, and it eats him alive. something green and fiery pits in his stomach.

you sit up slightly, pulling away just enough to reach for your jeans draped over the arm of the couch. “actually,” you clear your throat, trying to stay normal, “i might meet them out tonight.”

the words ring in his ears. his hand drops from your arm. “tonight?” he repeats.

you nod, sliding your phone into your pocket. “yeah. i haven’t seen them in forever.”

he watches you now. “thought you were staying,” his tone is flat. his mind is anything but. the mere thought of you meeting another person—possibly a man—for a drink has him seeing red.

you pull your shirt back on, smoothing it down like it gives you something to do. “i was, i just—this came up.”

he leans back slightly against the couch, arms resting along the back, posture more stiff than it was a second ago. “right.”

“it’s not a big thing,” you add quickly. “just drinks.”

“with…?” he trails off, like he doesn’t want to sound like he’s asking. his fingers drum against the leather of the couch. he wanted this.

you hesitate for half a second too long. “just friends,” you say again, not feeling like explaining.

he nods curtly. “got it.”

silence settles around you. you grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, suddenly very aware of the space between you now. how fast it showed up. he watches you pack up your things with no argument. his eyes follow your every movement like glue.

part of you wants him to fight. to tell you to stay. to tell you he needs you. when those phrases don’t come, you sigh. “i’ll see you tomorrow?” you offer, hovering near the edge of the couch.

“yeah,” he mutters, coughing lightly. “see you.” it’s the same tone he used this morning. like letting you go doesn’t cost him anything.

you linger anyway. just for a second. long enough that it almost means something. if he wanted to, he’d fill the space. maybe say your name, tell you to stay, give you anything to hold onto. but he doesn’t. you swallow, forcing a small smile as you turn toward the door.

you don’t look back this time. you know better now. for what feels like the first time, the crack in the canvas isn’t just something you imagine, it’s something he’s choosing not to fix.

~

the next time you step into the pitt, something is different. you’re smiling, and it’s not forced or fake. it’s real. you’re talking to princess, laughing at something stupid she says, coffee in hand, shoulders not as tight as they usually are at the start of a shift. you feel good. which is rare enough that you don’t question it too hard.

“you’re in a suspiciously good mood,” princess raises a brow, eyeing you with a grin.

you shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. “saw some old friends last night. i had fun.”

she snorts. “no way. taking time away from that casual relationship?” she lingers on the word casual, rolling her eyes.

“believe it.” you don’t elaborate. you don’t mention the drinks, the loud music, the way it felt to be something other than a resident for a few hours. to laugh with friends without checking the time. to not worry about him.

three feet away, jack notices everything. he got to work early just to see you walk in. his heart stutters as he watches you talk animatedly. you’re smiling—genuinely smiling. the sight sends goosebumps down his spine. you used to smile like that when you first started seeing him. how, he’s used to something more closed off.

he watches you longer than necessary before forcing himself to look at the labs on the screen. he lasts about ten seconds before looking at you again. you’re talking, explaining something to a med student, gesturing with your pen, that same easy smile still sitting on your mouth like it belongs there. it shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

the last twenty-four hours have felt…off. your texts came slower and often with shorter messages. he sent one this morning, sweet and teasing. he asked about your night (even if it made him clench his teeth at the thought). it took you three hours to respond, and all you sent back was good. no follow up. no teasing. no nothing.

he was the one to call it casual first. he meant it when he drew that line. so why does it feel like you’re the one pulling away now?

“abbott.” he looks up, blinking once.

robby’s watching him, eyebrow raised. “you good, man?”

