It really was just one of those days…

Y/N steps into the locker room, a pout playing on her bottom lip as she stares down at her sweater. It was soaked from a careless ambulance truck driving full speed through a large rain puddle.

With a heavy sigh, she pulls off her beloved pink sweater to shove into her locker. She rummages around, finding nothing else to use as a cover up.

She steps back from her locker, at a loss until the fluorescent lights of the ED glimmer against a locker that’s four rows down from hers. She eyes it sheepishly before giving in.

She knew the combination already.

Quickly, she opens the locker and tries to keep the exploring to a minimum, happily humming as she finds a spare navy blue sweater with ‘PTMC’ on the back.

Shrugging it on, she uses her elbow to shut the locker door. She makes a mental note to be more careful as she steps out of the locker room, surrounded entirely by a whole new scent. A very welcoming scent.

The scent of Jack Abbot..

“Heard you went swimming..” Santos says as she walks past Y/N, a smirk playing on her lips as Y/N chuckles.

“Water was too cold..” She jokes back, voice as soft as ever as the fellow intern eyes the sweater now halfway zipped up on her friend’s body.

“A little big on you.” She notes with playful suspicion, and Y/N balls her fists in the sleeves.

“It’s a sweater.” She defends with a shrug.

“Not your sweater…” Santos clarifies with a knowing glint in her eyes.

“How’s our ear infection case..?” Y/N finally fusses, cheeks turning a slight pink, desperate to just change the subject as Santos laughs. The two girls walk towards their desks just as the elevator dings behind them.

Jack steps into the ED, still decked out in SWAT attire. He has a small hand towel he’s using to dry his face and neck. “Holy hell, it’s pouring..” He sighs to anyone in ear shot.

Y/N tries not to stare..

“Hey, Fluff.” Jack murmurs as he walks past her desk to get to the locker room. His footsteps stop however when he realizes what she’s wearing. Turning to eye her fully now, he smirks a bit at the sight. She blushes knowingly.

“My sweater got soaked with dirty rain water..” She informs timidly. “I.. I can put it back..” She assures quickly afterwards as he openly admires her, shaking his head lightly with a small smile playing on his lips. He licks his bottom lip as he watches her closely.

“Don’t.” He says. “Looks good on you, Fluff.” He nods before walking away towards the lockers, leaving Y/N to bashfully overlook her charts in order to ignore the flutter in his stomach.

“Don’t. Looks good on you, Fluff..” Santos mocks from next to her. Y/N quickly swats at her arm as she just continues her mocking.

*

*

*

Jack Abbot could watch her everyday.

Leaning against the nurses station, he observes how Y/N can go from one patient to another. She practically floats through this ED.

She’s capable. She’s intelligent. She looks like the personification of the word ‘bubble’. Her smile can put even the worst patients at ease. Her eyes are deep enough to get lost in. At least.. Jack gets lost in them.

“Working hard or hardly working?” Robby asks as he settles in next to his friend, both of them now leaning their elbows against the countertop.

“A little of both..” Jack smirks back, giving Robby a quick glance before going back to watching Y/N.

“You know, this could be an HR write up.” Robby jokes after a moment.

“Let’s not waste the paper..” Jack mutters in a deadpan tone. HR, hell, or high water.. Nothing could stop him from watching his girl go. Robby shakes his head in slight amusement. He had this crush bad. The last time he’d felt this way about a girl, it was… Jack couldn’t even remember.

“When are you gonna just ask her out? Officially?” Robby asks. Y/N and Jack weren’t exactly hiding what they were.

It’s just that not even they knew what they were.

They were friends. Inseparable, honestly.

But they weren’t exactly ‘dating’.

Because the Jack Abbot… Was scared. Not of rejection, no. It was extremely clear to both that there was something there. He was scared of losing what they had if he messed up.

You could usually find them in their own world together.

Softly, quietly, speaking with each other about patient care plans or giving each other pep talks before the next case showed up. They were a team.

“I’m getting to that.” Jack tries with a shrug. One that isn’t convincing.

Robby hums. “Moving at a snail’s pace, brother..” He teases as Jack sighs and stands up straighter from the nurses station.

“Just.. Gotta find the right time.” Jack mutters as the two men begin walking down the hallway.

“Right time..” Robby snorts, not buying it.

“Yeah. The right time.” Jack defends.

“Bullshit.” Robby chuckles as his eyes stay overlooking the ED around them. In case anyone needed help. Jack scoffs in amusement at the word, shaking his head as Robby continues. “You think you don’t deserve her.” He states knowingly.

Jack narrows his eyes a bit, hands going to his pockets as he shrugs like that ‘could be’ a reason for him dragging his feet. But deep down, Robby was right.

And Jack knew it.

Y/N was so light. She was sunshine in a soul and Jack loved to watch her, but… The sun had never really been his thing. What if his darkness overtook her?

He couldn’t be the thing that extinguished her flame.

“Maybe I just don’t wanna shoot my shot at my future boss..” Jack jokes finally, wanting to change the direction of this conversation.

“Whoa!” Robby laughs. “Think she can replace me?” He asks. Jack smirks as he watches Y/N run down the hallway to check on another patient.

She moved like a lightening bolt..

“Only a matter of time.” Jack smirks. Robby shakes his head in amusement, but doesn’t argue with that statement.

The two walk in silence after that. Heading to the vending machines in the hallway outside the ED for a quick snack. When they walk back in, Robby gets pulled away by Whitaker, and Jack finds himself alone yet again. With a soft sigh, he opens his power bar while walking down the hallway.

“Excuse me?”

Jack stops and turns to face the direction of the voice. A tired looking young mom stands in front of him. “Is.. Dr. Y/N around?” She asks. Jack sees a young boy in a soccer uniform, sat in the hospital bed, pouting as he stares at his leg that’s covered in gauze and bleeding through.

“She said she’d be right back. Said my kid might need stitches. He’s.. Terrified of needles though..” She worries gently as Jack nods slowly.

“I understand. I.. Will go find her.” He assures, before walking off to do so. He checks in the few rooms he knows are on her case load today, her desk, even knocks on the ladies’ room door.

Nothing.

He walks past a random hospital room with its lights on, curtains closed, and door shut. Confused, he walks in and opens the curtain, freezing as he sees Y/N standing with her back to him in her scrub pants, but no shirt on.

That’s not what gets his jaw slack though. Well.. It is. He’s always had a thing for black lace, but.. It’s the tattoos that really make his heart race.

Sleeves on both arms, back tatted too. Y/N looks over her shoulder and gasps a bit, arms going around her chest as he quickly turns his back as to not make her uncomfortable.

“I... Sorry. I… Sorry.” He says and mentally curses at not having anything else to say. “I just uh… Been lookin for you..” He finally lands on as Y/N quickly puts on a new scrub shirt, fixing her hair too as she eyes Jack.

She knew sooner or later this would get out.

“I’m dressed.” She informs gently as she sits on the edge of the bed now.

Slowly, Jack turns to face her again. “I should’ve knocked, I’m sorry.” He says as Y/N eyes him sheepishly.

“I should’ve found somewhere else to change..” She says back to show there’s no hard feelings.

She’s had dreams of being shirtless in front of Jack a few times before. Usually the ending was… Different, though.

Jack glances at her arms again. So he hadn’t seen things. They were real. She was tatted up, and for a quick second, Jack wondered if she was tattooed… Everywhere. He could feel his mouth getting dry.

Fuck.

Who knew his little sunshine was so… Hot.

In order to behave, and remembering they’re still at work, Jack averts his eyes away, spotting a hazard bag on the floor by Y/N’s feet. “What happened?” He asks.

“One of my patients threw up. I guess on me was easier than in the bowl.” Y/N sighs deeply. “Then again… She was three..” Y/N notes softly, not holding a grudge for that reason only.

“I’ll clean your sweater, Jack. I swear.” She adds fast after a beat of silence. Jack waves a hand to silently tell her not to worry herself with it.

“You’ve got some ink.” Jack finally notes.

Y/N giggles quietly as she sheepishly looks down at her arms. “That I do.” She sighs. “Can that just… Stay between us?” She asks hopefully.

“Scouts honor.” Jack says with a smirk, happy he gets to be the only one at work to know this side of her..

“They’re really good though. Why don’t you ever show them off?” Jack asks.

Y/N snorts. “Are you kidding? Would you want to see your ER doctor fully tatted?” She asks playfully, her tone only half joking.

“You know, if I’m in the ER, I think I have more important things going on than my doctor being inked up or not..” Jack notes, a bit sarcastic. It makes Y/N smile sheepishly.

“Yeah, well.. Tattoos still have a stigma around them, and.. I wanna be taken seriously.” Y/N states softly before shaking her head. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyways. I don’t have another sweater to wear..” She says quietly, preparing herself to do the rest of her shift with her tattoos on full display.

Jack watches her closely for only a second before he gets up and takes off his tactical combat shirt. It’s part of his SWAT uniform, and he was still wearing it over his scrubs due to it being a chilly and rainy fall day in Pittsburgh.

Y/N looks up at him as he stands in front of her. “What about you?” She asks curiously.

“Eh.. I run hot.” He smirks playfully. She eyes him with a soft hum. That was an understatement..

She bashfully grabs the long sleeve from him, her hand brushing against his. Neither move their hands. Or fully pass the shirt. They just take this as a moment to watch each other. A moment of brief peace before they have to continue their shift.

In this moment.. Jack realizes he’s been trying to keep Y/N away, afraid of.. Tainting her. But this was a grown woman. Grown and capable and extremely captivating to him. And he couldn’t waste more time.

Because any guy that was in his right state of mind would think the same thing.

And Jack couldn’t risk losing her..

“You know… I’ll need it back soon. It is my uniform…” He points out softly. Y/N nods fast, muttering a quiet ‘right’ as she fully holds the shirt now. “You can give it back.. Maybe over dinner? Tomorrow night?” He asks. Y/N’s initial expression of understanding changes into a more shy but eager glance as she looks back up at Jack. She smiles and slowly nods.

“I’ll make sure to wash it.” She promises as she stands up too, slipping it on.

Jack smirks, loving her in his clothes. “Mm.. Don’t.” He says simply, wanting it to smell like her when he finally gets it back. It makes her stiffen a shiver when she fully understands why..

“And for the record.” Jack adds after a moment. “If I was in the ER? And you were my doctor? Tattoos or not… I’d know I’m in great hands. Your patients are lucky to have you..” He states as he looks her in the eyes. She smiles wide and moves to hug him tight.

In that same moment, Robby walks past the open hospital door with Santos in tow, both slowing their steps to glance into the room. They share a confused look at the sight in front of them before continuing their walk.

“I’d ask, but..” Santos trails off.

“I don’t get paid enough..” Robby snorts in agreement.

*

*

*

Jack walks through the ED to supervise all of the handovers from day shift to night shift. He pauses in the doorway of one room though when he sees Y/N kneeling by a hospital bed. The hospital bed that belongs to that 12-year old boy who needs stitches on his leg.

Jack watches as she leans against the bed so the young boy can color in one of her tattoos located on her forearm with washable markers. He’s distracted by the task at hand. So much so that Whitaker can actually do the stitches.

The mom watches on, just grateful her son hasn’t freaked out yet. “All done..” Whitaker says happily with a soft sigh of relief as he begins cleaning up the supplies. Y/N smiles as she reaches her freehand up to ruffle the young boy’s hair.

“You did it!” She cheers happily, holding up her free hand for a high-five. The boy stops his coloring.

He’s stunned for a moment, looking at them all. “I did it?!” He asks before realizing. “I did it!” He says, relieved it’s over. He high fives both Y/N and Whitaker as Jack watches, impressed from the doorway.

Y/N looks over and smiles softly at him, pulling her sleeves down again before softly telling Whitaker to work on discharging them. He agrees. Y/N steps out.

“Ready to call it a night?” Jack asks.

“Yes, please..” She chuckles as they begin to walk.

“Smart game plan.” He compliments as they walk towards the locker room so she can grab her stuff.

“Yeah, well… A wise doctor once said that if someone’s in the ER.. They probably have way better things to worry about than their doctor being tatted..” Y/N mumbles playfully as Jack smirks.

“Wise? I’ll take it. But.. I’d also take ‘handsome’, ‘charming’,-“ Y/N cuts him off.

“Smug?” She teases as they get to the locker room. She grabs her stuff and they head over to the ambulance bay to get to the parking lot. Jack loved this part of his shift. Getting Y/N to her car.

He took this task as seriously as saving lives.

In fact, the evenings when Jack was too busy to walk her to her car, Y/N would just wait at her desk.

She learned to do that the hard way. ‘Hard way’ being Jack telling her to wait for him the very next time he saw her after the first time she tried leaving alone..

“You know..” She begins as they walk peacefully. “I feel at a disadvantage. You’ve seen like.. a good chunk of my ink, and I’ve seen nothing of yours..” She teases. Jack laughs softly.

“I don’t have tattoos..” He informs casually as he stops at Y/N’s car. She unlocks it with her keys so he can open her door for her.

It’s routine at this point.

“You don’t?” Y/N asks, slightly surprised by the reveal. Jack smiles at her as she moves to get in her car.

“Nope.” He closes her car door for her and leans down to her now open window.

“Too scared of needles.” He says simply before winking, making her giggle…

“Daddy!”

Your jaw clenches for a moment before a smile is plastered on your face for the sake of Phoebe. She crashes into Tom’s legs, wrapping herself around them like a koala. Tom reaches down for her, palms under her armpits to lift her to his chest, enveloping her in a squeeze.

The smile drops from your face the second her back is to you and you’re back to glaring at Tom, a look he’s more than happy to reciprocate. 

“Hey, sunshine. How you doing?” His hand rubs across her small back, her face tucked into his neck. 

Phoebe’s response is muffled into his skin, but whatever it is gets a chuckle out of the prick. You reach for her overnight bag, extend your arm for Tom to take it. It’s something that you still think is an absolute joke. You shouldn’t have to pack anything for her to go to his house. And yet, he still has nothing for her. No clothes, overnight diapers, toiletries… 

“Alright, give Mommy some love.” Phoebe unwraps herself from Tom to reach for you, squeezing you with all of her might as if it’s the only way she can convey how much she loves you. 

You squeeze back, gentler but just as much lovingly. “Be good for Dad and have fun, okay?”

Phoebe hums, wiggles out of your hold to stand on her feet. You watch with a chuckle as she smoothes down her outfit; a baby blue tutu and a long sleeved Bluey shirt. 

You gave up fighting her on outfit choices a long time ago. No one really warned you that parenting is about picking your battles. You prefer to save yourself a headache by letting her wear what she wants most days. 

You wanted her to grow up strong and independent. Instead you’ve created a stubborn little fashionista monster. 

Phoebe takes Tom’s hand, an act that hurts and warms you both the same and waves as they leave the threshold of the door. 

“Love you, Diva!” She calls out, skipping in a pair of battered booger-green Crocs that she refuses to part with. 

“Love you, bestie.” Your reply echoes down the hall until they’re both out of sight and you’re completely alone. 

It’s when the door closes that the silence envelops you. Quiet and eerie in a sense that you don’t really know what to do with yourself. The apartment feels off-kilter without her massive personality invading every wall and crevice. 

A pout forms on your lips when you look at the mess she’s left. Toys, books, arts and crafts… you consider leaving it out all afternoon and night so you have some semblance of her chaos with you. But the moment your barefoot steps on a piece of LEGO, you’re quick to change your mind. 

Only when you’re scooping the evil little pieces of plastic into the box do you realize your mistake. Eyes snagging on a bright pink purse by the front door, you scramble to your feet. 

The last time Phoebe forgot her purse, it ended up in a forty-five minute long meltdown. The fear of Tom having to bring her home or not knowing how to handle it is strong enough to make you ignore the pain in your foot when you stand on plastic again. 

Your feet move fast as you scoop up the diamante pouch and race down the hall. Phoebe usually forces Tom to take the stairs so she can race him, so if you’re lucky, you’ll catch her just before they make it to the car. 

You have a good shot at it, until you’re colliding with something solid and the purse is dropping to the floor at the same time a dark blue backpack does, both contents spilling across the carpet. 

“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry, are you okay?” 

The voice is rushed, a groan when they lower closer to the ground to rustle through the mix of lipsticks, hair ties and actual male belongings. You blink at the voice, looking up as you finally register it’s a who that you’ve collided with instead of a what. 

Jack squats a bit awkwardly in front of you, shoving a water bottle into the backpack unceremoniously. He’s dressed in scrubs again, brows slightly pinched and you finally notice that the green in his eyes is more prominent than the brown in the light of the hall. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, another groan as he returns to his full height. “I really have to go. There’s an emergency at the hospital. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You blink, rising back to your feet again and nodding. “Yeah. No, I’m fine. Go, I’m so sorry.” 

He nods once, offering you a very brief but effective once over, as if he’s double checking, before he’s rushing down the hall and straight for the stairs. 

A stab shoots up your foot when you move to walk, a groan slipping past your lips as you grip the purse from its dainty handle with eyes squeezed shut. 

“Fuck my life.” You groan. 

You know there’s no point in trying to catch up to Phoebe and Tom now. They’ll be long gone down the street and the sole of your foot is refusing anything but the idea of some slippers and a glass of wine. 

It’s begrudgingly that you return to your apartment, throw her purse on the kitchen counter and disappear for an hour to soak in the tub. You spend half of that time scrolling mindlessly through TikTok and Instagram reels and the other half scolding yourself for almost knocking a forty-something-year-old man over. 

A very fucking attractive forty-something-year-old man. 

It’s almost three in the afternoon when you finally decide to stop wallowing in your embarrassment and loneliness. With a bottle of wine—it’s five o’clock somewhere—and frozen chicken tenders for a late lunch, you’ve managed to set up somewhat of a work station on the kitchen island. 

The blank word doc mocks you, cursor blinking with every moment you don’t type a single letter. You let your gaze roll away from the screen, take a moment to admire the stacks of hardback books that litter the rest of the counters. 

You’re capable. You’re successful. You’re a talented writer and you have the creative capacity to start the final instalment of your trilogy. Yet when you look back on the screen, all you can do is groan. 

You have no motivation to write, your foot still feels sore from the LEGO assault and you miss Phoebe. Your eyes drift across the counter to her little pink purse, a pout forming on your lips. 

You could call her, just to check in. But you know it’s not worth the hassle of Tom trying to berate you for being a suffocating mother. Stupid prick. 

You settle for reaching for her bag instead, grinning at her little plastic lipsticks and fake keys. You dig deeper and still when you find a black wallet instead of a bright pink one. 

There’s no chance of it being Tom’s and you don’t have a wallet like that. Retrieving it with a bit more caution than curiosity, you flip it open and smack a hand over your mouth at the same time. The ID is the first thing you see. 

Dr. Jack Abbot.

Oh, fuck me. 

He’s staring at the camera with a blank expression, but his eyes are anything but emotionless; gleaming with something flirty and mysterious. He looks younger in it—perhaps a shot from five or so years ago—smaller traces of gray in his dark hair. You truly can’t help the way your heart rate picks up. He’s handsome in his ID photo but this man was made to be middle-aged. 

There’s no phone number on his ID, nor on any receipts or healthcare cards. You try your hardest to ignore the black card tucked between two debit cards when you finally find a business slip with a number on it. 

For the second time tonight, you’re left speechless. 

Tactical Emergency Medical Support. 

SWAT Physician, Dr. Jack Abbot. 

You blink at the flimsy piece of card. Once. Twice. What the fuck? 

There’s a number in blocky font on the back, an email address that he likely only uses for SWAT enquiries. Drafting a text to the number is fine until you realize how invasive you’ve just been to his privacy. 

Still, your finger only hovers over the send button for a moment before pressing it. 

Hey, Jack. It’s Y/N. I’m so sorry but I think I accidentally picked up your wallet instead of Phoebe’s when I bumped into you in the hall! I can come by the hospital and drop it off?

With a sigh, you drop your phone to the counter and slide his SWAT card back into the pocket of his wallet, only allowing yourself thirty seconds to imagine Jack in a full camo set-up. Your fingers brush over the fine leather fabric for a moment, and you don’t mean for it to happen, don’t mean to stumble across it. But your thumb slips against something tucked far behind the cards and a small, folded photo slips out.

It’s worn around the edges, frayed from what you can only assume is his tender touch. A woman. Middle aged and incredibly beautiful and staring something meaningful into the camera as she raises her hand to point at her finger. You realize quite quickly what you’re looking at.

A married woman. Jack’s married woman. His wife. You suddenly feel sick to your stomach for invading his privacy like this, for being so fucking nosy. Most importantly for secretly thirsting over a married fucking man. 

You try to remember ever seeing a ring on his finger, cipher through your memory for any hints and flickers of silver or gold in passing. You find none, though that doesn’t mean anything. Perhaps you just never noticed a ring. Or perhaps he wore it around his neck…

It doesn’t matter. Your findings are enough of a reality check to have you gently easing it back to its rightful place, but not strong enough to quell the question of why the photo is kept so discreetly hidden. Not your place to wonder. Perhaps he’s a private person. Perhaps he’s experienced the issue of an accidental wallet swap before and doesn’t want a photo of his precious wife to fall into the wrong kind of hands. 

