˗ˏˋjust what you want me toּ ֶָ֢.

You weren’t sure when it started to go downhill, it was gradual, like an avalanche starting with the smallest snowball. 

You used to start your days rolling around together in his sheets, snoozing the alarm both of you just begging for a few more minutes in his arms. 

Now? 

He was gone before you woke up, and wasn’t home until you had already gone to bed. You were two ships, barely passing in the night. At work, he only talked to you when it was necessary, gone were the days of teasing each other over the nurses' station or hidden kisses in the break room.

Now you were lucky that he called you anything other than Dr. Y/l/n. 

The sex had started off hot and heavy. It was sex in on-call rooms and being bent over whatever surface he could find. Now, you couldn’t remember the last time you had sex, but when you did it was missionary that lasted less than 10 minutes. He’d grunt, kiss your forehead, and roll over. Long gone were the days he’d spend in between your thighs, making sure you came before he did. 

Date ideas were shot down, he’d take extra shifts or have ‘meetings’ into late hours of the night. You weren’t dumb, you weren’t oblivious to the signs that were right there, but you were blindly in love. You thought he loved you, thought he still held the same admiration and respect for you as he once did. 

When you’d voice your complaints he’d apologize, buy some cheap flowers, and take you out on the way over to your apartment, but lately he hasn’t even done that. 

No one really knew, not really. Everyone knew something was up with Robby, but no one was able to get the truth out of him, so why bother?  

It felt like you were dating a ghost of the man he used to be, so full of life and passion for his job. 

You hadn’t seen him outside of this ED in almost two weeks, he was snappy and dismissive, always droning on and on about this sabbatical he was going to be taking. You couldn’t give less of a shit, it was just another excuse to run away from his problems, and more importantly you.

Which is why when McKay came over, talking about how she needed to get laid, you interrupted. 

“Me too, sister.” You sighed, chewing on the straw of your slightly watered-down latte. “It’s been like…..months.” 

They all looked at you like you had grown a third head, even Samira’s eyebrows were furrowed.

“Really?” McKay asked, her voice quieting in concern.

You just nodded, “Yup.” 

“You and Robby are still?” She trailed off, not wanting to overstep. 

“Yup.” You repeated, taking a noiseless sip of your watered-down coffee. 

She made a noise, confusion still written all over your face. “I’m sorry to pry, but… why?” 

“Yeah, you’re young and hot. Plus you guys used to be all over each other.” Samira joined in.

Another shrug, “Wish I fucking knew. I’ve been trying for weeks. I barely see him anymore, he says he still loves me but he won’t even look at me,” You breathe out, “And he doesn’t touch me. I mean I went out and bought an overpriced slutty little pajama set, practically threw myself at him and you know what he said? That I should probably start sleeping at my apartment again, because he’s gonna have Whittaker house sit for him while he’s gone.” 

Charts were long neglected, Samira all but threw her pager down on the desk as they crowded closer.

“Oh, oh no honey.” McKay frowned, “That’s not good.” 

“You’re telling me.” Your hands are thrown up, ignoring others' eavesdropping on the conversation. Dana had heard it all before, and you were certain Abbot was too busy trying to figure out how to handle this ED without the man you were all gossiping about. 

“I mean, if he’s not getting it from you I mean he’s getting it from somewhere right?” She says, as empathetically as possible. 

Samira slaps her arm gently, but she has that knowing empathetic crease in her brow. 

“What she means to say,” Samira smiles, “He does seem to be going through something, but I don’t think he’d do anything like that do we?” 

You met McKay’s eyes, both of you sharing a knowing look. 

“No, he probably would.” You admitted, sounding more deflated than you wanted to. 

It had crossed your mind, there was no way it hadn’t. He was just a man at the end of the day. The whispers of the nurse slash case manager slash pain in your ass had found herself in this ED almost every day, attached to the hip of none other than your boyfriend. 

“Or, he’s just going through something and he’s too ashamed to confide in you about it? I mean he is about to leave on some spiritual journey.”  She offers, with much more optimism than you’ve had in months. 

“Yeah, okay,” You laughed, “He’s on his big midlife crisis journey to find a little zest of life, a new sense of purpose. Whatever bullshit he’s convinced himself of, but why?” 

Your voice cracked a bit on the last syllable.

“I’m right here, but it’s like I'm invisible. Not since Noelle has been prancing around the ER like a bloodhound.” 

The drink in your hand is slammed on the counter, the condensation making it slide over a little as you continue. 

“Maybe bankrupting people on the worst day of their lives is a new turn on for him.” You grumbled, watching the man slip out of one of the rooms, avoiding even looking over in your direction. “I mean, he won’t even look at me. It’s like he’s a stranger.” 

“I don’t like her, and I don’t like him for treating you like that. He’s a grown man, he needs to at least communicate his feelings to you.” Samira sighed, picking her tablet up again, “I have a patient in south, but call me tonight if you don’t wanna be alone!” 

“Thank you.” You frowned, squeezing her arm as she ran off. 

You settled back next to McKay, arms brushing. 

“Do you think he’s cheating on me?” You ask as soon as Samira is out of earshot. 

A noise between a scoff and a cough leaves her mouth, “Fuck, I hope not. Maybe try to just ask him before he leaves tonight. The last thing you need is to waste 3 months waiting for him to come back if he’s already halfway out the door.” 

“He’s not even halfway,” You laughed, “There’s one pinkie toe left on the door frame.”

”See, you still have your humor. You’re gonna get through this, promise. Especially if you think it’s worth fighting for, but if not? Fuck him.” She smiled

Every part of you wanted to believe her, but optimism had felt embarrassing lately. Your failing relationship was put on display at work and at home. Sometimes it felt like you were the last person to know that it was over. Maybe you were clinging to the past, to the good parts that were no longer there. 

There you stood in silence, trying so desperately to absorb her words. Was it worth fighting for? You couldn’t remember the last time he kissed you slowly. The last time he reached for you first. The last time he looked at you without something heavy sitting behind his eyes.

Dana was yelling about traumas incoming before the silence between you and McKay could grow any heavier.

“There goes our break.” McKay sighed, and your shoulders slumped. 

You laughed quietly and tossed your cup into the trash harder than necessary before following her out. 

By the time you reached the trauma bay, Robby was already there.

He stood at the foot of the bed pulling gloves onto long fingers, posture rigid with that familiar calm intensity that once made your stomach flutter whenever you watched him work. Even exhausted, even emotionally hollowed out by whatever private war he refused to talk about, the entire room still bent around him effortlessly. Residents straightened when he spoke. Nurses moved faster. Everybody trusted him instinctively. You remember when you used to trust him like that too. You remember envisioning him as a god in this ED. 

“What do we got?” You asked, slipping your gloves on. 

The kid could not have been older than twenty-six. Blood soaked through the front of his shirt and his skin already carried that terrible gray shade that always made your stomach tighten. What was even harder to miss was the large piece of rebar protruding from his chest. 

“High speed rollover MVC into an industrial plant,” the paramedic started rapidly. “Restrained driver. Hypotensive en route. Rebar through the left shoulder and upper chest. Heart rate sustained one-forty. BP eighty over forty and dropping.”

The patient screamed the second they shifted him onto the trauma bed, blood soaking through the towels wrapped around his shoulder. A rusted length of rebar protruded grotesquely through the upper part of his chest near the clavicle, disappearing somewhere behind his shoulder blade. Every movement made fresh blood well up around the metal. The room exploded into movement around him instantly. Trauma shears cut through clothing while the nurses prepped IVs. 

”Jesus Christ,” McKay muttered, doing the FAST exam while you tried to get breath sounds. 

 “Get vascular surgery on standby,” You shouted, pulling your stethoscope down, “Diminished breath sounds on the left, to be expected.”

The patient’s breathing was becoming shallower by the second, panic making his eyes glassy as he looked around the room.

“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.

“Stay with us,” you said quickly, pressing a hand against his good shoulder while assessing the wound. The bleeding had picked up noticeably since transfer and blood was now running steadily down the patient’s side onto the sheets below him.

“Pressure’s dropping,” Princess warned from the monitor. “Seventy-two systolic.”

Robby’s expression hardened immediately. “He’s gonna need an OR now, page surgery, again.” 

Ogilvie, the new intern, who was just supposed to be calling surgery again proceeded to spin around too fast bumping the rebar just enough to make the patient scream. 

Fresh blood poured out around the wound, spilling on the floor with such quickness it felt like a horror movie. 

“Oh my God,” Ogilvie gasped, “Surgery is on the way, O-oh my god.”

And before anybody could stop you, your hands moved.

You grabbed the exposed section of rebar firmly with one hand and shoved your other gloved hand directly into the wound around it, bracing the metal in place while applying pressure internally where the bleeding was coming from.

The patient cried out so loudly that the entire room froze while blood immediately soaked down your wrist. You could feel it dripping onto your legs, but you couldn’t do anything about it. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Robby snapped, spinning back toward you.

“He’s bleeding around the entry point,” you shot back through gritted teeth, keeping the rebar stabilized manually while your hand compressed whatever vessel had started hemorrhaging deeper inside. “If this shifts again he’s dead.”

“You do not put your hand inside a penetrating chest wound blindly-“

“He’s fucking crashing!” You nearly yelled, frustration pouring off of you in waves. “I know how to do my fucking job Dr. Robinavitch. Do you?” 

As if to prove your point, the monitor alarm changed pitch while the patient’s pressure plummeted again.

“Sixty systolic,” McKay called sharply.

”Do you?” He laughed dryly, “Because he’s still bleeding out while you’re having a fit.”

You adjusted your hand deeper despite the patient’s scream and suddenly felt it, hot blood pulsing hard against your palm before slowing significantly beneath your pressure.

The room went silent around the two of you except for the screaming monitor beside the patient. For one horrible second doubt crept into your chest. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe exhaustion and resentment and weeks of emotional whiplash had clouded your judgment. But, then the bleeding lessened almost immediately. 

”There,” You breathed out, finally looking up to see his hardened gaze still on you. “Fuck you.” 

If looks could kill, you’d be dead on the floor in this patient's blood. 

