daydreamlib

[daydreamlib]

More hyperspermia Robby? 🥺🥺🥺

hyperspermia!robby is fucking with my head in the best ways

the sounds are obscene and it’s because he has to fuck you so deeply.

robby needs it–his load–to take, and the only way that’s happening is if he’s got you on your back and your legs wrapped around him… hugging him as close as possible. his cock feels like it’s splitting you in half and you’re certain you’re already halfway full with all of the pre cum he’s leaked out.

the both of you are a mess, robby rocking himself into your hole that’s squelching and sloshing stains of his cream mixed with yours, and it leaks all the way to your ass and splotches along the sheets with little care. his balls smack against you, heavy with the incoming flood of his load and adding soft plaps to the wet sounds of robby’s pounding.

you choke on the air robby’s panting into your mouth, and can feel his tip kissing the deepest parts of you. grazing against every ridge of your walls as he drags his hips away before slamming back into your g-spot with an impassioned grunt. the whining of his name from your lips only heats him further, and he fucks you at an angle that makes it impossible to know anything except him.

fuck, you always take him perfectly. gushing out splatters of your juices, and stretching just as his cock asked.

when robby comes, it’s shaky-breathed and leaking and filthy. endless ropes of his seed release inside you with an oozing warmth, and he groans and groans until his voice goes hoarse. you hold the back of his neck, sweaty and weak with your own peaks that swell alongside his, flowing through your lower half with an undeniable pulse of euphoria. each of them giving you little chance to rest before the next one flutters you completely breathless.

and even though his hips grow too tired to thrust, it doesn’t mean he’s finished coming. 

at a certain point, robby’s hips just grow too tired and his arms give out, collapsing himself on top of you… cock still crammed inside and pumping out thick spurts with sporadic twitches. belly pressed into yours, robby can only lie there and fill you until he’s leaking out from all directions. spilling his entire self inside your hole, robby quakes in frantic grabs of your sides. face buried against you and muffling his straining gasps.

pulling out is a flood; of moans and cum that squirts back out of you as you clench around nothing and whine at the absence. robby’s mind is mush as his cock slaps messily against your puffy lips, and he can’t see straight. the kisses he drags along your neck are full of tongue and sweet sucks, vibrating with low rumbles purring from the back of his throat.

“fuckin’ jesus,” robby slurs out, still drunk off you and the way your legs stay wrapped around him. “just gimme a minute, ‘n i’ll clean you up…”

“‘kay. there should be a towel on the counter in the bathroom–what?” you pauses, robby blinking at you with a glint in tired eyes, mouth quirked.

he raises, pressing his lips into yours. just barely pulling away, the man mumbles along the side of your jaw.

“who said anything about me needin’ a towel?”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[daydreamlib]

something something pope cody making you sit legs spread on your couch while he rubs you through your panties until you’re crying.

the man in just… in awe of you. it was just so easy for the crotch of your underwear to soak with the mess leaking from your slit. so damn beautiful.

pope’s especially obsessed with how your tits look when you arch your back and how he has to hold your thigh to keep you from squirming too much.

at some point in his crouch before you, he’ll lay his cheek on the inside of your thigh, and just press the pad of his thumb into the crux your center. he adds hints of pressure over the large wet spot as the seconds tick by, making sure not to close his eyes when he inhales lungfulls of your scent.

his tongue sneaks out to wet his bottom lip before he’s forced to bite into it, his skin growing even warmer as he gazes across you. still fascinated.

it’s not making sense, at least in his mind—how you’re real and letting him do this to you. this is why he takes his time… just in case this is some sort of dream he could be ripped away from.

you let out the prettiest sound he’s ever heard when he drags his finger from you, and pope pants.

“can i lick you, please? you just,” he pauses the desperate plea to slink his arms around your thighs while reshuffling on his knees with a grunt. his eyes bore straight into yours when he’s ready to continue. “you smell really, really nice… and i, uh… can i? please? just need a taste…”

it isn’t until you nod that he releases the breath he he’s holding.