“yeah,” jack says automatically.

robby glances past him, toward you, and then back again, something knowing flickering in his expression before he drops it. “right,” he sighs, slapping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “well i’ll see you in about twelve hours.” he salutes before walking off.

jack exhales through his nose, humming and sending him a wave goodbye. he drags a hand down the back of his neck before pushing off the counter. he steps into a case, then another, falling into work the way he always does. it should be enough to keep his head clear. it was working for most of the shift. that was until he heard your laugh.

it cuts across the department, soft and sweet. he looks up before he can stop himself. nick barker, head of radiology, stands too close in proximity to you. he’s leaning against the counter like he’s got nowhere else to be, one arm braced beside you, posture relaxed in. he’s practically melting into you.

“i’m just saying,” nick’s grinning, tone light, “if you’re gonna question my read, at least buy me dinner first. make it worth my time.”

you huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “your reads are questionable on a good day, barker. i’m not rewarding that.”

“harsh,” he says, but he’s smiling wider now. “i like it.” his eyes drag slowly up and down your figure. jack’s molars grind.

you roll your eyes, clicking through the scan on your screen. “i’m sure you do.”

he leans in slightly, looking at the monitor, but it’s not the screen he’s focused on. it’s you. “so what’s the verdict, doc?” he asks, attempting a seductive tone. jack wants to see if he keeps that tone while he smashes his fist into-

breathe.

you tilt your head, studying the image. “small bleed. nothing crazy, but it’s there.”

“mm,” nick hums, still close. “good catch.” you glance up at him, and there’s that smile again.

jack feels something shift. his breathing labors. he looks away because he doesn’t like what that does to him. he doesn’t like that it bothers him at all. he agreed to this. no expectations. no exclusivity.

you laugh again, quieter this time, at something nick says under his breath. that gets him. he grips the closest counter to him, knuckles going white. it’s nothing. you’re just talking and being polite as usual. but when you barely looked at him all night. when your texts have gone quiet. when someone else is grabbing your attention—that’s when it feels like something else.

across the room, shen follows his line of sight and snorts under his breath. “yikes,” he mutters.

jack doesn’t respond. he just exhales slowly, forcing his attention back to work even though he imagines the sound of barker’s nose cracking under impact from his fist. he grips the counter harder to keep him from doing something beyond stupid.

he doesn’t get to feel this way—he reminds himself for the tenth time—not when he’s the one who made sure it stayed casual. yet, his eyes flick back to you. as much as he tries to keep it simple, nothing is ever simple when it comes to you.

~

the shift drags after that. the cases aren’t necessarily harder and the workload isn’t overwhelming. it’s the usual mix—some chest pain, a drunk guy with a busted eyebrow, a kid with a fever that has two terrified parents hovering like satellites. you mind your business, keep to yourself and try your best to get through the shift.

on the other hand, jack’s senses are heightened tenfold. he notices that you don’t linger near him at the desk anymore. that when you pass each other in the hallway, your shoulder doesn’t brush his the way it usually does. that you talk to everyone the same way you always have, but when it comes to him, you keep it strictly clinical.

“cbc and cultures,” you say at one point, handing him a chart without looking up.

he takes it. “already ordered.”

“good.” you murmur and that’s it. just work.

the distance sits in his chest like something heavy. when he thinks about it for too long, his eyes sting and his throat hurts from breathing harshly. and just to add onto it, nick barker keeps wandering back over. it’s not constantly. not enough that anyone could call it obvious. but it’s enough to have jack spiraling.

you still don’t flirt back, but you laugh and answer him a little too comfortably for jack’s liking. by the time the shift finally starts to wind down, the exhaustion has settled into his bones. twelve hours of adrenaline wearing off leaves him irritated.

the locker room is quiet when he walks in. most of the nightshift has clocked out already, leaving few lockers full. you’re already in there when he walks in. your back is to him, tugging your hoodie over your scrubs, hair falling out of your clip as you pull your bag from the bench. he just watches you. he does that a lot. it’s hard not to.

he exhales through his nose and drops his own bag onto the bench with more force than necessary. you glance over your shoulder. “long shift,” you say lightly, tone neutral.