You ignored the gasps around the room, the heavy slam of his palm against the door after he stormed out. You were only focused on the patient, controlling the bleed while the others worked around you. 

Transport unlocked the gurney while blood products were rushed in behind you. Surgery came in not long after that, letting you ride up to the OR with your hand against the artery. As soon as he was stabilized, you were dismissed. Adrenaline crashed through your system all at once afterward, your hands trembling faintly as you stripped bloody gloves from your fingers, shedding off your ruined scrubs. 

You barely made it into the hallway of the ED before Robby caught your wrist hard enough to stop you. Like he had been waiting to hear you come down the stairs.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed.

You stared down at his hand around your arm before slowly looking back up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You do not disrespect me in front of residents,” He spat, “Here I am your superior, do you understand that?”

The disbelief that hit you almost outweighed the adrenaline still buzzing through your bloodstream.

“That’s what you’re upset about right now?” You could have laughed in his face. 

“You could have torn the subclavian completely,” he hissed. “You could have killed that guy.”

“If I didn’t do something he was going to bleed out before surgery even got down here.” You snapped, “I’m a good fucking doctor Robby, and you know it, yet you seem insistent on making me feel like an idiot.” 

His eyes finally locked onto yours then, dark and burning with something that looked dangerously close to humiliation. The station had gone completely silent around you both now. Even the residents nearby were pretending not to stare.

Robby stepped closer suddenly, crowding into your space just enough to make the air around you tense.

“Just because we’re fucking,” he said lowly, bending down toward you, “doesn’t mean you get special treatment.” 

The silence afterward was catastrophic. Your face went blank for a second before an incredulous laugh escaped you.

“Oh really?” you asked loudly enough for everybody nearby to hear. “That’s interesting considering we aren’t.” 

His jaw flexed hard, and you could see the anger brewing in his eyes. The same ones that used to bring you comfort were now glaring down at you.

You took another step closer anyway, eyes glassy now, and lowered your voice. 

“You haven’t touched me in fucking weeks, months even.” You said, your voice steady. “So what is it? Are you fucking her?” 

Robby looked genuinely caught off guard for the first time all day.

“What?” he snapped, after wiping the guilty look all over his face. 

“Don’t act fucking stupid.” You spat, pointing through the doors to where Noelle was standing around the hub. 

He laughed, actually laughing and shaking his head like he was dismissing something unbelievable. “That’s insane, Noelle works here.” 

Your expression shifted immediately, “Yeah? So do I.” You laughed humorlessly. 

“Nothing is going on.” He said quickly, grabbing your arm to pull you away from the nurses as they hovered around the hub. 

“You hesitated when I asked.” You barked back. 

“I did not hesitate.”

“You absolutely fucking hesitated.”

”You know,” His voice now boomed, everyone undeniably watching the interaction between you two. “Not everything is all about you. Maybe if you actually did your job instead of gossiping about things you know nothing about-“

“Brother,” Abbott’s voice suddenly cut in as he appeared beside Robby, grabbing his shoulder before the situation could combust any further. “Take a beat.”

You were both so lost in the heat of the argument that neither of you noticed him slipping into the hall. 

Robby yanked his arm back immediately. “I’m fine.”

“No,” Abbott replied evenly. “You’re not.”

For a moment you thought Robby might actually explode. His whole body looked wound tight enough to split apart, anger and guilt and exhaustion all fighting for dominance across his face. But then Abbott pulled him back another step, positioning himself between the two of you.

Robby just nodded, Abbot tapped his chest once before the two attendings stepped aside. You shared a look with Abbot for just a brief moment, before they disappeared down the hall. You slumped against the wall, the adrenaline escaping you so fast you felt lightheaded. 

Your chest hurt, there was this ugly aching pressure sitting right beneath your ribs, heavy and humiliating and impossible to ignore. The cruelty of his words opened your eyes. 

Just because we’re fucking.

Like you were some nurse he fooled around with after conferences. Like the last year of your life together had been reduced to something cheap and transactional the second he got angry enough. 

You laughed bitterly under your breath, scrubbing a hand down your face hard enough to hurt.

You pushed off the wall before you could start crying in the middle of the hallway and headed back toward the nurses' station on autopilot. Dana sat behind the desk flipping through charts, reading glasses low on her nose while complete chaos unfolded around her as usual.

She looked up immediately when you approached.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” you said, voice oddly flat even to your own ears. “What did Noelle want?” 

Dana hummed distractedly. “Yeah, something about some charts. I got a question for ya.” 

You swallowed once, nodding for her to continue.

“Does Robby sleep with his TV on?”

You frowned automatically, caught off guard by the question. “Yeah,” you answered slowly. “Drives me fucking insane, I’ve barely seen him lately. Been glad to sleep in the dark.”

Dana’s face fell immediately. clicking her jaw tight. 

Your stomach dropped so violently that it almost hurt.

There was a horrible pause before Dana looked away from you briefly, lips pressing together like she was debating whether or not to continue.

Then quietly, carefully, she said, “Noelle said something weird about him sleeping with his TV on. Asked her how she knew that and she just shrugged, said she had some papers to file.” 

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt physical. You stared at Dana blankly, your brain refusing to catch up to what your body already understood. Dana’s expression softened instantly the second she saw your face change.

“Oh honey,” she breathed.

“If he’s not getting it from you, he’s getting it from somewhere. McKay’s words came crashing back so hard that it made your chest cave inward.

Suddenly every little thing replayed itself with brutal clarity. The veil is finally being pulled from your eyes.

“How fucking stupid am I?” you laughed softly, though it came out sounding dangerously close to breaking.

Dana leaned forward immediately. “You are not stupid-‘ 

You cut her off with a shake of your head, humiliation already swallowing you whole. 

“C-can you get someone to cover-“ 

“Course, course.” She rushes out, and that’s all you need before your feet are moving you to the on-call room. The door is slammed with such violence that the sound makes your ears ring. 

You barely made it two steps before your knees weakened and you sank onto the edge of the narrow cot, both hands pressed hard against your mouth while you fought to steady your breathing.

The room smelled faintly like old detergent and stale coffee. Somebody had left a sweatshirt hanging over the back of a chair. The television mounted in the corner sat muted on some daytime court show.

Even now, sitting there piecing together the possibility that he had been sleeping with another woman while coming home to you every night, some horrible part of you still wanted him to walk through the door and explain it all away. You wanted there to be another answer. Another explanation. Anything besides this.

There was a soft knock on the on-call room door, making your heart race. When you took too long to respond, it cracked open just enough for you to see Abbot’s head popping in the doorframe. 

You deflated, of course it wouldn’t be Robby coming to look for you. He didn’t care, and he probably hadn’t in a long time. 

“You decent in here?” His timber voice asked, making you rub your eyes gently. 

“As decent as I can be.” You answered, watching him take a timid step inside. 

He shut the door quietly behind himself before leaning back against it with crossed arms.

“You scared the hell outta Dana,” he said gently. “She said you looked about two seconds from passing out.”

You looked down at your hands instead of answering.

Abbot sighed softly after a moment. “Listen,” he started carefully, “Robby’s… not doing well right now. I’ve seen it, I know you’ve seen it. He’s said some stuff to Dana today that’s really concerning.”

A bitter laugh escaped you instantly.

“No kidding.” You whistled, eyes focused on a crack in the tiled floor. 

”I also know he’s been using you as his emotional punching bag while he falls apart, instead of getting actual help.” 

“You seem to have it all figured out, huh?” You laughed bitterly, pressing your palms against your eyes so hard spots filled your vision. “Did you also know he’s been fucking the new case manager?” 

You hear his posture shift as he pushes himself off the wall, “What the fuck?” 

A humorless laugh broke out of you again before you could stop it, fraying at the edges as it built into something worse. 

“I think I’m probably the last person to know,” You laughed, “S’been going on for months. I just didn’t wanna see it.”

“He cheated on you? Oh, sweetheart-“

You don’t give him any time to start the empathy, the anger boiling up inside of you threatening to tip over. 

“Listen, I’m a feminist, but what does that bitch have that I don’t? I’m y-younger, I’m prettier, hell of a lot smarter, I don’t spend my time preying on men with girlfriends.” You cackled, “I’ve done everything for him. I’ve put up with his mood swings, I took care of his house, I attended all of his family bullshit, I put up with him putting work before me, I did everything. For what?”

Abbot was silent, his eyes darkening as he watched you lose your composure. 

“I mean,” A crazed laugh sputters out of your mouth, “he never even really took care of me. So I wasted all of that time for what? It was always all about him. Him, him, him-“ 

“I’d take care of you.” 

The words hit the room like something dropped too suddenly into still water.

Your eyes go wide, an anxious laugh escaping your lips. “Is that a joke?” You ask, but your throat is tight and suddenly your hands are damp underneath his attention. 

It’s then you realize during your rambling he’s taken purchase in one of the chairs across from the cot you were sitting on. Your feet nearly touching. 

“Nah,” His voice was rougher than before, and it made chills run down your spine, “I heard you earlier you know? Talking to McKay. He has a sexy young, incredibly talented doctor in his bed, practically half naked and he’s not taking care of you? That’s a fucking shame darling.” 

The room went silent after that except for the distant muffled noise of the ER beyond the door and the sound of your own heartbeat pounding so hard you swore he had to hear it too. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t do anything but stare into his hardened eyes. 

“So I’ll say it again, I’d take good care of you. God, if you were mine….you’d never have to worry about anything. I’d practically worship you.” He whispered, shifting his body closer to yours. 

“Is this a trick?” You asked, your voice shaky. So was your breath when his face drifted closer without you even noticing him move. He was close enough now that your words brushed against his lips when you spoke. Close enough to count every faint freckle scattered across his nose, every tired line at the corners of his eyes.

“Not a trick,” He assured.

“Aren’t you two friends?” 

“Best,” he whispers, and his lips just barely brush against yours. 

“Then why..” Your breath trembles.

”I’ve watched him have everything I’ve ever wanted and he still treats you like you’re disposable,” he said quietly, the words tight with something like anger he’d been holding onto for too long. “And I’ve had to stand there and say nothing about it because he’s my friend. I’ve stood there and defended him, because you said you loved him.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate.

