Peaky Blinders

Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER. 

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after. 

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts. 

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip. 

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat. 

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face. 

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He  leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to.  I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs. 

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard. 

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself. 

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold. 

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to. 

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “Are you blushing?”

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away. 

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact. 

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself. 

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still. 

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them. 

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered. 

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.  

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale. 

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.”

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..." 

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flushed instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "Was that a blush?"

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact. 

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light. 

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there. 

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes. 

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight. 

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in. 

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you. 

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself. 

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you. 

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer. 

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack. 

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under his breath as he passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening. 

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the flushed heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor. 

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up." 

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long." 

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

“Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home. 

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs. 

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

Dove & Captain Series Masterlist - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Words in Total: ~60k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, Miscarriage, etc.

Hope you enjoy :)

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Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

okay hear me out… a jack abbott inspired by imgonnagetyouback… the angst? the lust? i fear you would eat this up

never not mine | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!resident!reader warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), reader slaps a man hehe (not jack), power imbalance (reader is a resident and jack is her attending), drug use (weed), sexual content (brief but there), jack absolutely grovels and it's a vibe word count: 3.2k summary: jack attempts to walk away. you attempt to reel him back in. it leaves you both raw and vulnerable. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. imgonnagetyouback, back to me by the marias, and honeymoon by lana all helped inspire this fic! i'm a little worried i wrote jack ooc, but then i remembered that man is a canonized yapper. this exists within the ring of fire universe, but that does not have to be read first. it is linked here if you would like to, though! i took some liberties with this so i apologize if it's not exactly how you imagined it! but i had a great time writing this! i hope you enjoy it <3 not proofread, apologies for errors!

you know exactly what it is that you’re doing. and if jack feels tortured– fine. let him. this is all his fault, anyway.

the whole time you’d been with him, whatever that even meant, you’ve felt this sense of… waiting for the other shoe to drop. you tried to tell yourself that you were crazy, that jack was good and honest and that he wasn’t going to get cold feet. that the fact that you were his resident and he was your attending didn’t bother him. that he wasn’t irrevocably haunted by demons from his past, a dead wife and an endless war that runs on a replay in his head, pain in a limb that he doesn’t even have anymore.

it’s not that you expect him to forget all of that. you just want him to be real with you.

and when he falls right into the trope, the trap that was laid by fate, you decide that you’re not going to be resentful. you’re just going to prove to him– and maybe yourself– that you’re not so easily forgotten. that you can’t be left.

it sounds both arrogant and pathetic when you think about it like that. but you don’t care. you’re going to get him back.

maybe it is cruel that you started flirting with donnie in front of him. maybe it’s evil, the way that when you all gather for your post-shift beer, it’s donnie’s bench that you settle at. when you meet abbot’s gaze from across the walkway, his eyes are always at a level of stony that make you a little bit nervous. but then you remember that he iced you out and you lift your chin up and turn your face back to donnie.

he’ll pick his poison, you decide.

when you enter lefty’s at 11pm after getting wind that the day shift– which was jack, conveniently, since he uttered the words this is a bad idea, kid. god, you want to shake his shoulders, you want to call him a coward and scream from the top of your lungs: do you need see how good it could be if you let it?

a delicate lilac top clings to your skin. you push your hair over your shoulder as santos crosses the bar to greet you with a big hug, laughter on her lips. “jesus christ, who are you trying to give a heart attack?”

your hand splays on her back and you find abbot looking at you from across the bar. you shrug your shoulders and pull back, pushing back pieces of santos’s hair. “i don’t know. maybe someone new?”

trinity’s eyebrows shoot up. “wow. spicy. i like it.”

you don’t know how much time passes. you feel a bit silly: overdressed, a beer in your hand, nothing on your mind except the man that you want to lure back in to you. your outfit is a siren song and all you can wonder is if abbot is a sailor who is as desperate as you’ve pinned him as.

if he’s as desperate as you are.

every time you look at him, he’s either already looking, or feels your gaze on him. there will be a beat of eye contact before you look away and laugh at something garcia said or engage, rapt, in a conversation with samira about the first date that she went on last week. suddenly, it’s been hours, and you’re closing out your tab when you feel a presence beside you.

it’s not the presence that you want. it’s one that’s unknown and makes you feel uncertain. it’s not abbot’s easy, calm, present demeanor beside you. the one that tells you don’t worry, i’m here, i got this. the one that washes over you like a delicious wave. the one that smells woody and warm and delicious. the man next to you is a little too clean cut, a little too polished–  he smells like laundry and looks like he’s never been through a bad thing in his life.

he takes a drink of the last of his beer. “i’ve been watching you all night.”

