Light My Way

Spring in Jackson always came hesitantly, as if afraid of melting the heavy snow caps on the mountaintops too quickly. But today, the sun seemed to finally have the upper hand. Its lazy, warm rays filtered through the loosely drawn bedroom curtains, drawing golden stripes on the wooden floor and on the edge of the heavy blanket.

You woke up to a familiar, barely perceptible rustle. The place next to you had already cooled down, but the pillow still retained a faint smell of tobacco, cedar oil and native warmth. From the kitchen, separated from the bedroom by only a small archway, came the muffled clatter of dishes and a quiet, barely audible rasp — Joel was trying to behave as quietly as possible, which with his build and heavy steps was an almost impossible task.

You smiled, stretching under the covers. Your hand dropped to your stomach by itself. He had already noticeably rounded out — the sixth month was making itself felt—and the usual, trembling warmth spread under the palm of his hand. The baby inside was quiet for now, as if he, too, was listening to the sounds of the house waking up.

When you wrapped yourself in Joel's voluminous flannel shirt (your own clothes were barely coming together at the waist) and slipped barefoot into the hallway, the floorboard creaked treacherously under your foot.

Joel, who was standing at the stove with his back to you, immediately turned around. He was wearing old, worn jeans and a gray shirt, the sleeves of which he habitually rolled up, exposing strong forearms covered with rare scars. He was holding an old cast-iron frying pan in his hand. When he saw you, he frowned, with that trademark, assumed severity behind which he had long been unable to hide his tenderness.

—Hey," his low, sleep—hoarse voice made your heart do its usual soft somersault.

"I told you to lie down." The sun had barely risen.

"I'm bored lying alone," you replied softly, coming closer.

"Besides, someone was so desperate to be a silent ninja that they would have woken up an infected person in the basement.

Joel let out a short laugh, shaking his head, and set the pan on the cold hob. He took a step towards you, and at the same moment his gaze fell on your bare feet. The touch of mild irony immediately evaporated.

—Honey, for God's sake," he growled, rapidly closing the distance between you. — The floor is icy. How many times should I say it? Tommy fixed the heating, but there are still drafts coming from below.

Before you could say a word in your defense, his strong arms wrapped around your hips and back. Joel lifted you up as easily as if you hadn't gained ten pounds in the last few months. Laughing, you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your nose in his coarse, slightly prickly beard, which smelled of morning freshness and light smoke from the stove.

He carried you to a massive wooden armchair, on which a thick woolen blanket was casually draped, and gently lowered you. Immediately, without getting up from his knees, he reached for your warm wool socks, left yesterday on the armrest, and began to carefully pull them on your feet. His huge, calloused fingers were surprisingly sensitive and careful.

"That's it," he grunted with satisfaction, tucking the edge of the plaid under your feet. "Now sit down. The coffee is almost ready. Well, more precisely, what we call coffee here. Chicory is mixed in half with the remains of real grains that were exchanged from merchants last week. But it smells good.

"And the eggs?" You asked hopefully, glancing at the stove.

"And eggs," Joel nodded, standing up to his full height and looking down at you with a soft, barely noticeable smile that made lines of wrinkles gather around his eyes. — Maria handed over the fresh ones from the poultry house. She said you need more protein right now. She generally controls your diet more strictly now than the patrol schedule.

You leaned back in your chair, feeling absolute, concentrated happiness spreading inside. In this harsh, dilapidated world, where every day outside Jackson's walls was a struggle for survival, it was safer here in this small wooden kitchen than anywhere else.

Joel returned to the stove. Watching him at such moments was your favorite pastime. The man who could reload a gun in one motion and whose name once made smugglers in Boston whisper, was now turning over an omelet with the most serious look, making sure that the yolk did not spread, because "you like liquid."

There was a crash from above, from the second floor. Judging by the sound, someone kicked the bedside table with a swing, and then a dull, sleepy curse was heard.

Joel didn't even turn his head, just sighed heavily, and the corner of his mouth twitched up again.

"Our patrol storm has woken up,— he stated quietly.

A minute later, Ellie appeared on the stairs. Her brown hair stood on end, a pillow mark was imprinted on her cheek, and a huge flannel shirt hung on her like on a hanger. She walked, shuffling her sneakers down the steps, and rubbed her eyes with all her might.

"What's that stink?".. — she croaked instead of greeting, but immediately caught the scent of food, and her eyes opened wider. — Oh. Grub. Joel, if you overcooked the bread again, I'll feed it to the horses.

—Good morning, Ellie. It's good to see you, too," Joel replied dryly, putting breakfast on plates. — And the bread is perfect. Sit down at the table and wash up, don't forget, it's scary to look at you.

Ellie made a face at him behind his back, a gesture that has become a mandatory morning ritual, and immediately turned her gaze to you. Her face softened instantly, although she tried to maintain her usual independent look. She came up to your chair, rested her elbows on the armrest and looked into your face.

—Hi,— she said softly.

"How are you?" This… Did the big guy inside you kick too hard last night? Otherwise, if he's taken after Joel, he's probably already trying to squeeze out more space for himself.

—Good morning, Ellie," you smiled, running your fingers through her disheveled hair. — Everything was quiet at night. I think we slept like marmots.

—Well, that's great," Ellie sniffed and squinted at your stomach, which was clearly visible under the loose shirt. She still sometimes looked at him with a kind of childish, timid apprehension, as if she was afraid that if she got too close, she would break some kind of magic. — Okay, I'm going to splash water on my face before the old man starts grumbling that I'm spreading the infection around the house.

—I can hear everything,— Joel replied from the stove, putting three plates and two mugs of hot drink on the table (herbal tea for you, coffee for him, and water for Ellie, since she didn't like to drink something hot in the morning).

Ellie just grunted and ran into the bathroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

Joel came up to you, holding your mug in his hands. He placed it on a small table nearby, and then he squatted down in front of your chair. His gaze has changed — the morning fuss has disappeared, giving way to something so deep and intimate that it takes your breath away.

When the bathroom door on the top floor slammed shut and the sound of running water could be heard, a ringing, almost tangible silence reigned in the kitchen.

Joel did not get to his feet. He remained squatting in front of your chair, looking up at you. His brown eyes, usually wary and tired from years of living, have now darkened, covered with a viscous, lazy haze. He reached out and gently took your hand, intertwining his long, callused fingers with yours.

"You look pale today,— he said softly, and his deep voice vibrated somewhere in your chest. — Are you sure you're feeling well? Did the baby bother you?

"It's okay, Joel,— you breathed out, feeling pleasant goosebumps on your skin from his proximity. "Just a little sleepy."

He gently released his hand and moved it to your thigh, squeezing it almost imperceptibly through the thin fabric of your house pants. His palm slowly, inch by inch, crept up until it rested on your rounded stomach. Big, hot, it covered him almost completely. Joel froze, listening, and his stern face smoothed out. He gently, barely pressing, ran his palm along the round curve, outlining the contours of their unborn child.

"Sleeping," he stated softly, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. — Obedient. Just like you.

But the pious concern in his eyes began to change rapidly. Joel's gaze slid higher, to where the collar of your loose flannel shirt was slightly askew, exposing your collarbone and the pale skin of your neck. His fingers, which had just been stroking your stomach, slid possessively but incredibly gently under the fabric, rising to your ribs and then higher.

You gasped softly as his other hand moved behind the back of your head, tangling slightly in your hair and forcing you to lean forward.

— Joel… You warned in a half—whisper, even though your own fingers were already gripping his sturdy shoulders by themselves. "Ellie will be down soon.

—Ellie's going to be stuck there for at least ten minutes, I know her habits," he growled against your lips. His breath, smelling of morning coffee, scorched your skin.

He kissed you, gently at first, probing the ground, but sensing your instant response, he deepened the kiss. His hot palm moved confidently up under your shirt, stroking your heavy chest, forcing you to sigh softly into his mouth. His other hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer to the edge of the chair, closer to him. Joel leaned forward, looming over you, and his kisses went down to your jaw and then to your neck, where he began to leave wet, teasing bites that made your knees weak.

—Joel, wait," you gasped, throwing your head back and melting at his touch.

His fingers tightened on your thigh, lifting the hem of your shirt even higher, and he possessively pressed his whole body against your legs, not letting you pull away. He acted confidently, with the same masculine gravity that you could never resist, especially now that your hormones were already making you want his touch every second.

And it was at that moment, when his lips covered yours again, and his hand under your shirt made you gasp, that you heard the distinct click of the door opening from above.

You didn't make it. More precisely, Joel tried to pull away as calmly as possible, but when Ellie, cheerfully jumping two steps at a time, flew into the kitchen, the oil painting appeared in front of her in all its glory: Joel, breathing heavily, with slightly smudged lips, is sitting on his knees in front of you, his hand is still suspiciously close to the hem of your shirt. And you're sitting there with a flushed face and disheveled hair, frantically adjusting your collar.

Ellie froze on the last step. Her eyes widened, and her face reflected a mixture of the deepest disgust and teenage malice.

— Oh-oh, ugh! — she drawled loudly, theatrically covering her eyes with her palm, although she still peeked through her outstretched fingers. —Really?" Right in the kitchen? Right before breakfast?! My eyes! My psyche is destroyed forever!

Joel slowly got to his feet. All his morning tenderness was instantly hidden behind a stony expression, although his ears were suspiciously red. He turned to Ellie, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Ellie, shut up and sit at the table," he cut her off dryly, trying to return to his usual commanding tone, which was coming out pretty badly.

— No, are you kidding me? Ellie walked over to the table, ostentatiously walking around Joel in a wide arc, as if he were contagious. — Joel, you're over fifty, for God's sake, she's got a baby inside, and you're still not going to calm down!