When did he get so close? 

“That stops being easy after a while.” He said, his eyes back on yours. 

You’re practically panting into his open mouth before words manage to form, “How would you take care of me?” 

His honey brown eyes glisten, “I could tell you…Or I could show you?”

You should have stood up and walked out. You should have told him this was a mistake and you were emotional and hurt and angry and that this wasn’t how you wanted this to go. 

Instead, your body betrayed you completely.

Because for the first time in months, somebody was looking at you like they wanted you. Somebody who always saw you. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire. You haven’t felt this alive in a long time.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself. He noticed immediately, letting his hand slowly reach up to cup your cheek. His callused hands held your face in his hands like you were porcelain. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

The words barely registered through the rush of heat and heartbreak and loneliness colliding inside your chest. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t want him to stop, the tingle in your fingertips and the heat growing in your stomach wanted the exact opposite. 

Abbot exhaled shakily at that, forehead nearly brushing yours now. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered softly, eyes closing for half a second like he hated how much he wanted this too.

Then you kissed him.

It happened all at once and painfully slow somehow, your hand gripping the front of his shirt while your mouth crashed clumsily into his. Abbott made a rough sound low in his throat immediately, one hand holding your jaw while the other reached for your hips. 

The cheap cot squealed loudly beneath both your weight when you tugged him down with you, the sound almost drowned out by the chaos still carrying on outside the on-call room. 

Every kiss felt like you two were devouring each other. Your fingers pushed into his hair while his mouth moved hot and deep against yours, each breath stolen back only to lose it again seconds later. The tension wound through him was obvious now in the way he held himself over you, like he was trying so hard not to crush you beneath the weight of everything he’d apparently wanted for far too long.

His body was hot and heavy against yours, where you’d settled between his legs. His rough hands moving from your hips to cup your tits through your scrub top. He squeezed harshly, making a pathetic mewl escape your lips. 

You pulled back just enough to breathe and that was somehow worse, because his eyes were dark and blown wide with lust his mouth swollen slightly beneath fluorescent lighting.

”Darling,” he breathed warningly, one last final chance to leave this room pretending as if nothing had happened. 

All you could do was smirk up at him, “Lock the door.” 

In all of his years, Abbot doesn’t think he’s ever moved as fast as he did. He was sprinting to the door, locking it, and pulling the privacy shade down. It wasn’t uncommon for it to be occupied during busy shifts. Dana was covering for you and Abbot wasn’t even supposed to be working today. 

By the time he hobbled back, you had slipped your scrub pants off, throwing your shirt to the side. You weren’t wearing any fancy elaborate underwear, a simple sports bra, and cotton panty for work efficiency, but to Abbot, you would have thought you were on the cover of a magazine. 

“So fucking gorgeous.” He said, holding his pointer finger up in a little spin, “Let me see you.” 

You entertained him, spinning around playfully. 

He let out a wolf whistle and lay himself down on the cot. 

“Do you need help taking these off?” You asked, your hands reaching to tug at the strings on his pants. 

He simply shook his head, patting his chest in a ‘come here’ motion. “You’re gonna pull those little panties to the side and sit on my face,” He said slowly, as if you should have known exactly what he meant when he lay down on the cot. 

“W-what?” You laughed shyly, “I’m too heavy for that-“

“That's what that bastard told you?” He scoffed in disgust, “I served years in the military, I can handle it. Come here.” 

A shiver ran up your spine as you got on your hands and knees, crawling over to him. His arms gripped your thighs, moving you into position as if you weighed nothing. 

You hesitated for a moment, feeling his warm breath hit against the embarrassingly wet spot against your underwear. 

“None of that hovering shit,” He whispered against you, “Want you to fuck yourself on my face. And I’m not stopping until you beg me. Gonna make up for every time that bastard mistreated you.” 

A gasp tore out of your chest when he helped you pull your underwear aside, his mouth attaching itself to your warm cunt. With the first swipe of his tongue, he was moaning against you, his cock twitching at the taste of you. 

Jack Abbot ate pussy like he was a starved man, which in a way he was. 

He’d spent the last year pining over you from afar, fisting his cock in the shower after a long shift thinking of you. Now? He was cherishing this as if it was his last meal, because hell it might be. 

You stayed still on top of him, too focused on the sensation crawling up your body to realize you weren’t moving.

A small smack echoed through the room, his hand tapping your ass making you cry out. 

“I said, fuck my face.” 

He could feel you hesitating, could feel the way our hips urged to grind against him on a particular lick.

“F-fuck,” You cried, “I can’t-“ 

He pulled away again, his eyes pleading with you. “Baby, I only got one good knee but I’ll get down on it and beg if I have to.” 

A huff left your mouth as you pressed further into him, letting your cunt drag messily against his mouth. The sensation had you crying out his name. Between the soft stubble of his jaw, the wet heat of his tongue, and his nose nudging against your entrance with each lazy drag you were falling apart against him in no time. He talked you through it, his hands forcing you to keep grinding against him. Urging you to keep going. 

“I c-can’t,” You cried out, and in response, all he did was laugh into your heat. The vibration causing your toes to curl. 

“M’ you can.” He spoke in between sloppy strokes of his tongue. 

It was like he knew your body like the back of his hand, already as he slid his tongue inside of you using his nose to rub against your swollen clit. 

You were coming again almost instantly, your hands coming down to run through his short curls. As you came you yanked against the roots, pushing him even further into your heat. All your fears of hurting or suffocating him were out the window, and Jack? Was living his absolute dream. 

“Oh, oh god.” 

You tried to pull off of him, only to be stopped by his heavy arms curling around your thighs once again. He just chased you, keeping his mouth attached to you. 

“F-fuck, I want you to fuck me so bad.” You were nearly sobbing, your legs trembling in his hold as your cunt practically leaked all over his face. He didn’t care, his tongue was still flicking expertly against you. “Baby, let me fuck you.” 

“One more time,” His voice was muffled, his eyes glazed over. Drunk on the taste of you and the sounds that were leaving your lips. “Let me taste you one more time and I’ll fuck you real good baby.” 

He was addicted, completely addicted to the feeling of you coming apart against him. 

“God,” The word ripped from your mouth, your hips betraying you by grinding down on his face yet again. The tip of his nose rubbing messily against your clit with each swipe. 

His fingers were digging so deeply into your thighs that you hoped it left bruises. He’s holding you down on him so hard you have no choice but to let him move you, his tongue hits even deeper inside of you. 

Then your eyes are rolling back in your head, your fingers tugging at his short locks as you cum around his tongue again. Each wave is more sensitive than the last as he coaxes it out of you. 

There are spots in your vision as you come down, watching him kitten lick your throbbing clit by the time you come back to earth. You’re panting against him, and he’s looking up at you like you’re an angel. 

“How was that?” He had the nerve to ask, sweat beading on his forehead while your release coated his face and neck. 

You swung your shaky legs off of him, plopping down on the couch with a groan. “You promised you’d fuck me.” 

At your pathetic little pleas, he smirked, bringing you in for a sweet kiss on the lips. You indulged him, ignoring that you could taste the hot, sweet taste of yourself on his lips. He’s content on kissing you until you’re all but pulling him on top of you. 

You’re so desperate for him when he finally stands up, you crawl over to the edge of the bed mouthing over his clothed cock. It sits heavy in his scrub pants, twitching at the slightest pleasure. 

“Oh you little minx,” He groans, reaching down to cup the back of your neck. “You wanna take it out?”

You nod, slipping your thumbs into his waistband to pull the fabric down his legs. 

You nearly gasp at the sight of his cock springing out of his underwear, the tip slapping against your face. He’s fucking huge, heavy in your hands as it falls to his mid thigh. Your mouth goes dry, eyes wide as you can feel your cunt clenching around nothing just at the sight. 

“Fucking knew you’d be bigger than him,” You can’t help but say, your hand unable to wrap around his shaft. 

“Yeah? You thought about it?” 

You nod, your embarrassment long out the window. “I see the way you walk around here, knew it was heavy.” 

A throaty laugh escapes him as you pump him a few times, he lets out a soft hiss when you swipe at the pre-cum leaking from his tip. 

“Come on,” He hums, “Hands and knees baby, let me see that ass.” 

A schoolgirl giggle escapes you as you comply, getting into the position that’s the easiest for him with his leg. 

His hand comes down and slaps your ass gently, just enough to make you cry out as he positions himself at your entrance. 

“Look at her,” he whistles, dragging his tip through your soaked folds, “She’s trying to suckle me in, you want this bad don’t you baby?” 

Your hands are gripping the sheets so hard already you know they’re going to ache. “P-please.” Your voice is agonized with need. 

“You deserve it,” He cooed, slowly pushing inside of you. “I got you, baby. M’always gonna take care of you.” 

Tears escape your eyes in relief as he fills you up, each inch he pushes helps relieve the ache. The stretch is painful, but delicious as your cunt molds to accept every inch of him greedily. Your face somehow falls into one of the pillows, muffling your sobs of pleasure. 

“T-there you go,” He praises, “Let it out. Taking me so well, almost there baby.” 

You feel like you’re being split apart, in the best way possible as his hips finally meet yours. 

“Knew you could take it,” he breaths out, his eyes closing for a moment in pleasure as your wet heat clenches around him, “Tightest pussy I’ve ever felt.” 

You let out a jumbled moan of incoherent words, begging, but you didn’t even know what for. He’s buried to the hilt, so deep inside of you it takes you a solid minute for your vision to come back to you. 

“It’s so- oh- Jack- fuck, yes.” 

“That’s my girl.” His hands are rubbing your lower back soothingly, waiting for the perfect moment to begin to move. 

His hips snap into yours in deep calculated thrusts, making you drool all over the pillow you’re clutching like a lifeline. 

The pace becomes relentless, his hips slapping so harshly into your ass that if it wasn’t for the loud sounds of the ER it would be echoing throughout the whole hospital. 

Just a few feet away outside of the on-call room door, Robby’s hands were interlocked behind his head, sweat threatening to slip from his brow. 

