Jack Abbot X Reader - Blog Posts

watching the pitt cuz I was bored and finally figured it out

not totally clear but legible

jack abbot is jack abbot , not jack abbott

thanks to shawn and his characters, i want hot older men ;)

.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.

I need a mutual to let me brain rot about a very specific idea I have for Jack Abbot x doctor!reader. An outline of events, if you will.

I can’t get this out of my head:

Jack sees the shock on your face before he hears the words he had just said to you.

When had the wind been this defeaning? Or was it the silence?

“J-Jack…you don’t…don’t say th-”

“I’d do it with you. Have kids.” He said again, more definitely this time. More concrete. More real. He thinks about all the time he’s spent alone, of the kind of life he could’ve had had things been different. How you’re a different person, a different doctor, more fierce in every way when a child patient comes through those doors.

And fuck, if it doesn’t make his heart squeeze when he thinks what that can be like with you.

“We don’t have to get married.” He says, eyes watching how your throat constricts and your lips wobbles, tears threatening to free fall again.

His face leans in closer to yours, how it normally does whenever he’s seen you doubt yourself and willed every bit of confidence in you.

“But I want this for you, I want this with you. That asshole down there made you feel like you had to choose one thing and give up another, but you don’t have to give up anything with me. You can have it all, and I want to make that happen for you, if that’s what you want.”

Lord knows he’d rather chew sand than let himself be this vulnerable again.

But with you, he didn’t have to be afraid of anything at all.

if i could disappear beneath the leaves || michael robinavitch

summary: between awake and asleep, dreams are not always what they seem.

pairing(s): m.r x reader, j.a x reader, m.r x reader x j.a

warnings: none, really? aside from some small allegories to sexy times.

note: i wrote this with a shiteating grin lmaoooo please don't hate me for how this ends. a million thanks for @superhoeva for proof reading my nonsense. inspired by this post and that one the marias song.

p.s: if I see you reposting, stealing, feeding my FICS into AI or some other fuck shit, don’t. 👀🫵🏽

----

LONG BEFORE THE SUN WAKES UP AND THE STARS DISAPPEAR to make space for the clouds, brown eyes that were once heavy with sleep suddenly find themselves opened up just before the light shines through the curtains. 

No matter what Robby did, or how late he’d go to sleep when he got home, he’d always wake up at the same time. 

He lets out a low yawn, rubbing the sleep off his face as much as he can with his free arm, before looking over, all of him stupefied and hazy with sleep. 

He smiles softly when his favorite view in the world is no longer blurred, his heart beating in a flurrying thump badum thump badum, and his stomach flipping in a dizzying woosh at the sight of you and Jack curled up together. Your back is to Jack’s chest as his arms curled around you, and your foot tucked just so under Robby’s ankle to keep tethered to earth. 

It makes his heart melt, knowing you wanted to hold onto him even while you’re still in dreams. Your consciousness floated away somewhere, completely unaware of everything else but the comfort and safety that the two men that are with you provide. 

As lithe and fast as he is, Robby is still two hundred something pounds and over six feet tall. So even on the rare days he gets to stay in and sleep with you, he tries to be as careful as he can be as he regretfully leaves the bed you share. 

He hates it, leaving the two of you. He really wants to stay in bed and kiss you two awake, but he’s been waiting for ages to do this for you, with you.

And as much as he’s enjoyed reuniting with you in more ways than one, few and far between were the days where he simply got to do something just because he wanted to do it.

“Shh, shh, shh…” He coos softly, as his big, warm hand cradles your face and caresses your brow bone softly with a calloused thumb. Knowing you’re still far too deep to reveal your eyes to him, he gently coaxes you further back into your dreams. 

Softly pressing a kiss to where his thumb had just been, he adjusts the thousand thread count blankets – and with a gentle squeeze to Jack’s bicep, he reluctantly tears away his adoring gaze to get started on his surprise - breakfast in bed. 

There’s a slight draft in the brownstone’s kitchen that chills Robby’s skin, but it doesn’t bother him. The hospital was always far colder than this. And yet, even with you in the other side, he feels warmed all over by you. 

He can’t explain the feeling that blooms through him as he mills about the kitchen, as bare feet softly pad about the tiled floor while he gathers all he needs to make breakfast. He truly tries to be as quiet as possible, cursing himself as he rattles the cutlery drawer with his hip. 

A familiar song is whispered from Robby’s lips as he works. And for a moment, he thinks – he hadn’t been religious for a time longer than he can remember, but he knew he had to believe in a higher power when his life became more colorful with you in it. He knows Jack would agree. 

Strawberry studded pancakes are stacked on your favorite plate set, and Robby grumbles at how some of them are so not uniform. He turns to the other counter, where he preps the French press to make enough coffee for the three of you. 

There’s something about the smell that brings him back to the days of his med school youth, where he could barely get through the day without the caffeine. Nowadays, he’s happy to be dragged along by you to whatever the latest coffee shop was, and only a little begrudgingly pay for, in his opinion, overpriced coffees and sweet treats. 

Dishwashing is left for later, wanting the two of you to wake up to the breakfast spread on the tray that was sourced at a vintage market you had dragged him to months ago. 

As his surprises for you normally tend to go, they always get found out somehow. 

Just as he places the dish towel back on the counter after drying his hands, a sound by the kitchen’s threshold snaps his eyes to the door. The sight of you wearing his shirt and looking so disheveled melts his heart, even more so than the whipped cream used on you last night. 

“Robby…” You mumble, making grabby hands as you reach out for him while walking over. “Hey…what’re you doin’ up so early, huh?” He whispers, practically scooping you up in his arms and off the floor. He’s that much taller than you, and the way you gasp always makes him chuckle low in his chest. Robby kisses the crown of your head softly, letting you seek safety from the cold of the world that’s yet to wake up. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s held you like this - just because he wanted to, just because he could. Just you and him and nothing else or no one else in the world. Holding you always makes him feel like you’d always belonged in his arms. 

“Went to the bathroom,” your voice is muffled on his chest, “you weren’ there anymore.” 

You meant the bed, he knew it. And the way you say his name with a sleepy moan in that lilt of your voice makes Robby’s heart tighten only a little. 

“Go back to bed, honey. Bringin’ us breakfast.” He kisses your head again when you whine, urging you to go along, “go on, doc’s orders.” 

Only when he gently swats your behind do you listen to him. 

Robby follows close behind with said breakfast, smiling as he watches you crawl back into bed and Jack’s arm, resuming the same position as before. Jack was always the big spoon, and you were the little spoon. 

Seeing the two of you cuddled up again makes Robby feel only a little guilty for making such a big deal out of something so trite, but he figures that the array of food will more than make up for it. 

“Room service is ready, you two.” He wheedles, settling the breakfast tray on the side table that’s on your side of the bed. 

Robby only rolls his eyes a little, clearly cognizant that both of you are purposefully ignoring him, wanting to sleep as much as possible on a rare day off. But the smell of the coffee and sugar practically teased you both awake. 

He supports his weight on his arms by caging you protectively, arm on either side of you. 

“Come on, up you get.” He murmurs against the warm skin of your shoulder, slowly working his way up and places a kiss on your temple - stealing one, two, three smooches. 

The small commotion stirs Jack awake, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He blindly grabs your hand, lacing his fingers with his hand on top of yours and a small squeeze follows. 

“Mm, do we have to?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

Breakfast is quiet and syrupy slow for the most part. Robby is more than happy to sit back in bed, breakfast tray in his lap as the food and coffee is shared between you three. 

Plans are made but very few of them end up happening. At least not right away they do. But the day starts of slow, the warmth of twilight still keeping you three tucked away. 

With the tray and plates set aside, the three of you settle into bed once more. You’re in the middle, with Robby and Jack on either side of you. This time, Robby is the big spoon while you face Jack, holding onto his hand after sharing a saccharine kiss. 

It’s always been easier to sleep this way, the weight of them with you reminding you that they’re real and that you weren’t stupid at all to have fallen for them both. 

The rumble of Robby’s chest as he slowly falls back asleep lulls you back to your dreams, Jack scooching over to be close to you while he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. 

There’s the sound of a car alarm going off in the distance, but you’re far too sleepy to care. 

– 

The shrill beep of the snooze button set for the umpteenth time snatches you awake. 

For a moment, you forget where you are. But the fact that your joints crack as you stand up from the overused bed makes you realize where you are as you look around. 

The call room. 

Your dream was just that, a dream. 

You let out a sigh as you walk towards the door and motion to grab the doorknob, willing yourself to walk back out into the chaos. But you bang your forehead on the door softly, unwilling to face the very unreal fantasy on the other side. 

What were you gonna do? 

--

© espressheauxs, 2025

Sundays are meant for lazy mornings and trips to tjmaxx. Normally you wouldn’t dream about going to the local one because it’s a literal mad house but Jack said he found one that’s an hour out that’s supposed to be bigger, and has the tomato beaded bag that you really want. It makes you laugh because you showed him that TikTok only once but he remembered. Of course he would because why wouldn’t he remember the things you like??

But he mostly also wants that one ottoman that also doubles as storage - the one where he can rest his leg on and keep the fluffy blanket that always knocks him out cold because it’s impossibly soft. Y’all stop by the local coffee shop for some fuel before hitting the roads and you can’t stop smiling because it’s honestly the first time you’ve ever seen Jack be so carefree and genuinely relaxed. He always likes doing things with you. But this? It’s makes you so happy seeing him take initiative in something so seemingly trite.

He gets the bigger and wider cart. He knows better than to get the double decker small one. He loves watching you pick out art for the walls, consulting with him about what stuff to get for the kitchen. He always pivots to the candles, picks out one that smells like the one place you took a trip to together. That was your first big trip as an actual couple. You giggle and smooch him softly a few times in the candle isle, and you pretend to not see when he sneaks a few more into the cart.

With the blankets and pillows, he’ll often give a squeeze and a low hum of approval. He’ll crack a joke about the pillow feeling like your boobs, and there’s a small pause before the both of you laugh so hard because when has he ever made a joke like that??

Yeah, Maxxinista!Jack is a different person and you love it.

Listen I think Jack loves little trinkets. He’s def a trinket kinda guy but never had much because ya know army days. But he loves a trip to home goods or marshalls and he’d be like “hey honey what do you think about this pitcher? It goes with our cups.” Towels? Oh you bet he’ll be making sure they feel right. He’s always been a very functional “if it works it works” kinda guy but then he gets introduced to Egyptian cotton and thread count sheets and that man has never slept better in his life.

Inspired by this post from @abbotjack hehe

Listen I think Jack loves little trinkets. He’s def a trinket kinda guy but never had much because ya know army days. But he loves a trip to home goods or marshalls and he’d be like “hey honey what do you think about this pitcher? It goes with our cups.” Towels? Oh you bet he’ll be making sure they feel right. He’s always been a very functional “if it works it works” kinda guy but then he gets introduced to Egyptian cotton and thread count sheets and that man has never slept better in his life.

Inspired by this post from @abbotjack hehe

Okay so this is what I have in mind for fics in the next few weeks:

- 5 moments with Jack Abbot: the one where he knew he was going to like you, the three where he gets to know you, and the one that seals the deal for him (let’s be real this man is down bad so they’re all seals the deal moments but ykwim) Jack Abbot x Dottoressa!reader

- fake boyfriend! Michael Robinavitch: trying to avoid a weirdo at the bar, you insert yourself at Michael’s booth with the rest of his colleagues, glued to his side as if you belonged there the whole time, an interesting arrangement ensues. (Fwb/fake dating)

- maybe a (n)sfw alphabet for each? is there a template to follow that y’all know of?

That’s all I have for now I’m afraid. But I’d love to Drabble and talk some brain rot in between :)

So is Italian!reader a ballerina cappuccina or espressora senora

LMAO she can def be both. I think her espressora signora is something that’s more for Jack tho..

Should I write a little some some for Jack abbot even tho I’ve never seen the show. The fics I read on here are scrumptious and have left me inspired

it is a knife - jack abbot.

pairing: jack abbot x reader.

warnings: very lightly implied smut. a knife? lol

summary: a lull in your shift allows for some quiet time with Jack which is suddenly interrupted by the wielding of a knife.

word count: 700+

a/n: not edited or proofread at all!! I wrote this literally in an hour. ho-ho-holy shit it’s been a minute since I’ve posted on here but, I’m back? Sort of?

It was a quiet night in the ER— more so than normal. It almost made you miss the chaos. Almost. Because while the chaos guaranteed your shift went faster, sometimes not even that could compare to the moments hidden in the quiet. When on the rare occasion, during a lull in the night and there were only one or two people in the waiting room, every patient behind the doors sound asleep and all the staff caught up on their work, did it allow you a couple of minutes alone with your husband— the familiar feeling of his solid arms sliding around your waist from behind putting you further at ease.

“Hi,” Jack murmurs against your neck, pressing a kiss to the spot and resting his head on your shoulder.

“Hi,” you whisper back, giving his hand that rests on your middle a squeeze before going back to making your cup of tea.

“Tea?” you offer.

He shakes his head with a pleased sigh, “I’m quite happy with what I have right now.”

Your eyes widen, feeling just how happy he was as he pulled you closer to him— something hard pressing into your lower back.

“I can tell,” you breathe a laugh and turn around in his arms.

Draping your arms around his neck, you reach up to press a soft kiss against his lips, his arms tightening around you and holding you in place to pull you back in for another but you deny him to peer through the small window in the door to make sure no one was coming toward the tea room.

“All clear?” He muses, when your gaze returns to him.

You roll your eyes but, allow him to pull you into another kiss. Slow and tender, his mouth coaxes your own open to snake his tongue into yours. You moan at the feeling of his tongue sliding against yours, arms tightening around him as his hardness presses into your lower stomach—

“Fuck-” you whine, breaking the kiss.

Jack doesn’t let up though, continuing to press hot, wet kisses down your neck, his hands sliding down your body and finding perch on your ass to press you even closer to him—

“Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just that excited to see me?” you tease breathlessly but, your words seem to halt his ministrations.

“What?” you ask, head dipping to meet his gaze and concern lacing your voice at the odd look in his eyes. “Jack, what is it?”

“Uh— actually,” he removes one of his arms from around you to reach into his pocket.

“It uh— it is a knife,” he pull an all black switch blade out and shows it to you. “It’s that one I was telling you about a couple of weeks ago, remember? The one I said I ordered? It was just delivered yesterday. Here-”

You stare at your husband, absolutely bewildered and pressing a hand to your mouth while he shows it off to you, describing its different features and demonstrating them too—

“Oh my god,” you whisper from behind your fingers. The moment was completely shattered and god, if it was anyone else… but, it wasn’t anyone else. It was Jack. Your Jack and you couldn’t deny the way your heart swelled and filled with more love for him than you knew you were capable of as his eyes lit up every time he looked at you or showed you something new on the blade that he should’ve absolutely not been carrying around on him but was anyway. “Oh Jack, baby, you are so lucky I am so in love with you.”

“What? Why?” he questions, brows furrowing in complete oblivion but, you give him a moment to catch on.

“Oh-” he says, mouth forming an ‘o’ to match. “Oh- baby- I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay,” you hum your amusement, folding the blade up and placing it in the breast pocket of his scrub top.

Leaning back against the counter, you watch as he closes his eyes and grimaces— the corner of your lips twitching as you suppress your smile. A small laugh escaping you a second later as he groans and falls forward into your arms, his head resting on your shoulder as you rub soothing circles into his back.

“If it’s of any consolation, I also was and most definitely still am excited to see you,” Jack mumbles into your neck, pressing his indeed hardened member into you.

You don’t suppress the laughter that bubbles out of you this time, arms wrapping around him as you pepper his reddened cheeks and neck with kisses.

Yeah, you lived for these quiet moments.

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2025. All rights reserved.

Everyone, I have news. Please be aware that this is a FUCKING MASTERPIECE!!!!!!! Read and enjoy✌🏻✌🏻🤞🏻

Quiet

Widower!Jack Abbott x Widow Single Mom!Reader

19.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: sick baby; sick mom; mentions of needles; inaccurate medical knowledge/descriptions/tests etc.; reference to past pregnancy; reference to past miscarriages but no graphic descriptions, just a mention they occurred (reader does not actively experience one in the fic); Jack was in the army; reader's husband was in the army and died while deployed; discussions of IVs and needle sticks; reader gets an IV and is not afraid of needles; mild description of IV insertion; shy reader; discussion of possible peanut allergy; mentions of covid, influenza a and b and RSV; mom guilt; discussions of loss of spouse; lots of grief and self hate for a bit; Jack is vaguely suicidal and ideating at the beginning; healing; reader and jack are human and not perfect and make mistakes; reader can't cook; baby is a boy but is not named; DOMESTIC JACK

Summary: Widower Jack and widowed single mom Reader meet in the Pitt when Reader's baby gets sick. What follows is healing, patience and becoming ready.

A.N.: Inspired by this ask. This was so inspiring and I went totally off the rails. There will for sure be a part two. I really wanted to do something with Jack being a widower but was unsure of how to. This ask came in and the idea came to me and I felt like it was a good way to work with that piece of him. The beginning is quite emotional, I'm not going to say angst, there's just a lot of emotions and sadness and grief as we define Jack and Reader's reality. I PROMISE that the end gets fluffy and happy and (I hope) funny! Part two will be more fluff with a dash of emotion sprinkled in as we watch their relationship develop and the two get their happily ever after together!

You make it to about ten before you decide to go in. It’s not a long drive and by 10:15 p.m. you’re parked and walking into the ED.

You bite your lip and bounce just a little to help keep him asleep in your arms while the woman behind the plexiglass processes your insurance and co-pay. She gives you a warm smile, says to take a seat and it’ll be just a few minutes and they’ll get you back. 

Thanking her you grab your cards and do as she says. You’re surprised by how quiet it is. There’s a few people in the waiting room but it seems more like they’re waiting on people as opposed to be seen. Small mercies, you suppose. You’ll take what you can get. 

You can only imagine what you must look like right now, how bad you must look. You wish your husband was here. Wish he had been here for it all. He’d reassure you. Tell you that you were doing the right thing by coming in. Better to be safe than sorry. You can hear him telling you it. 

A call of your last name dissolves his voice playing in the back of your head. You follow a nurse back and get settled in a room. All the basics are done, everything you expected. And like you expected the second you set your son down so that his vitals can be taken he starts to cry. It makes you want to cry. 

Bridget reassures you that it’s okay, is quick taking his vitals so you can get him back in your arms and calm him. You know you must look like a mess, hair messed up, eyes reflecting how exhausted you are and the lack of sleep, wrinkled clothes that have at least one stain somewhere, probably more. And you’re sure that your face reflects how you feel inside, how frazzled you are, how guilty, how scared, how upset, how sad, how out of control you feel. 

Bridget dims the lights for you and leaves you to hold your son against you in the hospital bed. “I’ll have a doctor in as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, “and I’m sorry for being kind of a mess. Well, not kind of at this point.” 

She just laughs. “I understand, but trust me, you’re doing just fine.”

You manage to give her a small smile back and nod. She walks out and then it’s just you and your son. Like it always is. Your husband isn’t here, he’s never going to be here. His absence is pronounced as you lay in a hospital bed in an emergency room with your sick nine-month old. You do your best to not think about it because if you do, you’ll lose it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s missing her tonight, more than usual. Maybe it’s not so much that he’s missing her more than usual but he’s more aware of how much he always misses her. It’s more acute. Like some flareup of a chronic illness. Thinking in medical terms helps.

He knows he shouldn’t do that, try to understand it like it’s some illness he can study and understand. It’s just grief. It’s just there more than others some days. Sometimes he can articulate why and others he can’t.

Tonight he can’t. 

He bends his thumb inward and puts it on his wedding band, thumbs at it so it rolls around his finger. Nervous habit. That’s what he calls it now. When she was alive it helped ground him, reminded him she was there and he’d be going home to her, could make it through whatever was in front of him. And then she died. So now he tells himself it’s a nervous habit because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to call it. 

To those who don’t know him he still looks like a husband subtly using his wedding band to ground himself or remind himself of his wife or because he’s thinking about her and so he’s subconsciously playing with his ring. 

If only. 

Jack inches a little further and looks down over the ledge of the roof. The ground looks so inviting from the roof sometimes. It would be so simple. He could be reunited with her, if such a thing was real. 

Sometimes though he wants to be selfish and not care how she’d feel about it because she, unlike him, isn’t around anymore to feel fucking anything. Sometimes his grief comes out in anger because she got it fucking easy, she didn’t have to lose him, she doesn’t have to be here, doing all this feeling while alone. He always hates himself after that even though his therapist says it’s normal. But he’s stuck here and has to do the feeling because when he tried to bury the feelings he nearly self-destructed. 

So Jack stands on the roof. Stands and feels. And Jack is tired. Tired of feeling. At least like this anyway. 

He knows she’d hate it, hate him walking off the ledge of the roof so he doesn’t. Not tonight. 

Instead he slips back under the guard rail and leans against it, lets his head fall back and the chill in the air bring him back down. 

It’s too quiet, he realizes. Maybe that’s why his awareness of how much he misses her is so high right now. He likes noise. Keeps his mind quiet. The Pitt is too quiet. Even the City as he stands on the roof. And so his mind is loud. 

It makes him uneasy. There’s always a reason for silence. For quiet. It always means something. Always brings something. Rarely, if ever, is it good.

Jack lets out a heavy sigh and then leaves the roof, heads back down to the Pitt hoping to find something to do. He’ll take anything at this point. “There you are,” Bridget greets him as he walks back in. “Sick nine-month old waiting for you,” she nods at your room, tells him your son’s name, a general overview. “Baby doesn’t seem too bad. Mom is stressed.” 

Jack nods, says a quick “thanks,” as starts walking towards your room. 

He looks in and sees you through the glass and stops. You are beautiful. Strikingly so. And Jack hasn’t even met you yet but feels like he’s known you forever, is drawn to you. It feels like he just understands you, or maybe more like he knows you’re going to understand him. It’s the strangest feeling. 

You start to glance up from looking at your son and Jack quickly resumes moving, knocking slightly on the door since you’ve already seen him and walking in, shutting the door behind him. “Hi, I’m Dr. Abbot,” he introduces himself. 

And god, now that he’s in your space, in here with your energy it’s even more intense. It’s like he’s supposed to know you, supposed to have met you. Like some kind of palpable fate in his brain. He briefly wonders if he’s hallucinating because this is not shit he really believes in, not normally. 

Quiet, Jack thinks. It always brings something. Or maybe someone. 

“I hear we’re not feeling well.” He looks down at your son who is asleep in your arms, head on your chest. “Mom, right?”

You nod, tell him your name. Nearly trip over it because this man is so handsome it is unfair. Then you feel bad the second you have that thought. But then you start to feel pulled to him. He’s just comforting and you struggle to understand how because you don’t know him. It feels like you do, but you don’t. You’re drawn to him. You feel like you actually need to know him. Like he and you are here for a reason. 

You immediately chastise yourself for having those thoughts. Your husband, you remind yourself, your husband. He’d have wanted you to move on, to grieve and then find someone. You don’t even have to assume that or just think it. You knew it. You knew it because of that fucking video he left you that you were never supposed to have to see. 

You bring yourself back into the present. 

“What’s been going on to bring you in?” Jack asks as he logs into the computer and pulls up your son’s chart. He glances over at you and catches a look in your eye. Jack thinks you feel it too. Whatever is between you and him, the connection. It feels like you know it’s there too. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.

You tell him what’s been going on, symptoms your son is showing. Jack alternates between typing on the computer and looking at you. “I, um, I called the nurse hotline, you know, on the back of the insurance card before I came in, I really didn’t want to waste your time, I know you guys are so busy. She said that it’s probably okay to wait to get in with the pediatrician, but that if I was concerned I could go to the emergency room and I really tried to wait, I did, but I just, I don’t know. I felt like he sounded more wheezy.” You shrug at him, eyes round and showing how distressed you are, a hint of glass at them that suggests you’re close to tears. “It’s RSV season, you know? I mean I know you know. And god, I don’t want to be like, doctor WebMD or whatever, I trust you and your expertise, it’s just why I came in, they tell you about it so much at all the appointments and I, I don’t want anything to happen to him. But if you think this is too much you can just say and-”

“It’s not too much,” Jack cuts you off, nodding gently. “I promise. Better to be safe than sorry especially if you feel like he’s been a little more wheezy.” You nod at Jack who keeps looking at you intently. It makes you clear your throat and look away. But when he doesn’t say anything after a second you look back up at him. “You did the right thing,” he tells you when he catches your eye contact again. “Can I?” He gestures to your son. 

“Oh! Yes, yes of course! Here, let me get out of bed and lay him down.” You give a breathy laugh that reveals how out of sorts you are. You’re clearly thrumming with nervous energy, frenetic and flustered.

“No, it’s okay. You can stay, I’ll take him and get him on the end of the bed if that’s okay?” He holds his hands out to take your son. 

“Of course, yeah, whatever is easiest for you and best for him!” You gently pull your son from you and he starts to wake and fuss. “I’m sorry, he hates not being held right now and he hates being held by anyone but me it seems like sometimes, so he might not…” you trail your sentence off when Jack takes your son and he settles against Jack as they walk to the end of the bed. “Settle.” You sit up and cross your legs to give Jack more room. “I guess he likes you,” you laugh softly. 

“Good taste in people already,” Jack quips absentmindedly as he lays your son down. You give a soft laugh and the corners of his lips pull up. You get his humor. He likes that. Not everyone does especially when he executes it so stoically sometimes. There really is a draw there. 

Your son starts to fuss again and Jack can see you stiffen a little and start to look like you’re about to apologize. “It’s alright, little guy, I’ll have you back to mom soon.” He keeps a hand gently on your son’s tiny stomach and chest while putting his stethoscope on with one hand and rubbing the chest piece on the side of his scrub top for a few seconds to warm it up before putting it to your son’s skin. “I know, I’m sorry,” he murmurs in between listens, gently pulling your son up into a sitting position to listen to the back of his chest. “I’m the worst, I know, you can tell me all about it, won’t be the first or the last.” 

You sit there watching the whole interaction stunned. You don’t know why, you just never expected to get a doctor who would be so good with your son, with you. There’s something about him. Something you could never hope to articulate. You’re just drawn to him, he feels like some sort of kindred spirit which you tell yourself is crazy because you’ve known the man all of four minutes. 

Jack takes his stethoscope out and finishes his exam. “You have his clothes?” He glances up at you as you ask. 

“Hm?” You lean in a little towards him. Before he can repeat himself the words process. “Oh, yes!” You grab them from beside you. You’d taken them off earlier with Bridget so she and eventually the doctor could examine your son. 

“Thanks.” Jack grabs them from you and gets your son dressed again. 

“No, thank you. You… You didn’t have to do that.” The smile you give him almost reads embarrassed. 

“Least I could do for upsetting him so much by laying him down.” Jack picks your son up and brings him the few steps back up to you as you stretch your legs out again. Your son has already started to settle in his arms again. 

