Miscellaneous

m.list - spencer reid (cont.)

masterlist #1 / masterlist #2

spencer tries to hide his hickeys but it doesn't work

spencer's daughter struggles with her grades

spencer's touchy

nsfw headcanons for spencer

you prank spencer by wiping off his kisses

spencer stands up for you

spencer finds out you cut your hair

spencer's glasses fog up during sex

you crochet something for spencer

you listen to spencer's ramblings | 2

spencer's a munch

spencer helps you through airsickness on the jet

spencer gives you a key to his apartment

spencer helps you stop biting your nails

someone asks to buy you a drink while you're out with spencer

break, bite, bang

you bake with spencer

hotch tries to set you, his niece, up with spencer

professor!reid

the team meets spencer's girlfriend for the first time

it's safer to kiss

dbf!spencer x hotchner!reader

spencer's worried about your Girl Dinner

spencer gets along with your dad

you get cuteness aggression around spencer

you don't recognize spencer when you're drunk

spencer degrades you during sex

you protect spencer from his peanut allergy

you have a higher sex drive than spencer

you're a very affectionate drunk around spencer | 2

spencer helps you, hotch's daughter, study for college

Jake and Bug

Just a series of oneshots all about Jake Seresin and 'Bug' Mitchell

Overall warnings: Smut, daddy kink, sub-space, age gap, fingering, virginity taking, p in v, cockwarming

Virginity

Interruption Part Two

Fashion Show

Tired Jake

Cockwarming

Gravity Part One

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental two-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5.6K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; POV switches a couple of times; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

It started when she was an intern. 

Jack was fully aware of his tendency toward strong eye contact. It helped him make sure he was fully getting a point across when he was guiding residents in the ER—so long as their focus wasn't meant to be elsewhere. 

He managed to meet her eye fully exactly twice—and maybe it was odd, but Jack could remember both times clear as day. 

The first one was her first day at the Pitt, when she’d shook his hand, introduced herself with a nervous tremor in her voice. Her palm had been a little sweaty, and cold, but her eyes had held his. 

The second had been a week or so later, the first time she’d lost a patient. He’d clapped her on the shoulder, reassured her that there was nothing more she could’ve done. He’d tacked on, “Don’t let it happen again,” and he’d been kidding—but she had balked, ducked her head, apologized, and hurried away. 

She had rarely met his eye since then.

At first, he’d figured that she was shy, and that she’d grow out of it. Then, he’d thought that maybe she was more reserved at work—some people simply kept their personal and professional lives separate.

But those notions had been disproven time and time and time again: when she palled around with her fellow residents; when she watched and communicated with Walsh attentively; when the senior resident that was clearly hitting on her leaned just a little too close for Jack’s liking in the staff room. 

She hadn’t backed down from a single one, hardly batted a damn eyelash.

But any time she spotted Jack, her eyes would lower or dart away—to the floor, to her hands, to a chart, to the sandwich cart, to a counter.

Now, Jack was not a man to take these things personally, but after all these years, it stuck in his craw. He didn’t think about it most days, had learned to take it in stride, found ways to work with it. It had never caused a hold up during a procedure, or in the event of an emergency. She was always active in communicating with him, she just…Never looked at him. 

“You’re going to burn a hole through her head.” 

Jack hadn’t realized he was staring until Lena said so. He glanced toward the nurse, eyed her knowing smile, and redirected his focus to the computer in front of him. 

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Lena snorted, turning back to the desk as someone approached to ask her a question. 

Jack only half-listened, unable to help his eyes drifting toward her again. She was hunched over her own computer, and seemed to be fighting back a smile at something Shen was saying. Another comment or two from Shen, and then her chin was tipping up, a bright smile on her lips as she held Shen’s eye.

Jack huffed a soft laugh through his nose at the sound of Shen’s cackling laugh, and it was like watching ripples in a pond—her head tipped, her brow furrowed, and her eyes darted in Jack’s direction. The smile flattened when she caught him looking, her focus lowering to her keyboard as she hurriedly straightened. She seemed to point to the charge board, mutter something, and turned on her heel, striding away with purpose.

Jack couldn’t help a swell of petty disappointment. What the hell was that? There was no way she’d heard him laugh. It was like she’d sensed a disturbance in the force. Jack shook his head, trying to refocus on the chart. 

Did she panic because he had been smiling? Had he been staring at her as long as Lena implied? Did he look like some dirty old man? 

Jack pushed off of the desk, eyeing the charge board with purpose. Whatever it was that made her skitter away like that—well. He’d forget it by tomorrow. 

--  

“Hey. You headed in?” 

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the site of Ellis standing in the kitchen doorway. 

“Uh—Yeah, just packin’ a few snacks. You need anything?” 

“I got something to ask you.” 

“Sure, what’s up?” You turned to face her, folding your arms expectantly. In the entire time you and Ellis had been roommates, you’d never seen her look concerned like this—and she usually didn’t bother trying to be delicate when broaching a difficult subject. 

“Parker, what is it?” You pressed.

“Is something going on between you and Abbot?”

Your brow furrowed, mouth falling open as if to answer—but what the hell kind of question was that?

“Excuse me?” 

“You and Abbot, what’s going on?” 

“There’s nothing going on.” 

“You sure?” 

“I think I’d know if something was happening between us, El. Where the hell did this come from, anyway?” 

“Shen said the two of you were weird yesterday, that Abbot looked at you and you bolted. And—” She shrugged, “You kinda always seem like that. Did something happen?” 

“Nothing happened yesterday! I realized I needed to go check on a patient, I’d just gotten their results back.” 

“And all the other times?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Ellis gave you a long look before she relented, holding her hands up in surrender with a mutter of, “Alright.”

“Great.”

“If you insist—”

“I do insist.” 

“But you know what they say about people who protest too much.”

“Cap it, Hamlet. You on tonight?” 

“Yep,” Ellis nodded. 

“See you in there.” 

“If you wanna wait, I’ll drive you.” 

“Nah, it’s okay,” You shifted your bag onto your shoulder. “The walk is good for me.”

“We’re gonna be on our feet for the next twelve hours.” 

“I like a warm-up,” You insisted. “See you in there.” 

Slow and steady, that was how you left the apartment—even steps, a measured pocket-pat-down at the door to make sure you had your phone, keys, wallet, ID badge…And then you were out the door.

Out the door, and down the stairs, and cursing under your breath as you stepped out onto the street. Where the hell did Ellis get off, asking something like that? Implying that something could be going on between you and Abbot? You hardly spoke to the guy. Hell—you felt like you barely said more than two words to the man that didn’t have anything to do with work. The implication that the two of you had something going on was categorically insane—and it twisted your gut up in a knot. 

The closer you got to the Pitt, the worse the feeling got, until it was bordering on nausea. You stopped a block away, drawing in a deep breath and puffing it out between your lips, trying to shake yourself of the feeling. Damnit, why’d you let Ellis get in your head that way? 

You drew in another steadying breath as you started forward again, trying to shake the nerves out of your hands. This shift was going to be fine—as seamless as the ones before it.  

-- 

“You doin’ okay?” 

It was a fair question asked by the last person you wanted to hear it from. The shift had been hell. Patient after patient seemed to have some hitch. You were slower to respond when Abbot asked you questions, prompted you. It was only made worse by the feeling of Ellis and Shen watching every goddamn interaction. 

Now, the test results were back for the patient you were least looking forward to seeing. The patient herself was sweet, but you were getting nowhere with her overbearing husband answering nearly every question for her. 

You pushed yourself to straighten up. 

“Fine,” You insisted flatly. “Thanks.” You straightened fully, hesitating as you heard him take a step away. “Actually—” 

It was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You saw Abbot go still in your periphery, and your hands flexed around the iPad in your hands. 

“I’m having trouble getting answers from a patient—a woman with a head injury. She said she slipped and whacked it, but based on where the cut is...I don't think it's possible. And her husband’s an overbearing ass. I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

“Abusive?” 

“I think so. Could you run interference?” 

“Sure. You have one of those pens, one of the—” 

“I always keep a couple in my pocket.” 

--

She steeled herself before she went into the examination bay. Jack had seen her do it time and time again when she could. He wondered how it steadied her, savored the way that she closed her eyes for a split-second, drew in a deep breath, and then slapped a smile on before pulling the curtain back.

"How are we doing in here?"

Her chipper tone did nothing to reveal the concern that she'd shared with him moments ago. Abbot followed close behind, taking in the young woman laying in a hospital gown on the bed, and the man standing just beside her at the head. Abbot took another step toward the bed, then stopped as the woman seemed seemed to shrink back, attempting to make herself smaller.

"She's fine." The man's voice was gruff in his insistence, his hand curled into a fist just by his wife's head. Abbot's eyes skated across the bruises and scrapes to the knuckles there, his own hands wringing behind his back as he took another step closer.

Jack saw her glance back toward him before she gestured, "Dr. Abbot, this is Nick and Amanda Alpers. Mr. and Mrs. Alpers, this is Dr. Abbot. He's the ER's foremost expert on head injuries." An easy fib, and it seemed to be a necessary one.

"Aren't you all trained on the same shit?" Nick grumbled. Abbot took a couple of steps closer, taking in the slight matting of hair on the wife's head, the dark clotting of blood.

"We all have our own experiences that inform how we practice," Abbot passed easily, taking one more step. "Mrs. Alpers, would it be alright if I examined the—"

"It's just a scrape, really!" The insistence was hurried, and left the poor woman in a squeak. Abbot forced a small smile, giving a conceding nod.

"May I examine the scrape?" He conceded.

Amanda's eyes seemed to dart to Nick for permission, and only after a hefty sigh did Nick wave Abbot closer.

He couldn't help but note the way his fellow doctor rounded the bed, caught on the slight flurry of her questions as he gloved up.

"Are you feeling any pressure?" He asked, gently parting the hair to get a better look at the bloody, raised bump on her head.

"N-no. No more than usual—I mean! No more than anyone ever usually feels," Amanda hurried to answer. Abbot's eyes lifted to the doctor on the opposite side of the bed just in time to see her fingers tightening around her iPad.

"Any sensitivity to light, sound...?" Abbot went on, drawing his penlight out of his pocket and shining it from one eye to the next.

"Nn-nn."

"Hm."

"If that's all, can we go?" Nick groused. "Already been a waste of a night."

Abbot straightened, sizing Nick up. He waited for his fellow physician to say something, but—Nothing. He looked at her, certain she was eyeing the chart, but realized immediately that it was a mistake. Her eyes were right on his, widening pointedly as they darted to the creep beside her. Abbot cleared his throat, doing his best to focus on the patient—though he knew he'd be tucking that look away for himself.

"Nick, can I have a word?" He asked, gesturing toward the nurse's station.

"What for?"

Abbot pushed a short breath out through his nose as he rounded the bed, taking even steps so as not to raise the brute's hackles.

"There are some things that I'd like to discuss with you. Things that, you know," He nodded, "Women shouldn't hear."

Watching understanding wash over Nick's face made his stomach turn. It was a wonder the man had brought his wife to the ER at all if that was the attitude he held.

"We won't go far?" Nick pressed, though he was already moving.

"No, no," Jack insisted, following him out, "Just a few feet." He gave her one last look, and a quick nod before tugging the observation curtain closed behind them.

--

The knot that had formed in your stomach only tightened, but it wasn’t for your own nerves or panic anymore. You didn't like letting her go, hated seeing her leave with him. Abbot came to a stop beside you, and for a moment, the two of you just watched Nick steer Amanda out of the ER.

"What'd you say to him?" You asked.

"Distracted him with football."

"I didn't know you watched."

“Sometimes. She take the pen?” He asked. 

“...Yeah.” 

“It’s a start.”

“Might be too little, too late.” 

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“You think so?” 

“Sure.”

“...I gave her my number, too.” 

You saw Abbot’s head turn toward you, and you froze, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” It should’ve been more of a scold, but you could’ve sworn his tone was tinged with admiration. 

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?” 

“I wasn’t.” You turned away from Abbot. “Thanks again for distracting him.” 

“...No problem. Will you tell me if she calls?” 

“Yeah,” You nodded, turning to look at the board. “Hope she does—and soon.” 

“Was that all that was bothering you?” 

“What?” 

“You seemed a little off earlier. Just making sure everything’s okay.” 

Well, Abbot always was the observant type. It was one of the things that made him such a good doctor. You shouldn’t have been offended by his question, but in that moment, his concern was as unwelcome as Ellis probing had been just a few hours before. 

“Just one of those days—nights,” You corrected, “You know.” 

“Take a couple minutes, get some air.” 

“I’m alright.” And before you could stop yourself, you gave him a grateful smile before turning away. In truth, you weren't entirely sure where you were headed to—you’re more distracted by the fact that you’d met the guy’s eye more in the last twenty minutes than you probably had in the last two years. 

-- 

“Here.” 

“Thanks,” You took your beer as Ellis set it down and settled into the seat across from you. “John on his way?” 

“Yeah,” She nodded, “And uh…Don’t kill me, but he’s bringing someone.” 

You frowned, shaking your head as you waited for her to explain. Ellis didn’t elaborate, merely tipped her brows up. It only took a second for you to put the pieces together, and you groaned, sliding down in your chair as nerves flooded your stomach. 

“Parker—” 

“It’s just a coincidence!” She took in your unimpressed glare, corrected, “Mostly a coincidence. We always ask, he almost never says yes. It’s as hard to talk him into coming out as it is to talk you into it. Besides, it’ll help!” 

“There’s nothing here that needs helping.” 

“It’s slowing things down—”

“When has it ever slowed anything down?”

“Last few shifts, he’s waited for you to look at him when you answer and nothing. It’s making shit weird. We leave that messy personal bull for the day shift.”

“I’m not—This isn’t messy, it’s just—”

“You barely look at the guy. We all notice it.” 

“He’s so big on frickin’ eye contact, like,” You glanced around the bar, “It’s intimidating.” 

“Intimidating?”

“Yeah.”

“Intimidating.” 

“Yes! I barely even like making eye contact with you, but I live with you, so it’s mostly unavoidable.” 

“You love it.”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t want to be adopted by the meanest lesbian in the ER?”

“I thought that was Garcia.”

“No, she’s the meanest lesbian in surgery.” 

Ellis’ smile widened before she perked up, waving at someone behind you before she leaned in just a touch. 

“Just be yourself, be cool.”

“Pick one.”

“You know, I bet he thinks you hate him.” 

“What?” You hissed, “Why would he think that? And—Why would he give a shit, plenty of people hate their boss. Not that I hate him, I don’t, just—”

“Hey!” Shen’s voice cut over your nervous chatter, and you couldn’t stop your knee-jerk reaction of turning to look at him—and spotting Abbot just a couple of steps behind. Shen patted you on the shoulder, settling down beside you as Abbot rounded the table. Your eyes glued to your beer instinctively as he shrugged out of his jacket, sitting down beside Ellis. And you thought you’d just managed to be subtle enough—until both Shen and Ellis kicked you lightly under the table. It took everything in you not to kick back, instead lifting your head to meet Abbot’s eye, plastering a small smile on your lips. 

“Hi.” 

“Hello.” There was a little lean to his lo, a friendly tease that you felt like you hadn’t earned. And there was eye contact—heavy, steady eye contact as he folded his arms on the table. You tried to ignore the traitorous little flip in your stomach as you hurriedly lowered your eyes to the table, picking your beer up and taking a swig to try and drown the flurrying butterflies.  

“We miss anything good?” Shen plied. Ellis shook her head. 

“We were just talking about renewing our lease.” 

“I forgot you two were roommates,” Abbot commented. Ellis must’ve told him, and you couldn’t fathom why he’d remember. 

“What’s the verdict?” Shen asked.

“We’re gonna stick,” You reported as you looked at him. “Rent is going up, but, like, barely…Barely.”

“And the location is too good,” Ellis tacked on. “Half an hour to the Pitt walking, fifteen minutes by car—utilities don’t suck, either.” 

“Decent space,” You added, “And allows dogs—if this one goes through with getting a dog.”

“I’m still in research and development.” 

“Aren’t you allergic?” Shen nudged your arm. 

“Yeah, but not deathly. And if she picks a breed that doesn’t shed much and has a low can f 1 gene—” 

“I want to adopt from a shelter—” 

“So I’ll probably be moving out as soon as that happens,” You teased, “Because god knows she’ll wind up with a mutt.” 