“yeah,” he mutters. he starts shoving things into his bag, movements harsher than usual. the silence stretches for a moment. you zip yours closed, and that’s when he says it. “so what—was he the ‘friend’ you met out with last night?”

you freeze for half a second. you think you imagined the sudden outburst. slowly, you turn toward him. “…what?”

jack doesn’t look at you right away. he’s still digging through his locker. “barker,” he says flatly. “that who you were out with?”

your eyebrows pull together. “are you serious right now?” you scoff, crossing your arms.

he finally looks at you then. “just asking.”

you let out a small, incredulous laugh. this is classic coming from him. “you’re not asking. you’re accusing.”

“am i?” he shoots back, voice deepening. you swear steam is rushing out of his ears. his hair is tousled, probably from running his hands through it. his eyes are dark, like he didn’t get a wink of sleep. you haven’t seen whatever version of jack this is.

“yeah,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “you kind of are.”

he huffs, hands clenching by his sides. how can you not see it? how do you not understand his views? the thoughts only fuel his fire. “looked pretty cozy out there tonight.”

your eyes widen slightly. “cozy?” you sputter. “jack, what are-”

“laughing at everything he says,” jack interrupts with a growl. “letting him lean all over the counter-”

“oh my god,” you cut him off, disbelief bleeding into your voice. “are you actually jealous right now?”

the word hits something. his shoulders stiffen. “i’m not jealous.” he says quickly—too quickly.

“jack-”

“i’m just saying it looked a little-”

“no,” you shake your head before he can finish. “don’t do that. don’t pretend that’s not exactly what this is.” his mouth presses into a thin line. “you flirt with people all the time,” you continue, voice rising slightly. “patients, nurses, literally anyone who walks through the door.”

“that’s not-”

“it is,” you snap. “i’ve seen it.”

“i’m just being polite.” he mutters each word.

“and i’m not?” you raise a brow. “no one can be polite except for you?” you stifle a laugh. ridiculous.

“i’m not the one who went out with someone else last night.” he blinks rapidly, like he’s fighting emotion. his throat bobs after he says it.

silence fills the room. the overhead lights flicker under the tension. your eyes widen slightly, mouth falling slightly agape. “i was with my friends!” you’re quieter now. you don’t need volume to show how mad you are.

he doesn’t stop, just rolls his eyes. “doesn’t matter. you couldn’t even text me back, but you had time to go out drinking?”

“you don’t get to say that,” you fire back.

“why not?”

“because you’re the one who wanted this to be casual,” you say, the word coming out harsher than you mean it to. “remember?”

his chest rises slowly. “i never said you could-”

“no,” your voice cracks as you shake your head. “you just made it very clear there were no expectations.” the room feels smaller now. “so what,” you continue, voice quieter but cutting deeper, “now suddenly you care who i talk to?”

jack runs a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging at the curls. “that’s not what i said.” his teeth sink into his bottom lip.

“it’s what you meant.”

“you’re twisting this.” he holds a hand over his mouth before dragging it down. his stubble scratches his hand.

“oh, am i?” you shoot back incredulously.

footsteps near the entrance of the room grow closer before you can finish. robby steps inside, mid sip from a coffee. he immediately stops when he sees…whatever this is. his eyes flick between the two of you. jack standing rigid near the lockers. you looking like you’re two seconds from throwing your bag at him. “…wow,” robby mutters, closing his eyes.

neither of you notice. or maybe you do, but you’re too upset to care. “you don’t get to be mad at me for moving on with my life,” you mutter.

“moving on?” jack repeats, huffing a chuckle.

“yes.”

“from what?”

you blink at him. “exactly,” you say quietly.

jack opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. his chest heaves with every breath he takes. “how dare-”

robby exhales loudly. “okay,” he sighs, stepping between you. “both of you get some air.” he claps his hands together like a mother separating two children. neither of you move. “seriously,” robby adds, voice firmer now. “this is a hospital, not couples therapy.”

jack scoffs while you shake your head. you sling your back over your other arm harshly. “forget it.” you mutter, pushing past them toward the door.