You push the wallet to the far end of the kitchen island and struggle to focus on your original task at hand. Outlining the final book in your trilogy. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jack enjoys chaos that can be controlled. Whether it’s infiltrating a scenario with SWAT or commanding a trauma room, he thrives on the need to be needed. A natural leader, yes. But also a very lonely man that tends to seek his validation in the form of a slight hero complex. 

Emma is still visibly shaken, even an hour after the altercation with an extremely uncooperative patient. Young, fresh, eager-eyed and extremely overwhelmed from the events of her rather unfortunate first day. 

Jack was the first one in the room when the code word was shouted breathlessly from Perlah’s lungs. Robby had shuffled close behind, restraining the patient while Jack had tended to the nurse, encouraging her to breathe and checking her over for injuries. 

She’s yet to fully snap out of the shock, which Jack promises is normal and perfectly okay to experience. Robby’s been watching her like a hawk, worried she may crumble under the events or freeze up on a patient at the most critical time. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” He asks her gently, quiet enough for the others around the nurses desk not to hear. 

Emma shakes her head, forcing a polite smile on her lips. But the way she wrings her hands out and picks at the skin around her thumbs suggests otherwise. “No, it’s okay. Sorry, I just—is it always like this?” 

Dana smiles, tipping her glasses to the bottom of her nose. “Not always. But, hey, at least you’re initiated, kid.” 

A smile cracks at the corners of Emma’s mouth at Dana’s words, a relationship similar to one of a mother and daughter. It reminds Jack briefly of you and Phoebe. 

“Alright,” he sighs. “How about a coffee run, then? A bit of fresh air, sunshine… My treat.” Jack reaches into his pocket for his wallet, keeps his tone casual enough that Emma would be doing him a favor by going on a beverage run. 

A win for everyone, really. She gets a break without feeling guilty for it and everyone gets a pick-me-up after a long half-shift. 

But when Jack retrieves his wallet, he’s met with more amusement than excitement. He frowns, following Santos’ tickled stare down to his wallet. No. Not his wallet. Because Jack’s wallet is sleek and black and leather. And the thing in his hands is bold, fabric and bright fucking pink. 

“What the fu—”

Bubbles of laughter surround him and the nurses station, something he’s not quite used to being on the receiving end of. It’s been at least two decades since he was teased so openly and broadly by colleagues. This is the first time it’s been by his subordinates. 

“Okay, Diva. Didn’t know you had it in you.” Santos’ words bubble out of her in bursts of breathless laughter, her face turning a pinky shade as she struggles to keep the amusement in check.

Jack turns the wallet in his hands, taking note of the large DIVA in stark white diamontes. He blinks, looks at his fellow doctors, then back down at the wallet again. “Well it’s obviously not mine.” Jack almost squeaks the words of defense, opening the wallet to find a twenty dollar bill and neat handwriting faded into the inside. 

PROPERTY OF DIVA PHOEBE Y/L/N. 

An exasperated laugh slips from him before he can stop it. It’s bad enough that he’s been unable to keep the two of you from infiltrating his mind over the past few weeks, now Phoebe was following him into work?

Too busy digging into his other pocket for his phone—which, yes, is his—Jack misses the curious glances at the fond expression that creeps its way onto his features. There’s a single text from an unknown number on his locked homescreen. A time stamp of three hours ago, no preview, but he doesn’t need to unlock it to know it's from you. 

Robby watches in amusement when Jack snaps the wallet closed and shoves it back into his pocket, swiping up on his screen to open his messages. Robby’s head cocks to the side slightly as he tries to hide his smirk. “So… Do you have another hobby that we’re not aware of?”

“Yeah, I also do Drag on the weekends.” Jack replies dryly, only offering him a brief and expressionless glance. 

“Alright, Abbot.” Dana chirps through a lopsided smirk.

Jack can’t help the laugh that he scoffs out. “It’s my neighbors—I mean her toddlers. Bumped into her on the way in, accidentally grabbed the wrong wallets. Guess coffee is on Robby.” He pats him on the back with a dead smile before walking away, fingers moving across the screen. 

Hey, we definitely picked up the wrong wallets. Don’t worry about dropping it in, I’ll pick it up. Should be done in a couple hours. 

Then another text. 

Tell Pheebs Doctor Jack said he’s sorry.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You have a slight tendency of getting lost in the creative process of writing. The moment images and words begin to flow into sentences and ooze from your fingertips to the screen, you zone out from the world around you quite quickly. 

So, it’s no surprise that you’re a little startled when the knocking on your front door sounds just after 8 in the evening. And it takes a moment for you to realize that you are expecting someone. 

Jack stands with a tired smile when you open the door with eyes wide and apology on the tip of your tongue. He looks better than you would’ve imagined after a shift in the hospital, still in scrubs and salt and pepper curls slightly mussed, but you suppose he’s the type of man that just never looks like shit. 

“I’m so sorry about this,” you rush out, opening the door wider for him to follow you inside, apologizing profusely for the mix up as you make your way toward the kitchen.

Jack follows slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He takes in your home, warmth and comfort consuming him at how cosy and loved and lived in your apartment is in just eight weeks of living here. 

He was right, it is a mirror layout of his. But you’ve decorated with rich colours and mix-match furniture that shouldn’t look right but somehow does. It’s a blend of cohesive chaos, relaxing and comforting and yet overwhelmingly different.

Jack follows to the kitchen, leg aching from rushing on his feet for far too long without a moment's reprieve. He retrieves Phoebe’s wallet from his pocket, fingers tracing the diamonte lettering before holding it out for you as you hold out his. 

“Nah, don't worry about it. But I do think I’m going to be called Diva by the Pitt for the next year at least.” He laughs.

You take Phoebe’s wallet from his grip with a laugh, no brush of fingers, no close proximity. It’s only then, because you’re looking for it, that you notice the silver band around his left ring finger.

“What’s the Pitt?” you asked instead.

“Oh, it's just what we call the E.D.” Jack explains, brief but his tone remains friendly. Borderline fond. 

You’re tapping Phoebe’s wallet against the palm of your hand. “I had to go through your wallet to try and find your number. I’m sorry. But I found it on your SWAT card?” There’s a lilt in your voice, a little teasing, a bit playful. Enough for it to be perceived, not enough to cross a boundary. 

Friendly. Like you’re trying to remind your brain to be when it randomly decides to think of Jack in the middle of the night. 

He has the audacity to look a bit bashful at your comment. A feigned nonchalant shrug of his shoulder, a quirk in the corner of his mouth. “My therapist said I needed a hobby.” 

“Ah, because the emergency department isn’t thrilling enough.”

Jack laughs at that, not loud but genuine. It’s as if he’s caught himself, eyes skimming across the open living space, noticing the quiet. 

“I hope Phoebe wasn’t too upset." 

You wave a hand. “She’s fine. She’s with her Dad for the night, so I’m sure she hasn’t even realized she doesn’t have it.”

Jack hums, like he’s taking note of the fact that you’re definitely single. No. No. Stop that. His gaze drifts behind you, lingering on the stuff all over your kitchen counter. Piles and piles of hardback books stacked up around a laptop, a notepad and a bottle of wine. 

“So… you read about 80 books when you get a night off?” 

You look at the books, back to him with your eyes closed and a pursed lip smile. “Um no, I sign them.” 

Jack cocks a brow, a silent question.

You huff a bit self-depricatingly through your nose. “I’m an author.” You say it carefully, like you’re expecting the reaction you usually get. 

That’s not a real occupation. 

Don’t quit your day job.

Writing silly romances doesn't make you a real author.

For some reason, he’s the last person you want thinking of you like that. 

So when a smile stretches across his face, your shoulders start to relax. “Oh yeah? That’s cool. Anything I would’ve read?” 

You laugh as you lead him toward the kitchen island. “Um, unless you read a lot of romance, probably not.” 

Jack shrugs, hands stuffed into his pockets as he peers at the copies. “I’m not opposed to trying new things. You any good?” 

You grow warm, shrug a shoulder. Despite not really giving a fuck what most people think, this part always makes you feel a little nervy. “I have a couple New York Times Bestsellers.” 

His head whips to you, impressed or shocked, you can’t really tell. But you watch as he picks up one of the hardbacks to examine it, and you don't miss how his eyes linger on the name at the bottom. “I go by a pseudonym.” You quickly add. “I don’t like the idea of my name and face out there. And I don’t want it to embarrass Pheebs when she’s older.”

“Why would it embarrass her?” Jack asks with pinched brows, flipping the book in his hand to skim over the blurb.

You shrug. “Kids can be assholes. I don’t want her being teased because her mom writes steamy romances.” 

Jack laughs at that. God, you’re starting to hate yourself for how much you love that sound.

“You’re a good mom.” He says it with mirth in his voice but the way his eyes bore into yours without an ounce of hesitation, you know he means it.

Your shoulders jab in another shrug, bashful and deeply moved by his comment. You know you’re a good mom, despite what anyone may try to say. But to hear it from him—someone older, successful someone who sees the worst and best in parenting every day… 

“I try.” 

His eyes remain on you as he smiles, softer now. Like he’s pleased with your response; that you know you’re nothing but the best you can be for Phoebe. 

“Well, I will let you get back to your signing. As a Doctor, though, I must advise you to take breaks so you don’t end up with cramps or carpal tunnel."

A laugh escapes you at that, and you find yourself nodding and holding your hands up in surrender. An ache is already forming in your wrists. “Whatever you say, Doctor Abbot.” 

He grins something playful, but before he can put the book down, you reach a hand out to stop him. 

“Keep it. If you want, I mean. As an apology for the wallet mix up.”

He raises a brow at the offer but makes no attempt to put it down again. “Has it even been released yet?”

“No, so don’t be writing any book reviews until after the end of next month.” You point a finger at him accusingly, to which it’s Jack’s turn to hold his hands out in surrender. 

After you see him out and say goodnight, you're left reeling with the realization of what you’ve done. You haven’t just given Jack a pre-release copy of your book. You’ve given him the book that is undoubtedly the most steamiest and unhinged novel you’ve written to date.

And he’s going to read it. He’s going to get an insight to your brain and the sex that your wild thoughts muster up. He’s going to have you in his mind when he gets to chapter 54 and the female main character is on her knees, choking on the first male main character's cock while the other is taking her from behind. 

Oh, fuck.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jack can’t sleep. 

It’s midnight and his bed is calling his name, but he can’t sleep.

He escaped to the balcony an hour ago with a chamomile tea and the book you’d given him. In truth, he hasn’t been able to put it down since he opened it and read the dedication page. 

To the women that have only ever been told they’re too much or not enough, Niko and Az are my gift to you. Happy vibrations ;)

The dedication alone was enough to have his eyebrows and heart rate rising. But when he began the first chapter, he found himself entirely immersed. 

Jack can’t get enough of the way you write. The words flow together seamlessly on the pages, witty and flirty and playful in the most poetic and coherent way. Four chapters in, and he’s greedily skimming the pages to know more, to soak in the way your mind works, the way your heart beats for writing and creating.

Yet despite how descriptive and excellently you paint the scenes, all he can really think about is you. In the softness of your own home, the smile on your lips when he managed to make you laugh. Your teasing comments, and playful gaze.

Involuntarily, Jack’s eyes flit from the book up to the balcony across from his. Your curtains are still open, the door closed now but the kitchen light remains on. He watches the brief movements of you moving around inside; sitting at the island and typing, disappearing down the hall, sitting back at your makeshift workstation. 

The thought of texting you has crossed his mind more than Jack cares to admit. Now that he has your number, it’s easy and accessible to just… talk. 

He argues that he shouldn’t. It’s late and you’re working. But you are awake, and so is he. And he’s reading your book with so many thoughts and observations that he feels a need to be in some kind of contact with you. 

As if he’s getting to know your mind and soul through your work, your art. He watches you sit at the island again, rub a hand down your face.

Fuck it. 

Jack reaches for his phone and sends a text before he can really think twice about it. 

It’s not everyday I get sucked into a book after four chapters. I understand why you’re a bestseller. This rocks. 

He cringes at himself. This rocks? But the text is already sent and there’s not much he can do. By the time he puts the phone down, it’s already pinging with a reply. 

Just wait until you get to chapter seven. Never too old to learn something new LMAO

He grins at that. Can only imagine what he’s yet to experience if the dedication is anything to go by. The bubbles appear at the bottom of the screen again until it’s replaced with another text from you.

While I have you, Doctor… What's the best thing for constipation? 

Jack’s brows raise at the bluntness of your text. Another pings through quicker than he can blink.

For Phoebe, I mean. She’s been a bit uncomfortable so she came home earlier.

He considers the message with a frown. Jack knows it’s normal for children to have a preferred parent when they’re sick. But constipation is usually only discomfort. He can’t help but wonder why Phoebe wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to stay with her father. He supposes you’re her comfort, no matter the problem.

I can come over and check her out?

There's hesitation. A bubble of dots that appear and reappear. As if you're fighting yourself. 

I would actually really appreciate that, thank you!!

Do you have a callout rate? I can venmo you 💗 

Jack doesn’t dwell on the heart. You’re young, you’re bold. You only mean it in a friendly way. But he does make it clear in his final text that he has not and will never charge for doing what he is trained and qualified to do.

It’s fifteen minutes later that Jack’s got his leg back on, a first aid kit in his hand and knocking on your apartment front door. You answer in a similar manner as you did earlier; slightly wild eyes, messy hair and a tiredness that’s sitting deeper beneath your eyes as the night has gone on. 

You pull the door wide enough for him to enter, a flurry of, “Thank you. She’s in bed. She’s never been constipated before,” slipping from your lips as you guide Jack down the hall and toward Phoebe’s bedroom. 

He watches you tap on the doorframe, a gentle offer of privacy for the toddler. “Hey, baby. You have a special visitor.” 

Phoebe grumbles from her curled position in her toddler bed, but when she sees Jack peek his head into the doorway, she almost bursts out of bed. 

“Doctor Jack!” The shriek is loud enough to almost shatter an eardrum, but it only makes Jack grin wide at her. It’s been a while since anyone’s shown him that sort of excitement to be in his presence. 

“Hey, kid. Mommy said you’ve got a tummy ache?” He speaks softly as he slowly approaches her bed. 

Jack sits a bit awkwardly on the edge, knee protesting at the low angle but he manages and takes a split second to take in the decor of her room. 

It looks like Phoebe’s mind threw up. The walls are multicoloured; not pastel but not bright. She’s got her toddler bed against the wall by the door and opposite is a white teepee tent filled to the brim with stuffed animals. 

Her drawings are taped to the walls, a small kids vanity in one corner and a large toy box overspilling with dress-up outfits and two Nerf guns. There’s bookcases stuffed to the brim, pink dressers on either side of her closet and a One Direction poster above her bed.

Jack doesn’t quite know what to make of the girl's interior design choices. 

Phoebe nods with a pout. “I need to poop but it’s stuck. I think it’s a monster poop, Doctor Jack.”

Jack breathes out a laugh, keeps a fond smile on his face. He can feel you watching from the doorway that you lean against. 

“Hm, let’s see what we can do about this monster poop, then.”

Phoebe watches intently when he opens the first aid box and picks up a pair of blue gloves. She frowns, scrunching her little face up in what Jack can only assume is distaste. 

“I don’t have cooties, you know.” She states it like she’s offended. 

Jack stifles a laugh. “Oh, I know. But I have to wear gloves so I can check your tummy. Can you lift your shirt up a little bit for me, Diva?”

The frown morphs into a grin at the nickname and she nods, laying back against her pillow and tugging her shirt up to expose her tubby little belly. 

Jack feels around her abdomen softly, searching for anything abnormal. Her stomach is slightly harder than it should be, but it doesn’t seem to cause her anything but mild discomfort when he presses down on her skin. 

“What are her eating habits like, Mom?” 

You blink when you realize he’s speaking to you and push off the doorway to move closer, forcing yourself out of the daze you had found yourself in.

“Oh, you know. If she had it her way it would just be cake and pasta forever. I have to sneak veggies into her meals most of the time, homemade fruit smoothies…” Your voice drifts off into something quieter, like you don’t want Phoebe to know you’ve betrayed her. 

Jack hums, feeling at the toddler's sides. “Does she drink sodas or anything like that?” 

Phoebe shakes her head before you can answer. “They rot your teeth! I only like water, milk and sometimes mommy’s smoothies.” 

Jack grins, pleased with her answer and turns back to the first aid kit to dispose of the blue gloves. He reaches for the hem of Phoebe’s shirt and pulls it back down to cover her tummy again. 

“What did you eat and drink at your daddy’s?” 

She makes a sheepish look at you. “Daddy gave me candy…and those chocolate milkshakes that you don’t let me have.” 

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Of course he did.” 

Jack notices the annoyance in your body language immediately. “If they’re not foods she usually has, it’s not uncommon for it to cause a little constipation. Do you have any prunes?” 

You blink, brows knitting. “Um, yes, actually.” 

“Try her with two prunes and a glass of water. Hopefully it’ll get things moving by morning.” 

You nod, loosing a breath and running a hand over your face. If you weren’t already pissed at Tom for constantly letting Phoebe down with visits, you most certainly are now that he’s fucked with her bowel movements. 

Jack waves you off as you excuse yourself to grab some water and prunes, and takes the moment to turn back to Phoebe with a playfully somber expression.

“I don’t know if your mom told you, but I bumped into her in the hall earlier and I accidentally took your wallet to work today instead of mine.” 

Her eyes widen, a giggle falling from her lips. “That’s silly.” 

He hums, stretching his prosthetic out. “Yeah, now all the doctors are calling me a diva!” 

She laughs at that, harder than he’s heard before. A giggle that’s made of pure happiness and sunshine and Jack finds himself realizing that he should’ve fought harder for a child of his own.

“Mommy says we’re all divas deep down.”

He grins, tries to mask the ache that’s beginning to wedge itself back in that crevice in his heart. “Yeah, guess your mom’s right about a few things, huh.” 

You re-enter the room with a grin of your own as you hand Phoebe a small plastic dish with two prunes and a cup of water. 

“See, Pheebs. Doctor Jack says Mommy is always right.”

She grimaces when she eats the fruit but doesn’t put up much of a fight under Jack's gaze. You have to stifle your own laugh at it. Like she's cursing her new favorite person with just a look. Phoebe animatedly juts her arm out for you to take the offensive dish from her and replace it with the water, which she guzzles down to try and rid herself the taste of the prunes. 

“It’s better now!” she declares and Jack has to look away to hide his laughter. 

You’re better than him, already mastered the art of suppressing your emotions for the sake of your child and when Jack stands with a grunt, you take his place on Phoebe’s bed to tuck her in. 

“Alright, Diva. Bed time for real now, okay?” Your tone isn’t stern but it doesn’t exactly hold any room for argument. 

Phoebe huffs as she gets comfortable, reaching for her whale stuffy as she blinks at you. “Can Jack stay for song time with Mr Grasshopper?”

He doesn’t question why the whale is named a grasshopper, something he’s starting to learn not to do when it comes to Phoebe. But he nods, remains just by the door as you pull the covers up to her chin and kiss her forehead. 

“What song would you like tonight?”

Phoebe hums, pretends that she’s thinking about it before ultimately deciding on one of her favorite bedtime songs. “The all night long one, mama.”

Jack thinks he’s unfamiliar with all kinds of lullabies. Until you begin to gently sing a familiar tune to her and he quickly realizes that it is in fact not a lullaby and is instead You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC.

It takes absolutely every ounce of self control that Jack possesses to not bark out an obnoxious laugh at the sight before him. Because despite how amusing he finds it, she's drifting into a state of sleep before you’re a minute in. 

“Night, bestie.” You whisper as you press a ghost of a kiss to her forehead and slowly stand from her bed. 

Phoebe makes a noise that’s a mix of a sigh and a snore, gripping Mr Grasshopper tighter to her chest as she mumbles a muffled “night night, divas,” when you’re sneaking out of her room. 

The moment the door closes and your eyes meet Jack’s, there’s a silent agreement that it’s acceptable to laugh at what Jack has just had the pleasure of experiencing. 

“I can honestly say that’s the first time I’ve heard a three year old ask for AC/DC as a lullaby.” Jack chuckles as you lead him back down the hall. 

Heat licks at your cheeks. “What can I say, she’s got my music taste.” 

Jack dips his head as he grins. “Well, it could be worse. She could like screaming music.” 

You throw your head back at the joke, the opinion that Phoebe made very clear when she first met Jack two weeks ago. You’re shocked he even remembers that. 

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping but I get the vibe you don’t get along with her dad very much.” 

You laugh again but it dwindles into a groan. “Is it that obvious?” 

“Not to her.” He reassures. 

You sigh on a heavy breath, a look of annoyance and exasperation at the very mention of him. “He’s just a… douche. When we first got together I thought his cockiness was… I don’t know— attractive I guess? Then he got controlling and way too egotistical. He knocked me up when I was twenty-three. Told me he didn’t want a kid, disappeared. Came back when he realised I’d made something for myself, had a career.” 