“So,” Jack reaches over for the rolling stool in the room and uses the pressure of his fingertips to slide it over to him before sitting down on it and rolling up to be closer to the midpoint of the bed so you can talk. “You’re right, he’s a little wheezy. Nothing terrible, but it’s there. His fever is still pretty low grade and I saw he’s about due for some acetaminophen, so we can recheck after we give him some more in a bit. Is RSV a possibility? Yes. So is a common cold. So is influenza A or B, so is Covid.” Jack can see you getting more panicky. 

“I…” You shake your head and look at Jack. “This is my fault.” Jack furrows his eyebrows at you and cocks his head a little. “I, I’m a single mom. It’s just him and I and I have to send him to daycare so that I can work and I don’t have any family around to help and I can’t afford a nanny, daycare is expensive as it is and I don’t want to have to send him to day care, even though I know that’s a normal thing and lots of parents do it and are good parents, are great parents, it doesn’t define how good of a parent you are, but I just think in this case, it’s me. I let him get sick. I exposed him. And I never wanted that, I really didn’t I just don’t have other options and it’s so hard and I spent months researching and touring locations to try and find the best one I could afford, but at the end of the day it’s still a cesspool of germs and I don’t know. I know that it’s mom guilt and daycare guilt and I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do and you know, nothing can happen to him.” You hold your son a little closer to you. You know if something happened to him you’d be gone within minutes. “Nothing can happen to him,” you repeat, a murmur. 

There’s a small silence and then you look up. “Oh my god,” you look at Jack horrified. “I just dumped that all on you and said all of that out loud. You’re a doctor. A busy doctor in an emergency room, you so do not have time for this, and god, fuck, it’s not even your job to listen anyway. I am so, so sorry.” You fight back tears because you are not doing this, you are not losing it here in an emergency room with your son in your arms. Because if one tear falls all of them will. 

Jack can see how you’re trembling. He noticed you were a little when he came in the room, noticed how chapped your lips were. 

“Hey, it’s all good.” Jack’s voice is soft and he tries to catch your eye to reassure you more but doesn’t force you when you avoid it. “I have time, you picked a good night, okay? And I know that nothing I can say will help with the guilt and I know you know but this stuff happens. They get sick. You did what you’re supposed to do, brought him in, called the hotline, monitored him closely.” You close your eyes for a second and take in a few breaths. He can tell you need to move on and not dwell here or something will open up that you can’t close and there is nobody who understands that better than Jack. “I don’t think anything is going to happen to him. I’m going to give you some choices, okay?” 

You finally look back up at him and nod, give him an apologetic smile. “Thank you,” you whisper. 

Jack nods. “First option is we give him some acetaminophen here and keep you guys here for a couple hours to monitor him and see how he does. That’s the least intensive option. Second option is the most intensive option. We test for RSV, rhinovirus, influenza A and B, Covid. That would be a swab test, one for all. We draw some blood and run a few tests just to check on everything. And then we do a chest x-ray to see if anything’s going on. Third option is a middleground. We start with the swab test. If it comes back positive for one we discuss more options. If it comes back negative then maybe we decide to do bloodwork. Choice is yours. None of them are wrong.”

You swallow hard. Your mind races as you try to decide. What if you make the wrong choice and something happens? 

“What would you do if he was yours?” You ask Jack, voice so, so small, so scared. Jack barely knows you but his heart aches for you. It’s like he understands you somehow even though he’s not a parent, has no reason to feel such a pull or connection to you. 

“Uh, wow, I… I don’t know,” Jack stutters a little because the question throws him so much. 

“I’m sorry if that was inappropriate, you don’t have to answer. I thought maybe you and your wife had kids and maybe that’s inappropriate too, god.” You cringe at yourself. But yeah. You’d noticed the wedding ring when he took your son from you. 

“No, no, it’s not inappropriate and we… I,” Jack looks almost pained. It’s familiar, the expression he wears. You feel like you know it well even if you can’t place it in the moment. “No kids,” he finally settles on, “I don’t have any kids. And I can’t say I’ve thought about… this, what I would do before.” He brings a hand up to his head and runs it through his hair before crossing his arms over his chest for a second before moving them back down to rest on his legs. “It’s hard,” he shrugs, and gives you an apologetic look. “The doctor in me who knows all of the possibilities says option two. But the doctor in me also knows that’s probably a bit overkill and that realistically option one is fine, and that option three is the best, that middleground.” He looks away from you and down at your son, studies your little boy whose small hand clings to your shirt. “I can’t say I’ve ever really tried to access the… paternal side of me,” Jack clears his throat, “not in a long time anyway. But I think I’d have to go option two, even though it’s overkill and involves a needle stick. I’d want the reassurance and to see the numbers and images.” 

You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly and look down at your son. “Yeah, I think that’s what I want to do. I just needed, I don’t know. Not permission but… something.” You look back up at Jack and your eyes glaze over a bit. Something he recognizes, something he’s been told happens to him when he talks about his wife. His head tilts slightly at the thought. “Input.” You finally whisper. “I needed input.” 

Jack watches your bottom lip tremble and you bite it to stop it from doing so. 

Because you don’t have input. Your input is in the ground. Six feet in the ground. You never really got to have any input. Not from the one person whose input mattered most. 

And you don’t miss how you feel this connection to Jack and now he’s your input. Guilt and sorrow and grief and some vague flicker of anticipation slam into you. Anticipation is a new feeling, you haven’t had it since you gave birth. Even the way you phrased the question. Not what would he do with his child or if it was his kid here what would he do. No, you’d asked what would he do if your son was his.

You have to stop thinking about it.

Jack leans back a little and runs his palms down his thighs. “Okay, then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll go ahead and put in the orders for the tests and acetaminophen. You can go to x-ray with him and wait behind the door, the rest we’ll do in here. I can swab,” he says with a small smile as he grabs one of the testing kits they have out of the cabinet in the room. He quickly types an order into the computer.“But I’m going to have one of our nurses come and grab some blood. I’d do it but nobody wants that. They’re the best sticks in the place, I promise.” He gives you a small but reassuring smile. 

You can’t remember the last time you genuinely felt reassured by anyone’s smile. That’s a lie. You can. It was the last time your husband ever smiled at you. The thought makes the smile you give him in return falter a bit. Jack wonders if he did something. Said the wrong thing. 

Your son fusses a bit for the swab, but you’re able to help hold him still so that Jack can get it done as quickly as possible. He settles back easy enough. Bridget walks in with some supplies while Jack continues typing. 

Jack was right, Bridget is a fantastic stick and the needle is so small your son makes just a little whimper before resting on you again. You feel bad when you have to wake him a bit to give him the tylenol. His small hands rub at his eyes and he tries to move his head away but you coax him to it so easily, so naturally, Jack thinks to himself. “Thanks Bridget,” he says quietly as she walks out. 

“Alright,” Jack says through an exhaled breath as he finishes on the computer. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” he starts as he grabs some hand sanitizer, “I’m more worried about you, mom, than I am about the baby.” He turns to look at you as he sits back down on the stool, tilts his head at you. 

You blink at him, like what he said is still processing. “Me?” Jack nods. “I’m fine, I feel fine. I’m just maybe a bit tired because, you know, sick kid but… I’m fine.” 

Jack pushes his bottom lip out a little and pulls down, nods just a little. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. “When’s the last time you ate?” 

You look at him again for a moment and for a minute Jack thinks he’s gone too far, overstepped, has been imagining everything he’s felt since he saw you. “Um,” you finally say. He realizes you’ve been trying to think when it was, not that he upset you or anything. “I, I don’t know, probably I had something for lunch, I’m sure.” 

“You’re shaking.” Jack points out. You furrow your brows, unsure if he’s right and if he is how he could possibly know that. “Hold out a hand.” You do as he asks and sure enough, you can’t keep it still. “When’s the last time you drank some water?” He gives you a look as he says it and tilts his head at you. “Your lips are chapped. It’s been a bit, I’d guess. You’re dehydrated.”

You look away from him, can’t decide if you’re uncomfortable with his scrutiny or if you kind of like it. It feels wrong to like it. 

“Listen, I’m not trying to be a dick, okay?” He goes to continue speaking and stops, what he just said hitting him. “I probably shouldn’t have said dick in front of a patient, so I apologize for that,” you laugh at that and shake your head telling him not to. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be doing this by yourself. But you have to take care of yourself for him, and again, I know you know that,” he holds his hands up, “I just wanted to say because I’m sure it’s easy to lose sight of, especially when he’s sick.”

You nod and let yourself look back at him. “Yeah,” you nod. “It is.” 

“So, game plan for you is to get some food and water in your system. What do you like to eat?” 

“Oh, wow,” you laugh a little. “Dr. Abbot, that is-”

“Jack,” he interrupts you to tell you, “call me Jack.”

“Uh, okay. Well, Jack, that is very kind of you but I’ll be okay, and I can grab something once we get home. I will grab something.” You try to give him a reassuring smile. “Promise.” 

Jack shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “No, you’re going to be here too long for that to be a deal. Between the x-ray and blood test results and monitoring him. Food and water or I’m going to create a chart for you and give you an IV.” He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s something he would do for any patient. 

You both know he wouldn’t. 

In part because having this much time is a rarity, beyond a rarity even. In part because any patient isn’t you.

You open your mouth to speak a couple of times and then close it again. “Okay,” you whisper. 

“Great,” Jack smiles at you. “What do you like to eat?”

You look at Jack and you look so overwhelmed he starts to feel bad. “Jack, I, honestly?” you laugh, “I have no fucking idea. Like none. I don’t remember, I don’t have the ability to even pick.” You’re still laughing because it’s so fucking ridiculous. A simple question. And yet you can’t answer it. 

There’s a sorrow to your laugh that resonates with Jack. It sounds familiar. Sounds like his laugh sometimes. 

“Alright, well,” Jack laughs a little with you, keeps it light, “I’d say I can work with that but I think it’s really more like I’m gonna have to work with that.” 

You shake your head and cringe at yourself. “You must think I’m a disaster. God, I’m sure I look like one.” 

Jack presses his lips together and squints a little, shakes his head. “I don’t think either, nor is either true.” 

Jack leans back and it stretches his shirt against his chest, pulls it tauter. The outline of two familiar pieces of metal and rubber silencers becomes visible, just for a second. You’d been feeling a little better. Now you’re about to be sick. About to lose it. 

Your smile falls, and Jack furrows his brows, goes to ask if you’re okay. 

“Do you have dog tags in your pocket?” You glance down at his chest pocket. 

“Uh, yeah, yeah I do.” If Jack had stopped right there you would have been fine. You would have been able to breathe through it, shut yourself down emotionally, and kept it all in. But he doesn’t. And you’re exhausted and your baby is sick and your husband is dead. 

Jack pulls them out of his pocket and flashes them at you. Quickly, but long enough.

Jack knows something is wrong based on the look on your face and the way you stare at his dog tags and then his chest pocket when they’re back away. You start shaking your head, squeeze your eyes closed. “Hey,” Jack starts softly. 

You shake your head faster, try to say something but all that comes out is a soundless sob as you devolve into tears. Quiet ones because your son is asleep in your arms but big wracking ones nonetheless.

It clicks into place. The draw to you. Feeling like he understood you and you him. Recognizing the way your eyes glazed over just slightly. The familiar sorrow to your laugh. 

You’re a widow too. 

And if Jack was a betting man he’d put a whole lot of money on your husband being deployed when you lost him. 

Jack’s up quickly, grabbing the box of tissues and setting them on the bed near you while reaching for your son wordlessly, only a nod and gentle motion of his hands to offer. You’re torn between whether having your son out of your arms will help or hurt, but you know it’s not fair to him and that eventually he’ll wake up because of your sobs, no matter how quiet you are. 

Jack takes him from you and sits back down in one of the chairs this time, pulling it over to be closer to the bed and kicking the stool out of the way. Your son stays asleep as Jack settles him on his chest. He feels a bit cooler too, Jack notes.

“I’m so, sorry,” you choke out quietly between sobs, “you can give him back and go, this is, this is not your problem to deal with.” Jack doesn’t reply, just nudges the tissues closer to you. 

And so you keep crying. And Jack keeps holding your son. 

Eventually you cry yourself out and are so numb you’re left with just shame and embarrassment for doing this here, in front of Jack and your son. 

As the sniffles stop, you try to look at Jack but are too embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat. “I’ll take him back and you can go.”

Jack stands up and hands you your son back. A wave of relief and calm washes over you at having his familiar weight back in your arms and on your chest. But there’s a pang of sadness too, you really thought Jack might stay. You don’t know why you care.

But Jack surprises you, sits back down and pulls his phone out for a second, sends off a couple of messages. He turns his attention back to you. “I’m gonna stay for a bit. The uh,” he struggles to find a word that won’t jinx everything, “patient census,” he makes a face when he says it like he can’t believe he just said those words, “is low tonight. I have time.” He lets out a long breath through his nose. “And you have nothing to apologize for,” he shakes his head slowly as he speaks.

You give him a slight smile at patient census and the look he pulls, a little nod and he doesn’t push for more. He gives you time. 

But after a while he puts it out there so you know that you can. “You wanna talk about it?”

You look at him and see understanding, feel like you’re really being seen for the first time since your husband died and you don’t know why Jack is the one. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. Shrug at him with a watery smile. “I don’t know how to.” 

Jack nods slowly. Pauses for a moment and takes in a big breath he lets out, a little shaky. A shaky you feel like you recognize. “My wife died five years ago, so when I say I know what you mean, I promise I really do.” 

You shut your eyes and grimace as it all falls into place. The connection you felt with him. The pull. Why he makes you feel seen. 

“God I am so sorry, when I asked earlier, about kids and if you and your wife had any, I just thought with the ring, god I of all people should know better than that.” You shake your head at yourself. 

“You had no way of knowing,” Jack shakes his head. He looks down at his ring. Then to your ring finger which is empty. That deep set confliction and need to explain starts to rise. “I still wear it because… I think… It’s-”

“Hey,” you say softly. “You don’t have to explain. Not to anyone, and certainly not to me.”

Jack nods. You sit in the quiet for a few minutes. 

“I would probably still have mine on, but,” you sigh, “I guess it requires more backstory.” You pause to collect yourself. “Long story short is he was in the army. Scheduled to be deployed. Really short one. He was done after it too. Would have been out.” You take in another shaky breath. “We’d been trying for a baby for a while. I kept miscarrying. Little under two weeks before he was leaving I found out I was five weeks pregnant. And this one felt different. I had morning sickness. There was so much cautious optimism and he hated that he had to leave but he was supposed to be back in time for birth as long as everything went as planned.” You shrug. “He died when I was ten weeks pregnant.” 

Jack closes his eyes at that. His heart aches for you in the way only someone whose heart has been through that same loss can. 

“Yeah, pretty fucking sick of the universe. The one time I keep the pregnancy I lose the husband.” You wipe at your eyes with the tissue in your hand. “Anyway, late pregnancy my hands swelled up. Rings didn’t fit. I had to take them off. And once I had him and knew they would fit again I couldn’t bring myself to slide them back on. He was supposed to be the one to do that, you know?” Jack nods. He gets it. “So I think that’s probably the only reason I’m not still wearing mine.” 

“It’s not been five years though,” Jack points out. 

“There’s no timeline on when to be ready and take them off. I’m the newbie to the widow game here, but even I know that.” You give him a lopsided smile and Jack lets out a little laugh. 

“No timeline to any of it.” Jack offers. You raise your brows and lower them, nod as to wordlessly say true. 

You’re interrupted by Bridget bringing in some water and food for you. It’s obvious something has happened between the two of you and that you’ve been crying. “There’s an incoming,” she says quietly to Jack. “ETA four. We need you.” He nods. 

Bridget steps out and Jack stands up, puts the chair back and looks back at you, rolls his eyes. “Patient census comment coming back to bite me in the ass. Shoulda known better.” 

You let out a small laugh. “I thought it was very Scottish Play of you.” Jack smiles at you. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.” He walks over to the door and puts his hand on the door handle, pauses, thinking.

Jack turns back to look at you. “What’s done cannot be undone,” he says with a little smirk. 

You laugh almost properly at that. It makes you feel, maybe not totally happy, but okay. It’s been a while since you’ve felt either. 

“Oh wow, okay, well go get ‘em Lady Macbeth.” Jack laughs softly, more of just a smile with some air breathed out of his nose as he shakes his head a little at you. 

He doesn’t say to eat and drink the water and that he’ll be back to check on you. He doesn’t need to. You know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks pass. Your son recovers without incident. You can’t stop thinking about Jack. Jack can’t stop thinking about you. He has to talk himself out of looking up your info in your son’s chart and going to stop by and make sure your son recovered okay. 

You get sick. Really sick. You finally get your son down for a nap and stare at the piece of paper Jack had given you as you left. 

“Here,” Jack hands you a slip of paper with his name and number written on it. “If you ever need anything, call me, okay? If you need help fixing something at home or someone to watch the baby for an hour so you can grab a shower, or for however long it takes you to get your hair done, or whatever. Don’t hesitate to call.” Jack swallows. He doesn’t know how this part is going to go. “Or, you know… just call me.” 

You look up at him wide-eyed. “Oh, wow,” you laugh nervously, “wow Jack, I am so flattered, truly. But I just,” you look away from him, suddenly somehow even more shy, like the man hasn’t seen you sobbing and snotty and is still interested in you. “I’m not ready. I don’t know when-”

“That’s okay,” Jack nods, “I just wanted to put it out there. But still. I want you to call if you need something, okay? I respect your answer and so if you call I’m not going to expect anything or badger you about it or try and force it on you. I just want to help.” He looks to the side for a moment and then back at you. “One vet helping an active.” 

You feel so bad about it, are so conflicted. But you could really, really use some help. So you text him, tell him it’s you. 

You - Are you at work? 

J - No. 

J - Everything okay? 

You - Did you just get off work? 

J - No, string of off days. 

You chew your lip as you pull up his contact and stare at the number. You just tap randomly at your phone and let the universe decide. If it calls him then it calls him, if it doesn’t then it wasn’t meant to be. 

It calls him. 

“Hey,” he picks up on the first ring, sounds concerned, “you okay? Baby okay?”

You clear your throat and he can already hear it, is already standing up to throw on some real clothes and grab supplies. “Baby’s great.” He cringes at how bad you sound. If you feel as bad as you sound he’s genuinely astounded by how you’re taking care of a now ten-month old while being so sick. “Me, not so much. You said to call and I… I didn’t want to and I know this is so unfair, but I don’t have anyone else and I could just really really use an hour to get a shower and tidy a few things up.”

You need more than an hour to shower and tidy up, you need to sleep for as long as you can, Jack thinks to himself. “Text me your address.” 

There’s a beat of silence. “You sure?” You ask him, give him an out. 

“Positive. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? Within the hour.” 

“Okay.” It’s so quiet he almost misses it. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. Text me, okay?”

“Yeah.” You hang up and do so. 

Jack stops by the hospital before he comes over, grabs a couple bags of saline, a couple of banana bags, and a few IV kits, tosses them in his backpack. Tells a raised eyebrows and confused Robby to tell Gloria to bill him for it and he’ll bill the hospital for the use of his supplies and tech during Pitt Fest before walking out. 

Then he stops by a grocery store, picks up some food and over the counter meds and then he’s on his way to you. 

The knock on your door startles you even though you know it’s just Jack. You open it and his eyebrows raise as he takes you in. You look like death warmed up. Maybe not quite that bad but Jack’s judgment of that is skewed because it’s you and he doesn’t like seeing you sick he has decided. 

“Hi,” you whisper as he walks in. “He’s down in his room, if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the monitor while I shower and then I’d really love to just tidy up a bit.” You move your hand to reference your living room and kitchen, both visible with the open floor plan. “It’s a mess. I’m sorry about that too, it’s normally not this bad.” 

Jack takes the space in. It’s not even that bad. It’s very sick single mom with a baby. Not dirty, just cluttered. He notes the sparse decoration, wonders if you moved after your husband died. “It’s really not that bad,” he tells you softly and takes the baby monitor from you. “Come here.” 

He steps towards you and you freeze, not sure of what to do. He just raises his hand and puts the back of it to your forehead. Jack flashes you a concerned look. “You’re burning up. Easily 102.”

You try to laugh it off but it just triggers a coughing fit. “I’m fine, it’s okay-”

“No,” Jack says firmly. “It’s really not.” He walks over to your couch and sets his bag down, slides the baby monitor into the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a forehead thermometer and nods at the couch, asking you to sit down. 

You hesitate for a second, feel like this is too much and he’s doing too much and you should say he can leave, that he should go. But instead you go and sit on the couch. 

Jack scans your forehead and frowns when he looks at it. “102.8.” His eyes flick to yours and he can see you going to say something, and he knows it’ll be something like you’re fine or it’ll come down. “Look,” he turns the thermometer around so you can see the reading. “The light is red. There’s a frowning face. So please don’t say it’s okay and you’re okay.” His words are firm but compassionate and he isn’t condescending at all. 

“Well, once you leave if he’s still asleep, I’ll try to grab some rest.” You give him a weak smile. “Promise.” 

“Oh no,” Jack shakes his head. “No way. If I wasn’t a doctor and didn’t have supplies with me, you’d be going to the ED.” He starts looking through his bag. 

“Jack, this is really nice of you but unnecessary.” His eyes snap back to yours when he hears his name come off your tongue. He likes it. Too much. You said no, that you weren’t ready. But Jack can’t help how he feels, only on how he acts on those feelings. 

He ignores your protests. “Plan of care is to have you shower if you’d like. Cool, please. And then I’m going to give you some meds, get an IV in you and a banana bag going and you’re going to go sleep.”

“I, I really think just a shower and some tidying will help me feel much better.” Another half hearted protest. It feels good to have someone want to take care of you. To have a man want to take care of you. To have Jack want to take care of you. Those are all feelings you haven’t felt in a while, and they’re from Jack Abbot. And a piece of you hates yourself for that, especially when your eyes wander to the folded American flag displayed on a shelf. 

Jack tracks your eyes to it. “I’m not trying to overstep,” he starts to explain, “just, you’re a lot sicker than you think.”

“No, no, I know that, and you’re not, I’m just not used to it.” You try to find the word but it’s hard. “The attention, I guess. Or maybe the help. Pregnancy and labor and birth and coming home with a newborn while recovering were all alone, so it’s just… strange.” 

Jack shuts his eyes and lets out a breath. His heart hurts because he knows what that kind of alone feels like. He knows how hard it can be to survive and live with. And he’s never had to experience alone everything that you have. He hates that you were alone. He’s even more in awe of you, honestly, that you were able to. There’s a sense of pride too, one he knows he has no business having. 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I really don’t-”

“I know that, Jack, I promise and you’re not, I’m just.” You shake your head and look away for a second. “A mess,” you laugh softly, manage to not trigger a coughing fit. 

Jack shakes his head a little. “You’re sick.” 

You shrug, take in as deep a breath as you can. “Okay,” you nod. He knows you’re acquiescing in his treatment plan. 

“Good.” Jack pulls his stethoscope out of his bag. “You mind if I listen to your lungs before you shower? Just to have a before and try to get a read on what it might be.” 

You nod at him. Jack places his stethoscope on your chest, is careful to hold it so that his hand doesn’t come into contact with you because he knows he already expressed interest and that you’re not ready and the last thing he wants is for you to think he’s using this as some weird chance to touch you or make you uncomfortable. “Deep breath.” 

Jack walks you through all the deep breaths he needs, frowning to himself a bit and not pressuring you when the deep breaths trigger your cough and he has to wait a minute to continue. The first time it happens his other hand automatically raises to go and rub your back but he catches it in time.

You don’t acknowledge it, don’t want to draw attention to it and in part don’t know how to react to it but you appreciate it more than he’ll ever know. He’s a gentleman. It’s nice and you really try to let yourself have that and let it feel nice without berating yourself over it feeling nice. But something feeling nice is so foreign and somehow feels so wrong. Like nothing should ever feel nice again because your husband isn’t here. 

“Yeah, those are junky,” he mutters as he puts his stethoscope back in his bag. “Wish I had brought a breathing treatment for you.” He looks like he’s thinking about how he could get one here. He pulls his focus back. “Shower?” 

You nod, stand up and start walking towards your room. “Hey Jack?” Jack looks up at you with raised eyebrows, body tensing just slightly like he’s ready to run towards you. “Thank you. And um, make yourself at home and help yourself to anything. I don’t know how much there is, but what’s there is yours.” You give a little nod and turn and walk off before he can say anything. 

Once he hears the shower running Jack takes a better look at the place. He finds it strange how certain parts feel like you but the overall place doesn’t in a way. It feels like someone scared to settle in, scared to make this space their own. It feels like his first apartment after his wife died did for a long time. 

He starts to tidy up, it’s really nothing major. He puts toys in the little toy bin you have, places the baby books on the floor on the bottom storage space of the table. He picks up the baby blankets and onesies laying around that he’s guessing need washed, sets them in a pile on a counter. He does the same kind of stuff in the kitchen, just picks up, wipes down. Again, nothing is dirty. It’s lived in. It’s a sick single mom with a baby who sets down an empty water bottle or paper plate and forgets to throw it away. He loads the dishwasher with the bottles and few plates and utensils in the sink. He’s not sure if what’s in there is clean or dirty but it’s fine, if it’s clean it can just get washed again. He waits to start it though, makes a note to do so later once you’re out of the shower and the hot water has had time to build back up just in case your water heater isn’t great.  

You let yourself stand under the water for longer than you probably should. You try to keep it cool like Jack said, but at some point right before you get out you let it get really, hot, just need to feel it, feel a little sterilized almost. You think about how Jack is here and doing all of this for you and what would your husband think and does this make you a bad wife. You try to get yourself to believe that your husband would be happy you’re getting help, would be happy Jack is a veteran and that you’re not a bad wife because your husband told you he wanted you to move on and find someone and it’s not like it happened yesterday. It’s been over a year. 

Once you’re out you slip on some modest pajamas, deal with your hair and put some lotion on your face, brush your teeth. You feel a little better, only because you feel clean, but still. 

Jack gives you some time once he hears the shower turn off. After a bit he knocks on your door and clears his throat. “Hey, um, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to start the IV out here in the living room or in your room.” 

Your chest clenches for a moment. You hadn’t even really thought about what it would mean for him to start it in here, just kind of assumed he’d come in and do it. But it means there would be another man in your bedroom. A man who is not your husband. 

He gives you a moment to decide because he knows the magnitude of the question he asked. 

You’re at war with yourself, but you know it’ll be better to have him do it here and have him figure out a way to get the bag to hang. “Um, you can do it in here, I guess. Unless you’d prefer to do it out there.” 

“Wherever is best for you.” There’s a pause as Jack waits for you to come over and open the door. You’re so zoned out sitting on the edge of your bed you don’t even realize. “Should I come in?” He finally asks gently. 

“Oh! Oh yes!” The way you breathe in at surprise and almost startle at having your zoned out thoughts interrupted makes you start coughing, so Jack slowly opens the door, trying to give you time to change your mind, walks in and over to you with his supplies just as slowly. 