“And sublet?” 

“Sure, John. You can move into my room, I’ll move into your place. Even trade.” 

“I don’t know about that—” 

“Better rent, better location.” 

“You won’t mind being further from the Pitt?”

“Nah,” You shrugged, “I like a long walk.” 

“Sure does,” Ellis rolled her eyes, “I don’t know anyone that spends more time just wandering around on their days off.” 

“Is it a crime to enjoy being outside when the sun is up?” 

“You ever think of switching to day shift?”

Abbot’s question caught you off-guard—it was like you’d fallen into such an easy rhythm with Ellis and Shen that you'd almost managed to forget that he was there. Your fingers tightened around your beer as you forced yourself to meet Abbot’s eye again. 

“Not once.” 

It was the truth, and it made Abbot’s smile widen in a way that felt dangerously vindicating. Unnerving quiet wrapped around your shared gaze, and Ellis clearing her throat was what finally snapped you out of looking at him. 

“So, hey,” Shen jumped in, “Did I tell you guys about my latest acquisition?”

“Jesus fucking christ,” You muttered over Ellis’ low whistle. 

“Another ebay war?” She asked.

“Not a war, an easy buy,” Shen insisted, “You know, for—”

“Yeah, your shank bank, we remember,” You insisted, smile pulling wide as both Abbot and Ellis’ laughter catches from that side of the table. “That weird-ass collection of antique medical equipment—fucking medical history nerd.” 

“I keep them as a display!” 

“Must really get ‘em going on a date night. Nothing hotter to a woman than rusty scalpels,” You batted back, nudging Shen’s shoulder with yours. You didn’t mean to catch Abbot’s eye on your way back to looking at Ellis again. And this look didn’t hold for as long as the one before it—but it was just long enough to reawaken the butterflies, even as Shen insisted,

“This one isn’t even rusty!”

--  

As you turned in for the night, Ellis teased you, insisted, “See, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You didn’t argue, because she wasn't wrong—it wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon out. But it was…Different. 

Your aversion to Dr. Abbot’s attention had started your first week at the Pitt, when he’d stuck close during an intubation. He hadn’t been breathing down your neck, but his steady focus had made you so damn nervous. You were used to your attendings being just a little scattered, torn in six different directions. And other matters had vied for Abbot’s attention, sure, but he hadn’t heeded them until the patient was in the clear.

You’d started to avoid his gaze after that, and it had just become second nature. Avoiding eye contact turned into avoiding him during the quiet moments of your shifts, which turned into a patient-treatment-only conversational focus. Abbot consulted on your cases, made recommendations, listened to your rationalizations. 

When he did insist on meeting your eye, you gave him just a long enough look to show that you’d heard him, but never anything more. You’d avoided palling around with him, even though you palled around with your fellow residents, and with other attendings—but you were comfortable with them. 

And Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

You could understand how Abbot may’ve thought you didn’t like him—if he really thought that. But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed everyone to like him. It probably helped, sure, but you were positive that your countenance had never caused a slow-down or a hitch in the ER, no matter what Ellis said. You were just focused—and since when was that a bad thing? 

Either way, today had been kinda…okay. You’d made nice with Abbot, made eye contact multiple times without Ellis or Shen kicking you in the shins again. Whatever wound up happening, you’d tried, and they couldn’t take that away from you, right? 

You settled in bed, letting your eyes slip closed, drawing in a deep breath to relax yourself.

For all your initial irritation, Ellis was right—it wasn’t that bad. 

But it didn’t stop Abbot’s warm gaze from lingering behind your eyelids when you closed them, and it couldn’t keep the mirthful roll of his chuckle from playing through your mind as you tried to drift off. 

-- 

You decided to make it a little experiment, approach it as something that you could train yourself out of. Seeing him over drinks had laid the groundwork—and you had managed to look at him twice a few shifts ago, hadn’t you? 

You went into your next shift determined to look Abbot in the eye three times.

You only managed it once when you passed him by the board—a glance and a small wave.

The smile that he returned flustered you so much that you nearly walked into the sandwich cart, and it scared you out of looking at him for the rest of the night. As a matter of fact, it scared you out of it the next shift, and the one after that. 

You talked yourself out of the whole foolish endeavor. You’d managed to work with Abbot perfectly well before, why change things now? Especially when looking at him seemed to awaken something girlish and fluttering inside of you—and you couldn’t afford to be girlish and fluttering at work. 

-- 

She was doing it again. 

Jack had thought they had turned a corner after Shen and Ellis had invited them all out together, but things seemed to be moving in reverse. It had gone beyond sticking in his craw—it was almost nagging at him now, and worse now that he knew what the full force of her focus was like. It was easy to brush off before, but these days Jack was hard-pressed to admit that he felt something in him wilt whenever she avoided his eye. 

She was making a meal of it now, focused stalwartly as she instructed Javadi on setting a bone. He’d seen her head tip in his direction a couple of times, but she’d always given her head a little shake before refocusing. Was the shake for Javadi? For him? 

“...You didn’t hear me, did you,” Ellis asked, forcing him to refocus. He had heard her—and he could feign that his silence had been fueled by contemplation. He turned away from the treatment bay, arms folded across his chest. 

“See if the OR can take Mr. Tosches yet," He instructed. "I don’t want him down here too long. You follow up with the raccoon kid?” 

“That’s my next stop.” 

“Perfect, thanks.” 

“Sure—Hey, are you coming by this weekend?”

That weekend. He’d been dodging giving Ellis an answer for the last couple of weeks. She’d invited him to the last four get-togethers at the apartment, but he’d never made it to one, either because he was working, or because he just wasn’t in the mood to socialize. 

He wasn’t sure he was in the mood now, but…A fleeting smile flashed through his mind. They’d seemed to come easier to her when they were away from the hospital. And his therapist had been nagging him about leaving the house more…

“Yeah,” He nodded. “Yeah, I can make it.” 

Ellis didn’t cover her surprise well, but her, “kay, sweet. I’ll text you the address," Told him that she was just as surprised by his answer as he was.

Abbot nodded, casting another glance toward the treatment bay before turning away fully. It was just an experiment, he told himself. He would see if her smiles for him came easier outside of work, or not at all. 

If it was not at all, he’d let it go, once and for all.

--  

“Is there any coffee?” 

The question made you freeze in front of your cabinet. Your eyes darted through its contents, but you didn’t take in a damn thing. He was in your kitchen. He never came to these things, why the hell did he come to this one?

“Uh—” You turned, looking around your kitchen as though you’d never been there before. “It’s um—Yeah. Right there. It might not be hot, though. I can turn the pot back on.” 

“I’ve got it.” 

“You're on shift tonight?”

“Mhm.”

You nodded, turning back to the cabinet. Hell, what did you open it for? Goddamn, but you came in here looking for something—You huffed, shoving the cabinet door closed as you scrubbed your hand across your forehead. He wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to make you feel this out of sorts in your own damn kitchen. 

“Everything alright?” 

“You know, I feel like half the time you talk to me, you’re asking if I’m okay.” It was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and embarrassment sprang up the second it did. “I should, um—You need a mug, don’t you,” You muttered, turning to the other cabinet, and glancing back toward the living room when you heard a swell of laughter. Damnit, but Ellis sent you into the kitchen for what? Napkins? Napkins would be in the cabinet.

“Well forgive me for being concerned when one of my best residents seems to spend half of her shifts avoiding me.” 

You whirled around, too stunned to do anything but meet Jack’s eye. The steady contact seemed to catch the both of you off-guard. Your mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as your mind reeled. What the hell could you say to that? Well—what would you say if you were talking to Ellis or Shen? 

“...Just one of your best residents?” 

Abbot’s brows lifted, his lips quirk with a smile, and your stomach filled with that girlish fluttering again. 

“You’re certainly not avoiding me now.”

You press your mouth together, gaze instinctively dropping to the floor. 

“I don’t avoid you at work, either. I’m just—” You turned back to the cabinet, reaching into it for a mug. “I’m focused when I'm at the Pitt.” 

“Seem to be focused right now, too.” 

“Do you want a mug for your coffee or not?” 

“Oh, that old excuse.” 

“Fine, drink it from the pot. That’s Parker’s machine, anyway. She’ll kill you.” 

“She wouldn’t. We’re short-staffed as it is.” 

“Well, that’s true.” You crossed the kitchen, holding the mug out. And, though you knew the answer, you asked, “Do you need milk or sugar?” 

“No.” 

“Alright.” You turned, reaching for the cabinet by the coffee machine. Maybe it was something in there.

“...You don’t really think I avoid you," You plied, unable to stop yourself.

“Certainly avoid looking at me.”

“Focused.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You’re fine to look at.” 

“Oh?”

“Good—Good to—” No, nothing in that cabinet. Check the next one. At least, you needed to get a few feet away from Abbot before you said anything else stupid. “You’re fine.” 

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” 

“...Look at me.” 

It was so firm that you went still in front of your cabinet again, hands on the knobs, doors half-open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not at work, you can’t need to be that focused. If I’m so fine to look at, look at me.” 

Your fingers flexed around the knobs, palms growing sweaty. 

“Ellis asked me to grab something for her and you’ve already distracted me enough.”

“Is that so.” 

“You can be very distracting sometimes.” For fucksake. What was it about being alone with this man that had your head so horribly scrambled?

“I suddenly feel like I oughta apologize,” He commented.

“I feel like you’re making fun of me.” 

“A little.” 

You scoffed out a laugh, your nerves only worsening when you heard Jack take a few steps closer, saw him lower his coffee onto the counter beside you. 

“It won’t take long,” He reassured, raising his hand to close one of the cabinet doors. “One quick look.” 

You drew in a deep breath, planting your hand on the counter and turning to face Jack with wide eyes. You were prepared to stare at him pointedly—but you faltered at the look on his face. His eyes were softer than they had any right being. They searched your expression, sweeping over your nose, across your cheeks, to your lips, and up again—as if he was seeing you for the first time. 

“...See?” He murmured. “This isn’t so bad.” 

You struggled to swallow, throat dry; your face was flooding with heat. If this was a cartoon, you were certain that your heart would be beating out of your chest. 

“No,” You finally managed, shaking your head a little, unable to tear your eyes from his, “No, it isn’t.” 

Jack’s smile widened as he leaned against the counter a touch, fingers skimming against yours. And you knew that you ought to look away, go ask Ellis what she sent you into the damn kitchen for in the first place, but you couldn't bring yourself to move.

“You just gonna keep staring at me, Jack?” You murmured. His brows jumped slightly at the use of his first name, lips quirking with a smirk.

“You’re staring, too.”

“Making up for apparently avoiding you.” 

“Very kind of you.”

“Do what I can.” 

Maybe it was better that he was looking at your face, anyway—if he looked down, he might see the goosebumps sweeping up your arm from the gentle sweep of his fingertips against yours. It felt pathetic to get so worked up from such a simple touch. Goddamn, did he look at everyone like this? Did everyone feel like this when he looked at them? There was no way—if it was, nothing would ever get done at the Pitt. 

“Hey, did you find the Triscuits?” 

Ellis bottle snapped you out of the trance-like stare, and you whirled away from Jack like he was trying to set you on fire. The Triscuits, son of a bitch, that was what you were sent to look for. 

“I just—I just saw them,” You fumbled, pulling the cabinet open again. 

“My fault,” Abbot spoke up. “I asked for some coffee.” 

“You’re on tonight?” Ellis frowned, and you were relieved to hear her come deeper into the kitchen. “I thought you were taking the day.” 

“We had two call outs. Matter of fact, I should get going.”

You glanced doggedly back toward Jack, watching him pick his mug up and take a deep swig. You busied yourself with poking through the drawer beneath the cupboard, vaguely catching Abbot saying his goodbyes to Ellis in the background. Jeez, did the Trisuits fucking evaporate? 

You glanced toward the mug as Jack set it down in the sink, and, against your better judgement, met Jack’s eye when he turned to look at you. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Sure,” You nodded. “Have a good shift.” 

“Good luck finding those, uh…” He glanced toward Ellis. “Triscuits?” 

“Uh-huh,” She nodded. “Thanks for coming, man.” 

“Have a good night.” 

You listened to his retreating footsteps, marked the opening and closing of the door…And tried not to die from complete mortification when Ellis tapped your shoulder, then pointed out the box of Triscuits where it was sitting on the counter. 

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @artsymaddie

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

You Know Where You Are 1/3

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!Musician!Reader Angst/Established Relationship Part II | Part III

The Pitt Playlist located here The Pitt Masterlist

Synopsis: Dr. Robby's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day started before he even made it to PTMC. He was supposed to go to Pittfest to support his girlfriend's band with Jake, but decided to flake and give his ticket to Jake's girlfriend. You are less than thrilled with his lack of communication. Word Count: 965 Content Warning: Arguing; Reader is in her 30's A/N: This will be a three-parter.

“Why is an alarm going off?” You grumbled into Robby’s warm chest as the jingle from his phone repeated itself. Robby groaned as he reached over to the nightstand to turn it off. He was silent for a few beats, his other hand coming up to rub your back gently. “Mikey?”

“I’m goin’ in today.” He mumbled into the crown of your head. 

“You’re what?” Sitting up in a hurry, you pushed yourself off him, but kept your eyes pinpointed on his. Michael was looking anywhere else in the room but at you. “No. No, Mike! You said you weren’t going to do this.”

“I know.” He responded gently, his eyes breaking from yours. 

“You know.” Scoffing, you started to get off the bed, but was stopped by his hand gently grabbing your thigh, squeezing it in a way that told you he did not want this to get blown into an argument. Not today. “What about Jake? You can’t just ditch him.”

“Giving him my pass for his girlfriend. They’ll have a blast and apparently she’s a huge fan of you guys.” He tried to soften the blow. All it did was build the irritation that was growing inside of you. 

“And me?” Your question hung in the air.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Absolutely not.” Gently prying his hand off your leg, you stood and threw on some random clothes he had in the second drawer that housed various t-shirts, jeans and leggings that you’d left over time. “Genuinely don’t know what I was expecting.” You muttered under your breath as you pulled a t-shirt over your head.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He had the nerve to sound indignant.

“It means that I am a very reasonable person who rolls with the punches when it comes to you, but god forbid something on my end -pre planned well in advance, mind you- is important to me and it gets thrown by the wayside.”

“Today is-” You held up your hand to stop him. 

“-I know what today is.” Your voice took on a somber tone. “And I am so incredibly sorry that you have to carry this with you, Mike. I am. I love you and I support you wholeheartedly, but you obviously knew you were going to do this well before this morning and you chose not to tell me. A heads up is all that I’m asking for here.”

“Had I known missing this set was going to be a huge deal-”

“It’s not about the set!” Your voice rose. “I don’t care about the set, Mike! My life is set after set. I cared about spending time with you and Jake. The set is an hour out of my day. Both of us are stupidly busy people with demanding careers who don’t get to see a whole lot of each other outside of some quick takeout and going to bed -if we’re even in the same state!” It wasn’t meant to be a jab, but Robby felt it all the same. 

“You’ve never had a problem with me having to cancel for work.” His voice was starting to get an irritated tone to it, one that you knew he knew he was wrong, but was doubling down. 

“That’s not what this is!” You snapped, “I’m not mad because you get called in to work, Mike! You did this on purpose. They didn’t call you in, you are choosing to go in on a day that you already arranged to have off for no other reason than you won’t communicate!” He winced -you don’t communicate was repeated like a broken record through just about every failed relationship he had. “I don’t understand how you don’t see why I’m frustrated with this and, quite frankly, it’s pissing me off even more than I was to begin with because I can’t tell if you know what you’re doing or if this is just a defensive reflex!”

Grabbing your phone off the nightstand on your side, you sighed when you saw how early it actually was. Deciding that removing yourself from Mike’s townhouse was the best option so you could cool off without figuratively ripping his head from his body, you grabbed your purse off his dresser. 

“Where are you going?” Mike stood from the bed, pajama pants hanging low in his hips. There was clear panic in his eyes, but he couldn’t navigate himself out of the hole he had dug himself. 

“Back to my place.” You didn’t bother to untie your sneakers as you shoved your feet into them, pulling roughly until they popped on. 