you didn’t notice. faintly, you think that if you were twenty three, this man next to you would have been the apple of your eye, instantly. you wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off of him. but when you look at him and you see deep dimples and dark hair, all you see are dimples that are a little too deep, and hair that isn’t streaked with silver.

that pick up line strikes you as unimpressive. your finger tip circles your glass. “oh, am i supposed to say thank you?” you ask, but you manage what you try to play off as a coy smirk. absentmindedly, you look around, instinctively looking for jack. and not even because you want to see if he’s jealous. not because you want to see the look on his face, to feel that sick sense of satisfaction at the fact that you’re getting to him.

no. you want your friend. you want to give a bleak eye roll and make him smirk. you want to go back to him and say what a prick and carry on with your life. you want to go back to the normal that you’ve gotten used to– the one that, maybe, you took for granted.

if you can’t have jack as your whatever he was, you’d take him as your friend. any day.

but when your eyes scan the bar… he’s not there. the spot that he occupied next to robby is vacant. and all you’re left with is this sick sense of shame, embarrassment, and something else that you can’t quite articulate. longing, if someone put a gun to your head and forced you to put a name to it.

the man next to you says something. you don’t hear it. static rattles in your ears and suddenly all you want to do is go home, tear those lilac clothes off, wash your face, and cry. in bed.

and maybe smoke a joint on your patio, too.

he says something again. you, once again, don’t respond. you look at the bartender and answer their questions with one word answers. yes, you want to close. no, you don’t want a copy of your receipt.

“are you ignoring me, or are you just a stupid fucking bitch who can’t hear?”

at the level of shut down you’re at already, you don’t even care what he’s said. but he’s gotten the attention of the others. robby is already on his feet.

and abbot is walking down the hall from the restroom.

“i’m ignoring you,” you turn to him, spitting the words out, loud and clear. “but if calling me a stupid fucking bitch makes the rejection hurt less, knock yourself out.”

he screws his entire face up, and abbot is approaching quicker now, with that lethal anger on his face. robby isn’t far behind… or santos, either, for that matter.

“you are a stupid fucking bitch,” he says, taking a step closer to you, shrinking himself in size to be on your level. “and you’re not pretty enough to get away with an attitude like–”

abbot makes a move to lunge, and robby has to physically pull him back. the man lets out an ugly laugh and all you see is red, bright red. “oh, what’s your fuckin’ grandpa going to do?”

the crack that rings out when your palm hits his cheek could be heard around the world. it opens up a cacophony of mayhem– between you and him, the bartenders, abbot, robby, santos getting ready to throw in a punch of her own… but it all culminates with the lot of you being told to get the fuck out, this isn’t philly.

with your jaw set and your head held high, you are the first one to storm out of the bar. and maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the fact that a stranger just called you a bitch, but all you feel is an unsettled sort of anger.

you hear abbot say your name behind you.

you stop. the pittsburgh early spring still has a bite to it, especially when it’s nearing midnight. the wind makes your eyes sting, tears trailing down your cheeks. it’s the wind. it’s just the wind. “no,” you say lowly, pointing a finger in his direction. “fuck you.”

“fuck me?”

“yeah. fuck you.” you tug your jacket closer to yourself and wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. “you ignore me, you tell me this isn’t going to work, and then want to play protective… yeah. fuck you.” you go quiet, go to turn, but you can’t. you’re frozen in place. “no, it’s not even that. not really. i shouldn’t be mad at you. i should be mad at myself. i’ve been doing things, this whole time, trying to earn your affection back. trying to get you to see what you were missing, see why it was so silly to pretend that we’re not good. but… i’ve felt like shit every day, doing that. i’ve felt small.”

jack doesn’t say anything. robby has ushered all of your coworkers down the street and far away, bless him. when you assess jack’s face, there’s a myriad of things you see. you think you see regret. you know you see hurt. you want to believe you see love.

“and i don’t want to feel small,” you sniffle and wipe a fat, real tear away. “i don’t want to wear a cute outfit because you might see it. i don’t want to flirt with donnie to watch your knuckles go white. i want– i want to sit on your fucking couch. i want to watch some stupid show with you. i want to lay in bed and listen to the police scanner after sex. i want you to want me. and if you don’t, if this is all too much for you, then…” you look him up and down. the body you know intimately, the person you’d be with forever if he let you.

“then no hard feelings.”

you don’t give jack the opportunity to respond. maybe that’s its own special brand of self preservation. you turn, and you walk away from him, towards an empty apartment.