—Ellie! Joel growled louder and with a warning in his voice, but you saw the laughter tremble in the corners of his eyes in panic.

You couldn't stand it and giggled into your fist, hiding your face in a woolen blanket.

Ellie pulled out a wooden chair with a bang and plopped down on it, still grumbling under her breath and ostentatiously staring at the ceiling, pretending that she was afraid to look in your direction.

Joel sighed heavily, ran his hand over his face, trying to wipe away the remnants of the surging desire, and returned to the table. He silently pushed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast towards Ellie, and then took your portion and carefully brought it to you right by the armchair, along with warm herbal tea.

—Here,— his voice became soft again when he spoke to you, although he still tried not to look you straight in the eye, so as not to completely betray his inner embarrassed heat. "Eat before it gets cold."

—Thank you, Daddy,— you whispered softly, with your lips alone, accepting the plate.

Joel barely twitched his cheek, giving you a meaningful look that clearly promised * "we'll talk about this later when someone leaves"*, and sat down across from Ellie.

There was relative silence in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, broken only by the clatter of forks. Ellie was eating breakfast with the appetite of a teenager, but her malicious gaze kept darting from Joel to you.

—So,— she finally couldn't stand it, swallowing another piece of toast and resting her chin on her palm. "Since we're all here… ahem… "We're awake." What are your plans for today? Joel, are you going to spend all day in Tommy's workshop pretending to be very busy instead of mopping the floors?

"I have a shift at the mill today,— Joel replied calmly, without looking up from his plate. — We need to check the gears before the flood waters from the mountains come in full force. And after lunch, I promised Tommy I'd help fix the fence by the horse pens. So I've got my hands full. As far as I know, you're on patrol today.

Ellie immediately became serious, her shoulders slumped slightly, and the usual stubbornness flashed in her eyes.

—Yes,— she muttered. — Dina and I are leaving in an hour. Let's check the southern sector. The guys from yesterday's shift saw some footprints at an abandoned gas station. Most likely, they're just deer, but we need to check it out.

Joel pursed his lips at the mention of the patrol. It was his habitual, involuntary movement—he still hated letting Ellie go outside Jackson's walls, even though he understood that she was already an adult, trained and able to stand up for herself. But now, with a pregnant you waiting for him at home, his protective instinct seemed to have escalated to the limit, spreading to their entire little family.

"Be careful," he said dully. "Don't get into trouble. If you notice anything bigger than a couple of stray clickers, come back and report to Tommy. No need to be heroic.

—I know, I know," Ellie said, but there was no anger in her voice. She turned to you, and her face instantly softened. "You'll be home, right?" Don't carry heavy buckets of water, okay? If you need anything, tell Maria, she'll send one of the guys. Or I'll do it myself when I get back.

"It's okay, Ellie,— you smiled, touched by her clumsy but so sincere concern. — Joel has already brought firewood and water for three days in advance. I was just going to go to the library and spend some time in the garden, weather permitting.

Ellie nodded, finishing the last bite. She got up, took her plate to the sink, and suddenly froze as she passed your chair. She looked at your stomach, which seemed especially large now that you were sitting in a flannel shirt.

She hesitantly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hiding her hands in the pockets of the jacket she had already draped over her shoulders.

"Listen to me… — she began quietly, squinting at Joel, who at that moment pretended to be very absorbed in his coffee. — And he is… Well, or her… Have they heard anything yet? Well, outside?

You smiled softly and set the plate down on the table.

— They say that by this time they can already hear sounds perfectly. Especially low voices, and… he can definitely hear your voice, too, Ellie.

Ellie sniffed, a slight blush appearing on her cheeks. She took a step closer and, reaching out, quickly, as if afraid that she would be electrocuted, touched her fingertips to your stomach. At that very second, the baby inside, as if sensing the presence of his "older sister," responded with a distinct, gentle push directly into her palm.

Ellie flinched and widened her eyes, pulling her hand away, but immediately pressed it again, this time with her whole palm.

— Awesome… — she whispered, and a huge, silly and absolutely happy smile spread across her face. "He just kicked me!" Hey, little one, do you hear? This is Ellie. Just try to be born a grump like your dad, I'll personally teach you bad words and how to steal cigarettes from Tommy.

—Ellie,— Joel said with a warning laugh, but there were tears of pride and tenderness in his eyes, which he tried his best to blink away.

— That's it, that's it, I'm leaving! Ellie shouted cheerfully, grabbing her backpack by the door. — Bye! Joel… At least don't bother her until I leave the gate!

The door of the house slammed shut with a loud bang, and her footsteps quickly died away on the veranda.

Joel slowly got up from the table, shaking his head, and walked over to you. The tension of the patrols and the morning rush was gone, leaving just the two of them in a warm, spring house.

Evening fell on Jackson imperceptibly, enveloping the wooden houses in a cool bluish twilight.

Evening fell on Jackson imperceptibly, enveloping the wooden houses in a cool bluish twilight. After returning from Tommy's shift, Joel immediately got down to business: he lit the fireplace to expel the dampness that had accumulated during the day from the corners. After the noisy return of Ellie, who, after hastily having a snack and excitedly talking about a calm patrol, ran away to spend the night with Dina, the same secluded, ringing silence finally reigned in the house.

You were sitting on a small sofa right in front of the fireplace, tucking your legs under you and looking at the dancing flames. From the dimness of the room, heavy, measured footsteps came from the direction of the kitchen. Joel came up behind you, and you felt the couch sag slightly under his weight.

His big hands, smelling of wood and barely perceptible gun oil, rested on your shoulders. He began to slowly, strongly stretch the muscles that had become numb during the day, forcing you to blissfully close your eyes and lean your head back against his chest.

"Tired?" "What is it?" he asked softly, his deep voice close to your ear sounding like the rumble of distant thunder.

"My back hurts a little," you admitted, covering his hand with yours. "We're growing too fast.

Joel didn't say anything, but his hands immediately slid down your collarbones, over your breasts, until they settled on your rounded stomach. He sat down more comfortably, pulling you back against his broad chest, completely wrapping you in his warmth. His calloused fingers gently and methodically stroked the fabric of your nightgown. Under his palms, the baby turned lazily a couple of times and lay still, lulled by his father's warmth.

—You know,— Joel spoke softly, and you felt his beard tickle your neck. — I was working at the pens today and caught myself thinking… that I just can't get used to it. To the fact that it's all for real. You, this house, the child. Sometimes it feels like I'm going to wake up somewhere in Boston on a dirty mattress, with nothing but contraband and quarantine walls around me again.

You turned your head, catching his gaze, full of old, but gradually fading pain.

"It's okay, Joel. There's nothing to worry about."

He looked at you, and in the firelight his eyes darkened, filled with a thick, heavy tenderness. Joel gently turned you around, bringing you face-to-face on his lap. Your stomach is gently pressed against his firm abs.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he admitted hoarsely, brushing stray strands from your face. His breathing quickened.His lips covered yours, this time without the morning rush, but with incredible, hungry depth. Joel kissed you as if he were putting all his devotion into that kiss, possessively wrapping his arms around your waist.

He slowly lowered you from his lap right onto the soft pile of the carpet in front of the fireplace, throwing pillows from the sofa under your head. All his severity, his enormous strength, were now subordinated to one goal — to be as careful as possible with you. Joel was leaning on top of you, leaning on his elbows so as not to put his weight on your stomach.

His fingers, hot and eager, slid to the hem of your thin chemise. Lifting you slightly, he pulled the fabric over your head in one smooth motion and threw it somewhere into the darkness of the room.

In the semi-darkness, illuminated only by the golden flames of the fireplace, your heavy chest and rounded belly looked like a real miracle to him. Joel froze for a second, his heavy breathing scorched your skin, and his darkened eyes reflected a deep, almost religious adoration.

"You're so beautiful,baby girl" he breathed, and his voice cracked.

He reached for the hem of his sweatpants, hastily but carefully getting rid of the remnants of his clothes. Throwing them off, he exposed his sturdy, scarred body, and the contrast between his rough, masculine strength and your soft, feminine figure seemed incredibly right now.

Joel lowered himself lower, covering your neck, collarbones with kisses, catching your first quiet sobs with his lips. His palms caressed your thighs, slowly rising to your waist. He stopped at your stomach, pressing his lips to the round curve and leaving there a long, tremulous kiss that made your stomach ache sweetly. You felt a wave of tenderness rise in your throat, and you sighed shakily, twining your fingers into his coarse, gray-streaked hair at the back of his neck.

When his fingers gently touched your inner thigh, gently spreading them apart, you moaned softly with impatience. You were wet and hot, completely ready for him, and the hormones of pregnancy only aggravated every touch to the limit.

Joel lifted himself up, settling between your thighs. He entered you in one smooth, slow and careful motion, forcing you to convulsively arch your back and gasp for air. A long, hoarse sob of pleasure escaped from your chest. Joel froze inside, his muscles tensed, and large beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He held himself back with all his might, peering into your face, checking if you were okay.

Catching your pleading, lust-clouded gaze, he began to move.

It was slow, deep, and incredibly slow. Each of his thrusts was filled with such a weighty, tangible tenderness, from which everything inside was compressed into a sweet, tight spiral. Joel intertwined his fingers with yours, pressing your hands to the floor, and his movements became a little faster, but remained just as sensitive.

— Joel… Oh my God, Joel," you sobbed, breaking into a whisper as he touched the most sensitive points inside you.