He sets some stuff out next to you. “Shower help?” He cringes internally the moment he says it, hopes it doesn’t make it seem like he was thinking about you in the shower. 

“Yeah. Feeling clean has helped I think.” You watch as he gets everything ready. He has big hands, long and thick fingers that should make working with small pieces of medical equipment a bit difficult but they’re so dexterous and he has so much control over them that it’s not. Once you catch yourself daydreaming about his hands you look away, shame and guilt washing over you. 

“Take these, please,” Jack says softly, handing you a few pills and holding an open bottle of water. You nod and do as he asks. “Good gi-” He stops before he can finish, some pink flooding his cheeks. It’s adorable, you think. He’s adorable and he’s trying so hard to respect you and just be here as a friend helping you out. You also think about the reaction you know you’d have had if he finished the sentence. More shame and guilt. 

“How do you sleep?” Jack asks as he finishes setting the supplies for an IV up and kneels in front of you. You furrow your brows at him. “So I can put the IV in a good spot!” He rushes to explain. “Like if you sleep on your side I’ll put it on the top arm.” 

“Oh.” You think about it and tell him. 

“Hand please.” He points to the correct one and you offer him it. “Hands hurt more but it’ll be the best for sleeping. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me doing it.” He pulls a pair of gloves on. They fit nice and tight. Once he gets a tourniquet in a slip knot nice and tight around your arm he has you make a fist. 

You shake your head at him as you watch those long and dexterous fingers run over and feel the back of your hand a veins beneath your skin. Satisfied he found a good one he opens the alcohol swab and wipes the back of your hand, lets it dry for ten or so seconds while he grabs the needle introducer. He feels for the vein again and looks up at you. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” You nod at him. 

He’s quick with it. You like the expression of intense focus he gets as he does it. “Okay,” he draws the word out a little, slips off the tourniquet. “Needle is out,” he places a tegaderm dressing over it, “and we’re good.” He looks up at you. “You okay?”

“Barley felt it,” you murmur. 

Jack gives a little laugh. “It’s okay, you can be honest. My pride can take it.” You just give him a look. “I’m gonna flush it. Some burning and maybe a weird taste.” He doesn’t explain much, knows you almost certainly had one when you gave birth. 

He does and then stands up, looks around near the head of your bed. “I think I still have a really old coat rack in the spare room,” you volunteer, knowing he’s looking for a way to hang the bag. 

“That would be perfect,” he nods at you. 

“Second door on the left when you walk out.”

Jack steps out. He already knew that through process of elimination but he doesn’t tell you that. He went to the bathroom while you were in the shower, placing his ear by each door to figure out which room was the nursery. Left one room to be the spare room. 

He brings it in and gets it set up. You offer him a hanger to place the bag on and he smiles at you. You give him a little one back. 

Jack puts on a different pair of gloves and sanitizes everything before spiking the bag and priming the line. He hooks it up to your IV and sets the drip rate, keeps it fast enough to get what you need into you but slow enough so that you hopefully won’t have to wake up to go to the bathroom for a while because he knows you’ll likely fight going back to sleep. 

“You need something to help you sleep?” He asks, a touch of concern in his tone. 

“I think I’ll manage.” You give him another weak smile. 

“Figured,” he nods. He grabs everything off the bed making sure to keep track of where the used needle is and then walks to your door. “Rest well.” He nods at you again and then steps out, closes the door behind him quietly. 

You let yourself settle into bed, feel your heart slam against your chest with every beat as emotions whirl through you. Guilt, for having some kind of feelings towards Jack, for asking Jack to do this, for not being there with your son, shame, grief, embarrassment, anger at yourself for quite literally everything, and the faintest glimmers of hope, happiness, contentedness and a kind of longing which are all new and in turn fill you with fear. 

You’re right though, you do manage to fall asleep. And fast. There are a few times you think you hear your son crying but it stops quickly so you don’t fully wake up. Another few times where you swear you hear someone in the room with you and them whisper “it’s just me, go back to sleep,” when they notice you stirring. If they’re real you let yourself listen to them and drift back asleep. 

Jack is surprised at how long you sleep. He thought for sure with all the fluids he has been giving you that you’d wake up to go to the bathroom, but that must be how tired you are. He lets you sleep. You need it. And for whatever reason he really, really cares about you and doesn’t like seeing you sick. It worries him, if he’s honest with himself. Seeing you sick. He worries about you. 

When you do wake up it is because you have to pee. You turn the lamp on to get there and close your eyes and flinch away from it until they adjust more. It starts to come back. The IV. Jack. Jack watching your son. You grab the bag of saline and go to the bathroom before walking out of your room. You have to stop at the doorway because it’s so fucking bright, let your eyes adjust. 

It makes you realize how fucked up your sense of time is. You have no idea how long you were out and you hope you hadn’t been keeping Jack a prisoner in your place for too long. 

When you walk into the living room Jack is on the floor with your son, some soft blocks knocked over the floor, your son on his back and cooing up at Jack, giggling like babies do at Jack every time Jack leans down over him and tickles his belly with one of Jack’s large hands and makes a funny noise at him. There’s a dirty diaper on the floor next to Jack, empty bottle on the table. 

“You slept well, didn’t you little man?” Jack sits him up and keeps a hand on him, your son pretty good at sitting up by himself but still getting the full hang of it. Small hands reach out for Jack, trying to pull him close. “Oh yeah, and now you’ve had a bottle and have even more energy to burn, huh?” Your son giggles again as Jack takes him into his lap as he straightens his legs and rests your son’s feet on one of his thighs so that he can bounce as Jack supports him to keep him standing. 

It’s the cutest scene. It’s so adorable your heart aches. It’s all you ever wanted for your son. And that’s why your heart shatters at the same time. Because your son doesn’t have it. Not normally. Your son doesn’t have a father. You don’t have a husband, the person you should be doing this with. This scene is a total one-off, a byproduct of you being sick and needing help. You appreciate Jack and all he’s done and how he’s being with your son but that’s supposed to be your husband. 

That’s supposed to be your fucking husband on the floor with your son and it’s not. 

It’s Jack. 

It’s Jack and you don’t hate it. 

Quite the opposite. You like the sight. Would like to see it again. Would like to see Jack again. And that makes you feel a little sick and a lot guilty. But you don’t stop liking it or wanting to see it and Jack again. You tell yourself you don’t though, that you don’t want to see it again and don’t want to see Jack again. You lie to yourself. The turmoil threatens to tear you in two. 

You wipe a few tears away silently and then sniffle to announce your presence. You can get away with it because you’re sick. “Hey,” you say softly, make a face and try to clear your throat. “I’m sorry I feel like I probably slept longer than I meant to.” Clearing your throat didn’t help. You still sound awful, your voice totally going. 

Your son squeals when he sees you, arms reaching for you already. You smile down at him. “Hi baby,” you greet him in the best voice you can manage, grab him from Jack. “How’s my boy?” You tickle his tummy because you don’t want to kiss him and get him sick and it makes him squeal again and babble at you. 

Jack stands up and you notice there’s something off about the way he does, just slightly. You wonder if he suffered a back or hip injury while serving. He clamps the saline bag all the way and removes it from your IV so that you’re free. “What time is it? I hope I haven’t kept you here too long.” 

Jack looks at his watch. “9:17.”

You blink at him for a moment. The sun filtering in through the curtains assures you he means in the morning. You make a face like you’re trying to pour through past memories. “What time did I make you come over? It must have been so early, I, I didn’t even realize I’m so sorry.” 

Jack smiles as he steps around you and goes to set the bag on the counter, throw the diaper away and the bottle in the sink. He turns back around and leans against the counter, holds onto the edge of it with his hands. He already knows you’re going to freak out. 

“First, you didn’t make me come over yesterday. Pretty hard for anyone to make me do something anymore. Second, I got here sometime around 4.” Your confusion deepens. “P.m. Yesterday.” 

“Yesterday?” You look at him, stricken. “Oh my god, Jack, I am so so sorry! You should have woken me! I genuinely never meant to steal this much time from you and keep you hostage here, I am so sorry, I-”

“Hey, hey,” he steps closer to you but doesn’t touch you. “It’s okay. You have nothing to be apologizing for. I know I could have woken you and I never felt hostage here. I was okay with it.” He gives you a reassuring smile. 

You shake your head at him a little. “God, where did you even sleep? That awful couch? I know how bad it is, I’m so- I feel terrible.” 

“Don’t,” Jack laughs softly. “I promise you I have slept on much, much worse. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t…” You trail off because you haven’t really stopped to evaluate that. “Better I guess. Still sick but not as bad, at all.” 

“Good.” He takes another step closer and holds his hand up, gestures to your forehead. “Can I?”

You nod, still lost in thought and shocked about how you could have slept that long. “Good, fever’s still down. It broke during the night.” Your son reaches for Jack’s hand, one of his small hands wrapping around one of Jack’s large fingers. Jack lets him keep it and play with it, but steps back a little. “Shit, I promise I only went in there to change your bag and take your temperature with the thermometer.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. You hadn’t even thought to care about him coming into your room when you were asleep, hadn’t even realized that could be a line he might have crossed. “I just feel so bad.”   

“Please try not to.”

“I have to, you have to let me at least make you breakfast or something! You just watched my baby overnight for me.” You nod. “Yeah, let me make you breakfast, please.” 

“I’d like that,” Jack nods slowly, face pulling into a knowing look with a little smile because you’re adorable and going to be upset. “But I don’t think that’s going to work,” he shakes his head and then gently nods at the refrigerator. You know there must be nothing in it.

“Fuck,” you sigh. You turn your head and rest your cheek on the top of your son’s head as you try and think. He continues to coo and babble away, at Jack now, whose finger he still holds on tight to. Jack makes a little face of surprise and noise at him and your son laughs.

“Let me order something then, yeah?” You offer. You watch as Jack argues with himself in his head. Part of him wants to say no, he should get it for you, for no real reason other than he wants to take care of you, and part of him wants to say yes because he knows it’ll make you feel better. “Please.”

“Alright,” he finally nods.

“Okay, great!” You start looking around for your phone and find it plugged in and charging. It hits you then. How clean and tidy the place is. “Oh my god,” you mumble. 

“What?” The alarm in his voice is clear. 

“You cleaned.” You look around more. A laundry basket of folded onesies and blankets and other baby clothes on the loveseat. “You did laundry.” 

The realization sends you over some ledge you didn’t realize you were standing on. Your heart races. Your feelings are too conflicted. There’s too much turmoil. You know this is normal, have read about it, spoken to other widows who described what it was like to start dating again, start falling for someone. And you’re really starting to personally get it now. 

You don’t know what to do with it. And you know you’re not ready for it. But you can’t lie about it to yourself anymore and pretend that Jack doesn’t give you new feelings that you haven’t had in a long time and that you don’t want to let yourself feel them or at least try. Can’t lie to yourself that you don’t want to try and be ready for it. 

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” Jack says quietly, unsure of what exactly your reaction means. While he’s also a widow it’s a bit harder for him to put himself in your shoes. He didn’t have a baby to need help with while trying to grieve and find a new normal. 

“No, it’s not that.” Tears hit your eyes and you close them, hate that they’re happening. It’s the emotional overwhelm you tell yourself. The having someone do something nice for you. The having to accept help. The new feelings. So many new feelings from one man. 

But you know yourself well enough to know that it’s also the wanting, despite how much you try to bury it and lie to yourself. The wanting to let yourself give in to those new feelings. Wanting to let yourself enjoy the new feelings. Enjoy Jack. 

“Let me,” you hear Jack whisper, feel his hands get closer to you to grab your son who laughs in excitement at the prospect of being in Jack’s arms. 

You keep your eyes closed and then turn before you open them, walk over to get a tissue and dab at them. “It wasn’t too much.” You’re speaking to Jack but keep your back to him because you’re not sure how you’ll react if you turn around and look at him. “It’s just really hard. Everything is so fucking hard. Every second of every day is an emotion, every second requires feeling.” Jack understands that one too well. “And you get used to that. The emotions, the feelings become familiar. Because they’re constant. You know what they are, what to expect. You know the feelings. They hurt so, so bad, but eventually you realize that not having them would hurt more. Would be scarier. Because they’re your normal, they fill that void in your heart. What would you be without them almost controlling your life? And then one day a new emotion, a new feeling creeps in. And it’s paralyzing. You think it hurts worse in some way than not having the familiar feelings would, but you don’t know because you never get a second to not fucking feel. And it’s because it’s new and you don’t know what to do with this new feeling and it throws everything off and is another change and because it almost always feels so wrong, to let yourself feel something new, especially if it’s a good emotion. And I know you know this Jack, I know you know exactly how I feel, exactly what it’s like. I know you get me. I know you understand. And I like that. I think part of me needs that. To move on or whatever you want to call it.”

Jack’s heart rate ticks up. This is not at all where he thought this conversation was headed. 

You take in a deep breath and squeeze the tissue in your hand before turning to look at the unfairly attractive and smart and funny and caring and playful and stoic and dry humored and witty and kind doctor holding your son. 

“You make me feel so many new things Jack. So many things I never thought I’d feel again. So many things I swore to myself I would never feel again.” You swallow hard. “And I don’t know what to do with them. They paralyze me. Not for long because they send me straight back to guilt and shame and grief, right back to those familiar feelings. I don’t know how to have these new feelings you give me anymore. At some point I lost that. So I don’t know how to handle it. How to handle you.”

Jack’s numb. Frozen. He’s not sure what this means. He understands you because the first time he started dating and was attracted to someone he’d gone through the same thing. It was hard at first. To not feel guilty. To not revert back to the emotions you know well. He’s not sure what to say. He goes to say that he’s sorry and didn’t mean to cause you distress and will go but you start talking again. 

“But fuck Jack, I want to. I didn’t want to admit it to myself because it feels so wrong and because it’s scary and hard and makes me feel like a terrible wife sometimes. But I do. I want to know how to handle you and all the new feelings you give me, Jack.” His eyebrows raise slowly, his focus staying on you as your son starts to mouth on his finger getting saliva all over it, not phased in the slightest. “It’s just going to take time. I don’t know how much time. And I don’t think it’s fair of me to ask to wait for some unknown period of time.” 

“You’re not asking,” Jack says quickly before you can get out another sentence. “You’re not asking me to. I want to. But only if you want me to. You said that you weren’t ready, and I respect that. And you have to know that I didn’t come over here to help, or do laundry or tidy up because I was trying to pressure you or make you feel something or make you be ready or for anything other than just to help as a kind-of friend. You have to promise me that you know that.” 

“I do,” you tell him softly. “I promise.” You give a small laugh and little smile. “I think that’s actually the part that made me realize I couldn’t keep lying to myself that you didn’t give me new feelings and that I didn’t want to feel them. That I know you came here just because you wanted to help, help me, my son and my husband. And I know you did the laundry and tidied and stayed overnight to watch my baby so I could sleep just because you’re kind, and you saw it needed done so you did it, which is so army of you by the way, and not because you wanted it to mean something or make me feel bad for not being ready or pressure me or any other possible reason. You just… wanted to help.”

Jack smiles at that. Really, fully smiles and fuck if it isn’t one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. You smile back at him. It’s clear that nothing more needs to be said. You both know that you’ll work on being ready and learn how to feel and how to handle it all and Jack will wait. 

“I never said I was army.” He smirks at you. 

“Didn’t have to.” You give him a small smile. Even after this you’re still so shy. 

You go and grab your phone. “What does that mean?” He asks, tracking you with his eyes. 

“What would you like to eat?” You ignore him. You know already that it’ll wind him up. 

“No, what does that mean? I have a tell?” You shrug at him. He narrows his eyes at you playfully.

“No,” you say as you hand him your phone so he can pick something and order and take your son from him. “It means you have a recognizable backpack.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time goes on. You get better. You and Jack grow closer. You keep going to therapy, keep working on processing and figuring out how to handle the new feelings, how to stop feeling so guilty. Jack waits. Patiently. Never an ounce of pressure on you. He’s always so respectful, goes to great lengths to be so, immediately apologizes if he oversteps. And he does a couple of times because he’s human and nobody is perfect. But it’s okay.  

Jack’s injury comes out over breakfast that morning when he apologizes for having his shoes on in the house. You hadn’t even really noticed, too sick for it to register. He doesn’t tell you much about it which you respect and he’s grateful when you don’t push for more. That’s something he guesses he’s not ready for with you. Isn’t sure why though. He brings it up with his therapist. 

Jack is over more and more often. At first it’s to check on you and make sure you’re getting better because your cough lingers. And then somewhere along the lines it just became a thing. Normal. Normal for you to see him more days than not during the week. Normal for him to put your son down for the night. Normal for him to sleep in the spare room. Normal for him to cook for you and help feed your son. Normal for him to keep spare bottles of toiletries in a bin under the guest bathroom sink. Normal for black scrubs that didn’t get god knows what on them to be washed with onesies and blankets. 

Normal for him to bring five epi pens, multiple vials of epi, syringes with needles, an infant intubation kit and a cric kit to your house when you decide to introduce peanuts to your son. 

That one had gotten him an attempted, and skillfully dodged, third degree interrogation from Dana and Robby. 

You don’t touch. Not at all, save when your fingers brush if you hand each other something or when you take your son from him or vice versa. You’ll sit on the couch and Jack on the loveseat. There’s no flirting. It’s not that the attraction and draw to each other has faded, because it hasn’t. Not at all. It’s that you both know you need time and you both respect that. Jack perhaps more so than yourself, because you get mad at yourself about it sometimes. 

You do talk. A lot. About anything and everything because talking to each other is easy. It’s not work. Neither of you have to think of things to talk about or try and come up with something to keep the conversation going. It just does. And when it dies down the lull is comfortable. Then someone thinks of something or sees something on TV and it’s back. 

Eventually Jack is able to tell you a bit more about his injury, how it happened. The aftermath. He’s able to take his prosthetic off in front of you and leave a pair of crutches at your place for when he doesn’t want to put it back on. 

You talk about your spouses. Your therapist suggested it, thought it may help, to acknowledge both of your spouses and know about them. You approach Jack about it and tell him you don’t want an answer right away, you want him to really think about it and if he’s ready for that and willing to do that, and that he doesn’t have to say yes and that if he says no nothing will change. Both of you are aware it’s in a sense one of the most intimate things you’ll ever do with each other. 

Jack says yes though. And means it. He’s okay with it, comfortable with it. So one night after you get your son down you take the baby monitor, a bottle of wine and sit out on your apartment balcony and talk about them. You tell each other about them, what they were like, things they liked and disliked, funny stories. Jack tells you how he proposed and you tell him how your husband proposed. You talk about your weddings. 

You share photos you have on your phone, of your spouses alone and of the two of you together. You tell Jack his wife was beautiful, seems like an amazing woman who kept him on his toes and mean it. Jack tells you that your husband was handsome and knew how lucky he was to have you, that it’s obvious by the way he looks at you in the photos. You smile wistfully and get misty eyed together. But it’s nice, getting to know the other’s spouse, more about your past lives. It tells you a lot about each other too, as much as it does about your spouses.

You talk about how you each learned your spouse had died. There’s proper tears during that part, from both of you. It’s one time you do touch, and it’s brief, and you’re the one to initiate it, tentatively taking Jack’s hand and giving it a little squeeze when he gets a bit choked up. He squeezes back to let you know he’s okay with it. When you get choked up talking about your husband he holds his hand out over the armrest of his chair, just a little, just enough for you to know it’s there. You move yours over and let him squeeze your hand. 

You talk about moving after your spouses died. Jack tells you he just couldn’t do it. He needed space that was his own, where he couldn’t picture her in it and so he couldn’t expect to walk around a corner and see her. You tell Jack that you had to keep the curtain of the living room window closed all the time because the last time you looked out the window you saw that car pull up and two uniformed officers step out of the car, and just knew. And it made the place so dark it was bad for you so you sold the house and found this place. You admit that you haven’t been able to bring yourself to really unpack completely or decorate but aren’t sure why. The nursery being the only exception. Jack tells you that it actually reminds him a lot of how his apartment he moved into right after his wife died looked for a long time because he was scared to settle in and make a space without her because that wasn’t supposed to happen, he wasn’t supposed to have to do that. 

As more weeks pass you start asking Jack to help you hang things. At first it sends you flying backwards in your healing because you just asked another man to help you decorate your apartment. Jack doesn’t say anything for the couple of days you’re off with him because he knows and he knows you’ll work through it. He gives you the space you need without you asking for it. You work through it with your therapist and apologize to Jack who tells you not to, that healing isn’t linear, trust him, he knows. 

Jack watches your son for you sometimes during a string of off days so that he can spend a bit less time at daycare, especially if another kid is sick. Your son loves Jack, is enamored with him. And Jack is just as enamored with him. Is so incredibly good with him. It’s a place where you struggle a lot and that you and you and your therapist discuss frequently, how to cope with seeing Jack in that kind of fatherly role and acknowledge all the feelings it stirs up for you. 

One Monday, a holiday that you were supposed to have off, something comes up and you need to go into the office, but daycare is closed. You hesitate calling Jack because you feel bad asking him to do this, especially knowing he’ll be getting off shift and you’re asking him to stay awake even longer. You don’t even know if he’ll be able to, he might not get off on time, or he might have plans. But you call him much quicker and more decisively than you did when you were sick. 

Jack’s talking to Robby when he feels his phone vibrate. He thinks it’s weird to be getting called at 6:45 a.m. so he pulls it out to check. His heart drops when he sees it’s you and he walks away from Robby mid sentence. 

“Hey,” he answers on the second ring, “what’s up? Everyone okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah we’re fine. It’s just, work needs me to come in, not for too long, just a couple of hours, but I can’t bring him and daycare is closed with the holiday and I know this is such a huge ask because you’re getting off shift and will be so tired and I don’t even know if you’re getting off on time-” 

“Woah, woah,” Jack stops you. “Take a breath.” He can hear you do as he says. “I can watch him, okay? I’ll make sure I get off on time. And I often stay late so being up a few hours after my shift before he goes down is not going to be anything new.” 

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” You let out a breath. “You still have to let me cook or something for you.” 

“You don’t have to repay me.” 

“No I know, but still.” 

“Can I be honest with you?” Jack asks. 

“Of course.” Your heart races because you have no idea what he’s about to say. 

“You can buy me takeout. But you can’t cook.” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

You make a noise of offence. “I can’t believe you just said that! I’m offended. Genuinely offended.” But Jack can hear the smile you’re trying to hide in your voice and it just makes him smile harder to himself. 

“That I said it or that it’s true?” He’s smirking now. 

You huff and then there’s a pause. “That it’s true,” you admit begrudgingly, making Jack laugh. 

Robby has blindly swatted at Dana’s arm to get her to pay attention so that he doesn’t have to stop watching and so now both of them are staring and watching Jack go from extreme concern to laughing and smiling. It’s almost disconcerting. 

“I’m going to have to drop him off at the hospital to make it on time. Is that okay?” You’ve gotten quiet again. 

“Yeah.” Jack sounds a little unsure but not because of you, because of the two he can feel staring at him. “I’ll need a key. And I’ll give it back, I promise.” 

“Oh! Yes. You will need that, okay I’ll have to find the spare. And yeah, that’s fine, whatever is fine, I know you’re not going to use it randomly.” You breathe a laugh. “You’ll be okay with holding him on the subway? I wasn’t going to lug around the stroller, if that’s okay.” 

“We will be more than okay,” Jack assures you. 

“Okay.” You let out another breath in that way you do when you’re stressed but coming down Jack has learned. “Thank you Jack.” 

“Not a problem, you know that.” 

“Yeah, but still.”

“Text me when you’re here and come wait by the doors, I’ll open them for you, okay?” You’re thankful he doesn’t dwell. 

“Okay. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

“Bye.” Jack hangs up and puts his phone in his pocket then turns and walks back over to Robby and Dana. 

“Everything okay?” Dana asks. 

Jack looks between the both of them. “Yeah. I’m leaving on time though.” 

“Ohhh,” Robby laughs. “Are you now? You just decided?” 

“Yeah. Did you notice how it wasn’t a question Michael?” Jack deadpans. “Just a statement of fact. I know these are big distinctions for you to make before you’ve had enough coffee.” 

“Deflection,” Robby hums, leaning forward a bit and still smiling like he can’t believe any of this even when he doesn’t know what this really is. 

Jack rolls his eyes at him and walks to a different computer to finish charting. Dana and Robby share a look but don’t push him. For now. 

Jack’s phone vibrates fifteen minutes later. You, saying you’re here. He walks over to the doors and pushes the button to open them, walks in with you a few steps, your son already happily squealing and babbling at Jack, reaching for him. Jack makes a surprised happy face at your son like he’s shocked to see him and takes him from you. 

Back at the desk Robby slowly removes his glasses as he watches the scene unfold, Dana peering over the top of hers like she does, everyone else slowly freezing once they follow Dana and Robby’s eyes to you and Jack.

“God, thank you so much Jack, I’m so so sorry.” You look stressed, frenetic and full of nervous energy that makes you even more unsure of yourself, not unlike the last time he saw you in here. He finds it adorable, so endearing.

“It’s okay. Truly. You’re going to have to believe me one day.” Jack gives you a small but reassuring smile. 

“No I know,” you breathe out. “I just… This is your work, I know. And I know you’re going to get a million questions based on the entire desk of people staring at us.” You shake your head a little as you try to find words. “And I know it’s hard to explain.” 

“Good job I don’t feel the need to explain it to any of them, then.” 

You laugh a little at that. “Yeah. Um, here.” You slide the backpack baby bag you have off and help put it on one of Jack’s shoulders. “There’s a key in the front pocket. He went down late last night and then I had to get him up early to get him ready to come here. Seeing you is the first time he’s smiled all morning. So he should probably nap earlier for you if I’m not home before then, and probably be pretty chill until he does.” 

“He’s always chill,” Jack smirks at you. “You know that.” 

“Let me make myself feel better, please,” you huff at him, clearly still flooded with nervous energy. 

“Alright,” he nods for you to continue but doesn’t lose his smirk. 

“He’s had a bottle, but that’s it, so he might be hungry when you get home, if he’s a little fussy.” You reach out and run your fingers through his soft baby fine hair to push it out of his eyes. “God he needs a haircut doesn’t he?” 

“Probably,” Jack nods. “But I’m sure-”

“That the thought of my baby needing his first haircut makes me want to sob because he’s growing up way too fast?” 

“Something like that,” he nods. 

“Yeah.” You run your hands through it and sweep it out of his eyes one last time, trying to calm some of the nervous energy that’s making you feel like you’re shaking. “Alright, I should go.” 

You lean up and kiss Jack on the cheek. By the time your feet return to the floor you’ve realized what you just did. 

Jack freezes, stunned, but not upset, not by any means.