–

when you get home, you do exactly as you cited. you rid yourself of your clothes. you furiously wash your face and then go through the rest of your skin care. you roll yourself a joint, and you bring it out to your patio, and the small table, chair, and ashtray that sit out there.

your apartment isn’t as high up as jack’s. you live in an old building on the third floor, one of the world war two types, with the radiators and beautiful hardwood floors and all of the character in the world. in exchange, you get no dishwasher and a patio that probably isn’t up to city code.

lighting the joint with one hand, you take in a long, nice, inhale. you lean your head back against the wall. you grab your phone and put the marias on and let those big tears roll down your cheeks freely.

the low rumble of a truck pulling up gets your attention. you lift your head up and watch as the vehicle that you’d sat in countless times goes into park. you hear the door open. you watch jack round it, and his eyes are instantly drawn to your patio. he holds his hand up in a wave.

you flip him off.

the chuckle that gets out of him should infuriate you. but it doesn’t.

“yeah, i deserve that.”

“you’re a dick,” you reply, marijuana leaving you honest. you stand up and lean on the railing, looking down at him.

“i am.”

his hands are in his pockets and you can see a war going on in his mind, but then he starts talking. “i’m not good at this part. the… communication, part. i’m not good at this part at all.”

you raise your eyebrows. he continues. “when annie died, i was content to not be with anyone. ever again. a random fuck there and again, just to get it out of my system, sure. but i was content with not opening myself up to that. i always just thought… i thought i was already so fucked up, and since annie knew me before i was so fucked up. i told myself that she was the only one that was going to get it. get me.” he stares up at you. “now, i know that i was wrong in that. obviously.”

you give a slow nod of your head. “but i lived in that reality for so long. that i wasn’t going to be open to that again. and then we started hanging out, and at first, i was able to convince myself it was innocent. i’m your mentor. no lines would get blurred. and then, obviously, they did. but i told myself it was all casual. and when i told myself that, i felt like… yeah, i could do that. i could be good to someone in that capacity. but then,i felt greedy with you. i felt like i wasn’t going to be able to let myself walk away if i stayed any longer. so i forced myself. thought i was doing you a favor.” he rubs the back of his neck. “thought i was doing right by myself. like, the safest option. and then i talked to my therapist.”

you smirk. “the age old solution.”

“yeah, right?” he smirks back at you. “and i told him all of this, yesterday. and you know what he said?” he waits a beat. “he told me i’m a fucking idiot. and i responded, and said that i know i was. because deep down… deep down, i knew it was all bullshit. a defense mechanism.”

he walks closer and puts his hands on the railing of the first floor patio, staring right up at you, you staring down at him. “i should never have made you feel small. and all i want is to show you that i mean it.”

nodding your head slowly, you mull over his every word. you open and close your mouth a couple of times. “i want to tell you to fuck off,” you say honestly. “i want to think you’re just bullshitting me. but…” you meet his eyes. “that’s probably my defense mechanism.”

the quiet overtakes the two of you. all there is is the lull of traffic and the faint whistle of the wind. “it wasn’t about you,” you say. “i knew why you were pushing me away. i understood. i just wanted you to see why those things weren’t real. and i thought that i could control that. and then i just left myself feeling disappointed, and desperate, and messy.”

the two of you watch each other like feral cats, unblinking and unwavering. maybe that’s what you are.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice softened. “i was a dick. and you were right.”

you nod your head. “come inside before you catch a cold.”

most of the time, you went over to his place. when he steps over the threshold into your apartment, you think that it feels good to have him in your space. to watch him set his shoes by the door, hang his coat up on the little rack. there’s this awkward sort of tension that simmers between the two of you. he must sense it, because he gives you a sideways look. “that wasn’t all i had to say.”

“yeah?” you ask with a playful smile, filling up a glass of water and taking a big gulp from it.

his hands pin you in at your kitchen counter. all of the air is sucked right out of the room. “you told me that you wanted me to want you. right?” you give a nod of your head. “i wanted to be face to face with you when i said this part.” he ghosts his fingertips over your cheeks. “i want every fucking part of you. your wild, messy parts included. especially, even.” his eyes darken a shade. “do you know how crazy you’ve made me? flirting with donnie, that purple you wore tonight?”

you roll your eyes, mostly at yourself. “that was sort of the plan.”

“it worked.” his thumbs brush your hipbones. “every day, i went home to an apartment that had you all over it. a coffee mug on the counter with a lipgloss mark. the blanket that you love and curl into almost every single night. your book on my coffee table. i felt stupid. i felt small, too. i felt like a coward. i was a coward. and i just–”

you raise up your hand, pressing it against his chest. not pressing him away, just… there. his brows furrow. you say, “you ramble when you’re nervous and when you want someone to feel better.” your hand slides up his chest. “i forgive you.”

the relief that washes over him is a visible, tangible thing. you feel it in the way he grips your hips as a result, the way his face falls into the crook of your neck. you close your eyes and run your hand through the silver streak you love so much. he pulls back and there’s a little tear shining in his eye. and he says three words that are simple but profound, that strike you where you stand. “i love you.” he nods. that steady, stable, self-assured version of himself is there again. “i know that now. i knew it then, too.”