Jack almost bristles at how casually you summarise it. Like it’s something you’ve just had to get on with and tolerate. It rubs him the wrong way.

“And now?” He knows it’s not his place but he can’t help the slip of the question. 

He watches you chew on the inside of your cheek, notices the way you roll out the tension in your shoulders like agitation is beginning to fester there. “He picks and chooses when it’s convenient for him to see Phoebe. There’s no fatherly bone in his body, not really. He treats her like an inconvenience. But when he does show up, he acts like the fun parent that gives her whatever she wants.”

Jack’s cheek twitches. He would’ve given anything to have been a father, to have had a child of his own with his wife. Men like that make Jack angry. 

“She’ll learn for herself when she gets older. Who was actually there for her, who wasn’t.” He offers the same statement your parents have done for years. You know it’s only meant to be comforting, but it does nothing to make anything better. 

“Yeah, but I don’t want that for her. You know? She’s an amazing kid. Just wish I could protect her from it forever.”

It’s something you’ve admitted out loud several times and the statement never feels any less loaded than the time before. Phoebe does deserve better. 

When you reach the kitchen and catch sight of the darkness outside, you remember just how late it is and how tired Jack must be and Tom is out of your mind as quickly as he was placed there. 

“Thank you, Jack. And I’m so sorry for this. Please apologize to your wife for me.” 

You don’t miss the way he falters for a brief moment, how something akin to pain flashes across his usually warm eyes. You watch in real time as his shoulders stiffen, when he instinctively reaches for his ring and blinks down at it. 

Jack swallows, finds himself realizing that you’ve noticed something he often forgets about. For a split second, he wonders if you might’ve seen the photo of his wife when you rummaged through his wallet for a way to contact him. 

“Oh,” He almost chokes on his word, twisting the silver band before he forces himself to stuff his hand into his pocket, the other gripping the first-aid kit. “No, that’s— she’s—she passed. Six years ago.” 

Horror slams into like a freight train. Your lips part, eyes widen and you’re suddenly cursing every God and deity for your stupidly big mouth and stupidity. “Jack…I am so sorry! I just—your ring— I assumed—“ 

“Hey, no.” He waves a hand to cut you off, stuffing it back into his pocket. “It’s fine. It’s okay. I still wear it, so… what’s anyone supposed to think.” 

You watch him softly, the stiffness that remains in his shoulders at the topic of conversation. It burns you a bit, that you’ve caused him such discomfort. You know the feeling all too well. When you’re caught out and have no choice but to explain something you’d rather keep close to your heart and bury away from the rest of the world.

Maybe it’s the understanding of the fact that has you reaching into the collar of your shirt to pinch at the silver chain you keep around your neck. Jack’s gaze follows the movement, and when the light catches on the small diamond ring that dangles from the silver, his lips part in a minute way. 

“I was engaged before I had Phoebe.” You explain gently, that heaviness that he likely feels now making its way into your own heart. “Not to her dad, but someone else. We were far too young for rings but he—he passed, hit by a drunk driver. I still wear mine too.” 

Jack’s shoulders sink as he hears the steady shakiness of your voice; how it holds firm but it’s your tone that wavers just slightly. He finds himself swallowing thickly, huffing out a sigh but selfishly relishing in the fact that you understand the pain of it. 

He doesn’t offer an apology. If he’s sick of hearing it, he can only assume that you are too. Because sorry doesn’t bring them back. Sorry doesn’t erase the pain. Sorry is just a way to express pity. And Jack doesn’t want pity. Neither do you, he knows that’s not why you told him. 

“It doesn’t get easier with time, does it.” 

It’s not a question, rather an observation. Jack can only guess you’ve experienced your loss for around the same amount of time that he has. And while your situations may be a bit different—one being a young engagement and the other being a solidified marriage—it’s pain all the same. 

When you offer a shrug, it’s not as unbothered as it might usually seem. It’s heavy and laden with grief that refuses to leave you. It doesn’t haunt, just lingers. In the crevices of your skin, in the hollow of your bones, in the shadows of your memories.

“Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just lets you grow around them.” 

Jack festers on your words, something too deep and familiar within them. As he watches you tuck the ring back into your shirt, he lets your statement ricochet off the confinements of his mind. No part of his grief has healed, but he has grown. He’s learned to live life again without Moira, learned to find joy and love in the simplicities of life. 

Keeping her in his heart doesn’t make him stuck in the past. He’s honoring her and the life they had, just like you are with your lost love. Because despite the loss, you’re both still living. Growing and learning and loving in whatever capacity that you can. 

For the first time since he lost his wife, Jack doesn’t feel so alone in his grief anymore. 

Neither do you. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

OKAY, I am eager to hear your thoughts and what we think about Phoebe's very loud personality and her growing attachment to Jack!! I have the most fun writing her little scenes and I promise she will only get bolder and sassier!! Also I felt like the final conversation between reader and Jack is SUPER integral to their relationship. They've both experienced a profound loss and I think it's so important and healthy for them to acknowledge it both separately and together, even as early as now </3

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

tags part one: @gennywennypenny / @thefemininemystiquee / @mrsjgbuck / @linnyalou / @rathatosy

@averyhotchner / @blackirisesinthesunlight / @vicky066 / @amacphet / @gaypoetsblog 

@littlewolfbird / @woodxtock / @myescapefromthislife / @freakedtfout4 / @whatyagottado 

@kaitieskidmore97 / @what-the-jams / @ryannnleigh / @freshouttheslammmer / @theaskeeps

@whimsilverhand / @yiiiikesmish / @kacananda / @solastasims / @stardustdd 

@cestmoijola / @xh444 / @venus584 / @celestialceremonials / @jordz34

@milflover-72 / @melissa66orion / @peaches-and-sunshine / @profoundbelieverpeach / @maya-j0y

You let out a sigh of relief as your daughter fell quiet, save for the little whimpers she made as she calmed down. Her little eyes were locked on Jacks face as he rocked her and the sight of him calmed her down fully. He used the back of his finger to wipe the tears from her soft cheeks. You let yourself collapse into a chair behind the nursing station, your mind and body too tired to ask if that was alright.

"You okay?" Jack asked as he rotated to face you, still bouncing his knees for your baby's benefit. He plucked the soother that was clipped to your daughters onesie and guided it into her mouth. She accepted it from Jack no problem, suckling on it contently, and you tried not to be offended.

"Yeah, just tired. I thought the first visit here fixed her separation anxiety but I guess I was wrong." You answered with a yawn as you propped your elbow up on the desk and rested your chin in your hand. Jack nodded along with your answer, seeing your clear exhaustion. You were raising your daughter alone with limited support from friends and family. There was no one to switch off with in the middle of the night, no one to take over when you were sick, no one to pick up some of the physical and mental load. Your daughter crying and not letting up until Jack held her was probably extremely annoying and inconvenient for you.

"Do you need a cat nap?" Jack asked as your daughter fussed for a second, wanting Jacks focus again. He shifted his arms to hold your daughter with one arm and lifted his free hand so she could grab at his fingers, effectively distracting her as he continued to look at you.

"No, the break to sit for a bit is enough. She'll hopefully fall asleep on the car ride home and I can nap when she's napping."

"You're welcome to sit here as long as you'd like." Jack replied sincerely. He really did want to help you however he could and he knew every little bit helped.

"You sure I'm not in the way?"

"Absolutely not honey." The charge nurse Lena said, injecting herself into the conversation as she returned to the Hub and reached around Jack to give your daughters foot a playful shake. "Get the rest you need. We're more than happy to have this cute little girl brightening up our shift." She gave you a warm smile and you returned it, the knot of anxiety and tension loosening in your chest. Lena went back to her computer and you looked over at Jack holding your daughter.

They were staring at each other, her tiny hand wrapped around one of Jacks thick fingers. Jack smiled down at her and you watched your little girls face break into a big smile, the soother almost falling out of her mouth. Her smile made Jacks grow and the knot in your chest completely unraveled at the sight of her being completely at ease with Jack. You felt yourself melt back into the chair, your whole body relaxing knowing your daughter was in good hands.

The two of you chatted for about thirty minutes to pass the time, about nothing and everything - the weather, sports, your childhoods, your favourite music, and your daughters eating habits. You got interrupted every few minutes so a resident or intern could present a case or run a course of treatment past Jack. You watched him teach and lead with ease as he held your daughter in one arm and held the chart in his other hand. He'd encourage the staff and gently direct them to the right answer with a few careful questions, always helping them rather than just telling them what to do.

Jack was confident and assured and it was wreaking havoc on your ovaries. You did your best to remind yourself Jack was just being nice by helping you with your baby and hitting on him would be inappropriate, but then he'd shift your daughter to lift her up over his head with his hands under her armpits and she'd squeal with little giggles and you were right back to square one.

Jack kept lifting your little girl like that, the soother falling out of her mouth as he got her to laugh over and over before settling her against his chest again. The two of them were face to face and your daughter seized the opportunity to grab Jacks face with her pudgy little hands, her fingers curling over his stubbled cheeks.

"She's going to bite you." You commented with a small smile, catching Jacks attention.

"What?" Jack asked, his head turned towards you right as your daughter leaned forward, basically headbutting Jack as her wide open mouth descended on his jaw. She started to gnaw on his face but was thankfully doing no damage thanks to her lack of teeth. Jack let out a chuckle at your daughters action and tipped his head back to get away from the attack.

"Hey there! I thought we were friends tiny girl." Jack said to your daughter as she attempted to bite him again.

"I'm pretty sure she's trying to give kisses when she does that." You explained from your seat, your arms crossed. "I kiss her cheeks all the time and she's probably learned that it's a way of showing affection but she doesn't know how to pucker her lips."

"Ah," Jack hummed with a nod as he looked back at your little girl. "You tryin' to kiss me tiny girl?" Jack quickly darted his head forward and pressed a fast kiss to your daughters chubby cheek. She let out a high pitched squeal of laughter and bounced in Jacks arms. "That's how you kiss." Jack said with a smile that warmed your heart.

He played with her for a bit longer before you both noticed her eyes drooping a bit, indicting that a nap was in her near future. Jack made quick work of putting her back in the car seat.

"So I was wondering if you wanted to meet up outside my working hours." Jack proposed as he clipped your daughters seatbelt. "I thought that maybe if I saw both of you before she reached the point of uncontrollable crying, it might not happen."

"Like a preemptive visit? Sure, that sounds great!" You tried to not get too excited by the idea of seeing Jack outside of the hospital without people watching you and without him being on duty.

"Great," Jack said with a genuine smile as he passed you your daughters car seat. "I'll text you." You smiled back as you reached to take the car seat handle from him, your eyes drifting down for a moment to see what you were doing when something caught your eye and made your heart stop in your chest.

Jack was wearing a wedding ring.

You quickly took the car seat from him, the hand with the symbol of his fidelity letting go and slipping into the pocket of his cargo pants. You did your best to keep the surprise and disappointment and blinding embarrassment off of your face as you wished him a good rest of his shift and made your escape.

The knot in your chest returned, sharp and tight as you fled the Pitt with your daughter. You felt foolish, stupid, like a lovesick idiot who folded at the first sign of affection and attention from a man. He was kind to you and your daughter and you let your head and heart run wild with the idea of him being interested in you. It's not like you were looking for a boyfriend or a partner, but the attentive nature of Jack was so nice and comforting that you almost couldn't help thinking about him in a romantic light. Plus he was so damn handsome it was hard to not think of him like that.

But he was married and you were an idiot.

And you drove home feeling sick to your stomach.

Jack ended up texting you the following morning and arranged for you to meet up with him in a park on his next day off. You thought of a million excuses to use to cancel the meet up, but every time you'd start typing out a message you'd think of your little girl and her wailing screams and thought better of it. You decided you'd bring up his wife at the park and try to figure out if she knew about you. Jack didn't seem like the type to lie but you also felt a little weird bringing your daughter to a park to meet up with another womans husband.

On the day of the meet up, Jack beat you to your agreed upon location near the pond. He'd set up a large picnic blanket under the shade of a tree and had a cooler bag for food next to him. The preparedness and thoughtfulness of it had your heart singing until your brain reminded you to not read into it. He was just being nice. And he was married. He's nice and he's married.

Jack got to his feet when he saw you, meeting you halfway and taking the heavy travel bag you had slung over your shoulder from you. You'd been struggling all the way from the car, hauling the large bag filled with anything you and your daughter could possibly need for the afternoon while also carrying your daughter on your chest. You'd used a wrap to tie your baby to your chest so you could be hands free, but you always found yourself putting a hand under her butt, just in case.

Jack gave you a bright smile, sending butterflies through your stomach as he led you over to the blanket. The two of you exchanged hellos as you both got settled on the ground. It was a lovely Spring day, blue skies and warm sunshine accompanied by a light breeze. You'd opted for a short sleeved onesie with a pair of loose pants for your daughter and a floppy sunhat to protect her head.

You managed to wrangle her out of the wrap and set her down on the blanket facing Jack. She squealed in excitement when she saw him, bouncing on her bum and throwing her fat arms in the air in delight. Her happy reaction to seeing Jack always made you smile and today was no exception. Your daughter leaned forward as she reached for Jack, almost faceplanting to the ground but Jack was quicker, catching her under the armpits and lifting her into the air in one swift motion.

"Hi tiny girl! I missed you too." Jack held her against his chest, face to face. He reached up and fixed her sunhat that had gotten askew in her excitement and your baby immediately grabbed for Jacks hand.

"How are you today? Excited to be in the park?" Jack said to your baby, talking to her normally like she could respond. She answered back by babbling, making little noises that made no sense. Jack nodded along like he could understand her perfectly and you found yourself smiling again at the care and kindness he showed your little girl.

"The weather is nice today, you're right. The hat was a good idea from your Mama, same with the sunscreen." He remarked as he rubbed her cheek, spotting some sunscreen you'd missed when you were lathering your daughter up before you'd gotten in the car.

"I missed you too, by the way." Jack commented, his attention sliding back over to you. You felt your smile falter a bit at the mixed signals you were getting from him. Making a point to say he missed you felt like flirting. Was he flirting? Surely not, he was married. This was so weird.

You felt your confusion and need for answers rising in your chest like a tidal wave threatening to come pouring out of you. You didn't respond to Jack, instead looked at your daughter as he set her down onto the blanket in front of his crossed legs. Jack was stilled staring at you, watching your face for any kind of reaction to his words.

"You okay?" He asked as he blindly offered your daughter his hands so she could grab onto and inspect his fingers.

"Yeah," You said unconvincingly. "You're really great with her." You gestured at your daughter, your uncertainty twisting inside you.

"She's easy to get along with." Jack said back, his curious stare still on you, like he could tell there was something on your mind.

"Do you and your wife have kids?" You asked, trying your very hardest to be nonchalant even thought the question came bursting out of you. Jack raised an eyebrow at your lack of subtlety and gave you a small sympathetic smile, like he was finally understanding something.

"No, my wife and I never had kids. Not for a lack of trying, it just wasn't in the cards for us. Then she died." Jack said it calmly and matter-o-factly as he played with your daughter, the words coming out easily like he was discussing the weather. Your mouth dropped open before you could stop it and you covered it with your hand as your face grew hot with embarrassment.

"Oh Jack, I'm sorry I brought it up-"

"It's alright," Jack interrupted. "I still wear the ring, what else were you supposed to think?"

"I could have been more tactful with how I asked." You said, trying to make the situation better. Your stomach was turning over, making you feel positively sick for sticking your foot in your mouth. Jack just shrugged.

"That was pretty polite. Like I said, I still where the ring, of course you thought I was married. Let me guess, you were confused why a married man was-"

"Giving me so much attention?" You interjected, giving him an out. Jack didn't take it.

"Attention? Don't you mean flirting?" Jack replied as he looked back over at you, your eyes locking. You were stunned, unable to think of an answer. "Don't worry, I'm not married and I was. Flirting I mean."

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, all your previous interactions with Jack replaying in your mind as you realized this wonderful man saw you at some of your lowest points - exhausted and at your wits end - and still wanted you. The thought made your heart beat faster in your chest. You'd seen online how single mothers talked about the dating scene and how no man wanted to date single moms with kids. It was depressing and abysmal and you'd decided to focus your energy on your daughter while leaving thoughts of romance in the dust.

Maybe all those single moms should try and date older guys.

Suddenly your daughter screeched in annoyance before pulling Jacks hand to her mouth so she could chew on his fingers. Her tiny brows furrowed as she chomped on Jacks knuckle and you knew what she wanted. You grabbed the bag you brought and pulled out a small blanket.

"She's hungry." You explained as you reached for her. Jack picked her up but didn't hand her over right away. He grabbed a pillow you hadn't noticed before and propped it up against the tree you were sitting under and motioned for you to sit back against it. Once you were settled, Jack passed your daughter to you and plucked the sun hat off her head so it wouldn't get in the way, like he could read your mind.

"Speaking of hungry, you want some lunch?" Jack asked as he turned around to give you some privacy as you got your baby situated under the blanket out of view and attached to your breast to eat. Jack busied himself with setting up the picnic for you both, sandwiches and fruit and vegetables and crackers and cheese all spread out for you. He'd even brought a tiny, foldable table so the food would be up and off the ground away from bugs and tiny grabbing hands.

"Is there anything you aren't prepared for?" You asked with a lighthearted laugh as Jack also set out napkins and forks. He gave you a smile over his shoulder.

"Not much, although I get surprised from time to time." The implication of his words sat heavy between you as he stared back at you with an adoring glint in his eye. He turned back to the food without another word and began preparing a plate for you. The two of you sat in comfortable silence as your daughter had her lunch, the sunlight cutting through the tree branches.

The park was quiet today, in the middle of the week. Everyone was likely at work or on the other side of the park where the petting zoo was. You and Jack had this corner of the park all to yourselves, tucked away from any chatter or noise from the street. The breeze blew gently, making Jacks curls move slightly as the sunshine illuminated his face. His freckles and wrinkles stood out under the sunlight and you couldn't help but admire how handsome they made him look.

Jack turned to you with a plate of food and caught you staring. He didn't comment on it but smiled instead as he held out a grape to you, silently offering to feed you while you fed your daughter. Honestly you could have held her one handed and ate with your other but not having to move sounded pretty nice. You craned your neck forward to meet Jack halfway and he put the grape in your mouth for you. This continued for a minute or so, Jack hand feeding you while your daughter finished.

Once she was all done, Jack offered to burp her while you put your clothes back into place. You handed her over, grateful for the offer, and Jack snagged the cloth from your bag to cover his shoulder while he burped her. The continued offers to help were appreciated and he also helped you change her diaper after you'd straightened your clothes. It meant a lot that Jack offered to do these tasks without a second thought to give you back a moment or two. It made sense that body fluids didn't bother him, he was a doctor, but actually helping instead of standing by while you wrangled your daughter brought you comfort.

After your daughter was fed and clean, you and Jack ate the food, and took turns holding your baby. She was, as predicted, very interested in the food she could not have so you both had the fun job of keeping it out of her reach. After a little while she got frustrated and started to squawk loudly to let everyone know she was unhappy with them.

"Are we being too mean to you tiny girl?" Jack asked as he set his plate down and took custody of her again. "How dare we keep you from choking on some grapes! We're monsters!" Jack teased as he held your baby above his head and turned her from side to side playfully.

"It's so tough being small isn't it?" Jack said as he set her down in his lap, facing you. He held her in place with one large hand over her stomach and reached into your bag with his other hand to fish out a storybook made of crinkly paper that would satisfy your daughters senses. She took to the book immediately, crushing the pages in her fist to create the crinkle sound. The book had the intended effect and thoroughly distracted her.

Jack kept his hold on her as the two of you talked for the next hour, swapping stories about your lives and sharing tidbits that made the other person laugh while Jack handed your baby a new toy any time she lost interest in the old one. You threw your head back laughing at Jacks recount of the first time he met a saucy troublemaking patient named Myrna and Jack ducked his head as he laughed at your story about accidentally buying dog shampoo for your daughter when you were sleep deprived.

"There was a baby on the bottle!" You said in your defense, which made both of you laugh harder. "Sure, there was a dog on the bottle too but I was too tired to notice."

"Did you use it on her?"

"No!" You exclaimed with a big smile as you threw your napkin at him. "I noticed before I used it. But it was a close call, she was in the bath and everything." Jack wiped his eyes as his laughing subsided and you took a deep breath as your laughter faded too. There was a happy lull of silence between you, both of you smiling at the other and basking in the carefree moment. Jack looked down suddenly as your daughter leaned over and rested her head on his arm.

"Oh, I think someone's sleepy." You were snapped back into Mom mode and sat up on your knees to see your daughter over the small table between you and Jack. Your little girl had doubled over and was laying on Jacks arm with her eyes closed.

"Oh." You said, a little disappointed. You'd been having so much fun. "I guess I better get her home."

"You got somewhere to be?" Jack asked. You shook your head. "Good, I could use a nap." Jack picked your daughter up, her eyes opening for a moment before drooping closed again as Jack rested her on his chest and he moved back to sit against the tree. He tucked one of the pillows he brought under his back and stretched out to sleep, his ankles crossed.