“yeah?” he rasps, already reaching to pull the fabric out of the way. “yeah?”

the next thing to tumble from your mouth is a broken squeak, pope sinking the flat of his tongue to you with thick grunt of his own.

he can’t stop himself when his eyelids flutter shut.

licking you slow with a furrowed brown of determination, pope doesn’t detach from you before lapping his tongue one more, and then again. each flick is deeper and heavier, making you wiggle against the rough of his tastebuds gliding over your clit.

“pope—shit,” you cry out and he growls at how your name sounds coming from you like that. coasting along you in a dragging of his head, pope eats you with a fuzzy brain and slinking tongue—slagging circles around your pearl and sucking a little harder whenever he hears you gasp.

please keep saying his name like that. it might pulse his cock to a mess inside his jeans but that doesn’t matter. he wants it… needs it.

when your grip finds its way to a light tug on his hair, pope deepens his intrusion with a sinking of his mouth further into you. he slurps with intention, eyes opening to slam right back into yours as he focus the pressure onto your clit.

you don’t dare look away from him, even when your head wants to throw back and roll against the cushions behind you. keeping your stare intertwined with his, your jaw drops in a long, teary whine.

god, you’re everything. not perfect, because nothing is, but he’s certain that you is as close at is gets…

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[daydreamlib]

I Bled Where You Were

Fandom: Lockwood & Co Prompt: It was supposed to be a simple retrieval mission. In and out. But of course, nothing’s ever that simple when ghosts are involved. You take the hit—shielding George without thinking—and everything goes sideways. By the time Lockwood and Lucy fight the ghost off, you’re unconscious and bleeding, and George is spiraling. He won’t leave your side. He keeps pressure on your wound with shaking hands and mutters under his breath like it’ll keep you tethered. “You’re not allowed to die. Not before I tell you I—” And then he freezes, realizing what he just said out loud. When you wake up, pale but alive, your first words are, “Tell me what, George?” Bonus: He tries to brush it off. You grab his wrist and whisper, “Say it again. I heard you.” by @dearhnymn Pairing: George X Reader TW: Mention of blood, angst, but also they're so cuttteee

______________________________________________________________

It was supposed to be easy.

An in-and-out retrieval. The kind they could do blindfolded by now—get in, find the Source, contain it, get out. Quick. Clean. Controlled.

The house was quiet when you stepped inside, unnervingly so. Every breath felt like it echoed. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your boots, as if the house remembered pain. Dust hung in the air like old breath, and the cold—it was already curling around your ankles, soft and slow, like fingers testing your pulse.

Lockwood led with his torch raised, coat sweeping behind him like a story in motion. Lucy followed close, her grip steady on the hilt of her rapier. George walked beside you, one hand fumbling in his satchel for his notebook, muttering the details from the case file under his breath.

“Male. Died on-site. Age unknown. No documented burial—body was likely lost in the collapse. Cold spot reported near the northeast room.”

You nodded, listening more to the rhythm of his voice than the words themselves. It was easier to stay calm when he talked like that—steady, focused, George.

The northeast room was the library, or what had once been one. The shelves had mostly caved in, spilling mouldy pages and shattered glass across the floor. A grandfather clock stood frozen in the corner, its pendulum stilled mid-swing. Something in your chest clenched at the stillness.

And then the temperature dropped. Fast.

The kind of cold that didn’t creep—it sank. Bone-deep, soul-shaking. Your breath fogged instantly. Lucy’s torch flickered once, twice, then steadied.

You all stopped.

The ghost rose from the debris like it was waking from a long dream. Slow. Drifting. Not angry, not at first. Just… there. A boy, maybe seventeen, maybe younger. His eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking. He didn’t float—he hung, suspended in something invisible, arms limp at his sides.

George inhaled sharply beside you.

And then, he faltered.

Just for a second. Split-second of stillness. He stared at the ghost, face unreadable, fingers tightening on his rapier but not moving. Like he saw something—someone—in that face. A flicker of recognition, or regret, or too many nights spent studying names that didn’t belong to living children.