“Oh my god,” you gasp quietly, holding your hands up in front of you to the side. “I just did that. Right here.” You close your hands into fists decisively, incredulous at yourself. “Okay, well,” you titter, “I’ve gotta go now, so thank you again so much, and let me know you guys make it home okay, and I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.” You nod at a still stunned Jack, who then finally starts to relax a bit and lets a smile start to pull up. “Great. Okay.” You lean in and kiss your son’s face. “Bye baby, be good for Jack okay?” You give your son another kiss and pull back, immediately back to your nervous and incredulous demeanor. You pat Jack on the side of the arm holding your son and then cringe at the action. “Right,” you let out a breathy nervous laugh. “Bye.” You spin and walk to the doors and hit the button to be let out.

“Bye,” Jack calls back, still sounding a bit dazed. He takes a second and then looks down at your son who’s looking around the busy room and then looks up at him and smiles, grabs at his face. Jack laughs. “Yeah, bud,” Jack sighs, leans down and kisses the top of his head quickly, doesn’t even really realize he’s doing it, “you’re about to be the talk of the Pitt. We both are. And your mom.” He takes a deep breath in and looks down at your son and makes eye contact. “God help us all.” 

Jack turns and starts walking to the breakroom. He’d go to the lockers but he already knows what’s about to happen. “Not a word,” he says to Dana and Robby as he walks by. 

“Oh be for fuckin’ real Jack,” Dana laughs under her breath, already starting to follow him. 

“No, he’s right Dana, not a word,” Robby says as he starts to follow, “so, so many words.” 

Bridget walks up to the desk and looks at everyone quizzically. 

“A woman just came and dropped off a baby to Jack,” Princess tells her. 

After the words process a large smirk grows on Bridget’s face. “Oh did she now?” 

Jack sighs to himself as Robby and Dana follow him into the breakroom. He doesn’t want to do this but it’s borderline inescapable now and he’d rather it be here than out by the lockers. He slides the baby bag onto a chair. 

“First,” Dana says as she walks in, “let me see him!” She walks over holding her arms out to take your son from Jack. He leans into Jack for a couple of seconds, unsure, but then lets Dana take him. “Hello cutie! What’s your name?” Robby walks over to her and says a soft hi, gives your son his finger to hold onto while Robby looks him over, smiling at him as your son babbles some.

Jack tells her his name. “God, Jack, he is gorgeous. Look at that hair and those eyes!” 

She turns back to the baby in her arms. “Yeah, you’re handsome and you know it, don’t you? I bet you use it to get out of trouble sometimes, huh?” She winks at him. It makes him smile and giggle a little, as he drops Robby’s finger and brings a hand up to chew on. “Gettin’ more teeth in, are we?” Dana smiles at Jack as she rocks your son a little. 

“Yeah, I think so, he’s been real chewy and drooly the last two days,” Jack nods. 

“He yours?” Robby asks.

Jack’s head snaps to him. “What the fuck man?”

“Oh come on Jack, a random woman just showed up, gave you a baby, kissed your cheek and left. It’s not a far stretch. Nor is it a bad thing.” Dana looks at your son. “No it isn’t at all,” she says in a bit of a baby voice.

“And you’ve been different the last couple of months. I think you’ve only been up on the roof twice and even then you didn’t look like you were seriously considering jumping.” Robby points out.

“Oh my god,” Jack mutters under his breath. “No, he’s not mine.”

They both accept that. But it doesn’t quell their curiosity in the slightest. There’s a longer pause though, your son really the only one making noise as all three adults watch him. 

“Who is she?” Robby finally asks, looking up at Jack.

“Does it matter?” Jack shoots back quickly.

“I mean…” Robby laughs a little incredulously, “yeah, a little.” 

“Why?”

“Oh come on, Jack,” Robby draws out as he takes your son from Dana. “You’re telling me if a woman showed up and handed me a baby and kissed my cheek before walking out you wouldn’t have questions and want to know who she is? Or feel like who she is doesn’t matter?”

“Of course I would want to know, but who she was wouldn’t matter and if you didn’t want to say anything yet to keep things private I would respect that.” Jack raises his eyebrows at Robby and gives him a pointed look. 

“Jack, it doesn’t matter who she is really, if she’s in your life we’d just like to know. We want to support you and see you happy. And you clearly know and spend time with the kid, enough for mom to feel comfortable leaving him with you and to know he’s been teething for the last couple of days. You spending time at her house?”

Jack doesn’t answer for a moment but then finally gives in. “Yeah.” Dana’s eyebrows raise in an invitation for more. “Yes, I spend time at her house. I help her out. I sleep in her guest room sometimes, watch him some days. So what?”

“So she matters,” Dana smirks at him a little. “She matters and she kissed your cheek so clearly there’s something.” Jack grows a little more serious and Dana and Robby both know she just hit some sort of nerve there. “Who is she? Please. Let us be happy for you.” 

Jack takes in a big breath and looks at them for a second before resting his hands on his hips, slightly cocking one and looking down at the ground like he’s about to admit something. “My therapist.” He says it deadly serious and just loudly enough for them to hear. 

He doesn’t need to look up to know the expressions they’re wearing, but he does anyway because Robby’s face of incredulity and concern is too funny to miss. “Really?” Dana asks. 

“No!” Jack emphasizes the word with his head and a little brow furrow as he moves from his position to pace a little. “Of fucking course not! But thank you for this little exposé into what you think of me.”

“Hey, that’s why I asked,” Dana puts her hands up in defense. “I couldn’t believe it.”

“Yeah, you couldn’t,” Jack looks over at Robby, “but he sure the fuck could. And he knows my therapist is a man, we go to the same god damn one!”

“Well I didn’t know if you found a new one!” Robby says in his own defense. Jack rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna tell us? Anything? Or are we really wasting our time here?”

Jack stops pacing and sighs, looks at the baby boy in Robby’s arms. “It’s complicated,” he offers. 

“We deal with a lotta complicated here.” Dana reminds him. 

“Yeah well you’re not going to believe the truth,” he mutters. 

“Try us.” Robby looks at Jack with a little knowing smile and tilts his head before looking back down at your son and making faces at him to keep him entertained. 

Jack shakes his head a little and looks away as he tries to think about how to explain without giving away too much because he doesn’t want to totally destroy your privacy. “She’s a friend. Seriously. Just a friend who I help out because she’s a single mom with nobody in the area and she needs help sometimes. Her…” Jack debates on whether this reveals too much but it would explain to them why he’s so reticent to talk about you. “Her husband died while deployed. So, we have the widower widow thing in common and there was a kind of connection there, and yeah maybe it leads to more one day and maybe it doesn’t.” He shrugs at them. That’s all he’s going to say. 

There’s another moment of silence as everybody takes in what Jack just said, himself included.

“So this is what the five epi pens and vials of epi and infant intubation and cric kit were about. He’s who they were about.” Robby looks down at your son. “Yes. They were about you, weren’t they?”

“Oh, peanuts,” Dana nods, looking from your son to Jack, “you introduced peanuts after you brought it all home.” 

Jack just looks at the two of them and shakes his head. Some part of him wants to laugh at the way they went from pushing for information, to getting a little bit, to leaving it and not pushing for more and instead bringing up the supplies he took and fucking peanuts. He’s grateful for it. 

“Yeah, we did.” Robby and Dana’s eyes flash up at him and they both have little smirks. It hits him. “She did. She did, she introduced peanuts. To her son.” 

“With you there.” Robby’s smirk grows a little bit. “Ready to intubate.” 

“I think it’s very sweet,” Dana says, smiling at him. 

“I think we need to get home before his mom calls in a panic. I said I’d leave on time and text her when we’re home, so.” He walks over to Robby and opens his arms, your son all but launching himself at Jack, making all three laugh. 

“He’s certainly a big fan,” Robby smirks. 

“Of course he is, he has excellent taste already. Though he liked you, so we might have to have a chat when we get home about why our standards are falling.” He says it in his typical deadpan demeanor. 

“I was being nice and then you ruined it.” Robby throws a hand up at him. 

Jack picks up the baby bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I didn’t ruin it, I spoke the truth.”

“You’re so mean to me.” Robby looks over at Dana as they all move towards the door. “He’s so mean to me.” 

“I am not mean to you.” Jack replies, stepping out of the door. 

“A little bit,” Dana agrees with Robby. 

“Thank you!”

“But he’s a little bit mean to you too, so it all evens out.” 

Robby scoffs. “I’m not mean to him!” 

“Just like I’m not mean to you.” Jack walks towards the lockers with your son. Robby and Dana stop at the desk, giving looks to everyone to tell them to go back to work. 

Jack swings by his locker and grabs his backpack. He pins it against the lockers with one hip so he can open it enough to shove the baby bag in it and zip it back up. “Alright bud, you ready?” He glances down to check on your son. Your son gives a little smile and then lets his head fall against the front of Jack’s shoulder, almost like he’s shy. Jack has to laugh a little as he walks back by the desk. 

“We’re out,” he announces to everyone, finding the way they all glance up and try not to look shocked or stare funny. “Say bye!” He says to your son, picks his little hand up and waves it. Your son smiles for a second before turning his head away, shying away from the attention. 

Jack looks at Robby and Dana. “Thank you.” He doesn’t have to elaborate. They know what he’s thanking them for. 

The two make it home easily and without incident. Jack texts you to let you know. 

J - Made it home and are having breakfast. 

He includes a picture of your son in his highchair eating some pancakes Jack made for him. When you get it the photo makes your heart squeeze, your boys. 

The world stops for a second and you get a little dizzy when you realize what you just thought. Your boys. 

Jack is not your boy. He’s not yours in any capacity. And that thought is one you know you would have had about your husband and son. That panic comes back, the intense shame and guilt. You try to think back on all you and your therapist have talked about, try to convince yourself that it’s okay. That it’s okay to have that thought. 

That it’s okay to like the thought and even to want the thought. 

You’re able to handle it much better than you were before and you know that means something. That you’re closer to being ready.

Once you’re not so lightheaded from all the emotions you reply. 

You - Thank you.

It’s odd, Jack thinks as he reads it. Almost clipped. Three dots appear. 

You - I’m sorry about this morning and the cheek thing. I know we haven’t discussed anything like that and I don’t really know what happened for me there in the moment, so I’m sorry. And I hope you can forgive me. 

He’s quick to respond. 

J - You have nothing to apologize for, so there’s nothing to forgive. I didn’t mind it at all 

He smiles to himself a little, especially once three dots appear. But then they go away only to reappear a couple of seconds later to disappear again. Shit, he thinks to himself, was that wrong? Did it cross a line? Fuck, was it suggestive? 

He tries to think of what he can say to apologize and let you know that he really didn’t mean for it to be suggestive or pressuring or weird. But then a message from you. 

You - Well good. I didn’t either

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of nights later you sit on the couch next to Jack. It’s the first time you’ve sat next to each other like this. Jack was not the one to instigate it of course. 

You decided to watch a movie together. It’s not the first time you’ve done that. Not the first time you’ve made popcorn without asking if he wanted any. It’s the first time you don’t split it into two bowls, though. Instead you pour it all in one and come sit next to him on the couch. Not touching. But close enough to share the popcorn between you. 

He almost expects you to move once the bowl is empty and you set it on the table but you don’t. You just stay there, curled up in your blanket next to him as you watch, commenting to each other at times. He notices you comment less and less, are less responsive to his and are leaning closer and closer to him. 

He can see you falling asleep and when you blink back awake he points it out. “You wanna go to bed? We can finish later.” 

“No, no, I’m good.” You look at him and give him a smile so he knows you know how close you are to him. 

He nods and you keep watching. But twenty or so minutes later you slide a bit and your head rests against his tricep. 

Jack freezes. He doesn’t know what to do. Does he let you sleep? Does he wake you? Is it wrong if he doesn’t wake you? When he knows you might not be ready? But then the sleepiest, “s’okay,” comes from you like you knew what he was thinking. You’re out again so fast he wonders if he made it up. 

He knows you have trouble sleeping sometimes. Trouble falling asleep and staying asleep. So he’s hesitant to wake you from it when you’re getting it. You’d been so in and out of it with the movie he decides to just wait a bit, see if you wake up. 

But then Jack falls asleep on the couch with you resting on his arm. He wakes when he feels you stirring. “Shit,” you whisper, sit up and off him. “We fell asleep.” 

“Yeah,” he yawns. “I meant to wake you but must have fallen asleep before I could,” Jack says slowly as he wakes back up. “I wasn’t sure if you were okay with…”

“Oh.” You blink at him like the thought hadn’t occurred to you. “Yeah. No, yeah, it was okay, I’m okay. I, I hope you were. You definitely could have woken me if you weren’t!” 

Jack nods. “I know.”

You nod back, the magnitude of falling asleep on him hitting you even though you’re not sure it should really hold any particular magnitude. “Okay. Good.” You look around and check the monitor, chuckle a little and show it to Jack. He chuckles with you at the silly position your son is sleeping in. “Probably best to get to bed.” You give him a small smile. 

“Yeah, probably.” You stand up off the couch and toss the blanket onto it, grab the bowl and put it in the sink to deal with tomorrow. Jack stands too and stretches a little. “Are you going?” You ask, almost sound a little sad at the thought. You are a little sad at the thought. 

“I wasn’t going to,” he shakes his head. “I was just going to head to the spare, but I can if you’d prefer.”

“No! No.” You shake your head. “No, I was going to say it’s late and so you should stay and not try and get home at this hour. It’s not safe.” 

Jack gives you a little smirk and you have to look away. “After you,” Jack calls your attention back, sweeps his hand at the entry to the hallway leading to the rooms. “You want me to take him in the morning?” Jack asks as he follows you. You know he’s talking about the monitor. 

“Oh, no. You have to work tomorrow so you should sleep as much as you can.” You’ve learned his schedule. The reality of that hits you both at the same time. You clear your throat. “Good night, Jack.”

“Good night,” Jack replies, smiling to himself as he walks into your spare room. You know his schedule. Jack realizes he knows yours too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week or so later you ask Jack if he has a certain day off, as if you don’t already know that he does. And he knows you know. 

“Yeah,” he answers, looking up from the floor where he’s playing with your son. 

You nod. “Well, so.” You try to start but stumble. You’re nervous. Flustered in that way you get. Like both times you were at the hospital. “That’s his birthday,” you look at your son with a smile, “and I was wondering if you’d um, if you’d like to, you know, spend the day with us?”

Jack doesn’t realize he’s doing it but he stares at you for a few seconds. You just asked him to spend the day with you and your son on your son’s first birthday. 

He nods. “Yeah.” He nods a little faster. “I would love that. If you’re sure. I know it’s a special day and-”

“No, I’m sure. And I know he’ll love it.” You look at your son fondly and then back at Jack. The fondness in your eyes doesn’t go away. “He loves you.” 

Jack flushes a little at that and it makes you get butterflies. Jack Abbot is blushing in front of you. Doesn’t matter why or what you said. He’s blushing and you’re swooning like you’re a teenager. And, you realize, you don’t hate yourself or feel guilty about it. You just feel it.

“Well,” Jack laughs a little, looks down at your son and brushes some hair out of his face. You still haven’t brought yourself to get it cut but you really are going to have to here soon. “I lo-” Jack stops himself. You can see him trying to think of what to say instead. 

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, understandingly. “You can say it, Jack.” 

Jack nods and swallows. “I love him too,” he says just as softly as he looks back down at your son. 

When Jack finally builds up the courage to look at you he’s greeted by your smile. The one that really meets your eyes and makes them sparkle a bit. The one that he’s seen more and more recently. The one that gives him butterflies. 

Jack Abbot blushes again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you spend all day together. Your son is one, so the day is more for you than anything. 

You decide on the zoo. Your son loves animals, it’s a weekday so it’s not super busy, the weather is perfect. And you can take it at your own pace. 

Lots of pictures get taken. Of your son. Of you and your son. Of your son and Jack. Of you, your son and Jack. That one threw him a little when you first brought it up and asked a stranger to take a photo of the three of you. 

Jack is patient and would never pressure you and very deliberately does not ask where you’re at in healing or if you’re feeling like you’re closer to ready or anything of the sort. He lets you lead, lets you set the tone and the pace. He knows if and when you’re ready you’ll communicate that. 

You and Jack sit in the aquarium when your son needs a nap and falls asleep in his stroller. You talk about your upcoming weeks and Jack tells you stories of patients he’s had recently that he hasn’t had the chance to tell you about. 

“Have you… had to explain anything about him and I? At work.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lift slightly and he shakes his head. “No. I’m sure they’re all dying to know but like I said, I don’t feel the need to explain anything to them.” He shrugs. “Well, actually,” he lets out a little breath. “The day you came in I told Robby and Dana. Not a lot. Just that you’re a friend I’m helping out because you’re a single mom and don’t have anyone here.” He bites his lip and looks at you. “I told them that you lost your husband while he was deployed, so we had the widower widow connection. I’m sorry if that was too much.” 

You laugh a little and shake your head. Jack has talked to you enough about Dana and Robby to know that Robby is his best friend and effective brother and Dana is his second best friend and like the Pitt mom. “It’s not.” 

“Dana said he’s gorgeous.” Jack doesn’t know why all of this didn’t come out once you got home that day but he was asleep when you did and then life was just busy and moved on. And now you’re talking about it. “He actually liked Robby, so he and I had a little conversation when we got home about bringing his standards back up.” 

That makes you laugh, properly. Jack thinks he could get lost in the sound forever. Spend the rest of his life chasing it. He tells himself to get a grip. You’re just friends. Nothing more. 

“Well,” you smile at him before looking away and shrugging. “Maybe one day I can meet them. Judge for myself.” 

Jack pauses for a second only because he wasn’t expecting it. “Uh, I mean yeah. Of course. Dana will lose it if she gets to see him again.”

“He is the cutest and best if I do say so myself.” You smile down at your sleeping one year old. “God, I can’t believe it’s been a year.” It’s been over a year and a half now since your husband. “He’s so big,” you whisper. “He was so tiny, fit on my chest so nicely. And I love watching him grow up and see him do new things and learn and thrive, but damn it’s hard.” 

Jack gives you a little hum of empathy, not entirely sure what to say. He notices how big your son has gotten and he’s only been in your lives for three months. 

“Will you come with us when I get his hair cut finally?” 

Jack looks over at you, a little confused. “Yeah, course.” He presses his lips together and shakes his head once. “Any particular reason why?” 

“To be my shoulder to cry on.” You say it so simply, like it means nothing when you both know it means something. You both know you’re inviting him to another thing your husband and your son’s dad would probably go to with you. 

And Jack gets stuck on it a little. To be my, you had said, you want him to be your something, even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on right now. “I suppose I can manage that.”

You share a little laugh about it. “Thanks, Jack,” you murmur. 

“Any time.” 

Once your son wakes back up you finish walking around the zoo. Jack buys him too many toys at the gift shop, all the stuffed animals he so much as glances at, much to his delight. You make your way back home together in Jack’s truck. Jack’s truck that now has a carseat in it. 

But you don’t go inside, instead you decide to leave the stroller and walk around the City. You find a place to eat and it’s weird to think about. To all the people walking by and seeing the three of you, you probably look like a family. And even though you feel some guilt, especially on your son’s birthday, you don’t completely hate yourself or let that guilt consume you. You like the idea. A lot. So you let yourself feel it.

After dinner at dusk you decide to take your son to the park for some swinging before heading back and getting him to bed. He loves to swing. You take photos of him and Jack and Jack takes them of the two of you. 

You’re so involved with your son and swinging and making him laugh that you don’t notice Jack slip away for just a second. Your son yawns. “Aw,” you give him a little sad laugh. “Tired baby? You’ve had a big day.” He reaches up for you and you pull him out of the swing, hug him close to you and kiss his head. 

When you turn around Jack is back and standing where you assumed he would be but he’s holding a single rose. You stay where you’re at, almost frozen but not in a tense way. And Jack is just as nervous that this is crossing a line when he doesn’t mean for it to be.  

“Day’s about you as much as it’s about him,” he calls to you. He starts walking towards you and you meet him halfway. “You did all the work a year ago today, mom.” He offers you the rose. “We should acknowledge that.” 

You look at the rose and then back up at him again, a bit stunned still. It’s so incredibly sweet and kind. It’s so incredibly Jack. And you know for sure then. 

You take the rose from him and give him a sappy smile. “Thank you, Jack. For everything. The rose and today and the last three months.”

“Don’t mention it.” He gives you a small smile. 

“Accept the thanks.” You give him a pointed one in return. 

“Alright, alright.” Your son has started to fall asleep in your arms. “Want me to take him?” 

You nod. “Sure, yeah. You only need one arm to carry him still. I need two now.”  You bring the rose up to your nose and smell it, smile to yourself about it. Let you and the butterflies in your stomach swoon. 

The three of you start walking home, your son fully out on Jack’s shoulder within a couple minutes. You walk back in silence. It’s a comfortable silence, a comfortable quiet. And while quiet hasn’t been as foreboding to Jack since he’s met you sometimes it still is. Like now. 

This quiet, while comfortable, is thick. There’s something about it that feels anticipatory. Last time the quiet felt like this, made him feel like this, this uneasy, it brought Jack you. 

Something about that makes him even more uneasy. Because Jack knows there’s always a reason for quiet. It always means something. Always brings something. Rarely, if ever, is it good. And he got good last time and Jack doesn’t trust the world or lightning to strike twice. 

He worries this time the quiet will bring something else. Something worse, like it always does. 

But before he can completely spiral and become even more hypervigilant than he always is, Jack feels your fingers brush against his for a second before they disappear and then come back, your fingers playing with his like it’s nothing, and then, in the quiet as you walk back to your place, you lace your fingers together and you’re holding hands and you give him a little squeeze that tells him you mean it. That you’re ready.   

Quiet. It always means something. Always brings something. 

This time it meant you were working up the courage. Is bringing the start of something more than just friends. 

Lightning strikes twice. 

Jack stops walking when you squeeze his hand and you stop with him, looking up concerned and a bit panicked, ready to draw your hand back. 

“You ready for this?” Jack asks, genuine concern in his voice as his eyes dart around your face, looking for the slightest sign of hesitation. But you can see it there too, the excitement, the happiness. The hope. “And by this I mean this,” he squeezes your hand. “Nothing more. Not until you’re ready for more. Not until you tell me you’re ready for more.”  

You bite your lip as he talks because he’s so cute when he’s concerned and he’s such a good man, wanting to make sure you’re ready and know he doesn’t expect more. And the smile that’s slowly pulling up on his face as you look at him and nod is so adorable you could scream. “Yeah. I’m ready for this.” You squeeze his hand back. “And maybe a little more.” You pull on his hand and start walking again, lean into him a little. “But only with you.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you made it this far thank you so much for reading and I hope it was okay and got fluffy and funny!!

You can find my Masterlist here for more Jack! Requests are open!

Taglist: @moonshooter @whiskeyhowlett-writes @smallcarbigwheels @hawkswildfireheart @blackwidownat2814 @yxtkiwiyxt @viridian-dagger @generalstarlightobject @andabuttonnose @beebeechaos @pear-1206 @starkgaryan @travelingmypassion @marvelcasey05 @daydreamingallthetime-world @millenialcatlady @iamcryingonceagain @loveyhoneydovey @a-stari-night @acn87 @moonpascal @lostfleurs @thelightnessofthebeing @beltzboys2015-blog @pouges-world @tinyharrypotterkpopfriend @roseanddaggerlarry @pearlofthepitt @niamhmbt @thefangirllife10 @star017 @marvelousmissmaggie @misartymis @clem9216 @distantsighs @rocker-chick-7 @mayabbot @taylorswifts-cardigan @sammiib444 @livinthevidaloca-ish @morallygreymaniac @woodxtock @shaydawgsblog @deadneverlander @imonlyhereformemes14-blog @sleepingalways @generalstarlightobject @dudewithastick @thatoneawesomechicka @rebeccasaurusrex

FIRECRACKER

Part 2 of REBEL COWBOY

18+ account - minors do not interact

GIF found on @patrick-stewart jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 11k (don’t look at me! grab a snack!) Rating: E

Summary: You are a lawyer representing Jack after a patient's mother files a lawsuit on claims of misrepresentation and ethical misconduct. Initially, your focus is solely on ensuring that your client’s reputation remains intact. However, over time, the lines start to blur between your objectivity—and personal attachment to your client. Part 2 Summary: After the fax is received, everything changes for you and Jack.

Warning: minor spoilers for 1x4-1x7 (Kristi—teen girl medical abortion storyline), mentions of abortion, workplace stress, angst (emotionally constipated jack), reader is friends with Frank (they have known each other since college), we meet Abby (fake backstory of course lol), implied age gap, yearning, sexual tension, language, alcohol use, mentions of breakdown of a previous relationship (infidelity), fluff, mutual pining, flirting, feelings, pet names, reader has brief insecurity (don’t worry our jack gets her out of her head), size kink? (jack has a big dick, I don’t know how else to put it) dirty talk (filthy jack—I need him your honor), praise, oral sex (f—receiving), unprotected p in v sex, I think that’s it?

A/N: I’m so fucking nervous, but here is part 2! I had so many people request to be tagged in this final part so I would love to hear what your thots are via comments & reblogs <3 Thank you to @stellamarielu and @letsgobarbs for holding my hand and letting me talk through the smut for this part.

Jack Abbot Masterlist

Gloria: Meet me in conference room 4492. Your lawyer is here. The hospital chair wants to see you.

Jack glanced at his phone, the ominous message lingering in his mind as he swiftly scrubbed his hands. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of unease crossing his face. The adrenaline from the surgery still coursed through him, but now a different tension settled in.

Gloria’s request felt weighty.

Serious.

His scrubs were slightly rumpled from a long shift.

He knew he probably looked exhausted, the kind that came from hours of intense surgery.

As he turned a corner, he bumped into Robby.

"Hey, Jack," Robby started. "Got a patient case I wanna run by you. Think you got a minute?"

Jack, already glancing at his watch, gave a quick shake of his head. "Can’t chat now, Robby. After," he said, his tone brisk but not unfriendly.

Robby's eyebrows raised in surprise. "After? Like, when?"

Jack glanced at his phone, then back at Robby with a hint of urgency. "I need to go meet with Gloria. Some stuff I gotta handle." His voice was clipped, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Without waiting for a reply, Jack pushed past Robby.

Robby watched Jack hurriedly walk away, then called out, "Hey, let's meet on the rooftop after?" His tone was casual but carried an undercurrent of concern, as if sensing the weight Jack was carrying.

Jack paused for a fraction of a second, then turned around and nodded subtly in acknowledgment.

Robby lifted a hand in a small, reassuring wave.

Jack quickened his pace toward the nearby elevator bank. He pressed the button, the metallic chime signaling the arrival of the elevator. As the doors slid open, he stepped inside, pressing the button for the 4th floor. When the doors opened again, he stepped out into the corridor, moving swiftly down the hall toward conference room 4492.

He paused just outside, his hand hesitating on the doorframe as he took in the serious expressions of those inside through the glass windows. The weight of Gloria’s message still lingered in his mind. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Inside, the hospital's main legal counsel sat stiffly at the table. Seated next to him was the hospital chair, whose expression was equally grave. Gloria stood silently in the corner, her arms crossed, but her eyes attentive.

Jack’s eyes locked onto yours, and for a fleeting moment, he was struck by a jarring realization—your face held an expression he'd never seen before, and so he studied your features, trying to find the usual signals he knew so well.