He caught your every breath, every soft moan, eagerly biting into your lips to kiss those sounds. The golden glow of the flames danced on his broad, bulbous back. The heat inside grew, filling his entire being. You freed your arms and hugged him tightly around his neck, nuzzling his shoulder, smelling of skin and male sweat, suffocating from the avalanche of feelings that covered you.

You pulled him towards you, demanding more, tightening your thighs around his waist. Joel moaned into your neck in a low, hoarse voice and gave up—his thrusts became a little harder, more confident, but he still took care of your stomach, keeping his weight on his hands. It was a balancing act on the verge of completely dissolving into each other. At the peak of your pleasure, you squeezed your eyes shut, shouting his name, feeling everything inside explode with sweet, convulsive waves of ecstasy. Joel pushed into you one last time, hard and powerful, and with a broken, hoarse exhale he poured out inside, shuddering all over his body and holding you tightly to him.After a long time, when the flames in the fireplace had turned into comfortably smoldering coals, you were still lying on the floor, covered with a heavy woolen blanket.

Joel was lying on his side, hugging you from behind. His hand, as always, rested on your stomach, slowly and reassuringly stroking your skin. Your breathing became even, and Joel's heartbeat at your shoulder blade was pounding steadily and reliably. In this house, lost among the snows and forests of Wyoming, protected by his huge palms, you fell asleep with the absolute knowledge that you were completely safe.

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

You've had enough by the third day in a row Noelle calls you on her way out of work to complain about Robby.

In all fairness, it's your own fault for having allowed her to go out with him instead of nipping it in the bud the second you noticed her eyebrows shoot up and her mouth turn upwards into a flirty smirk.

Ugh if you could go back in time, you would've slapped the ever living shit out of both of them, her for falling for it and him...for literally just existing.

Luckily for you, you got put on night shift rotation soon after they started...hanging out. Cause, even at his old ass age of fifty plus years, chief attending Michael Robinavitch "doesn't date”.

"We're just keeping it casual". Ah yes, famous last words for an anxiously attached, perfect princess that is Noelle Hastings.

It doesn't matter how smart someone is, no one prepares you for how stupid “getting dicked down good”, her words, not yours, will make you. You honestly wish you could scrub the memory of her coming down to the ED almost every single second of the day with the most obnoxious excuses just so that she could talk to him.

It made you gag involuntarily every time, earning you a sharp slap on the arm from her and a curious side glance from Dana. After a few days of torture, your boss needed to switch you out to nights, their resident recluse social worker that tended to take the shifts having to take a sudden leave of absence and since your other coworker had just become a dad, it was literally down to you.

The joys of being single and unattached.

So you'd made the switch, getting to escape the horror that was seeing them interact in person, but still getting an hour long debrief every night while you got ready to clock in. 

You're certain this is how they're going to torture you when you inevitably end up in hell and this is just a preview.

"And then he texted that he needed space, that this just isn't working for him anymore! Can you believe him?"

Yes, yes you can.

You sigh into the phone, not really knowing what to say to comfort her since...you both knew of his reputation before she jumped into bed with him.

So you settle on—"I'm sorry, babe. He's an idiot who clearly doesn't know what he's throwing away."

The words sound foreign to you when you say them. They're rehearsed, recycled from all the other times you've had to give her the same reassurance over and over again.

Truth be told, Noelle is also a part of the problem, so focused on being the one to break his pattern that she also fell victim to her own self-destructive nature.

"I just—I feel like I'm crazy, you know? Like what the fuck is wrong with me? I'm forty-two for fuck's sake! I should not be feeling this—this—ugh!"

That pulls a little giggle out of you. It's always funny to you when, no matter her age and maturity, she ends up in situations that make her feel just as silly and confused as your twenty-five year old ass. 

"Hey!" you check her. "You did nothing wrong...aside from sleeping with him when you knew he was emotionally unavailable—" she whines, forcing another laugh from you. "He's the problem. He should just make peace with dying alone and not bother anyone else for the rest of his miserable life."

You hear her let out a laugh that unmistakably crumbles into a sob. Fuck, you feel so bad. You wish you could comfort her, wish you could be a good friend to her, but the truth is...you honestly don't know how.

So you joke.

"And hey, maybe some hot piece of ass will cross his path and give him a taste of his own medicine, he's bound to run into someone with an even worse avoidant attachment than him."

You chuckle nervously.

The line goes uncharacteristically quiet.

Ominous.

You tap your phone screen to make sure you haven't lost her.

The call's timer continues on.

And then—

"Why don't you do it?"

After a five minute long string of apologies and desperately trying to let you know that she didn't mean for it to come across as questioning your character—which ouch, to say the least—Noelle finally let you get a word in.

"Yeah why not."

You would've given anything to see the shock on her face in person but the thick silence that followed your admission would have to do for now.

In all honesty, you've been looking for another project to keep you entertained through the rigorousness and emotional weight that came from working as a social worker. All your empathy went to making sure your patients got the best care and support possible, so being given a reason to do something just a little mean?

Worth the possible humiliation, and even then, you could just go back to working nights and escape having to deal with him ever again.

Yeah you definitely needed to work on your avoidance…but that could wait.

Convincing your boss to let you switch to days wasn’t hard. You’d asked one of your coworkers who owed you a favor to switch with you, claim he needed to do something, you honestly couldn’t care, for seven weeks and that they needed to change around their hours.

It works flawlessly.

So after one more night shift and two days to get your body back on track for days, you were making your way into the ED for your 8 am call time for the first time in years.

And immediately…you desperately miss the night shift.

You’ve had to work closely with some of the day shift doctors and nurses throughout your tenure, but it was always just one or two per shift, drenched in the pace and culture of the night shift—a little weird but also very chill—so now having to deal with all of them…it was a shock to the system to say the least.

Santo’s anger, Whitaker’s “nice guy” persona, McKay’s righteousness, Ogilvie’s…everything; it’s a lot to take in constantly. You cherish getting to work with the more level headed ones and constantly have to bite your tongue when Robby reprimands them.

Michael Robinavitch is…the universe’s response to you, all ego and fragile masculinity.

You can see the appeal, rugged around the edges, like a home renovation project you know will ultimately cost you your entire life’s savings but maybe, just maybe, you’ll find original hardwood floors underneath the disgusting plastic panelling the last landlord installed.

Jokes on everyone because you’re investing in this house to tear it all down.

You spend the first week observing, calculating, making friends and getting as much gossip as you can from the loves of your life, Perlah and Princess. If either of them know about your reputation, neither lets it be known, eager to actually talk shop with someone from nights who can fill in the gaps to the gossip that has gone incomplete for the past year.

So you do, you trade information for loyalty, something that Dana clocks right away.

She tries to shoo you away constantly, begging you not to distract her staff, but that doesn’t stop you from joining their group chat, bringing them coffee, joining them for bottomless margaritas after their shift.

The doctors aren’t any different either, loose tongues spewing little comments about Robby’s deteriorating behavior ever since Pitt Fest almost a year ago.

For a second you feel bad, all of his outbursts clearly stemming from the trauma of the event…and after you learn that his mentor passed away that same day, well the whole picture makes much more sense.

How Noelle ever thought that she could fix him is beyond you.

There’s nothing to fix, only a shell of a man that literally doesn’t know where he’s going anymore or even if he wants to keep going in any direction.

You do wonder if you might start pushing him too far, what his reaction could be if what you do actually pushes him over the edge. You try to inquire about support systems and even therapy…but he’s literally raw dogging his illness.

All you really can do is tell Jack to be ready if anything happens.

Which you’re sure won’t.

Robby’s too narcissistic for it.

God’s gift to medicine and all that.

He’s a lonely bachelor. Afraid of the silence. Overwhelmed by the noise. Just a ball of stress and anxiety and everything that makes your chest tighten and your breathing hitch in the worst way possible.

But fuck it.

Just because you can excuse away his behavior doesn’t mean you should just let it slide.

The bigger issue now is…how to get him to become interested in you?

You honestly don’t know how you can compete with Noelle.

She’s the total package—beautiful, successful, age appropriate—there’s no way you can—

“I’ve never seen you before.”

Of course…all men are exactly the same.

You don’t even deign him with a glance his way, simply continue filling out the chart in your hands.

“That’s good,” you joke. “I’d be worried if you had, there’s thousands of people working in the hospital, it would be creepy if you knew every single person.”

You hear him smirk, shifting closer to you until your arms touch.

Oh this is going to be absurdly easy.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch,” he awkwardly extends his hand towards you. “But everyone just calls me Robby.”

That’s when you turn to look at him, a shy yet genuine smile tugging at your lips. You shake his hand, making sure to linger just enough as you tell him your name in return.

You can see his brain working overtime to commit it to memory.

You finally let go of his hand when Dana calls out to him, incoming trauma, two minutes out, multi-car pileup.

Oh boy, that’s gonna be a shit show.

You feel him wince, taking off his hoodie in preparation for the marathon he’s about to run. You can’t help but ogle, the way his scrub top lifts ever so slightly, exposing his soft belly underneath.

You breathing hitches ever so slightly, but he catches it, catches you. Hook.

He grins, his beautiful crows feet framing his tired eyes. Line.

Your cheeks heat up. You advert your gaze, shame bubbling ever so slightly.

“Good luck,” you tell him, running away before the ED devolves into even more chaos.

He’s too slow, watching you go as the world around him disappears for just a second, realization dawning on him that he didn’t get your number.

Sinker.

He doesn’t ask anyone for your number.

You know because no one has come up to you to ask if you’re okay with the chief of the emergency department having direct access to you.

So you just wait.

You know you’ll run into him again eventually, but every time you go down to the ED after the car crash leaves you empty. You don’t run into him even once. You barely even catch glimpses of him walking the floor and catching up with his residents.