“hey-” jack starts, reaching for your wrist. his hand falls short of your arm and you don’t stop. your heavy footsteps echo through hospital as you leave.

that leaves just jack and robby in the room. robby slowly looks at jack. “…casual, huh?”

jack stares at the closed door with his jaw tight. “yeah,” he mutters through clenched teeth. the word sounds a lot less convincing now.

~

three days pass in stubborn silence. friday night ends with raised voices and slammed lockers. no one apologizes. no one reaches out. saturday passes. then sunday. both of you check your phones more than you’ll admit to. both of you type messages that never get sent. stubbornness wins every time.

monday night comes slower than it should. the pitt is alive when jack walks in, the department humming under the harsh fluorescent lights. patients complaining, nurses exchanging updates, the board already full curtesy of the day shift.

though, he notices it the second he steps through the doors. you’re not there. you’re almost always one of the first residents on shift. clad in your colorful undershirt, coffee in hand, already scanning the board. jack usually comes in a few minutes after with his bag slung over one shoulder, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. he likes the routine of walking in and spotting you.

now, as his eyes flick instinctively to the usual spots—the workstation, the trauma bay, and the corner where you tend to hover when reading a case over. nothing. his jaw tightens. it’s dumb, the way disappointment creeps in so fast. it shouldn’t matter whether you’re there yet or not. people run late. people get pulled into things. he tells himself that as he drops his bag into the locker and heads out toward the floor. still, he keeps looking.

ten minutes pass. then twenty. you still haven’t walked through the doors. he checks his watch too often, paces back and fourth between stable patients, and pinches the bridge of his nose enough times to bruise. he’s leaning over the counter, staring at the doors as if you’ll magically appear when lena cuts in.

“you’re early.” she hums, smacking gum in her mouth. he glances over his shoulder. lena’s setting her bag down at the desk, tying her hair back into a loose knot as she looks at him.

“could say the same to you,” he mutters.

she shrugs, pushing her bangs back. “early bird gets the worm.” the contents in her bag clack as she reaches for something. jack makes an absentminded noise of agreement, eyes drifting back toward the entrance again. her mouth twitches slightly as she follows his line of sight. “she’s not here, you know?”

his shoulders stiffen just enough to give him away. “who?” he feigns innocence.

lena gives him a look that says don’t be stupid. “your resident.” she narrows her eyes, tilting her head.

he exhales through his nose, turning back to the screen. he clicks into the login, flashing his badge like muscle memory. “i have multiple residents.”

“yeah,” she says dryly, “but you only stare at the door for one of them.” she huffs a laugh. jack doesn’t respond. lena scans the board, tapping a pen against the desk. “she took a couple days.”

that gets his attention. he turns fully now. “what?”

“oh, now you know who i’m talking about,” she tsks with smug grin. he scoffs in response. “called out,” lena continues. “sunday morning, actually. said she needed a few days. scheduled off tomorrow too.”

jack blinks once, trying to shuffle the words together to make sense. “she sick?” he asks.

lena shrugs. “didn’t sound like it.”

his stomach sinks. the events of friday night flood his mind. the way you stormed out before anyone could stop you. how tired and angry you sounded. the slight crack in your voice at the end of the argument. he drags a hand down the back of his neck, feeling a dull weight settle in his chest. he hears his own words again—jealous, and so, so stupid.

was he the friend you met out with?

the look of hurt that flashed across your face, and how that hurt turned into anger quickly.

lena’s watching him now, quiet for once. “you two okay?” she asks.

jack looks away immediately. “fine.”

she doesn’t believe that for a second. she nods slowly, “right,” she raises her brows.

he nods once, already turning back toward the computer like the conversation’s over, but the screen blurs in front of him. two days. you took two days.

way to screw that up.