He focused on the small details—how the faint creases at the corners of your eyes, which he’d associated with concentration or irritation, weren’t present now. The way your nostrils flared slightly when you were annoyed, or the quick twitch of your brow when caught off guard, was missing. Instead, your face held an unyielding, almost mask-like calm that he couldn’t quite place.

He remembered the times you’d been visibly stressed—your eyes darting anxiously or your lips pressing into a thin line when frustrated.

But this moment was different.

You sat there.

Composed.

Yet undeniably distant.

Almost unnervingly so.

The more he looked, the more he realized—this was a new kind of quiet, one that demanded even closer attention to the smallest, most particular details of your perfect fucking face.

The hospital chair cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. "Dr. Abbot. We received a fax last night from Eloise Wheeler and her attorney. It appears both your legal counsel team and ours received it simultaneously. We believe you are aware of its contents."

Jack shook his head.

"I’m not."

He reached into a folder and pulled out a document, sliding it across the table to Jack.

The uncertainty prickled at him—an unfamiliar vulnerability that made him acutely aware that whatever he was about to read was about to change everything.

Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out, hesitating for a moment before carefully sliding into the chair next to yours. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, then accepted the document with a tentative nod.

Holding it loosely in his hands, Jack’s eyes scanned the crisp, typed words addressed to your boss, who was the partner on the case:

Date: May 28th, 2025 To: Jorge Castillo at Summit and Sterling— Case No.: 2025-CV-785431 Fax Number: 412-555-7890 Subject: Notice of Withdrawal of Claims – Kristi Wheeler Dear Jorge Castillo, This letter serves as formal notice that Eloise Wheeler, on behalf of her minor daughter Kristi Wheeler, hereby withdraws and drops any and all claims, lawsuits, and allegations previously filed against Dr. Jack Abbott and Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. We acknowledge receipt of the relevant documentation and information pertaining to the ultrasound and medical procedures conducted on Kristi Wheeler. After careful review and consideration, Ms. Wheeler has decided to cease all legal actions related to this matter. Please consider this letter as a full and final withdrawal of any claims. We appreciate the hospital’s cooperation in resolving this matter amicably. Sincerely, Robert Nguyen Attorney at Miller & Carter   1334 Justice Avenue Pittsburgh, PA 15213 Phone: (412) 659-7294 Email: r.nguyen@millerandcarter.com

Jack let out a slow, almost disbelief-laden breath, then blinked several times, as if trying to process what he'd just read.

All the claims were dropped.

Eloise wasn’t even trying to go after a settlement.

Gloria’s arms uncrossed, and her face softened, a faint, genuine smile breaking through her usual guarded expression. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod as if affirming the good news to herself.

Jack looked around at everyone. "I… I didn’t expect this," he murmured, shaking his head slowly.

The hospital chair, who had been tense earlier, leaned back in his seat. "It’s over, Dr. Abbot. It’s finally over."

Gloria reached up to wipe her forehead with a slight, relieved chuckle. "Well, I think we can all breathe easier now."

Everyone in the room nodded or murmured in agreement, a collective exhale of relief filling the space. Jack finally let out a long, steadying breath, his shoulders relaxing fully now as a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying for so long was lifted.

You finally glanced at Jack, grinning at him.

Something about the way you were looking at him made him forget how to breathe.

You always had that effect on him.

Without a word, under the table, you reached out and gently squeezed his knee. The gesture was simple, and entirely non-verbal—meant to convey congratulations.

Yet—he felt his cock twitch.

Jack’s eyes darted to you, pupils dilating slightly, his breath catching in his throat.

The hospital chair leaned forward, turning his attention to you, a rare smile flickering across his usually stern face. "We’re so grateful. It’s been a tough process, and your expertise made all the difference. You and your firm did a wonderful job representing Dr. Abbot."

You raised an eyebrow, a sassy smirk curling your lips. "And in a way, your hospital, too, since your legal counsel didn’t really do anything. It’s almost like I provided free services to the hospital."

Jack and Gloria exchanged a quick glance, and she mouthed softly, 'I like her,' to which Jack silently mouthed back, 'Me too.'

The hospital chair’s face flushed slightly, caught off guard by your boldness. "Yes, well," he stammered, trying to recover. "Is there anything we can do? We’d love to take you out to dinner to celebrate."

You gave a dismissive shake of your head. "I don’t need dinner. But, actually, there is something you can do."

The hospital chair’s jaw tightened as he nodded slowly, a forced politeness masking his discomfort. His eyes flicked nervously toward his legal counsel, who shifted uneasily in his seat.

"It’s been brought to my attention that there’s a ten-year-old girl—Aaliyah Owens. She needs heart surgery. The hospital… well, you’ve refused to pay for it. Said there just aren’t enough funds."

"There aren’t." the hospital chair replied.

"I’ve spent months and months doing discovery at this hospital. Don’t disrespect me by lying to my face. This hospital has the pro bono funds. I know it. You know it," you shot back, your eyes locking onto his.

Jack’s pulse quickened at your unwavering stance.

Your voice was steady.

Leaving no room for argument.

The legal counsel’s jaw twitched, and he opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him get a word in. Instead, you pressed on, tone firm and commanding. "While I can’t legally represent this family because of the conflict of interest—thanks to what I uncovered during this case—I’m still more than happy to recommend them to the best lawyers in Pittsburgh and suggest they sue this hospital for tort of deceit."

The hospital chair raised his eyebrows at you and gave Gloria a disbelieving look.  

Jack watched—completely captivated by you.

You shrugged. "Or, better yet, you could just pay for Aaliyah’s surgery and recovery. Think of the great PR you’d get. Saving a kid’s life? That’s a win for everyone."

The hospital chair’s face flushed with frustration. He clenched his jaw, then finally spat out, "Well, aren’t you a firecracker?"

You smirked.

"If this case had gone to trial, it would’ve cost your hospital millions. This surgery? A drop in the bucket. So, here’s my advice: you can do the right thing, or you can keep playing these games. Either way, I suggest you get this done."

His eyes darted between his legal counsel and you, weighing his options. After a tense moment, he heaved a sigh. "We’ll think about it."

You reached into your folder and pulled out a document, setting it on the table. Your voice turned icy with finality. "Well, don’t think about it too hard. You can sign this dotted line by 5 p.m. today. Or not. But I recommend you do."

The legal counsel reached out swiftly, grabbing the document from the table with a brisk nod. "Thank you, counselor."

The hospital chair slowly pushed himself to his feet, and extended his hand toward you. "Thank you," he said gruffly, his grip firm but brief. You reciprocated, clasping his hand briefly, and he gritted out, "Have a nice day," before turning to follow his legal counsel out of the room.

As they exited, Gloria approached, offering a genuine smile. She held out her hand, and you shook it, returning her gesture. "Thank you for everything," she said softly. "I’m not the biggest fan of lawyers, but I think you might’ve just converted me."

You chuckled.

Gloria stepped closer to Jack, reaching out and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm yet reassuring. With a soft, sincere smile, she nodded toward him and said, "I’ll let you two celebrate. Congratulations, Dr. Abbot."

She squeezed his shoulder gently once more before stepping out of the room.

As soon as the door closed, you stepped forward and reached out, your arms opening in a quiet invitation. Jack responded instinctively, his arms wrapping around you.

It was the first time you two had hugged—or ever held each other like this.

Jack’s arms tightened slightly around you, feeling the softness of your back, the warmth of your body pressed against his. He kept his eyes screwed shut, and he could feel your eyelashes tickling his neck.

He breathed you in, as if he could bottle you for later.

It was grounding.

Comforting.

The kind of smell that instantly anchored him.

A calm he wanted to cling to.

Maybe his scrubs would trap your scent. He really hoped they would.

You hesitated just a moment before stepping back. Your arms lowered slowly, and you looked up at him

"You know," you said, your voice impossibly small, "Gloria’s right. We should celebrate. Go out for dinner. Make it official—celebration and all."

His heart squeezed in his chest at how sweet you sounded.

"And don’t worry—I’ll pay. Considering your retainer probably cost more than what most people earn in a year, I think I owe you a night off," you added with a wink.

Jack ran a hand through his hair.

"Look, I want to apologize about yesterday," he shifted uncomfortably, "it was wrong of me to—say what I said and—to uh insinuate—uh—well you know. I’m sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

Concern knit at your brows, and Jack wanted to gently smooth the creases with his fingers.  

"Because you're my lawyer."

Jack swallowed when you ran one of your hands slowly down his arm.

“Well… I’m not your lawyer anymore. I mean, technically, we still need to close out all the remaining items and sign off on everything, but I won’t be your lawyer anymore in a couple of days."

For some reason, panic seized his throat.

"Once the paperwork's finalized—the case is officially closed," you finished, your gaze flickering from his eyes to his lips, making your want crystal clear.

Without a word, you gently reached up, fingers brushing his jaw as you leaned in, your lips parting softly in anticipation. Your eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, leaning in to close the gap between you.

But just as your lips were about to meet his, Jack suddenly shifted, tilting his head aside. His body tensed as he gently dodged your kiss, turning his cheek to you.

Confused, you pulled back slightly, opening your eyes wide. "Oh, that's fine," you said softly, a small, uncertain smile forming. "We can go on our first date once everything's official and cleared." Your voice was gentle, trying to keep things light despite the sudden shift.

Jack started to shake his head slowly, his brow furrowing as he looked down, avoiding looking at you. "I don't think we should go on a date."

"What?" you said, your voice cracking a bit. “But yesterday, you said—"

"I know what I said," he cut you off. "I know what I've been saying. But we can’t."

You looked crushed and completely shattered.

He was handling everything all wrong.

And now you were confused and hurt.

And he hated himself for that.

"Why?"

He simply didn’t deserve you.

"I just can’t," he grumbled.

"That’s not a real response," you said, a tear sliding down your cheek.

His heart clenched painfully at the sight of your hurt, and he hated himself even more for being the cause of it.

You wiped another tear away with the back of your hand.

"Why are you pushing me away? I thought you wanted this. I thought you wanted—me."

Of course, he wanted you. Anyone in their right mind would want you.

He swallowed, the lump in his throat tightening painfully. "Trust me, it’s better this way."

"And you get to make a unilateral decision without talking to me about it?" You inhaled a shaky breath and dropped your chin to your chest

He cursed under his breath and tried not to yank his hair out. "I’m sorry."

You blinked and shook your head, stunned. "Jesus, who the hell am I even talking to right now?"

You began gathering your papers, folder, and personal belongings. "Summit and Sterling will send you the final bill," you said evenly, zipping your laptop bag shut. "I’ll send you an email in a few days closing out everything."

Jack opened his mouth—but no words came.

You turned away, heading for the door, your posture upright and composed. As your hand reached the doorknob, Jack finally managed to utter your name.

But you interrupted before he could finish. Without turning back, you simply said, "Goodbye, Dr. Abbot."

ONE MONTH LATER

The backyard was a whirlwind of chaos and color, a far cry from your typical backyard party. Abby never just threw normal get-togethers.

She loved this shit—turning the mundane into a celebration of nothing and everything all at once. It was the start of summer, and she’d declared it a day to just be happy, to revel in the simple joy of good weather and good company.

As you stepped through the gate, the scene before you became immediately clear: waiters weaving between tables, expertly balancing trays of exquisite food—small plates of charcuterie, vibrant salads, and tiny desserts that looked almost too pretty to eat. Kids squealed with delight on bouncey playhouses, their laughter ringing through the yard, while others zipped around with carefree energy, some parents lounging nearby with drinks in hand. Off to the corner, you spotted Frank hunched over a grill, making hot dogs and burgers. He didn’t quite share the enthusiasm for this kind of scene—Abby had come from money, with fancy parties and elegant dinners—he grew up with backyard barbecues, paper plates, and cold beers.

Abby and Frank were like night and day—polar opposites in every way. Abby thrived on the chaos of a bustling scene, on the beauty of tiny details, and the art of making everything feel special. Frank, on the other hand, was rooted in simplicity and practicality.

They argued about everything from music to movies, but somehow—they just worked. Despite their differences, or maybe because of them, they just fucking fit together.

They were annoyingly perfect together.

You moved slowly, saying quick hellos to the handful of people you recognized—mutual friends, some from here, others from your undergraduate days at Johns Hopkins. A few of the Baltimore crew, including you and Frank, had moved to Philly or Pittsburgh over the last few years.

As you made your way through the crowd, you realized so many of the Pitt staff were there. It was unexpected to see so many people from the hospital. Frank didn’t usually mix his personal and professional life when he hosted events—you really hadn’t met his colleagues until the lawsuit.

Your heart started pounding a little faster.

You scanned the crowd.

Searching for someone.

Jack.

You wondered if he was here, but you didn’t see him. He was probably going to work the night shift, pulling the late hours as usual.

It hurt to think of him if you were being honest.

It was almost like a pattern you had come to expect—this feeling that once you started to relax with a man, to believe in something real, the universe had a way of pulling the rug out from under you. Maybe it was because you had been burned too many times before, or maybe because deep down, you were afraid that trusting someone again meant risking more pain.

Your last serious relationship ended two years ago, and it left a scar that was still tender.

He cheated on you.

Lied.

Betrayed your trust.

Shattered the fragile hope you had built around what you thought was real.

After that, you swore off the idea of genuine romance, settling instead for casual encounters, mediocre sex, and fleeting moments that didn’t demand much but also didn’t require you to be vulnerable.

And then Jack came along.

For the first time in a long while, you genuinely felt like you could open yourself up again. It was the way he looked at you, the way you could talk without filters, the way he seemed to understand parts of you that you had buried deep. For a moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, there was hope for something real.

You let your guard down with him.

And then—bam.

He somehow broke your fucking heart.

Your thoughts were interrupted when you spotted Dr. Robby approaching you through the crowd. His face lit up with a warm smile as he recognized you. He walked over, and before you could even say a word, he pulled you into a friendly hug. You instinctively called him "Dr. Robby," as you always did, but he chuckled softly and loosened his grip.

"Please," he said, with a grin, "just call me Michael."

His smile faded suddenly, the warmth in his eyes shifting into something more guarded, more serious. He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Listen, I know what you uncovered about me during this case." He paused. "And I want you to know, I appreciate what you did. I didn’t deserve your discretion, and I want to thank you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you said, playing dumb, a slight tilt to your head as if you genuinely didn’t understand.

He studied you for a moment.

The corner of his lips twitched, yet he nodded and took a small step up towards you.

"Jack was right about you," he said softly, and the words hung in the air, leaving you momentarily frozen.

What did that mean?

He could tell you were confused.

Michael took a slow, deliberate breath, then offered a small smile. "Jack said you’re an amazing lawyer because you actually care about your cases, not just the facts, but the people involved. It’s what makes you good at what you do," he paused for a moment, "you're compassionate, it’s why he—it’s why he—um—respects you."

Your eyebrows snapped together.

Before you could respond, Frank raised his voice, drawing the attention of everyone. "Can I have just a moment?" he called out, his deep voice cutting through the chatter and laughter. The crowd gradually quieted, turning their heads toward him. "I know some of you might have to head out soon—night shift waits for no one," he added with a small smile. "But I just want to say a few words."

He paused for a beat, scanning the group. "Abby and I would like to thank everyone for coming here tonight. As some of you know, the hospital was recently sued, and it was a tough time for all of us. But I want to take a moment to recognize someone very special today.” His gaze fixed on you, and he gestured broadly. "This lovely person right here—" he pointed at you—"was instrumental in making that lawsuit go away and in protecting our hospital staff. And I just want to remind everyone" he pointed at himself, "that I recommended her."

The Pitt staff erupted into applause, some hollering words of appreciation. Hands clapped loudly, a few even whistled, and others nodded in recognition of your effort.

The energy was warm and genuine.

But to you?

It felt overwhelming—like a spotlight suddenly shining on your chest.

"And on top of that," he added, a broad smile spreading across his face, "She’s just made partner at Summit and Sterling. That’s a fucking incredible achievement and something you should be so proud of. I’m so proud of you."

The crowd erupted into more applause.

Your cheeks heated, and you instinctively looked down, feeling embarrassed. You tried to open your mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead, you managed a small, exasperated gesture, mouthing the words 'I hate you' to Frank, and flipped him off. You knew he did it on purpose, knowing how much you despised being the center of attention.

He grinned.

The crowd chuckled along, but then Frank’s expression softened.

He cleared his throat. "But in all seriousness, you introduced me to my favorite person in the world." He gestured toward Abby, who was watching him with a gentle, loving smile. "You were the best man—well, my best woman—at our wedding. You stood by us, made everything feel right, even when it was fucking chaos. And you’re the godmother to my two favorite tiny humans. You’re my best friend, and I’m so lucky to have you in my life."

You felt your vision blur slightly, and a slow, steady ache settled in your chest.

The gentle "aww's" from the crowd echoed around you. Without thinking, you closed the distance between you and Frank.

You reached out, wrapping your arms around him in a tight, genuine hug. As you pulled back slightly, you saw his sons approaching. Without hesitation, you bent down and scooped Tanner onto your waist, feeling his tiny arms wrap around your shoulders.

Frank, reached out and gently took his other son into his arms, holding him close.

You made your way towards Abby, shoulders brushing past laughing, chatting, and the occasional high five. Tanner was on your hip, his bright eyes scanning the scene. As people offered their congratulations—some pats on your back, a few knowing smiles—you smiled politely. When you finally reached Abby, she was grinning from ear to ear, her arms open wide for a hug. You stepped into her embrace.

"Hey, Partner," she said, pulling back just enough to look at you with her bright eyes.

You smiled, a little overwhelmed by everything.

"Thanks," you muttered.

Suddenly, Tanner’s eyes locked onto a familiar face near the crowd—a tiny friend, waving eagerly with a wide grin. Tanner’s little face lit up with recognition, and he shifted slightly, squirming in your hold.

"Auntie, I wanna go!" Tanner chirped suddenly, his voice filled with excitement. He reached up to tug at your shoulder. "Can I please be down? I wanna see Joey!"

You gently eased him away, lowering him onto the ground, pressing a soft kiss to Tanner’s little forehead, "Have fun, sweetheart," you whispered. Tanner’s face lit up with a wide smile as he wrapped his arms around your leg. "Bye, I love you!"

Abby hooked her arm through yours, practically dragging you toward the drink station. The table was lined with bottles of spirits, mixers, and her signature margaritas.

Strong enough to knock you on your ass if you weren’t careful.

"Here," she said, handing you a margarita.

You accepted, taking a sip and savoring the flavor. Abby then grabbed her own drink, but instead of a margarita, she reached for a can of Coca-Cola from the cooler nearby, popping it open with a satisfying fizz. She held it up playfully with a grin.

You raised an eyebrow.

"You know how it is," she said, shrugging. "Hosting and all—I’m trying not to get too drunk."

"Last time you hosted a party, you were doing shots with everyone. What are you talking about?"

Her eyes darted away, avoiding you for a moment. Her smile faltered just slightly, and her cheeks flushed a little. You observed Abby closely, trying to pinpoint what might be causing her strange behavior. You caught the hesitation, the subtle shift in her expression, and suddenly it hit you.

"Oh… my fucking god," you said, voice dropping with realization. "Are you pregnant?"

Her eyes widened just a fraction, and she quickly looked away, pretending to check something behind you—anything to avoid your eyes. The silence stretched for a beat before she finally muttered, "Maybe…" her voice barely above a whisper, but her eyes gave her away.

Your jaw dropped.

"You have two kids under four!"

"I know, it’s not like this was planned!"

"Does Frank know?"

“Of course he knows! He knew before I did. One day, I came home, and he handed me a pregnancy test.” Abby’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and she looked a little sheepish as she finally admitted, "Remember when I told you I wanted a Birkin?"

 "Yeah?"

She hesitated for a moment, then chuckled nervously. "Well, I didn’t expect him to actually get it for me. A few weeks ago, I came home and there it was. I had been joking, really. Just kind of mentioning it in passing. I didn’t think he’d actually go out and buy one. I mean, it’s a ridiculous luxury, right? And I kind of just—jumped him. Or, he jumped me? I don’t know, all I know is suddenly, he had me spread out on the kitchen counter—"

Cringing, you cut her off. "Ew, please, just skip to the end."

Frank was like a brother to you, so even though you knew he was conventionally attractive, you could never talk to Abby about their sex life.

It was too weird.

Abby rolled her eyes and sighed. "Well, one thing led to another," she said with a shrug. "And that was pretty much the night I was wrapping up my antibiotics, so I think my birth control didn’t exactly do its job."

"So, wait, your future kid was conceived because Frank gifted you a Birkin?"

Abby couldn’t suppress her grin.

"The most expensive way to get pregnant, huh?" she said, barley containing her laughter.

You snorted. "Who knew that a designer bag could be such a powerful fertility aid?"

"We're not really telling anyone right now, okay? This stays between us." She wiggled her eyebrows, then made a quick zip-lip motion, finger across her lips, signaling secrecy.

"Lips are sealed," you said softly, mimicking the gesture. "Congratulations on getting knocked up. Again."

"I mean, have you seen my stud of a husband? Frank’s definitely got the looks to go with that big—"

You immediately groaned, raising your hand in protest. "Please, stop."

—heart.” She winked. "And now that you know I’m pregnant, I really need to pee—this kid’s been attacking my bladder all day. Be right back."

"Sure thing," you replied, and then scanned the bar as you continued to sip on your margarita.

You felt a hand on your shoulder.

"I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on," you heard a man say in a low voice in your ear.

Except it wasn’t any voice.

It was a voice you absolutely recognized.

You whipped your head around to find Jack scratching the back of his neck, and the corner of his lips tipping up.

The door to Abby’s office clicked softly behind Jack as he stepped inside, casting a tentative glance around the space. It was a small, cluttered room—papers stacked on the desk, a few framed photos of family and friends, and a cluttered bookshelf.

He had asked you if he could speak to you in private, and you had led him to this room.

You’d never seen Jack out of his scrubs—right now it was just him in plain clothes. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and sculpted chest perfectly, the fabric stretching just enough to hint at the strength beneath. His cargo pants sat comfortably on his hips, pockets bulging slightly with who knew what. The casual wear made him look even more real—impossibly attractive in a way that made your stomach flip.

It was the first time he was seeing you 'outside of the office' so to speak as well. You were wearing a tight green short-sleeved long knee-length shirt dress. It didn’t feel like a revealing outfit at all, but the way Jack was looking you up and down made you feel like you were on display.

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, shoulders hunched forward as if trying to shrink himself.

Several tense, quiet moments passed. You opened up your mouth to speak, but your thoughts were still too chaotic to put into words.

"Congratulations," he finally managed. "On making partner. That’s... that’s a huge deal. You deserve it."

You looked at him, frustration crossing your face.

Seriously? Congratulations?

You wanted to roll your eyes. Instead, you took a breath, steadying yourself. "Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you said curtly.

He flinched.

"How have you been?"

“Fine,” you said, all cavalier, like this conversation didn't even matter. 

He cocked his head to the side. "Oh, so it's going to be like that?"

You couldn’t help but snort.

"I haven't seen or spoken to you in a month. And now you think is the perfect time to make small talk?"

He held your gaze.

Unbothered.

"Look," he started, voice strained, "I’m not good at this."

"Not good at what?"

"At sharing my feelings without sounding like a damn mess. And last time… I got scared."

You crossed your arms, your tone colder now. "You got scared?"

"Of course, I got scared. You make me feel things that I didn’t know I could feel. No good comes from caring this much about someone."

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed nervously.

"I’m older than you. I’m missing a goddamn limb. I have PTSD. I listen to a police scanner on my days off because I’m probably fucking insane. So yeah, I’m not exactly a shining example of emotional stability."

He let out a short, dry laugh.

"Since the war… sometimes I feel like a puzzle. Some of the pieces are on fire. And some of the pieces are just fucking missing—" his voice cracked, "and so…in what world, does a person like you end up with a person like me?"

You could see the conflict in his face.

You were fighting the tears that were beginning to spring up.

Your heart hurt for him.

"Jack, I’m not going to pretend I know what you’ve been through, because I don’t. I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve carried with you. And I don’t want to pretend I understand the weight of all that. But what I do know is this—you don’t have to be perfect or 'fixed' before you’re allowed to be happy. You deserve good things."

His mouth was set in a hard line.

"I’m not worth your patience. You deserve better. You deserve someone else."

"How about you let me be the judge of that?"

Jack let out a harsh breath. "You’re stubborn."

You sighed, frustration flaring as you stepped back, creating distance between you. "You know what they say—you can't catch fish if you don’t cast your line. So, maybe you’re just not craving this."

His fingers wove into his hair, tugging at his curls.

He huffed out a breath.

Suddenly, he looked like the hungriest man in the world.

"You have no idea how much I crave it," he said, like he couldn’t believe you just said what you said.

Jack stepped closer, his hazel eyes piercing into yours. Without a word, he reached out, gently but firmly guiding you backward until your ass hit the edge of the desk. His hands settled on your hips, steadying you as he leaned in slightly.

He reached out to trace your lower lip with his index finger. "What do you want?"

He was so close now that you could smell his cologne, which was mingled with his natural musk.

It had created an intoxicating blend that was uniquely his own.

Fuck, he smelled good.

"You already know what I want," you replied, a little breathless. "So, tell me—what do you want, Jack?"

"I want you," he said simply, voice thick with emotion. "I want to be with you. I want the good, the bad, and everything in between." Jack gently placed his hands on either side of your face. "And…even though you’ve made the questionable decision of being a Baltimore Ravens fan—I want all of it, with you, and only you, in all your glorious, unpredictable, wonderful entirety."

A wave of emotion washed over you.

Unexpected and relentless.

You couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your laughter bubbled up first.

Bright.

Raw.

And entirely involuntary.

Salty tears followed, slipping down your cheeks.

You hiccupped a little, trying to catch your breath between the tears and the laughter. "Well," you managed to rasp out, “I want it all with you, too.”

Without hesitation, he reached up, gently brushing his thumb across your cheek to wipe away the wetness. His lips pressed softly against your temple, then your cheek, lingering there for a moment.

"You’re fucking gorgeous," he whispered, voice trembling with honesty. "I don’t know how I got so lucky, sweetheart."

He then bent down and brushed his lips against yours.  

The kiss was slow.

Cautious.

So soft and gentle.

Tender.

You melted into his touch.

His hand, still resting on your cheek, tightened slightly, grounding you as the warmth of his lips deepened.

The softness gave way to a quiet hunger, a silent invitation that made you want more.

You responded instinctively, leaning into him, your breath hitching as your lips parted just a little more, craving the connection. His lips moved with a tenderness that grew bolder, his tongue tentatively exploring your mouth.

The heat pooled low in your belly, and the kiss turned desperate, your fingers finding their way into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly as the kiss deepened. His lips were much more insistent than before as his hands explored your waist, your hips, your ass.

They were fucking everywhere.

His tongue kept crashing into yours, and it was messy and hurried, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t stop kissing him, and somehow your legs had fallen open. Instinctively, you pulled him closer, feeling his cock pressing against you, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.