If he’s straight up avoiding you, there’s simply no way to know.

So you’re left to manufacture your own luck, unfortunately.

You know about their park beer tradition.

So you linger. Gross.

Day shift ends at seven. There’s charting and handovers and…whatever old men do when they don’t have a reason to go home so they stick around for way longer than they have to.

It’s about nine when you notice the day shift start to thin out so you take your chance, pretending to be engrossed in your phone as you loiter around the public entrance to the ED. It’s five minutes later when Donnie, Perlah, Santos, Samira and Whitaker step out, two six packs in hand.

“Hey, transplant!” Donnie greets you, the nickname causing you to roll your eyes playfully. In another life, you could’ve been great friends. “Wanna join us?”

He lifts up a pack so that you’ll catch his drift.

You pretend to think about it for two seconds until they catch your drift, devolving into a gaggle of laughter and pent up energy.

You follow them across the street to the park, settling next to Perlah as you try to ask her about her day in Tagalog, gotta keep up with them somehow.

Small talk is lively and you can literally feel the energy shift as they unload the horrible things that happened to them.

You listen, intently and surprisingly engaged, as Donnie and Santos reenact the scene for you.

“Oh my god? That’s actually fucked up.”

Everyone laughs, everyone drinks, everyone feels better.

And then silence falls.

It’s like your body knows he’s behind you before anyone gives you a heads up.

“Want one, cap?” Donnie asks him but you’re certain he declines because all he says is your name, practically begging you to turn to look at him.

You do, pretending to be a doe caught in headlights, your favorite move honestly.

“Ready to go?”

Your brows scrunch in confusion briefly before you catch the meaning in his words.

Oh wow. You did not think he was going to be so forward.

Okay, this makes it even easier for you.

“Yeah!”

You detach yourself from Perlah and Samira, saying goodbye to everyone and chugging the last of your now warm beer before adding it to the tower you’ve constructed. When it doesn’t topple over, you all erupt into a chorus of cheers.

You bow dramatically, cheeks hot, heart beating out of your chest.

“I’ll catch you guys later,” you wave goodbye, grabbing your tote and walking away from the group towards your apartment, not even bothering to wait for Robby to catch up, because you just know he’s following.

He settles into a comfortable pace beside you two blocks later, after a long internal battle with himself to follow through or back out. He still can, you know for a fact he won’t do anything to you in this state, even if you’re perfectly fine only having had one beer.

His arm bumps against yours, his towering frame inadvertently making you drool a little.

“I didn’t know I had an escort tonight,” you chuckle, the double meaning of your words clearly making him choke on a breath.

You giggle, enjoying his lack of game. It’s all a ploy, you know that much. Pretend to be shy and like he doesn’t know what he’s doing—it’s definitely disarming.

“What can I say,” he huffs. “Would you like me to make up a lie about crime rising in the city or how a lady as lovely as yourself should definitely not be walking alone at night?”

Your cheeks burn. Jesus fuck, he’s good.

“Well, considering I usually take the bus and decided to walk only because a grown ass man such as yourself doesn’t drive a car—”

He lets out a gasp in mock offense. “Hey, it would be irresponsible for me to drive after working for more than twelve hours.”

It’s a line, definitely. Yet it works.

You stop abruptly, giving him the reaction he craves.

He turns to you then, a little concerned, definitely still strung up from all that pent up energy that won’t leave him, ready to get right back into crisis mode—

“That’s…so hot.”

His features soften as your words process.

He shoots you a shy smile in return. “Don’t know about that—”

“What, you don’t think empathy is sexy?”

He looks down at his shoes then, finding them incredibly interesting all of a sudden.

“I don’t think I’m…it doesn’t matter. Point is,” he looks back up at you, like a lost puppy that’s begging you to get him off the street. “I prefer to walk.”

You don’t hesitate, stepping up to him, getting all up in his personal space, arms wrapping around his torso, standing on your tip toes so that you can be as close to his mouth as possible.

“Well, I don’t have to think,” you whisper over his lips. “I just know.”

You watch him close his eyes, mouth hanging open just slightly, body just barely leaning forward into you. 

He wants you to do it.

You smirk, your lips right there—

He almost falls flat on his face as you swiftly detach yourself from him.

“I’m starving, Dr. Robby,” you whine. 

It takes him a second to regain his composure. You’re certain he’s thanking every single deity that it’s just the two of you right now because he definitely looks pathetic.

“Wanna get some food?” He clears his throat, the pink on his ears a clear sign that he’s just not okay.

You nod, biting back a grin, threading his hand in yours and pulling him towards the 24-hour diner up ahead.

You spend the rest of the week doing the awkward dance around your feelings.

You’re certain he’s made up his mind about you, waiting for you to take the leap and put him out of his misery for good.

But you don’t.

You keep him on his toes, questioning whether your touches are simply friendly or not, desperate for you to help him find some relief from the lust that has started to build up inside of him.

It’s a Saturday when you finally put your plan into motion.

You’re over at his, a pizza and a pint of ice cream shared while watching a movie. Such a domestic night. If you didn’t know any better, it’d look like the two of you were in a relationship.

You’ve “fallen asleep” as the credits roll, body falling onto his in the process. You can feel his heart speed up as you cuddle into him, head resting snugly over his chest as your leg drapes over his crotch.

He’s already hard under the blanket, it’s why he draped it over his legs in the first place, but you managed to burrow yourself under it quickly, reveling in how he tensed painfully as you did so, your warmth on his body overwhelming.

You’ll give it to Robby, his restraint has been astounding. He hasn’t even tried to kiss you yet, luckily for you. You wait until his heart returns to normal, until he lulls himself into a false sense of security, until he doesn’t try to move you or wake you up. 

He’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

It’s when he settles, arms wrapped around you softly, enjoying your closeness, that you strike.

You move your hips, a sleepy jerk at first.

It’s exhilarating.

His heart picks up again, arms lifting off your body for deniability, but you don’t wake up. Instead, you adjust, further onto him, practically straddling him now.

Your crotch rubs over his, the thin fabric of his boxers that he’s lent you so that you can sleep more comfortably doing nothing to stop him from feeling just how warm you are down there.

He stifles a groan, his dick practically screaming at him for some relief. He’s decked himself out in sweatpants and a long sleeve, practically covering up every inch of skin in an attempt to not come across as a creep.

And what have you done?

The exact opposite, wearing his shirt, his underwear, and nothing else.

He should feel elated that you’re so comfortable around him, but right now, with your folds practically rubbing against him, he’s reminded of just how depraved he is.

You hum softly, satisfyingly as your clit rubs against his length.

There’s no way this is actually happening, that you know what you’re doing, right?

When you don’t wake yourself up, Robby settles down a little, allowing himself the simple indulgence of feeling you, of being used for your pleasure.

Your mouth hangs open just against his neck. He can feel the little pants, the neediness—

He just wants to help, he needs to.

So he shakes you awake.

“Honey,” the word rumbles against your ear. “Need you to stop doing that.”

You “blink awake”, catching yourself in the act, mortification flooding your face instantly.

“Oh my god I am so sorry,” you go to leap off him but his hands instantly stop you, pressing you roughly against him.

You moan, hands coming up to bunch in the fabric of his shirt.

“Robby—” you pant, real shame bubbling in your gut, a spark of excitement rushing through your body. 

He shushes you gently, slowly moving you over his dick, the pressure just right.

“Fuck.” You actually want to cum now. A nice side effect from all of your scheming.

He manages a chuckle, eyes locked on you, desperate to watch you come undone over him, against him, because of him.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Use me, baby, such a good girl.”

So you put on a good show for him.

Your mouth hangs open in a perpetual oh, your hips begin to roll in tandem with his own, your hands caress his shoulders, making their way around his neck to rake your fingernails on the nape, scratching right where you’ve seen him do to himself many times before.

He shivers then, his legs shaking, core tightening as he spasms beneath you. Dampness seeps through his sweatpants, his arms snaking around your back to pull you in, press you tightly against his chest as his head falls into the crook of your neck.

He moans through his orgasm, hissing only when his dick has gone soft and you’re still putting pressure on it, your own release evading you.

“Oh baby,” he coos condescendingly and you desperately have to lock up your heart as to not fall for it. “Let me help you.”

One of his hands snakes underneath the waistband of the boxers you’re wearing, his pointer and middle finger pinching at your clit. You yelp, body jerking away from his hand but you’re so close to him that there’s nowhere to run.

So you settle on him harder, causing him just as much pain as he’s causing you.

He chuckles against your skin, moving on from pinching to rolling the pads of his fingers gently now, your own pleasure slowly building back up from there.

“Robby,” you huff into his ear, gooey and needy. “Please…please, oh god please may I cum—”

He doesn’t respond with words, instead he just picks up the pace, swishing his touch from side to side until you’re a heaving, panting mess, your core clenching around nothing and exploding in unbelievable pleasure.

Your orgasm washes over you swiftly, your own release mixing with his own, getting the two of you even more messy and worked up than before.

You slump against him, breathing heavily as you try to match your breathing with his own. He’s actually lovely, drawing gentle circles over your thighs, holding you against his warmth until you’re ready.

Eventually, you peel yourself back, a dopey smile on your face

“Hi,” Robby blushes.

“Hey,” you roll your eyes, causing him to laugh in response at your brattiness.

“Alright, whatever,” he can’t stop laughing, a sound so foreign to him that it breaks his heart a little. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nod, making no attempt to get off him, desperate to hold onto him like glue. And to your surprise, he doesn’t seem to care, letting himself get swept away in the fantasy of intimacy.

So obviously, you have to avoid him now at all costs.