“Come on,” He said your name softly, “-please just get back into bed-”

“Why?” You snapped, “You’re getting ready for work and I don’t have a reason to be here right now.” Mike winced, then inhaled deeply before nodding -not to agree with you, but to process the words that you just said to him. 

“You don’t need a reason to be here.” He was nearly begging. You bit your bottom lip to keep yourself from going off the deep end. 

“Fine, I don’t want to be here.” You ground out. And truthfully, you didn’t. Anger was a rarity coming from you -life happens- but this wasn’t “life happens”. This was “Robby happens” and when Robby happens...you shook your head. 

“You coming back here tonight?” He knew it was a long shot, but he asked anyway. 

“You know, Mike…” You shrugged, exasperated, arms swinging out from your sides, “-probably not.” Done with the conversation you left the bedroom, angry that this was how the day -a day that was supposed to be fun and a distraction from the shit Mike deals with- started in a fiery blaze. 

“Don’t-” Not bothering to hear his response as you fled through the townhouse, you let the door slam closed behind you. 

Part II

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Shut Up and Drive Taglist!

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Tommy Shelby & Clara Shelby

✵ The Walk-In Appointment: May 1909. Clara learns to walk a bit later than her twin, but once she does there’s no stopping her from following her big brother around wherever he goes. 

✵ Tired of the Wait: 1912. When Tommy brings his sisters downtown with him to run an errand and Ada decides to run one of her own, Tommy and Clara both grow tired of waiting on their sister.

✵ Interminable Moonlight: Tommy meets Greta by the cut in the moonlight.

✵ Our Bloody Idiot: 1913. Tommy may very well be a bloody idiot, but Clara still thinks he deserves a piece of cake.

✵ The Horsewoman: 1913. Clara and Finn are ready to start school, but Clara is a bit hesitant. Thankfully, her older brother Tommy knows how to negotiate.

✵ The Devil’s Footsteps: 1913. Tommy’s taken on quite a bit of responsibility in caring for his younger siblings. He never expected that responsibility would require him explaining the inappropriateness of tossing erasers at people. 

✵ For Old and Young Alike: Set in 1913 and 1922. All Clara Shelby wants for Christmas is a little quality time with her favorite people. 

✵ The Road that Leads to Trouble: 1914. The Shelby dinner table is rarely a thing one would call quiet or calm, and it’s no different on the night the family learns their youngest has been kissing boys out on the lane.

✵ Like the Leaves: 1914. In the wake of Greta’s passing, Tommy’s little sister offers him some comfort.

✵ Things They Left Behind - Parts 1-3: 1918. John, Arthur, and Tommy have just returned from France to rediscover the things they’ve left behind: Ada, a set of twins, the business, and a few treasures their youngest sister has been keeping safe for them. *COMPLETED*

✵ The Shelby Inheritance: 1918. When Clara and Finn are being teased at school, Tommy helps them get things sorted.

✵ Thank you. I can take it from here: 1918. Clara Shelby wants to bake her brother a special treat for his birthday but needs a bit of assistance in gathering ingredients.  

✵ Little Lady Blinder Series: 1919. Clara Shelby is a kind girl, a smart girl, a well-behaved little sister in a town full of gangsters and ruffians. With the girl’s raising thus far being such a simple task, the Shelby family is left unprepared for all that accompanies a perfectly respectable little girl growing up and becoming a lady among Peaky Blinders.

✵ The Shelby Women’s Alliance: 1920. Clara navigates the first milestone of puberty on her own in a house full of clueless brothers, keeping it all to herself until Ada comes at the weekend and takes over, managing their brother and formally inducting her sister into the Shelby Woman’s Alliance.

✵ Warmth: 1920. It takes a special sort of person to fall asleep during a birthday party at the pub. Turns out it takes a special kind of person to wake them too.

✵ A Small Comfort: 1921. When Clara’s horse gets sick, Tommy tries to shield her from seeing the worst of it, but Clara has her own plans.

✵ Seeing Stars: 1921. When Finn, Isiah, and Clara get themselves in to trouble with Polly, they’re left in the church to wait on their comeuppance.

✵ Kind Eyes: 1922. Clara finds herself in Tommy’s office, studying a picture on his desk, searching for a resemblance to a mother who looks nothing like her.

✵ Something: 1922. Tommy has sensed a change in the way his youngest sister relates to the boys of Small Heath.

✵ Give Away: 1922. It’s a family day—Arthur and Linda’s wedding day—but rather than celebrating, Arthur’s got Tommy thinking about something he’d never consciously given much thought to—their Clara’s wedding and who would be giving her away.

✵ A Candle in the Darkness: 1923. Clara may be growing older, but she still needs her brother Tommy from time to time.

✵ The Council: 1923. The boy’s reaction to fifteen-year-old Clara Shelby being friends with the Watery Lane boys. 

✵ Close-knit: 1923. It’s Christmas 1923, otherwise known as the year of Clara’s Christmas sweaters.

✵ You’re Not Me: 1924. When Clara’s running herself ragged preparing for an exam, Tommy steps in to reassure her.

✵ You’ve always been naive: 1925. After an epic row, Tommy allows Clara to stay more regularly on Watery Lane with a few conditions, one of which is a mid-week meeting at the Midland Hotel to check in.

✵ My Person: 1925. Clara and Isiah haven’t talked in weeks but after a drunken night filled with a break up and scrapping in Small Heath, Isiah insists on going out to Arrow House to see her. 

✵ Bloody Rotten: 1925ish. Clara’s feeling bloody rotten, but thankfully her brother arrives home just in time to look after her.

✵ A Big, Beautiful Fellow: 1926. Tommy didn’t set out to bribe his sister and win back her good graces, but when the opportunity presents itself…

✵ They Waited for You: 1927. Tommy’s been away in London and Clara tries to bring him home to Arrow House, to be present for his son and daughter, and for her.

✵ Stars in the Sky: 1927. Clara Shelby is feeling overwhelmed with trying to balance university, family, and business responsibilities, but that doesn’t stop her from noticing something is off with her brother. When have her own problems ever stopped her from trying to fix someone else’s?

✵ Gestures of Fairness: 1927. Thomas Shelby isn’t ticklish, at least that’s what a few decades of Clara’s intel says. Charles and Clara test the theory of his god-like ability to remain stoic in the face of writhing fingers. 

✵ Five of Swords: 1929. An evening of tarot cards and forgiveness.

✵ A Little Raven: 1930ish (AU). Lizzie and Clara have a chat about Lizzie’s concerns, for the children she’s raising without much help from their father, the baby growing in her belly, the twins so eager to prove themselves, and the Shelby curse. Clara tries to offer a bit of comfort, but its Tommy coming home early on a Friday that assuages her concerns.

✵ Family Meeting - Modern AU Tommy, Isiah, and Clara

✵ LITTLE LADY BLINDER MASTERLIST ✵

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ Built for Battle, Never for Me ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

“And I will fuck you like nothing matters.”

summary : You loved Jack through four deployments and every version of the man he became, even when he stopped choosing you. Years later, fate shoves you back into his trauma bay, unconscious and bleeding, and everything you buried resurfaces.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! long-form emotional trauma, war and military themes, medical trauma, car accident (graphic details), infidelity (emotional & physical), explicit smut with intense emotional undertones, near-death experiences, emotionally unhealthy relationships, and grief over a still-living person

word count : 13,078 ( read on ao3 here if it's too large )

a/n : ok this is long! but bare with me! I got inspired by Nothing Matters by The Last Dinner Party and I couldn't stop writing. College finals are coming up soon so I thought I'd put this out there now before I am in the trenches but that doesn't mean you guys can't keep sending stuff to my inbox!

You were nineteen the first time Jack Abbot kissed you.

Outside a run-down bar just off base in the thick of Georgia summer—air humid enough to drink, heat clinging to your skin like regret. He had a fresh cut on his knuckle and a dog-eared med school textbook shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, like that wasn’t the most Jack thing in the world—equal parts violence and intellect, always straddling the line between bare-knuckle instinct and something nobler. Half fists, half fire, always on the verge of vanishing into a cause bigger than himself.

You were his long before the letters trailed behind his name. Before he learned to stitch flesh beneath floodlights and call it purpose. Before the trauma became clockwork, and the quiet between you started speaking louder than words ever could. You loved him through every incarnation—every rough draft of the man he was trying to become. Army medic. Burned-out med student. Warzone doctor with blood on his boots and textbooks in his duffel. The kind of man who took people apart just to understand how to hold them together.

He used to say he’d get out once it was over. Once the years were served, the boxes checked, the blood debt paid in full. He promised he’d come back—not just in body, but in whatever version of wholeness he still had left. Said he’d pick a city with good light, buy real furniture instead of folding chairs and duffel bags, learn how to sleep through the night like people who hadn’t taught themselves to live on adrenaline and loss.

You waited. Through four deployments. Through static-filled phone calls and letters that always said soon. Through nights spent tracing his name like it was a map back to yourself. You clung to that promise like it was gospel. And now—he was standing in your bedroom, rolling his shirts with the same clipped, clinical precision he used to pack a field kit. Each fold a quiet betrayal. Each movement a confirmation: he was leaving again. Not called. Choosing.

“I’m not being deployed,” he said, eyes fixed on the duffel bag instead of you. “I’m volunteering.”

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, nails digging into the fabric of your sleeves. “You’ve fulfilled your contract, Jack. You’re not obligated anymore. You’re a doctor now. You could stay. You could leave.”

“I know,” he said, quiet. Measured. Like he’d practiced saying it in his head a hundred times already.

“You were offered a civilian residency,” you pressed, your voice rising despite the lump building in your throat. “At one of the top trauma programs in D.C. You told me they fast-tracked you. That they wanted you.”

“I know.”

“And you turned it down.”

He exhaled through his nose. A long, deliberate breath. Then reached for another undershirt, folded it so neatly it looked like a ritual. “They need trauma-trained docs downrange. There’s a shortage.”

You laughed—a bitter, breathless sound. “There’s always a shortage. That’s not new.”

He paused. Briefly. His hand flattened over the shirt like he was smoothing something that wouldn’t stay still. “You don’t get it.”

“I do get it,” you snapped. “That’s the problem.”

He finally looked up at you then. Just for a second.

Eyes tired. Distant. Fractured in a way that made you want to punch him and hold him at the same time.

“You think this makes you necessary,” you whispered. “You think chaos gives you purpose. But it’s just the only place you feel alive.”

He turned toward you slowly, shirt still in hand. His hair was longer than regulation—he hadn’t shaved in days. His face looked older, worn down in that way no one else seemed to notice but you did. You knew every line. Every scar. Every inch of the man who swore he’d come back and choose something softer.

You.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered. “Tell me this isn’t just about being needed again. About being irreplaceable. About chasing adrenaline because you’re scared of standing still.”

Jack didn’t say anything else.

Not when your voice broke asking him to stay—not loud, not theatrical, not in the kind of way that could be dismissed as a moment of weakness or written off as heat-of-the-moment desperation. You’d asked him softly. Carefully. Like you were trying not to startle something fragile. Like if you stayed calm, maybe he’d finally hear you.

And not when you walked away from him, the space between you stretching like a fault line you both knew neither of you would cross again.

You’d seen him fight for the life of a stranger—bare hands pressed to a wound, blood soaking through his sleeves, voice low and steady through chaos. But he didn’t fight for this. For you.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

He packed in silence. You did laundry. Folded his socks like it mattered. You couldn’t decide if it felt more like mourning or muscle memory.

You didn’t touch him.

Not until night fell, and the house got too quiet, and the space beside you on the couch started to feel like a ghost of something you couldn’t bear to name.

The windows were open, and you could hear the city breathing outside—car tires on wet pavement, wind slinking through the alley, the distant hum of a life you could’ve had. One that didn’t smell like starch and gun oil and choices you never got to make.

Jack was in the kitchen, barefoot, methodically washing a single plate. You sat on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, half-wrapped in the blanket you kept by the radiator. There was a movie playing on the TV. Something you'd both seen a dozen times. He hadn’t looked at it once.

“Do you want tea?” he asked, not turning around.

You stared at his back. The curve of his spine under that navy blue t-shirt. The tension in his neck that never fully left.

“No.”

He nodded, like he expected that.

You wanted to scream. Or throw the mug he used every morning. Or just… shake him until he remembered that this—you—was what he was supposed to be fighting for now.

Instead, you stood up.

Walked into the kitchen.

Pressed your palms flat against the cool tile counter and watched him dry his hands like it was just another Tuesday. Like he hadn’t made a choice that ripped something fundamental out of you both.

“I don’t think I know how to do this anymore,” you said.

Jack turned, towel still in hand. “What?”

“This,” you gestured between you, “Us. I don’t know how to keep pretending we’re okay.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then leaned against the sink like the weight of that sentence physically knocked him off balance.

“I didn’t expect you to understand,” he said.

You laughed. It came out sharp. Ugly. “That’s the part that kills me, Jack. I do understand. I know exactly why you're going. I know what it does to you to sit still. I know you think you’re only good when you’re bleeding out in a tent with your hands in someone’s chest.”

He flinched.

“But I also know you didn’t even try to stay.”

“I did,” he snapped. “Every time I came back to you, I tried.”

“That’s not the same as choosing me.”

The silence that followed felt like the real goodbye.

You walked past him to the bedroom without a word. The hallway felt longer than usual, quieter too—like the walls were holding their breath. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

The bed still smelled like him. Like cedarwood aftershave and something darker—familiar, aching. You crawled beneath the sheets, dragging the comforter up to your chin like armor. Turned your face to the wall. Every muscle in your back coiled tight, waiting for a sound that didn’t come.

And for a long time, he didn’t follow.

But eventually, the floor creaked—soft, uncertain. A pause. Then the familiar sound of the door clicking shut, slow and final, like the closing of a chapter neither of you had the courage to write an ending for. The mattress shifted beneath his weight—slow, deliberate, like every inch he gave to gravity was a decision he hadn’t fully made until now. He settled behind you, quiet as breath. And for a moment, there was only stillness.

No touch. No words. Just the heat of him at your back, close enough to feel the ghost of something you’d almost forgotten.

Then, gently—like he thought you might flinch—his arm slid across your waist. His hand spread wide over your stomach, fingers splayed like he was trying to memorize the shape of your body through fabric and time and everything he’d left behind.

Like maybe, if he held you carefully enough, he could keep you from slipping through the cracks he’d carved into both of your lives. Like this was the only way he still knew how to say please don’t go.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he breathed into the nape of your neck, voice rough, frayed at the edges.

Your eyes burned. You swallowed the lump in your throat. His lips touched your skin—just below your ear, then lower. A kiss. Another. His mouth moved with unbearable softness, like he thought he might break you. Or maybe himself.

And when he kissed you like it was the last time, it wasn’t frantic or rushed. It was slow. The kind of kiss that undoes a person from the inside out.

His hand slid under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your ribs as if relearning your shape. You rolled to face him, breath catching when your noses bumped. And then he was kissing you again—deeper this time. Tongue coaxing, lips parted, breath shared. You gasped when he pressed his thigh between yours. He was already hard. And when he rocked into you, It wasn’t frantic—it was sacred. Like a ritual. Like a farewell carved into skin.

The lights stayed off, but not out of shame. It was self-preservation. Because if you saw his face, if you saw what was written in his eyes—whatever soft, shattering thing was there—it might ruin you. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something fragile—careful, slow, like he was afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. Each layer pulled away with quiet tension, each breath held between fingers and fabric.

His mouth followed close behind, brushing down your chest with aching precision. He kissed every scar like it told a story only he remembered. Mouthed at your skin like it tasted of something he hadn’t let himself crave in years. Like he was starving for the version of you that only existed when you were underneath him. 

Your fingers threaded through his hair. You arched. Moaned his name. He pushed into you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. Like this was the only place he still knew. His pace was languid at first, drawn out. But when your breath hitched and you clung to him tighter, he fucked you deeper. Slower. Harder. Like he was trying to carve himself into your bones. Your bodies moved like memory. Like grief. Like everything you never said finally found a rhythm in the dark. 

His thumb brushed your lower lip. You bit it. He groaned—low, guttural.

“Say it,” he rasped against your mouth.

“I love you,” you whispered, already crying. “God, I love you.”

And when you came, it wasn’t loud. It was broken. Soft. A tremor beneath his palm as he cradled your jaw. He followed seconds later, gasping your name like a benediction, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and shaking.

After, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just stayed curled around you, heartbeat thudding against your spine like punctuation.

Because sometimes the loudest heartbreak is the one you don’t say out loud.

The alarm never went off.

You’d both woken up before it—some silent agreement between your bodies that said don’t pretend this is normal. The room was still dark, heavy with the thick, gray stillness of early morning. That strange pocket of time that doesn’t feel like today yet, but is no longer yesterday.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows resting on his thighs, spine curled slightly forward like the weight of the choice he’d made was finally catching up to him. He was already dressed in the uniform in his head.

You stayed under the covers, arms wrapped around your own body, watching the muscles in his back tighten every time he exhaled.

You didn’t speak. 

What was there left to say?

He stood, moved through the room with quiet efficiency. Pulling his pants on. Shirt. Socks. He tied his boots slowly, like muscle memory. Like prayer. You wondered if his hands ever shook when he packed for war, or if this was just another morning to him. Another mission. Another place to be.

He finally turned to face you. “You want coffee?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You shook your head. You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

He paused in the doorway, like he might say something—something honest, something final. Instead, he just looked at you like you were already slipping into memory.

The kitchen was still warm from the radiator kicking on. Jack moved like a ghost through it—mug in one hand, half a slice of dry toast in the other. You sat across from him at the table, knees pulled into your chest, wearing one of his old t-shirts that didn’t smell like him anymore. The silence was different now. Not tense. Just done. He set his keys on the table between you.

“I left a spare,” he said.

You nodded. “I know.”

He took a sip of coffee, made a face. “You never taught me how to make it right.”

“You never listened.”

His lips twitched—almost a smile. It died quickly. You looked down at your hands. Picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Will you write?” you asked, quietly. Not a plea. Just curiosity. Just something to fill the silence.

“If I can.”

And somehow that hurt more.

When the cab pulled up outside, neither of you moved right away. Jack stared at the wall. You stared at him. 

He finally stood. Grabbed his bag. Slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He didn’t look like a man leaving for war. He looked like a man trying to convince himself he had no other choice.

At the door, he paused again.

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. “You’re everything I ever wanted, you know that?”

You stood too fast. “Then why wasn’t this enough?”

He flinched. And still, he came back to you. Hands cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize it.

“I love you,” he said.

You swallowed. Hard. “Then stay.”

His hands dropped. 

“I can’t.”

You didn’t cry when he left.

You just stood in the hallway until the cab disappeared down the street, teeth sunk into your lip so hard it bled. And then you locked the door behind you. Not because you didn’t want him to come back.

But because you didn’t want to hope anymore that he would.

PRESENT DAY : THE PITT - FRIDAY 7:02 PM

Jack always said he didn’t believe in premonitions. That was Robby’s department—gut feelings, emotional instinct, the kind of sixth sense that made him pause mid-shift and mutter things like “I don’t like this quiet.” Jack? He was structure. Systems. Trauma patterns on a 10-year data set. He didn’t believe in ghosts, omens, or the superstition of stillness.

But tonight?

Tonight felt wrong.

The kind of wrong that doesn’t announce itself. It just settles—low and quiet, like a second pulse beneath your skin. Everything was too clean. Too calm. The trauma board was a blank canvas. One transfer to psych. One uncomplicated withdrawal on fluids. A dislocated shoulder in 6 who kept trying to flirt with the nurses despite being dosed with enough ketorolac to sedate a linebacker.

That was it. Four hours. Not a single incoming. Not even a fender-bender.

Jack stood in front of the board with his arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw was clenched, shoulders stiff, body still in that way that wasn’t restful—just waiting. Like something in him was already bracing for impact.

The ER didn’t breathe like this. Not on a Friday night in Pittsburgh. Not unless something was holding its breath.

He rolled his shoulder, cracked his neck once, then twice. His leg ached—not the prosthetic. The other one. The real one. The one that always overcompensated when he was tense. The one that still carried the habits of a body he didn’t fully live in anymore. He tried to shake it off. He couldn’t. He wasn’t tired.

But he felt unmoored.

7:39 PM

The station was too loud in all the wrong ways.

Dana was telling someone—probably Perlah—about her granddaughter’s birthday party tomorrow. There was going to be a Disney princess. Real cake. Real glitter. Jack nodded when she looked at him but didn’t absorb any of it. His hands were hovering over the computer keys, but he wasn’t charting. He was watching the vitals monitor above Bay 2 blink like a metronome. Too steady. Too normal.

His stomach clenched. Something inside him stirred. Restless. Sharp. He didn’t even hear Ellis approach until her shadow slid into his peripheral.

“You’re doing it again,” she said.

Jack blinked. “Doing what?”

“That thing. The haunted soldier stare.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Didn’t realize I had a brand.”

“You do.” She leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You get real still when it’s too quiet in here. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Jack tilted his head slightly. “I’m always waiting for the other shoe.”

“No,” she said. “Not like this.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. They both knew what kind of quiet this was.

7:55 PM

The weather was turning.

He could hear it—how the rain hit the loading dock, how the wind pushed harder against the back doors. He’d seen it out the break room window earlier. Clouds like bruises. Thunder low, miles off, not angry yet—just gathering. Pittsburgh always got weird storms in the spring—cold one day, burning the next. The kind of shifts that made people do dumb things. Drive fast. Get careless. Forget their own bodies could break.

His hand flexed unconsciously against the edge of the counter. He didn’t know who he was preparing for—just that someone was coming. 

8:00 PM

Robby’s shift was ending. He always left a little late—hovered by the lockers, checking one last note, scribbling initials where none were needed. Jack didn’t look up when he approached, but he heard the familiar shuffle, the sound of a hoodie zipper pulled halfway.

“You sure you don’t wanna switch shifts tomorrow?” Robby asked, thumb scrolling absently across his phone screen, like he was trying to sound casual—but you could hear the edge of something in it. Fatigue. Or maybe just wariness.

Jack glanced over, one brow arched, already sensing the setup. “What, you finally land that hot date with the med student who keeps calling you sir, looks like she still gets carded for cough syrup and thinks you’re someone’s dad?”

Robby didn’t look up from his phone. “Close. She thinks you’re the dad. Like… someone’s brooding, emotionally unavailable single father who only comes to parent-teacher conferences to say he’s doing his best.”

Jack blinked. “I’m forty-nine. You’re fifty-three.”

“She thinks you’ve lived harder.”

Jack snorted. “She say that?”

“She said—and I quote—‘He’s got that energy. Like he’s seen things. Lost someone he doesn’t talk about. Probably drinks his coffee black and owns, like, one picture frame.’”

Jack gave a slow nod, face unreadable. “Well. She’s not wrong.”

Robby side-eyed him. “You do have ghost-of-a-wife vibes.”

Jack’s smirk twitched into something more wry. “Not a widower.”

“Could’ve fooled her. She said if she had daddy issues, you’d be her first mistake.”

Jack let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“I told her you’re just forty-nine. Prematurely haunted.”

Jack smiled. Barely. “You’re such a good friend.”

Robby slipped his phone into his pocket. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell her about the ring. She thinks you’re tragic. Women love that.”

Jack muttered, “Tragic isn’t a flex.”

Robby shrugged. “It is when you’re tall and say very little.”

Jack rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “Still not switching.”

Robby groaned. “Come on. Whitaker is due for a meltdown, and if I have to supervise him through one more central line attempt, I’m walking into traffic. He tried to open the kit with his elbow last week. Said sterile gloves were ‘limiting his dexterity.’ I said, ‘That’s the point.’ He told me I was oppressing his innovation.”

Jack stifled a laugh. “I’m starting to like him.”

“He’s your favorite. Admit it.”

“You’re my favorite,” Jack said, deadpan.

“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

Jack’s grin tugged wider. “It’s been a long year.”

They stood in silence for a moment—one of those rare ones where the ER wasn’t screeching for attention. Just a quiet hum of machines and distant footsteps. Then Robby shifted, leaned a little heavier against the wall.

“You good?” he asked, voice low. Not pushy. Just there.

Jack didn’t look at him right away. Just stared at the trauma board. Too long. Long enough that it said more than words would’ve.

Then—“Fine,” Jack said. A beat. “Just tired.”

Robby didn’t press. Just nodded, like he believed it, even if he didn’t.

“Get some rest,” Jack added, almost an afterthought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You always do,” Robby said.

And then he left, hoodie half-zipped, coffee in hand, just like always.

But Jack didn’t move for a while.

Not until the ER stopped pretending to be quiet.

8:34 PM

The call hits like a starter’s pistol.

“Inbound MVA. Solo driver. High velocity. No seatbelt. Unresponsive. GCS three. ETA three minutes.”

The kind of call that should feel routine.

Jack’s already in motion—snapping on gloves, barking out orders, snapping the trauma team to attention. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t feel. He just moves. It’s what he’s best at. What they built him for.

He doesn’t know why his heart is hammering harder than usual.

Why the air feels sharp in his lungs. Why he’s clenching his jaw so hard his molars ache.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

“Perlah, trauma cart’s prepped?”

“Yeah.”

“Mateo, I want blood drawn the second she’s in. Jesse—intubation tray. Let’s be ready.”

No one questions him. Not when he’s in this mode—low voice, high tension. Controlled but wired like something just beneath his skin is ready to snap. He pulls the door to Bay 2 open, nods to the team waiting inside. His hands go to his hips, gloves already on, brain flipping through protocol.

And then he hears it—the wheels. Gurney. Fast.

Voices echoing through the corridor.

Paramedic yelling vitals over the noise.

“Unidentified female. Found unresponsive at the scene of an MVA—single vehicle, no ID on her. Significant blood loss, hypotensive on arrival. BP tanked en route—we lost her once. Got her back, but she’s still unstable.”

The doors bang open. They wheel her in. Jack steps forward. His eyes fall to the body. Blood-soaked. Covered in debris. Face battered. Left cheek swelling fast. Gash at the temple. Lip split. Clothes shredded. Eyes closed.

He freezes. Everything stops. Because he knows that mouth. That jawline. That scar behind the ear. That body. The last time he saw it, it was beneath his hands. The last time he kissed her, she was whispering his name in the dark. And now she’s here.

Unconscious. Barely breathing. Covered in her own blood. And nobody knows who she is but him.

“Jack?” Perlah says, uncertain. “You good?”

He doesn’t respond. He’s already at the side of the gurney, brushing the medic aside, sliding in like muscle memory.

“Get me vitals now,” he says, voice too low.

“She’s crashing again—”

“I said get me fucking vitals.”

Everyone jolts. He doesn’t care. He’s pulling the oxygen mask over your face. Hands hovering, trembling.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “What happened to you?”

Your eyes flutter, barely. He watches your chest rise once. Then falter.

Then—Flatline.

You looked like a stranger. But the kind of stranger who used to be home. Where had you gone after he left?

Why didn’t you come back?

Why hadn’t he tried harder to find you?

He never knew. He told himself you were fine. That you didn’t want to be found. That maybe you'd met someone else, maybe moved out of state, maybe started the life he was supposed to give you.

And now you were here. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Not a "maybe someday."

Here.

And dying.

8:36 PM

The monitor flatlines. Sharp. Steady. Shrill.

And Jack—he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t call out. He just moves. The team reacts first—shock, noise, adrenaline. Perlah’s already calling it out. Mateo goes for epi. Jesse reaches for the crash cart, his hands a little too fast, knocking a tray off the edge.

It clatters to the floor. Jack doesn’t flinch.

He steps forward. Takes position. Drops to the right side of your chest like it’s instinct—because it is. His hands hover for half a beat.

Then press down.

Compression one.

Compression two.

Compression three.

Thirty in all. His mouth is tight. His eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your body beneath his hands. He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t let them see him.

He just works.

Like he’s still on deployment.

Like you’re just another body.

Like you’re not the person who made him believe in softness again.

Jack doesn’t move from your side.

Doesn’t say a thing when the first shock doesn’t bring you back. Doesn’t speak when the second one stalls again. He just keeps pressing. Keeps watching. Keeps holding on with the one thing left he can control.

His hands.

You twitch under his palms on the third shock.

The line stutters. Then catches. Jack exhales once. But he still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t check the room. Doesn’t acknowledge the tears running down his face. Just rests both hands on the edge of the gurney and leans forward, breathing shallow, like if he stands up fully, something inside him will fall apart for good.

“Get her to CT,” he says quietly.

Perlah hesitates. “Jack—”

He shakes his head. “I’ll walk with her.”

“Jack…”

“I said I’ll go.”

And then he does.

Silent. Soaking in your blood. Following the gurney like he followed field stretchers across combat zones. No one asks questions. Because everyone sees it now.

8:52 PM 

The corridor outside CT was colder than the rest of the hospital. Some architectural flaw. Or maybe just Jack’s body going numb. You were being wheeled in now—hooked to monitors, lips cracked and flaking at the edges from blood loss.

You hadn’t moved since the trauma bay. They got your heart back. But your eyes hadn’t opened. Not even once.

Jack walked beside the gurney in silence. One hand gripping the edge rail. Gloved fingers stained dark. His scrub top was still soaked from chest compressions. His pulse hadn’t slowed since the flatline. He didn’t speak to the transport tech. Didn’t acknowledge the nurse. Didn’t register anything except the curve of your arm under the blanket and the smear of blood at your temple no one had cleaned yet.

Outside the scan room, they paused to prep.

“Two minutes,” someone said.

Jack barely nodded. The tech turned away. And for the first time since they wheeled you in—Jack looked at you.

Eyes sweeping over your face like he was seeing it again for the first time. Like he didn’t recognize this version of you—not broken, not bloodied, not dying—but fragile. His hand moved before he could stop it. He reached down. Brushed your hair back from your forehead, fingers trembling. 

He leaned in, close enough that only the machines could hear him. Voice raw. Shaky.

“Stay with me.” He swallowed. Hard. “I’ll lie to everyone else. I’ll keep pretending I can live without you. But you and me? We both know I’m full of shit.”

He paused. “You’ve always known.”

Footsteps echoed around the corner. Jack straightened instantly. Like none of it happened. Like he wasn’t bleeding in real time. The tech came back. “We’re ready.”

Jack nodded. Watched the doors open. Watched them wheel you away. Didn’t follow. Just stood in the hallway, alone, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

10:34 PM

Your blood was still on his forearms. Dried at the edge of his glove cuff. There was a fleck of it on the collar of his scrub top, just beneath his badge. He should go change. But he couldn’t move. The last time he saw you, you were standing in the doorway of your apartment with your arms crossed over your chest and your mouth set in that way you did when you were about to say something that would ruin him.

Then stay.

He hadn’t.

And now here you were, barely breathing.

God. He wanted to scream. But he didn’t. He never did.

Footsteps approached from the left—light, careful.

It was Dana.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the wall beside him with a soft exhale and handed him a plastic water bottle.

He took it with a nod, twisted the cap, but didn’t drink.

“She’s stable,” Dana said quietly. “Neuro’s scrubbing in. Walsh is watching the bleed. They're hopeful it hasn’t shifted.”

Jack stared straight ahead. “She’s got a collapsed lung.”

“She’s alive.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

He could hear Dana shift beside him. “You knew her?”

Jack swallowed. His throat burned. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“I didn’t know,” Dana said, gently. “I mean, I knew there was someone before you came back to Pittsburgh. I just never thought...”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Jack,” she said, softer now. “You shouldn’t be the one on this case.”

“I’m already on it.”

“I know, but—”

“She didn’t have anyone else.”

That landed like a punch to the ribs. No emergency contact. No parents listed. No spouse. No one flagged to call. Just the last ID scanned from your phone—his name still buried somewhere in your old records, from years ago. Probably forgotten. Probably never updated. But still there. Still his.

Dana reached out, laid a hand on his wrist. “Do you want me to sit with her until she wakes up?”

He shook his head.

“I should be there.”

“Jack—”

“I should’ve been there the first time,” he snapped. Then his voice broke low, quieter, strained: “So I’m gonna sit. And I’m gonna wait. And when she wakes up, I’m gonna tell her I’m sorry.”

Dana didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just nodded. And walked away.

1:06 AM

Jack sat in the corner of the dimmed recovery room.

You were propped up slightly on the bed now, a tube down your throat, IV lines in both arms. Bandages wrapped around your ribs, temple, thigh. The monitor beeped with painful consistency. It was the only sound in the room.