“Where the hell are Abbot and Y/l/n?” He asked amongst the other doctors all running to their destinations, “We’re drowning here and my senior resident and attending are AWOL.” 

He had no idea your hands were twisted in the cheap hospital sheets, your back arched as Abbot was splitting you apart expertly on his cock. 

You were so sensitive and fucked out, it was no surprise your fourth orgasm of the night was creeping up.

“I’m gonna-“ 

Abbot cuts you off, “I know,” His hand reaches around, desperately palming your clit, “You gonna cum for me? Gonna let me take you home and show me those slutty little pajamas?” 

You nod wordlessly, feeling that familiar pleasure rushing through your body. 

“M’ gonna kiss every inch of your perfect fucking body, then I’m gonna fuck you to sleep and wake you up with my mouth on you. That something you want, baby?” 

“J-jack,” You cried out, 

“Breathe,” He demanded, his head falling on your shoulder to coo softly in your ear. “Breathe through it baby, s’just feel it. Uh, there you go. Good girl, good fucking girl.” 

You came with a shout, one so loud that he had to place his palm over your opened mouth. You bit down on his palm, drool falling messily through his fingers as he never once let up his pace. 

“Oh my god,” Your muffled cries only spurred him on, his balls tightening as your body became pliant in his hold. 

“Fuck,” He grunted, “S’good right? Just hold on a little bit, baby. You want me to come inside you?” 

Nodding limply against him, your eyes fluttered shut. You felt like you were floating, letting him use you to chase his own high. 

“M’gonna fill you up, give you everything you fucking want.” His hips stuttered, before he came with a shattered moan. 

“Such a good girl.” He whispered, his body heavy against yours. He pressed a sweet kiss to the crook of your neck, slowly laying you down and slipping out of you. 

The newfound emptiness made you whine softly despite yourself, the sound catching weakly in your throat as Abbott pulled away just enough to help clean you up. Your eyes stayed closed most of the time, your body heavy and loose against the thin mattress while the adrenaline and emotion finally began draining out of you all at once. 

Every nerve ending still buzzed pleasantly beneath your skin, your thoughts drifting in and out like you were barely tethered to the room anymore.

“You alright, sweetheart?” Abbott asked quietly. His voice sounded different now, much different from the voice that was just whispering filth into your ear. 

You smiled lazily, “M’so good.” 

He grinned at you, helping you slip your clothes back on with such gentleness it made your heart ache. 

Then he stood, holding a hand out toward you.

“C’mon.”

You looked up at him tiredly. “Where are we going?”

“You’re coming home with me after shift.”

Your eyebrows lifted, “I am?”

Abbott just shrugged like it was already decided. “I’m gonna take you to your place first so you can grab clothes and whatever else you need,” he said casually while helping pull you gently to your feet. “Then I’m making you dinner.”

You blinked at him. “Dinner?”

“Whatever you want.” His hands settled automatically at your waist once you were standing, steadying you when your knees wobbled slightly. “Pasta. Steak. Pancakes at midnight. I don’t care. You’re not going home alone tonight.”

”But-“ 

”No buts,” He cut you off, “We can deal with everything else another day. Tonight let me keep taking care of you.” 

You nod softly, your heart aching at the care dripping out of his pores. It had been so long since you felt so held by someone. 

“I’ll meet you in the parking garage?” You asked, bringing his lips to yours for one more kiss before grabbing the doorknob. 

”I’ll be counting down the seconds, sweetheart.”

When you slipped out of the door, it was impossible to hide the flush burning across your cheeks or the awkward unevenness of your steps. Your hair was a mess from Abbot’s hands in it and your scrub top sat crooked on one shoulder no matter how quickly you tried fixing it.

The hallway air felt freezing against your overheated skin. For one brief second, you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky. The corridor outside the on-call rooms sat mostly empty, only the muffled chaos of the ER carrying faintly through the double doors farther down the hall. Your shift was almost up, so you assumed they’d be stuck on handoff. 

Then you looked up and saw Robby standing there. You deflated, turning on your feet in an attempt to escape. He had clearly just rounded the corner, chart still loose in one hand, exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face. But the second his eyes landed on you stepping out of the on-call room alone, something in him visibly stalled.

His brows pulled together slightly while his gaze moved over you automatically, like he was trying to place why something looked wrong before his brain caught up to it. Your flushed face. The way you wouldn’t fully meet his eyes. Your hair slightly disheveled despite your obvious attempt to fix it.

”Hey,” he said finally, voice rough from exhaustion. “You okay?”

The concern in it nearly made you laugh. Where had a fraction of that care been the past year? 

Every part of you wanted to yell at him, to scream and punch his chest for making such a fool out of you. But you could still taste his best friend on your lips, so instead you just nodded too quickly and stepped around him before your face betrayed you further. Your shoulder brushed him lightly as you passed, and the second it did you felt him tense.

“Y/n,” he called after you, more confused now, “I wanna talk to you before I leave-“ 

His words died in his throat when the on-call door, the one you just escaped out of, opened from down the hall. 

Abbot had stepped out into the hallway infuriatingly calm, casually shutting the door behind him while his hands were tying his scrub pants together. His hair looked slightly disheveled, and worst of all there was a smug satisfaction written plainly across his face that made your chest tighten in immediate panic.

You kept walking, planning on grabbing your bag and meeting Abbot in the parking garage anyway. 

Robby just stared at him. 

The confusion on his face had vanished entirely now, replaced slowly by disbelief so stark it almost looked physical. His eyes flicked once toward the closed on-call room door, then down the hallway in the direction you had disappeared, before finally settling back onto Abbot again.

”What the fuck?” Robby whispered, a cruel laugh threatening to slip out. 

This only made Abbot’s smile grow wider, as he sauntered down the hall to meet his friend in the middle. 

“Listen, man,” Abbott said casually as he strolled closer, clapping Robby once on the shoulder like they were discussing something harmless over beers instead of detonating twenty years of friendship in the middle of a hospital hallway. “Your willpower’s stronger than mine.”

Robby hardly reacted, he couldn’t. His brain wasn't allowing the pieces to slot together. 

He just stood there staring ahead while the meaning settled heavier and heavier into his chest by the second. His jaw flexed hard enough to visibly tick beneath his skin, eyes darkening with something that looked dangerously close to panic underneath the anger beginning to rise.

Then Abbot stopped a few feet past him as he had almost forgotten something.

“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

Like every Sunday, Jack sits and listens. Echoes of loud giggles and shouts of singing from two sets of healthy lungs. Watches from a distance; ungraceful twirls, obnoxiously playful dancing, until a small body is standing on the counter and dancing too. 

The girls in apartment seventeen have wiggled beneath his ribcage and into a secret crevice of his heart. The place that warms every time he hears the laughter, every time he watches the most wholesome mommy-daughter time. 

He doesn’t know your name, nor your daughters. But he knows you love music, that it’s bled into your child in the most copy and paste way. She dances like you, uses wooden spoons for microphones, chopsticks for drum sticks, and her imagination for an electric guitar. 

It makes Jack’s heart swell and sting at the same time. 

His wife didn’t want children, a decision that he always told himself he was okay with. They were both slight workaholics, both too selfish to give up the idea of financial freedom. She didn’t think she’d be a good mom, no matter how much Jack disagreed. And then she died. 

Left Jack with nothing but fading memories and a big house that felt too suffocating until he sold it five years ago. He keeps her photo in his wallet, a frame on his nightstand, his wedding band around his finger. Six months married and then she was gone. They didn’t even make it on their honeymoon. 

Perhaps that’s why he relishes these Sunday mornings. He knew he’d never have that life with his wife, he knows he most probably won’t ever…but it’s a secret desire he wishes for. So he tucks it deep away, close to his chest, close to his wife. 

The bitter coffee doesn’t chase the ache away. It still festers beneath his ribs, an itch that he can’t rid himself from. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just allows you to grow around it.

Jack allows himself five more minutes in the captivity of apartment seventeen before retreating back inside in search of sleep.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“Phoebe, Grandma's on the phone!”

You hear the tornado of flat feet smacking against the floor before you even finish your sentence. Your mom laughs on the screen, a screech of excitement tearing through the three-year-olds throat as she barrels onto the couch and snatches the phone from your grasp. 

“Hi, Diva.” She beams wide, panting for breath and attempting to swat the sweaty hair from her face. “Are you coming to my house to play today?”

You bark out a laugh at that, her unashamed favoritism when it came to your mom. 

“Not today, pickle. Grandma is on vacation with Grandpa, remember?” 

Phoebe huffs and nods. “Can you bring me back a fridge magnet?” She asks instead, a question both you and your mom saw coming. 

Your eyes dart over to the refrigerator. Covered in magnets and drawings and post cards… you’ll have to do some reorganising if she wants to fit another one on there. 

“Absolutely, I’ll even bring you back some new shoes.” 

Your eyes roll fondly when Phoebe’s lights up, an excited squeal falling from her lips as she nods her head vigorously. You press a kiss to her head before leaving her on the couch, pulling the phone closer to her face to speak. 

Their conversation is a muffled background noise as you start to clean up the mess of her toys, the thirty-something articles of clothing strewn across the floor from her fashion show this afternoon. Plastic princess heels, a tiara, fairy wings…you’re sure she has a pirate’s outfit somewhere in the mess, too. 

Your eyes flick to the time flashing on the microwave. 16:30. 

Your shoulders drop, heart sinking. Thirty minutes late, you can try to hold out hope. But when it gets to the hour mark, you know it’s yet another no-show. Another night of tears with Pheebs and fast thinking on your part to distract her. 

You learnt your lessons months ago. You know better than to tell her when she’s supposed to be seeing him. It only sets her up for disappointment and resentment. Let her come to the decision about him when she’s old enough to understand. Not when she’s three, upset and feeling like he doesn’t want to spend time with her. 

You’ll shelter her from the truth of him for as long as you possibly can. 

Throwing her outfits into her dress-up box in the corner of the lounge, you turn to your daughter with a heavy heart and the brightest smile you can muster. 

“Alright, Diva. Go put your shoes on, let's go out for pizza.” 