you nod your head slowly. “i know you do,” you say, because you do, you really do. “and i love you too.”

those dimples shine at you. not too deep. just right. he pulls your body in flush with his and it’s like you melt away into nothing but a glowing ball of light. fuzzy and warm.

a switch is flipped. your hands go hungry and your lips find his. jack leads you to your bedroom. he lays you down and he spreads you out. he takes off each article of clothing, slowly. he lowers himself until his head is between your thighs and apologizes with his tongue, until you arch off your bed. he climbs up and he sinks inside of you in one satisfying motion. you’re all nails down his back and relentless eye contact, and you’re the kind of desperate and messy that you want to be. he’s just the same– his pace is consistent, deep, and each thrust tells you just how sorry he really is.

you finish with an explosion behind your eyes, and he tumbles over off that cliff after you. he rolls off of you and you lay on your backs, staring up at the ceiling. your hand goes to rest on his chest. he takes it and presses a kiss to it before he raises, comes back with a damp cloth and cleans you up with care. love. he leans down and presses a kiss to your lips, tender and right.

he starts messing with the covers, brows all screwed up. “what could you possibly be looking for right now?” you ask, chest still heaving.

“this,” he says, locating his phone. he stares down at it until he puts it between you. a faint static emits from it.

“what the hell is–”

“3B60, the subject is fleeing on foot.”

you between him and his phone, police scanner coming from the speaker, incredulously. he just grunts as he settles back into bed, pulling you into him. “i’m just listening to what you want, kid.”

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ synopsis: you help keep pittsburgh trauma orderly—until small, unsettling glitches hint at something ominous unraveling. whether the mystery—or your guarded heart—breaks first is the question that will decide everything.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, obsessive behaviour, medical-talk, violence & blood

chapter one;

chapter two;

chapter three;

chapter four;

chapter five;

& more to come

divider credit

The Crimson Glow: Chapter 1

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You had long given up on meeting your soulmates. At 33, you felt like you'd miss the window. Pathetic off white pink strings, that had only darkened twice, were your only claim to them. That was until you started your across-state journey from Philly to P-burgh. Feeling brash after a recent breakup you threw caution to the wind and applied for a job across your home state. To your surprise, you were hired. With the encouragement of your close friends and brother, you committed to the new experience. For once, you were excited for adventure, that was until your strings began to darken.

CW: none? I guess cursing? If you see something please let me know 💛

A/N: While this chapter does not include smut there will be some in future chapters; it's a slow burn. Smut chapters will be labeled

Taglist: @nocturnalrorobin (also the requester of this prompt ^-^)

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It would be an understatement to say that you’ve grown pessimistic when it comes to your soulmates. I mean fuck you were in your early thirties and your soul link of red strings had only changed from a pale pink twice in your life before going back to the default light pink. Yes, strings plural. You were part of the 2% of Americans who are estimated to have more than one soulmate. Despite this occurring in 1 in 50 people, your parents were from a generation where those who had more than one soulmate were ostracized. In turn, they had trained you since you were able to talk to only refer to one string. It had been ingrained in you to the extent that even now, as an adult, you had only told less than five people outside of your family about having two soulmates. Two of which were close friends, and the other two were past long-term relationships. Fuck what you wouldn’t give for a quote of your first words, or a countdown timer. Anything other than this off-white string that had been hanging over your head since childhood.

You knew that you could only be mad at fate to a certain extent. You had chosen to be career driven and bet on sure things rather than chasing after strings that had been stagnant for almost your whole life. In a way, you wish you could be as carefree as your twin brother. Benjamin, ever the romantic, took what was supposed to be a gap year from undergrad to grad school to find his mate. He headed east to Europe and backpacked across the entire continent before finding his soulmate, now husband, in Sicily. He ended up settling in London with his soulmate, Dante, eleven years ago and never looked back. Your parents’ reaction to his “lifestyle choices” was the final nail in the coffin before you both went no contact. You were the only thing left trying him to the US. You visited him at least once a year and talked regularly. You always wished you could be as carefree as he was. Despite your own situation, you were beyond happy for your brother. If not a bit envious, which led you to now, you pulled off at a rest station off of Route 76 on the verge of a panic attack.

You had just passed Harrisburg, two hours into your journey west from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh. For the first time ever both your strings were red, overlapped and darkening as you got closer to Pittsburgh. You didn’t know what to do or how to process this new information. Your strings had been overlapped for about two years now, and you had dealt with and accepted the fact that your soulmates had most likely found each other.  No, it was the darkening that threw you for a loop. This had only happened twice, the first time the string had gone from off-white to red only to turn back light pink within a few hours. That same string, pointing east across the Atlantic, had briefly turned black to grey back to light pink. You’d never forget that day one of your soulmates had almost died. Your sting had gone black for a minute and 57 seconds.