He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. He just sat there. Watching you like if he looked away, you’d vanish again. He leaned back eventually, scrubbed both hands down his face.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You really never changed your emergency contact?”

You didn’t get married. You didn’t leave the state.You just… slipped out of his life and never came back.

And he let you. He let you walk away because he thought you needed distance. Because he thought he’d ruined it. Because he didn’t know what to do with love when it wasn’t covered in blood and desperation. He let you go. And now you were here. 

“Please wake up,” he whispered. “Just… just wake up. Yell at me. Punch me. I don’t care. Just—”

His voice cracked. He bit it back.

“You were right,” he said, so soft it barely made it out. “I should’ve stayed.”

You swim toward the surface like something’s pulling you back under. It’s slow. Syrupy. The kind of consciousness that makes pain feel abstract—like you’ve forgotten which parts of your body belong to you. There’s pressure behind your eyes. A dull roar in your ears. Cold at your fingertips.

Then—sound. Beeping. Monitors. A cart wheeling past. Someone saying Vitals stable, pressure’s holding. A laugh in the hallway. Fluorescents. Fabric rustling. And—

A chair creaking.

You know that sound.

You’d recognize that silence anywhere. You open your eyes, slowly, blinking against the light. Vision blurred. Chest tight. There’s a rawness in your throat like you’ve been screaming underwater. Everything hurts, but one thing registers clear:

Jack.

Jack Abbot is sitting beside you.

He’s hunched forward in a chair too small for him, arms braced on his knees like he’s ready to stand, like he can’t stand. There’s a hospital badge clipped to his scrub pocket. His jaw is tight. There’s something smudged on his cheekbone—blood? You don’t know. His hair is shorter than you remember, greyer.

But it’s him. And for a second—just one—you forget the last seven years ever happened.

You forget the apartment. The silence. The day he walked out with his duffel and didn’t look back. Because right now, he’s here. Breathing. Watching you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse.

You try to swallow. You can’t.

“Don’t—” he sits up, suddenly, gently. “Don’t try to talk yet. You were intubated. Rollover crash—” He falters. “Jesus. You’re okay. You’re here.”

You blink, hard. Your eyes sting. Everything is out of focus except him. He leans forward a little more, his hands resting just beside yours on the bed.

“I thought you were dead,” he says. “Or married. Or halfway across the world. I thought—” He stops. His throat works around the words. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

You close your eyes for a second. It’s too much. His voice. His face. The sound of you’re okay coming from the person who once made it hurt the most. You shift your gaze—try to ground yourself in something solid.

And that’s when you see it.

His hand.

Resting casually near yours.

Ring finger tilted toward the light.

Gold band. 

Simple.

Permanent.

You freeze.

It’s like your lungs forget what to do.

You look at the ring. Then at him. Then at the ring again.

He follows your gaze.

And flinches.

“Fuck,” Jack says under his breath, immediately leaning back like distance might make it easier. Like you didn’t just see it.

He drags a hand through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, looks anywhere but at you.

“She’s not—” He pauses. “It’s not what you think.”

You’re barely able to croak a whisper. Your voice scrapes like gravel: “You’re married?”

His head snaps up.

“No.” Beat. “Not yet.”

Yet. That word is worse than a bullet. You stare at him. And what you see floors you.

Guilt.

Exhaustion.

Something that might be grief. But not regret. He’s not here asking for forgiveness. He’s here because you almost died. Because for a minute, he thought he’d never get the chance to say goodbye right. But he didn’t come back for you.

He moved on.

And you didn’t even get to see it happen. You turn your face away. It takes everything you have not to sob, not to scream, not to rip the IV out of your arm just to feel something other than this. Jack leans forward again, like he might try to fix it.

Like he still could.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I didn’t know I’d ever see you again.”

“I didn’t know you’d stop waiting,” you rasp.

And that’s it. That’s the one that lands. He goes very still.

“I waited,” he says, softly. “Longer than I should’ve. I kept the spare key. I left the porch light on. Every time someone knocked on the door, I thought—maybe. Maybe it’s you.”

Your eyes well up. He shakes his head. Looks away. “But you never called. Never sent anything. And eventually... I thought you didn’t want to be found.”

“I didn’t,” you whisper. “Because I didn’t want to know you’d already replaced me.”

The silence after that is unbearable. And then: the soft knock of a nurse at the door.

Dana. 

She peeks in, eyes flicking between the two of you, and reads the room instantly.

“We’re moving her to step-down in fifteen,” she says gently. “Just wanted to give you a heads up.” Jack nods. Doesn’t look at her. Dana lingers for a beat, then quietly slips out. You don’t speak. Neither does he. He just stands there for another long moment. Like he wants to stay. But knows he shouldn’t. Finally, he exhales—low, shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Not for leaving. Not for loving someone else. Just for the wreckage of it all. And then he walks out. Leaving you in that bed. 

Bleeding in places no scan can find.

9:12 AM

The room was smaller than the trauma bay. Cleaner. Quieter.

The lights were soft, filtered through high, narrow windows that let in just enough Pittsburgh morning to remind you the world kept moving, even when yours had slammed into a guardrail at seventy-three miles an hour.

You were propped at a slight angle—enough to breathe without straining the sutures in your side. Your ribs still ached with every inhale. Your left arm was in a sling. There was dried blood in your hairline no one had washed out yet. But you were alive. They told you that three times already.

Alive. Stable. Awake.

As if saying it aloud could undo the fact that Jack Abbot is engaged. You stared at the wall like it might give you answers. He hadn't come back. You didn’t ask for him. And still—every time a nurse came in, every time the door clicked open, every shuffle of shoes in the hallway—you hoped. 

You hated yourself for it.

You hadn’t cried yet.

That surprised you. You thought waking up and seeing him again—for the first time in years, after everything—would snap something loose in your chest. But it didn’t. It just… sat there. Heavy. Silent. Like grief that didn’t know where to go.

There was a soft knock on the frame.

You turned your head slowly, your throat too raw to ask who it was.

It wasn’t Jack.

It was a man you didn’t recognize. Late forties, maybe fifties. Navy hoodie. Clipboard. Glasses slipped low on his nose. He looked tired—but held together in the kind of way that made it clear he'd been the glue for other people more than once.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch.” he said gently. You just blinked at him.

“I’m... one of the attendings. I was off when they brought you in, but I heard.”

He didn’t step closer right away. Then—“Mind if I sit?”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t say no. He pulled the chair from the corner. Sat down slow, like he wasn’t sure how fragile the air was between you. He didn’t check your vitals. Didn’t chart.

Just sat.

Present. In that quiet, steady way that makes you feel like maybe you don’t have to hold all the weight alone.

“Hell of a night,” he said after a while. “You had everyone rattled.”

You didn’t reply. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. He rubbed a hand down the side of his jaw.

“Jack hasn’t looked like that in a long time.”

That made you flinch. Your head turned, slow and deliberate.

You stared at him. “He talk about me?” 

Robby gave a small smile. Not pitying. Not smug. Just... true. “No. Not really.”

You looked away. 

“But he didn’t have to,” he added.

You froze.

“I’ve seen him leave mid-conversation to answer texts that never came. Watched him walk out into the ambulance bay on his nights off—like he was waiting for someone who never showed. Never stayed the night anywhere but home. Always looked at the hallway like something might appear if he stared hard enough.”

Your throat burned.

“He never said your name,” Robby continued, voice low but certain. “But there’s a box under his bed. A spare key on his ring—been there for years, never used, never taken off. And that old mug in the back of his locker? The one that doesn’t match anything? You start to notice the things people hold onto when they’re trying not to forget.”

You blinked hard. “There’s a box?”

Robby nodded, slow. “Yeah. Tucked under the bed like he didn’t mean to keep it but never got around to throwing it out. Letters—some unopened, some worn through like he read them a hundred times. A photo of you, old and creased, like he carried it once and forgot how to let it go. Hospital badge. Bracelet from some field clinic. Even a napkin with your handwriting on it—faded, but folded like it meant something.”

You closed your eyes. That was worse than any of the bruises.

“He compartmentalizes,” Robby said. “It’s how he stays functional. It’s what he’s good at.”

You whispered it, barely audible: “It was survival.”

“Sure. Until it isn’t.”

Another silence settled between you. Comfortable, in a way.

Then—“He’s engaged,” you said, your voice flat.

Robby didn’t blink. “Yeah. I know.”

“Is she…?”

“She’s good,” he said. “Smart. Teaches third grade in Squirrel Hill. Not from medicine. I think that’s why it worked.”

You nodded slowly.

“Does she know about me?”

Robby looked down. Didn’t answer. You nodded again. That was enough. 

He stood eventually.

Straightened the front of his hoodie. Rested the clipboard against his side like he’d forgotten why he even brought it.

“He’ll come back,” he said. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.”

You didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window. Your voice was quiet.

“I don’t want him to.”

Robby gave you one last look.

One that said: Yeah. You do.

Then he turned and left.

And this time, when the door clicked shut—you cried.

DAY FOUR– 11:41 PM

The hospital was quiet. Quieter than it had been in days.

You’d finally started walking the length of your room again, IV pole rolling beside you like a loyal dog. The sling was irritating. Your ribs still hurt when you coughed. The staples in your scalp itched every time the air conditioner kicked on.

But you were alive. They said you could go home soon. Problem was—you didn’t know where home was anymore. The hallway light outside your room flickered once. You’d been drifting near sleep, curled on your side in the too-small hospital bed, one leg drawn up, wires tugging gently against your skin.

Before you could brace, the door opened. And there he was.

Jack didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, shadowed in the doorway, scrub top wrinkled like he’d fallen asleep in it, hair slightly damp like he’d washed his face too many times and still didn’t feel clean. You sat up slowly, heart punching through your chest.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t look like the man who used to make you coffee barefoot in the kitchen, or fold your laundry without being asked, or trace the inside of your wrist when he thought you were asleep.

He looked like a stranger who remembered your body too well.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he said quietly, finally. You didn’t respond.

Jack stepped inside. Closed the door gently behind him.

The room felt too small.

Your throat ached.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he continued, voice low. “Didn’t know if you’d want to see me. After... everything.”

You sat up straighter. “I didn’t.”

That hit.

But he nodded. Took it. Absorbed it like punishment he thought he deserved.

Still, he didn’t leave. He stood at the foot of your bed like he wasn’t sure he was allowed any closer.

“Why are you here, Jack?”

He looked at you. Eyes full of everything he hadn’t said since he walked out years ago.

“I needed to see you,” he said, and it was so goddamn quiet you almost missed it. “I needed to know you were still real.”

Your heart cracked in two.

“Real,” you repeated. “You mean like alive? Or like not something you shoved in a box under your bed?”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed. “You think any of this is fair?”

Jack stepped closer.

“I didn’t plan to love you the way I did.”

“You didn’t plan to leave, either. But you did that too.”

“I was trying to save something of myself.”

“And I was collateral damage?”

He flinched. Looked down. “You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know how to come back and be yours forever when all I’d ever been was temporary.” Silence crashed into the space between you. And then, barely above a whisper:

“Does she know you still dream about me?”

That made him look up. Like you’d punched the wind out of him. Like you’d reached into his chest and found the place that still belonged to you. He stepped closer. One more inch and he’d be at your bedside.

“You have every reason not to forgive me,” he said quietly. “But the truth is—I’ve never felt for anyone what I felt for you.”

You looked up at him, voice raw: “Then why are you marrying her?”

Jack’s mouth opened. But nothing came out. You looked away.

Eyes burning.

Lips trembling.

“I don’t want your apologies,” you said. “I want the version of you that stayed.”

He stepped back, like that was the final blow.

But you weren’t done.

“I loved you so hard it wrecked me,” you whispered. “And all I ever asked was that you love me loud enough to stay. But you didn’t. And now you want to stand in this room and act like I’m some kind of unfinished chapter—like you get to come back and cry at the ending?”

Jack breathed in like it hurt. Like the air wasn’t going in right.

“I came back,” he said. “I came back because I couldn’t breathe without knowing you were okay.”

“And now you know.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy, jaw tight.

“So go home to her.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t do what you asked.

He just stood there—bleeding in the quiet—while you looked away.

DAY SEVEN– 5:12 PM

You left the hospital with a dull ache behind your ribs and a discharge summary you didn’t bother reading. They told you to stay another three days. Said your pain control wasn’t stable. Said you needed another neuro eval.

You said you’d call.

You wouldn’t.

You packed what little you had in silence—folded the hospital gown, signed the paperwork with hands that still trembled. No one stopped you. You walked out the front doors like a ghost slipping through traffic.

Alive.

Untethered.

Unhealed.

But gone.

YOUR APARTMENT– 8:44 PM

It wasn’t much. A studio above a laundromat on Butler Street. One couch. One coffee mug. A bed you didn’t make. You sat cross-legged on top of the blanket in your hospital sweats, ribs bandaged tight beneath your shirt, hair still blood-matted near the scalp.

You hadn’t turned on the lights.

You hadn’t eaten.

You were staring at the wall when the knock came.

Three short taps.

Then his voice.

“It's me.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Then the second knock.

“Please. Just open the door.”

You stood. Slowly. Every joint screamed. When you opened it, there he was. Still in black scrubs. Still tired. Still wearing that ring.

“You left,” he said, breath fogging in the cold.

You leaned against the frame. “I wasn’t going to wait around for someone who already left me once.”

“I deserved that.”

“You deserve worse.”

He nodded. Took it like a man used to pain. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated.

Then stepped aside.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there—awkward, towering, hands in his pockets, taking in the chipped paint, the stack of unopened mail, the folded blanket at the edge of the bed.

“This place is...”

“Mine.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Silence.

You walked back to the bed, sat down slowly. He stood across from you like you were a patient and he didn’t know what was broken.

“What do you want, Jack?”

His jaw flexed. “I want to be in your life again.”

You blinked. Laughed once, sharp and short. “Right. And what does that look like? You with her, and me playing backup singer?”

“No.” His voice was quiet. “Just... just a friend.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped forward. “I know I don’t deserve more than that. I know I hurt you. And I know this—this thing between us—it's not what it was. But I still care. And if all I can be is a number in your phone again, then let me.”

You looked down.

Your hands were shaking.

You didn’t want this. You wanted him. All of him.

But you knew how this would end.

You’d sit across from him in cafés, pretending not to look at his left hand.

You’d laugh at his stories, knowing his warmth would go home to someone else.

You’d let him in—inch by inch—until there was nothing left of you that hadn’t shaped itself to him again.

And still.

Still—“Okay,” you said.

Jack looked at you.

Like he couldn’t believe it.

“Friends,” you added.

He nodded slowly. “Friends.”

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him any longer, you'd say something that would shatter you both.

Because this was the next best thing.

And you knew, even as you said it, even as you offered him your heart wrapped in barbed wire—It was going to break you.

DAY TEN – 6:48 PM Steeped & Co. Café – Two blocks from The Pitt

You told yourself this wasn’t a date.

It was coffee. It was public. It was neutral ground.

But the way your hands wouldn’t stop shaking made it feel like you were twenty again, waiting for him to show up at the Greyhound station with his army bag and half a smile.

He walked in ten minutes late. He ordered his drink without looking at the menu. He always knew what he wanted—except when it came to you.

“You’re limping less,” he said, settling across from you like you hadn’t been strangers for the last seven years. You lifted your tea, still too hot to drink. “You’re still observant.”

He smiled—small. Quiet. The kind that used to make you forgive him too fast. The first fifteen minutes were surface-level. Traffic. ER chaos. This new intern, Santos, doing something reckless. Robby calling him “Doctor Doom” under his breath.

It should’ve been easy.

But the space between you felt alive.

Charged.

Unforgivable.

He leaned forward at one point, arms on the table, and you caught the flick of his hand—

The ring.

You looked away. Pretended not to care.

“You’re doing okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, lying. “Mostly.”

He reached across the table then—just for a second—like he might touch your hand. He didn’t. Your breath caught anyway. And neither of you spoke for a while.

DAY TWELVE – 2:03 PM Your apartment

You couldn’t sleep. Again.

The pain meds made your body heavy, but your head was always screaming. You’d been lying in bed for hours, fully dressed, lights off, scrolling old texts with one hand while your other rubbed slow, nervous circles into the bandages around your ribs.

There was a text from him.

"You okay?"

You stared at it for a full minute before responding.

"No."