"Did you bring a book or something with you? I have a crossword and Sudoku book in my bag if you want, or you can nap with us." You sat there a little stunned for a moment, pausing to understand that Jack was doing what he could to extend your visit.

"I have a book in my bag." You replied, moving to grab it. Jack snagged the other pillow and brought it next to him without having to get up. He leaned it against the tree trunk for you, right next to him and your daughter. By the time you got situated, both Jack and your baby girl had drifted off, Jack having placed a baseball cap you hadn't seen before over his eyes to block out the sun.

Your daughter was on her stomach but upright, her chubby cheek squished against Jacks chest and her little hand curled into a fist around his shirt. He had a good hold on her, keeping her in place as they both slept. You noticed absently that he'd moved her sunhat so it wouldn't be crushed under her head and was resting on the side of her face, shielding her from the sun whenever it came through the clouds. You couldn't help smiling to yourself as you cracked open the book that had lived in your baby bag for months that you'd never had the time to read.

What a perfect afternoon.

You and Jack ended up hanging out a lot. Park play dates turned into shopping trips together on the weekends (with Jack carrying everything for you) which turned into dinners at your place where Jack cooked for you (so you wouldn't have to drive home at night from his place or disrupt your daughters schedule) which turned into you and your baby meeting up with Jack at a restaurant near the hospital after his night shifts to have breakfast.

You were spending a lot of time with Jack, most of your time really, speaking to him every day over the phone or through text, and you were starting to wonder about his intentions with you. He'd made that flirting comment in the park and people around you already assumed you were in a relationship. Like that group of jogging elderly women on the street who cooed that you were such a beautiful family, and the waitress at the restaurant who snuck in a comment when Jack was in the bathroom about how it was nice to see a husband who was so attentive to his family.

But Jack hadn't made a move. He was available to you 24/7 and made you feel so seen and special but he hadn't asked you on a date or kissed you. Hell, he kept his hands to himself most of the time. You didn't know if it was because he was being a gentleman or because he wasn't actually interested. You were pretty sure he was interested and yet he hadn't done anything. In truth you wanted him to ask you out but you were too afraid to do it yourself. If you were wrong and he wanted to just be friends, you were worried he'd pull back and you'd lose him completely. So despite the question about how he felt about you burning in your throat every time you saw him, you stayed silent.

You finally got an answer the day you had to be admitted to the Pitt.

Your daughter had been so clingy that day, you had no clue why. Maybe she was getting sick or had a nightmare and wanted to hold onto you for comfort or maybe she was in the very beginning stages of teething and was started to feel the very faint feelings of pain. The reason didn't really matter, not when she screamed and cried every time you put her down. She was fine in your arms but the moment you put her in her playpen or in her highchair, it was tears and screaming until you picked her up again.

The crying and shrill screams were starting to break your patience and your sanity by 10pm. You hadn't been able to shower because of her need to be attached to you and every time you had to set her down to go to the bathroom or grab something to eat, she broke into a fit of screams. She also seemed opposed to going to sleep and every time you put her in the crib after rocking her to sleep she would wake up and cry.

After many failed attempts to get her down for the night and after putting off eating an actual meal for the whole day, you decided to stick her in her highchair as you made yourself a sandwich. She wailed at the top of her lungs the whole time, fat tears streaming down her face as you tried to assemble the ingredients you needed.

"Peanut, please," You begged her, your eyes on her face as you unwrapped your loaf of bread. Your nerves felt frayed and your voice broke a bit as you spoke to her. "Everything is fine, I'm right here. Please." You grabbed a bread knife and started to slice into the bread loaf that Jack had bought last weekend at the framers market for you. Your daughters screams were like a knife in their own way, burrowing into your head and your heart, driving you towards insanity.

"Baby please be quiet," You pleaded, glancing very quickly away from what you were doing to look at your crying infant. "Mommy's begging yo-FUCK!" Sharp, intense pain burst through your thumb as you accidentally sliced into it with the bread knife. The knife clattered to the cutting board as you dropped it to wrap your uninjured hand around the deep cut. Your daughter, sensing your distress, managed to scream louder at a volume you didn't think was possible while you spun around the kitchen to find something to put pressure on the wound.

You'd taken a first aid course when you were pregnant, since you were doing solo parenting, and you could also hear Jack in your head telling you to put firm, direct pressure on it. You grabbed a hand towel and wrapped it around your thumb the best you could to help with the bleeding. Your thumb throbbed with aching pain as you squeezed the towel around your finger.

As you tired to think of next steps you noticed that your uninjured hand was covered in blood from your initial attempt at stopping the bleeding and you looked around the kitchen to see drops of blood on the floor, counter, and cutting board. There was even blood splattered down the front of your shirt and pants.

Fuck.

You got down on the floor by the sink and stuck your injured hand between your knees so they could provide pressure and free up your other hand to reach into the cabinet under the sink for the First Aid Kit. Your baby kept wailing as you sat on the floor and struggled to get the kit open and the supplies out. You wanted to comfort her but you also knew she was safe where she was so you'd have to leave her to cry while you patched yourself up.

You grabbed the gauze and tape you needed with a shaky hand and had to improvise with your teeth to unravel the gauze and pull a strip of tape. With a deep, fortifying breath, you lifted the towel to look at the wound. You only allowed yourself a quick look because it was still bleeding but you saw enough to know you were more than a little screwed.

You hadn't cut your thumb exactly, more the part of your hand that connected your thumb and your index finger. The cut looked deep, deep enough to need stitches which you were unqualified to do, even if you had two working hands. With a crying baby and a hand that needed medical attention, you didn't have time to hesitate.

With another steadying breath, you lifted the towel, applied the gauze and wrapped it as best you could quickly, secured it with some tape, and wrapped the towel around it again for good measure. You got up off the floor to go straight to your daughter and bent down to be in her eye line before you kissed her tear stained cheeks in hopes of comforting her. You shushed her gently to provide some calming sounds as her cries died down, but didn't stop, and you mentally went over the checklist of things you needed to grab to leave to house. You left your baby again to grab your purse and anything else you needed, her cries increasing in volume again once you were out of sight.

With everything you need stuffed into your large purse, tucked in the crook of your elbow, you returned to your daughter and lifted her one handed and a little uncoordinated out of the highchair. She went quiet thankfully and you carried her out of the apartment to head to the Pitt.

And to Jack.

"Hey Dr. Abbot," Victoria Javadi's soft voice came from behind Jack. He was reviewing a chart for Dr. Santos, looking at the CT results.

"One second." He said, addressing Javadi without turning around. "I agree with your assessment of the mass. We'll need a biopsy to know course of treatment." Jack commented as he passed the tablet back to Santos. "Try not to freak him out about the mass, there's no reason to worry until we know more information."

"Got it Boss." Santos said with a two finger salute as she left to give her patient the findings. Jack turned around and came face to face with a very uneasy looking Javadi.

"What is it?" He asked, very familiar with Javadi's deer-in-the-headlights expressions whenever something distressing happened at work.

"Um, your friend is here, the one with the baby who comes by sometimes." Javadi explained, gesturing with her hands. "She's out in chairs and it looks like she cut herself-" Javadi didn't even get the rest of the information out before Jack was moving past her and running towards the waiting room.

He spotted you instantly, sitting in the middle of a row with your daughter in one arm and a very bloody towel bunched around your other hand. Jack moved effortlessly through the crowded waiting room, his whole focus on you as he weaved through the patients standing around waiting for their turn. You looked up as he approached, the relief in seeing him there clear on your face, while the blood on your clothes made his stomach twist with worry.

"What the hell happened?" He asked, his heart beating quickly in his chest.

"I cut my hand with a bread knife. It's pretty deep, I think I need stitches." Jack noted the way your voice wavered a bit as you spoke and he sprung into action, shifting from worry to taking charge.

"C'mon," He said as he reached for your daughter.

"She'll scream." You said with a defeated sigh, not letting him take her. "She's been screaming all day." You sounded so tired and worn out, and frankly you looked like it too. Like all your energy had been leeched out of you over the course of the day.

"All day? Why didn't you call me? I was at home."

"Because I can take care of my own daughter Jack." You snapped, your tone even and hard. He stared at you for a long second and you closed your eyes, sighing at yourself as your frustration fizzled out. "She's fine as long as I hold her." You explained, your voice much softer.

Jack recognized how frayed your patience was so he switched gears and picked up your purse and daughters car seat with one arm and guided you to stand with the other. You got up carefully with your baby and unusable hand and let Jack lead you back to the ED. He got you set up in a room, setting your stuff on a chair, and wheeled over a stool to sit down on before putting on a pair of gloves.

"I'm going to take a look, okay?" Jack asked, his hands hovering over the towel, waiting for your agreement.

"Yeah." You said in a small, resigned voice. Jack nodded once and unwrapped your handiwork carefully, taking a look at the damage.

"You were right, you'll need stitches." Jack commented as he wrapped some new gauze around the wound temporarily. "How's the pain?"

"Like a 5. It's throbbing." You replied without looking at him. You avoided his eyes and stared at your daughter who had drifted off at some point. That was one small miracle, but you were sure she'd cry if you let go of her.

Jack flagged down one of the nurses through the glass door and asked for a suture kit before turning his attention to your baby. Jack pulled off his gloves, tossing them before attempting to pick up your daughter. You jerked back away from his reaching hands.

"I told you, she'll cry if I let go of her." Your tone was a little sharper than it had been a moment ago, your eyes going directly to his. Jack could tell that you were definitely upset, probably at your wits end if your baby had been crying all day and you never got a moment to yourself, not even to go to the bathroom. Jack wanted to be respectful of your position as her mother but he also wanted to give you some reprieve.

"I know. Can I try to put her in the car seat? If she cries I'll give her back." You stared at Jack like you were facing off against him, your brow furrowed slightly and lips downturned. However you knew it was a one sided argument and relented, lifting your arm to give Jack silent permission to try and move your daughter.

While she stirred for a moment, your baby remained asleep as Jack slowly placed her in the car seat on the floor. You knew it was likely her lack of a nap today and her constant, energy draining crying that made her so sleepy, but seeing Jack move her with ease made jealous frustration rise in your chest, hot and furious. It was irrational and yet it pressed against your ribs anyways.

Jack retreated from your daughter quietly, being careful about the noise as he sat back down on the stool. The nurse returned and moved slowly when Jack pressed his index finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet. She arranged everything and left Jack to stitch you up. You stewed silently as Jack injected medication into your hand, some to stop the bleeding and some for pain, and you watched him as he prepped the suture while waiting for the medication to take effect.

Jack could sense your bad mood - if it hadn't been clear on your face, it was coming off of you in waves, so he chose to say nothing and instead focused on fixing your injury. You both sat in charged silence as Jack closed your wound with expert efficiency, your anger swirling in your chest as your thoughts raged.

Jack can move your daughter without waking her.

Jack can get her to stop crying.

Jack can fix your dumb, stupid mistake with ease.

Isn't Jack just perfect? And aren't you such a fuck up, can't do anything right. Horrible mother, horrible person.

Jack finished his work, tying off the line and cutting off the excess before covering it with a bandage. He moved the tray of medical supplies out of the way and pulled off his gloves with a snap before turning to you, his hands on his knees.

"What happened?"

"I already told you, I cut myself slicing bread." The words came out harsher than Jack deserved but you found the repetitive question annoying. Jack leveled you with a look, one that said he knew you better than that and that there must be more to what happened. Which pissed you off even more.

"That's all." You said firmly. "She's been crying all day, every time I put her down, and she wouldn't go to sleep tonight so I decided to bite the bullet and let her cry it out in her highchair while I made myself something to eat because I'd spent the whole day only eating small things like fruit and crackers because trying to use the stove or cut food while holding her felt too dangerous." You were talking fast, the overwhelming frustration you felt leeching into your words as you thought about how awful today had been, how unfair it had been, how much you blamed yourself.

"But she just screamed and screamed and I was begging her to stop because it was all she'd done all day, every time I put her down, and I looked away from the cutting board for a second, just one second-”

The echoes of your daughters screams filled your head, as did your thoughts about how much cutting yourself had been a stupid mistake and that taking care of your daughter now with an injured hand was going to make your life harder because you were doing this alone and you had no one to help you. Jacks sympathetic eyes staring at you all became too much, just a reminder that he was there for you but only sometimes, and that you were by yourself in raising your daughter and you clearly weren't doing it right. You were messing everything up for her and there was no one to blame but yourself because you were alone.

Tears filled your eyes before you had a chance to choke them back, every negative emotion from the last twenty four hours bubbling over and out of you.

"It was just a second Jack," Your voice wobbled, wet from the emotion that pushed up your throat. "It was just a second." Your face crumpled as your tears slipped over your cheeks and Jack reached out instantly, pulling you forward into his arms. You collapsed into him, your arms going around him and under his arms as his wrapped around your shoulders and back. Your hands fisted in his shirt, holding him as close as you could as you sobbed into his neck. Jack rubbed your back and murmured soothing promises into your ear as you broke down in his arms - I've got you. It'll be okay. I'm right here. Let it out baby.

You weren't sure how long the two of you sat like that, you clinging to Jack as you let all the emotions of the day come flooding out of you. No one came to bother you, everyone seemingly understanding that Jack was busy and not to be disturbed. You let yourself calm down completely in Jacks embrace, the tears stopping eventually but neither of you moving to part.

You stayed in his warm embrace for a long time, your breathing slowing and returning to normal eventually. Jack made no move to let you go, instead he kept firm pressure as you calmed down. You eventually made the first move, pulling back so you could see his face. Jack didn't let you get far though and pressed your foreheads together to keep contact. You let out a deep sigh, your eyes still closed as you leaned on Jack, his hands holding your waist.

You needed this. You needed the touch of another person, the feeling of connection through human touch. Someone to hold you, to ground you when you were spinning out of control. You needed a safety net, someone to lean on who would catch you if you fell.

You needed Jack.

Your previous questions about how he felt about you popped up in your mind again and you decided that you had to know. If Jack wanted to be with you than you both needed to be all in. If Jack was going to be your partner than he needed to be there to catch you and you needed to let yourself fall sometimes.

If he wasn't interested in you than you needed to make a clean break because you were so entangled with him you weren't sure you'd survive him turning you down. And you needed to know now.

"Jack?" You started as you pulled your head away from his, just far enough that you could look into his eyes. He hummed an acknowledgement, encouraging you to continue.

"I need to know what we're doing. Are we just friends? Or do you want to be more? Because I want to be more but I'm getting mixed signals from you." Jacks eyebrows pinched together at your words and he lifted his hand to cup your face. You couldn't help the way your head leaned into his palm, seeking comfort.

"I'm so sorry I've left you confused about how I feel. I'll be clear, I want to be more than friends." You sat up straighter, his confession helping to lift your bad mood. Jacks thumb rubbed lovingly over your cheek as he continued.

"I've wanted to be more than friends since the first night we met. But you've got a lot on your plate and I didn't want to pressure you or make your life difficult so I held back. You and Peanut are a family and I didn't want to intrude." Your hands flew up to hold his face, a smile breaking out over your lips.

"You're not pressuring me or intruding on our lives Jack. You make our lives better. And I want you too. I want this, I want us." Jack released a sigh at your words, like he'd been holding his breath, his face relaxing into a look of relief and adoration.

"I want us too." He said back as he leaned forward, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. Jack showed you how much he wanted to be with you, how he definitely wanted to be more than friends as his fingers slid to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. There were no mixed signals here, his intentions were clear. You sighed into his mouth, melting into his touch as you leaned closer, almost falling off the edge of the gurney in your need to kiss him back as fiercely.

Jack broke the kiss when his free hand flashed out to your hip to stop you from falling forward. You laughed breathlessly at the situation as you pushed yourself back onto the bed, both of you smiling.

"We have a lot to talk about but it's the middle of the night-"

"And you're still working." You finished for him with an understanding smile. Jack nodded and glanced over his shoulder to see your baby still asleep in the car seat.

"There's an office on this floor, it's for the Head of Emergency Medicine but Robby never uses it. It's got a couch that decently comfortable. If you want, you and Peanut can sleep here and I can drive you home in the morning. I can make us breakfast and we can talk more about us."

With how tired you were, you didn't need to think his offer over. Getting behind the wheel of your car right now would not be a good idea. You followed Jack out of the room, him carrying your purse and your daughter through the hallways until you ended up at a small office tucked away from the noise of the ED. Jack let you in and helped you get settled on the couch for the night with pillows and a blanket over your legs before lifting your daughter from the car seat and laying her on her back on your chest.

Like earlier in the night, she stirred for just a moment when Jack lifted her and put her down, but she thankfully remained asleep as you put your hands over her. Jack checked that you didn't need anything else for the night before saying goodbye.

"I'll see you in the morning." Jack bent over and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. "Sweet dreams." He whispered before shutting off the lights and leaving the room. You closed your eyes contently, much happier than you'd been an hour ago, and fell asleep with a smile on your lips.

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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You bounce Chubby lightly on your knee, and she blinks up at you with a dumb trust as your mouth pulls into a thin line. 

You would’ve been surprised if Jack wasn’t impossible in his paternal panic, but it’s still funny to watch him suffer like he’s next in line for a firing squad. Or something that's as much a march to death.

“You okay, dad?”

“This is torture.”

You snort at his very casual, gruff-throated statement. You can only let your head fall onto his shoulder in the second after. 

“She’s gonna be fine.”

“...I know.” 

Your baby makes a happy little sound, kicking a leg, and it’s ridiculous and endearing how Jack’s face actually pinches with the grimace of his voice. Whether or not he truly does know, he’s telling on himself. 

The doctor, the pediatrician, comes in with a smile. She looks like the type of MD that was right to specialize in kids' medicine. She’s probably survived projectile baby vomit, panicked parents who trust Google, or god fucking forbid, ChatGPT more than anything else. You could throw toddlers who have the strength of ten thousand men in the mix, too.

…And fathers who are unraveling before he even parks his family in the lot. 

“There’s our brave girl.”

Jack could laugh as much as he could shoot himself in the head. He should probably stick with the former. The latter, he would never do in front of you or Chubby. His laughter startles her a little less, he’s sure.

…Sorry. Bad humor. A bad coping. Could be worse. He could be an asshole and use his own degree the way other parents use Google. That would completely ruin the cordial atmosphere you’ve worked hard to create. 

Dr. Peds does a quick exam and pronounces the baby, in all her softness, as she stares up at her with wide eyes, as healthy and thriving.

She pulls up the tray that the nurse set up before. It’s got alcohol wipes, syringes, and band-aids with cartoon bears on them. 

It’s a mockery, really. If he wants to be even more annoying than he already is about this.

“She’s on track, quite beautifully, I might add.”

“Yay! You heard that, pretty? You’re the most on track baby there ever was.”

That should soothe him more than it does. It helps a little. She’s healthy. As big as she needs to be. Damn right. 

“All right, time for the vaccines. Would one of you be okay with holding her steady if she starts squirming?”

Somewhere before, it’d be ridiculous how his stomach drops to his ass. Somewhere, he didn’t have to have the most perfect kid in the world. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Still, that truth doesn’t keep his insides where they’re supposed to be, and that’s where he can’t even stop himself from shaking his head sternly and once. 

“No.” 

You turn your head toward Jack as the pediatrician stills.    

“Well…I was just going to say we could always bring the nurse back—”

Jack forces a slower breath out of his lungs. 

“No. I mean—I can. Obviously. Sorry. I just—”

He looks at Chubby. 

She’s pushing the back of her foot against your stomach, knawing on the forearm you hold her with. 

“I can. I’m just preparing for the kid to hate me.”

He’s not gonna look at you, because he doesn’t have to. He knows your face is softening, and although he’s sure it’s not with mockery or surprise, there’s already too much he’s experiencing in this happy-animal-painted room to handle that you’re more than aware his love can curdle into guilt. 

But of course Kiddo is. She was the one to ruin you first. Why wouldn’t she know how you’re burning when she was the one to set you on fire in the first place?

“She’s not gonna hate you, Jack.” You turn to the doctor. The other, more rational doctor. “I’ll probably be worse than him, sorries in advance if I start crying when she does.”

“It’s all understandable.”

You know how to set the kid down. You settle her in position on the exam table, and the paper crackles under her precious baby weight. She tilts her head at you. 

He’s fucking condemned. 

“Jack, come here.”

He listens, coming over to the table, because you’re unfortunately the easiest thing, person to obey. Besides him, when you’re in the mood to obey and be nothing but something for him to love and take care of and be ruined over for the rest of his life. 

Jack’s even allowed you to ruin him with a plump, little, toothless extension of yourself.

He places his hand over her arm, gently, while you murmur calming claims at her cheek. 

“You’re okay, beautiful girl. Mommy’s got you. Daddy’s got you.”

…How does she feel so small? She’s bigger. She’s as big as she’s ever been and will only get bigger, but beneath his palm, baby feels so fucking tiny. Even after these weeks of feedings and diaper changes and midnight panics, where he has to make sure her chest is rising. 