You shook your head, dismissing that thought; you were already stressed as it was.

You don’t know how Benji and your friend, a Pittsburgh native, had convinced you to take life by the reins and be impulsive. Between your recent breakup and a job opportunity across the state, you had made the improbable choice. You quit your job and got an apartment on the other side of the state. You regret it now, dread building in your gut. You weren’t spontaneous, no, you were practical and thorough. You didn’t take these kinds of risks.

Fuck, you felt like you were going to throw up. You quickly exited your maps app. Your thumb was over your brother’s contact info when your call screen suddenly took over displaying an incoming call from him. You picked up before the first ring had ended.

“You’re okay,” Ben’s voice rang out before you even had the chance to greet him. The wails of your nephew faint in the background.

“I-” You started, voice shaky, you paused before taking a breath.

“It’s okay,” he said once again, voice level.

“They’re red Ben, like properly red, like the ones in the movies.” You responded, you somehow managed to get the words out evenly, before taking another deep breath.

“Sis, that’s a good thing,” he responded, smile clear in his voice.

“No, I don’t know what to do,” you sighed, pressing your forehead flush with the top of the steering wheel, “I always know what to do Ben.”

“It’s okay to not know what’s to come, most people don’t know what’s going to happen before they meet their soulmate. You just have to lean on fate for a bit before going back to being a know-it-all,” he joked, hoping to lighten your mood.

“Okay,” you sighed, breathing going back to normal. “But what if I’m not what they’re expecting?”

“Then they’ll be pleasantly surprised,” He responded,

“What if it’s a bad time? Or if I meet them before making it to Pittsburgh?” You ask.

“There’s no perfect time to meet your mates, and if you meet them before Pittsburgh, you’ll figure it out. Like you always do.” He said comfortingly,

“What if-what if they don’t want me?” you said, finally voicing your deepest concern.

“Sis,” he replied softly, his voice just loud enough to register on his phone’s mic.

“I’m just-Fuck, I’m a mess, I start at my new job in less than two days, my apartment isn’t set up, and I definitely needed to do a everything shower this morning, but gaslighted myself into not washing my hair.” You sighed, “Just,” you breathed, “What if I’m not good enough?” Your voice wavered.

“Hey, watch your tone, I know you’re not bad mouthing my sister. Not the one that put herself through college, a master’s program, and a licensing process to become an art therapist. Not the woman who devotes everything to her patients within boundaries. Not the one who worked pro bono at a grief summer camp because of a staffing shortage. Or on top of everything is an amazing artist. Cuz she’s an empathetic badass, who is way too smart to say any of that shit.” Ben responded.

“Ben,” you said, sniffled, eyes watering.

“You’re going to be okay. They are lucky to be blessed with your presence and happy to meet you. If not, I’ll fuck them up.”

You let out a wet laugh, a single tear escaping each of your eyes as you blinked.

“Thanks,” you sniffled, a soft smile on your lips.

“No problem. What are big brothers for?” he asked, jokingly.

“Just cuz you cut in line does not make you older.” You responded to a lifelong debate with an eyeroll he’d never see, “Sorry for falling apart on you.”

“Sis, I’m sleep training a five-month-old, who is on what I hope is the tail end of colic. You were a much-needed break.”

“Tell Atlas his auntie loves him.” You said, taking one last deep breath. The weight gone from your chest.

“I will.” You could hear the softness in his voice shift, Atlas most likely finally calming down for Dante in the other room, “If you need anything, feel free to call.”

“I will, love you,” you reply.

“Love you too,” he responded before you clicked off the call.

You took a deep breath; you plugged your phone back into its charging port and clicked on maps and cued up a hip-hop mix. You shifted from park to drive and merged back onto I-76. You took one last stop two hours in, but it just made you more tired. You white knuckled it until you got to the parking garage adjacent to your building. Your strings continued to darken, color plateaued when you drove into the city’s limits. They weren’t overlapping anymore. On was pointing up, something you’d never seen before, and the other was pointing off to the right as you face your apartment building. You texted Ben and your friend who lived in the city that you got in safely. You unloaded your backpack and a single suitcase that held all your valuables. For the first time, you found yourself liking the annoying squeaks of its broken wheel. It was something familiar.

After you locked your car, the next half hour was a blur. You signed the final paperwork at the office and got your keys. You boarded the elevator and clicked on the tenth floor.

Your breath caught in your throat as the red string that was pointing upward started to move laterally down, while the other started to point down. The above one kept moving downward until it was back to the height of your palm. Was this it? Were you about to meet your soulmate? Despite bitching about not meeting them for the better part of thirty years you felt wildly unprepared. The ding of your floor snapped you out of your daze.