You expected silence.

Instead: a knock.

You didn’t even ask how he got there so fast. You opened the door and he stepped in like he hadn’t been waiting in his car, like he hadn’t been hoping you’d need him just enough.

He looked exhausted.

You stepped back. Let him in.

He sat on the edge of the couch. Hands folded. Knees apart. Staring at the wall like it might break the tension.

“I can’t sleep anymore,” you whispered. “I keep... hearing it. The crash. The metal. The quiet after.”

Jack swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You both went quiet again. It always came in waves with him—things left unsaid that took up more space than the words ever could. Eventually, he leaned back against the couch cushion, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I think about you all the time,” he said, voice low, wrecked.

You didn’t move.

“You’re in the room when I’m doing intake. When I’m changing gloves. When I get in the car and my left hand hits the wheel and I see the ring and I wonder why it’s not you.”

Your breath hitched.

“But I made a choice,” he said. “And I can’t undo it without hurting someone who’s never hurt me.”

You finally turned toward him. “Then why are you here?”

He looked at you, eyes dark and honest. “Because the second you came back, I couldn’t breathe.”

You kissed him.

You don’t remember who moved first. If you leaned forward, or if he cupped your face like he used to. But suddenly, you were kissing him. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was devastated.

His mouth was salt and memory and apology.

Your hands curled in his shirt. He was whispering your name against your lips like it still belonged to him.

You pulled away first.

“Go home,” you said, voice cracking.

“Don’t do this—”

“Go home to her, Jack.”

And he did.

He always did.

DAY THIRTEEN – 7:32 PM

You don’t eat.

You don’t leave your apartment.

You scrub the counter three times and throw out your tea mug because it smells like him.

You sit on the bathroom floor and press a towel to your ribs until the pain brings you back into your body.

You start a text seven times.

You never send it.

DAY SEVENTEEN — 11:46 PM

The takeout was cold. Neither of you had touched it.

Jack’s gaze hadn’t left you all night.

Low. Unreadable. He hadn’t smiled once.

“You never stopped loving me,” you said suddenly. Quiet. Dangerous. “Did you?”

His jaw flexed. You pressed harder.

“Say it.”

“I never stopped,” he rasped.

That was all it took.

You surged forward.

His hands found your face. Your hips. Your hair. He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath since the last time. Teeth and tongue and broken sounds in the back of his throat.

Your back hit the wall hard.

“Fuck—” he muttered, grabbing your thigh, hitching it up. His fingers pressed into your skin like he didn’t care if he left marks. “I can’t believe you still taste like this.”

You gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his chest. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He had your clothes off before you could breathe. His mouth moved down—your throat, your collarbone, between your breasts, tongue hot and slow like he was punishing you for every year he spent wondering if you hated him.

“You still wear my t-shirt to bed?” he whispered against your breasts voice thick. “You still get wet thinking about me?”

You whimpered. “Jack—”

His name came out like a sin.

He dropped to his knees.

“Let me hear it,” he said, dragging his mouth between your thighs, voice already breathless. “Tell me you still want me.”

Your head dropped back.

“I never stopped.”

And then his mouth was on you—filthy and brutal.

Tongue everywhere, fingers stroking you open while his other hand gripped your thigh like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment.

You were already shaking when he growled, “You still taste like mine.”

You cried out—high and wrecked—and he kept going.

Faster.

Sloppier.

Like he wanted to ruin every memory of anyone else who might’ve touched you.

He made you come with your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips grinding helplessly against his face, your thighs quivering around his jaw while you moaned his name like you couldn’t stop.

He stood.

His clothes were off in seconds. Nothing left between you but raw air and your shared history. His cock was thick, flushed, angry against his stomach—dripping with need, twitching every time you breathed.

You stared at it.

At him.

At the ring still on his finger.

He saw your eyes.

Slipped it off.

Tossed it across the room without a word.

Then slammed you against the wall again and slid inside.

No teasing.

No waiting.

Just deep.

You gasped—too full, too fast—and he buried his face in your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I shouldn’t—fuck—I shouldn’t be doing this.”

But he didn’t stop.

He thrust so deep your eyes rolled back.

It was everything at once.

Your name on his lips like an apology. His hands on your waist like he’d never let go again. Your nails digging into his back like maybe you could keep him this time. He fucked you like he’d never get the chance again. Like he was angry you still had this effect on him. Like he was still in love with you and didn’t know how to carry it anymore.

He spat on his fingers and rubbed your clit until you were screaming his name.

“Louder,” he snapped, fucking into you hard. “Let the neighbors hear who makes you come.”

You came again.

And again.

Shaking. Crying. Overstimulated.

“Open your eyes,” he panted. “Look at me.”

You did.

He was close.

You could feel it in the way he lost rhythm, the way his grip got desperate, the way he whimpered your name like he was begging.

“Inside,” you whispered, legs wrapped around him. “Don’t pull out.”

He froze.

Then nodded, forehead dropping to yours.

“I love you,” he breathed.

And then he came—deep, full, shaking inside you with a broken moan so raw it felt holy.

After, you lay together on the floor. Sweat-slicked. Bruised. Silent.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because you both knew—

This changed everything.

And nothing.

DAY EIGHTEEN — 7:34 AM

Sunlight creeps in through the slats of your blinds, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor, your shoulder, his back.

Jack’s asleep in your bed. He’s on his side, one arm flung across your stomach like instinct, like a claim. His hand rests just above your hip—fingers twitching every now and then, like some part of him knows this moment isn’t real. Or at least, not allowed. Your body aches in places that feel worshipped. 

You don’t feel guilty.

Yet.

You stare at the ceiling. You haven’t spoken in hours.

Not since he whispered “I love you” while he was still inside you.

Not since he collapsed onto your chest like it might save him.

Not since he kissed your shoulder and didn’t say goodbye.

You shift slowly beneath the sheets. His hand tightens. 

Like he knows.

Like he knows.

You stay still. You don’t want to be the one to move first. Because if you move, the night ends. If you move, the spell breaks. And Jack Abbot goes back to being someone else's.

Eventually, he stirs.

His breath shifts against your collarbone.

Then—

“Morning.”

His voice is low. Sleep-rough. Familiar.

It hurts worse than silence. You force a soft hum, not trusting your throat to form words.

He lifts his head a little.

Looks at you. Hair mussed. Eyes unreadable. Bare skin still flushed from where he touched you hours ago. You expect regret. But all you see is heartbreak.

“Shouldn’t have stayed,” he says softly.

You close your eyes.

“I know.”

He sits up slowly. Sheets falling around his waist.

You follow the line of his back with your gaze. Every scar. Every knot in his spine. The curve of his shoulder blades you used to trace with your fingers when you were twenty-something and stupid enough to think love was enough.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“I told her I was working overnight.”

You feel your breath catch.

“She called me at midnight,” he adds. “I didn’t answer.”

You sit up too. Tug the blanket around your chest like modesty matters now.

“Is this the part where you tell me it was a mistake?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Then—“No,” he says. “It’s the part where I tell you I don’t know how to go home.”

You both sit there for a long time.

Naked.

Wordless.

Surrounded by the echo of what you used to be.

You finally speak.

“Do you love her?”

Silence.

“I respect her,” he says. “She’s good. Steady. Nothing’s ever hard with her.”

You swallow. “That’s not an answer.”

Jack turns to you then. Eyes tired. Voice raw.

“I’ve never stopped loving you.”

It lands in your chest like a sucker punch.

Because you know. You always knew. But now you’ve heard it again. And it doesn’t fix a goddamn thing.

“I can’t do this again,” you whisper.

Jack nods. “I know.”

“But I’ll keep doing it anyway,” you add. “If you let me.”

His jaw tightens. His throat works around something thick.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

You both know he has to.

And he does.

He dresses slowly.

Doesn’t kiss you.

Doesn’t say goodbye.

He finds his ring.

Puts it back on.

And walks out.

The door closes.

And you break.

Because this—this is the cost of almost.

8:52 AM

You don’t move for twenty-three minutes after the door shuts.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just exist.

Your chest rises and falls beneath the blanket. That same spot where he laid his head a few hours ago still feels heavy. You think if you touch it, it’ll still be warm.

You don’t.

You don’t want to prove yourself wrong. Your body aches everywhere. The kind of ache that isn’t just from the crash, or the stitches, or the way he held your hips so tightly you’re going to bruise. It’s the kind of ache you can’t ice. It’s the kind that lingers in your lungs.

Eventually, you sit up.

Your legs feel unsteady beneath you. Your knees shake as you gather the clothes scattered across the floor. His shirt—the one you wore while he kissed your throat and said “I love you” into your skin—gets tossed in the hamper like it doesn’t still smell like him. Your hand lingers on it.

You shove it deeper.

Harder.

Like burying it will stop the memory from clawing up your throat.

You make coffee you won’t drink.

You wash your face three times and still look like someone who got left behind.

You open your phone.

One new text.

“Did you eat?”

You don’t respond. Because what do you say to a man who left you raw and split open just to slide a ring back on someone else’s finger? You try to leave the apartment that afternoon. 

You make it as far as the sidewalk.

Then you turn around and vomit into the bushes.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie awake with your fingers curled into your sheets, shaking.

Your thighs ache.

Your mouth is dry.

You dream of him once—his hand pressed to your sternum like a prayer, whispering “don’t let go.”

When you wake, your chest is wet with tears and you don’t remember crying.

DAY TWENTY TWO— 4:17 PM Your apartment

It starts slow.

A dull ache in your upper abdomen. Like a pulled muscle or bad cramp. You ignore it. You’ve been ignoring everything. Pain means you’re healing, right?

But by 4:41 p.m., you’re on the floor of your bathroom, knees to your chest, drenched in sweat. You’re cold. Shaking. The pain is blooming now—hot and deep and wrong. You try to stand. Your vision goes white. Then you’re on your back, blinking at the ceiling.

And everything goes quiet.

THE PITT – 5:28 PM

You’re unconscious when the EMTs wheel you in. Vitals unstable. BP crashing. Internal bleeding suspected. It takes Jack ten seconds to recognize you.

One to feel like he’s going to throw up.

“Mid-thirties female. No trauma this week, but old injuries. Seatbelt bruise still present. Suspected splenic rupture, possible bleed out. BP’s eighty over forty and falling.”

Jack is already moving.

He steps into the trauma bay like a man walking into fire.

It’s you.

God. It’s you again.

Worse this time.

“Her name is [Y/N],” he says tightly, voice rough. “We need OR on standby. Now.”

6:01 PM

You’re barely conscious as they prep you for CT. Jack is beside you, masked, gloved, sterile. But his voice trembles when he says your name. You blink up at him.

Barely there.

“Hurts,” you rasp.

He leans close, ignoring protocol.

“I know. I’ve got you. Stay with me, okay?”

6:27 PM

The scan confirms it.

Grade IV splenic rupture. Bleeding into the abdomen.

You’re going into surgery.

Fast.

You grab his hand before they wheel you out. Your grip is weak. But desperate.

You look at him—“I don’t want to die thinking I meant nothing.”

His face breaks. And then they take you away.

Jack doesn’t move.

Just stands there in blood-streaked gloves, shaking.

Because this time, he might actually lose you.

And he doesn’t know if he’ll survive that twice.

9:12 PM Post-op recovery, ICU step-down

You come back slowly. The drugs are heavy. Your throat is dry. Your ribs feel tighter than before. There’s a new weight in your abdomen, dull and throbbing. You try to lift your hand and fail. Your IV pole beeps at you like it's annoyed.

Then there’s a shadow.

Jack.

You try to say his name.

It comes out as a rasp. He jerks his head up like he’s been underwater.

He looks like hell. Eyes bloodshot. Hands shaking. He’s still in scrubs—stained, wrinkled, exhausted.

“Hey,” he breathes, standing fast. His hand wraps gently around yours. You let it. You don’t have the strength to fight.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers.

You blink at him.

There are tears in your eyes. You don’t know if they’re yours or his.

“What…?” you rasp.

“Your spleen ruptured,” he says quietly. “You were bleeding internally. We almost lost you in the trauma bay. Again.”

You blink slowly.

“You looked empty,” he says, voice cracking. “Still. Your eyes were open, but you weren’t there. And I thought—fuck, I thought—”

He stops. You squeeze his fingers.

It’s all you can do.

There’s a long pause.

Heavy.

Then—“She called.”

You don’t ask who.

You don’t have to.

Jack stares at the floor.

“I told her I couldn’t talk. That I was... handling a case. That I’d call her after.”

You close your eyes.

You want to sleep.

You want to scream.

“She’s starting to ask questions,” he adds softly.

You open your eyes again. “Then lie better.”

He flinches.

“I’m not proud of this,” he says.

You look at him like he just told you the sky was blue. “Then leave.”

“I can’t.”

“You did last time.”

Jack leans forward, his forehead almost touching the edge of your mattress. His voice is low. Cracked. “I can’t lose you again.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then you ask, so small he barely hears it:

“If I’d died... would you have told her?”

His head lifts. Your eyes meet. And he doesn’t answer.

Because you already know the truth.

He stands, slowly, scraping the chair back like the sound might stall his momentum. “I should let you sleep,” he adds.

“Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “Not yet.”

He freezes. Then nods.

He moves back to the chair, but instead of sitting, he leans over the bed and presses his lips to your forehead—gently, like he’s scared it’ll hurt. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish again. You don’t close your eyes. You don’t let yourself fall into it.

Because kisses are easy.

Staying is not.

DAY TWENTY FOUR — 9:56 AM Dana wheels you to discharge. Your hands are clenched tight around the armrests, fingers stiff. Jack’s nowhere in sight. Good. You can’t decide if you want to see him—or hit him.

“You got someone picking you up?” Dana asks, handing off the chart.

You nod. “Uber.”

She doesn’t push. Just places a hand on your shoulder as you stand—slow, steady.

“Be gentle with yourself,” she says. “You survived twice.”

DAY THIRTY ONE – 8:07 PM

The knock comes just after sunset.

You’re barefoot. Still in the clothes you wore to your follow-up appointment—a hoodie two sizes too big, a bandage under your ribs that still stings every time you twist too fast. There’s a cup of tea on the counter you haven’t touched. The air in the apartment is thick with something you can’t name. Something worse than dread.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door.

Then—again.

Three soft raps.

Like he’s asking permission. Like he already knows he shouldn’t be here. You walk over slowly, pulse loud in your ears. Your fingers hesitate at the lock.

“Don’t,” you whisper to yourself. You open the door anyway.

Jack stands there. Gray hoodie. Dark jeans. He’s holding a plastic grocery bag, like this is something casual, like he’s a neighbor stopping by, not the man who left you in pieces across two hospital beds.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” he says, quiet. “But I think I should’ve been here a long time ago.”

You don’t speak. You step aside.

He walks in like he doesn’t expect to stay. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t sit. Just stands there, holding that grocery bag like it might shield him from what he’s about to say.

“I told her,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “Last night. Everything. The hospital. That night. The truth.”

Your jaw tenses. “And what, she just… let you walk away?”

He sets the bag on your kitchen counter. It’s shaking slightly in his grip. “No. She cried. Screamed. Told me to get out”

You feel yourself pulling away from him, emotionally, physically—like your body’s trying to protect you before your heart caves in again. “Jesus, Jack.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back with your half-truths and trauma and expect me to just be here.”

“I didn’t come expecting anything.”

You whirl back to him, raw. “Then why did you come?”

His voice doesn’t rise. But it cuts. “Because you almost died. Again. Because I’ve spent the last week realizing that no one else has ever felt like home.”

You shake your head. “That doesn’t change the fact that you left me when I needed you. That I begged you to choose peace. And you chose chaos. Every goddamn time.”

He closes the distance slowly, but not too close. Not yet.

“You think I don’t live with that?” His voice drops. 

You falter, tears threatening. “Then why didn’t you try harder?”

“I thought you’d moved on.”

“I tried,” you say, voice cracking. “I tried so hard to move on, to let someone else in, to build something new with hands that were still learning how to stop reaching for you. But every man I met—it was like eating soup with a fork. I’d sit across from them, smiling, nodding, pretending I wasn’t starving, pretending I didn’t notice the emptiness. They didn’t know me. Not really. Not the version of me that stayed up folding your shirts, tracking your deployment cities like constellations, holding the weight of a future you kept promising but never chose. Not the me that kept the lights on when you disappeared into silence. Not the me that made excuses for your absence until it started sounding like prayer.”