Phoebe doesn’t even offer your mom a goodbye. She throws the phone to the side of the couch and leaps to her feet, little legs scurrying toward her bedroom to no doubt retrieve the bright pink Crocs she’s recently become obsessed with. 

You reach for your phone, sharing an exasperated laugh with your mom before she settles and tilts her head at you through the screen. 

“What’s the excuse this time?” she asks. 

You sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine. No calls or texts, just a no-show.” 

Your mom’s lips form into a thin line, a look of disapproval that only ever seems to be reserved for him. “I take it Pheebs doesn't know?” 

You shake your head, toeing your own shoes on as you wait for her. “No, I stopped telling her when she’s supposed to be seeing him months ago. Unnecessary upset, you know?” 

Your mom hums, a contemplative look crossing her features. When she notices the disappointment in your eyes, she softens. “You are all that she needs, baby.” She reassures you. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing by her, and you are. But when she’s older, she’ll realize it for herself.”

Shoulders sagging and heart aching, you sigh again. “I know, it’s just not fair on her. Wish I could shield her from it forever, you know?” 

“I know, but you are doing fantastic. Me and Dad are so proud of you.” 

It’s a struggle to blink back the tears. In truth, you likely wouldn't have coped at all if it weren't for your parents. You were young when you fell pregnant, just shy of turning twenty-three. No real job, no real qualifications. Still living at home and accidentally knocked up by a douche of a boyfriend you were trying to figure out how to break up with. 

But your parents…they were a rock for you. They supported whatever decision you wanted to make. They let you stay at home until you had the money to move out, took you to every appointment, helped you turn your dad’s office into a nursery without a hint of annoyance. 

Your mom held your hand when you were rushed into hospital to deliver Phoebe, and she sang to you softly when you had to go in for emergency surgery. 

Your parents were the ones to encourage you to go back to college. They were the ones to babysit while you worked for your degree, when you had last minute interviews and meetings. And they were the ones you thanked and celebrated with when you finally made it. 

When your first book got published and made its way to a New York Times Bestseller within the first week of its release, they were the ones you celebrated with. It was their mortgage you paid off with your very first cheque. 

It was only at that point that Tom decided he wanted to be in Phoebe’s life again. That he had apparently made a terrible mistake and wanted to be a ‘family’. You’d allowed him access to his daughter but denied him ever having any access to you. 

“Get out of that brilliant head of yours.” 

You blink as your mom’s voice drifts you back to the present and you smile, slightly wonky. “Have a cocktail for me and keep Dad away from the dirty martinis. I doubt half of Cabo wants to hear his Elvis impression.” 

She barks out a laugh at that, blowing kisses to the phone and promising to call back tomorrow before hanging up. 

“Mommy!?” Phoebe calls out to you from her bedroom. 

“Coming!” You call back, feet slowly moving you down the hall toward her bedroom. Stopping short with a sigh when her next words echo from her room. 

“I pooped my pants again.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Phoebe’s tummy is filled quite comfortably with a veggie pizza and three scoops of chocolate ice cream. A dinner of champions, in her humble opinion, and a day well spent with you. 

Her legs bounce her along the marble floors of the complex entrance, a skip in her step which is slightly making you regret that third scoop of ice cream. A sugar rush right before bed is not something you have the energy for. 

“Hold up for a moment, baby. Mommy needs to check the mailbox.” 

Her sassy huff is the only response you get, but she listens. Trudges back to your side with less enthusiasm than before. You can hear her clicking her tongue and jumping on the spot when you unlock your designated box, rifling through some letters and the package you’ve been eager to receive. 

The first print of your newest novel. 

It’s not until you’re locking the box back up that you notice Phoebe isn’t to the left of you anymore. Instead, she’s to your far right with her hands behind her back and her small neck craned up to meet the gaze of a middle-aged man walking toward the main front doors.

“Hi, my name is Phoebe." Her small voice speaks at his legs and the man stops short at the sound of it. 

His neck whips down to her, a small kiss of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before it morphs into a friendly smile. Jesus Christ. 

He blinks at her. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Phoebe. I’m Jack.” 

His voice is like slowly crystalizing honey. Soft and smooth yet a slightly raw register as he lowers his tone to address the toddler. You swallow as you watch, a little taken back by the sight of him. 

Salt and pepper curls with a mostly salt stubble, slightly tanned skin and bulging biceps that threatened to tear through his––is that a scrub vest—

“Are you a doctor?” Phoebe asks the question aloud that you silently ask in your head.

Jack smiles, nods his head and reaches to pinch the ID badge clipped to the pocket of his pants. “I am.” 

You realize yourself then, tucking the mail under an arm and moving to approach the two. Your hand comes to rest on Phoebe’s shoulder and Jack’s eyes lift up your body before settling on your face. 

“Sorry, she’s a bit of a social butterfly. She’ll chat your ear off all day if you let her.” It’s a slightly nervously laugh that bubbles from your throat and you’re completely unsure why. 

You don’t get nervous. Not usually. But it’s also not every day that your daughter is introducing herself to a hot older man who happens to be a fucking doctor. More than that, and maybe it’s just his age, but it’s also not every day that you meet a man with such intense eye contact. 

The moment his gaze meets yours, it doesn’t look away. 

Jack laughs breathily, offering an open palm just above Phoebe’s head. “Nothing wrong with that. I’m Jack.”

His tone holds a flirty lilt—light and airy and far too comfortable for someone you’ve just met. Your palm meets his in a gentle greeting, skin rougher than yours, palm bigger than yours. You shake his hand with as much mirth as he does to yours.

“Y/N, this is my daughter, Phoebe.” You say softly, retrieving from his hold and resting your hand back on her shoulder again. “I think you’re the first normal neighbor we’ve met. We only moved in like six weeks ago.”

Jack’s smile widens just an inch as his hand moves to the strap on his backpack, his laugh something understanding, like you already have an inside joke. “Seventeen right?” 

Your brows pinch slightly, head tilting. “Yeah… how—”

He points a finger to the ceiling. “I’m fourteen. Your balcony is opposite mine,” he turns his attention to Phoebe with a playful smile. “I’m pretty jealous of yours and mommy’s Sunday morning parties. They sound like a lot of fun.”

Color stains your cheeks but Phoebe grins at that. “We call it Sunday Funk Day. Music, chores, and pancakes for breakfast,” she counts them off on her chubby fingers, her tone slightly bordering authoritative, but Jack only seems more entertained. 

“I didn’t realize we had the music on so loud… I’ll keep it down next time.” You apologize quickly. Another thing out of the norm for you. But you’ve been trying to teach Phoebe to be a bit more considerate of other people the older she gets. 

Jack waves you off with a scoff. “No way, it’s nice to have a neighbor with good music taste. Not like apartment twelve.” He says the last part a bit quieter, like he too doesn’t want to influence your daughter with his less than kind opinions. 

Your eyes widen, the sound of a scoffed laugh scratching the back of your throat. “Is that the crazy bird lady?” You mirror his pitch.

Jack’s lips part. “So that’s what that noise is. I’ve been calling her Chirpy in my head for the last six months.”

You laugh louder at that, stopping yourself just short of snorting. The way he speaks makes you feel strangely warm. His words and voice are relaxed, lazily drawled together with a slight accent that you can’t quite place.

Phoebe scrunches up her nose. “Mommy says people can listen to what they like, but I don’t like screaming music.” She shakes her head. 

Jack has to stifle a laugh, expression mirroring yours as you close your eyes and take an exasperated but fond breath. “While I agree with your mommy, I have to say that I agree with you too, kid.” 

An insistent buzzing echoes through the silence between you. You notice the brief movement of his hand cupping his pocket, realize that he’s being paged or called but too polite to check or excuse himself. 

You squeeze gently on Phoebe’s shoulders. “Okay, we need to get you bathed and ready for bed and I think Jack needs to go to work.”

He offers a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes but doesn’t feel forced. His eyes flick between you and Phoebe, a soft look of fondness relaxing his features for a moment. “It was nice to finally put names and faces to the lovely singing voices I get to hear.” 

You smile warmly, albeit a little bashfully, before guiding Phoebe to your side to hold her hand. Jack lets his gaze fall on you again, warmth in his smile as he offers a slight nod. 

“Have a good night.” His voice is tender and soft, heavy with security and you don’t understand how it feels so foreign and familiar at the same time. 

“You too,” you say softly, turning at the same time he does to go your respective ways. 

Phoebe turns her full body to look at him, hand waving frantically in the air. “Bye Doctor Jack!” She shouts at him, despite there being only a ten-foot distance between them. 

You turn just in time to see Jack do the same, a small wave of fingers over his shoulder as he shouts back softly, “Bye Phoebe.”

Then he’s gone out of the complex doors and you’re ushering Phoebe into the elevator, unaware of the small smile that curls at the corners of your mouth. 

“I like Doctor Jack.” Phoebe hums, pressing the button she has learnt for your floor. You smile down at her as the doors close and the elevator begins to hum and shift. 

“Yeah? What do you like about him?” 

She shrugs a shoulder, uncommittingly and swipes hair from her face. “He has kind eyes.” 

Blinking slowly at her, your heart seizes. You find yourself wondering how your daughter comes up with some of the things that she does, how attuned she is to the people around her and the way her judgement of character grows every day. 

You barely know the man, yet you can’t help but agree. 

“Yeah, baby. I guess he does.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

NEXT PART

Cute little meet cute for our single mom, Phoebe, and Jack!! I am almost busting at the seams with excitement for what I have planned for these guys; little moments and big!! There will lots of tiny hidden references in this series that I would love to know if you guys pick up on, and I also have a very comical and painful scene that I've already written for later on in this series hehe.

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!!

─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓 — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. — TBD

If you'd like to be tagged in posts for this series, let me know!

Jack had still been half asleep when you left the house, one arm hooked lazily around your waist while you sat at the edge of the bed and tried to tug your shoes on.

“Tell Jake if he gets arrested I’m not bailing him out,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

“You like Jake.”

“He’s still an asshole sometimes.”