You didn’t think. You moved.

One step. Two. You cut in front of him, arms raised, body squared. You were used to his pauses. Used to being the first one in, the one who acted while George still processed. It never felt like a choice—just instinct, fierce and fast.

Then everything shattered.

The ghost lunged—not at George. At you. Its face twisted, mouth stretching open in a scream that made no sound, just a piercing ache inside your skull. You felt it, the impact—not physical, not exactly—but like being knocked backward inside yourself.

The cold tore through your ribs like knives of ice. You screamed, or maybe you didn’t, because sound didn’t matter anymore. Your limbs lost their shape. Your chest caved inward. You fell to your knees, the shield you tried to build slipping from your fingers.

Then came the blood.

A thin, hot trickle at first. Then more. From your nose, your mouth, somewhere deeper. You collapsed sideways, vision splintering at the edges.

"No!" George’s voice cracked. You barely heard it over the thudding in your ears. His hands were on you in seconds, frantic and too warm, pressing somewhere on your side where it burned and pulsed and hurt like your body had turned against itself.

Lucy's blade sliced the air with a scream. Lockwood barked orders, but you couldn’t catch the words. Everything was muffled now, like cotton had been stuffed into the world.

You could still feel George’s hands. One shaking as it pressed on your wound, the other gripping your arm like he could anchor you to the floor.

“Stay with me—come on—don’t you dare—”

You wanted to look at him. Wanted to say something. Joke about how dramatic he was. But your eyes wouldn’t stay open, and your lips were too heavy to move.

His words were inaudible, you could  not process them. They were just sounds, music to your ears as if it was the last, the most beautiful one. The last thing you clearly heard was George’s voice—cracked and trembling, full of panic and something else, something sharp and breaking.

“You’re not allowed to die. Not before I tell you I—”

The sentence ended in a silence so loud it hurt.

And then—

black.

There was blood under George’s fingernails.

He couldn’t stop staring at it.

It dried in the creases of his knuckles, caught beneath the edge of his bitten nails, warm once and now turning tacky. It didn’t feel real—not on his hands. Not yours. It was supposed to be theoretical. Distant. Something in reports. Not something he pressed his palms into.

But your blood soaked through his sleeves. It was real.

You were too still. Wrongly still. Not unconscious like sleep, like the gentle collapse of someone at peace. No, this was stillness like a paused heartbeat, a body frozen mid-fall. Your lips were pale, eyes closed, lashes twitching like they were trying to dream their way out.

George pressed harder on the wound, his hand sliding as more blood welled up. “Please,” he whispered. “Stay with me. Just stay.”

Lockwood stood near the door, coat torn, face pale. His voice had lost its usual brightness. Lucy was crouched nearby, torch gripped so tight her knuckles looked like ghosts of their own. Neither of them spoke. Neither tried to touch you.

Because George was the one breaking.

“I shouldn’t have hesitated,” he choked out. “I should’ve moved. I should’ve—God, you’re such a bloody idiot, why’d you—why’d you jump in for me?”

He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, breathing shallow and hot. His glasses had slid to the tip of his nose, fogged and streaked with tears he didn’t remember crying.

“Stay with me—come on—don’t you dare—”

The pain didn’t matter. Not the ache in his back from kneeling too long, not the way his wrists shook from the effort. The only thing that mattered was keeping your chest rising. Just. One. More. Breath.

"You’re not allowed to die,” he said again, lower this time, like a ritual. “Not before I tell you I…”

He stopped.

The words spilled out like a broken pipe, and the silence that followed was worse.

He hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with blood on the floor and your pulse fading beneath his fingers. Not when it felt like the world was caving in.

He looked at your face, eyes searching for some sign—anything. A twitch. A flinch. A miracle.

Nothing.

So, he stayed there, hands red and heart raw, saying nothing more. Just breathing for you, holding pressure like penance.

Until help came.

And then the rest was noise—paramedics, lights, movement. But George didn’t move from your side, not even when they pried his fingers loose. Not until they promised you were still alive.