~

across the city, monday night looks very different. your apartment is quiet. the curtains are half drawn, thin streaks of the sun set slipping through the gaps and stretching across the floor. you haven’t moved much since yesterday…or the day before that.

your phone sits face down on the nightstand. you told yourself you wouldn’t check it again. you checked anyway. the outcome was the same as before—nada. no messages. no calls. no apologies. you would rather him reach out to argue more than to just ghost you.

you stare at the ceiling, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes swollen and raw from crying so much your body eventually just ran out of tears. you feel ridiculous. you’re a doctor. a grown woman. someone who handles trauma cases and dying patients without falling apart. yet, somehow this relationship (if you can even call it that) wrecked you.

your throat tightens again. “god,” you whisper hoarsely, dragging your hands down your face. the argument replays in your head whether you want it to or not. the jealousy. the accusations. you swallow hard, staring at the wall. “you knew what this was,” you mutter to yourself, but the words don’t help.

you didn’t mean to fall for him. you didn’t mean to care this much. now you feel stupid for every second you let yourself believe he might care the same way. you turn onto your side, curling tighter into the blankets.

outside, the city keeps moving, while you stay stuck. what’s worse is that jack has no idea you’re lying there, crying into your pillow, wondering if you just ruined the best thing you’ve ever had.

~

the next morning, your body wakes up before your brain does and for a few blissful seconds you forget everything. that’s until the ache in your chest reminds you. you groan softly, shifting under the blanket. the couch cushion beneath you dips awkwardly, and it takes a second for your brain to remember why you’re here instead of your bed.

last night you finally got up after spending most of the day rotting in your room. you brushed your hair, washed your face, and tried to feel like a functioning adult again. it lasted maybe twenty minutes before the tears came back. so you grabbed a pint of ice cream, curled up on the couch, and put on the stupidest, sappiest rom coms you could find. you cried through three of them before exhaustion eventually dragged you under.

now the tv is still on, volume low, playing the end credits of something you don’t remember finishing. an empty ice cream container sits crooked on the coffee table beside a crumpled napkin. your face feels puffy. your throat still burns faintly from crying. you stare at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle over you. you would’ve stayed there forever had you not heard the knocks.

knock knock.

your brain doesn’t fully register it at first. maybe it’s a neighbor. maybe you imagined it. you sit up slowly, blanket sliding down your lap.

knock knock.

this time it’s louder. yup, definitely real. you frown, glancing toward the door. nobody ever comes here unannounced. something deep in your body clenches. you push yourself up off the couch, wincing as your stiff neck protests. your bare feet pad quietly across the floor.

knock.

“geez, learn some fuckin’ patience,” you groan under your breath, reaching for the door, and peaking in the peephole, heart dropping straight into your stomach.

jack stands in the hallway still in his scrubs. his hair is more disheveled than usual, curls flattened slightly on one side. faint shadows sit under his eyes, the kind that only show up after a long shift. in one hand he’s holding a coffee carrier. in the other, he’s holding flowers with a small box of chocolates tucked awkwardly under his arm.

you stare at the door like it might bite you. your pulse starts racing.

“i know you’re home,” his voice calls through the door, tired but unmistakably his. “your car’s outside.”

you close your eyes for half a second. your hand hovers over the lock. part of you wants to pretend you’re not here. the other, bigger part is already turning the handle. the door creaks open slowly.

jack looks up immediately, his shoulders dropping slightly. “hey,” he says softly. you don’t respond, just blink. you probably look like a disaster with tangled hair, swollen eyes, and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. jack takes you in quietly. “so,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the flowers, the coffee, and the chocolate box. “i brought options.” his mouth pulls into a small, sheepish smile. “figured i’d give you a variety of things to throw at me.”

for a second, you just stare at him. jack abbot—veteran, doctor, and professional pain in your ass—standing in your hallway holding flowers like a nervous teenager. you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding loosely over your chest. your voice comes out rough from sleep and crying. “you’re persistent.”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like that’s the closest thing to a victory he’s getting right now. “occupational hazard.”

the hallway light flickers softly overhead. neither of you moves. up close, he looks worse than you expected. the dark circles under his eyes are deeper than they should be. there’s stubble along his jaw he probably didn’t bother shaving after his shift. his shoulders sag slightly under the weight of the shift.