You laughed quietly and leaned down to kiss him anyway. Jack barely opened his eyes for it, just pulled you closer with a rough hand against your hip and kissed you slow enough to make you consider calling out sick from life entirely to be in this moment forever.

“You staying in bed all day?” you asked against his mouth.

“Mm, absolutely.”

“Jealous.”

“Should be, but I wish you were here with me.” His thumb brushed once beneath your jaw. “Text me when you get there, sweetheart.”

You texted Jack, and then you forgot your phone existed for the next two hours.

PittFest is chaos in the way all music festivals are chaos. Sticky floors. Warm beer. Suncream and sweat and bass vibrating through your ribs hard enough to feel sick with it. Jake and Leah disappear into crowds every five minutes only to reappear holding different food.

You mostly just watch them. Young and stupid and happy. Leah keeps taking blurry pictures of Jake while he complains about it dramatically, which only makes her laugh harder. She slips easily into your space too, arm linked through yours while she talks over the music about gossip you barely follow.

It feels normal. God, it feels painfully normal.

Jake’s midway through telling you both some ridiculous story when the first gunshot goes off.

Nobody reacts properly at first. A sound too sharp to belong there. Then another follows. Then screaming. The crowd shifts all at once.

Panic spreads faster than fire. One second people are dancing and laughing and filming videos on their phones, the next they are shoving each other hard enough to fall trying to get away. Your stomach drops instantly.

“No,” Leah whispers.

Training is ugly sometimes. Instinct before thought. Your brain already cataloguing exits and cover and casualties before the fear even catches up.

“Down,” you snap.

Jake grabs Leah instinctively. Another gunshot cracks through the air, too close for comfort. People are crying. Running. Somebody slams hard into your shoulder trying to push past and you nearly lose your footing.

Then Leah jerks violently beside you. For one hopeful second you think that she just tripped. Then you see the blood, and Jake screams her name, and everything narrows.

You hit the ground beside her so fast your knees crack painfully against concrete. Leah’s staring at you in confusion more than pain, hands shaking as they press instinctively against her abdomen. You don’t need a medical degree to know that there’s too much blood already.

“Oh my God,” Jake chokes. “Oh my God.”

“Pressure,” you order immediately. “Jake, pressure now.”

He freezes. Completely freezes.

You grab his wrists and physically force his hands over the wound. Blood spills between his fingers instantly.

“Look at me.” Your voice sharpens hard enough to cut through panic. “You do not move your hands.”

Leah makes a soft, terrified sound. “It hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Your chest feels tight suddenly as you smooth a hand over her hair, trying to offer comfort in an impossible situation. “I know.”

Gunshots still sound somewhere nearby. Your pulse pounds so hard it makes you feel sick. Jake is breathing too fast. Full panic and shock setting in right in front of you.

“She’s gonna die she’s gonna die—”

“No.” You catch his face hard between both hands. “Not happening. Stay with me.”

People keep running past. Nobody stopping to check if you need anything, if the girl on the floor who is far too young to be in this position is okay. You understand why. Fear makes people cruel without meaning to.

Your phone vibrates against your hip in your pocket. You answer immediately.

“What’s wrong? Is something happening over there? I heard something but didn’t get the details. Are you okay?”

“There’s a shooting.”

Silence. Not real silence. You can hear the hospital behind him faintly. Voices. Movement. A monitor somewhere. Still, something inside him goes absolutely still.

“Where are you hurt?”

You blink hard. “I’m not—”

Another gunshot. Closer. You duck instinctively over Leah. Something tears through your upper arm. The pain arrives hot and brutal a second later. You suck in a sharp breath.

“Sweetheart?”

Your hand flies to your arm automatically and comes away slick red.

“Oh,” you say faintly.

Jake stares at you in horror. Jack’s voice changes instantly. Lower. Controlled in that terrifying way he gets when something is catastrophically wrong.

“You’ve been hit.”

“Just my arm.”

“How bad.”

You press hard above the wound, vision swimming unpleasantly for a second.

“Through and through, I think.”

“Listen to me carefully.” Every word clipped precise now. Doctor mode. “Can you move your fingers?”

You flex them. “Yeah.”

“Good. Keep pressure on it.”

Leah cries out suddenly and your attention snaps back to her. Blood soaking through Jake’s hands faster now. You shrug your jacket off one-handed and bunch it hard against Leah’s abdomen to reinforce pressure. Jake’s shaking so violently he can barely keep hold.

“Jake.” Your voice softens despite everything. “Need you to stay with me, honey.”

“I can’t lose her.”

The fear in his voice cuts straight through you.

“You won’t.”

“I’m sending units your way now,” Jack says through the phonee. “Stay on the line with me.”

You know he’s already moving while he talks. Already taking over. Organising. Commanding. The image of him striding through the Pitt with that expression on his face flashes painfully through your mind. You want him here so badly your chest aches with it.

Another scream sounds somewhere nearby. Leah’s skin is turning grey. Jake looks close to vomiting.

Your own arm throbs violently. Blood slipping steadily between your fingers no matter how hard you press. You promise yourself that you won’t pass out, not here, not while they still need you.

“Sweetheart.” Jack again, quieter now somehow. “Talk to me.”

You swallow hard. “She’s losing too much blood.”

“How’s her breathing?”

You check automatically. Wet. Uneven. Bad. Your stomach twists.

Jake sees your face change and immediately starts panicking harder. “No, no, no, tell me what to do!”

“You keep pressure there,” you say firmly. “You keep talking to her.”

Leah’s eyes find yours. Terrified. You smile anyway because people always look less frightened when medics smile at them.

“You’re alright, angel, I’m here.”

It feels monstrous saying it while blood pools beneath her body. Sirens finally echo somewhere in the distance. Too far away, too slow.

Your vision flickers strangely at the edges. Adrenaline only carries you so long before the body starts demanding payment. Jack must hear something in your breathing again.

“How much blood are you losing?”

“I’m okay.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

You almost laugh despite everything. “I’m fine,” you insist weakly.

“Sweetheart.” Warning this time.

You press harder against your arm. Your hand is slippery with blood. Leah’s or yours, you genuinely cannot tell anymore.

Jake suddenly grabs your sleeve hard. “There’s blood on your face.”

You touch your forehead automatically and come away red again. Your hearing feels distant for a second. You know that feeling. Jack knows it too apparently because his voice sharpens immediately.

“Stay awake.”

“I am awake.”

“You’re fading.”

“No I’m not.”

It’s a lie so obvious that even you hear it. The world tilts unpleasantly. You force yourself to focus on Leah instead. On Jake. On pressure and breathing and survival. Easier than thinking about the fact your husband is listening to all of this happen over the phone while trapped miles away.

“Baby,” Jack says suddenly, very soft now. Dangerous soft. “Listen to me, please.”

Your throat tightens painfully at the desperation in his voice. You can practically see him in your head. Jaw locked. Hand pressed against the back of his neck. Fury and fear buried underneath clinical calmness.

“I need you to stay conscious until the paramedics reach you, okay? You know the drill.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. “I’m trying,” you whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m really trying, Jack.”

Then Leah stops responding properly, and everything gets worse.

“Leah?”

No response.

Jake says her name again, louder this time, voice cracking apart so badly it barely sounds human anymore. Your stomach drops.

“Jake.” You force steel back into your voice despite the dizziness crawling steadily through you. “Talk to her.”

His hands are drenched red now. Blood pushed deep beneath his fingernails. He keeps looking at you like you might be able to undo this through sheer willpower alone.

“Leah, baby, c’mon.” His breathing stutters violently. “Please.”

You press trembling fingers against her throat again. Weak. Too weak. Your own pulse pounds hard enough to make your injured arm throb in time with it. Every heartbeat feels wet. Hot blood still slipping through your grip no matter how hard you hold pressure.

Jack’s voice crackles through the phone near your knee where you dropped it onto speaker. “What’s happening?”

You swallow hard. “She’s crashing.”

Silence. Not real silence. You hear movement behind him. Orders being barked across the ER. Metal trays clattering. The Pitt already preparing for the casualties heading their way.

Jack knows exactly what kind of scene you’re sitting in. Exactly how bad it probably looks.

“She conscious?”

“Barely.”

You can feel Jake staring at you, waiting for something. You hate this part, you have always hated this part. The space between trying and failing where everybody still looks at you hopefully.

Leah’s eyes flutter weakly. “Cold,” she whispers.

Jake breaks completely at that. His whole face crumples. Tears running unchecked while he bends over her like he can physically shield her from dying through proximity alone.

“You’re okay,” he keeps saying frantically. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay—”

You grip the back of his neck hard. “Jake.” He looks at you immediately. “Need you to breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

He absolutely is not. His chest is heaving so fast you feel panic rising in yourself just watching him. The shock is setting in ugly now. His shoulder is still bleeding too, forgotten entirely beneath Leah’s worsening condition.

You grab the discarded sleeve of your jacket and shove it hard against his wound.

“Pressure there.” He obeys automatically, and you thank every cosmic force that might be out there.

Your vision blurs suddenly. You squeeze your eyes shut hard once and feel the world tilt sickeningly underneath you.

“Sweetheart?” Jack again. Immediate. Alert.

You hadn’t even made a noise. “I’m okay.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep pestering me.”

A horrible little laugh escapes him unexpectedly. Sharp with stress. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You know that laugh. The one dragged out of him when he’s overwhelmed enough that humour becomes the only thing stopping him putting his fist through a wall.

Sirens are closer now. Leah makes another weak choking sound and your focus snaps back instantly. Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of her mouth. It’s bad enough that you already know where this is going. Jake sees your expression change again.

“No.”

You hate how small his voice sounds.

“She’s okay,” you lie.

“She’s not.” His face twists violently. “Don’t fucking lie to me like that. It’s fucked up.”

Your throat tightens. People think medics get used to this. They don’t. You just learn how to keep moving while it happens.

The first paramedics finally break through the crowd. Relief hits so hard your hands start shaking worse. One of them crouches beside Leah immediately while another reaches for you.

“I’m fine,” you snap instinctively.

The paramedic looks unimpressed. “You’ve been shot, ma’am.”