…Can she feel my hand shaking? Can Chubby feel how weak her dad is?

Dr. Peds swabs one thigh. Jack swallows when the kid startles at the cold, face scrunching. 

“Alright, here we go.”

The syringe is ready too quickly, and the first injection happens in the seconds after. 

The sound that comes out of his kid is immediate.

Outraged and terrified.

Jack’s nose flares, and his sights harden on her as her little body goes rigid with eyes squeezed shut. 

“...It’s alright, Chubby. It’s alright—”

He might as well have been shot. He'd rather be fucking shot.

The doctor moves efficiently to the point where she’s already on to the next one, and Jack has to keep holding still while his little, crazy girl screams.

“I know, I know, I know, baby. Mommy knows.”

While you keep telling her “I know, I know, I know,” in that brokenhearted mommy voice that makes him want to make way to the stool and rope. If he weren’t so dramatic, he could just admit that your pain, harmonizing with hers, just makes everything worse. 

His face is probably white. Whiter than it usually is as he commits to his math of psychosis and the need to never not be guilty. 

He knows this is love. Prevention of what could hurt her that’s been in practice for decades, but those cries shoot right past rationality and into the fucked place underneath his skin, the place that keeps score of the suffering of the people he loves. 

You and her. Robby occasionally. It’s a small population. 

The second the Doctor’s done with the bear band-aids patched on her thighs, Jack pulls his hands. You scoop the kid up, and she’s screaming so hard that she’s not really breathing between her shrill sobs.

Her little, rolled legs kick furiously, and her face is blotched with tears and snot. You press your cheek to hers, rocking and bouncing with what Jack can name as instinct. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s over. It’s over.”

“She did great! I’ll be right back.”

Dr. Peds leaves, and when she does, Jack turns his head to find his—your, his and your baby looking at him with her wide, teary eyes. 

She’s probably too overwhelmed to realize she’s focusing on her dad, it’s not a look of accusation. It can’t be. She’s too young for that. 

But it’s practically judgment of God. Hell. Even worse. He stopped caring about what the guy thinks of him a long time ago, but he’ll always care about what baby does. And unlike a judgment raining from whoever’s up there, that’s not a punishment. 

“You wanna go to Daddy, pretty? I think you—”

“I think she’d like to stay away from these hands for a while—”

“Don’t be insane.”

He is. He knows he is. Maybe one day that will help to keep his heart out of his throat every time she cries. One day. When pigs fly.

Really, you have to bite back the laugh that’s trying to rise through your sympathy for Dad Jack.

“Look at her, you think she’s giving me a look of love?” He tilts his head down. “Did Da-da betray you?”

“You’re so funny. Ha. Ha.”

You basically force Chubby into his arms, and with how quickly you do it, he doesn’t have the energy to drag the guilt out to the point where he invents some excuse as to why he can’t hold her. 

“She knows nothing except that she’s mad, Jack. That’s it. And I think even if she was old enough to realize what just happened, she’d probably forgive you.” You kiss her cheek. “But you’ll never get old, right? Right.” 

Slowly, his one broad palm cups the back of her head, the other spans her back, patting. He kinda…folds in how he always does. His shoulders hunch and his chin drops. 

“You’re fourteen pounds of tears. Did I do that?” 

It’s meant to be a joke, but it breaks the way her screams do as she presses them into his collar. It lessens into hiccuped distress with her hands curling into dimpled fists against his chest. 

“Did Dada do that?”

Go ahead, sweetheart. Grab onto Dad. Hurt him at the same time. Do whatever you want.

With how he’s only focusing on the way he breathes into the back of your and his daughter’s head, Jack doesn’t know that his eyes glassing over gets you almost more than her crying did.

“I’m sorry, beautiful.” 

Jack’s blaming himself, even though you’re sure he knows that the baby has no idea what happened. You don’t know how you’ll stop him from carrying an awful amount of guilt. One day, you’ll love him long enough to. You just wish how harshly you love him, as a man, doctor, and dad, would make it so much easier. 

“Dad’s sorry.” 

“Jack.”

You rub slow circles over his back. Chubby gives one last cry that you think is the last, which is proven true by the next moment, made up only of miserable sniffling. She pouts. 

You smile. 

“...I think she’s forgiven you.”

You may not be able to lift the load of guilt that he’s built his body for today, but you can meet him in the middle. 

She hiccups again, but now she’s rooted her face in his chest. She’s simply seeking comfort from her dad, and he adjusts to her instantly. He murmurs under his breath and rocks her. 

You watch them, and your heart swells to the point it might explode into overwhelmed mommy confetti. Stupid, but Jack’s the one who was so eager to make you a mommy in the first place. So…

“You’re getting a brand new toy after this. Me and Mommy think you deserve compensation for such terror.”

“You don’t think you’re spoiling her?”

“Says you. You’d be feeding her ice cream for lunch and dinner if she could have it. I'm gonna catch you sharing your popsicles with her once she hits the six-month mark. You'll enjoy that, huh, baby?"

…Yeah. Dad’s so right. 

Baby’s head settles heavier on him. He kisses her head again, soft now. Soft. Okay, and over the guilt. Maybe that’s it. It’ll just take the two to beat it out of him.

With love, of course. She’s half of you, and if she’s anything like you, you’re sure she has all the love for her dad in the whole wide world. 

“I’ll remember this on your wedding day. Not that you’re ever getting married.”

"...MmmmM-ga...ah!"

Needless to say, it was a nightmare when you got moved to the day shift. Your interactions with Jack shortened to during shift change. You’d be lucky if either of you had taken a shift. Sometimes, you’d see each other outside of work. Exchanging numbers under the guise of work related conversations. It turned into flirting over text, small talk, and the occasional coffee “date.”

You had gotten into a routine. Waking up at dawn to get ready, making it to work early, and the occasional flirt with Jack. Everyone else was well used to your relationship. The nightshift of course, knew all too well about your dynamic. The seasoned staff of the day shift also aware of your sometimes inappropriate conversations. This routine becomes disrupted when new med students and residents come in. You had all been introducing yourselves before the morning rush when the dynamic became clear to the new doctors.

“Melissa King, everyone calls me Mel. I just got done with two months at the VA,” She smiles widely.

You’re leaning over Jacks desk as he finishes work on his computer and you jot down notes on paper.

“Oh the VA huh? I had a boyfriend from med school who was there three months ago.” You trail off, thinking about the fling.

“He was fun,” You add.

The new doctors go silent, uncomfortable from their superiors admission. Looking toward Robby or a senior resident to say something else.

“Hey,” Jack chimes in, saying your name with a warning tone. Essentially telling you that you’re making the new kids uncomfortable.

“Aw, Jackie; are you jealous?” You tease him, playfully putting a hand on his bicep.

“Of course I am,” He smirks slightly, eyes never leaving his computer.

The new doctors shift awkwardly, not knowing whether or not to mention the very large elephant in the room. King counting ceiling tiles, Whitaker looking like a confused puppy, Santos eyeing you two extremely intrigued, and Javadi with her mouth slightly agape and eyes wide.

“Ignore those two,” Robby says, “They’re in heat,” he says the last part much more softly.

Another day, a few weeks into the residents being there, Jack is called in during the day shift. Essentially surprising most currently working, including you. He walks in pushing a gurney. Nothing insanely serious, a house call and the patient was unable to walk on their own.

You’re standing with Langdon, Santos, and Whitaker as he comes in. Immediately you all perk up at the commotion.

“Daddy’s home,” You say to no one in particular, before walking away immediately to go help.

Langdon sighs, accustomed to your comments. Santos scoffs, as if slightly impressed with your bold words, Whitaker stutters slightly.

“Are they?” Santos questions.

“Dating?” Langdon finishes her question.

“I mean… at least fucking right?” She confirms.

“Funny enough, not that we know of” Langdon answers.

“Jesus…” Whitaker trails off.

“They’ve been like that forever though. If The Pitt was a reality show they’d be the “will they won’t they couple”,’ Langdon laughs as he walks to help out with the patient.

“Some people these days, right? Old guys with girls half their age,” Santos says to Whitaker.

“I don’t know, she kind of seems like the one who’s in charge,” Whitaker shrugs.

Closer to 12 the ER gets quieter. Most are taking the time to catch up on charting or grab something to eat before it inevitably gets crazy. You decide to talk Jacks ear off. You’re in a similar position to when you first met, except Jacks the one charting and you’re leaning over the desk to talk.

“Are you working a double today?” You inquire.

“No, today was supposed to be my day off. But when I got the call I thought might as well come in,” He shrugs.

“Well aren’t you superman. You wanna get a drink after? I’m thinking if we’re lucky and it doesn’t get too crazy people will want to go to the park,” You mention, resting your head on your hand.

Jack stops typing and looks up at you, “You know, you can just ask me out right? You don’t have to make it seem like a work outing anymore,” He smiles.

“Yeah, Yeah, whatever. I mean, the best ones start out as a work outing and then…” You trail off, smiling at your own implications.

“Oh yeah, kid? What are your intentions with me?” He claps his hand on his desk, chuckling.

“My intentions are very pure, old man,” You respond, “Are yours?”

“Of course they aren’t,” a flirtatious smirk on his face.

From the other side of the central area, Robby and the residents and med students are observing. Mostly the residents and med students- Robby is trying to get work done.

“Should we ask Ahmad to start bets on when they’ll get together?” Santos asks.

“Oh, haha. Maybe they’re just really… really close friends,” King replies.

“Friends with benefits?” Whitaker chimes in. The other doctors looking at him, surprised he even mentioned that.

“We should hope something’s going on. Or else it’s just a walking HR violation,” Javadi says.

“The way they just talk like no one can hear them, I’m kind of impressed,” Santos adds.

“I heard her tell Jack she wants him to put her in a headlock,” Whitaker says.

“I heard Jack say she should wear tighter scrubs,” King says quietly, slightly embarrassed.

“Shit…” Javadi murmurs.

“Will you all stop talking about them?” Robby grumbles, “They’re clearly in love what’s the issue?”

“So… are they dating?” Santos questions.

“If this is what they’re like not dating, I don’t want to see them dating,” Whitaker says.

“All in good time…” Robby mumbles and stands up, walking away.

The doctors look up to see you with your hand in Jacks hair, sensually massaging his scalp.

He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.

The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.

It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.

Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.

You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.

“Jack.”

He doesn’t even look up. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet!”

“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”

You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.

“I just need a small, tiny favor.”

“No.”

“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”

“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”

“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”

“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”

“You froze.”

I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.

“It was just…one second.”

“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”

You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.

“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious!”

“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”

“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.

He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”

That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”

“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”

He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.

You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.

The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.

You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”

His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”

“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”

He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says again, quieter.

You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.

“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”

You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.

“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”

You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.

Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.

Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.

Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.

“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”

──────────

Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”

“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.

He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”

You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”

“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”

You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.

“Oh, immensely.”

“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”

You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”

“I’ll go down on you.”

“What?” you ask slowly.

He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”

“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”

His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”

“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”

The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.

“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.

And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.

“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).

“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.

And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.

You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.

You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.

──────────

Four days after, you get behind on your charting.

Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.

“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”

He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”

You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”

Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.

“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.

“Oh, really.”

“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”

Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.

Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.

──────────

“Hey kid.”

You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.

“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”

He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.

Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.

“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.

“How long?”

You blink. “How long what?”

“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.

You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”

He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”

Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”

He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).

“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.

His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”

You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.

You can’t help but smile back at him.

Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”

Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.

“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”

You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.

“I hate you, Robinavitch.”

“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.

Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.

And there is a thing.

──────────

It happens after the code blue.

You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.

Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.

By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.

The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.

You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”

The door opens quietly behind you.

“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.

The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”

“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.

He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”

His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.

Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”

Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.

You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”

You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.

“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”

You study him, skeptical.

“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”

He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.

“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”

“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.

“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.

Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.

The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.

And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?

He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.

Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.

“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”

You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”

“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.

“Oh, do I know her?”

“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”

You pinch his side. “Rude.”

“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”

“Unbelievable.”

“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”

You swallow. “Oh. Her.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love that.”

You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”

You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.

Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”

The nights you yearned to touch him, yearned to just have your hands on him, sexually or not. The nights just hoping he felt the same way. Just watching him in his element, such a talented actor and great man, having the honor to work alongside him. He just had that charm about him, and that charm resonated into Remmick. You wanted him, and you wanted Remmick. Two birds, one stone.

There were just a few nights of filming left, and the two of you had spoken earlier in the day about how sad it was to say goodbye to a wonderful cast and to people you’d grown to call friends. Some scenes needed some touch ups, and others need reshoots due to new ideas flourishing from the director.

—————

Walking past the set to your makeup artist’s camper, you noticed a figure in the dark. Leaned back in the rocking chair, in the corner of the darkened room used for a reshoot earlier that day. The light in the corner cast a slight shadow onto the figure and you stopped to get a better look. It was Jack, still dressed in the bloody Remmick costume from the scene filmed earlier with Joan and Bert. The way he looked at you after ran chills up your spine. He caught you staring from the sidelines of the crew. Tensions were already high due to your character and Jack’s being romantic partners, and having to say filthy shit to each other had you reeling, yearning for it to have meaning behind it.

“Hey baby,” he spoke, that thick southern drawl that Remmick had came out. Your mouth dropped slightly, your hands holding your belongings slowly lowering. He was staring right at you, that was meant for you. He slowly began rocking, eyes never leaving you. “You gonna come on over here, darlin’? I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

Oh, what the southern drawl did to you. You didn’t think it’d corral you into him like this but it did. That thick accent made you swoon, in and out of character. Seeing him calling out to you, and you alone, warmed you up.

“Come on now, lass. You just gonna leave ol’ Rem hangin’?”

Ah. So this is how he’s gonna be. Jack wants you, and he’s going to do it in true vampiric Remmick nature. He’s luring you in.

Realizing you’d better play the part, you close your eyes and get into character. You dropped your items and starting making your way to him.

“There she is… there’s my girl. I’ve missed you,” shaking his head slightly, still rocking in the chair. Your feet clicked against the concrete floor almost antagonizingly slow, your eyes never left his, and you felt your body heat up. Crossing onto the wood, the change of energy set the mood. There he was, still covered in that fake blood from earlier, dripping right over his face and down his neck. The lights of the set were all either off or dim, save for this one hanging overhead. Just enough to hit him like a spotlight.

“I’m sorry, Remmy. I didn’t mean to make you wait on me. Are you upset at me, baby?,” you spoke to him. You could watch as those words made every hair on him stand up, the gulp traveled down his throat, and his hand gripped the armrest. His foot started to shake a little. You put on those big puppy dog eyes your character has when she looks at her lover. Slowly, you stepped closer and closer to him, walking behind the chair and putting your hands on his shoulders. You leaned down to his neck, right beside his ear and said, “I’m here now, baby. Did you need somethin’?”

“I just missed you, darlin’. Missed your touch, your voice… your face. Lord, that face of yours,” he admired as a hand reach beside him and held your cheek. The tension you two had all lead up to this moment. You took your hand and ran it up his arm and over his that was placed on your face, locking your fingers into his. Taking your other hand off of his shoulder, you walked in front of him, and used your free hand to touch his face in return.

“You’ve made a mess, Rem. But you look just as handsome as always.”

“Nah, darlin’, this ain’t no mess. A mess is what you’ve made me into, and I think you know just how to clean it up.”

Did you? Did he want you to touch him? Fuck him? Be with him? This is all new to you, this role playing thing. Not to mention it being with a man you’ve admired for so long, and just hoped that one day you’d be able to have him this way. This was your chance to finally have what you wished for.

Your eyes left his, scanning down his body in that outfit that made you an unstable wreck, and stopped at his pants. Smirking, you nodded, and stood between his now open legs. He took his free hand and grabbed your waist, bringing you closer to him. His body was practically calling out to you, you could feel how badly he wanted you, and he could feel you the same way. You bit your lip, and got on your knees.

“Oh, Rem. You got this worked up over me? I can’t just let you suffer, can I, my love?”

He gulped hard, biting his lip and hardening his lock on you.

“Nah, I don’t think that’d be very kind of you.”

“I didn’t think it would.”

Your hand left his face, running down his neck, chest, then stomach, and finally ending at his suspenders and pants. Your fingers got to work fast on his buckles and buttons, as you wanted him more than you could imagine. You wanted to taste him. You were going to. That was certain between the two of you.

Pulling off his pants and underwear in one movement, they fell to his ankles. He was hard for you. Thinking about how you walked on the set each day, head held so high and you were so passionate about your work. So passionate about the project.. about your characters. About him, he wished.

You kissed his tip, making sure to keep that eye contact. A guttural moan left him and you felt your heart flutter with pride, excitement, and admiration for the man in front of you. Your right hand came down to wrap around him, moving it up slowly, taking in what you’re about to do to him. Stroking him for a few more moments, you grew impatient. You wanted the taste of him, and you wanted the feeling of having the man you’ve pined over for months in you finally. Leaning back down, you opened your mouth and ran your tongue down the length of his dick. Stopping at the top after a few times of going up and down, you sucked, letting your tongue roam around him. You hummed against him, the sensation making him let another low, sexy moan out. Your head began to bob up and down, and your cheeks hollowed out as you went as far as you could. Your eyes closed, humming as you sucked on him. You felt his hand trace your jaw and entangle itself into your hair, grabbing a loose fist full of it and guiding you.

Deciding it was enough, he used his grip on your hair to pull you off him, and got a good look at your face. Your eyes filled with lust met his eyes, matching the same level of desire that you had.

“Stand up, I want you to try somethin’ out for me,” he said, breath shaky, as he ran his hands up your costume dress, and pulled your underwear down, “good, now we’re even.”

He put a hand on your waist, guiding you down to his thigh, using his grip to rock you back and forth over it. You grabbed his shoulder with one hand, and the top of the chair with other, now guiding yourself across with his assistance still being used.

“Oh, yeah. You like that, huh? Grindin’ on my thigh all desperate like. ‘Cause that’s what you are, desperate, right?” That drawl invoked a loud and, like he said, desperate moan from you, right into his ear. The hand on his shoulder now gripped his hair, holding him closer to you.

“I saw you watching me from the sidelines. You wanted me so bad, now you’ve got me. This is what you wanted, right? You’ve made me a damn mess, girl.”

His façade as Remmick was now gone, and it was his pure intentions coming out of him. That accent change damn near made you release then and there, but you were too lost in the feeling of his warm thigh against your pussy as you took out your sexual yearning on it. His other hand ran between your body and his, rubbing your clit, and he took his fingers to his mouth. He made sure to get your eyes to look into his as he savored your arousal. The fake blood mixed into his mouth a little as he finally got a taste of the beauty before him.

“You couldn’t be the only one that got a little taste, huh, darling?”

That was enough to get you off, and you came hard onto him. His moans from seeing you getting yourself off to a part of him that wasn’t even sexual filled your ears as you moaned into his ear, wrapping your arms around his neck as you came down from your high. You stayed like this for a few minutes until you both calmed down. You raised up, running a hand over his chest before placing it around his heart.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted you. Not even just like this, you know? You’re special, you’re beautiful. Absolutely perfect. D’you want to go out sometime? Properly get to hang out?”

You smiled, nodding along with the idea.

“I’d love to. I hoped for so damn long that you felt that way, too, you handsome devil.”

“Handsome vampire, get it right.”

You giggled, leaning in to give him a kiss.

“Oh, and for future reference, just know that was hot as fuck.”

The nights you yearned to touch him, yearned to just have your hands on him, sexually or not. The nights just hoping he felt the same way. Just watching him in his element, such a talented actor and great man, having the honor to work alongside him. He just had that charm about him, and that charm resonated into Remmick. You wanted him, and you wanted Remmick. Two birds, one stone.

There were just a few nights of filming left, and the two of you had spoken earlier in the day about how sad it was to say goodbye to a wonderful cast and to people you’d grown to call friends. Some scenes needed some touch ups, and others need reshoots due to new ideas flourishing from the director.

—————

Walking past the set to your makeup artist’s camper, you noticed a figure in the dark. Leaned back in the rocking chair, in the corner of the darkened room used for a reshoot earlier that day. The light in the corner cast a slight shadow onto the figure and you stopped to get a better look. It was Jack, still dressed in the bloody Remmick costume from the scene filmed earlier with Joan and Bert. The way he looked at you after ran chills up your spine. He caught you staring from the sidelines of the crew. Tensions were already high due to your character and Jack’s being romantic partners, and having to say filthy shit to each other had you reeling, yearning for it to have meaning behind it.

“Hey baby,” he spoke, that thick southern drawl that Remmick had came out. Your mouth dropped slightly, your hands holding your belongings slowly lowering. He was staring right at you, that was meant for you. He slowly began rocking, eyes never leaving you. “You gonna come on over here, darlin’? I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

Oh, what the southern drawl did to you. You didn’t think it’d corral you into him like this but it did. That thick accent made you swoon, in and out of character. Seeing him calling out to you, and you alone, warmed you up.

“Come on now, lass. You just gonna leave ol’ Rem hangin’?”

Ah. So this is how he’s gonna be. Jack wants you, and he’s going to do it in true vampiric Remmick nature. He’s luring you in.