“you just get off work?” you ask.

“yeah.” he nods, rocking back and fourth.

“and instead of going home…you came here…?”

“yeah.” he nods once again.

you tilt your head slightly, unimpressed. “bold strategy.”

“desperation, actually,” a chuckle slips out before he can stop it. the smell of coffee drifts up from the carrier in his hand and your stomach twists. you didn’t eat anything besides ice cream yesterday. jack notices your eyes flicker to it. “one’s black,” he says gently. “one’s that…caramel thing you get. i don’t know the exact name because the menu looks like it was written by a wizard.” your mouth twitches despite yourself. he holds the flowers up a little awkwardly. “and these were the least offensive ones they had at the hospital gift shop.”

“high praise.”

“it was between these or balloons that say get well soon.”

you sigh, rubbing your forehead. that familiar ache presses behind your ribs. “jack…”

his expression shifts immediately. the joking drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “yeah?” he braces for impact.

you step aside. “come in.”

he hesitates for half a second—he’s surprised you didn’t slam the door in his face—before stepping into the apartment. the door shuts behind him with a soft click. the place looks exactly how it felt last night. blankets on the couch. empty ice cream container. credits still rolling silently on the tv.

jack takes it in without comment. he sets the coffee and chocolates on the table, then places the flowers down carefully beside them. you hover near the couch, arms folded again. neither of you speaks.

finally, jack exhales slowly and rubs the back of his neck. “so,” he mutters. “this is the part where i try not to screw this up worse.”

you lean against the arm of the couch. “good luck with that.”

he huffs quietly. “yeah, fair.” he inhales deeply, looking up at the ceiling, before exhaling and looking at you properly. “you look like hell,” he states bluntly.

you glare. “thank you.”

“meant it affectionately.”

“i’m touched.” sarcasm drips from tone.

a ghost of a smile crosses his mouth, but it fades quickly. “look,” he says, “i’m just gonna say it straight because historically when i try to be subtle everything explodes.” he taps his fingers against his wrinkled scrubs. “the thing i said to robby,” you swallow immediately. “the casual thing,” he squeezes his eyes shut. “was a reflex.” your gaze sharpens. jack’s gaze drops to the floor before coming back to you. “he caught me off guard,” he sighs, “came outta nowhere. started asking what we were.”

“and your instinct was to say casual?” you retort. the word tastes bitter in your mouth.

“yeah,” he admits even though he’s shaking his head.

“why?” you ask.

jack opens his mouth…then closes it again. a muscle in his jaw twitches. you wait. “because i panicked.”

your forehead creases. “jack-”

“i didn’t know what the hell to say,” he says, throwing his hands up. “and before i could think, the word just came out.” you stare at him. “and when you went along with it…” his mouth tightens. “i figured that was what you wanted.”

your brows knit together. “you thought i wanted it to be casual?”

“well you didn’t exactly argue.”

“i was standing in front of my two bosses.”

“yeah,” he mutters. “realized that about ten minutes later.”

you drag a hand down your face. “i thought you meant it.”

he laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “trust me, baby, if i meant it i wouldn’t be standing in your apartment right now holding flowers like an idiot.”

your heart gives an annoying little flip. you try to ignore it. “then why didn’t you say anything after?” your voice is sheepish.

he goes quiet again. his gaze drifts toward the window, like he’s watching something only he can see. when he finally speaks, his voice is lower. “because opening your mouth about stuff that matters,” he licks his lips. “is how you lose it.” jack rubs a hand across his jaw. “i’ve done this before,” he admits. “the whole loving someone thing.” he doesn’t look at you as he continues. “had a wife,” he lingers on the word. “she was…everything.”

you knew that vaguely. pieces of the story everyone in the hospital knows but never says out loud. hearing him say it like this feels raw.