Every time you’re called down to the ED, you make sure to sneak away before he can even notice you. If you’re working on one of his cases, you’re professional and to the point, never meeting his eyes knowing a knowing smirk awaits you.

By the fourth day of you ignoring him at the hospital and dismissing his texts, you know he’s desperate. It’s why, when a hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you sharply into a supply closet, the little gasp that escapes you is more thrill than surprise.

Strong hands roam your body greedily as you barely hear the door shut, the lock latching afterwards.

He doesn’t even try to kiss your lips, instead, he focuses on leaving a sloppy, desperate trail down your neck as he towers over you.

“Robby,” you whine, voice shaky already. “What’re you—fuck, what’re you doing?”

He grins against your collarbone. “What’s it look like?”

You shiver, a breath getting caught in your chest as you try to stand your ground.

“We’re at work.”

“So?”

It’s your own fault really.

You could push him away, could set down strong boundaries and tell him to fuck off…

But you don’t.

You get swept up in the desperation, in his neediness, in just how special he’s made you with his attention.

His hand snakes beneath your skirt before you can even think of how to respond, your very cheeky choice of not wearing any shorts underneath a blessing in disguise as his fingers swiftly pull your panties to the side to run along your folds.

You whimper, legs turning to jelly as he positions his own in between them to hold you up.

“Oh baby, you’re so wet,” he groans against your ear, teeth nipping at your earlobe. “Did you miss me too?”

You nod, biting down on your lip to stop the moans from escaping.

“Gonna cum all over my fingers?” He accentuates by sliding his middle finger into you, your walls clenching around it sinfully. “Of course you are, so good for me.”

Tears begin to swell in your eyes as his pointer finger joins in, his movements leisurely and mean. He barely curls them, barely gives you any relief that isn’t for his own enjoyment.

“Robby…you’re being…you’re being mean,” you whine. “Please—”

That gets a belly laugh from him in return, cruel now.

“Oh baby, you thought I was just gonna give you what you wanted? After you ignored me for four days?”

“I wasn’t—I got busy.”

You’re panting now, voice barely recognizable as he continues to torture you.

He shakes his head. “No, you’re not that good a liar, baby,” he curls and you clench. “I’ve seen you around, seen how you run off when you see me—so now I’m gonna take my time.”

The tears fall, your makeup running down your cheeks along with them. He preens at the sight, mouth kissing over your cheekbone lightly to taste the salty streaks.

He groans at the taste, slamming you back against the wall a little harder, his fingers picking up the pace, lodging themselves inside of you and wriggling them against your g-spot relentlessly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck Robby shit—” you bite down on his bicep to muffle your moans. He hisses, the pain only spurring him on apparently.

Jesus fucking Christ, maybe you have finally found a worthy opponent.

You’re coming undone in seconds, his harshness only turning you on quicker, causing your orgasm to spring up on you suddenly. You’re shaking so hard you’re certain the shelves are vibrating around you.

He chuckles darkly, taking advantage of your blissed out state to wrap his lips just below your ear, right on your pulse point, sucking a purple mark onto your skin.

Once he’s satisfied and you’ve stopped shaking, he finally pulls back, watching you though lust clouded eyes as you continue to pant. You stare up at him, shaking your head incredulously.

It isn’t until he steps forward, his crotch pressing against your lower abdomen that you snap back to the present.

Robby’s big, unsurprising giving his…everything. The first time you felt it you had to pretend like you hadn’t noticed, all so that your heart wouldn’t give out. But now…now you want to drop to your knees and take him right into your mouth, alleviate—

His phone rings, invading your little pocket of deviancy.

He hisses loudly, annoyance exploding through every nerve in his body. You giggle, teasingly raking your nails along his exposed skin. He shivers under you but picks up the phone.

Emergency, obviously, it comes with the territory.

Even though it’s five minutes out, they’re scrambling, looking for him. He huffs in distress, nodding along to whatever Dana’s saying. Meanwhile, you distract yourself by peppering his jaw and neck with kisses, torturing him at his own game.

He hangs up the phone, making sure to settle you back down on your own two feet gently before he kisses your temple and walks to the door.

You’re supposed to let him go, keep your mysterious persona alive, you know that and yet—

Your hand reaches out for him, stopping him before he can leave.

He turns to you, brows scrunched in both confusion and hope?

“Five minutes out?”

He catches your drift instantly, his cock twitching in his scrubs painfully.

You step forward, staring up at him through your lashes, taking in how his shoulders drop, how his face relaxes, how his eyes close and his mouth hangs open just slightly as your nails flutter just above his bellybutton, pulling at his scrub top and his undershirt.

Pulling the fabric from where they’re tucked into his pants, you make a point to trace his belly, humming satisfactorily as he shivers beneath your touch. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare touch you, doesn’t even dare breathe or make a single sound.

Your left hand reaches underneath the elastic, swiftly pulling the fabric out before it wraps around the base of his length. He’s thick and hot and perfectly heavy in your palm, the hair around him only adding to his attractiveness.

Fuck, you have got to pull yourself together. This is definitely getting away from you, soon this won’t just be about playing with your food and your heart aches at the thought.

He hisses at the contact, eyes shooting open to land on yours, and the second they do, you make a show of spitting on your right hand swiftly replace your other with it.

The slick makes it so easy to stroke him, putting just the right amount of pressure against his hardness as you slowly pull his boxers and pants off to his mid thighs so that you can work more comfortably.

The cold hospital air hits his throbbing tip and he twitches against your palm, precum leaking from him and combining with your spit. You run your hand over his head, pulling a sinful hiss from him as he finally pounces, strong hands grabbing a hold of your plush hips to steady himself.

You pick up the pace in response, Robby’s legs tensing beautifully as his breathing picks up, little pants and huffs escaping his lips in tandem with your movements.

“Baby—need to—fuck—”

He doesn’t get to beg as you feel him close, right on the precipice. And because you love the cleaning staff and wish them no harm ever, you drop to your knees in an instant, mouth opening and taking his tip against your tongue as he spills, hot and heavy, against the back of your throat.

He looks almost angelic as he cums. Groans filling the tiny room freely, hands tangling in your hair, not pushing or pulling, just there. Grounding, as if he can’t believe this is actually real and not some sick fantasy.

With one whole minute to spare, he finally catches his breath, his cock limping against your tongue as you run the muscle over his slit. To clean him up, obviously, not to watch him whine pathetically as the overstimulation makes him tense up.

That’s when he pulls, a sharp tug of your hair so that you stop. You beam up at him, placing a final kiss to his tip before you oblige and get back up to your feet.

He has no words for you, only answering with an unbelieving shake of the head as he massages your scalp while you tuck him back into his underwear and secure his pants with a neat little bow.

That’s when he kisses you.

Fuck.

You’re certain if his eyes were open he’d see your own bug out of your skull.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You don’t kiss him back, you can’t, you won’t, you—

Luckily he doesn’t linger, it’s just a soft peck, one that doesn’t evolve, doesn’t become greedy. It’s just…grateful. You fucking hate it.

He pulls back just as soon as it started, an uncharacteristically dopey smile on his face.

You roll your eyes. “Wipe that off or they’ll know something’s up.”

“Well, down now thanks to you.”

Your eyes widen in shock at his words, his carefree attitude something you’ve never seen from him before.

He chuckles at your reaction, unlocking the door and peeking his head out to check for witnesses before he steps out.

He winks back at you, a silent gesture to let you know the ball is in your court.

The second he’s gone you curl in on yourself.

Fuck.

It takes you a while to figure out how to proceed.

You’re past the halfway mark by now, just three more weeks and he’ll be getting ready to toss you to the curb. At least that’s what you’ve been told from multiple sources.

It turns out Robby’s got a trail of broken hearts longer than his…the point is, you know you have to keep him interested, throw him a bone every now and then, so you do.

You let him get comfortable again in your little after work routine, go out to dinner with him, let him cop a feel under the table, let him revel in the little marks he’s left on your neck and chest like badges of honor.

But he starts to get a little too comfortable, too regulated with your routine. So you shake things up every now and then. You feel so awful when you can’t see him, some shifts ending way earlier than his now that you’ve got him hooked on you. 

Which is why you compromise—

You: [sent a photo]

You know he’s losing his mind when he calls you in response exactly two minutes later.

“You know, I didn’t think so earlier, but you are definitely trying to kill me.”

You chuckle, a little seductive, definitely dismissive. “Is it working?”

He doesn’t answer with words, just a low, guttural groan that has you shifting under the covers.

“Doctor Robinavitch, are you touching yourself while on the phone with one of your employees?”

You just know his entire face and neck are beet red now. 

He moans in response. “Aren’t you?”

You giggle. “Would you like me to?”

“I would like for you to come over…” he pants, an opening.

You sigh, reaching over to your bedside drawer and pulling out your vibrator, turning it on so that he can hear the humming on the other side of the line as your answer to that question.

He whines, a little dramatic for your liking but you’ll take it. After the shit he pulled in the storage closet, you’re definitely not going over anytime soon.

You insert the toy, body instantly erupting in goosebumps as you moan into your phone.

“See, I don’t understand why we even need men anymore,” you huff, airy and laced with pleasure. “Your dicks don’t even vibrate.”

He chuckles on the other end, amused by your…everything.

He’d never admit it, but he’s definitely never met anyone quite like you before, all spunk and no filter. It’s driving him crazy.

“Call me old fashioned all you want, but you’d forget all about your little toy if you had me inside of you.”

Fuck, you clench at his confidence, a moan escaping without your consent.

“See? Even the thought of my cock has you coming undone, baby.”

Cocky motherfucker.

“I bet I can make you cum without even touching you.”