Were they living on the same floor as you?

You shook your head, turning left as the building manager had directed you. You slowly made your way down the hall; your suitcase’s broken wheel squeaking was the only noise. Your head snapped down as you passed the last apartment on the right before yours. The string was bright crimson, bolder than you had ever seen before. As you walked on, the string went through you, through the wall into that apartment.

You paused. But then there was nothing? Maybe they were asleep? It was four in the afternoon, but you weren’t really one to judge; you always loved a good nap. That or maybe they worked nights? After waiting for a beat, you slowly walked down to your apartment door, keeping an eye on the door as you opened yours.

Maybe this was okay? While you were desperate to meet them, you also had just completed an over five-hour drive, and you felt and you’re sure, looked like hot garbage. You gave yourself no time to take in the apartment before crossing through the sea of reusable boxes to your bedroom. You quickly tossed your backpack on the sheetless mattress resting on a built bed frame. You pulled out the lounge wear you packed along with a towel and washcloth from one of the totes before rushing to the bathroom. If you were gonna meet them today you were gonna have clean hair god dammit. You turned on the water as you stripped, your string remaining solitary to the one spot in your neighbor’s apartment. You unpacked your toiletries onto the shower’s ledges before jumping in. Your nerves got to you again, loitering in the shower as long as you could justify. After drying off, you did your full extended post-shower routine; eyes never straying far from the solitaire string.

While you tried to start to unpack, you couldn’t help but stare at the string. Should you just go and knock on their door? Before you could scheme any further, your stomach grumbled. It was already five and you hadn’t eaten since the last rest stop. Maybe going to grab something to eat wasn’t the worst idea ever. It’d get you out of your current impasse of staring at a wall. You picked a well-rated Thai restaurant around the corner, ordering way too much for a single person. The entire trip lasted about a half-hour, but it was a nice break. You got some fresh air and were able to stretch your legs as you took in the neighborhood. When you got back to the lobby, your other string started to darken quickly, like it was speeding towards you. You debated waiting for it or going back upstairs so that you could all be together. You opted for the latter and retreated back to your apartment. The string on your floor remained still, only starting to move as you closed your door.

Your heart began to hammer in your chest as you placed the food down on your kitchen counter. You were about to check in with Ben before a loud knock sounded off. Hesitantly, you approached the door, strings bright red, almost glowing. They formed a “V” shape as you wrapped your hand around the door.

This was it

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A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read! I am in the last month of my semester, so I don't have an update schedule as of now. Will hopefully be more consistent after mid-May. Hope you're doing well whenever you are 💛

Our Little Girl

Summary: 2 months after the Uranium Mission, Jake and Bradley confessed their love for one another because 'the sexual tension is too much'. They dated for 1 year and got engaged on their 2-year anniversary of dating and on their 4 year they married. After their honeymoon they decided they wanted to add to the small little family, they talked about adoption but Jake's identical twin sister, Dakota, said that she would be the surrogate for them with Bradley being the donor. 9 months later you, Y/N Carole Bradshaw-Seresin, were born.

Warnings: fluff, angst, plane crash, car crash, wrist grabbing, bruising, blood, death of a loved one, pregnancy, inaccurate medical talk, swearing

Pairings: Maverick x Iceman, Carole Bradshaw x Nick Bradshaw, Jake Seresin x Bradley Bradshaw, Jake Seresin x Daughter!Reader, Bradley Bradshaw x Daughter!Reader, Bob Floyd x OC!Judy Floyd, Y/N Bradshaw-Seresin x OC!Mason Floyd

Masterlist

A/N: Can be read as stand-alone. Ages range.

This awesome banner is brought to you by: @callsigns-haze ! Thank you so much!

Welcome Our Sweet Girl

Meeting Everyone

Feeding Time Adventures

Welcome to Parenthood

First Family Vacation

Thunderstorms

Traveling Adventures

Mocking Pops

Daddy Don't Go

Pops is Hurt

Nightmares

Deployment Surprise

New House

Prank Wars

Goose and Maverick babysitting? What could go wrong?

Lake House

Grandpa Ice

First Swear Word

Halloween

Daycare Mishaps

Baking with Grandma Carole

Cookout

Family Game Night

First Huge Fight:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

First Boyfriend

First Breakup

In Love with My Bestfriend

Love's Awakening

"Wait. What?!"

Lake Trip and Secrets Revealed

Love's Unexpected Gift

The Gift of Love's Arrival

Career Path? Navy

Pilot or WSO?

Home for Christmas? Doubt It

Our Little Girl's Wedding

Aircraft Mishap

Alternate Universes

Welcome Our Sweet Girl

Tales of a Free Use Old Lady Masterlist

Summary: A tale of how an Outlaw Biker finally found and felt love with a woman who had never felt truly wanted and needed.