Jack’s face shifts—subtle at first, then like a crack running straight through the foundation. His jaw tightens. His mouth opens. Closes. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges, as if the admission itself costs him something he doesn’t have to spare.

“I didn’t think I deserved to come back,” he says. “Not after the way I left. Not after how long I stayed gone. Not after all the ways I chose silence over showing up.”

You stare at him, breath shallow, chest tight.

“Maybe you didn’t,” you say quietly, not to hurt him—but because it’s true. And it hangs there between you, heavy and undeniable.

The silence that follows is thick. Stretching. Bruising.

Then, just when you think he might finally say something that unravels everything all over again, he gestures to the bag he’s still clutching like it might anchor him to the floor.

“I brought soup,” he says, voice low and awkward. “And real tea—the kind you like. Not the grocery store crap. And, um… a roll of gauze. The soft kind. I remembered you said the hospital ones made you break out, and I thought…”

He trails off, unsure, like he’s realizing mid-sentence how pitiful it all sounds when laid bare.

You blink, hard. Trying to keep the tears in their lane.

“You brought first aid and soup?”

He nods, half a breath catching in his throat. “Yeah. I didn’t know what else you’d let me give you.”

There’s a beat.

A heartbeat.

Then it hits you.

That’s what undoes you—not the apology, not the fact that he told her, not even the way he’s looking at you like he’s seeing a ghost he never believed he’d get to touch again. It’s the soup. It’s the gauze. It’s the goddamn tea. It’s the way Jack Abbot always came bearing supplies when he didn’t know how to offer himself.

You sink down onto the couch too fast, knees buckling like your body can’t hold the weight of all the things you’ve swallowed just to stay upright this week.

Elbows on your thighs. Face in your hands.

Your voice breaks as it comes out:

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

It’s not rhetorical. It’s not flippant.

It’s shattered. Exhausted. Full of every version of love that’s ever let you down. And he knows it.

And for a long, breathless moment—you don’t move.

Jack walks over. Kneels down. His hands hover, not touching, just there.

You look at him, eyes full of every scar he left you with. “You said you'd come back once. You didn’t.”

“I came back late,” he says. “But I’m here now. And I’m staying.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t promise me that unless you mean it.”

“I do.”

You shake your head, hard, like you’re trying to physically dislodge the ache from your chest. 

“I’m still mad,” you say, voice cracking.

Jack doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to defend himself. He just nods, slow and solemn, like he’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. “You’re allowed to be,” he says quietly. “I’ll still be here.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t trust you,” you whisper, and it tastes like blood in your mouth—like betrayal and memory and all the nights you cried yourself to sleep because he was halfway across the world and you still loved him anyway.

“I know,” he says. “Then let me earn it.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your whole body is trembling—not with rage, but with grief. With the ache of wanting something so badly and being terrified you’ll never survive getting it again.

Jack moves slowly. Doesn’t close the space between you entirely, just enough. Enough that his hand—rough and familiar—reaches out and rests on your knee. His palm is warm. Grounding. Careful.

Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense. But you don’t pull away.

You couldn’t if you tried.

His voice drops even lower, like if he speaks any louder, the whole thing will break apart.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he says.

He pauses. Swallows hard. His eyes glisten in the low light.

“I put the ring in a drawer. Told her the truth. That I’m in love with someone else. That I’ve always been.”

You look up, sharply. “You told her that?”

He nods. Doesn’t blink. “She said she already knew. That she’d known for a long time.”

Your chest tightens again, this time from something different. Not anger. Not pain. Something that hurts in its truth.

He goes on. And this part—this part wrecks him.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmurs. “She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to love someone who only ever gave her the version of himself that was pretending to be healed.”

You don’t interrupt. You just watch him come undone. Gently. Quietly.

“She was kind,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Good. Steady. The kind of person who makes things simple. Who doesn’t expect too much, or ask questions when you go quiet. And even with all of that—even with the life we were building—I couldn’t stop waiting for the sound of your voice.”

You blink hard, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

“I’d check my phone,” he continues. “At night. In the morning. In the middle of conversations. I’d look out the window like maybe you’d just… show up. Like the universe owed me one more shot. One more chance to fix the thing I broke when I walked away from the one person who ever made me feel like home.”

You can’t stop crying now. Quiet tears. The kind that come when there’s nothing left to scream.

“I hated you,” you whisper. “I hated you for a long time.”

He nods, eyes on yours. “So did I.”

And somehow, that’s what softens you.

Because you can’t hate him through this. You can’t pretend this version of him isn’t bleeding too.

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he says, “Not all at once. Just… let me sit with you. Let me hold space. Let me remind you who I was—who I could be—if you let me stay this time.”

And god help you—some fragile, tired, still-broken part of you wants to believe him.

“If I say yes... if I let you in again...”

He waits. Doesn’t breathe.

“You don’t get to leave next time,” you whisper. “Not without looking me in the eye.”

Jack nods.

“I won’t.”

You reach for his hand. Lace your fingers together.And for the first time since everything shattered—You let yourself believe he might stay.

F!Reader x Dr. Jack Abbot! <3 little oneshot

Sum: you answer a small newspaper ad, which leads to you living with the one and only, Dr. Jack Abbot.

Cw: “and they were roommates” trope ish? Younger female reader, age gap relationship, roommates, Jack has night terrors, widow Jack Abbot, fluff. Your a ghost writer of smut bc that’s my favorite c: MDNI not proofread

The house was too empty. Too quite. Too much for one person to take care of. It was supposed their dream home, but his late-wife never got to see it.

Never got to be carried through the threshold, never got to have morning coffee with him at the book nook, or enjoy the fire pit.

His therapist says he finds comfort in the dark but also in the barren. Never giving life to the home that was supposed to be theirs, even years later.

So when she suggests a roommate, Abbot quite literally doesn’t know what to do with that. There was plenty of room, sure, but did he really want that?

Looking around, he knows he could use someone’s help. It’s too much house, too suffocating on days like this.

Sighing, he reaches for the local pitts area newspaper for the add space number. It’s old school, almost dead but if anyone’s gonna live here with him, they should at least know what a newspaper is.

Looking for a quiet roommate. 49, Male. Looking for someone to help manage an old house for less rent. I work night shifts. No loud parties or gatherings. Contact at *********

——

Meeting you felt like a twist of fate. Some people had responded sure, but none he took seriously until he heard your soft voice over the phone.

New to the city, a writer by trade, so you assured him quite days and help around the house. You mostly worked from home and he had at least 20 years on you.

But god were you charming, he thinks swallowing as he helps you move in your small boxes.

“Dr. Abbot? Is there anything I should do or not touch?.” You asks as you settle another box on the kitchen counter. You didn’t have much but it was enough to fill the small guest room across his.

You were so grateful to have found the ad, you quite literally shook calling him. The house was perfect, yet empty, you note. Must be because he works night shifts, you think taking every thing in. It doesn’t help the good doctor is wildly attractive.

“Jus’ need some help talking care of this old thing during the day, cleaning and stuff if you don’t mind kid. Just.. just stay away from the closet at the end of the hall upstairs” he tells you, a far away look in his eyes for a moment before a little smirk graces his handsome face.

“Oh and no fires if you can help it. Firefighters are my enemy,” making you giggle.

“Sir yes sir!” You say while giving him a little salute, making him laugh. After helping you move, you’ll be honest, you rarely see him at first.

You hear him come home and leave, saying “goodbye” and “welcome home” when you catch him but never getting to really know eachother, with the both of you focused on work. You were just two roommates, trying to survive.

——

That was, until you started leaving him leftovers, feeling bad there was never much in the fridge for him. That small decisions led you to start a breakfast routine together. You shared little tired laughs and always fought on who did the dishes after.

Until you started packing lunches for him, after quickly making yourself dinner. The first time he noticed you left him food to take, his heart thumped in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

Until you started working in the living room, the little book nook becoming your spot. He’d sometimes find you passed out on it, curled up like a cute rabbit. On those days, you’d always wake up covered by a soft blanket, smelling suspiciously like a certain doctor.

Until you started leaving fresh flowers in the living room, which make him still and smile looking at them. One day, there was a small bottle of aroma massage oil next to them and a little note saying “to help with the pain!,” in your curly writing. He carries that little bottle and note with him everywhere.

Until the house started looking and feeling more like a home

Until he had his first night terror in years.

——

It started with whimpers. Fear reached you as you shot up, thunder and raining muddling the sounds coming from the end of the hall.

You gently crept out of your room to stand in front of his closed door, stalling before turning the knob. You’d never gone in his room before, not even to clean.

You see Abbot sweating in his sleep, tossing and turning. He looks like his in pain and it’s killing you inside.

Slowly you make your way to him, gently sitting before rubbing small circles on his chest to soothe him. Little hums and shushes come out of you, as you go to rest against his headboard.

You try not to think about how firm him chest is, the little salt and pepper curls that match his hair or the scars that litter his body.

It’s takes time but you feel his body relax back into a peaceful sleep, as it reaches you too. Your soft snores fill the room, as you fall asleep next to the man you haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

——

He’s confused at first. Waking up to you curled softly against him, face nuzzled against his chest. He’s alarmed, body tensing unsure of what to do. A small part of him wants to go back to bed, pull you closer and sleep and another wants to run. His tense body wakes you up and the part that wants to run, shushes, looking at your sleepy face and tussled hair.

Your eyes widen as you realize you fell asleep against him.

“I’m so sorry! You.. you were having a nightmare and I came to check and I’m sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep here”

You look away, unable to make eye contact in shame as he swallows heavily.

His arms stop you from leaving as he tells you it’s okay. “I’m sorry I get.. from the war. I get nightmares sometimes. Thank you.. for helping me”

You couldn’t help but smile carefully. “It’s okay, I’m here for you”

——

Things changed at a rapid pace from there with Abbot, now Jack.

You were both each others closest companion. You spent his off days together, continued your shared meals and learned more than you dreamed of.

From his deployments, his late wife, his love of pineapple pizza and more.

Giggling you can’t help but recall when his red tinted cheeks when he learned about your job as a ghost writer for small smut books. It became natural, to seek eachother out, and one way or another, you always ended up in his bed.

Snuggled asleep in his arms, the two of you refused to say anything about this new tradition. The fear of breaking the comfort it brings stops you both.

Your pillows and blankets join the bed, and the room becomes more and more “our room” then his.

——

Robby can’t help but notice a small pep in Abbots step. How he suddenly comes in with well packed food and how his eyes looked brighter. Suspicion runs deep, as he wonders what changed for him.

“Getting more sleep brother?” He asks, watching Abbot get ready to leave.

Abbot can’t help but smirk “something like that”

——

The warm months great you as you and Jack settle closer into each others hearts.

He ponders, if he should ask. Ask what this is as he watches you plant flowers in his garden. His home is beautiful now, he thinks, like you.

“I think, I think we should have a house warming party.”

You can’t help but laugh as you glance up at him from the flower beds, “Can it be a housewarming if you’ve been here for years?”

“Never had or wanted one before. Seems like we should change that sweetheart”

Jack walks over steadily to you, kneeling to kiss you on your forehead.

You understand, and agree completely.

——

The backyard is bustling with new life. The flowers you planted being ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ at, as you’re introduced to all of Jacks friends and coworkers.

You find yourself particularly drawn to Mel and Langdon, giggling up a storm with the two of them.

Jack can’t help but watch you from the corner of his eyes, not quite focused on his conversation with Dana and Robby.

“So” Robby inturpts his thoughts of you. “How long have you been dating her?”

Jacks eyes brows raise, a crinkle settling into his forehead.

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “We’re just roommates”

Dana and Robby can’t help but share a tired and concerned look.

“Jack, she lives with you. Cooks for you. Decorates your home and entertains your friends for you. If I had roommates like that I’d probably have more kids ” Dana says, trying to get a better answer from him.

“She’s young, we don’t want to see you hurt brother,”but Jack shrugs off both if their worries again, taking a sip of his beer.

A small smile appears on his face as he watches you mingle, knowing he didn’t have to worry about you or the ring in his nightstand.

rusty

jack abbot x female reader

summary: after a dry spell in his sex life, jack would’ve never imagined the next women he’d have naked in his bed would be his favorite first year resident.

content: nsfw, 18+, mdni, resident!reader, touch starved!jack, established relationship, a little bit of fluff smushed in there, but mostly smut, jack being nervous to have sex for the first time in years, but then ofc something in him snaps and he gets a little freaky with it, jack uses the nickname kid for the reader (1) time, also uses the nickname sweetheart, fingering, handjob (if you blink you’ll miss it), p in v sex, dirty talk, condom use and the crowd boos (sorry had to keep it realistic! if i’m having sex with someone for the first time and they’re not wrapping it….questionable)

word count: 4.5k

author’s note: wanted to write something about big tough jack abbot being a little nervy to see you naked but i also wanted to write something about him having an inappropriate relationship with his resident…. so alas this was born. enjoy!

“I haven’t done this in a while.” 

The words stumble from Jack’s lips in an exasperated sigh. It nearly gets lost between kisses, the confession hidden amidst the steamy exchange as your bodies barrel through his front door. 

Reaching up to thread your fingertips through the curls at the nape of his neck, your forearms rest on his shoulders to steady yourself as he maneuvers you into his bedroom. 

You don’t reply to his admission, just smile into the kiss as your hands trail down his torso finding the hem of his shirt. Your fingertips carefully tracing his skin underneath the material. 

He wanted to tell you it had been years since he’d been with a woman like this— wanted to apologize in advance for being a bit rusty, but the light touch of your hands exploring the skin just above the waistband of his jeans, had him losing his previous train of thought. 

He couldn’t think about how long it’d been since he’d brought a woman back to his place, couldn’t even think about how insanely wrong it was to be kissing you in his bedroom.

With that being said, he should be proud of himself for holding out this long.

It had been months of having you on his shift.

Week after week of watching you prance around the ER with that cute little smile on your face, following every last one of his orders. Always meeting his sarcastic remarks with witty comments of your own, the two of you working effortlessly together like there was some sort of magnetic field between you that pulled him to every case you worked on. 

It was so innocent at first, shared inside jokes and granola bars in the breakroom. Him giving you a hard time for your absurd coffee intake through the night, making comments about how the quad shot of espresso you walked in with was going to send you into cardiac arrest. 

But then, there was the time he put his hand on your lower back to squeeze behind you at the triage desk. The second his touch met the polyester of your scrubs, applying just enough pressure to seep through the thin fabric, your head turned in his direction. 

You didn’t mean to look at him, but you couldn’t help it. His fingers stayed splayed out on your back for one second too long, and your eyes shot to his, the electric current running through your body impossible to ignore. 

A sudden tension emerged in the small space between you, his stare raking down your body to where his hand sat, just above your waist, taking their time trailing back up with a knowing smirk on his lips. 

The moment was fleeting but it played out in slow motion before his hand was gone and he was breezing past you into the trauma bay. After that it became a game of cat and mouse, both of you sensing a pull of desire toward the other but almost too afraid to do anything about it. 

For Jack, it was because you were his intern, just a first-year resident looking to him for guidance and education. His apprentice. It felt wrong to look at you in any other way. He wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if he took advantage of the obvious power imbalance at play in the situation. 

Not to mention he was off his game. 

He had no problem coming across abundantly confident at work, but as far as dating went, Jack hadn’t waded into those waters for years. There was a part of him that gave up on his love life. Maybe that’s why he threw himself into work, to avoid the loneliness that found him in his lack of companionship. 

You could sense his apprehension. The way he would subtly flirt with you and then walk away from the conversation like nothing happened. He was trying to avoid the guilt of getting too familiar, but it left you confused about his intentions. 

It wasn’t until one morning that you decided to rip off the band aid entirely, asking him to join you for breakfast after your shift. 

It was a simple invitation, one that could’ve been strictly friendly, but the way he smiled when you asked, looking around to see if anyone else heard, told you it was the start of something else entirely. 

And it was.

The two of you went to breakfast, talking for hours in a corner booth over a stack of pancakes and a few slices of bacon. 