He laughs then, unburdened for the first time in…

“You’re doing it right now.”

“No,” you whimper. “No stimulation…from either of us.”

“Now who’s cocky.”

The laugh that escapes you twists into a string of moans as your slick pushes the vibrator further into you, the bent tip notching perfectly against your g-spot.

“Robby I hate to cut this short but—”

“I got you, baby,” he groans, his own hand picking up the pace to catch up with you, the slick, desperate sounds only adding to your undoing.

“Fuck, please, Robby I need to cum.”

“Not yet.”

“Please, I don’t think I can hold it—”

“You can and you will.”

You wail, legs thrashing against your mattress as you clench your abdomen painfully. You focus on his pants, his moans, his peak, waiting impatiently as his breathing falters—

“Cum with me baby.”

It’s all the encouragement you need to let go, your release squirting out of you, pushing the toy out as it continues to vibrate. He hears it, the wetness of it all, and can’t help but beam as white, hot spurts land on his uncovered stomach.

“Fuck, Robby…” you mumble, taking your time as you come down from your high. Meanwhile, he’s still cumming, something that hasn’t happened to him since college. 

He doesn’t know what pushes him to do it, but after his dick has finally stopped twitching from his release and finally settles back comfortably against his leg, he grabs his phone off the bed and—

Robby: [sent a photo]

You blink at the sudden ding from your phone, a streak of tears falling down your cheeks as you open the attachment.

Your breathing hitches, saliva pooling in your mouth suddenly.

“Robby,” you whine.

He huffs back a laugh. “Show me your mess, baby.”

A fire burns inside of you, desperate to fight back against all these horrible feelings that have spawned inside of you. With shaky hands, you turn the call into a FaceTime, pointing the camera down to the puddle between your legs.

“Fuck!”

You giggle in response, giving him a few more seconds before you hang up entirely, slumping back on the mattress with a dramatic huff.

After that night on the phone, you know it’s driving him crazy that he can’t have you all the time, that you haven’t made yourself accessible to him. It’s also not like he’s asked, he just figured you’d…be like every desperate woman he’s successfully gotten into his bed and actively want to jump his bones at every second too.

So he’s become determined to get you to crumble for him.

You’re in a work call that has definitely gone far too long, peacefully enjoying your lunch as it drones on and on when there’s a light knock at your office door.

You’re muted, have been since the start so you don’t think twice about it when you mumble a half-hearted come in.

And that he fucking does.

He looks like a man possessed, chest heaving, hands shaking—

You’ve never seen him like this before, never heard of anyone describe an incident with him where he’s so…wound up.

It knocks you off your center, whatever resentment you’ve been holding over him evaporates at the sight of his puffy, red eyes.

You leap out of your seat without thinking.

“What do you need?” What the actual fuck?

You shake the thought away as he speaks.

“On your knees.”

You drop down instantly, wasting no time as you pull his cock free from the confines of his scrubs and boxers. He’s vibrating, his shaky energy only making you jumpy in return.

But he doesn’t care. He can’t care.

You take him into your mouth without any further command, quickly surrendering yourself to the adrenaline he needs to take care of, hollowing out your cheeks as his hands grab your hair into a loose ponytail and his hips start rocking into you.

He can feel your breath on his pubic bone as you concentrate on breathing through your nose, eyes already becoming glossy as he just…takes.

And you let him.

He could honestly cry, and he almost does, your round eyes turning to stare up at him with what can only be described as silent understanding shaking him to his core so much that his own eyes become watery.

But he doesn’t let them fall, no, he focuses on the pleasure, on the release that he’s chasing.

His movements are sloppy, not deep or thought out. He just wants to cum, wants for the tightness in his chest to lighten, wants for the ringing in his ears to—

And then you swipe your tongue over his tip as he pulls out, the pressure against his slit sending a spark through his body that cuts through the noise.

He whimpers, pulling you back onto him, as far as he can go, before he spills into your mouth. He shakes uncontrollably, ass clenching as he finally allows for the band to snap, for the tower to crumble, for the truth to settle in his gut.

He’s…grateful, completelyreverent and devoted.

His grip loosens from your hair and you take the opportunity to push yourself off his length, finally taking in big, all encompassing breaths as he comes down from his own high. You watch him then, like a little fawn, confused and curious, like something has unlocked in your heart and you’re unsure how to fix it.

And then he pulls you up, suddenly aware that he’s tucked himself into his pants, before he tugs you with him back to your desk. He sits down at your chair, grabbing you like you weigh nothing and cradling you against his chest.

He does’t say anything.

You don’t dare utter a single word.

He just runs his hands all over your body, soothing and thankful and…

Your eyes close then, your body melting into his own, the call long forgotten, probably ended as the room settles into a comfortable silence.

“Thank you baby,” he kisses your temple. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your eyes snap open. Your heart races, an anxious bird slamming against its cage.

This is bad. You definitely bit off more than you could chew, and from what you just experienced, you can chew on a lot.

You stare up at him, at the blissful expression over his tired face, at the serenity that wafts off him like gentle waves crashing against the sand.

A new type of anger settles in your stomach. It is time to ruin his peace.

Robby’s never been this happy in his entire life.

He’s aware of his reputation, aware of just how much he’s messed up when it comes to his heart. It’s not like he’s magically a better person because of you now, that would be absurd. But he is enjoying himself. There’s no expectation, no restriction, nothing like the thrill of the chase, of mutual understanding and compassion, of finally having found his match.

And he’s never had to work this hard to earn it before.

But he can feel it, he’s getting closer, gaining ground, the turtle always winning in the end, right?

After that day in your office, Robby has become a man with unquenchable thirst.

He needs to have you, completely, devour you whole, a meditative meal where he gets to take his time and worship every inch of your body.

You’ve texted to tell him you unfortunately have plans tonight. A shame since he doesn’t have to work tomorrow and he was hoping he’d get to spend it with you, finally.

His thoughts have been stuck on you for the past few weeks, the prefect memories to lock onto as he finishes up his charts while he waits for Shen to arrive for handoff.

He’s startled when someone knocks on the desk in front of him, his brain snapping back into the unfortunate reality that doesn’t involve you spread out beneath him as he fucks into you repeatedly.

“I thought you weren’t working tonight—”

“Relax brother,” Jack calms his anxieties quickly. “I’m not here for that.”

Robby looks at him distrustingly. “Okay?”

Jack nods, mouth opening as if to say something while his face contorts into something Robby doesn’t quite understand. He’s…apologetic? Why would Jack be—?

“Hi,” your voice suddenly warms the entire ED as you skip towards them.

Robby can’t help it, his cheeks blushing a deep crimson, his mouth curling into a bashful smile. What the fuck have you reduced him to?

He opens his mouth to greet you, your entire existence a spotlight directed towards him, fading away the darkness completely.

But then you…walk right past him.

Towards Jack.

Towards his open arms.

What the fuck is going on?

Panic and confusion flood his body, fill his lungs up with water, actually stop his heart for one absurdly long, drawn out second, because he watches you get on your tip toes and kiss Jack Abbot on his absurdly smug lips, and Robby’s certain this is some kind of divine punishment—

“Hey sweetheart,” Jack mumbles lovingly against your mouth. “You ready to go?”

You nod, brushing your nose with his, nauseatingly adorable.

Robby’s certain he’s going to pass out, the entire room spinning.

What the fuck is going on? You’re…you’re with Jack when you’re supposed to be with Robby? Okay, maybe he never defined the relationship with you but that doesn’t mean—No! Who the fuck do you think you are? Are you cheating on Jack with him? Oh no, is he the other man? Did he just ruin his friendship—

“Goodnight, brother,” Jack can barely meet his gaze when he speaks. Oh fuck Robby’s life is ruined.

He’s certain he looks pale as all hell, guilt written all over his wrinkles, cold sweat definitely staining his clothes and dripping down his brow.

It’s then that you turn to look at him for the first time.

You look…perfectly fine. Smiling like you’ve just won the lottery. A deviant satisfaction sparkling in your eyes. Wait—

“Good night, doctor Robby!” You whisper, saccharine and sickly sweet. “It was fun getting to work with you, please give Noelle my best if you see her.”

And with one final, diabolical smile, it all just crashes against Robby, the angle of the mountain finally pushing the rock all the way back down, knocking him off his feet, exhausted and shocked, unable to do anything more than fall on one of the chairs and stare off into the distance.

You little—

“Fuck!” He hisses, loudly, enough for the entire ED to stop and stare at him for longer than he’d like to admit.

But what he doesn’t notice, what neither of them do, is the way your face drops as you walk out, guilt spreading through your chest for the first time at the sight of his sullen expression.

You turn back to look at him, at how he’s just this sad little man, bruised and broken. Your heart aches, something deep inside of you twisting and turning uncomfortably. You can’t…no, you definitely don’t…fuck.

You swallow the lump in the back of your throat thickly.

He’s learned his lesson, definitely…but at what cost…to you?

Bonus scene (happens after you accept to destroy Robby for Noelle):

It's a little after nine when you finally get called down to the ED for your first consult. It's someone you know, a case you've been assigned to for a while so it's easy and comfortable.

You chat up the patient and his mother, make sure to explain the process of care as diligently as you can with Shen, all in all, a swift and easy case.

And yet, before you slink back upstairs to your little office, you linger.

Ugh, you hate it, it's gross honestly, your stomach twisting in both annoyance and indignation at how much of a hypocrite you've become.

But then you see him, coming out of a patient's room, his gaze already on yours as he cleans his hands with disinfectant and crosses the room to greet you.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Jack teases, the motherfucker able to read you with an ease that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I need to ask for a favor," you murmur, suddenly feeling a little childish about what you're about to say. 