Not until he saw your fingers curl, just slightly, against the edge of the stretcher.

Only then did he allow himself to fall apart.

The world returned in fragments.

A beep.

The prickle of warm light behind closed eyelids.

The heaviness of limbs weighted by sleep—or something deeper.

Your mouth tasted like metal and cotton, and your throat burned as if you'd swallowed fire and tried to apologize for it. There was a dull throb somewhere in your side. Not sharp. Just present. Like a bruise made of memory.

And then—

A voice. Quiet, hoarse, too close.

“—still not awake. That’s fine. I can wait. I’ve got all night.”

George.

You didn’t open your eyes right away. His voice was cracked at the edges, the way old records skip when you listen too hard. He was trying to sound normal, you could tell—still mumbling facts, little tangents, telling you how many types of ghosts had been miscategorized in the last Fittes Journal of Psychic Studies—but every word trembled.

There was a weight on your wrist. Warm. Familiar.

His hand.

“…you scared the hell out of me,” he whispered eventually, and now the facts had stopped. “You looked like you were gone. I didn’t know what to do. I just—” He stopped. Exhaled. “You can’t do that to me again, okay?”

You finally opened your eyes.

It took effort, like peeling back layers of something thick and stubborn. The light was low, and everything hurt—but your gaze found him instantly. Slumped in the chair beside your bed, glasses smudged, curls a mess, hoodie stretched and wrinkled like he hadn’t changed in days.

He looked like he’d fallen through grief and landed in a chair and stayed there.

“…George?” Your voice barely made it past your lips. A scrape. A ghost of a sound.

He bolted upright. Eyes wide. Like you’d just come back from the dead—which, technically, you had.

“You’re awake.” He blinked hard, and then again, and you thought he might cry. “You—bloody hell, you’re awake.”

You managed a tired smile. “Tell me what, George?”

He froze.

Like a record skipping again. He stared at you, breath caught between ribs like it didn’t know if it should leave.

“I heard you,” you whispered. Your fingers found his—weak but insistent. “You said something. When I was bleeding out and you thought I couldn’t hear. Tell me what.”

His hand twitched in yours. “You… You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“But I did.”

Silence.

His jaw worked like he was chewing through a thousand possible denials, trying to swallow them before they left his mouth. But you saw it. In his eyes. The thing he’d been burying behind sarcasm and science and safety.

Your thumb brushed his knuckles. “Say it again.”

He didn’t look away this time. His voice was barely a breath when it came.

“I love you.”

The words trembled like a confession to a god he wasn’t sure believed in him.

“I was supposed to tell you when you weren’t covered in blood,” he added weakly. “When we were both, I don’t know, breathing properly.”

Your laugh came out like a wheeze. “Terrible timing, George.”

“I know.”

“…I love you too.”

He blinked, stunned. Like all the air had been knocked out of him—but softly, this time. Like the fall was worth it.

And when he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours, you realized he was still shaking.

But now you were awake.

And he wasn’t letting go.

The scar isn’t large.

A small crescent near your ribs. Pale, healing, insignificant by battlefield standards. But for George, it’s a fault line.

And ever since you came back—lips pink, pulse steady, eyes burning with life again—he hasn’t stopped watching you. Not in a romantic way (though, yes, that too). No, it’s something deeper. Sharper. Like his eyes are trying to memorize every movement in case you blink out of existence.

You call it hovering.

He calls it being thorough.

Lucy calls it “creepy as hell, George, back off, she’s fine.”

But he doesn’t back off.

Not when you go upstairs without a word. Not when your laugh drifts from the kitchen and he doesn’t see the context. Not when you flinch slightly while pulling your shirt over your head and he rushes over like it’s day one again.

"Does it hurt?"

"No. It’s healing."

“Let me see anyway.”

You sigh, roll your eyes, let him check. His fingers hover just above the scar like he’s scared to touch it, like pressure alone could undo the stitches that already dissolved. He doesn’t speak while he looks. You let him. You know this isn’t really about your side.