“Not dying though.” Your words slur slightly at the edges.

Jack hears it too. “Hey.” Sharper now. “Stay with me. Let them help you.”

The paramedic starts peeling your blood-soaked hand away from your arm and pain explodes through you white-hot and vicious enough to make your stomach lurch.

“Oh, fuck.”

“There she is,” Jack mutters darkly through the speaker. “Knew you were concussed or dying when you stopped cursing.”

Despite everything, your mouth twitches weakly.

The paramedic assessing Leah suddenly barks for more gauze. Jake flinches hard enough to nearly fall over.

“She needs transport now,” another voice says urgently.

Jake grabs Leah’s hand desperately while they start loading her onto the stretcher. He keeps trying to climb beside her despite the blood loss making him unsteady too.

“Sir, we need you checked out as well.”

“No.”

“Jake,” you say firmly.

He looks at you with tears streaking his face.

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You aren’t.”

His breathing catches painfully.

Your own head feels strangely heavy suddenly. Hard to hold upright. The paramedic wrapping your arm is talking to you but the words drift oddly in and out.

Jack’s voice cuts through the fog immediately. “What’s her BP?”

The paramedic glances towards the phone. “Who is this?”

“Her husband. Dr Jack Abbot.”

Something in Jack’s tone must land correctly because the paramedic answers instantly after that.

“Pressure is dropping.”

You hear the silence on the other end. Not empty silence, calculating silence. Dangerous silence.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought of him hearing numbers instead of seeing you himself. Jack trusts his own hands more than anything else in the world. You know he hates this. Hates being trapped at the hospital while you bleed somewhere he cannot reach.

“They’re taking us to the Pitt?” you ask weakly.

“Yeah.”

Good. You need Jack. The thought arrives suddenly and honestly enough to hurt. Not Dr Abbot. Not your attending physician. Just your husband. Your Jack. The one who sleeps with one heavy hand spread across your stomach every time like he needs proof you’re still there.

Jake climbs into the ambulance beside Leah while they try to convince him to let somebody examine his shoulder properly. You force yourself upright too fast trying to follow and immediately regret it. The world blacks at the edges. Strong hands catch you before you hit the ground.

“Easy,” the paramedic says.

You feel weirdly detached from your own body now. Floating somewhere slightly behind yourself.

Jack’s voice sharpens again instantly through the phone. “She pass out?”

“Nearly.”

“Sweetheart.” Fear leaking through now despite all his control. “Talk to me.”

You try. Nothing comes out properly. Your tongue feels thick. The paramedic starts asking questions rapidly. Name. Age. Allergies. Orientation. You answer automatically between breaths while they push you towards a second ambulance.

Blood loss. Shock. Probably more injured than you first thought. Your arm burns savagely.

“You still with me?” Jack asks.

“Yeah.” Barely.

You hear Jack exhale quietly. “Good girl.”

The words hit you straight in the chest. So familiar. So him. Usually murmured against your skin in the middle of the night instead of through a phone while you bleed through dressings.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. The ambulance doors slam shut. Everything becomes sirens and fluorescent lights and movement. A paramedic cuts your sleeve fully away and swears under his breath at the amount of blood.

“Looks worse than it is,” you mumble.

“That what you tell all your patients?”

Jack actually snorts faintly through the speaker.

“Yeah,” he says. “She does.”

You can practically picture him now. Leaning over a desk somewhere in the chaos of the ER. One hand braced against the surface hard enough to ache later. Eyes distant and furious all at once.

Somebody in the background says his name. You hear him switch instantly. “What’ve we got?”

Pure attending voice now. Steady. Cold. Commanding. You have seen entire trauma bays settle the second Jack walks into them, like everybody unconsciously trusts him to carry the worst parts. He comes back to you a second later, softer again somehow.

“Nearly there, baby.”

You close your eyes briefly. So tired suddenly.

“Don’t you dare,” he says immediately.

Your eyes open again. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. “Especially with you.”

The medic checking your vitals suddenly goes very still looking at the monitor. Your stomach sinks.

“What?”

He looks up sharply. “Do you know how much blood you have lost?”

Nobody tells you the answer to that question. Which is answer enough on its own, really.

The ambulance feels too bright. Too loud. Every bump in the road sends pain shooting through your arm and shoulder hard enough to make your vision flicker. You focus on the ceiling instead. On breathing. On staying conscious long enough to get to the Pitt.

Jack keeps talking. You realise after a while he is doing it deliberately. Filling silence before it can turn dangerous.

“You remember Santos trying to tell me how to run a trauma bay last week? Pulling that shit again today.”

A weak laugh catches painfully in your throat. “She’s brave.”

“She’s annoying.”

“We like her. She’s fun.”

“Unfortunately.”

The medic beside you presses fresh gauze against your arm and you hiss through your teeth.

“Easy,” he says.

“Not my favourite word.”

Jack hums quietly through the speaker. “That’s true.”

Your chest aches with missing him. It feels stupid. He is only across the city. You have survived deployments and distance and night shifts and grief and all the ugly things life threw at both of you. Still, all you want suddenly is his hand around yours and his mouth against your forehead and the certainty that comes with him being close enough to touch.

You feel sixteen different kinds of exhausted.

“Leah?” you ask faintly.

The medic hesitates. Bad sign. Your stomach twists violently.

“She’s alive.”

Alive. Not stable. Not okay. Just alive. You nod once anyway.

The ambulance doors finally burst open into noise and fluorescent light. Controlled chaos already swallowing the ambulance bay whole. Stretchers moving. Nurses shouting vitals. Blood on the floor somewhere.

The Pitt. Home, in the worst possible way.

You barely make it two feet before spotting Jack. He is halfway across the bay giving orders to somebody when he sees you.

Everything stops.

Not literally. The ER still roars around him. Staff moving constantly. Sirens outside. Chaos everywhere. Still, something in Jack goes completely still the second his eyes land on you.

You have seen that look exactly twice before. Once overseas. Once after his wife died. It hits you hard enough to hurt.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

Then he is there. Hands on your face first. Immediate. Grounding. Like he needs physical proof you are standing in front of him. His eyes move over you rapidly after that, taking in blood loss, sweat and tears, and the dressing wrapped round your arm already soaked through.

You watch anger flood him in real time. Not at you. At the situation. At the blood. At the fact you got hurt where he could not protect you from it.

“Hey,” you whisper.

Jack grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard enough to shut you up entirely. Desperate. Furious. His hand shakes once against your jaw before he gets control of it again.

“You scared the fucking life out of me.”

The words come rough and low. You almost cry at the sound of it.

“I’m okay.”

“No, you are not.”

Pure Jack. Sharp enough to cut.

A nurse approaches carefully. “Abbot, we need—”

“Give me a minute.”

Nobody argues. You sway slightly where you stand and Jack’s entire grip tightens immediately.

“Woah, okay.” Softer now. “Easy, sweetheart.”

The adrenaline is disappearing. Fast. Your body suddenly feels unbearably heavy.

“Jake,” you manage. “Leah?”

“They’re in trauma.”

Alive then, at least for now.

Jack guides you backwards towards an empty stretcher with one hand firm against your waist. You can feel him slipping fully into doctor mode again despite the fear still sitting raw underneath it.

“Sit.”

“I can still help.”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“No.” Harder this time. “You’re done.”

You hate how emotional that makes you unexpectedly. You do not want to be done. You want to keep moving and helping and fixing because the second you stop everything catches up.

Jack sees it happen on your face instantly. Always does. His expression softens just slightly.

“Baby.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye before you even realise tears escaped. “Sit down before you drop down. Please.”

You obey mostly because your legs are beginning to shake badly enough that you genuinely might collapse. Jack kneels in front of you immediately to assess your arm himself despite multiple staff hovering nearby ready to do it for him.

His hands are steady. Only his jaw gives him away.

“You got lucky,” he mutters after peeling the dressing back carefully.

“Always do.”

He shoots you a look. Not amused. Blood covers his fingers now. Yours too. Familiar in the ugliest way. You watch him mentally catalogue damage with frightening speed.

“You should see the other guy,” you mumble weakly.

Jack stares at you for one long second before a broken little sound leaves him halfway between a laugh and something else entirely.

“Shut up, sweetheart.”

His forehead drops briefly against your knee. That scares you more than anything else has tonight. Jack does not fold. He bends maybe. Cracks quietly where nobody can see. Never folds, especially not in the Pitt of all places.

Your hand moves automatically into his hair. “Hey.”

He breathes once. Twice. Then straightens again before anybody else notices. Professional mask back in place.

“You’re getting fluids and scans,” he says flatly. “And if you try arguing with me I’ll sedate you myself.”

“There he is.”

His mouth twitches despite himself.

The curtain nearby suddenly gets shoved aside and Trinity stumbles through looking wrecked. Blood dried across her scrubs, hair a complete mess.

“Fuck,” she says immediately. “What do you need?”

The words slam straight into your chest. Jack stands instantly. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

Trinity looks at you then and visibly pales. “You’re bleeding through that.”

You glance down. The fresh dressing is already red again. Jack notices at exactly the same moment and something inside him finally snaps.

“Get me another pressure dressing now,” he barks sharply at a nurse nearby. “And where the hell is her trauma consult?”

You stare at him slightly dazed. Trinity does too. Jack never raises his voice unless things are bad. Seconds later, Trinity is called away to treat another casualty, and you watch Jack pale as if he needed that extra lifeline in the room just this once.

“I’m stable,” you try weakly.

Jack rounds on you so fast it almost startles you.

“You do not get to tell us you’re stable while bleeding through gauze every five fucking minutes.”

The nurse returns quickly with supplies while Jack drags a hand hard over his face like he regrets snapping immediately.

“Sorry,” he mutters roughly without looking at you.

Your chest aches. “Jack.”

He crouches back in front of you again, pressing fresh gauze carefully to your arm this time. His touch gentler now. Almost unbearably gentle. He presses one quick kiss against your forehead.

“Don’t move.”

“Bossy.”

“Yeah.” His hand squeezes the back of your neck once. “You married me anyway.”

Jack exhales slowly. The attending disappears first, but your husband stays.