His eyebrow quirks in giddy expectation, easing whatever apprehension you've been feeling. Right, it's Jack for fuck's sake. If anyone's gonna understand your borderline sociopathic tendencies, it's him.

"I'm gonna do something silly, and I need you to promise me that you won't hate me for it."

He straightens his posture, hands clasped behind his back, looking down at you like he's trying to hold himself back from pouncing.

He has no right to be this fucking sexy.

"This about Robby and Noelle?"

You grin devilishly. God, he just gets you.

You manage a nod, biting down on your bottom lip to stop your smile from growing even bigger.

He sighs in response, not judgmental or disappointed, more so...absolutely fucking terrified for his friend.

"Please be gentle with him."

You scoff in mock offense. "He lost the privilege when he broke up with her via text."

"What?" His sharpness snaps the attention of the entire ED towards you. You shake your head for them, calming whatever outburst you think is being directed at you. It's only when the normal shuffle returns to the room that Jack continues. "Oh boy...yeah, can't help him there."

You shrug, leaning just a tiny bit forward. "I'll make it up to you when I'm done, I promise."

He smirks brightly, desperately fighting the urge to lean down and capture your lips with his.

"You better, pretty girl," he groans, low and deep. "And don't you even think about putting out for him.”

Your eyes widen. Oh.

"Can I..." you stumble then, cheeks burning hot, throat suddenly dry. "I'm gonna have to—just hand stuff, I promise."

Jack chuckles loudly. Jesus fucking Christ, this is definitely not where Jack expected his night to go but this is easily the best thing that could’ve ever happened to him. Watching you get so flustered, requesting such a…ridiculous thing from him—

He’s desperately fighting the raging erection threatening to tent his scrubs.

"No sex, no kissing," Jack states, eerily stern and possessive, basically drenching your panties with his tone because two can play at that game. "Hand stuff is fine, and just because I'm feeling generous, I'll let him get a taste of you and be haunted by your perfect mouth. Deal?"

He holds out his hand, pinky up for you to thread your own with his.

You're practically panting. "Fuck I love you."

He smiles dizzyingly in return, his heart close to popping from all the blood pumping through it.

"I love you too, crazy."

You interlock your finger with his, a matching mischievous look shared, powerful enough for everyone to act dumb at your obvious insanity, the night shift already used to the both of you being this intense all the time.

He steps back first, body buzzing with excitement. "Go, have fun ruining my best friend's life," he chuckles. "But I'm taking you home with me tomorrow morning."

You beam. “Yes, sir.”

a/n: if this gets a part two, it will devolve into Rabbot insanity just so you know. it’s honestly giving brat4brat and jack having to come in to dom the hell out of both of them

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

Y/N arrives at the nurses’ station with her white coat still buttoned wrong from the elevator ride down she notices only when she reaches for her badge.

Perfect.

Her fingers fumble over the fabric, trying to fix the crooked line of buttons without looking like she is fixing the crooked line of buttons.

Around her, the ER moves completely different from radiation oncology. It’s far louder, quick paced and less controlled. The phones ring, monitors beep, wheels squeak over polished floors, someone curses behind a curtain while someone else laughs at the desk like none of it is strange.

Y/N clears her throat. “Hey. You called for a consult?”

Lena, the charge nurse, looks up from the computer with the expression of a woman who has been interrupted by five separate disasters in the last three minutes.

“Which one?”

Y/N smiles nervously. “Radiation oncology. I’m Doctor Y/N Y/L/N. Sorry, I don’t get called into the ER often.”

Lena’s face softens by half a degree, which Y/N decides to count as warmth. “Right. Rathbone.” Her eyes lift past Y/N’s shoulder. “Doctor Abbot will fill you in.”

Before Y/N can ask anything else, Lena is already moving, a chart tucked beneath her arm, her attention claimed by a paramedic waving from the ambulance bay.

Y/N lifts one finger into empty air, her mouth stays open for a moment, then she lets her hand drop.

“Great,” she mutters under her breath. “Good job on your first ER consult, genius. Now you have to find a doctor you don’t even know in a department designed by a sleep deprived raccoon with frickin’ rabies.”

“Hello, there.”

The voice comes from behind her, low and rough around the edges, and Y/N startles hard enough to feel ridiculous. She turns and forgets, for one horrifying second, how words work.

The man standing in front of her is older than she expected. Broader, too. He has his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders relaxed, black scrubs fitting across his chest and arms in a way that feels frankly unfair at this time of night. Or ever.

His hair is curly, sandy silver, pushed back carelessly, as if he has run his hand through it too many times. His face is filled with sharp lines softened by exhaustion, laugh creases, and warmth tucked behind his eyes, the kind that lights up the room when the light hits them just right.

His smile tilts crookedly, studying her.

Y/N inhales and catches his cologne under the hospital antiseptic, making her suspect this is a prank, because none of her colleagues have ever looked like this, or smelled this good.

“Hi,” she breathes.

His smile deepens, just slightly.

“I’m, uh, looking for Doctor Abbot.” She blinks too fast, frustratingly aware of each blink. “Mind pointing me in the right direction, please?”

His eyebrows rise. For one second, Y/N thinks maybe she has asked something strange, or gotten the doctor’s name wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time to mess up on a name.

Then he says, “You’re looking at him.”

Of course. Of course this is how the universe chooses to mess with her as if she doesn’t get in her own way enough.

Y/N lets out a nervous little laugh, feeling heat climb up her neck. “Oh. Hi!”

He tips his head, amused. “You said that already.”

The heat reaches her cheeks.

“I’m Y/N,” she says quickly. “The radiation oncologist. A resident", she corrects herself, "I was called for a consult.”

Abbot’s gaze drops to her badge and dosimeter for half a second, then returns to her face. “Of course.”

He says it like he is not in any rush to rescue her from embarrassment. He wets his lower lip, then gestures down the hall with a slight nod.

“Follow me and I’ll fill you in.”

Y/N falls into step beside him, aware at once of how tall he is, how easily he moves through the ER, how people shift for him without being asked. He does not bark orders and it seems he doesn’t need to. There is a quiet authority to him, the kind that has people falling in line naturally.

She notices his hands when he reaches for a chart, the long fingers, strong knuckles and a dark watch at his wrist.

Stop looking at his hands.

“So,” he says, scanning the page, “patient is Carson Rathbone, sixty-two. He’s been undergoing treatment in your department. Came in with severe diarrhea, poor oral intake, facial burns, mouth pain. He says he can’t swallow much. We were hoping you could take a look.”

“Sure.” She glances through the glass toward the room. “He’s actually one of mine.”

Jack looks back at her.

“He had a nasal cavity carcinoma removed,” she explains. “He’s getting concomitant chemoradiotherapy. The burn-like markings are radiation dermatitis, and the inside of his mouth is probably mucositis. The diarrhea is more likely chemo-related, he’s not tolerating it well. Head and neck treatments can get brutal. We use high doses, and the setup is very precise. CT simulation alone is kind of fascinating because the immobilization mask has to keep the patient perfectly still while we plan the treatment around critical structures, so when you’re treating near the eyes, optic nerves, brainstem you have to…”

She trails off because Jack has stopped smiling. His mouth twitches. “I’m sorry,” he licks his lips. “You’re speaking hieroglyphics at this point.”

The words are light, but Y/N feels herself fold in anyway. It is stupid. She knows it is stupid. She has spent years being teased for loving things other people consider morbid or incomprehensible, like dose constraints, beam angles, gross tumor volumes, fractionation schedules, the strange, intricate art of trying to burn out the disease without burning the person attached to it.

But she still feels the sting of his disinterest. Her smile stays, turning a little too careful.

“No worries,” she shrugs. “Most physicians aren’t familiar with radiotherapy. And just because I find it interesting doesn’t mean anyone else does.”

Jack’s expression changes subtly as the amusement fades from his eyes first. “I didn’t mean to sound dismissive.”

She shakes her head quickly. Too quickly. “You didn’t. It’s fine.”

“Y/N.”

The sound of her name in his voice makes her heart trip over itself.

“Seriously,” she steps back, already reaching for the door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go talk to Mr. Rathbone.”

She slips into the patient room before he can answer. It is easier to breathe inside once she has a job. That is always true. Patients make sense in a way people do not. Symptoms have pathways, pain has language and fear has patterns if she pays enough attention.

Mr. Rathbone sits propped against the pillows, pale and irritated, his lower face flushed raw from treatment. His lips are cracked, his voice is rough when he greets her, but his eyes brighten with recognition.

“Doctor Y/L/N.”

“Mr. Rathbone.” Her smile becomes real this time. “I see you decided to take a field trip.”

He grunts. “Didn’t feel like dying at home.”

“Good choice. Dying at home would really mess with my schedule.”

His mouth twitches despite himself.

Y/N pulls a chair closer and sits, knees angled toward him, notebook already in hand. She does not hover or rush. She lets him talk. She asks about the diarrhea, the timing, the number of episodes, whether there is blood, whether he has been able to drink, whether the mouth pain is worse with swallowing or constant. She checks the skin along his cheeks and neck with careful fingers, narrating every touch before it happens.

From outside the room, Jack watches her. He does not mean to, or at least, that is the lie he gives himself for the first thirty seconds. Then he simply lets himself watch.

She is different in there. The nervous energy turns into focus; her shoulders settle, her voice lowers, she laughs with the patient, but never at him. She keeps her pen poised above the notebook without letting the act of writing become more important than the man in the bed.

When Mr. Rathbone’s voice cracks with pain, her brows draw together. Her thumb presses once against the edge of the notebook, her body leans forward before she seems to notice she has moved at all.