“and then one day she wasn’t there anymore.” his throat works once. “you learn real quick after that,” he stutters, “that the universe has a pretty sick sense of humor.” he finally looks at you again. “so yeah,” he concedes. “i keep things,” he squints, racking his brain for the right word, “light.”

the room is quiet now. you’re processing and…well, processing some more. the early morning sun shines harshly through your windows. gour faucet drips repeatedly. “jack…” you murmur.

he stop you before you can continue. he has to say it now or he won’t ever. “because if you don’t say the important parts out loud,” he finishes, “then when it all disappears you can pretend it didn’t mean as much.”

your heart twists painfully. you step a little closer without realizing it. “that’s what you thought this was?”

“no,” he says immediately. he shakes his head. “that’s the problem.” his gaze flickers over your face. he memorizes your eyes, your mouth, the messy hair falling over your shoulder. “this stopped being casual for me a long time ago,” he admits quietly.

your breath catches. you take a step back. “then why-”

“because you’re younger than me.” your eyes widen. you rest a hand on your coffee table to stable yourself. he huffs out a small breath. “by a lot.” he looks to the side. “and i kept thinking,” his voice is tight, “one day you’re gonna walk into some bar and meet some guy your age who doesn’t have an endless supply of baggage.” you stare at him. “and he’s gonna look at you the way guys your age look at women like you.” the veins in his arms tighten at the thought. “and you’re gonna realize dating the grumpy middle-aged doctor was just a phase.”

you can barely breathe now. the room goes completely still. you stare at him. the tired lines in his face. the guarded way he’s standing like he’s bracing for something he fears. “jack,” your voice is like candy. he lifts his eyes. “i thought you didn’t want more.”

he frowns slightly. “why would you think that?”

you let out a small, incredulous laugh. “because you were the one leaving first,” you shrug. “drawing boundaries.”

“well-”

“and,” you continue, “we never talked about what we are.” he goes still. “and i thought that meant we were nothing.”

his expression shifts immediately. “hey,” he coos.

you shrug helplessly. “so i went along with it,” you admit. “because i figured if that’s all you wanted, i wasn’t gonna beg you to care.”

“god,” he mutters. it feels like a spear is lodged in his chest.

your arms drop to your sides. “i liked what we had,” you murmur. “but it never felt casual to me.” you blink back tears. “not once.”

jack steps forward instinctively. “so let me get this straight,” he recounts. “you thought i didn’t want more?” you nod once. “and i thought you didn’t want more?” you nod again. he exhales. “that might be the dumbest standoff in human history.”

a reluctant laugh slips out of you. he smiles faintly. the tension in the room loosens just a little. jack stops a step away from you now. “for the record,” he whispers, “i’m pretty sure i’m in way too deep for casual.”

warmth crawls up your neck and plants itself on your cheeks. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

you tilt your head slightly. “took you long enough to say it.”

his mouth quirks. “cut me some slack. emotional honesty isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

you study him for a moment. “are you still scared i’m gonna run off with some guy my age?”

jack doesn’t flinch. “probably.”

you roll your eyes gently. “jack.” you’re not joking now.

he shrugs. “i’m working on it.”

you shake your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth now. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’ve been told.”

the weight that sat between you yesterday feels lighter now. it’s not gone—that will take some time—but the cracked pieces are starting to fuse back together.

jack glances toward the flowers on the table. “so,” he says. “are you gonna forgive me or do i need to start groveling more dramatically.”

you consider it. “the flowers help.”

“damn right they do.”

“the coffee helps more.”

“excellent choice on my part.”

you step closer, your shoulders brushing together. jack’s voice drops a little. “we okay?”

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.

——