It was the first time you saw each other outside of the hospital. Everyone else in that restaurant could see the two of you for what you were; happy. Finding joy in each other’s presence through constant laughs and affectionate smiles. But Jack couldn’t see it that way— couldn’t shake the conflicting feelings of guilt. It wasn’t until you reached over him to dip your bacon in a pool of syrup on his plate that he finally relaxed. He soaked it in, sitting with you like that, because when the nagging thoughts of how inappropriate it was began to cloud his mind, the gentle touch of your hand brushing his thigh chased them away. Fingertips curling just above his knee as you continued telling him a story, making him forget why he was even worried about saying yes to your invitation in the first place. 

That was the first time he crossed a boundary with you. Allowing himself to get lost in your voice with the two of you hidden away in some diner down the street from the hospital. But it didn’t stop there. 

The next time was when he walked you home after work, only three days after your shared breakfast date. 

He knew he shouldn’t have done it, but you parted ways outside the sliding hospital doors and he watched as you walked down the street, all by yourself. For a split second he could imagine what his frame would look like walking next to you, and so he followed. Catching up to your stride with satisfaction running through his veins at your surprised smile to see him standing at your shoulder. You lived in an apartment building a block away, he knew because you mentioned it one time, and even though his leg was killing him after such a brutal shift, he walked next to you all the way to the front door of your complex. Your bodies lingered on the sidewalk, palpable tension bouncing between them through prolonged goodbyes. 

That was the first time your gaze fell to his lips. 

The curiously hopeful look in your eyes made his mouth go completely dry because Surely you weren’t going to kiss him in broad daylight. The world spun around him while your eyes stayed fixed on the straight line of his mouth, until they fluttered back up, meeting his line of sight and smiling brightly.

“Goodnight Jack.” Your hand met his bicep, squeezing lightly as you swiftly walked into the building with a small wave. 

Goodnight, even though it was nearly eight in the morning. 

It was something you said to everyone after each shift, bidding your coworkers a good stretch of sleep, knowing you all shared a fucked-up sleep schedule due to working the night shift. 

Jack found the greeting endearing. Smiling wide every time he heard the sing-song chime of your voice wishing everyone a restful day before leaving work in the morning. 

His days were hardly restful though, he never got much sleep when he went home, because you were always on his mind. 

After that day in front of your apartment building, he went out of his way to walk you home nearly every morning. If only  for a few extra minutes of hearing your voice, and a small hope that you would look at his lips like that again. 

When you finally did kiss him, it was well worth the wait. 

It happened on the roof. 

An especially hard call landed you outside for some fresh air, overlooking the city as you tried your best to clear your mind. 

Jack came up to check on you. 

Avoiding him entirely, your apathetic stare stayed plastered on the lights of the city. He stood next to you in silence for a while before placing a gentle hand on your cheek in reassurance, bringing your gaze to his and searching your eyes to make sure you were okay. 

It was emotionally charged, the way you crashed your lips into his. He held your face delicately in his hands, using his jaw to dive into the kiss, hungry and sloppy and undeniably passionate. 

More than anything he wanted to explore every inch of you— to let his hands travel your entire body, but instead his palms stayed strictly on your face, careful not to push things too far. 

In fact, weeks of suppression followed while Jack tried to respect the unknown undercurrents of your relationship. 

A few more kisses were shared, even some heated make out sessions and heavy petting in the on-call room at work, but nothing more. 

He’d be lying if he said his trepidation wasn’t slightly due to the rather lengthy sexual hiatus taking place in his life. But he could only deny his urges for so long, and this morning after breakfast, instead of walking you back to your apartment, he invited you over to his place for the first time. An unspoken agreement hung in the air the whole way home, one laced with heavy sexual tension. 

That’s what landed you here— barely two feet past the threshold of his bedroom with your hands dangerously close to the waistband of his pants and Jack couldn’t dare to think straight. 

The only thoughts he could muster revolved around how much he fucking liked you. This other worldly figure standing before him, toying with the ties on his pants, fingertips brushing his abdomen and fuck- he was on another planet. Your touch was sending a vaguely familiar heat rushing through his body and he wanted more— needed it. 

Something about the situation sent him on a power trip. His cock pushing against the lose restraint of his scrubs, the sudden realization that he finally had you right where he wanted you after all this time tainting his thoughts. Months of getting to know each other and countless dates ending in polite kisses and lingering goodbyes— all of it leading to this moment with his fingertips curling into your waist. 

But there was still a little sliver of him that felt nervous, slightly unsure of venturing into this unknown territory with you. 

He was still trying to convince himself that you were genuinely interested in him, because when he looked at you he saw this beautiful woman, all radiant and self-assured on the arm of some guy nearly twice her age who rarely smiled and always had a grumpy wise-ass remark on his tongue. 

His hands went rigid at the thought, the doubts taking him out of the moment for a few seconds, and you could sense his sudden uneasiness.

Pulling away from the kiss, you searched his expression, his lips parted to make way for fast shallow breaths as he stared back at you, his eyes hooded with desire but swimming with hesitation. 

“We don’t have to do anything Jack.” Your words were sincere as you continued looking for any sign of regret in the hazel of his eyes.

“No, I want this.” His brows furrowed as the winded confession fell from his lips. His hands grasped at your hips, holding firm while his thumbs rubbed into your sides. 

“You sure?” Voice changing slightly, you moved into a more playful state, fingers coming to the tie on his pants as you kept your eyes trained on his face. 

“We could just talk.” 

A playful whisper slid between your lips as you undid the drawstring between your fingertips.

“Or maybe watch a movie.” 

Then, your hand slid into the waistband of his underwear, only a few inches, just enough to make his breath hitch. 

He tries to cover his surprise at your touch, now dangerously close to the base of his cock. He’s mustering enough self-control to speak, his words coming out calm and collected despite the dizzying effect of your hand down his pants.

“You’re funny, kid. You know that?” 

Kid. 

A nickname he'd been calling you since the day you were assigned to his shift. You were just an intern; young, hungry and passionate. Had he known you’d end up with your hands halfway down his pants in the middle of his bedroom, he might've opted for a different title of endearment.

“Seriously Jack, we can take things slow-“

A low chuckle interrupts your attempt to comfort him, trying to give him a chance to back out. 

He guides you back to sit on the edge of his bed, smirking and shaking his head from side to side.

“Stop talking.” The words are rushed. A deep rasp from his lips as he leans in to kiss you, pushing your body until your back meets his mattress.

“I don’t think you realize how long I’ve thought about this.” It was apparent that Jack was hungry— starving even— to see more of you. His hands working quickly to get your pants down your legs and onto his bedroom floor. 

“What do you think about Jack?” He’d never heard that tone in your voice before, low and sultry while you leaned up on your elbows to look up at him. 

“Jesus- I’ve thought about having you on my bed like this,” There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes scraped over your as he paused between words. Eyes drifting to your lower half, legs parted slightly, a pair of black panties acting as the only barrier between his eyes and your naked body. “all spread out for me like this.”

At his words, your legs open further, sending a muffled growl straight to Jack’s closed mouth as he lets his hand fall on your inner thigh. Trailing upwards, his fingertips come in contact with the hem of your underwear. 

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about pulling you into the on-call room after our shift.” He’s leaning above you, eyes glued to your clothed core, fingers toying with the thin material of your panties at the inside of your thighs. 

“How badly I’ve wanted to fuck you on one of those shitty beds, or maybe even against the wall…” 

“But you deserve better. To be treated right, on a real bed.” Suddenly the smooth cotton of his comforter feels much warmer underneath you, your hands splaying over the pillowy fabric on your palms. 

Jack watches the way your shoulders relax, and your head falls an inch to the side at his words, your body melting into the moment of shared desire. 

“Want to take my time with you. Make you feel good. Watch you fall apart.” He leans in to kiss you, right as one of his fingertip’s dip below the fabric of your panties to run along your slit. You gasp into the kiss, and he takes the opportunity to pull away.

“To hear the little noises you make for me.” His lips are only inches from yours as his breathless whisper fills the space between them, his hand now fully pushing your panties to the side, his touch light as a feather, and lingering at your core.

“Bet you sound so pretty when you cum.”

Your mouth falls open and you’re not sure what triggered it, his words, or the way he pushes a single finger into you. The movement is slow and precise as he watches your eyes flutter in pleasure. 

For someone who’s sex life was currently non-existent, Jack didn’t miss a beat when it came to the rhythm of your gratification. The moan dripping from your tongue coming right on cue as he slipped another finger in with the first, stroking with purpose and dedication as his name came floating from your lips. 

“Jack.”

The word was foggy and desperate as his touch subdued you, his fingers curling at the sweet call of his name, hooking at just the right spot. 

“Fuck that’s it.” A whine of pleasure rippled through you at the pressure of his fingers against your walls. With one stroke after another, the building tension in your abdomen threatened to overflow. 

Jack’s stare falls on his fingers as they work you open. 

He can hardly handle how responsive you are to his touch; your hips bucking into his palm, little pleas falling from your lips— It’s enough to make him cum right there in his damn pants. 

“God- you sound gorgeous.” The compliment is almost primal, his voice nearing a growl as he looks down at your body writhing on the simple motion of his fingers inside you, a slave to his touch.

He lets himself get lost in the noises flowing from your mouth, allowing each moan to act as a signal, showing him exactly where and how you want him. 

“Even better than I could’ve imagined.” He finishes his thought and brings his stare back to yours, the fucked-out expression in your eyes telling him just how close you are. 

His words send you reeling, acting as a catalyst for the strain pulling in your abdomen. 

He can feel your body preparing to tumble over the edge, walls clenching around his fingers, and thighs flexing.

“There you go sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. That’s new. 

It surprises you both the second it leaves his lips. But the surprise of it barely registers, instead the word unleashes a flutter in your chest and a warmth between your legs. You’re obsessed with the way it sounds in the rasp of Jack’s voice. In fact, you like it so much your body trembles and whimpers fill the air as you come undone on Jack’s fingers.

His eyes watch as his movements slow, his digits coated in your slick and pushing into you continuously even after your body finishes shuddering.

It’s almost sadistic the small smirk he’s wearing on his lips as he fixates on his fingers sliding in and out of your body. 

He was starved. Starved of touch— the warmth of another’s body. Feeling how much you ached for him drove him crazy. The way you pulled him in with each thrust of his fingers made him want to stay there all night, making you cum over and over again to feed his craving of your body at his mercy. 

If it weren’t for your delicate hands gripping at his forearm forcing him back to reality, he would’ve kept going, would’ve seen just how much more you could take. 

“Jack.” Your voice breaks him from his trance, hand wrapping around his arm and pulling him back to hover parallel over your body. 

An unsolicited grunt erupts from deep in his throat as your hands once again slide into his underwear, only this time they fall far enough to envelop his cock in your soft touch. 

His hand comes down forcefully next to your head, palm flat against the mattress to hold himself steady as pleasure washes over him.

You’d only pumped over his length once and he was already squeezing his eyes shut in focus, trying not to spill into your hand. 

“Sweetheart.”

In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have used that nickname again, not right now when he was seconds away from having an embarrassingly quick orgasm. 

Your grip tightened slightly at the word, hand working a little faster and paying extra close attention to his overly sensitive tip when he has to put a hand over yours to stop your efforts. 

“I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up.” His brows raise at your smug expression, your hand still stroking him despite his attempt to stop you. 

“I’m serious.” A breathless snarl meets your ear as his head falls lower, nearly resting in the crook of your neck.

You hum in response, one hand continuing its work between his legs, the other pushing at the pants still around his hips.

He was quick to oblige your unspoken request, bringing his own hand down to rid himself of his pants and underwear. His hands are then at your hips yanking your underwear down your legs.

In a heated frenzy both of you took a few seconds to take off any remaining clothes. Sitting up to swiftly pull off shirts, and while you’re reaching to take off your bra, Jack stretches to his bedside table, fishing out a condom from its box that’s been sitting untouched in his drawer for far too long.

Then, you’re back to square one, his body hovering over yours, and his lips kissing down your neck.

Your hand finds him again, palm encircling his member as he freezes under your touch.

“You sure you wanna do this?” His voice is lost in the skin of your chest, his lips melting against your collarbone.

“You’re asking me? I thought you were the one who needed convincing.” The giggle in your voice has Jack nipping playfully at your skin, his hand confidently fitting between your legs.

“What can I say, you’ve persuaded me.” A teasing tone slips through his lust clouded whisper, his fingers collecting the slick at your core with a groan on his tongue.

You grab the condom out of his hand, tearing it open and rolling it onto him with ease, the feeling causing him to lean further into your touch. 

This was one of the reasons Jack was so drawn to you.

You held such discreet authority, taking charge with a charming smile and a sweet command in your voice.

He couldn’t have imagined that same power he witnessed at work would roll over into the bedroom. Your captivating ability to take quiet control was suddenly so obvious in the way you were guiding his now protected length to line up with your entrance, body shimmying down the bed to coerce him into you. 

When the head of his cock finally pushes into you, you both let out noises of relief.

The placated gasp from your lips, and the profound groan on his, proves that you’d both been longing for this exact moment for weeks.

He took his time. Learning the hug of your body. Savoring every inch of pure bliss, as he filled you at a painstaking pace. Your hands shot to his back, fingertips digging into the broad expanse of his shoulder blades just enough to encourage his movement until he entered you completely, pushed in to the hilt.

His eyes stay on yours, watching the way your lids almost closed while you adjusted to him, your mouth parted slightly at the stretch.

Then he’s pulling out and thrusting back in, moaning at the way you feel wrapped around him. Your head tilts back into his comforter at the sweet friction of his strokes, and the sight beneath him has another moan bubbling up Jack’s throat. 

It was exactly how he’d dreamt this moment— your back on his bed, with your head thrown back in pleasure. Getting to watch your body respond to him his perch above you, your naked figure far more beautiful than anything he could’ve imagined. It was all so perfect. You were perfect. 

He picked up the pace of his thrusts, not too fast, but perfectly timed with the squeeze of your fingers on his back. He knew he must be hitting something right in the way you were gripping his shoulders and crying out for him. Crying out for him. Your voice was strained and winded as his name fell from your lips in a chant. 

His self-control must’ve been at an all-time high as he closed his eyes for a moment, gaining his bearings and talking himself down from cumming at the sounds of your whines.

Instead, he collects whatever composure is left in his body and brings a hand down between the two of you, fingertips finding that sensitive spot just above where his cock is driving into you.

He rubs steady circles into your clit, and judging by the way his name jumps from you an octave higher than before, he knows he’ll get to watch you cum again. 

He makes it his goal. Setting his thrusts at a fixed pace, as his fingers deliberately stroke your bundle of nerves. He focuses completely on your pleasure to distract himself from the pulsing pressure running through his veins.

He needs to see you let go for him one more time before he lets himself finish. An easy task given the way your back was arching off his bed, sending your hips further into him. 

“I’m gonna-“ The words are hardly coherent as they slip between your gasps and moans. Wanting to tell him you were close but unable to string together more than two words. 

“Come on sweetheart.” His words were directed straight to your core, eyes back down and watching between your bodies as he slides into you. His mind growing hazy at the sight of you taking his cock so well. 

His encouragement was all you needed to let go.

Your release washes over you in waves of bliss.

Jack’s eyes make the journey back to your face, watching in awe at your expression taking on a state of utter relief as your head falls even deeper into the blanket underneath you.

That image is what finally makes him succumb to the persistent chase of his release.

He’s groaning and panting, one of his hands coming to grip your hips, the other balancing himself on the mattress, pressed flat on the space next to your face.

He’s grunting profanities as he spills through his orgasm, allowing his elbow to bend so he can rest his forehead against yours. Both of you breathing heavy, eyes meeting in a moment of vulnerability and understanding as you bring a hand up to lace through his hair. Almost petting his grey curls, you lazily smile through the puffs of breath on your lips.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over seeing you like this, an angel laid out on his bedspread— just for him.

He felt himself getting hard again, already hungry for another round.

His cock getting hard again, that fast after sex, was something he hadn’t experienced in over a decade. These days Jack needed plenty of time between orgasms to even think about getting another erection, but in this moment, still buried in you and hearing the tiny gasps of breath coming from your heaving chest, he wanted more. He could feel his addiction to you growing stronger, reminding him of the forbidden nature of your budding relationship.

“What are we getting ourselves into.” As if he were speaking his thoughts aloud, his voice filled the room.

He couldn’t help but smile as he thought about what the future held for your relationship, his forehead still pressed against yours. 

my masterlist

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.”