Realizing you’d better play the part, you close your eyes and get into character. You dropped your items and starting making your way to him.

“There she is… there’s my girl. I’ve missed you,” shaking his head slightly, still rocking in the chair. Your feet clicked against the concrete floor almost antagonizingly slow, your eyes never left his, and you felt your body heat up. Crossing onto the wood, the change of energy set the mood. There he was, still covered in that fake blood from earlier, dripping right over his face and down his neck. The lights of the set were all either off or dim, save for this one hanging overhead. Just enough to hit him like a spotlight.

“I’m sorry, Remmy. I didn’t mean to make you wait on me. Are you upset at me, baby?,” you spoke to him. You could watch as those words made every hair on him stand up, the gulp traveled down his throat, and his hand gripped the armrest. His foot started to shake a little. You put on those big puppy dog eyes your character has when she looks at her lover. Slowly, you stepped closer and closer to him, walking behind the chair and putting your hands on his shoulders. You leaned down to his neck, right beside his ear and said, “I’m here now, baby. Did you need somethin’?”

“I just missed you, darlin’. Missed your touch, your voice… your face. Lord, that face of yours,” he admired as a hand reach beside him and held your cheek. The tension you two had all lead up to this moment. You took your hand and ran it up his arm and over his that was placed on your face, locking your fingers into his. Taking your other hand off of his shoulder, you walked in front of him, and used your free hand to touch his face in return.

“You’ve made a mess, Rem. But you look just as handsome as always.”

“Nah, darlin’, this ain’t no mess. A mess is what you’ve made me into, and I think you know just how to clean it up.”

Did you? Did he want you to touch him? Fuck him? Be with him? This is all new to you, this role playing thing. Not to mention it being with a man you’ve admired for so long, and just hoped that one day you’d be able to have him this way. This was your chance to finally have what you wished for.

Your eyes left his, scanning down his body in that outfit that made you an unstable wreck, and stopped at his pants. Smirking, you nodded, and stood between his now open legs. He took his free hand and grabbed your waist, bringing you closer to him. His body was practically calling out to you, you could feel how badly he wanted you, and he could feel you the same way. You bit your lip, and got on your knees.

“Oh, Rem. You got this worked up over me? I can’t just let you suffer, can I, my love?”

He gulped hard, biting his lip and hardening his lock on you.

“Nah, I don’t think that’d be very kind of you.”

“I didn’t think it would.”

Your hand left his face, running down his neck, chest, then stomach, and finally ending at his suspenders and pants. Your fingers got to work fast on his buckles and buttons, as you wanted him more than you could imagine. You wanted to taste him. You were going to. That was certain between the two of you.

Pulling off his pants and underwear in one movement, they fell to his ankles. He was hard for you. Thinking about how you walked on the set each day, head held so high and you were so passionate about your work. So passionate about the project.. about your characters. About him, he wished.

You kissed his tip, making sure to keep that eye contact. A guttural moan left him and you felt your heart flutter with pride, excitement, and admiration for the man in front of you. Your right hand came down to wrap around him, moving it up slowly, taking in what you’re about to do to him. Stroking him for a few more moments, you grew impatient. You wanted the taste of him, and you wanted the feeling of having the man you’ve pined over for months in you finally. Leaning back down, you opened your mouth and ran your tongue down the length of his dick. Stopping at the top after a few times of going up and down, you sucked, letting your tongue roam around him. You hummed against him, the sensation making him let another low, sexy moan out. Your head began to bob up and down, and your cheeks hollowed out as you went as far as you could. Your eyes closed, humming as you sucked on him. You felt his hand trace your jaw and entangle itself into your hair, grabbing a loose fist full of it and guiding you.

Deciding it was enough, he used his grip on your hair to pull you off him, and got a good look at your face. Your eyes filled with lust met his eyes, matching the same level of desire that you had.

“Stand up, I want you to try somethin’ out for me,” he said, breath shaky, as he ran his hands up your costume dress, and pulled your underwear down, “good, now we’re even.”

He put a hand on your waist, guiding you down to his thigh, using his grip to rock you back and forth over it. You grabbed his shoulder with one hand, and the top of the chair with other, now guiding yourself across with his assistance still being used.

“Oh, yeah. You like that, huh? Grindin’ on my thigh all desperate like. ‘Cause that’s what you are, desperate, right?” That drawl invoked a loud and, like he said, desperate moan from you, right into his ear. The hand on his shoulder now gripped his hair, holding him closer to you.

“I saw you watching me from the sidelines. You wanted me so bad, now you’ve got me. This is what you wanted, right? You’ve made me a damn mess, girl.”

His façade as Remmick was now gone, and it was his pure intentions coming out of him. That accent change damn near made you release then and there, but you were too lost in the feeling of his warm thigh against your pussy as you took out your sexual yearning on it. His other hand ran between your body and his, rubbing your clit, and he took his fingers to his mouth. He made sure to get your eyes to look into his as he savored your arousal. The fake blood mixed into his mouth a little as he finally got a taste of the beauty before him.

“You couldn’t be the only one that got a little taste, huh, darling?”

That was enough to get you off, and you came hard onto him. His moans from seeing you getting yourself off to a part of him that wasn’t even sexual filled your ears as you moaned into his ear, wrapping your arms around his neck as you came down from your high. You stayed like this for a few minutes until you both calmed down. You raised up, running a hand over his chest before placing it around his heart.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted you. Not even just like this, you know? You’re special, you’re beautiful. Absolutely perfect. D’you want to go out sometime? Properly get to hang out?”

You smiled, nodding along with the idea.

“I’d love to. I hoped for so damn long that you felt that way, too, you handsome devil.”

“Handsome vampire, get it right.”

You giggled, leaning in to give him a kiss.

“Oh, and for future reference, just know that was hot as fuck.”

There’s a certain satisfaction in watching rich people fight over throw pillows. Like, deep, existential satisfaction. The kind that settles into your bones, whispering at least you’re not that delusional while you scrape the bottom of your bank account for rent. That’s why Selling Sunset has become your new comfort show—nothing soothes the sting of your own financial ruin quite like watching a billionaire lose their shit over an ocean view.

The couch has practically absorbed your body at this point, molded to the exact slouch of your spine. The TV’s glow flickers against the walls, the only illumination in the apartment aside from the soft neon blur of the city outside. A bowl of Greek yogurt sits abandoned on the coffee table—your latest attempt at a “responsible” late-night snack, made in partnership with self-loathing. You’re too exhausted to move, too wired to sleep. Somewhere outside, a siren wails, stretching long and lonely through the night, and you think, for just a second, that if you squint hard enough, you can almost pretend your life is fine.

Then the door slams open like a fucking battering ram.

A mess of limbs and pure, unfiltered desperation stumbles in. Paige Bueckers and tonight’s lucky contestant.

They’re already kissing—no, consuming each other. Lips fused. Hands gripping. Hips aligning like they’re moments away from shifting the tectonic plates beneath them. It’s all sloppy giggles and breathy moans, the kind of shit that should come with a parental advisory warning.

Paige is in sweats and a hoodie that’s hanging halfway off her shoulder, her blonde hair a tousled wreck that suggests she either just left practice or got aggressively felt up in the Uber ride over. The girl—a brunette this time—has her fingers twisted into the hem of Paige’s hoodie like she might actually rip it in half. You’re 98% sure they don’t even notice they almost wipe out over the entryway rug.

You stare. They don’t. They’re too busy dry-humping against the door like horny teenagers who just discovered the concept of friction.

This is usually the part of the night where you’d be asleep. That’s the unspoken agreement. Paige does whatever (or whoever) she wants, and you exist in separate, peaceful universes where her sex life is not your problem. But tonight, insomnia had you in a chokehold, so instead of peacefully slipping into unconsciousness, you’re here, trapped in the splash zone of her latest conquest like some unwilling war correspondent reporting live from the trenches.

Paige finally clocks your presence. Her head jerks up mid-kiss, blinking at you through the haze of what you can only assume is either lust or a full-on brain shutdown.

“Oh. My bad.”

Her voice is husky, wrecked, but casual—so casual, like you just bumped into each other in line at Trader Joe’s, not like you just caught her halfway to third base in the shared living space. The brunette barely acknowledges you, too busy chasing Paige’s mouth again, fingers already curled into the waistband of her sweats like they’re pre-gaming for something much worse.

Your jaw clenches. It’s not jealousy. It’s not even annoyance, really. It’s just…the audacity of it all. You didn’t survive financial ruin, an eviction, and the world’s most soul-sucking job just to end up as an unwilling extra in Paige’s late-night softcore escapades.

Paige smirks, something smug and completely unbothered dancing in her blue eyes, and then—because apparently, she has to make sure you fully marinate in your suffering—she winks.

She fucking winks.

Then she grabs her conquest by the wrist and drags her toward her bedroom. The door swings shut with a decisive click.

You exhale sharply. Shift on the couch. Turn back to Selling Sunset.

A blonde woman in Louboutins slams a designer purse onto a marble counter, screaming about escrow like her life depends on it.

You grab your spoon, chew a bite of yogurt, and pretend this isn’t the worst night of your life.

At first, it’s nothing you can’t ignore—a muffled giggle, the faint creak of a mattress. You’ve had years of training in the fine art of selective hearing. Cheap apartments with walls thinner than a CVS receipt, noisy neighbors who lived for 3 AM karaoke, exes who had no concept of volume control—life has forged you into a soldier of endurance. A survivor. You could sleep through sirens. You could pretend not to hear the couple next door having a screaming match about a misplaced vape pen. You could—if the situation demanded it—completely erase the existence of an entire soundscape from your brain.

But then the giggling shifts. Turns breathy. Then it turns into something else entirely.

A rustle of sheets. A gasp. A low, pleased hum that shouldn’t make your stomach twist with secondhand mortification, but does.

Your grip tightens around the remote. The TV screen flickers in front of you, but you’re no longer absorbing the content. Christine Quinn is monologuing about open-concept kitchens—something about “flow” and “maximizing natural light”—but her voice isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the escalating symphony from down the hall.

You turn the volume up. Way up.

It doesn’t help.

Paige’s conquest lets out a high, breathy whimper, the kind of sound that makes your entire body lock up like your nervous system just crashed. Paige’s voice follows, low and affectionate, murmuring something you absolutely do not want to hear, but your cursed, traitorous ears pick up anyway. Whatever she says makes the brunette giggle—another peal of laughter before it melts into something softer, more desperate.

Your eye twitches. Nope.

You launch off the couch like you’ve been personally attacked, storming down the hallway with all the righteous fury of someone who has had enough. The second you reach your room, you slam the door shut behind you. The walls rattle. The moaning does not stop.

Jesus. Are your walls are made of tissue paper? No, fuck that—tissue paper at least offer some resistance. This? This is sonic purgatory. Paige’s voice is clearer now, her tone teasing, low, smug. A pet name you can’t quite make out but absolutely wish you could bleach from your brain.

You groan. Loudly. Throw yourself onto your bed and yank a pillow over your head like that’s going to do anything.

It doesn’t.

Because the sounds are intermittent—waves of giggles followed by the kind of sighs that make your ears burn. The occasional shhh from Paige, followed by a breathless “like that?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Think of something else. Think of literally anything else. You focus on the fabric of your pillowcase, the way the cotton sticks to your cheek, the faint scent of detergent—Paige moans, and your brain short-circuits like a 2003 Dell desktop.

You don’t even have the energy to be properly mad. This is just Paige. Unbothered, self-contained, casually ruining your will to live Paige. She doesn’t try to be inconsiderate, but she also doesn’t try not to be.

Another moan—drawn out and shameless—curls through the air, and you nearly levitate out of your skin. You want to scream. Instead, you yank another pillow over your head for good measure, as if two pillows will somehow create a force field against whatever the fuck is happening in there.

Christine Quinn is still monologuing in your mind, her voice a distant echo beneath the carnal horror occurring in real time.

"It’s all about location, location, location."

Yeah. No shit.

You really should’ve picked a better one.

The morning drags itself into existence like a bad hangover—except you didn’t drink. You just endured. Survived. Battled through the night like some war veteran, only your battlefield wasn’t made of trenches and gunfire but moaning and drywall acoustics.

Sunlight filters through the too-thin blinds, stabbing into your retinas like a personal attack. It casts a harsh glow over the wreckage of your living room—your personal post-war scene. The coffee table is an abandoned crime scene: an empty takeout container, a spoon half-submerged in a sad puddle of yogurt, a crumpled napkin that might have been thrown in frustration during hour two of your sleepless torment. Your blanket is twisted in a heap on the couch, kicked off at some point in your desperate attempt to burrow away from the sounds of Paige Bueckers living her best, most inconsiderate life.

It’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet. A void. No hushed giggles, no rhythmic bedframe percussion, no doors slamming. No evidence of last night’s atrocity except for your residual irritation, clinging to the air like stale perfume.

You sit at the dining table, textbook open, pen in hand, attempting to refocus on something productive. Biomed homework. Neural pathways, synaptic transmission—things that matter. Unlike Paige, who—

A shuffle of feet. Soft, socked steps. You don’t even hear her door creak open—just the lazy, leisurely sound of someone who has never known suffering emerging from her room.

You refuse to look up.

“Morning,” Paige says, casual as ever, like she didn’t turn your living space into the set of a low-budget lesbian porno eight hours ago. She stretches, arms overhead, back arching slightly, exhaling like she just had the most restful night’s sleep of her life.

Meanwhile, you—who has never been more tired—physically recoil at the audacity.

She rubs her eyes, yawns, shuffles past you toward the kitchen like nothing happened. Not even a hint of acknowledgment. No sheepish oops, my bad for mentally scarring you with surround sound sex noise. No hey, sorry about your insomnia and emotional distress. Just a morning like everything is fine.

You blink at her. Unbelievable.

Your fingers tighten around your pencil as you force your gaze back to your notes. Ignore her. You are a scholar. A person of intellect. A higher being.

Paige, meanwhile, has fully migrated to the fridge. She rummages carelessly, like she owns this apartment, like she pays your therapy bills. She emerges with the orange juice carton, unscrews the cap, and—like an absolute menace to society—drinks straight from it.

The pencil in your grip creaks ominously.

“You’re up early,” she remarks, between gulps.

“I didn’t sleep,” you reply, flat, clipped. You don’t look at her. You refuse to.

Paige makes a small sound—something vaguely amused, vaguely disbelieving. “Damn. That sucks.”

That’s it? That’s all she has to say.

You inhale, deeply, willing yourself not to commit a violent felony before noon.

Slowly, slowly, you lift your head, turn your glare toward her like a sniper locking onto a target. Paige, in all her infuriating glory, is leaning against the counter, still drinking your orange juice, looking like someone who has never felt guilt a day in her life. Her expression is neutral, open. Not quite smug, but there’s something about the way she exists that makes you want to throw your textbook at her face and plead temporary insanity in court.

She swipes her thumb across her mouth, wiping away a drop of juice.

“You know what else sucks?” you say, voice deceptively calm. “The structural integrity of our walls. They’re paper-thin. Just an interesting fact I thought I’d share.”

Paige’s lips twitch. She knows. She fucking knows. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s considering whether she should poke the bear or let you stew in your suffering. Then she settles on:

“Huh.”

That’s it.

Your grip tightens on the pencil so hard you might actually snap it in half.

Paige drains the last of the orange juice, wipes her mouth again (like an animal), and sets the carton down with a satisfied sigh. Then, as if she hasn’t just mentally and emotionally destroyed you, she stretches again, rolling out her shoulders.

“Welp,” she says, tone light, completely unbothered. “I’m out. See ya.”

“Wait, what—”

But she’s already gone, disappearing back into her room for approximately thirty seconds before emerging again—this time with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

You stare at it. “You’re leaving?”

Paige nods like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. Team stuff. Won’t be back tonight.”

Your brain malfunctions. Won’t be back tonight. This terrorist has held you emotionally hostage for an entire night and now she’s just leaving? Just walking away from the wreckage like some kind of villain in an action movie, casually strolling as the building explodes behind her?

She tugs on her sneakers at the door, slings her bag higher on her shoulder, and—because the universe is cruel—throws you a lazy, almost mocking little salute.

“Don’t wait up,” she tosses over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.

The door swings shut and the apartment is silent again.

You sit there, fingers clenched around your pencil, biomed notes glaring up at you like they’re personally offended by your suffering. Your eye twitches.

I fucking hate her.

Then you sigh, rub your temple, and force yourself back to work.

It’s been three days of silence. Three whole, glorious days of peace. Three nights where you didn’t have to contemplate smothering yourself with a pillow just to escape the torment of Paige’s complete disregard for basic human decency. The apartment has felt almost normal—like an actual home instead of a halfway house for Paige’s revolving door of hookups. You don’t have to brace yourself every time the front door swings open, because it hasn’t swung open. You don’t have to leave your headphones on while studying to shield yourself from the auditory terrorism of her sex life. You don’t have to walk into the kitchen at 1 AM and fear that you’ll be confronted with Paige, half-naked, wearing nothing but someone else’s lipstick and a hoodie that’s falling off her shoulder like she’s starring in a fucking romance movie.

The peace has been so uninterrupted, so unnatural, that you’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to live in a state of constant vigilance. You throw yourself into your biomed assignments, losing yourself in the clean, clinical world of neural pathways and synaptic transmission, your SZA playlist looping softly in the background. You almost start to believe this is real. That this is the new normal. That maybe Paige has finally, miraculously, learned self-control or, at the very least, found a new venue to conduct her business.

You are so fucking naïve.

The front door doesn’t just open—it explodes. A crack, a slam, a full-body collision with the wall that rattles the picture frames. The kind of entrance that belongs to either a SWAT team or a raging hurricane of bad decisions.

Your body locks up like an animal sensing an oncoming natural disaster. The pencil in your grip slips through your fingers, hitting the desk with a dull thunk. Your heart stutters in your chest, and for one brief, delusional second, you tell yourself that it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe Paige forgot something and came back only to leave again. Maybe—

A thud. Then another. The unmistakable rhythm of someone kicking off their shoes, the soft scuff of footsteps across the floor.

You grit your teeth, pressing your palms flat against your desk. You are not going to react. You are not going to engage. If she wants to slam doors and stomp around like a feral beast, fine. You refuse to let her drag you into the chaos. You reach for your headphones, adjusting them over your ears, cranking up the volume until SZA drowns out the world.

It’s not enough.

A sound pierces through the music, slicing through the air like a warning shot. It’s high-pitched, sudden, obscene—so sharp that your entire body recoils. Your brain trips over itself, scrambling to make sense of what it just processed, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you think someone is in distress. Like maybe—maybe—this is the night Paige finally made an enemy and brought home someone who wants to kill her. But no. No, that is not the sound of murder. That is the sound of someone who is very much alive and living their best fucking life at maximum volume.

Your grip tightens around your pencil so hard you genuinely worry it might snap in half.

Then it happens again—louder this time. 

“Ooooh, Paige, baby it feel sooo good,” a long, drawn-out moan that echoes through the walls like a goddamn announcement.

Your jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear something crack.

You tell yourself to ignore it. You try to focus on the actual problems in your life—like the metabolic equation staring up at you from your notebook, the one that makes no fucking sense, the one you were just about to solve before Paige returned to single-handedly ruin your night. But this girl—whoever she is—sounds like she’s in a full-blown cinematic production, and Paige? Paige has zero concern for your sanity. No attempt to be discreet, no effort to maybe keep it down, no acknowledgment that she is actively breaking your spirit in real time.

A shhh from Paige, soft, teasing, followed by something breathless. While you– you black out for a second.

The chair scrapes against the floor as you shove away from your desk, adrenaline flooding your veins. You are this close to storming down the hallway, ripping Paige’s door off its hinges, and launching her entire bed out the fucking window. Instead, you flatten your hands against your desk, inhale deeply, and stare down at your notes like they personally wronged you.

This. This is it. You swear to yourself, you are getting revenge.

You don’t know how yet. But it’s happening.

Because if Paige wants to act like an inconsiderate, sex-obsessed demon hellbent on making your life miserable, then fine. Fine. Two can play at this game.

You’ve waited two days. Two agonizing, anticipation-filled days where you paced your room like a villain in the third act of a revenge flick, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every time you passed by Paige’s empty room, you could practically hear the ghosts of her past hookups mocking you. You had suffered. You had endured. And now, it was your time.

The front door swings open. Not as violently as before—no dramatic bang against the wall, no whirlwind of limbs stumbling over the entryway rug. Just the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the soft rustle of fabric, the barely-there whisper of a muffled giggle. It’s all very tame. Too tame. Like she thinks she can just slip back into this apartment unnoticed, like she didn’t shatter your will to live just days ago with her complete lack of shame or respect for human decency.

You sit up in bed, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of your laptop screen. Showtime.

It had taken an embarrassing amount of time to craft the perfect revenge strategy. You wanted something devastating. Something that would haunt Paige the way her late-night moanfest had haunted you. You considered various forms of psychological warfare—hiding her favorite hoodie, signing her up for weird spam emails, strategically microwaving fish at odd hours—but none of it felt impactful enough. You needed something biblical. Something that would scar.