Then his mouth started traveling down your throat, the scrape of his teeth pressing into your pulse.

One of his hands went underneath the fabric of your dress, and you knew what he was about to realize.

"Christ," he said in a voice that didn’t sound like anything like the way he usually did. "You don’t have any fucking panties on?" he muttered.

He looked like his brain was buffering.

"I didn’t want any visible panty lines," you gasped as you felt him slide his fingers between your legs, soaking up the wetness that had formed there.

He inhaled slowly, his chest rising and his lashes fluttering against his skin with his lips slightly parted. It was like all of a sudden, he realized what was happening.

That you two were basically dry-humping like teenagers in Abby’s office.

Where anybody could walk in.

"I can’t believe the first time I’m touching you is in fucking Langdon’s house."

You giggled. "Maybe we should relocate… literally anywhere else."

He tilted his head down, kissing your bottom lip.

"I might spontaneously combust if we don’t," he said, pulling his hand from underneath your dress. You watched him lift his hand to his lips, slipping his fingers into his mouth with his wet tongue, his eyes never leaving yours.

He hummed and grunted like it was the best damn thing he had ever tasted in his life.  

"All I want right now is to hear you screaming my name, so you better say your goodbyes to everyone before I fuck you right here." he growled.

Your answer was a breathless nod.

The drive to Jack’s townhouse had been a blur. His hand never left your thigh, fingers kneading into your flesh with deliberate pressure.

His thumb moving in slow, thoughtful strokes.

As if he needed to remind himself you were real. That this was happening.

His hand was impossibly large—how had you never really noticed that before?

It all made you feel small and cherished at the same time.

By the time you arrived, the door closed softly behind you, and the sensation of Jack’s hand swallowing your thigh was still tingling on your skin.

His place was a reflection of him.

Meticulous.

Clean.

Precise.

A sanctuary that suited his no-nonsense, guarded nature.

Every book, every object, had its place.

The living room was sleek but lived-in, with an air of calm efficiency. On the coffee table, a cluster of medical journals lay stacked with precision, their covers crisp and pages well-thumbed. The bamboo base of the table added a touch of unexpected warmth to the space.

In the corner, a vintage Wurlitzer piano sat quietly.

It made you smile—of course he played.

A record player was softly spinning some Motown, the soulful melodies filling the room with a nostalgic hum. Above it, a striking Jimmy Hendrix art piece—a bold, colorful portrait of the guitar legend—added a splash of something to the otherwise controlled environment.

Jack’s hands were gentle but firm as he guided you into his bedroom, the softness of his touch contrasting with the raw hunger that flickered behind his eyes. Once inside, he pressed you backward, the backs of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. His lips were warm and relentless, pressing kisses along your jawline, then trailing down your neck.

His mouth barely left your skin, lingering as he left small bites along your pulse point and jaw, his breath hot against your neck. It was as if he was trying to memorize the way you tasted, to savor the moment before plunging into whatever came next. His hands came up to rest on your waist, fingers curling softly into the fabric of your dress.

But he was careful.

Deliberate in his restraint.

As if he were handling something fragile.

Instead of tearing your dress off or throwing you onto the mattress like you thought he would, he lowered you down carefully.

Like you were made of glass.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your mouth before guiding you down onto the bed, his body hovering protectively over yours. His hands cradled your face, thumb softly tracing your jawline as he looked into your eyes.

It was embarrassing how wet you already were.

Jack’s breathing grew ragged as he hesitated for just a moment, his eyes darting down your body.

His hands trembled slightly as they reached for the zipper at the back of your dress. With a low, almost strained groan, he slowly unzipped the dress, completely drunk on you.

As the zipper finally slid down, he let out a shaky breath, his lips parting as he carefully eased the dress down your shoulders. You were wearing a sexy satin black bra, and he paused for a moment, his eyes admiring before gently slipping the dress past your arms.

He studied you as if trying to memorize every inch of you, the way your body curved beneath him, how your chest rose and fell with each breath.

All your little noises.

It was driving him crazy.

Once the fabric was sliding past your arms, Jack’s grip tightened slightly—his desperation mounting.

He reached out to gently remove your bra, and your perfect fucking breasts were finally on display for him.

God, he couldn’t stop staring.

He almost ripped your dress the rest of the way off.

His lips pressed a desperate, feverish kiss to your shoulder and collarbone as he pushed the dress down your body, his hands now on your hips, guiding the material over your thighs, your legs, with a relentless, trembling need, throwing your dress on the ground.

He inhaled sharply when your legs fell open, admiring your glistening cunt.

Jack’s eyes were glued to it.

Your arousal was dripping down your thighs since you had spent the last 30 minutes clenching around nothing. It all started back in Abby’s office, and he somehow had reduced you to an incoherent, whimpering mess.

"So wet for me," he mumbled in awe.

He paused for a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes dark and clouded with longing and something more primal.

"God, you’re so perfect," he muttered, voice hoarse, before leaning in to dip his head and take one of your nipples in his mouth. His tongue caressed it softly, and as he released it, a strangled moan escaped your lips.

The sound you made had every ounce of his blood roaring to his cock.

He switched to the other, leaving a wet trail before he started to suck on your nipple and you gasped out in pleasure.

With a sudden boldness, you tugged at his shirt, your fingers struggling against the fabric as you wanted to see more of his body. "Off," you demanded, feigning authority even as your cheeks warmed with excitement.

He chuckled and pulled himself from your chest. "Yes, ma’am," he teased, pulling back just enough to rid himself of the shirt with a fluid motion.

"Pants too,"

He paused.

Jack’s fingers lingered briefly at the waistband of his cargo pants as he hesitated for just a moment, then slowly pushed them down past his hips. The fabric slid smoothly, pooling around his ankles as he shifted slightly on his bed to kick them off. He felt a flash of nervousness tighten in his chest as you finally saw his prosthetic below his knee.

He searched your face and expected you to be uncomfortable or at least see it flit across your face before you composed yourself—but you didn’t.

Instead, your gaze softened as your eyes traced the contours of his body, and your expression remained calm.

You traced a finger down his torso, marveling at the way the muscle tensed beneath your touch. "You’re so handsome," you breathed, mesmerized by the sight before you.

"You’re not too bad yourself," he said, moving down the bed, dragging soft kisses down your stomach, running his hands up your thighs.

"So, fucking pretty," his face was suddenly between your legs, his hands pushing your thighs apart, and exposing you fully to him.

His eyes were fixated on your pussy.

"You don’t have to do that," you mumbled, sounding shy.

"You don’t like that?" he asked softly, lifting his head slightly, eyes searching yours.

"No… um… I do. I just know a lot of men don’t like doing it, and some just offer to be polite," you admitted, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"I’m not those other fucking men," he growled, completely offended that you thought he wouldn’t want his face trapped between your thighs. "I’ve been thinking about your pussy for the last six fucking months," his eyes skated up and down your naked body, studying every inch of you. "Dreaming about it. Dreaming about smelling you on me for days."

His words made your mouth pop open. You felt the ache between your legs become stronger.

"Really?" you squeaked.

Jack’s eyes lingered on you, still heavy with desire, but a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

It was odd, seeing you lose the typical confidence that you had.

You were usually such a firecracker.

He felt the need to remind you of your worth beyond the courtroom.

He wanted you out of your head.

Now.

"You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about my mouth on you with my hand around my cock," he admitted.

"Yeah?" you breathed, your voice caught between arousal and disbelief.

"Yes. I need to taste you, baby. So, are you gonna put me out of my misery and let me make you feel good?"

You nodded weakly.

"Need to hear you say it," he encouraged. "Tell me."

"Please," you begged. "I want you to make me feel good,"

Jack pressed his lips against your inner thigh, and you felt the drag of his scruff along your skin as he sucked a mark into your inner thigh.

"Marking your territory?" you teased.

He smirked looking up at you, probably enjoying how desperate you were for him right now. "I don’t like to share."

You bit your lip thrilled at his comment as he focused his attention back to your pussy and continued his exploration, planting hot kisses along your skin before inching closer to your dripping core.

"I think she’s flirting with me."

You let your head drop into his pillows, trying to hide your embarrassment. No man had ever spoken to you like this before.

You realized…you liked it.

A lot.

"Hang tight, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice a deep rumble. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, and then he dove in and feasted on you, burying his face in your pussy.

Jack was fucking relentless.

Refusing to hold back.

His tongue drove you insane with every flick and suck, your fingers instinctively threading through his hair as you pressed yourself against him, urging him on. You moaned loudly as his tongue found your most delicate spot. He flicked his tongue against your puffy swollen clit, teasing and tormenting you, and you couldn't hold back the whimpers escaping your throat.

"Jack!" you mewled. His scruff burned the inside of your thighs, and you hoped you would feel it in the morning.

A reminder.

The sounds filling the room were obscene as he hungrily continued to lap and suck at your hole until you were a whimpering mess, his moans vibrating through your core. He then shoved two fingers inside of you to continue working your sweet spot as he continued to lap against you. You were already getting close, and your body was twisting and trembling, trying to get away from him and trying to get closer all at once.

"Please, don’t stop," you begged, your voice betraying the madness building within you. He was so good at this. He was too good at this. You had never had a man go down on you like this.

Not by a fucking mile.

Nobody had ever groaned against your cunt in pleasure as if getting you off was just as enjoyable for them.

As soon as Jack heard your request, he sucked your clit harder into his mouth while his fingers continued to curve inside of you in a way that felt impossibly right. Your breaths were coming out in short, ragged bursts as he held you firmly in place. Each flick of his tongue sent you spiraling closer, and you could feel the wave building, crashing over you in a way that had your body screaming for more.

"Jack, I’m—I’m so close," you breathed, shakily.

A cry escaped you as he intensified his pace, keeping his concentration solely focused on your pussy. He was a man on a mission, and he was so lost in your pussy.

"Come on, baby. Let go," he urged.

You moaned and brought your hands to your breasts, squeezing, and pinching at your nipples. Jack groaned at the sight and his tongue flicked faster at your clit, and in that moment, you couldn't hold back any longer. With one last cry of his name, you let the wave break over as your vision blurred and your ears started ringing in your head.

"That's it. That’s it, pretty girl," he encouraged, his voice punctuated by the delicious sounds of your release. "Let it all out for me."

You felt yourself tremble as the final waves of bliss coursed through you, Jack’s fingers and mouth still working you through your orgasm, drinking in every sound you made.

Finally, as the world slowly faded back into focus, you let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

"Taste so fucking good," you felt him lift your legs and settle between them, your core still pulsing and sensitive. "I could do this all night," Jack said smugly, licking his mouth as he rose up to meet your gaze.

Still catching your breath, you smiled at him, feeling tingles throughout your entire body. "You should definitely consider it," you replied, as you looked at his face that was covered in your wetness on his scruff, his chin, and his lips.

"Trust me, I intend to." he said with a grin, lowering himself against you, lips finding yours once more.

You kissed him deeply, relishing the taste of yourself still lingering on his lips, and wrapped your arms around him.

Then, just as you were getting lost in Jack again, he pulled back, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. Before you could fully process what was happening, he flipped you over, sliding his prosthetic away, placing you on top so that you were straddling him, with your knees pressing down on either side of his hips.

"Need to be inside of you," he breathed, his hands resting on your hips as he looked up at you.

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a long, tantalizing kiss. You slowly began to grind against him, feeling his hard cock beneath you, and a grin spread across your face at the look on his face. You leaned back slightly, relishing the way he looked beneath you—wild and eager.

With a fluid motion, he reached down to his waistband and slowly peeled off his boxers. Your eyes widened as he revealed himself, clarity cutting through your arousal when you saw his cock spring free.

He was… massive.

The reality of his size left you stunned.

"Are you still with me, sweetheart?" he asked, breaking through your thoughts.

Swallowing hard, you nodded, but you couldn’t shake the nervousness creeping up on you. "I—uh, you’re so… big," you stammered, heat flooding your cheeks as you tried to regain your composure.

Jack couldn’t help the twitch of a grin appearing on his face.

"Don’t worry, you can take it." The confidence in his voice made you blink rapidly.

You nodded, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as a mixture of anticipation and nervousness coursed through you. While the prospect of him inside you was exhilarating, you couldn’t shake the reminder of how long it had been.

A year. Give or take.

He must have sensed your hesitance because the look in his eyes softened slightly. "You just let me know if you need me to slow down, alright?" He stroked your thigh reassuringly.

With a deep inhale, you nodded again and positioned yourself above him, your heart thumping as you lined yourself up with his leaking cock, your nerves flaring once again.

He guided you gently, the tension in his body easily translating into patience. As you slowly sank onto his thick tip, you felt him stretching you, filling you inch by inch, and a moan escaped your lips as you watched him disappear into you. There was a slight tinge of discomfort that quickly morphed into something hotter. You bit your lip, your eyes fluttering shut as you focused on adjusting, relishing the way he filled you.

"You okay?" he checked in, his voice deep with concern, his hands caressing your thighs gently.

"Yeah," you panted, realizing you were slick enough to take more of him.

With a small, encouraging smile, you began to lift your hips, experimenting with the rhythm. It felt so fucking good, and as you rocked back and forth, Jack mirrored your movements, his hands gripping your waist guiding your motions.

"That’s it, baby," he encouraged softly. "You’re doing so good."

Bolstered by his words, you picked up the pace as you adjusted to the size of him and pressed your palms onto his chest, riding him harder, faster. You focused on the way he filled you and the burning stretch of him. You felt a tightness in your stomach, building and begging to be released. Each time you sank down onto him, his cock brushed against that sweet spot inside of you.

"So fucking tight," Jack grunted, as he watched you take him deeper, his hands moving to your back, gently urging you to arch into him.

"Fuck, Jack," you gasped, nails digging into his back. "More. Please,"

Jack’s hands tightened around your waist as he took control, and in one swift motion, he lifted his hips sharply, driving his cock deeper into you, nearly knocking the air out of your lungs.

"You’re taking me so well," he growled, his voice low and throaty. The sound of skin smacking against skin filled the room as he started fucking up into your used cunt so brutally.

As you closed your eyes, lost in the overwhelming pleasure, you heard Jack’s deep voice. "Keep your eyes open for me. I want you to look at me." His demand cut through the haze, and you could feel the intensity of his gaze on you even with your lids shut.

You slowly opened your eyes, locking onto his. He put his forehead against yours, and in that moment, the world around you melted away, and it was just the two of you.

Flesh.

Heat.

And—raw desire.

With each thrust, he drove deeper into you, and the intensity in his eyes was carnal.

"Fuck," he cursed. "You look so beautiful like this. Full of my cock," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. You were lost in the crazed, blown-out look in his eyes, and he stole a kiss from you that had you chasing his tongue.

You inhaled sharply, the heat of his body against yours igniting every nerve ending. "Jack," the breathless syllable escaped your lips. You felt your jaw go slack, and your eyebrows pinched together at the way he watched you, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered at that moment. His sounds and touches made you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

You dropped your chin to your chest, and he brought his hand to his mouth, licking the tips of his fingers to move it down to your clit, rubbing circles over it as he continued. Your moans were louder now, and Jack moved his other hand to your ass, pulling you harder against him.

"That feel good?" he hummed, snapping his hips into yours, and hitting a spot deep inside of you that you didn’t even know existed.

Your body responded immediately. "Yes, Jack! Right there," you gasped, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

He felt so thick.

So devastating inside of you.

Your legs were shaking now.

With each deep thrust, the coil in your stomach wound tighter and tighter, and you could feel your body responding to him. "I’m going to—oh fuck," you panted, fighting to find your voice.

You almost closed your eyes again.

"Don’t look away. I want to see how pretty you look when you come for me," he insisted, each word heavy.

"J-Jack," you sobbed. "Oh, my fucking god, I—"

"Come on, baby. Let me have it. I can feel you, you’re so fucking close," he coaxed, his hands gripping your waist, anchoring you to him as he thrust upward. "Give it to me. Give me what’s fucking mine."

His encouragement sent you over the edge. The tension snapped like a taut string, and you cried out, your body convulsing around him as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You could feel yourself gushing around his cock, screaming his name, and seeing stars as he continued fucking you through it.

You couldn’t look away.

It was so intimate.

And you were completely obsessed with the way Jack was looking at you as he kept pounding into you.

"Yes, just like that," Jack gasped, his own breaths growing ragged as he felt you tighten around him and watched your face with his mouth hanging wide open. He admired the way you fell apart for him while his eyes locked with yours. "Good girl," he praised. "So, fucking beautiful."

Your thoughts were incoherent as his pace was becoming fast and sloppy, and you realized he was trying to chase his own release.

"Where do you want me, baby?" he desperately asked you.

Then it hit you, you two weren’t even using protection. You had been so lost in the lust of it all that you didn’t even think about a condom. You were usually so religious about condoms, but you realized that you wanted to feel him, and for some reason, you weren’t scared because he made you feel safe.

"Inside."

"You sure?"

"I’m on the pill."

He groaned at your words, the sound deep and primal as he shifted beneath you. "Thank fucking god," he managed, his hands gripping your hips tighter. Jack surged up, driving himself deeper into you with a newfound urgency that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

With a final, deep thrust, Jack let out a throaty moan as he spilled into you, burying his face in your neck, his spend covering your walls, cock pulsing as he finished. The sensation of him painting your insides made you feel claimed somehow. You could feel the mix of both of you running down your thighs, soaking Jack’s lap, and probably ruining his sheets.

You collapsed against him, both of you panting heavily, the weight of what just happened settling in around you. The room was filled with a comfortable silence, aside from the sounds of your breath mingling together. Jack still held you tightly, his arms wrapped around your waist as if he were afraid to let go.

"Wow," you breathed, your heart still pounding from the intensity of your shared moment.

"Yeah," Jack murmured, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. His fingertips lingered on your cheek. "You okay?" he asked, breathing heavily through his nose.

You nodded slowly, trying to catch your breath. "More than okay," you whispered.

A smirk played on his lips, "Good. 'Cause I’m not done with you yet."

With that, he rolled you both over, shifting the weight until you were beneath him.

"Like I said," he murmured, brushing his fingers along your cheek as you leaned against him. "I could do this all night."

It was early, the light filtering through the blinds of Jack’s room. You stirred, feeling the warmth of Jack’s bed and the faint scent of last night’s shared intimacy lingering in the air. As your eyes fluttered open, you realized Jack wasn’t in bed beside you. A faint noise drifted in from outside his bedroom, piquing your curiosity.

Quickly, you reached for a casual t-shirt that was draped over a chair and slipped it over your head.

It was huge on you.

You tugged at the hem absentmindedly.

It hit you mid-thigh.

Stepping out of the room, the house was quiet except for the faint sounds of clinking dishes and muffled footsteps from the kitchen.

The daytime made you notice details you hadn’t before: framed pictures lining the walls, snapshots of family and friends that brought a smile to your face. You paused for a moment, your gaze falling on a picture of Jack holding a toddler, his face lit up with a gentle smile. You wondered if this was a picture of his niece—the one he had mentioned a couple of months ago.

As you moved toward the doorway, you saw Jack in the kitchen, dressed in workout clothes, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He looked up as you stepped out, catching your eye. Before you could say anything, he leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, but a faint frown creased his brow.

"I was trying to get back in bed before you woke up," he murmured.

“That’s okay. How long have you been up?”

"Went for a run at 6."

It was 8 AM.

Of course, Jack went on runs at 6 AM on his days off.

He reached for the pot of coffee he had brewed, pouring himself a black cup. Then, turning to you, he handed you your mug, adding creamer and some brown sugar—just the way he knew you liked it.

Jack set his mug down on the kitchen island, then smoothly eased himself onto a nearby stool. Without hesitation, he reached out and gently pulled you onto his lap, his hand instinctively settling on your thigh. As you settled into his embrace, a devilish grin tugged at his lips when he caught sight of your relaxed state—just his t-shirt draping over your frame.

Jack’s fingertips traced a slow, deliberate path beneath the hem of his shirt, skimming over your thighs— his fingers feeling the hot slick that was already pooling at your entrance before he crashed his mouth hungrily over yours, his tongue teasingly dipping into your mouth.

You tasted the faint bitterness of the coffee on his tongue, and felt him tug you closer so that you could feel his erection trapped within his workout pants. Your eyes slid shut, and a soft whine escaped from your lips when Jack began to drag his mouth down the column of your throat.

"You know, I should probably head home and find a pair of panties," you teased.

His expression softened into a pout.

"Hopefully not anytime soon?" he coaxed, voice hopeful.

The fact that Jack wasn’t pushing you away, that he actually wanted you to stay, made your heart race in the best way.

He wanted you in your space.

He was actively choosing it.

It was a rare kind of comfort, and it was making your thoughts whirl.

You leaned in to press a tender kiss to his lips. "Not anytime soon," you murmured. It was Saturday—perfect for lingering a little longer.

After finishing your coffee, Jack gently helped you off his lap. "Come on," he said softly, taking your hand. "Let’s go back to bed."

As you brought your mug to the sink, your eyes caught sight of a letter stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Curious, you paused and read the words.

Dear Dr. Abbot, I’m not really good with words, so I’ll try to keep this short and sweet. I just wanted to send a quick note to apologize for my mother’s actions. I can only imagine how stressful this has all been for you, and I’m truly sorry. The truth is, my mother and I hadn’t been speaking much because of everything surrounding the case. I was worried about how things would turn out, but I’m glad to hear that she has dropped the lawsuit. It’s a relief, and I hope you can start to move forward from here. I hope she and I can move forward from this as well. I also wanted to share that I’m in my senior year of high school and applied to Penn State on a whim—out of state, no less—and surprisingly got in. I think all the recent changes and the chaos might have been what led my mom to file the lawsuit. It probably felt like everything was happening so fast for her between my abortion and me applying to colleges far from home. It took me some time, but I have finally accepted my scholarship to Penn State and will be starting there this fall. I just want you to know—you changed my life. Because of you and PTMC, I get to go to college, and I’ll never forget that. Thank you for everything. -Kristi

Jack noticed you reading the letter. Kristi had sent it about a week after the lawsuit had been dropped.

But for Jack, none of that mattered right now.

His focus was entirely on you.

The firecracker in his kitchen.

The firecracker who took a chance on him.

and… the firecracker he was madly in love with.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

That’s it for our Rebel Cowboy and our Firecracker!

Also, some people asked me, and I pictured the reader to be 33 and Jack to be 44. Ever since they’ve said Dr. Abbot is ‘40’s, handsome, with an edge’ —my brain is like well he looks good AF, so why can’t he be in his early 40’s? I don’t know how realistic becoming a partner at 33 is, but reader is a badass so let’s not question it.

TAGLIST: @sikayeto. @ay0nha. @insidethegardenwall. @flofaiiry. @princesssunderworld. @melsunshine. @sillymuffintrashflap. @runawaybaby3. @letstryagaintomorrow. @milzcivic. @sinpathyforthedevilish. @rosiepoise88. @sleepingalways. @pear-1206. @chuckles2much. @charmedkim. @qardasngan. @traumaanatomy. @losers-club6. @bitters-n-sweets. @professionally-crazed. @la-vie-est-une-fleur29. @queenslandlover-93. @ryalvintage. @professionalpromqueen. @xxxkat3xxx. @saaamsayshi. @peggyofoz. @nothere2478. @crescentqueenxxx. @summitmeadowyosemite. @iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa. @reader142. @patheticgirl127. @sophreakingfunny. @flowersandall. @houseofodd. @honestlystop. @18lkpeters. @penguin876. @aaronhtchnrs. @iambatman115. @secretmoonphantom. @foolishseven. @isthistoniche. @jeanie2k17. @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff.

ask me and i'm there | masterlist

— summary: There's a shelf in Jack Abbot's head with all of the things he stores to deal with later. It's concerning how many of those things have to do with you.

— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but assumption is reader is late 20s and up while jack is mid-40s, not as pertinent to the plot but its there), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, grief, medical inaccuracies, eventual smut, mild sexual content, jack abbot and city girl being the best at doing everything but admitting feelings <3

*amount of chapters and titles are subject to change depending on my mood ;)

part one: bias

part two: where you are

part three: the lonely fight

part four: new faces in the dark

part five: holding on

part six: silver springs

part seven: into the feeling

extra:

Knicks in the playoffs (drabble)

a/n: the amount of love and support that this has gotten has been so mind-blowing. i read all of it and want you all to know that you have fueled my love for this story. thank you all for reading :)

this story is named after a fleetwood mac lyric, because he is so fleetwood mac coded to me.

black coffee, no sugar (ja)

summary: when your son wants a slightly more expensive birthday present, you pull a double to earn the extra cash, but you're stuck working with his dad too.

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader

word count: 4.8k

warnings: age gap (reader - 30s/jack - late 40s), the reader wears glasses but there are no other descriptions of how the reader looks, exes-ish (there's feelings there somewhere but not spoken about), boy dad!jack, co-parenting, jack being soft for the reader in his own little way, probably incorrect medical jargon because i make people feel better with food for a living - i am not a doctor/nurse, mentions of patient loss and off page death, one mention of a past sexual encounter between the reader and jack, food poisoning (sorry shen), like one joke about jack being older, not sure if that's everything but let me know

a/n: i had an idea and i tried my best to write it....but hey, look, my first abbot fic. i was hooked from the minute he said 'don't worry, you'll get there soon enough,' to mel. i don't like the ending but honestly didn't know how i wanted this to end. do we want more of these two??? feedback is always appreciated

6:28 PM

Heather stretches her arms, fingers wiggling as she unfurls her hands. “I can't wait to get home to my bed,” she says, and the sentiment is shared by the few nurses around you. You, however, had your head resting on your arm, trying your best to beat off the impending fatigue, a patient’s record - Mr Hernandez - up on the screen, waiting to be completed. “What about you?” She looks down, sharing the same tired expression.

“I wish,” you sit up, shoulders rolling back, “Shen's still out with food poisoning.” Bad sushi. You and Jack had laughed about it until your sides had hurt, you bent over, tucked into the warmth of his side, your couch becoming Jack's temporary bed for a quick nap, after swinging by that morning to see Auggie.

“You're pulling a double?” Her voice pulls you away from the warm memory, your body growing quickly cold as the sounds of heart monitors, the distant carnage of the overcrowded waiting room, and the chaos happening in Trauma 1 pounds your ears.

“I need the hours,” you mumble, inputting Mr Hernandez's last check up results. You tuck your fingers under your glasses and rub your eyes. A quick nap in an on-call room would be enough to get you through the night shift. And maybe a cup of coffee, or three. “Auggie’s already been with my mom all day, so she’s gonna take him tonight. It’s all sorted.”

Her arms fold. “And you're sure you want to work with Abbot?”

“You make it sound like we can't play nice.”

Trinity pops up beside Heather, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, making you both jump. “Wait,” she looks down at you, “the nurses were telling the truth about you and Doctor Abbot?”

Princess, Donnie and a young blonde named Anna all dart in different directions, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your hard stare. It was just as good as Jack's. Anna turns to her computer, pretending to read a chart. Princess had ducked behind a curtain, checking in on a patient. And Donnie made a break from the staff room. You shake your head, turning your lips up into a partial smile.