As always my stories are 18+. This particular series has darker themes so adding Dead Dove Do Not Eat. The Rules chapter gives you a idea of what all you might find in this series!

You can find the tag list here or let me know if you wish to be tagged!

1) The Rules :Read this to get an idea of content!

2) The Beginning -A jealous Tig makes his move in an unorthodox manner.

3) Next -Tig sends back Half-Sack to finally get his turn. While he is gone he announces his engagement to Juice and Chibs.

4)

Mall Rats Masterlist

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

The Abbot Family - Pittfest Part 1

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader (romantic) Genre: Word Count: 454

Warnings: Canon typical blood/gore/violence, hospital show drama, mass shooting, death, gun shot wounds, *Please let me know if I forgot anything

Summary: When he is at work, Dr Abbot keeps his life private, and keeps his head focused on being an attending of the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center. No one knows what he does at home, until Pittfest happens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, this story is inspired by the TV show The Pitt and features places, plots, characters from said show.

Jack knew he had to keep working, he had to keep going. People needed him, he couldn’t be staring at his phone waiting for a phone call that may change his whole life. After his time in the army, and growing up with the dad he did, Jack knew when to compartmentalize his emotions, when to stop feeling and just do. The Pitt needed him to keep it together, patients needed him, Robby needed him, but the more pressing matter that kept him running the makeshift MASH unit was the thought: “What if?”

He shut that down before his anxiety could spike.

He moved from patient to patient, helping anyone he could, and calling times of those that he couldn’t. He saw out of the corner of his eyes Jake Malloy, and had to stop himself from running over and interrogating the boy.

“Robby asked if I could keep an eye on Jake and his girlfriend.”

When time of death was called for Leah, Jack had to remember that sometimes no news was good news. So, he kept going.

Until Dana yelled his name.

The doctor turned, pit forming in his stomach as he knew she would only be yelling at him two things: Robby and-

“Dad!” A teenage version of Jack was supporting the weight of his sister.

“Austin! Avery!” The attending’s place was taken before he could think about ordering someone to take over. Several heads had looked up when they heard their leader’s voice, and stared a moment too long when he ran to the two teenagers. Jack’s hands and eyes were looking over them both, trying to figure out where the blood was coming from, if one of them was shot.

“Some asshole pushed Avery down. Mom reset Avery’s shoulder and leg, but told us to come here.”

“Language.” Jack muttered, his heart breathed when he heard that it was just some asshole who pushed a child to the ground to escape rather than aiding the child, but his heart froze when Austin mentioned her. “Where is your mother?” Austin and Avery shared a look which never boded well for the Abbot parents. Every time that any of the children shared a look, it meant trouble. “I’m not going to ask again.”

“She sent us ahead.” Austin dug the car keys out of his pocket and handed them to his father. “She stayed behind.”

Before Jack could say anything, Avery cut in. “Daddy, it hurts.” His daughter might be in high school now, but seeing her in pain with broken bones only brought the memories of her breaking her wrist at seven when she jumped off the trampoline. That was probably the last year before she transitioned from 'daddy' to 'dad' and sometimes 'father' when he had to ground her.

“I know, sweetheart.” Her watery hazel eyes were enough to make him keep moving.

Too Sweet 2/? (RobbyxOFC)

Everly wasn’t sure why Robby was always so grumpy. He certainly didn’t sleep enough, or eat enough, or socialize enough. But none of those things seemed to bother him. Sometimes she would see him run his hand over his face, exhausted with the entire world, and she would frown. 

No one ever saw her frown, except when she looked at Robby. It was only ever when he wasn’t looking, when he was looking at her she was nothing but smiles. But when he wasn’t aware anyone was watching, she would frown, worried that he was sad, that he was lonely. 

On those days, when he was extra sad looking, she would make sure to be brighter than ever. Smiling at him more often, making sure he had some water, his coffee, a homemade muffin she’d stayed up late baking the night before. Robby always took whatever she gave him with a small smile, thanking her gratefully. 

Collins watched the two of them one day, chatting against the wall in the hallway, unknowingly leaning closer to each other as they talked.

“I can’t believe it’s been three months, and they are still circling each other,” she said to Dana, who looked up from her desk, glasses perched on her nose. 

“Told you it would take a while for Robby to get it together enough to ask her out,” Dana replied, having won their bet two months ago when the first month passed with no movement on the romance part. 

“I just really thought she’d break him sooner.”

“I have a lot of faith in that girl, but Robby is made of stone. It’s gonna take a while to chip away at him.,” Dana explained, stepping away to take a phone call. Collins continued to watch Everly and Robby, until Langdon came up to her.

“They hook up yet?” he asked, and Collins shook her head. 