It’s about his.

Because something inside George broke that night.

And he’s terrified it’ll break again.

On missions, he doesn’t stray more than a few feet. If you’re near the Source, he’s next to you—torch ready, heart in his throat. He startles when you gasp, stiffens when you run. He sleeps with one ear turned toward your door.

“George,” you say one night, gently. “I’m here.”

He’s sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall, knees pulled up like a kid lost in thought. His eyes lift to meet yours, haunted and tired and heavy.

“You stopped breathing,” he murmurs. “On the floor. Just stopped. And I thought—what if that’s the last thing I ever remember of you?”

You kneel down in front of him, touching his face. “But it’s not.”

He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing tethering him to gravity.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “Not when I only just—when we only just—”

“Started,” you finish.

He nods.

You slide your hand into his and press it gently against your chest. “Feel that? That’s mine. Still going.”

“It better keep going,” he mumbles. “Or I swear to God I’ll fight death itself.”

You smile. “Dramatic.”

“Desperate.”

He kisses your knuckles.

And maybe he’ll stop hovering one day.

But tonight, you sit beside him in the hall, tangled in silence, in shared breath, in a love that clings tight like ivy around a scar.

—

Tag list: @dearhnymn @neewtmas @35-portlandxrow

[daydreamlib]

the guy with the list

one shot

Pairing: george karim x f!reader

Word count: 1.5k

Summary: George can't pick up on social cues so he makes a list

Comment: short little surprise george drabble for all the george fans out there, just a fluffy little fic on this rainy sunday afternoon

@maraschinomerry @neewtmas @avdiobliss @oblivious-idiot @bella-rose29 @bobbys-not-that-small @demigoddess-of-ghosts

George was terrible at picking up on social cues. He couldn’t take a hint to save his life. He learned that the hard way when Lucy moved in. Or at least what he thought was the hard way. He put his foot in his mouth enough times when y/n was around to really grasp the concept of embarrassment. He didn’t use to care about those things. Until she came around.

He had been oblivious to her signs, her flirting, her teasing. He took everything literally, including Lucy’s exaggerated looks or winks, which he mistook for dust getting in her eye. The first three months of their platonic relationship had been a landmine of misunderstandings and avoidable hurt feelings. So, when they finally managed to get their words out and address what was clearly going on – according to Lucy – he wanted to avoid useless fights as much as possible. For this purpose, he had started a list. Well, more like lists. Plural. One wasn’t enough to cover everything.

He reached for the notebook he kept in the third drawer of his desk. It had been the first one he had managed to find empty that night. His mind was still reeling from the look in her eyes, which he was able to interpret in hindsight as fondness. The way her hand had reached for his, her touch featherlight against his skin. The light tug at his wrist, which meant she wanted him to get closer, he noted. The soft, barely perceptible smile, tugging at the corner of her mouth. The hypnotic pink of her lips, which didn’t require any interpretation, he was just fascinated by it. Her nose tilting up and her eyes fluttering shut. He hadn’t believed in magic, but maybe he did now. He dealt with the supernatural every day, but nothing was more out of this world than the feeling of her lips against his. At that moment he had acted on instinct. Looking back, he wondered how he had known to put his arms around her waist, one hand pressed against the small of her back. How he had known to draw her closer. How he had known to deepen the kiss just enough to take the lead. How had he known when to pull back and look into her eyes? And how could he ever do it again if he didn’t understand that?

His first entry had been messy, trying to capture the moment, to immortalize the feeling forever. He didn’t want to forget it for anything in the world. But it had only brought more fears, more insecurities and doubts. How would he ever make her as happy as he had felt just a few moments ago? He needed to sort this out, into categories, lists by themes. He would be more observant, more attentive, more everything if it meant keeping her happy.

On the second page of his notebook, he had listed her looks. The fond look he had first written about, trying to describe it in vivid detail, blushing as the words filled the page.