“So?” Trinity was still waiting for an answer. Her smile can only be described as wicked. “What's the story? Messy breakup? Did one of you cheat?”

“Dr Santos!” Heather clears her throat.

“Oh, come on,” Trinity sighs, slapping her hands down on the top. Heather glares hard at her and she turns and walks away, grumbling something under her breath.

“You got that mom stare down perfectly, by the way,” you log off and groan as you unfold from the chair, swearing you could hear at least three different joints cracking as you stretch.

She sighs. “Just missing the important thing.”

“You can have Auggie.”

“He's a good kid, but no thanks,” she shakes her head, turning with you as you take a steady walk through the Pitt, “it's like being around a miniature Abbot but pumped with aquarium facts.” You snort, but she was right. Loose, dark curls. The same eyes, hidden behind red framed glasses. Grumpy in the morning, chaos at night. Two perfect sides of the same coin. “But, seriously, you know he'll try to make you go home, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do,” you throw her a knowing smile and she rolls her eyes, “and it’ll be fun to tell him no.”

7:45 PM

A-U-G-G-I-E. You trace your thumb over each individual bead, the black lettering a little chipped from constantly wearing it. It was an amalgamation of reds and blues; for Spiderman, your five year old had mumbled, when you asked what colours he was going to use to make it.

“Mommy, are you listening?” Auggie's voice pulls you back to reality.

“Of course, bud.” You swap your phone between your hands, pressing it to your left ear. “Grandma took you to the aquarium, yeah?”

“Yep!” He pops the p. “The crabs were my favourite; they had a king crab, a snow crab, and spider crabs…” His words become a jumbled mess as he excitedly lists off each species of crab, probably remembering them all in less than five minutes, making sure he and your mom didn't move on to the next thing until he knew them all.

“The crabs were your favourite? Not the jellyfish?” He'd been bombarding you with jellyfish facts that morning before your mom came to pick him up.

“They were cool but they weren't as cool as the crabs,” Auggie mumbles, voice muffled like he had just put something in his mouth. Probably his thumb. He always chewed on it when he was getting tired. “Grandma got me a new book,” he tells you, “it's all about sharks!”

“Mom?” You sigh, dropping your head into your hand. This kid had everyone wrapped around his little finger. If it wasn't your mom buying him a gift every weekend they spent together, it was Dana sneaking him sweet treats, Robby giving him piggyback rides around the Pitt, or Jack agreeing that he could have a puppy.

“What?” Your mom dismisses you. “I can't say no to this gorgeous face!” Auggie giggles. “It's one of his birthday presents.”

“One?” You ask, arching your eyebrows. “How many are you buying him?”

“As many as the kid wants.”

“Well, there goes my inheritance,” you joke.

Auggie yarns down the phone. “When are you coming home, Mommy?”

A spear of guilt lodges itself beside your heart. There was still time. You could go home, not get yourself involved in any more cases, leave the next twelve hours to the night shift. But Auggie wanted a specific bike for his birthday and you would give anything to see his face light up in six weeks. That would be worth the price tag and the extra hours.

“I'm sorry, bud,” you sigh, already picturing the droop of his mouth. “There's a lot of sick people who need mommy's help tonight, but you and Grandma are gonna have a sleepover. That sounds like fun, right?”

“Are you helping them with Daddy?”

You hum, nodding your head to no one. “I will. Want me to say hi for you?”

“Please!”

“Why don't you go clean up and get ready for bed?” Your mom's voice comes from the other end. “Huh, wait, not so fast, little man. Say goodnight to Mommy.”

“Goodnight, Mommy!” Auggie shouts, and you smile to yourself, listening to his footsteps hurrying away from the phone.

“I'm sorry about this,” you mumble, shoulders sagging as you slump back against the wall.

“Don't apologise for giving me more time with my grandbaby, but you know, sweetie, August will be fine with any red bike.”

“I know, but remember the birthday present you got me when I was his age?”

“Yeah, I remember.” It was a beautifully handcrafted, Victorian style dollhouse, with powered blue walls, white accents and three floors. You were obsessed with it. That was until your baby cousin got jealous one day and broke two of the windows. “Your father worked more hours than he should've to save up for it, but it was worth it seeing that look on your face.”

“I want that with Auggie, Mom.”

“So why not ask Jack-”

“No, Mom,” you cut her off, nudging your glasses back up your nose, “I’m not asking Jack for money.”

“You're stubborn, just like your father,” she laughs, and you could only agree.

Saying goodbye, you pocket your phone, fix your scrubs, and step out of the stairwell and back into the Pitt. It was no calmer than you had left it, the patient in 19 was still screaming, despite already being given something to help with the pain, an elderly man waiting on a bed upstairs had been moved into the hallway, and Jack's intense stare met you from the opposite side of the room, like a hawk watching its prey. It would've made anyone else crumble, but not you. You stare back with the same intensity and wait for him to make the first move.

“What are you still doing here?”

“Working,” you mumble, looking up to check the board. Mr Singh in 13 could be discharged and told to come back in the morning if the pain in his stomach persisted, freeing up a bed. “The same as you.”

“But I haven't already just done a twelve hour shift,” Jack fires back, attempting to take the pad from you. You jerk your arm, giving him the same look you would give Auggie when he refuses to eat his greens. He sighs and slips his hand into his left front pocket. “What are you doing?”

“Discharing Mr Singh.”

9:57 PM

You rap your knuckles softly on the door, your runaway teen admitted this afternoon looking up from her spot on the gurney. One of the nurses had managed to get her to change into some clean clothes, but a quick search of her pockets came up with nothing. You had her first name, Cassie, but no idea where she had come from, or how long she had been unhoused. Longer than you could probably imagine.

“How are you doing, kid?” You slip your hands into your pockets, pulling out a granola bar. It wasn't much but hopefully an incentive to get her to trust. “Hungry?”

She lowers her eyes.

“It's not much, I know, but if you think you can stomach some hospital food, I can get you a sandwich.”

She tucks a messy strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I don't like tuna,” she whispers, any quieter and you would've missed.

“Got it.” You smile. “No tuna.”

“What's her story?” Jack asks, waiting to catch you as you leave. He was leant up against the nurses’ station, arms folded, a to-go coffee cup sitting on the counter.

“You're like a bad smell.” His lips twitch, leaning into you as you saddle up next to him. His cologne was warm and earthy, like a hug you never knew you needed until it happened. “Cassie, fourteen, possibly older, came in this afternoon after she was found unconscious on a park bench.”

“Social services?”

“She wouldn't say much to Kiara.”

“What about missing persons?” You shake your head. “What are you thinking?”

“Foster kid, maybe,” you glance up out of the corner of your eyes. He was already looking at you, eyes intense but with a softness around the edges. “We've had a few cases come in before of kids running away from group homes, found sleeping rough in parks and the usual spots for the unhoused. All similar to Cassie.”

You shrug and nudge your glasses back up your nose. Earning Cassie's trust was more important to you. And these were the type of cases you couldn't jump to conclusions with. Doing so might just be the difference between Cassie going home to a bed and hot meals, and spending another night on the street.

“Keep her overnight and contact someone in the morning to see if they can identify her?” Jack suggests and you agree, nodding your head, before letting it fall against his shoulder. The left side of his mouth hitches and he reaches for the cup. “Here.”

“Black, no sugar?” You tiredly mumble.

“Always.” You take a sip and wince. Jack snorts. “It's not that bad.”

“This,” you gesture to the cup, “is disgusting.”

You take another sip. “And yet you're still drinking it.”

"It's this or crash in the break room.”

Jack unfolds his arms, the backs of his fingers brushing against your side, gooseflesh prickling your arms. “You could just go home.”

“Mateo’s pulling a double. You're not on his ass about it,” you grumble, drinking more coffee.

He leans down, his left temple pressing into your hair, fingers stretching to softly grasp at your scrubs. “Can I let you in on a secret? I don't care about Mateo the same way I care about you.” You turn your head deeper into his shoulder but Jack feels the smile you're trying to hide. His expression stays neutral, successfully hiding his own, but his chest is alive with a warm gooey goodness. “At least tell me you took a proper break?”

“I tried.”

You lift your head, absentmindedly using his shoulder to nudge your glasses up as you pull away. That had probably been enough to give the nurses something new to gossip about in the break room. You'd probably hear about it from Dana or Perlah when you return on Tuesday, followed by Heather pulling you to the side, asking you if there had suddenly been a change in yours and Jack's ‘relationship.’ Which was a no.

“Go take a twenty minute break.”

“Not a chance,” you step away from the nurses' station, his to-go cup still clutched in your hand, “I have to get Cassie some sandwiches, Mr Johnson's blood work is back, and…” You take a sip of his coffee. “...I need to add about five packets of sugar to this.”

“Do not tarnish my coffee with sugar!” Jack snorts as you stick your fingers in your ears, pretending not to hear him. At least now he knew who taught it to Auggie.

00:39 AM

“How are we doing, Mrs Simmons?”

“Gloria, please,” Mrs Simmons insists, a friendly smile beckoning you forward into an atmosphere of warmth. “I keep telling this one the same,” she points to Ellis, “but she won't listen.”

Ellis looks over her shoulder, Mrs Simmons's chart becoming a secondary focus. “Thought I saw you whizzing about earlier.” She offers you her friendliest smile, which isn't much, but you were one of the few to ever see it. “Pulling a double?”

“Need the money,” you simply tell her, shrugging your shoulders. “Auggie's got expensive taste.”

“Birthday present?” You nod. “Auggie's his kid too, remember? Get him to pay for some of it.”

“That's the thing, he would,” you glance at Mrs Simmons, who'd be flicking her eyes between you and Ellis, listening to every word, “but let's talk about this later.” Ellis nods and turns her attention back to the patient's record. “Gloria?”

“I'm okay,” she answers, folding her hands in front of herself. “I'd better in my own bed though. Can't I go home and come back later?”

“Unfortunately not, Mrs Simmons,” Ellis says looking up for a beat.

“How long on a bed being available upstairs?” Ellis shrugs.

They had the space upstairs for more beds. It wasn't a secret. There was an empty floor, ready to be filled with beds and nurses. But refusing to hire the staff meant more patients were waiting hours, if not days, for a space to open up. The lives of patients were being gambled with because those in charge refused to put the money where it was needed, and nothing made you more angry.

You force it down, the bubbles of frustration popping as you take a breath, calming yourself. Mrs Simmons didn't need to hear a lecture about the ways the system was failing those in need.

“Are you sure there's no one we can call?” You ask for the second time that night. “A husband? Children? Even just a friend?”

“I'm old, sweetie, most of my friends are either dead or close to being dead.” You awkwardly laugh, her bluntness surprising you. “My husband too.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” you offer comfort and she accepts it with a kind smile. “What about children?”

“Just my son,” she quickly shakes her head, “but he lives in Italy now. It's just me, dear.”

You meet Ellis’s gaze. “What about leaving him a voicemail?” She asks, mirroring your stance on the opposite side of Gloria. “I'm sure your son would want to know you're in the hospital.” Gloria nods, unhappy to be defeated. “Good.”

“So, who's the dreamboat?” Gloria points and you follow her finger until it stops at Jack and Mateo. “Not the pretty one, the one on the left.”

“Dr Abbot,” you answer, ignoring Ellis and her smirk.

“I saw you two earlier.”

Ellis's eyebrows meet her hairline. “Oh?”

You look down at your pad, skimming your eyes over Gloria's notes. “Still keeping an eye on everyone?”

She shrugs. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Nurse?” Ellis asks.

“Thirty five years,” she says with pride, eyes brightening. “Looked pretty cozy, you and Doctor Dreamboat. What's the story?”

“No story-”

Ellis barks a sharp laugh. “Oh, there's a story there, alright,” she cuts in, the edges of her lips curving upwards. “Or was Auggie just an immaculate conception?”

“Either way, it's in the past,” you say tightly, and brush a hand down the front of your scrubs. “Don't you have other patients to see, Dr Ellis?” You didn't make it a habit to air out your dirty laundry to all your patients, and Ellis might just do so if you let her stay much longer. “I think there's a case of food poisoning with your name on it.”

“Who is it? Shen?” She teases, making her exit, giving Gloria a sharp nod.

“Didn't look like it was in the past to me, sweetie,” Gloria continues, fixing her sheets. Eyes float to ‘Doctor Dreamboat,’ lingering for a beat, just long enough so he wouldn't feel you staring. Gloria watches you; her gaze not hard like Jack's, but soft with curiosity. “Have you told him how you feel?”

You suppress the laugh that bites at your throat, a flash of warmth hitting your cheeks, the memory feeling hot and fresh for something that was seven years ago. Heather's birthday, too many beers, and a recently broken heart had led you to a quick and awkward fumble in the back of Jack's truck. Your dress hadn't even been hitched up your waist when you had mumbled something about wanting to do this for a long time. Jack's agreement had been the thing that took it all from fantasy to reality.

“It's complicated,” you settle on, giving your patient a slight frown.

“That's love.”

3:55 AM

“You look different.” Bridget stirs sugar into her coffee, the nurse trying to work out for the last five minutes what was so different about you tonight. She leans back against the counter, narrowing her eyes and studying you. “Not pregnant again, are we?”

“I'm not sure immaculate conception is a real thing,” you nearly choke on your water, screwing the cap tight on your bottle. If you were lacking one thing in your life, it was definitely a sex life.

“She's wearing her glasses,” Jack mumbles, briefly looking up from the medical journal in front of him, occupying the space across from you at the table.

Bridget accepts his answer with no problem, sipping slowly on the hot coffee. It needed more sugar, and she grabbed another sugar packet, ripping it open.

“Coffee, anyone?” She offers to both of you. “Fresh pot.”

Jack taps the back of his finger against his cup, not the same one you walked off with earlier. “I'm good.”

“No, thanks,” you scrunch your nose, trying not to look too disgusted.

Jack closes the journal, marking the page with his thumb. “Why are you wearing your glasses?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him. He knew you didn't need to have a reason to wear them. “Lose your contacts again? You didn’t fall asleep in them, did you?”

“I did that one time.” You roll your eyes. “And no, I didn't lose them. I’m wearing them for Auggie.”

“Why?” Jack straightens up. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, not really.” You shake your head, trying to defuse the alarms ringing so clearly on his face. A sigh tumbles off your lips. “It's just the other day, he said he didn't want to wear his glasses anymore because they make him look stupid.”

He frowns. “He said that?”

“I think one of the other kids might have said it.”

“Whatever happened to kids just being nice?”

“Most kids are,” Bridget answers, taking the seat next to you, happy to rest her feet, even if it was just for a few seconds. You nod, agreeing with her. “But some just don't know how to play nice.”

“Doesn't explain why you're wearing yours.” Jack flicks his eyes away from Bridget, back to you.

“I'm thinking maybe if he sees me wearing mine, he won't feel as embarrassed to wear his,” you explain, unscrewing your water bottle. You take a sip, shrugging your shoulders. “It's not my most creative plan, but he didn't make a fuss when I asked him to put his glasses on this morning.”

Bridget touches your wrist. “It's a sweet plan, hun.”

“D’you think I should start wearing mine more around him?”

“You've already been mistaken for his grandpa once before,” you tease, giving his foot a soft tap under the table. “Might just happen a few more times if you go around in those old man frames.”

Jack grins, tapping your foot back.

“Y/L/N?” Mateo pokes his head around the break room door. You glance at him, eyebrows arching, not liking the droop of his mouth and the panic in his eyes. “It's your patient in 18. Mrs Simmons.”

4:48 AM

Jack finds you in your usual hiding spot, bottom of the stairwell, obscured by a potted plant, head in your hands, body hunched over to make yourself look as small as possible. It works. People pass by without acknowledging you. Or maybe they do, but decide not to. He approaches quietly, knees cracking as he lowers himself down to join you, a groan rolling easily off his mouth.

“It-”

“Don't,” you mumble, voice muffled and broken, “I don't want one of your motivational speeches right now.”

Jack snaps his jaw shut, lips pursed together tightly. He tips his head back, meeting the wall behind, and looks up at the ceiling.

He remembers the first time he found you here, two months into your residency, the first glimpse of what was really behind that stubborn exterior. Multiple deaths from a vehicle pile up would do that to you. There was no motivational speech that night. He just sat and waited with you until you were ready to go back to work.

A few months later, you would ask him why he did that, and he would just shrug and mumble something about it feeling right in the moment.

It's in this spot, that he found out you were pregnant. And for all of thirty seconds, his world came crumbling down.

He hadn't thought about a life that involved children. Not ever, not really. Was there even a justifiable reason to bring a kid into a word that couldn't get its shit together? His thirties mostly consisted of friends with kids asking when it was going to be his turn. It came down to him making the decision that if it didn't happen before he was forty, then it just wasn't meant to be. And then you stormed into the Pitt, all stubborn, not backing down from a challenge, matching his every step.

A drunken decision became his whole world and he wouldn't take it back.

“Can I talk yet?”

“No,” you gruff out, but know it won't be enough to stop him. He'll say whatever speech he has stored up and you would just have to listen.

“It wasn't your fault,” he says, voice soft, trying to comfort you. He hesitates, but reaches out, settling his hand on the back of your neck. “Come here,” is all he mumbles, cupping your head as you fall against his side. His thumb strokes slowly, making patterns in your hair. “It wasn't your fault,” he repeats, emphasizing each word.

Your fingers play with your scrubs, hands dropping from your face and into your lap. Jack tucks you beneath his chin, and you welcome his warmth and comfort in one big breath.

Your bottom lip wobbles. “It was.”

“No, it wasn't.” He trails his hand down your back and drapes his arm around your middle, holding you tighter. “You followed every procedure, this was just one of those things that snuck up on us.”

“It shouldn't have,” you disagree, always the hardest on yourself. “I should've caught it before it was too late. I'm better than that.”

“Look at me.” You do, chin turned upwards, sniffling as you fight to keep the tears away. “We're human, but we're not perfect, okay?” He dips his head, looking at you directly. “We try things. We make mistakes. We fall, we get hurt, but we always rise up again. This one thing doesn't make you a bad doctor. How many mistakes have you made with Auggie? Doesn't make you a bad mom doesn't it now?” His thumb brushes away the first tear, calloused pad rough against your cheek. “You're a damn good doctor. I'd tell you if I thought otherwise.”

A small smile plays on your lips. If Jack blinked he would miss it. “You can't just let me feel defeated once, can you?” You huff, feigning your annoyance.

He takes his arm from around you, letting you sit up. “I can't, I like your smile too much to see you upset.” You glance at him wide-eyed and he just chuckles. Catching you off guard with subtle and not-so-subtle admissions was always fun for him.

“I'm not the one who needs to smile more,” you say, pushing your hands into the floor and standing up. Jack takes your hand as you offer it to him, groaning as he slowly gets up. “People might think you're less of a grump.”

He shakes his head. “I save my smiles for my two favourite people.”

You tilt your head. “Auggie and the waitress at Frankie’s?” Frankie’s was a diner still stuck in the seventies and the only place that made pancakes good enough for your son to eat. Jack did take offence to that.

“Okay, three people.” He points to you and counts you off on his opposite hand, “Auggie and Bertha,” two more fingers go up.

“Bertha’s been happily married for forty three years.”

“What Bertha and I have goes beyond marriage.”

You snort. “She only has a soft spot for you because you saved her husband from choking on bacon that one time.”

“And now I get my coffee for free.” He reaches out to fix your glasses. “You good?”

You shrug, a crooked smile twisting your mouth. “Is that twenty minute break still on offer?”

“Go,” he nods. “I'll find you if we need you.”

7:28 AM

Jack waits for you, his army rucksack slung over his left shoulder, mouth tight, forming a smile as you exited the hospital. “Everything good?”

“All good,” you mumble, nodding. “Just needed to give something to Dana.”

He tips his head, fishing his keys from his cargo pocket. “Something important?”

“Depends on your definition of important. I wrote a letter to Mrs Simmons's son.”

“Taking a leaf out of my own book, huh?” Warmth blooms behind his ribs. “Said everything you needed to say?”

Just about. Letters to the patient's loved ones was more Jack's thing, so you were unsure at first what you wanted to say, but once you started, it was hard to stop. The general stuff was in there, how sorry you were for his loss and how you had done everything possible in your power to keep her alive. But you also included how she was a beautiful and kind woman, someone who he could be proud of.

“I think so,” you say, giving a glance back at the double doors. The next forty eight hours would be bliss compared to the last twenty four you just had. “I picked up the extra hours to pay for Auggie's birthday present,” you turn back to him.

“Huh?”

“Last night, you asked me what I was still doing here, and, well, that's why.” You fix the strap looped over your shoulder, the front dotted with badges with various aquatic animals. It was like carrying a piece of Auggie with you to work. “It's a bike that's stupidly expensive but it's the only thing he's asked me for this year and I really want him to have it.”

His lips twitch. “The red one, with the white stripes on it?”

“Kinda matches his glasses?”

He hugs his arm around your shoulders. “Yeah, I already have it in my garage.” You gasp and give his side a soft punch. “Hey!” He groans, clutching your shoulder tighter, pulling you against him. “I didn't know he had asked you for it too.”

“I'm gonna kill you Jack Abbot,” you grumble, spinning out of his arm.

He chuckles, lips perked at the corners. “No, you're not. Who else is gonna take you to breakfast?”

You playfully roll your eyes. “You only want to go Frankie’s so you can see Bertha, I have nothing to do with.”

He swings the loop of his key chain around his finger. “Yeah, you're right.”

tagging: @livinginastory

REBEL COWBOY

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 6.5K Rating: E

Summary: You are a lawyer representing Jack after a patient's mother files a lawsuit on claims of misrepresentation and ethical misconduct. Initially, your focus is solely on ensuring that your client’s reputation remains intact. However, over time, the lines start to blur between your objectivity—and personal attachment to your client.

Warning: minor spoilers for 1x4-1x7 (Kristi—teen girl medical abortion storyline), slow burn (forbidden romance vibes?), mentions of abortion, workplace stress, reader is friends with Frank (they have know each other since college), implied age gap, frustration with healthcare system, angst (emotional argument), yearning, language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation (f), mutual pining, flirting, feelings, did i mention sexual tension?

A/N: This is going to be a quick 2-parter. The amount of research I had to do to write this was actually insane. Reminder, I am not a lawyer, so blame Google if any of this is inaccurate. A lot of people always say that they were fascinated by Jack fudging the numbers for the teen girl, and I thought writing a fic about the aftermath could be interesting. Lastly, I know those episodes are about a sensitive and controversial topic between the debate on medical ethics and whatever a viewer's feelings may be about abortion in general—so my intention was to handle this with the utmost care and respect. However, feel free to just keep scrolling if this just ain’t it for you because of the topic at hand.

Forehead smooches to @ozarkthedog, who made this story possible with gifting me the above GIF.

Jack Abbot Masterlist

IN THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE WESTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA

Eloise Wheeler, Plaintiff, v. Dr. Jack Abbott, M.D., and Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, Defendants.

Case No.: 2025-CV-785431

COMPLAINT FOR MISREPRESENTATION AND ETHICAL MISCONDUCT

Eloise Wheeler, on behalf of her minor daughter Kristi Wheeler, alleges that Dr. Jack Abbot, a physician employed at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center engaged in misrepresentation and ethical misconduct concerning the medical diagnosis and treatment of Kristi. Specifically, Kristi was pregnant, and ultrasound measurements conducted at the facility indicated that she was past the gestational limit for medical abortion procedures in the State of Pennsylvania. Despite this, Dr. Abbot purportedly falsified or manipulated the ultrasound data for the medical abortion to proceed. The plaintiff claims that these actions constitute a breach of medical ethics, patient trust, and professional standards, and have caused significant emotional distress and potential health risks to Kristi Wheeler. The lawsuit seeks appropriate remedies for the alleged misconduct, including damages and injunctive relief.

"Would your firm pick up this case?" Frank asked you, taking a long swig from his beer as you both sat at your usual booth at his favorite dive bar.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the thick stack of papers in front of you. "Frank, I need to finish reading this. The complaint’s about a million pages long—give or take."

Frank rolled his eyes slightly, a hint of impatience crossing his face. "That’s not answering my question."

"Why this case? You’ve told me about lawsuits at the hospital before, but never once have you come to me about my firm providing legal representation for anyone."

He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. It’s just… this guy, Dr. Abbot, he’s a good guy. I’ve known him for years, and he’s my mentor’s best friend. But I’m worried hospital leadership might throw him under the bus if this blows up. I don’t want him to get ruined over this."

You took a sip from your beer, considering. 

"Well, if this complaint is accurate, then Dr. Abbot could be liable for misrepresentation, ethical misconduct, and medical malpractice. And the hospital might even be vicariously liable for his actions. That’s a serious situation, Frank." You paused, your tone turning more analytical. "If the allegations hold up, there’s a lot at stake for this guy."

"Come by the hospital tomorrow. Just…meet him and the board."

You hesitated.

"Frank, I need to review all the details first. I can't just jump into anything without knowing the full scope."

He nodded, sensing your reluctance but eager to push the point. "I get it, I get it. Just… consider it. No commitments, okay? But the sooner, the better. This thing’s moving fast."

You took a deep breath, weighing your options.

"Alright, I’ll come by tomorrow. But I’m not promising anything,"

"Next round’s on me," he said, pushing his chair back with a slight groan.

You watched him go, then reached into the folder of papers in front of you. Carefully, you began flipping through the twenty-page complaint, your eyes scanning the detailed allegations.

Lowballing measurements to help a teen girl get an abortion?

Well, you couldn’t lie—you were definitely intrigued.

Count I: Fraudulent Misrepresentation

A week had passed since that night at the bar, and you had taken the case after meeting with Dr. Abbot and the hospital board. You had gone through the complaint thoroughly.

Every detail.

Every allegation.

"Dr. Abbot," you began, sitting across from him in some hospital conference room, "I want you to know I’ve reviewed everything. The complaint is structured into several counts, but for now, I want to focus on the first one." You paused, making sure he was following. "This count alleges that you provided falsified ultrasound data indicating a smaller gestational age, thereby enabling Kristi to qualify for the medical procedure. Therefore, her mother is claiming the falsification of your data led to Kristi receiving an abortion under false pretenses."

He nodded slowly.

"Now," you continued, "her mother, has demanded a trial by jury on all issues so triable. I’m going to fight like hell to make sure that doesn’t happen. But, if it does. That means this case is heading toward a full courtroom confrontation, with witnesses, evidence, and the chance to challenge every aspect of the allegations." You paused, letting that sink in for him. "So, we need to prepare for a serious fight, especially if a jury is involved."

"A jury, huh?" he said nonchalantly.

You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on the table, giving him a no-nonsense look.

Sharp.

Direct.

Eyes locked on his.

"Dr. Abbot," you said, voice measured but unwavering, "before we go any further, I need to remind you of client-attorney confidentiality. Everything you tell me is protected under law. It’s crucial for me to do my job right. So, I need honesty—full disclosure. Now, tell me—was the ultrasound data manipulated?"