“Nope, still dancing around,” she answered. Langdon gave a groan, and moved on, looking at the board to see what case he wanted next.

Mateo came walking down the hallway, stopping when he saw Everly and Robby.

“Hey Ev, we still on for tonight?”

Robby looked at him, then at Everly, waiting for an explanation.

“Oh, yup, still on! 8pm, unless we get stuck here,” she giggled slightly, and Mateo smiled, before nodding at Robby and continuing on.

“You and Mateo, are…?”

“Oh, Mateo asked if I wanted to go for drinks. It’s not a big thing, but you never know!” Everly smiled up at him, her consistent enthusiasm almost contagious, at least it was to everyone except Robby.

“So you two are going on a date?” he asked again, more clearly. He tried to sound nonchalant, but his need to know the answer crept into his tone of voice.

“No, I mean yeah, technically I guess, yes. But it’s just casual, see how things go, you know,” Everly’s smiled started to falter, but she forced it on. 

“Oh, that’s…good. Well, I think we should get back to work, I think Mr. Smith in Central five is ready for his head CT.” Robby cleared his throat,  crossing his arms over his chest and looking towards Central five.

“Oh, yeah, okay. Mr. Smith, I am on my way!” Everly joked, walking away and towards her patient. Langdon walked up to Robby then.

“Really man? That was just tragic to witness,” Langdon teased.

“What was tragic?”

“You, failing miserably to flirt with Taylor. She was practically begging you with her eyes to flirt with her, to tell her not to go on that date with Mateo, and you totally blew it.”

“That…is none of your business, Frank. If Dr. Taylor wants to go on a date with someone, she is more than welcome to.”

“Yeah, see what I mean? Tragic, you don’t even know how deep you are.”

“Frank, go help someone.” Robby ordered, and Langdon just laughed lightly before heading off. 

Robby spent the rest of the day in a mood, a funk as Dana would call it, and nothing Everly did brought him out of it. She wasn’t sure what caused his sudden mood change; he’d been his normal grumpy all day, this was extra level grumpy. 

Eventually time came to end the shift, and unsurprisingly they had run late. The bar Everly and Mateo were going to was right near the hospital, so he had said he’d meet her there while she got ready. She’d brought her stuff with her just for this reason. 

Pulling off her scrubs left her in a pair of black lacy panties and a matching bra. It had been itching at her all day, but she knew it would be worth it to wear them with her dress. She slipped the black silky number on, contouring perfectly to her body and the bra helped push her meager cleavage up to give the appearance of any at all. 

She finished off the look with a pair of heels and some red lipstick, throwing on a bit of eyeshadow to try and make herself more presentable for a date. Everly was on her way out of the locker room when she ran into Robby, literally. 

“Oof,” she said, almost falling backwards because her balance was off with the heels. Robby quickly grabbed her arms and pulled her back up, unfortunately she was so tiny he pulled her directly into his chest. She peeked up at him to see him looking down at her, rubbing her arms gently. 

“Sorry, Dr. Robby, lost my balance,” Everly explained, and she felt Robby drop her arms like he’d been burned. 

“No worries here, you look…’ Robby took a minute to look her up and down (mostly down, let’s be honest). “Nice. You look very nice.”

Everly couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed, she was going for a little more than nice. “Thank you, Robby. I guess I should go, don’t wanna leave Mateo hanging.” She smiled brightly up at him, and Robby felt his heart flutter. 

“Right, Mateo. Have fun.”

Everly nodded, and quickly headed out of the hospital.

Robby turned around to see Dana, Collins, Langdon, and Mohan watching him from the nurse’s station. 

“What?” he asked. Dana shook her head, Collins and Langdon smirked, and Mohan just looked sad. Robby frowned at them, and went off to help a patient. His mind was focused on Everly, and if she was having fun with Mateo. Maybe she was flirting with him, and he was responding. Maybe she was gonna kiss him, and take him home, and fuck him stupid, and Robby needed to stop that thought train. He ran his hand over his face, scratching his beard lightly, and tried to focus on his job. 

Everly was tipsy, but definitely not drunk, and although she was having a great time with Mateo, he just wasn’t her type. He seemed to be getting the same vibe, and after a couple more drinks he asked if she wanted to call it a night around 10pm. She agreed, and he offered to call her a cab, but she decided to walk. She didn’t live far, so with a kiss on the cheek and a hug, they went their separate ways. 

Everly took off her heels, deciding it was safer to walk barefoot than to try and stumble home. She carried them in her hand, walking quickly to get home. It’d been a long shift, and she needed to be back in for 7am. As she turned a corner onto her street, she felt something smack into the back of head, and she fell forward, dropping her heels. Saving herself by grabbing onto a wall, she went to turn around, when a fist came out of nowhere and punched her in the face. Everly went down, and quickly lost consciousness.