And then, the answer came to you. Porn.

Loud, obnoxious, horrifically detailed porn. You smile at your glowing laptop and click play.

Instantly, the most sinful, ungodly, downright demonic sounds explode from your speakers. It’s graphic. Monstrous. A chorus of moans, screams, the unmistakable, wet, slapping of skin against skin. The kind of audio that makes you question humanity as a species. You’re pretty sure you hear someone begging in French.

It’s perfect. You crank the volume up.

Then, with the sheer dramatic commitment of a Broadway performer, you slam your bed frame against the wall.

The headboard cracks against the drywall with force, rattling like you’re in the throes of an earth-shattering experience. You moan. Not well, but loudly. Passionately. Over-the-top.

“Ohhh my GOD,” you scream, throwing in some unnecessary yes, yes, right there’s for added flair.

You can feel the disturbance in the force. But you don’t stop. Oh, no. You commit.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with guttural, animalistic gasps. You bang the headboard again, harder this time, just to make sure Paige feels your suffering on a molecular level. You toss in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out like you’re playing a villain savoring their monologue.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with deep, broken gasps, the kind of sounds that should not be echoing through the walls of a shared living space. Your voice wavers just enough to sound shaken, overwhelmed, ruined, like you’ve ascended past the mortal plane and are now one with the universe.

The headboard collides with the wall again—harder this time, with a resounding crack that might actually fracture the drywall. Good. Good. Let her feel it. Let the vibrations of your suffering seep into her bones. Let her live what you lived.

You throw in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out long, making it obscene. You let silence stretch, just for a moment, just long enough for Paige to think maybe—maybe—it’s over, that this nightmare has passed.

And then, with the full, unwavering conviction of a lunatic, you moan again.

It’s breathless. Shaky. The kind of sound that would make someone deeply uncomfortable in any setting, but especially when coming from the other side of a paper-thin wall.

A shuffle. A creak of bedsprings. A pause. You can feel her trying to process.

And then, like a gift from the heavens, Paige finally breaks.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The pure, unfiltered disbelief in her voice is a drug. It fuels you.

You slam your palm against the wall, a solid thunk that reverberates through the apartment. Then, in the single most unhinged act of pettiness you have ever committed, you howl a random man’s name.

Silence.

You shift in bed, letting out a shaky, devastated exhale, the kind of breathless, wrecked sound people make when they have been absolutely, thoroughly ruined. You make sure it carries through the wall, make sure it sinks into her skull.

There’s another pause. A long one. You can almost see Paige lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how her life has come to this exact moment.

Then—an aggressive rustling of sheets, a sharp inhale like she’s gearing up for a speech. You brace yourself.

Her response is immediate. A heavy thud—her fist against your wall. “Oh my God, have some fucking decency.”

That should be the end of it. A normal, sane person would stop here. But you? You are not a normal, sane person. You are a petty, wounded soldier, and you will see this through to the end.

So you shift, make sure your bedsprings let out a very suggestive creak, and then murmur, low and breathy, “Five more minutes.”

A second of pure, raw silence. Then, from her room—chaos.

The violent shuffle of blankets, a sound like something falling off her nightstand, an aggressively muttered string of words that you cannot hear, but you know they’re unholy.

Victory tastes sweet.

The next morning, you wake up feeling transformed. Cleansed. Vindicated. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of your own pettiness, reborn into a creature of pure, unadulterated vengeance. A god of retribution.

Last night was a triumph. A masterpiece of psychological warfare, orchestrated with the precision of a military strategist and the artistic flair of a Broadway performer. Paige had suffered—oh, she had suffered—and you had heard every ounce of that suffering in the sheer disbelief laced through her voice. You had sent her into an existential crisis without so much as stepping foot into her room. And the best part? You didn’t even have to talk about it. No awkward confrontation, no passive-aggressive exchange, no forced discussion about boundaries. Just a silent victory, the best kind of victory.

You stretch in bed, limbs loose and relaxed for the first time in days. No residual irritation, no ghosts of rage clinging to your skin. You won. You won.

The air feels different when you step into the kitchen, like the whole apartment is holding its breath. The atmosphere is charged, electric with something unspoken, a tension that exists only because you created it. You bask in it, inhale it like fresh air, let it fill your lungs as you roll your shoulders back and step into the room.

Paige is already there. She’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around her ever-present protein shake, the other holding her phone, scrolling with the kind of casual indifference that feels fake. Too stiff. Too controlled.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest. Good. That means you got to her.

You let the silence stretch, let her feel you watching her, reveling in the unspoken weight of last night’s events. Then, with all the exaggerated nonchalance you can muster, you open the fridge. You take your time, rummaging through it, making a show of your relaxed state, of your complete and total lack of shame or regret. Every movement is deliberate, every pause pointed.

The tension is thick enough to taste.Finally, after a long, drawn-out beat, you break the silence.

“Sleep well?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Paige just lifts her shake, takes a slow sip, and keeps scrolling, her gaze glued to her screen like you don’t exist.

You bite back a smirk. Oh, it’s like that, huh?

Fine. You love a challenge.

You grab a yogurt, pop the lid with exaggerated ease, and lean against the counter directly across from her. Mirroring her. Challenging her.

She knows you’re looking. She feels it.

The weight of your gaze drags over her jaw, the bare skin of her collarbone where her hoodie has slouched just a little too low. Over her hands—gripping her phone a fraction too tight, her knuckles taut with something just shy of restraint.

She lifts her protein shake. Takes a sip. Measured, deliberate.

You take a slow, obnoxiously slow, bite of yogurt.

“You seemed a little... tense last night.” Your voice is carefully neutral, the epitome of innocence, like you’re discussing the weather. But your eyes say otherwise.

A flicker. There. The tell.

It’s microscopic—her fingers tightening around her phone, a brief clench of her jaw before she lifts her shake again.

“I’m fine,” Paige says, monotone.

You hum, swirling your spoon through the yogurt, dragging it up in long, slow loops. “Really? You seemed a little... thrown off. Like you weren’t expecting something.”

Paige drinks. Swallows. Sets the bottle down with that same, mechanical precision.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, this is delicious.

“Hmm.” You take another lazy bite, then—just for effect—let your tongue flick over the spoon, slow, clean.

She doesn’t react.

But she sees it. You know she sees it.

The battle of wills unfolds in the silence. A quiet, blistering, psychological duel.

You stretch it, waiting, baiting. Letting the tension tighten between you like a tripwire waiting to snap.

And then—she exhales.

A sharp, quiet breath, controlled but strained. Like she’s holding something back.

And finally, finally, she sets her phone down.

Lifts her head.

Meets your gaze.

And suddenly, the air shifts.

Because Paige’s expression isn’t annoyed, like you expected. It isn’t irritated, or bored, or vaguely exasperated.

It’s something else.

Something slower. Darker.

Your stomach tightens—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.

She tilts her head just slightly, a fraction of an inch, but the weight of it is immense. A move so calculated it feels like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You good?" she asks, her voice a study in casual ease. Too smooth. Too careful.

It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap.

But you don’t back down from fights.

“Better than ever.” You drag the words out, light, effortless. “Best sleep of my life.”

Her lips twitch. Just barely. A half-second away from a smirk.

“That right?”

You shrug, feigning boredom. “Guess loud, passionate sex really tires a person out.”

A beat. A single, suspended moment.

Then—

“I wouldn’t know,” Paige says, smooth as silk. Cool as ice. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

Your smirk falters.

Oh.

Oh, she’s good.

You recover quickly. “Really? You must sleep like the dead, then.”

Paige picks up her phone again, dismissive, her gaze flicking back to the screen like you’re not worth the effort.

But her lips? They’re curling. Slightly. Just enough to show teeth.

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, so damn casual, “it just wasn’t worth noticing.”

Oh, that bitch.

Heat flares up your spine, crackling, sharp.

You glare. Paige doesn’t even glance at you. The war has officially begun. And it’s on sight.

You’re not proud of yourself.

Not in the slightest. In fact, you don’t even know how you got here.

But this is what happens when you let your petty little battles spiral into something else, something darker and messier and impossible to ignore. You hate her. You loathe her. You think about her way too much—about how she gets under your skin, about her smug little smirks, about the way she acts like she owns the air you breathe just because she’s taller than you, because she can throw a ball into a hoop, because the entire fucking world looks at her like she’s something more than just a girl who’s in your goddamn way.

And maybe that’s why you’re here.

On your back. In your bed.

Hand between your thighs like an absolute fucking degenerate.

Because Paige is supposed to be gone. She’s supposed to be three states away at some game, doing her little interviews, getting her ego fed by an arena full of people. The apartment is supposed to be empty.

So you let yourself have this.

Let yourself chase the tension out of your muscles, let yourself melt into it, let yourself lose in it.

And God, you wish you were thinking about someone else.

But it’s her.

It’s her stupid fucking face.

It’s the way she taunts you, the way she stands too close in the kitchen, the way her sweatpants hang low on her hips in the morning, the way she stares you down like she’s daring you to push her, like she’s waiting for the exact moment you snap.

You hate her.

You hate how easy it is to imagine her hands on you instead of your own.

Your fingers are slick. Obscenely so. The vibrator hums against your clit like a live wire, like an electric pulse searing through your nerves, turning every inch of your body into a hypersensitive mess. Your thighs twitch, your stomach clenches, your hips keep jerking up, desperate for more, even though it's too much—too intense, too sharp, too unbearably fucking good.

The sheets are ruined beneath you, damp and twisted from how much you’ve writhed against them, chasing the high, riding the edge, dragging it out like you deserve to suffer for this. Like you deserve to ache for it. Your other hand is gripping the pillow, fisting the fabric, white-knuckled, because Paige, Paige, Paige—you can’t get her out of your fucking head.

That smug smirk, those broad shoulders, the way she leans against the kitchen counter like she owns it, owns you, waiting, watching, pushing, teasing—

God, you hate her.

You hate the way she gets under your skin, the way she’s there, always there, lingering in the space between, looking at you like she’s daring you to do something about it. You hate that you want to.

And you hate that you’re so fucking close just thinking about her.

Your toes curl, your breath breaks into little hiccuping moans, your body bows off the mattress. The vibrator sends another sharp burst of pleasure through your swollen, oversensitive clit, and it’s too much—your thighs slam shut around your hand, trying to temper the sensation, trying to trap it, hold it inside you, but it just makes everything sharper, stronger, unbearable—

You choke on a sound, a raw, desperate little whimper.

And then– a noise. Not yours. Not in your room.

On the other side of the fucking wall.

At first, your brain refuses to process it. Because no. No. No way. Paige is supposed to be gone, three states away, playing her stupid game, being her stupid self, not here.

But then you hear it again. A moan. Low, wrecked, unmistakably needy.

Your whole body locks up.

For a second, all you can do is lie there, frozen in place, vibrator still pressed against your clit, your own pulse hammering in your ears. Your skin goes hot, burning with shame, with realization.

She heard you. She fucking heard you.

Another shift. A creak of her bed. The rustle of sheets. 

A sharp inhale escapes you, unbidden, and then you clap a hand over your mouth, mortified.

The vibrator is still humming against your clit, sending little aftershocks through you, but you can’t move, you can’t fucking move, because your brain is stuck on the fact that Paige is touching herself right now, that she’s lying in her bed, one wall away, listening to you, moaning for you, and you—

Oh. Fuck.

Your breath catches, your whole body locks up, your hand stills between your thighs—just for a second, just long enough for your brain to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You press the vibrator harder against your clit, bite your lip so hard it hurts, and keep going.

You’re sick, a fucking degenerate. You have to be, because the thought of Paige, lying there in her bed, one flimsy wall away, fingering herself to the sound of you falling apart is the single hottest, most disgusting, most earth-shattering thing you’ve ever fucking imagined.

Your hips twitch up, chasing the feeling, chasing the high, chasing whatever this is, this tight, searing, unspeakable thing curling in your stomach. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should not be doing this. But your fingers are shaking, your whole body is on fire, and you can’t stop, you can’t fucking stop—

And then she makes another sound.

This time it’s louder, more desperate, like she doesn’t care if you hear her anymore. And it sends you spiraling.

Your eyes slam shut, your thighs squeeze together, your stomach clenches so hard you can’t breathe, and the pleasure—fuck, the pleasure—rips through you, tears you apart, drowns you, ruins you.

You come so hard you forget how to exist.

The air is still humming.Your skin is still hot, still damp, still sensitive in a way that makes every shift against the sheets feel like too much. Your breath hasn’t fully evened out, your body still shaking from the wreckage of it, from the way you lost yourself, let yourself drown.

It should be over. It should.

But then—

A sound. Distant, but there. A soft shuffle, the faintest creak of floorboards beyond your door.

Your breath catches. You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, trying to ignore it. It’s late. Maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still stuck somewhere between dream and aftermath, still feeling the phantom weight of her—her hands, her voice, the way your mind kept slipping back to her even as you tried not to.

But then it happens again. A shift of movement. Closer.

A slow, deliberate pause just outside your door.

Your stomach tightens. No.

But the air is suddenly thick with something too real, something too electric—something that makes your pulse hammer in warning even before the first knock lands.

Knock. You stop breathing.

Another.

You jerk up, your body still too sensitive, your skin prickling under the weight of anticipation. You don’t move at first. Don’t respond. Just listen.

A pause. Silence. Maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll take the hint—

And then, the voice. Low. Steady. Unshaken.

"Open the door."

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, pulse kicking hard. Not a question. Not a request.

Just a command.

You should hesitate. You should stay still, let the moment pass, let it slip into the quiet, pretend it never happened.

But you know what’s waiting on the other side. And you know you’re already too far gone. But now she’s here.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door, heart picking up speed, hands pressed against the comfort of your blanket. A breath. Another. You tell yourself to stay still, stay quiet, maybe she’ll go away, maybe she’ll take the hint—

She knocks again.

“Open the door.”

Your skin prickles. Not a question. Not a request. Just a flat, patient command. Still, you hesitate. Seconds pass, stretching out between you like a tightrope, thin and fraying. And then, finally, you move.

The door creaks as you pull it open, slow and careful. Paige stands in the dim hallway, shoulders loose, hoodie hanging from her frame like she just threw it on without thinking. Her hair’s a mess—like she’s been running her hands through it, like she’s been restless all night. Her blue eyes flicker over you, unreadable, scanning, weighing.

Then she steps inside.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just walks past you, brushing close enough that you feel the heat of her body, the scent of her—something clean and sharp, faint sweat and warm fabric and something entirely, infuriatingly her.

The door clicks shut behind her. You don’t speak.

You don’t have to. She turns to you, slow, deliberate, expression unreadable. Then, voice low and measured:

“Lay on the bed.”

A prickle of heat races down your spine. You swallow, breath catching, fingers curling at your sides. But you don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Just step back, moving without thought, without question, without sense—because it’s Paige, and because you want to know where this is going, and because something inside you is already unraveling at the edges.

The mattress dips as you crawl onto it, arms bracing, knees pressing into the sheets. You don’t dare look at her. You hear the shift of fabric, the quiet creak of the bed frame as she moves behind you, slow, careful. A pause. A breath.

Then—

“Where’s your vibrator?”

The words hit like a strike to the ribs. Sudden, shocking, stealing the air from your lungs.

Your fingers clutch the blankets, throat dry. You don’t answer.

Paige hums, thoughtful, unimpressed. Then you feel her—one hand at your lower back, pressing just enough to make you sink into the mattress, the other trailing up your spine, fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder.

“You’re gonna tell me,” she murmurs, voice steady, quiet, dangerous in its softness. “Or I’ll find it myself.”

Heat pools low in your stomach, twisting sharp and deep. Your breath stutters. Paige’s hand lingers at the back of your neck, fingers tracing, waiting.

Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Drawer.”

A pause. The ghost of a smile in her voice.

“Good girl.”

Then she moves.

You hear it—the slide of the drawer, the shift of objects, the quiet click of plastic against wood. A heartbeat. Two. Then the bed shifts again, and she’s behind you, close enough to feel the heat of her, the weight of her presence, the steady, unshaken confidence in every movement.

Her fingers skim your thigh, light, testing, teasing.

“You know what to do.” Your stomach clenches.

Slowly, breathlessly, you shift forward, sinking onto your hands, pressing your chest to the mattress. Your knees spread, thighs parting just enough to leave you open, vulnerable, trembling with something you can’t name.

The air is thick, charged, electric.

Then, Paige’s voice, low and certain:

“Don’t look at me.”

You shudder.

And then—she starts.

The first press of the vibrator against your clit is light—just a tease, barely there, a flicker of sensation that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, breath catching, body already wound so fucking tight you think you might shatter from just this.

Paige hums, pleased, lazy. Her other hand skims up your back, slow and deliberate, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your ribs, fingers spreading wide as she grips your hip, holding you in place. The bed shifts beneath her weight, but you don’t look back. You don’t dare. Not when you can already feel her eyes on you, watching every little reaction, every twitch, every shaky inhale.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “So fucking wet already.”

You let out a soft, helpless sound, pressing your forehead against the mattress, trying to steady yourself. It doesn’t help. The vibrator hums again, firmer this time, rolling against your clit in slow, torturous circles, and your hips jerk instinctively, seeking more, needing more.

Paige clicks her tongue. “Uh-uh. Stay still.”

The sharp sting of her palm against your ass is unexpected, quick and precise, more startling than painful—but fuck, it makes you tighten everywhere, makes you gasp, makes heat curl even deeper in your gut. Your nails dig into the sheets, thighs trembling.

Then—without warning—the vibrator presses harder, just enough to make your whole body tense, thighs twitching, stomach clenching. Your mouth falls open, a high, breathless moan spilling out before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” Paige murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

She drags the vibrator lower, just for a second, teasing the slick heat between your thighs, and then—fuck—you feel her fingers, tracing, pressing, testing. You whimper, hips bucking, and she chuckles, low and amused, before finally—finally—she sinks one finger inside.

Your breath stutters, back arching, body clenching tight around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” she exhales, voice rough, almost reverent. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

The vibrator keeps buzzing against your clit, steady, relentless, a constant pulse of pleasure as her finger moves, slow and deliberate, curling just right, dragging along that sensitive spot that makes you tremble.

“God, you’re dripping,” Paige mutters, voice edged with something darker, something raw. “You want more?”

You nod frantically, too wrecked to form words, pushing back against her hand, chasing it, needing it.

She gives it to you.

Another finger presses in, stretching you, filling you, fucking into you in slow, deep strokes, pushing past that tight resistance, until she’s buried up to the knuckle. Your whole body shakes, heat coiling low in your stomach, sharp and overwhelming.

“Jesus,” Paige breathes, her voice tight, wrecked. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

She picks up the pace—fingers curling, twisting, pressing in deeper as the vibrator rolls against your clit, unrelenting, merciless. You’re gasping now, panting, your hips moving without thought, without control, grinding down, fucking yourself onto her fingers, onto the pulsing buzz of the toy, lost in the slick, obscene sound of it, the heat, the pressure, the unbearable, intoxicating pleasure building too fast, too much—

“Paige—”

She tightens her grip on your hip, holding you still, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit, fingers thrusting deeper, sharper, hitting that spot over and over and over—

And you snap.

It crashes into you all at once—blinding, breathless, a shockwave of raw, shuddering pleasure that rips through your entire body. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, legs shaking, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm slams into you, wrecking you, drowning you.

Paige curses, low and filthy, working you through it, keeping the vibrator pressed firm against your clit as your body jerks, as you convulse, as pleasure spills over in wave after brutal wave.

You collapse forward, panting, trembling, barely able to hold yourself up. But Paige isn’t done.

She flips you onto your back in one smooth, effortless motion, her body pressing into yours, caging you in. Before you can even catch your breath, her mouth is on you.

The first kiss is rough, searing, a claim more than a kiss—teeth dragging against your lip, tongue pressing deep, swallowing the wrecked little sounds spilling from your throat.

Her hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, dragging your legs apart, squeezing your waist, your ribs, your tits, mapping every inch of you like she’s memorizing it.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, voice thick with hunger. “All fucked out and messy for me.”

Your breath stutters. Paige leans in again, dragging her mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that makes you shiver.

“I want you loud this time,” she mutters, fingers already slipping back between your thighs, spreading you open, rubbing slow, teasing circles against your overstimulated clit. “You gonna give me that?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips bucking up into her hand, desperate for more.

Paige smirks against your skin. “Good.”

The heat of her body presses you into the mattress, her grip firm, unrelenting, claiming every inch of you like she’s owed it, like she’s been waiting for this for so fucking long that holding back isn’t an option anymore.

And it’s not. It never was.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and sharp, pressing right against that devastating spot that makes your whole body tighten and shudder. You’re soaked, dripping down onto her hand, onto the sheets, your thighs slick, trembling, spread wide as she takes what she wants—what she’s wanted for so fucking long.

“You have no idea,” Paige mutters, voice low, wrecked, breath warm against your neck as she drags her lips over your skin, teeth grazing, biting. “No fucking idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

Your brain short-circuits. You gasp, clutching at her shoulders, legs wrapping around her waist, dragging her closer, needing her closer.