She still cares, Jack thinks. The thought comes with an old, familiar ache.

Medicine eats that kind of softness first. Takes little bites until people learn to armor up, detach, survive by measuring the person in front of them in lab values and discharge plans to free up more beds. Jack has seen it happen a hundred times…he has felt it happen inside himself and pretended not to notice.

But Y/N takes Mr. Rathbone’s hand gently when he admits he has not slept properly in four nights.

Jack looks away for a second, not because it is uncomfortable, but because it is almost too easy to keep looking.

Beside him, Ellis pauses with a tablet tucked against her hip. Her eyes follow his line of sight through the glass.

“She seems bubbly,” she notes.

Jack folds his arms. “She seems competent.”

Ellis hums. “That wasn’t my question.”

“There was no question.”

“There was absolutely a question.”

Jack gives her a flat look.

Ellis smiles without shame. “You like her.”

“I met her twelve minutes ago.”

“And yet you know exactly how many minutes.”

He looks back through the glass despite himself. Y/N is pressing her phone to her ear now, turned partly away from the patient. One hand rests on her hip. Her expression is polite, focused, a little tense around the lips while she waits for someone upstairs to answer.

“I’m old enough to be her father,” Jack says.

Ellis snorts. “She’s a grown woman who looked at you like a piece of candy.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. “I’m not talking to you about this.”

“That means you do like her.”

“It means go do literally anything else.”

Ellis walks away with a grin, as he leans on the nurses’ station, shifting weight off his right leg.

Inside the room, Y/N ends the call and turns back to Mr. Rathbone.

“Good news,” she says. “I’ll have a bed for you tomorrow morning. We can treat the symptoms overnight down here, then I’ll get you transferred upstairs first thing.”

“Upstairs,” he mutters. “Great.”

“I know. Very glamorous. Try not to brag.” She slips her pen in her pocket, along with her notebook. “Before that, I need your meds. I want to send the list to my charge nurse so we can reconcile everything properly.”

Mr. Rathbone gestures toward the bag on the chair.

Y/N reaches for it, still talking, still calm. “Any supplements? Herbal stuff? Over-the-counter meds? Anything you only take sometimes but swear doesn’t count?”

“Just what’s in there.”

She unzips the bag and freezes. On top of the pill bottles and folded discharge papers sits a hunting knife; a large one with a dark handle, no sheath. It’s not decorative or small enough to explain away.

Her fingers go cold. For a moment, the ER noise outside the room seems to fall underwater.

Mr. Rathbone shifts on the bed. “What?”

Y/N looks at him, then back at the knife. Her mouth goes dry.

“Why did you pack this?”

He frowns like she has asked something unreasonable. “I always keep it with me.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“For fruit.”

Y/N stares at him.

Her carotid kicks hard against her throat. She reaches for the handle with two fingers, thumb and index only, as if distance can make this better. She knows, intellectually, that she should call security. She knows weapons policies exist for exactly this reason. She knows touching it is a terrible idea.

But she also knows it is in a patient’s bag, within his reach, and her body has already moved before her brain finishes arguing.

She lifts it carefully. It is heavier than she expects. Her stomach turns.

Swallowing thickly, her eyes flicker to the glass, hoping to get someone’s attention only to realize Jack is already looking at her.

His face changes instantly, without any delay or confusion.

Help, she thinks. She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to.

Jack moves quickly. The door opens hard enough to bump the wall.

“Why the fuck is there a knife in your hand?”

His voice is not loud, exactly, but it cuts through the room with enough force to make Mr. Rathbone straighten.

Y/N lets out a breathless, panicked little laugh. “Funny story.”

Jack does not laugh. His eyes move over her first, lingering on her face, her hands, the knife, the distance between her and the patient. Then he steps in front of her, placing his body between Y/N and the bed so naturally that her chest tightens. He’s made himself a shield created out of muscle, black scrubs, and controlled anger to keep her safe.

“Sir,” Jack says, leaning slightly toward Mr. Rathbone, “why would you bring a knife to my ER?”

Mr. Rathbone scowls. “I told her. To cut fruit.”

“You have diarrhea, Mr. Rathbone,” Y/N says, edging toward the door with the knife held away from her body. Her voice comes out too bright, too thin. “You cannot have fruit right now. I’m going to take this somewhere safe and call your daughter to pick it up.”

Jack glances over his shoulder. His eyes soften for half a second when they meet hers.

Go, they say.

So she goes. She does not run technically, she just walks very fast, with the knife held like it might explode, until she reaches the nurses’ station.

Lena looks up. Very carefully, Y/N places the knife on the counter, then shakes both hands at her sides, like she can get rid of the feeling of the handle off her skin.

“A knife,” she says, voice pitched too high. “In Rathbone’s bag.”

Lena’s eyes widen. “Jesus.”

“Fruit knife, apparently.”

“That is not a fruit knife.”

“No, Lena, it is not.”

The adrenaline hits all at once. Y/N takes one step back from the counter, then another. Her hands tremble, small and fast. She tries to close them into fists, but that only makes the shaking more obvious, so she presses them flat against her thighs instead.

She does not hear Jack come up behind her. His hand lands gently on her shoulder.

Y/N gasps and whips around, one hand flying to her chest.

Jack pulls back immediately. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Her heart hammers under her palm. “No, I’m fine. Yes. Peachy!”

Jack looks at her. Slowly, his brows lift. “You don’t seem peachy.”

He says it in her tone, almost exactly, and despite everything, she lets out a shaky laugh. It breaks apart so quickly, he wonders if it was even real as her lips press together.

“Okay,” she admits. “I got freaked out.”

“Good.”

She blinks. “Good?”

“Yes. Good. A patient had a weapon within reach. Freaked out is the correct setting.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you in.”

His hands come to her shoulders, careful this time, giving her plenty of time to pull away.

She doesn’t.

His palms are warm through her coat, steady. His thumbs rest near the seams of her sleeves, not moving, not taking more than she gives him.

“Don’t apologize,” he says firmly. “You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”

“I picked it up.”

“You got it away from him.”

“I probably should’ve called security.”

“And next time, you will.” He glances toward the knife, now being handled by security, then returns to her. “But whatever his intent was, that is a weapon. It shouldn’t have made it this far.”

She swallows thickly from the unbearable relief of not being made to feel foolish.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know if you’d take the hint.”

Jack’s mouth curves. “I took the hint.”

Her hands finally stop shaking. Mostly.

He looks down at them anyway, trying to find a way to take her mind off it all.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says.

Y/N’s brows pull together. “Earlier?”

“The hieroglyphics comment.” He exhales through his nose, and for the first time since she met him, he looks slightly unsure of himself. “I wasn’t bored. I was out of my depth and trying to be funny.”

She studies him. The ER moves around them, but for a second, the space between them feels oddly still.

“You liked hearing about radiation planning?” she asks, skeptical.

“I liked hearing you talk about it.”

Y/N’s eyes widen before she can stop them.

Jack seems to realize what he has said a second too late. Color creeps up beneath his stubble, subtle but visible. He drops his hands from her shoulders and takes half a step back.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says. “I just thought there was a…”

He stops.

Her heart skips a beat, hating the distance he has created between them.

“A what?”

His mouth opens…then closes. He runs a hand over his chin, glancing away with a self conscious huff that almost makes him look younger. “Never mind.”

He turns to go. Y/N reaches out before she thinks better of it, fingers curling around his bicep.

Bad idea. Excellent bicep.

He stops instantly, not because she has any real strength over him, but because she touched him. Y/N feels the muscle tense beneath her palm and forgets the words she meant to say.

Jack looks down at her hand, then at her. His expression shifts slowly, amusement returning in a warmer, quieter form.

Y/N lets go as if his scrub sleeve has burned her. “What’s your go-to breakfast after a night shift?” she blurts.

His eyebrows lift. She can see him trying to follow the turn.

“Breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“After a weapon incident?”

“I’m choosing not to let the knife have the final word.”

That earns her a big smile, a little crooked, definitely tired, but incredibly bright at the edges.

“If it’s a good shift,” he says, “pancakes. If it’s a shit shift, hamburger and fries.”

Y/N tilts her head, considering his answer. “That is a fascinating scale.”

“It’s clinically validated.”

“Peer reviewed?”

“By me.”

“Strong sample size.”

“I have to admit it consists of extremely biased data.”

Her smile builds before she can contain it. “Well, how about I buy you the breakfast of your choice once you’re out of here? I’m off tomorrow morning too.”

For one second, Jack does not answer. He only looks at her in surprise, like he had already talked himself out of wanting something and she has unexpectedly placed it back within reach.

Then his smile gives him away before his voice does.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Y/N’s heart flutters.

“Great.” She steps back, finding her footing again now that she has successfully jumped off a cliff and discovered flirting is, apparently, not fatal. “I’ll write my report and send it down in a few. You can send Mr. Rathbone up at seven, and I’ll be here at seven thirty.”

Jack’s eyes narrow slightly, playful. “That a warning?”

She glances over her shoulder as she starts to walk away. “Be ready, Doctor Abbot.”

His smile follows her down the hall.

At the nurses’ station, Ellis leans against the counter smugly. “Breakfast, huh?”

Jack does not look at her. He watches Y/N disappear around the corner, white coat swaying behind her.

“Not another word.”

Ellis grins. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said enough with that smile.”

Ellis laughs and pushes off the counter, leaving him there with the chart in his hand and a smile he cannot quite kill. Jack looks back toward the hallway, disappointed she’s already out of sight.

For a man who has spent years living on black coffee, adrenaline, and the grim satisfaction of surviving another shift, he suddenly finds himself hoping it is a good one.