“You scared me,” he says quietly.

No sharpness left in it now. No irritation. Just honesty stripped raw. Your chest aches immediately.

“I know.”

Jack pulls the stool closer and sits in front of you with a pained wince before carefully peeling back the soaked dressing around your arm. His touch stays precise but impossibly gentle at the same time. You know all the versions of him by now. The trauma doctor. The exhausted veteran. The husband who wakes instantly from nightmares with his hand already reaching for you.

This version is frightened. You feel it in every careful movement.

“You should’ve let somebody help you sooner,” he mutters while inspecting the wound.

“There were people worse off.”

Jack’s eyes flick to you with a frown. You look away, standing by that ugly instinct to keep going until your body physically gives out because somebody else always needs more.

“Sweetheart.” His voice softens dangerously. “You were bleeding through your clothes.”

“I know.”

“You nearly collapsed in the ambulance bay.”

You swallow hard. He starts flushing the wound carefully with saline and pain burns viciously through your arm. Your face tightens automatically.

“Sorry, baby.”

“You didn’t shoot me.”

“No, but I’d still like to kill whoever did.”

That nearly earns a laugh from you. Exhaustion hangs too heavily for humour now. Adrenaline burned off enough to leave everything underneath exposed and shaking.

Jack notices immediately. “You dizzy?”

“Yes.”

“Nauseous?”

“Little bit.”

“Head?”

“Hurts.”

“Good. Means you’ve still got one.”

You snort softly at that despite yourself. Jack’s mouth twitches faintly in quiet satisfaction before settling again. His hands are steady.

“You sounded scared on the phone,” you say quietly after a moment.

Jack keeps his eyes on your arm while wrapping fresh gauze into place. “I was terrified.”

The honesty knocks straight through you. “You never sound scared.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is with everybody else.”

His hands pause briefly. “You aren’t everybody else.”

Emotion climbs sharp into your throat so fast it hurts. Before you can say anything, the curtain suddenly jerks open.

Jake stumbles inside looking destroyed.

Your stomach drops instantly.

Blood has dried down the front of his shirt. His eyes swollen raw from crying already. He looks barely upright.

Jack stands immediately. “What happened, buddy?”

Jake opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Then suddenly he folds in on himself completely.

“She died. Leah died.” The words break apart halfway through. “She died and I wasn’t there and she was asking for me and I wasn’t fucking there—”

“Oh, Jake.”

You are moving before you even think about it despite the pain ripping through your arm instantly. Jake drops heavily into the chair beside your stretcher and puts both hands over his face like he physically cannot hold himself together anymore.

“I left her,” he chokes out. “I shouldn’t have left her.”

“No.” Your voice comes sharp automatically. “No, honey.”

Jack glances at you once before stepping back slightly, giving you space. Jake’s shoulders shake violently beneath your hand when you touch his arm.

“They said she coded again and they couldn’t get her back and I wasn’t there—”

“You listened to medical staff,” you say firmly, throat burning already. “You were injured too.”

“I should’ve stayed with her.”

Guilt. Pure, ugly survivor’s guilt already setting in. You know the shape of it intimately.

Jake starts crying harder. Full body shaking with it now. Young and heartbroken and completely lost. Something inside your chest caves painfully inward at the sound.

“She was scared,” he whispers.

You think suddenly about Leah lying on the concrete with blood soaking through your jacket. Her tiny voice saying how cold she felt. Jake holding pressure with shaking hands because you told him to.

Jack rests one hand briefly against the back of your neck. Grounding. Steady. You lean into it automatically while keeping your other hand wrapped around Jake’s wrist.

“You stayed with her,” you tell him softly. “You hear me? You stayed.”

His face twists apart completely. “I loved her.”

The room goes painfully quiet. Jack looks away briefly. You know why. Leah’s death hits him too. Every loss does, no matter how hard he tries to bury it beneath protocol and movement and work.

The hooks of the curtain scrape against the pole as Robby pulls it to step inside. Exhaustion hangs off him in visible waves. Blood on his scrub top. Eyes hollowed out by the night.

He takes one look at Jake. “Come on, kid.”

Jake looks up at him with a completely shattered expression. Robby crosses the space quickly and grips the back of his neck firmly. “C’mon.”

Jake doesn’t move. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” Robby says it quietly. Certainly. Like fact.

Jake wipes violently at his face. “I left her.”

Robby’s expression tightens for one brief second.

“No,” he says firmly. “You got shot trying to save her.”

Jake starts crying again anyway. Robby pulls him gently upright after a second, keeping one steady hand between his shoulder blades.

“Come sit with me for a minute.”

Jake looks back at you once before leaving. Lost. Apologetic somehow. You squeeze his hand weakly.

“This isn’t your fault.”

His face crumples again at that before Robby finally guides him back out into the chaos beyond the curtain. The second they disappear the room feels heavier somehow. Jack turns back towards you slowly. You realise suddenly your cheeks are wet too.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He moves immediately, stepping between your knees and pulling you carefully against his chest despite the IV line and bandaging. You go willingly, forehead pressed hard against him while everything finally catches up at once.

The gunshots. Leah. Jake crying. Jack hearing you bleed over the phone unable to reach you.

Your body starts shaking properly. “I couldn’t save her,” you whisper brokenly.

Jack’s arms tighten instantly. “That wasn’t on you.”

“I knew she was dying.”

His hand cradles the back of your head carefully.

“I knew.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I still kept lying to him.”

Jack pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “You gave him hope while she was alive.”

Your throat burns. You start crying harder at that. Quiet, ugly crying pressed into the front of Jack’s scrub top while he holds you through it without hesitation. Nobody ever talks about this part properly. The aftermath. The helplessness. The guilt medics carry around in their pockets like spare change.

Jack knows though. Of course he does.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your hair.

The words nearly finish you off entirely. Eventually, your breathing evens out again enough that he can guide you gently back onto the stretcher. His hand never fully leaves you.

“You need scans before I take you home,” he says quietly.

Home. The word lands soft. You look up at him tiredly. Really look. Exhaustion carved deep into his face now that the crisis is slowing. Tiny flecks of blood still near his jaw. Eyes red-rimmed from stress and lack of sleep and fear.

“You need rest too.”

Jack huffs quietly. “Yeah, well. You first.”

Your mouth twitches weakly. You love him so much it feels unbearable sometimes.

Later, after scans and stitches and far too much arguing over whether you can walk unassisted, Jack finally gets you home sometime near dawn.

The house is dark and still, as safe as you need it to be. Jack helps you out of your ruined clothes with unbearable gentleness before settling you carefully into bed. Clean shirt pulled over your head. Pain medication pressed into your palm. Water forced into you until he looks vaguely satisfied.

Then finally, after stripping off his bloodstained scrub top and unfastening his prosthetic with the exhausted familiarity of routine, Jack gets carefully into bed beside you.

The second the mattress dips, you move towards him automatically. Your face tucked against his throat. One arm curled carefully around his waist while he wraps himself around you just as instinctively.

For a long time neither of you speak. Jack’s fingers move slowly against your spine.

“You awake?” you murmur eventually.

“Yeah.”

Your eyes sting again suddenly. “Jake’s gonna blame himself forever.”

Jack goes quiet for a moment. “Probably.”

Honest. Always honest with you.

“He shouldn’t.”

“No.” His arm tightens slightly. “Neither should you.”

The emotion lodged in your chest aches horribly.

Outside, somewhere beyond your windows, the city keeps moving.

Inside, wrapped tightly around each other in the dark, the two of you finally stop trying to.

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ii. the first time you kiss him.

you ran off for a few days. no one could find you while you travelled further up the coast for a little getaway. not even pope who compulsively checked to see if you had turned your location back on, who went to your apartment over and over and hoped he’d see you sitting on your couch, curled up with a book.

when you return he’s already on your porch. his hands shake as he grabs you, pulling you into him and causing you to drop your bags. you breathe his name, your eyes wide while watching him frantically shake his head. his jaw goes tight as he rambles, squeezing you to make sure you understand. you feel the desperation in his hands.

“you can’t do that again, you can’t leave like that again—”

unsure of what else to do, you kiss him. a weak attempt at calming him down for your own safety and his. it’s so soft, so sweet and entirely you that his hands travel up your sides in two shaky drags. one finds the back of your neck while the other grabs your face, fingers digging into your plush cheeks so hard that it pulls a timid squeak out of you.

iii. the time you look up at him with teary eyes as he fucks you.

“oh— does it feel that good, sweet girl?”

pope croons while you stare up him with a look that he decides he can’t get enough of right then and there. your lashes are heavy, your eyes are glossy with tears that haven’t fallen just yet. he’s got your knees pressed up against your chest and your back completely fucked into his mattress. his favorite position to have you in, when he can see everything and all you have to do is be good and take it for him. he sinks in after stilling for a moment, grinning when you gasp all pretty and a fat tear finally rolls down your cheek.

you reach up to wipe it away with a sniffle, only for him to bat at your hand and then smack your wet cheek. he’s nowhere even close to using his strength but it’s enough to make you whimper in surprise and earn yourself another.

-when he gets sick he absolutely makes it your problem. tugging at your shirt for attention, making you take baths with him, making you comfort him and stroke his cock until he falls asleep

-if he gets needy at night (which happens very often) you’re definitely waking up to him fucking you from behind. he’s whining apologies into your neck, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i-i couldn’t wait…”

-he whines. a lot. hes soooo sensitive and he gets overstimulated so easy, your poor boy just needs you to take care of him :( maybe he even cries a little

-praise kink!!! i think after the shit he’s been through he totally just wants someone to tell him how good he is, and you’re more than happy to oblige.

-loves watching you when he fucks you. his ‘staring problem’ is definitely even worse in bed, he just wants to see how good he’s making you feel!

a/n: baby’s first kind of nsfw post… wrote this in an hour today after the most stressful exam of my life tbh so it’s slop i just think he’d be so sweet and cute and ugh i want to fuck him ❤️ sorry this is so short i’m going to sleep now 💤 edit: WOW thank you all so much for the love on this i really did not expect so many people to like this… you’re all lovely