She groans, grinding against you, fingers moving faster, harder, pushing into you with a rhythm that’s obscene, ruthless, making you arch, making you cry out.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she growls. “The way you looked at me? The way you listened when I fucked other girls in this apartment?”

Your stomach clenches, a sharp pang of shame and arousal slamming through you.

Paige laughs. A low, breathy, utterly wicked sound.

“That’s right,” she purrs, slowing her fingers to a torturous, teasing drag. “I know what you’ve been doing. Lying in here, all hot and frustrated, touching yourself to the thought of me.”

Your breath catches.

“You ever wonder if I was thinking about you?” she continues, voice husky, lips dragging down your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. “Lying in bed, hearing you through the walls, touching myself to the sound of you coming?”

Your hips jerk up, a desperate, broken sound escaping you.

Paige chuckles, dark and amused, before she slams her fingers into you again, relentless, brutal, dragging you right back up that peak.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat ripping through your body, pleasure slamming into you all at once, sharp and unbearable, too much but not enough, never enough.

Then she’s everywhere—her mouth crushing against yours, teeth nipping, tongue pressing in deep as her fingers fuck into you, relentless, merciless, like she’s making up for every second she didn’t have you like this.

“Come for me,” she demands, voice ragged, forehead pressing against yours, blue eyes dark, wild, locked onto you like she’s daring you to fall apart.

Your whole body seizes up, back arching, mouth falling open on a silent scream as the orgasm tears through you, overwhelming, devastating, making your mind go blank, making your vision fucking blur.

Paige groans as you clench around her fingers, as you drip onto her hand, onto the sheets, onto her.

“Jesus fuck,” she breathes, watching you, drinking in every twitch, every shake, every shattered gasp. “You look so fucking good like this.”

And before you can even catch your breath, before you can even think, she’s flipping you over again, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down, her body covering yours completely.

Her mouth is everywhere—hot, desperate, claiming every inch of you, kissing you like she wants to consume you, biting at your throat, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re mine now,” she mutters, breath ragged, hand gripping your hip, dragging you up against her. “You fucking get that?”

You nod frantically, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing more, needing everything.

“Say it,” she growls.

“I’m yours,” you gasp, voice wrecked, desperate.

Paige grins—wild, triumphant—before crashing her mouth against yours again, her hand slipping back between your legs, fingers dragging through the mess she’s already made of you.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” she murmurs, voice dark, teasing.

Your breath stutters, eyes going wide.

“You can’t—”

“I can.” She presses the vibrator back against your clit, fingers already sliding back inside you, making you sob. “And I will.”

Then she fucks you, properly, thoroughly, relentlessly, making you come again and again until you can barely breathe, barely think, until the only thing left in your head is her.

The room is wreckage. Pillows displaced, sheets tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and satisfaction. Your limbs are jelly, nerves still sparking like frayed wires, pleasure still ghosting along the edges of your skin in aftershocks you can’t quite suppress. Paige—Paige fucking Bueckers—is lying beside you, her chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, arm slung possessively across your stomach like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

You blink up at the ceiling, brain still trying to reboot. The night—Jesus, the night—had unraveled into something primal, something endless, something that had pushed you past exhaustion, past coherence, past sanity. Paige had wrecked you, torn you apart, rebuilt you in the shape of something raw and ruined and aching for more. And now—

Now, she shifts beside you. A lazy stretch, muscles flexing, a small, satisfied hum escaping her lips. You don’t have the energy to turn your head, but you feel her, the weight of her gaze settling on your profile.

Then, voice still husky from exertion, smug and utterly fucking unbearable—

"So, do you want to get dinner with me?"

Your brain stalls.

Your head turns, slow, disbelieving, vision sharpening just enough to catch the absolute shit-eating grin tugging at her lips. She’s fucking with you. She has to be. After everything—after the way she spent hours making you come until you forgot your own name, until your body had nothing left to give, until you had collapsed against her, too spent to do anything but breathe—she’s asking you out. Like it’s casual. Like it’s normal.

Like this isn’t the most insane, deranged turn of events imaginable.

You stare.

Paige smirks.

"Please, I can't do this," you whined out.

"Oh you can and you will," Sevika said, pushing the last anal beads inside the tight rim of muscles.

"Oh," your eyes squeezed shut tightly with a small sound of distress.

"Hurts?" Sevika rubbed your ass, cupping the curve of your ass.

You nodded with a little hum of affirmation, "Hurts a bit," you mumbled, pushing your face in the pillow.

"Push it out now," Sevika said getting up and moving to help you onto the floor, squatting down.

"P-push?" You looked up at her with a timid look in your eyes.

"Yes, push," Sevika confirmed, eyes fixed on you as form on the ground, the hook end of the anal beads was poking out of your clenching asshole.

"B-but," "I don't think I—"

"Ah-ah-ah-ah, you don't think, you only listen to what mommy tells you to do," Sevika said, grabbing your jaw tight enough to make you regret saying that, she tilted your head up to meet her lust clouded grey gaze, "And now, mommy is telling you to push, so you're gonna push,"

"Yes, mommy, sorry," you said quickly and she let go of your face, you took a deep breath and started pushing as hard as you could.

You felt two beads pop out followed by a third, you stopped and took a another breath.

"I can't anymore," you mumbled, three more beads stuck up your ass but you felt exhausted. You couldnt push anymore, especially doing it without any lube made it ten times harder.

"You can, just do it. Do it for mommy," Sevika said, rubbing your ass cheek as she watched your progress from behind.

You sniffled, letting out a small sigh and nodding, "Y-Yes, mommy..."

You heard the toy hit the floor with a small thump, your asshole felt so sore. Sevika stuck two fingers in your mouth, not for long, just enough to lubricate them. She rubbed her wet fingers on your reddened asshole.

"You're okay," Sevika said, being as gentle with you as ever.

It was a stark contrast considering she usually didn't engage in sexual activities with you unless she was punishing you or disciplining you.

"Let's try putting it up your other hole?" Sevika picked the set of anal beads up and lined them up in front of your slit, slowly inserting them.

"Wh-what?" You moaned softly feeling the big beads filling your insides as they entered your pussy, your very wet pussy, "It feels good..."

"Very well, now, push," Sevika said, standing back and watching you struggle to keep balance.

"But i—" you started, cheeks flushing red.

"You're gonna have to do it eventually when you're birthing your baby, you know," Sevika crossed her arms, staring down at your trembling form as if you were contemplating whether to be obedient or not.

"That's a long time from now!" You said, looking up but then Sevika gave you a look, "Okay, I'll try," you mumbled.

Your eyes shut tightly as you groaned and pushed, you could feel the toy slowly starting to come out of your hole, "It's harder than I thought it would be," you looked up at Sevika who was watching you intently.

"Go ahead," she urged simply.

You nodded, starting to push again and then finally the toy slipped out of you but before you could handle yourself, you squirted.

The stream of your release was intense when it washed over you, you were shivering and whimpering.

Sevika looked more amused than ever, "Brava," she said, pulling you up bridal style and laying you down on the bed, "Came like a whore, didn't ya'? Didn't know you like this stuff," Sevika smirked down at you in a taunting manner.

slow mornings are your favorite. the windows to your kitchen are swung open, allowing in thin beams of sunlight and fresh air, while the smell of brewed coffee swirls through the room.

standing at the stove, you make breakfast for you and your wife, flipping a second omelette for sevika because she has already finished the first, now nibbling on a banana slice while she waits.

she leans against the counter next to you, eyes squinting at her phone as she tries to scroll through her photos. she moves the device further away, then brings it closer, inches from her face, the brightness of the screen surely not helping her aging eyesight.

“can never figure out this damn thing,” she says with an agitated huff before you look at her stance and giggle. she’s hunched over in a grey tank top and black boxers, large veined hands cradling her cracked phone. her hair is pulled back into a stubby ponytail while small wisps of framed bangs fall against her cheekbones.

“you can’t figure it out because y’ can’t see, mama,” you chuckle as you take the thin glasses atop her head and set them nicely on the bridge of her nose. “that better?”

“oh,” the difference is night and day, you practically see her big eyes refocus with a dumbfounded blink. “yes, much better, hon’.”

and with that, she’s right back to pure eagerness as she tells a story of how she and ran beat the boys over a few poker games, elaborating on how she brought home lots of extra cash last night. while she scrolls to find a specific picture of her winning hand, she pauses for a moment to question her own memory and turns to you.

“wait- have i told y’ this already?”

“hm, no,” you reply, shaking your head as you toss the omelette onto a plate. “must’ve been your other wife.”

your side comment totally sweeps over your butch’s head at first. you give her a moment to nod and continue searching through her phone before she completes a double take — no. a quadruple take with a confused followed by a truly bewildered expression.

“what?” sevika’s head snaps to you for the fourth time, brows furrowed clearly in offense. (reference pic at the top :))

you only hum up at her with expectancy, playing the act of clueless defiance.

“what’d you just say?” she repeats with a ghost of a smile, setting her phone on the counter.

“i didn’t- what?” you dismiss, gripping the handle of the empty pan and moving past sevika to set it in the sink. although she doesn’t let you get away so easily. “nothin’! i don’t know what you’re talking ab-”

with a tight grip on your waist, she yanks you backwards, erupting a squeal from your throat followed by a fit of laughter as you fall against her. her breath tickles your skin as she peppers kisses up and down the side of your neck and shoulder.

“what the hell are y’ on about? my ‘other wife’? you’re insane.”

“oh, so now i’m insane to you? i imagine more insane than your side bride. got it,” you banter as you grip her forearm that holds you close. one of her hands then turns your face up towards her lips. “i guess you’ll just have to tell her that i-”

your words are cut off with a gentle kiss. sevika tastes a mix of morning breath and black coffee, her disheveled self looks and smells in desperate need of a warm shower. but when your wife pulls away with admiration in those big grey eyes, you wouldn’t give any of it up for the world.

not the good, not the bad. for better for worse, in sickness and in health. to love and to cherish.

“shush. i’m yours.”

༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻

ignore grammar/spelling mistakes 😜 dropping another random fluff bomb then locking back in to my bum ass math classes 🐑💣

also i’m absolutely LOVING all the asks that’s been sent to my inbox, TRUST i see them and will get to them all eventually!! again just super busy with school/family/friend drama recently, all is good tho and always feel free to send requests or just spam meee

stay safe out there divas 💜

-🐝

the difference was the shape of your tummy. as her dream continued her mind began to pick up the alterations of your body, how your stomach was fuller, and not in the way it usually is after you ate a full meal and end up a bit bloated. no, it was rounder.

perplexed, she walked closer to you and it was then she picked up on the setting her mind conjured up. it was your shared bedroom, but as she looked past you, she noticed a little addition in the corner between the closet and the window.

a small, wooden crib.

inside there were small baby pink pillows and a linen blanket with floral patterns embroidered on the material. plushies of varying animals could be seen inside as well.

as her eyes scanned the display, your soft voice finally broke her out of her reverie:

“you excited, honey?” you asked, your eyes fluttering up at her, and there was a glow to your face that she couldn’t quite place. you were radiant, and she was enthralled.

your hands smoothen over your belly before you reached up and touched her cheek.

“I love you so much,” you said, your voice merely a whisper “thank you for making me a mommy.”

she woke up in cold sweat that night.

ever since she’s been acting weird around you. asking you certain questions that raised an eyebrow or two, being extra handsy whenever you’re in the kitchen and she’d sneak up behind you, wrap her strong arms around your waist, which she’s always done whenever you were washing the dishes or cooking, but this time you noticed her hands were extra attentive to your belly.

how her palm would smooth over your midsection, kissing the pulse point below your ear, and nuzzling her face in the crook of your neck. holding you in a way as if she was scared that at any moment, you’d slip away.

yeah, something was definitely up with her.

you couldn’t pinpoint what exactly the issue was but you’d notice how her attention would drift off to certain things she never would’ve paid any mind back then.

you noticed it when you went to the market and brought sevika with you, too busy scanning the aisles of fresh vegetables that you didn’t pick up on the way sevika’s eyes wandered elsewhere.

specifically to the little kids playing far off into the distance chasing each other around with huge smiles on their faces, making sevika’s chest flutter and she was so fixated on the sight that her ears drowned out your voice and didn’t even notice you were calling out her name.

“sev,” you snapped your fingers in front of her face which finally caught her attention “are you there? I was asking if you’d like chicken soup for dinner?”

she cleared her throat and just nodded “y-yeah, it’s up to you, honey.”

you weren’t dumb. you noticed where her eyes drifted to and it was only a matter of time before the topic was brought up. but of course, she was stubborn, not to mention quite shy when voicing out her interest on a matter as serious as children.

regardless, you persisted.

“something bothering you, baby?” you asked her as you settled in bed late one night.

she shook her head “no, I’m fine.”

you hummed, your hands rubbing her forearms as you moved to straddle her lap.

“it doesn’t seem like you are. you’ve been distracted.” you said as you leaned down to pepper kisses down her neck “you know you can tell me anything…”

her chest tightened at your soft tone before she finally lets out a sigh “I had a dream a few nights ago.”

you listened intently as you motioned with your head for her to continue.

“it was weird because the idea never even crossed my mind before but… I dreamt you were pregnant. with my child. it’s crazy, I know. it’s not like it’s possible anyways but… I just can’t it get out of my mind.”

“the thought of having kids?”

she nodded as her flesh hand gripped your waist “and just… you. carrying my child. fuck baby, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

her voice dropped several octaves lower as she recalled the entire dream by memory “your belly was round, and you were glowing. you know that pregnancy glow they talk about? you had that. and your tits were all swollen and you looked so happy…”

you bit your lip as you started grinding lazily on her thighs, and you swore her eyes darkened.

“yeah? you liked the idea of knocking me up, honey?” you whispered, leaning down to press your mouth against hers “like the idea of making me a mommy?”

it was as if she was transported back to that dream, and she couldn’t help the primal need that suddenly uncoiled inside her hearing your words and how pliant you became.

“you like the idea?” she asked, her tone husky and it took a while for you to answer as you pondered.

after a minute or two, you nodded “if I’m being honest, it never crossed my mind either. thinking about it now though…”

her palm gripped your ass, making you squirm as she sat up a little so her face was closer to yours.

“you wanna have my kid, sweetheart?“ she asked “be my little housewife who walks around taking care of our baby while I go out and provide for our family?“

your eyes practically rolled to the back of your head as you gripped sevika’s shoulders.

“please daddy,”

and that’s how you found yourself on all fours, face pushed against the mattress as sevika plowed in and out of you with her strap. your juices dripping off her cock as she throws her head back and moans, the harness hitting her clit just right and causing the perfect amount of friction.

she reaches forward and takes you by your hair and pulls “that’s it. take it. take it for me, mama. such a good cunt that’s gonna take all my cum. you’re gonna take it won’t you?”

you nodded, drool gathering at the corners of your mouth “please, daddy. it feels so good.” you were basically slurring your words at this point and sevika couldn’t help but chuckle at your state. so cock drunk as she took you by your arms, and held you up so your back was against her chest.

she gripped both your tits with her flesh and mech hand, the cold texture of her metal fingers pinching your nipple and a shiver ran down your spine at the sensation. all the while you jostled violently in her hold as she kept hammering into you.

“pussy’s so fucking tight,” she groaned, reaching down with her right hand as she fingered the hood of your clit and rubbed, making you cry out “gonna fill it to the brim with my cum so you’ll have no choice but to carry my fucking kid. you will won’t you, sweetheart?”

you panted heavily as the fast strokes of her fingers and the harsh thrust of her cock inside you made your head spin “daddy, please. fuck. it feels so fucking good. I’m gonna cum. put a baby inside me please. make me a mommy.”

“oh, I’m gonna give it to you, alright. I’ll have one, two, three and heck, ten fucking children running around this house by the time I’m done with you.” beads of sweat slid down her forehead as she felt the throes of her orgasm approaching.

“because that’s all you’re good for right? to have your tight little cunt stuffed and bred?”

your climax tore through you so hard all you could do was whine in a silent cry, meanwhile sevika kept battering in and out of you still as your slick pooled down your thighs, the loud smacking of wet skin filling the room as she chased her own release.

“that’s it…” she muttered, holding you close “if only I could, I’d fuck this pussy just enough to get you pregnant on the first try.”

you sighed, blissful as you continued to let sevika use you, thinking if she really could. you’d let her.

over and over and over again.

slow mornings are your favorite. the windows to your kitchen are swung open, allowing in thin beams of sunlight and fresh air, while the smell of brewed coffee swirls through the room.

standing at the stove, you make breakfast for you and your wife, flipping a second omelette for sevika because she has already finished the first, now nibbling on a banana slice while she waits.

she leans against the counter next to you, eyes squinting at her phone as she tries to scroll through her photos. she moves the device further away, then brings it closer, inches from her face, the brightness of the screen surely not helping her aging eyesight.

“can never figure out this damn thing,” she says with an agitated huff before you look at her stance and giggle. she’s hunched over in a grey tank top and black boxers, large veined hands cradling her cracked phone. her hair is pulled back into a stubby ponytail while small wisps of framed bangs fall against her cheekbones.

“you can’t figure it out because y’ can’t see, mama,” you chuckle as you take the thin glasses atop her head and set them nicely on the bridge of her nose. “that better?”

“oh,” the difference is night and day, you practically see her big eyes refocus with a dumbfounded blink. “yes, much better, hon’.”

and with that, she’s right back to pure eagerness as she tells a story of how she and ran beat the boys over a few poker games, elaborating on how she brought home lots of extra cash last night. while she scrolls to find a specific picture of her winning hand, she pauses for a moment to question her own memory and turns to you.

“wait- have i told y’ this already?”

“hm, no,” you reply, shaking your head as you toss the omelette onto a plate. “must’ve been your other wife.”

your side comment totally sweeps over your butch’s head at first. you give her a moment to nod and continue searching through her phone before she completes a double take — no. a quadruple take with a confused followed by a truly bewildered expression.

“what?” sevika’s head snaps to you for the fourth time, brows furrowed clearly in offense. (reference pic at the top :))

you only hum up at her with expectancy, playing the act of clueless defiance.

“what’d you just say?” she repeats with a ghost of a smile, setting her phone on the counter.

“i didn’t- what?” you dismiss, gripping the handle of the empty pan and moving past sevika to set it in the sink. although she doesn’t let you get away so easily. “nothin’! i don’t know what you’re talking ab-”

with a tight grip on your waist, she yanks you backwards, erupting a squeal from your throat followed by a fit of laughter as you fall against her. her breath tickles your skin as she peppers kisses up and down the side of your neck and shoulder.

“what the hell are y’ on about? my ‘other wife’? you’re insane.”

“oh, so now i’m insane to you? i imagine more insane than your side bride. got it,” you banter as you grip her forearm that holds you close. one of her hands then turns your face up towards her lips. “i guess you’ll just have to tell her that i-”

your words are cut off with a gentle kiss. sevika tastes a mix of morning breath and black coffee, her disheveled self looks and smells in desperate need of a warm shower. but when your wife pulls away with admiration in those big grey eyes, you wouldn’t give any of it up for the world.

not the good, not the bad. for better for worse, in sickness and in health. to love and to cherish.

“shush. i’m yours.”

༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻

ignore grammar/spelling mistakes 😜 dropping another random fluff bomb then locking back in to my bum ass math classes 🐑💣

also i’m absolutely LOVING all the asks that’s been sent to my inbox, TRUST i see them and will get to them all eventually!! again just super busy with school/family/friend drama recently, all is good tho and always feel free to send requests or just spam meee

stay safe out there divas 💜

-🐝

✧*̥˚ fluff*̥˚✧

too pretty to be stressed by @alinathinkstoomuch

safest thing by -//-

eat the boss by @divadepreshawn

intervention by @goorgeousz

blurb by @ddejavvu

terms and conditions by @hoe4hotchner

doctor's order by -//-

girl's night by -//-

expert opinion by @ssahotchnerr

breakfast in bed by @ellecdc

questions in a world of blue by @sweetheartsocks

home by @dismalflo

five stars or bust by @mariasont

✧*̥˚ angst/hurt/comfort*̥˚✧

fight with hotch by @luveline

hotchner!reader by -//-

rain check by @ssahotchnerr

in pieces by-//-

mended with love by -//-

not a burden by @keirareidss

period fic by @ellecdc

mom by -//-

girl crush by @goorgeousz

about time by -//-

broken ribs by @keirareidss

nighttime vlogs by @yasministration

how did we get here by @dismalflo

this is serious by @augustjoy

✧*̥˚ smut*̥˚✧

the study by @souredvodka

take away by @hoe4hotchner

daddy's home by @mystic-rox

raw footage by @jareaufiles

live stream by -//-

date night by -//-

morning treat by @bllushbunniie

relaxation by @ssa-aaron-hotchnerr

summer lovin' by @aureatelys

your name across my heart by @goorgeousz

i'm her favourite beverage by -//-

booty call by @ssa-dado

sun creaming by -//-

craving 101 by @storiesofsvu

just the two of us by @monzabee

belong to you by @alinathinkstoomuch