He hesitated, his brow creasing.

Thinking.

Weighing.

You didn’t rush him.

Just kept your gaze steady, the kind of look that left no room for games.

After a beat, you pressed gently but with purpose. "Remember, clear and honest communication is what gets you the best defense. I need the truth."

Finally, he looked up, eyes cautious, "Yeah," he said softly. "That’s what happened. What she’s saying is correct."

"Good," you said, my voice level and confident.

He blinked, puzzled. "Good?"

You gave a small, deliberate smile—nothing showy, just enough to let him know you meant business. "Yes, I’ve had clients who lie, and it doesn’t work if you lie to me. Transparency is key. We can only build your defense if I know exactly what went down."

He exhaled slowly.

"Start from the beginning," you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out your laptop. As you powered it on and typed, you kept your focus on Dr. Abbot, whose words began to flow. His hands rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly—almost subconsciously—as he recounted what happened.

His posture was upright, shoulders squared, a stance that spoke of discipline—a trait no doubt honed during his military service. Every now and then, he glanced down briefly, eyes narrowing in thought.

You kept your fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard, capturing every detail, every nuance, every flicker of emotion that flashed across his face. You noticed his features—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a hint of stubble—he was handsome in a way that was almost distracting. In fact, at one point, you didn’t realize that he had finished speaking.

Dr. Abbot took a steadying breath, his Adam's apple bobbing as he cleared his throat softly.

"So… what do you think?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for some sort of reassurance. Then, with a hint of concern, he added, "Am I in complete shit here?"

You bit your lip. "I think… you didn’t intentionally falsify ultrasound data—any discrepancies could be due to genuine measurement errors or technical issues."

He raised his eyebrows at you.

You continued. "And we can present expert testimony from radiologists or medical professionals who can testify that ultrasound measurements can vary and that any inaccuracies can occur—unintentionally."

He looked at you.

Really looked at you.

With eye contact you had never really experienced before.

The attention was driving you crazy.

"In fact, I think you acted in good faith, believing your measurements were accurate and within legal limits."

He fell silent, and you could tell that he was gathering his thoughts and planning his words carefully.

"Are you being sarcastic?" he said maintaining, eye contact.

"No. I’m being your lawyer. And the strategy here is that you relied on standard medical procedures and that any conflicting data was a result of an honest mistake, not ethical misconduct. You have historically shown adherence to hospital policies—" he scoffed when you said that, "and you acted within the scope of your authority and professional standards."

He muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

He smirked. "That’s an interesting interpretation."

"Well, things aren’t always black and white, Dr. Abbot. You should know that better than anyone,"

"Jack’s fine, by the way," he grunted, his eyes never leaving yours.

You decided to break the tension with a bit of lighthearted honesty. "You know, Jack," you said, tilting your head with a small smile, "I feel like doctors usually prefer when people use their titles. Like, it’s a sign of respect or something."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "When Frank graduated from medical school, he was insufferable about it. Still is. He loves telling everyone he's Dr. Langdon."

Jack chuckled softly, a warm sound that didn’t quite fit the serious tone of the conversation. "Well, I only need my patients calling me that." Then his brows tilted slightly, his gaze shifting away, and he swallowed nervously. "Fuck, they may not be calling me that by the end of all of this."

"You’re not going to lose your medical license," you assured him. "That’s not going to happen."

He opened his mouth to speak, then annoyance flickered across his face.

"And, how do you know that?" Jack finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Because I’m damn good at my job. Didn’t Dr. Langdon—" you rolled your eyes, "tell you that."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"So, how do you know Langdon?"

You closed your eyes and thought back to the first frat party you ever attended, and the moment you came face-to-face with Frank for the first time.

"Since freshman year of college. Frank kind of… helped me out when one of his friends asked me to do a keg stand," you snickered.

"Well, did you do the keg stand?"

You couldn't help it, you giggled. That hadn't been at all what you were expecting to share about yourself. "No, I was too chicken shit." You admitted.

He lifted one shoulder. "Or maybe you were just smart,"

A few moments of awkward silence passed as you stared at each other. Your heart rate had slightly picked up now. You looked away while your fingers traced a pattern on the surface of the table.

Jesus, this man was good-looking.

"You know, I shouldn’t say this—" You swallowed tightly, "But, I wish more people were more willing to challenge the status quo," you whispered. "Kristi traveled from another state, likely due to restrictions, lack of resources, or limited access to reproductive health services. And you chose to prioritize Kristi’s autonomy and well-being. You helped a patient in a vulnerable position. That’s fucking brave."

As the words left your mouth, a subtle pause settled between you and Jack. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the weight of your admission lingering in the air.

His eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t speak, his tongue running over his bottom lip.

"The line between right and wrong often blurs. And sometimes, the hardest part is accepting that. It’s an uncomfortable reality. But—" you stopped yourself short and cleared your throat awkwardly before continuing, "you’re a good man."

Jack’s eyes burned holes into you. "I’m fucking not."

You frowned and pursed your lips. "You are."

Jack’s eyes searched yours, as if trying to decipher whether you were offering him sympathy, understanding, or perhaps a shared sense of the moral gray area you’d just acknowledged.

Count II: Ethical Misconduct and Medical Malpractice

A few months had passed since your initial consultation with Jack, and during that time, you had been meticulously building your case. You knew that a straightforward motion to dismiss on the grounds of insufficient evidence would likely be too weak—especially given the gravity of the allegations and the stakes involved. Instead, you completed a comprehensive investigation: interviewing hospital staff, reviewing medical records and policies, and securing expert testimony to support Jack and the hospital's claims.

Everything was going well… until it wasn’t.

After Dr. Collins interview, you realized that you needed to explore settlement options with the opposing counsel.

She disclosed that her fetal measurements did not match the measurements recorded by Jack.

This was new fucking information to you.

You had reviewed Dr. Robby’s ultrasound images and logs, which corresponded closely with Jack’s original notes—suggesting that Dr. Robby’s independent measurements aligned with the official data.

Yet, given Dr. Collins’ discrepancies, it strongly implied that Dr. Robby’s re-measurements were performed specifically to confirm or 'fit' the official reports that Jack had previously documented.

Which meant that Dr. Robby had committed an illegal act.

If this went to trial—he and Dr. Collins would be put on the stand.

And, lying under oath just wasn’t a fucking option.

So, you were engaging in negotiations with opposing counsel aimed at resolving the dispute amicably, seeking to avoid the uncertainties of a courtroom.

Opposing counsel was being downright stubborn, refusing to budge on the settlement and insisting they were ready to take this to trial. Their refusal to consider a reasonable resolution was making your stomach knot up—every day that dragged on felt like walking a tightrope, and you were starting to feel the weight of the stress piling up.

Honestly, you were fucking overwhelmed.

You had never cared this much about the outcome of a case before.

Why did this one matter to you so much?

The pressure to handle this delicately, to avoid a disastrous courtroom showdown, was getting to you. So, you found yourself at a bar after work, just trying to drown out the chaos for a little while. Frank was there, chatting away, asking questions about the case—probably trying to get a sense of what was really going on. You had to remind him, firmly, that you couldn’t tell him anything.

You couldn’t tell Frank that his mentor had committed a crime, too.

Fuck.

So, it didn’t take long before you were back to pounding back drinks and stressing over what the hell was going to happen next.

"Abby wants a Birkin for her birthday," Frank told you, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

A smile tugged at your lips. "Birkin bags have an average annual increase in value of 14.2%, outperforming the S&P 500."

He sighed. "I could buy a small island with that kind of money, or at least a really nice used car."

You glanced at your watch, the faint glow of the dim bar light reflecting off the face. It was already nearing 11:00 PM. You grimaced slightly, realizing you had an early meeting tomorrow, and the last thing you needed was to drag yourself into the office exhausted.

"Alright, dude," you said, pushing your chair back and gathering your purse. "I should probably head out. Got an early start tomorrow."

You reached for your wallet, sliding a few bills across the table to cover both your drinks. "On me tonight. You need to save up for a Birkin," you teased.

He grinned as you gathered your things. "You good? You don’t usually drink this much."

"I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all. Nothing to worry about," you quickly waved him off, a little too casually.

You didn’t feel drunk.

Tipsy at most.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he nodded and gave you a quick hug. "See you at Tanner’s birthday this weekend, then?"

"Definitely," you replied, forcing a smile. 

As you stepped out of the bar, the cool night air hit you, and you instinctively reached into your purse for your phone to order an Uber. The city hummed softly around you—distant car horns, footsteps on the sidewalk, the faint glow of streetlights. You were just about to tap your screen when a voice stopped you, and you heard your name.

You blinked, turning toward the sound. Standing a few feet away was Jack. He was dressed in his black scrubs.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, a little surprised to see him here, especially at this hour. "Jack," you said, "What are you doing here?"

He didn’t answer you.

Instead, he took a slow, steady step closer, his tone even and calm. "How’re you getting home?"

You gestured to your phone. "Uber. I’m just waiting for the ride."

He studied you for a beat.

"I’ll drop you off."

"No, that’s okay. I’ve got it—"

He gently raised his hand, cutting you off.

"Let me take you home," he said softly but firmly.

You hesitated, glancing at his scrubs, then back at him. "You just got off—"

Jack reached out, his hand taking yours.

His grip was firm but not aggressive.

It was reassuring.

His eyes met yours. "Let’s go."

Without waiting for a response, he motioned with his head toward his car—a sleek, clean vehicle parked just a few feet away. He was already walking ahead. When you followed, he opened the passenger door smoothly and gestured for you to get in.

"Thanks," you mumbled, climbing into the seat.

Jack closed the door gently, then moved around to the driver’s side with a composed grace. He slid into his seat, his eyes already focused on the road ahead. As he started the car, he looked over with a slight, smirk. "So, where do you live?"

You gave him your address.

As Jack navigated the car through the dark streets, he cleared his throat softly, a subtle but deliberate sound that drew your attention. He glanced over briefly, his eyes flickering with a hint of hesitance before he spoke.

"You look nice," he said. There was a pause, and then he added. "Were you on a date?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A slow, genuine laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. "A date?" you echoed, shaking your head with a chuckle. "Come on, Jack. I don’t really have a life like that. How would I even find the time?"

You looked down at your outfit—business professional, as always—your blazer, crisp blouse, and tailored skirt. For a moment, a wave of insecurity washed over you.

Did he think you dressed like this for dates?

Or was it just habit?

You couldn’t help but wonder if he thought you were boring.

Predictable even.

Your cheeks warmed slightly as you shifted in your seat, your eyes briefly dropping to your clothes again. Maybe he thought someone like you was the kind of person who’d wear this kind of outfit out on a romantic evening.

Or maybe he just thought you never had fun.

Why did you care what he thought?

"I was with Frank."

Jack scratched his chin, his gaze scanning in front of him.

"Langdon's been pretty concerned about you," Jack said softly, glancing over. "He told me you’re up for partner. Said he thinks you’re running yourself into the ground."

"What?" you snapped, a surge of anger rising. "He told you that?"

"Yeah. He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. You’ve been pushing too hard, working crazy hours, not taking care of yourself."

A flicker of bitterness crept into your chest as Jack’s words sank in. His concern sounded genuine, but it felt hypocritical coming from him—especially knowing how often Jack worked long, grueling hours. He was always at the hospital, late into the night, running on empty, just like you.

Your jaw tightened. You feel a flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or frustration. "So that’s your way of saying I look like shit?" Your voice cracked slightly, bitter. "What, you think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know I’m burning out?"

His eyes widened in alarm. "That’s not what I’m saying—"

You cut him off sharply, voice rising. "Then what the hell are you saying? Because I know what’s running me into the ground. This fucking case. Because Frank tells me about the shit you’ve been doing recently in the OR—bending rules, cutting corners, doing whatever the fuck like some arrogant man. I just don’t get it. Why? You literally have a fucking lawsuit on your hands."

He pulled the car to a stop in front of your house. The engine idled as he turned to face you fully. "Look—"

"No," you cut him off again, voice sharp. "You don’t get it. You’re worried about me? Well, when you’re deciding to play 'rebel cowboy', it just makes my job harder. If this case goes to trial, they are going to analyze everything you’ve done. They will scrutinize everything—everything that happened before Kristi’s case and everything that came after. They’ll dig up every mistake, every misstep, every questionable decision, in an attempt to find anything they can use to disqualify you or pin something on you. They won’t stop until they’ve torn apart your record and left you with nothing. So right now, you need to be doing everything strictly by the fucking book."

You were breathing heavily.

Your head was throbbing.

Your chest ached.

Your throat felt tight.

His brows knit together like he was in pain, and it broke your heart a little. "Look—if you’re telling me to stop being a doctor, I can’t do that."

"That’s not what I’m asking. I’m telling you, there’s a way to push back against the system, to challenge it, while still respecting authority and the law and—"

He scoffed, frustration boiling over. "That’s bullshit. You either follow the rules or you don’t—there’s no in-between." His voice was sharp, angry now. "You think the system cares about fairness? About justice? All they care about is making sure they win—by any means necessary. Just last week, I had to tell two parents that their insurance wouldn't cover the surgery their daughter needs to stay alive. A simple procedure that could save her life, but the hospital won’t do it pro bono, and the insurance company refuses to pay."

Jack’s eyes suddenly grew glossy, the shimmer of unshed tears gathering at the edges but never spilling over. His gaze flicked away for a moment, as if he couldn’t bear to meet yours fully. Then, voice trembling with quiet despair, he whispered, "That little girl is going to die. And I can’t fucking do anything about it."

He paused, swallowing hard. "So…if sometimes I 'bend a rule' or 'cut a corner' when I can, it’s because I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut.

Jack was a man who’d weathered storms and still stood tall.

"I’m sorry," you said after a long, tense moment. "I’ve been drinking tonight. My outburst was totally uncalled for."

"Don’t apologize," he said while licking his bottom lip. "Even though, I have to admit, there's something about seeing you all riled up that’s really entertaining," he said with a playful tone, causing your cheeks to flare with heat.

"Well, I’m glad you find this side of me entertaining. Maybe I’ll have to show you more of it sometime," you replied with a sly smile.

"I would love that," he breathed. His expression suddenly was unreadable, his eyes dark and intense. "Listen, if this goes to trial—then it goes to trial. I’ve made my peace with that. I did what I did, and I would do it all over again."

"Aren’t you nervous at all?"

You looked into Jack’s eyes, a mixture of curiosity and vulnerability flickering across your face.

He smirked, leaning in just a little closer, his hand lightly brushing against your arm. His voice was confident but teasing. "No," he replied with a grin. "I’ve got a damn good lawyer, haven’t you heard?"

You smiled back, a little shy but flattered by his words. He grinned wider, leaning even closer, his hand now gently pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering briefly against your cheek, and he looked like he was about to kiss you.

But just as that moment seemed to tip toward something more intimate, a wave of clarity washed over you. Your senses sharpened, and reality snapped into focus. You gently placed your hands on his shoulders, your breath catching in your throat as you steadied yourself.

"Wait," you whispered, your voice filled with longing yet tinged with regret. Your eyes searched his, pleading silently for him to understand. "We can’t do this. You’re my client."

He paused, a flicker of disappointment passing over his face. His hand slowly rose, fingers gently clasping yours, "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, voice heavy with frustration, as if he too knew that crossing this line was dangerous.

He breathed roughly, lifting one of his hands to your cheek. "You know at first, when Robby told me Langdon had a recommendation for a lawyer, I didn’t think much of it. Just another name to add to the list. But then you walked into the room."

He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips as he remembered.

"The moment you stepped in, I swear, I thought, god, who is that beautiful woman? There was something about you—how you carried yourself, the way you spoke with confidence but also kindness."

His eyes softened, and he pinched your chin between his fingers.

"And I realized it was more than just beauty. You’re incredibly smart—sharp as a fucking blade. You listen, you think, and you don’t just speak to fill the silence. The hospital board, they were visibly intimidated by you. Their egos—mostly male, of course—couldn’t handle someone like you challenging them, questioning everything. They tried to keep you at bay, but you just pushed through, unshaken."

His voice grew warmer.

"You know, it might sound crazy, but one of the reasons I don’t regret what I did—what I had to do—is because it led me to you. And honestly? That’s a fucking privilege. Just having you in my life, even amidst the chaos and the mess, it means more than I can put into words."

You felt him hum, the sound rumbling against his broad chest. "You’re not just someone I hired. You’re someone I want to get to know better. Someone I want to trust with everything. And I hope I get that chance one day."

Then he was silent.

His breath slowing, chest rising.

It was the nicest thing somebody had ever said to you.

And you knew he meant it. Every single word.

It was the first time you had ever seen him look truly vulnerable—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that made you want to kiss every inch of him.

Even though you didn’t say a word in response.

You could feel the weight of his words lingering between you.

Your silence wasn’t indifference.

It was an acknowledgment.

A silent understanding that his words had reached you deeply. 

You traced his jaw with your finger, your touch delicate and loving, and his muscles tensed like he was bracing for something catastrophic.

You leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot."

Jack’s eyes lingered on you. He nodded softly, a small, genuine smile curling his lips. "Goodnight, counselor,"

You stepped out of the car, the cool night air brushing against your skin. As you closed the door behind you, you hesitated for a moment, then turned back toward him.

Your eyes met his across the distance. The sight of his flushed face and heated stare had you feeling something down there, and it took every ounce of strength you had to not invite him inside.

"For the record," you called softly. "I want to get to know you better, too."

A slow, hopeful smile spread across Jack’s face as he watched you walk inside your home.

Count III: Breach of Medical Duty and Standard of Care

The room was tense.

Eloise Wheeler and her lawyer, Robert, sat stiffly around a long conference table at the hospital.

Jack was right there beside you.

Quiet but alert, like a coiled spring.

Frank had been correct—in the beginning, the hospital board was trying to throw Jack under the bus. They fucking sucked. You reminded them that the hospital was being sued for vicarious liability. That meant, at the end of the day, the hospital was responsible for Jack’s actions. So, instead of trying to distance themselves from him, they needed to support him. Because if they didn’t, they were only hurting themselves. The allegations were about more than just data manipulation. They were also about the health and emotional well-being of Kristi.

"Objection," Robert said, cutting in, voice a little too quick. "That’s irrelevant to this case."

You shot him a sharp look, cutting him off before he could get any more snippy. "With all due respect, Robert, what’s relevant is the way Kristi’s health risks aren’t being communicated. You refuse to let us speak directly to Kristi or consult independent medical experts who can testify about her current condition. That’s telling—it’s retaliation, plain and simple. This isn’t about Kristi’s health; it’s about punishing Dr. Abbot."

Robert's eyes narrowed slightly, and his tone hardened. "Kristi hasn't been seen because she's choosing to keep her distance. She’s a minor, and she's under a lot of emotional distress right now, and I think we should respect her privacy."

Jack stared straight ahead, patiently waiting for the argument to settle.

"You don’t want us to speak with her because you know she’ll say that Dr. Abbot and this hospital did nothing wrong." You turned directly to Eloise. "Eloise, I have to ask—what is your end goal here? You say you’re concerned about your daughter’s well-being? Yet, you’re blocking access to unbiased medical opinions. Why? Is it because acknowledging that Kristi is healthy, alive, and safe, because this hospital performed a procedure you approved, undermines your narrative of misconduct?"

Before Eloise could respond, Robert quickly raised his hand, signaling her to hold back. "Eloise, I advise you not to respond," he said sharply.

"This case isn’t about medical malpractice—it’s about control… and regret," you pressed on.

Eloise’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to respond. "My concern is for my daughter’s well-being. We’re concerned about possible risks—"

You quickly interrupted. "Risks that you refuse to fully understand or disclose. Kristi made her choice, and Dr. Abbot followed the standard protocols designed to safeguard her. Unsafe abortions happen across this country every day—women seek them, sometimes in dangerous, unregulated environments. Kristi trusted this hospital, trusted her doctors, and she made her decision with your consent. Now, you want to tear Dr. Abbot down because you’re unhappy with her choice?"

Eloise finally broke.

Shouting at Jack with raw emotion.

"I want my grandchild back!"

The room plunged into an unsettling silence.

Her words hanging heavily in the air.

For a moment, not a single sound broke the stillness, and everyone in the room seemed to freeze.

Even Jack.

His gaze was fixed on Eloise as if trying to process what she’d just said.

Robert’s eyes flicked to hers, a sharp warning flashing in his gaze—she had said too much. He quickly straightened, standing up abruptly. Gathering his papers, he cleared his throat, his tone firm but tinged with urgency.

"Eloise, that’s enough. Don’t say anything else." Robert said, voice steady but commanding. "We’re done here. We’re leaving," signaling them to gather their things. Without waiting for further discussion, he turned and strode swiftly toward the exit.

Jack slowly pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on Eloise as she hesitated in the doorway. With a quiet, expression, he looked at her and softly said, "I'm sorry."

Eloise, her cheeks streaked with tears, reached up with trembling fingers to wipe them away.

Then she simply nodded once and exited the room without a word.

You watched Jack carefully, then rose to your feet as well. He turned toward you, concern shadowing his face. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.

You paused for a moment before replying, "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Frustration edged into your voice as you continued, "Also, why did you apologize? Apologizing shows fault."

He took a slow step forward.

"Just because I don’t agree with her," he said, "doesn’t mean she isn’t hurting. She’s allowed to feel what she feels. Sometimes, the most honest thing we can do is just acknowledge that people are hurting, even if we see things differently."

You felt a strange flutter in your chest.

The sudden quickening of your heartbeat caught you off guard.

He was so genuine.  

Unguarded.

You just stood there, realizing how rare and precious that kind of understanding truly was.

His hand twitched subtly, a telltale sign that he was holding himself back from acting on an impulse—perhaps from reaching out, touching your arm, or closing the space between you.

"Want to grab lunch?" he asked.

You glanced at your watch. “I wish I could, but I’ve got to get back to the office.”

He nodded.

But it was clear he was disappointed.

It had been a few weeks since he dropped you off after what almost happened. You hadn’t intended to be standoffish. But you had been less frequent in stopping by the hospital, fewer phone calls, less of the casual contact that once felt so natural. It was just... easier to keep a bit of distance.

That night, after he almost kissed you, you did something you honestly hadn’t done in a while. You laid in bed and dipped two fingers inside of you as you touched yourself and circled your clit. You fell off the edge quickly because you imagined his fingers inside of you. Coming down from your orgasm, you realized that your feelings for Jack were dangerous.

Engaging in any form of sexual activity with a client was a violation of professional conduct.

His unrelenting gaze seemed to size you up. "Haven’t seen you in a while."

"I’ve been busy," you said, looking down at your shoes, unable to look him in the eye

He clicked his tongue, frustration flashing in his expression. "You’ve been avoiding me."

You looked up and were overwhelmed by his stare.

Blood pounded in your ears. "I’ve just been busy," you repeated.

His expression hardened, anger flashing in his eyes. "Bullshit."

He slowly closed the distance between you. His tall frame loomed over yours, each step deliberate, almost predatory. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air thickening with unspoken tension.

You could barely breathe. You needed to say something, but unfortunately, he spoke first. "Give in already."

His face was just inches from yours now.

You hesitated, your breath hitching as your mind screamed at you to resist, to keep your professionalism intact. You knew if you did what you wanted, there would be no going back. But the pull was undeniable, and your lips parted slightly as you considered his words. Your body tensed, then relaxed just a fraction.

"Just give in," Jack pleaded, his eyes dark pools of lust. "It’ll feel good."

You opened your mouth to respond—maybe to push back, maybe to accept—but suddenly, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the charged atmosphere.

You heard your name as the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was the hospital’s legal counsel, a composed figure in a tailored suit, clipboard in hand. "How did it go?"

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then quickly composed yourself. "It went well," you said, clearing your throat. "I think there’s a very good chance we can negotiate a settlement after today's events. The hospital and Dr. Abbot’s position is strong, and I believe we’re on the verge of resolving this without going to trial."

The legal counsel nodded, extending a hand. "Good to hear. I’ll let the hospital chair know. Thanks for the update."

You shook his hand briefly, then looked around, realizing Jack had already stepped back from you, his posture reverting to neutral, almost as if nothing had happened. You caught a fleeting glimpse of the door closing behind the legal counsel as Jack exited the conference room without looking at you.

You drove to work with hot tears finally trailing down your cheeks.

You couldn't shake the ache of frustration that settled deep in your chest.

It felt so unfair.

Why him?

Why Jack Abbot, with his intense eyes and his dangerous charm?

You hated how easily you’d been drawn in, how your mind replayed his words, his touch, as if they’d etched themselves into your memory with cruel precision.

You wondered why he couldn’t just be some guy you met at a bar.

Someone ordinary.

Why couldn’t he be a stranger in a crowded room, someone you wouldn't have to analyze, second-guess, or worry about?

He was chaos and complication.

You remembered your mother once telling you that sometimes feelings could sprout in the most unlikely, inappropriate places.

And no matter how much you wished it, you couldn’t unfeel what had already taken root.

You stepped out of your car, your heels clicking softly against the pavement as you headed toward the building. Going up the elevator, you pressed the button and waited briefly, then greeted the janitor along the way with a friendly smile. Upon reaching your floor, you stepped out and made your way down the corridor, and pushed open the door to your office.

Inside, you settled into your chair, sighed deeply, rubbing your temples as you scrolled through the latest updates on your cases. As you sat amidst the clutter of papers and flickering screen, your mind drifted to another case that had been weighing on you all day—you needed to check in with Alex, your junior associate on the case.

Frowning slightly, you reached for my phone and pulled up his contact, then tapped the message: Hey, just wanted to confirm you filed the paperwork for the Johnson case. Let me know when it's done.

A few moments later, your phone buzzed with a reply from Alex: Yes, I submitted the paperwork this morning. All set on my end.

You read the message and nodded slightly, feeling a bit of relief. You quickly typed back: Thanks, appreciate it.

With that confirmed, you turned your attention to the upcoming court prep for another case. You pulled out the relevant files, spread them out on your desk, and began reviewing your notes.

A few hours later, the office was almost deserted. The only sound was the quiet tapping of your fingers on the keyboard. Just as you were about to wrap up, there was a soft knock on your door. You looked up, blinking tiredly.

"Come in," you called out.

The door opened, and your boss, stepped in. He was also the partner on Jack’s case, and he was holding a piece of paper in his hand. His face was serious but controlled.

"Hey," he began. "I know it’s late, but I wanted to let you know—Wheeler’s lawyer just faxed over something. Thought you’d want to see it before you headed out."

You sat up straighter. "A fax? Who even faxes anything anymore?"

He smirked faintly. "Apparently, some people still do. Anyway, you probably want to look at this."

He handed you the piece of paper. You took it, glanced at the top—your eyes narrowed as you read the hurriedly typed heading. Then, you unfolded it and started reading, your brow furrowing deeper with every line.

"Holy fucking shit," you whispered under your breath.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

If you are interested in part 2, comment below, and I’ll tag you! Feel free to reblog your thots 😘