He hadn’t needed to think about it for too long before the list grew more extensive. He thought of the way she gazed at him with bright eyes and smile lines tugging at their corner, usually followed by a playful, mostly harmless provocation; her teasing look he loved so much. She usually looked more exasperated when she made a sarcastic comment, most of the time at Lockwood for being too prideful. Lucy had called him out when she caught him smiling to himself when she did that. He also listed the way her eyes sparkled when she was full of enthusiasm. The way her eyes seemed muted when she said she was fine, but she really wasn’t. The thinly veiled fury when she said she was fine and she was, as long as you don’t mess with her. The disdainful one – that one was for Kipps. The eye roll that made him smile.

Further down the line he had managed to catch the stolen glances too, that had a mischievous air to them. He prayed he’d never have to see sadness in her eyes ever again. But if he did, he knew that a hug, a cup of green tea with bergamot and a piece of dark chocolate would do the trick.

He turned the page and remembered how Lucy had helped with a few hints, before he had caught on to y/n’s insinuations. Specifically, he had been dense about body language. He had been shocked to learn that the way she rested her hand lightly on his forearm when they were sitting at the kitchen table, talking seemingly innocently, hadn’t been so innocent. But it wasn’t like the way she bit her lower lip. The forearm touch was fondness. The lip thing was attraction. He had blushed when Lucy had told him that last part. When he had first asked y/n why she was doing that with her mouth, she had said something about dry lips and lip balm. Weird how she always seemed to have this issue when he was on chain duty.

Now that they were closer – a lot closer – he got to enjoy a whole new flourish of soft touches and attentions. She preferred to hug in the morning, the sleepier she looked, the longer the hug. He noted that it was worth extra point if he nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck with a kiss at the top of her head. He knew this because she hugged his waist tighter when he did it that one time. He also knew that if he took her hand in his and kissed the top of it, she would look fondly at him and stroke his neck, so he did. A lot. He knew that playing with her hair helped her fall asleep. After tough cases he always insisted for her to sleep in his bed, so he could watch over her and make sure she slept through the night.

He smiled reading through all her likes and dislikes, finding pieces of her in her tastes he had learned by heart. A unique brand of chocolate, a tea for each time of day. Flowers for every occasion and movies for every mood. His finger traced over the page. He was holding a piece of her in those words, his scribbled notes forming a portrait of her looking at him with a tender smile.

He could spend hours analyzing her smile. She loved to communicate with unsaid words. She preferred to look at him with a tug at her lips and a raise of eyebrows. Their own secret language. “They are so gone for each other,” she would say silently with curled lips whenever Lockwood and Lucy would stare at each other in that intense way they did. It happened often enough that it had earned a spot in the list.

“Nice work with the research,” was the subtitle of what he called her professional smile.

“Thanks for having my back,” was expressed with a shy, almost embarrassed smile.

He sometimes found her holding back a laugh, when she forced her lips to behave in front of a client to not give anything away. Uncontrollable tears always formed at the corner of her eyes and smile lines rose to her eyes despite her best efforts. Once the coast was clear, the dam would finally break with wrinkles on her nose and the laugh he loved so much finally escaping. He would do anything just to hear it again.

His favorite smile of all was always the one reserved for him, the one that matched her sparkling eyes when it was just them. It held too much power, because she knew he could never resist it. He was drawn to it. If she looked at him that way she knew he would have his forehead against hers in seconds, gazing at her with a matching intensity.

He often went over the lists before going to sleep, hoping sleeping on it would help him memorizing it faster. Last night however, he forgot to put it away. He only realized the mistake when he found her standing in his room, notebook in hand, with an unreadable expression on her face. That look wasn’t part of the list yet. His heart dropped to his feet when he noticed the tears forming in her eyes. This was a mistake. Guys who made lists didn’t have the best reputation from what he was told. He blushed with shame as he crossed the threshold of his room, stepping into what he expected to be their first fight. Maybe their last one too.

She turned around and a tear rolled down her cheek. Before he could apologize, she pulled him into a hug, her arms tightly wrapped around him. He couldn’t breathe, both out of surprise and because of the tight embrace.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice.

“This is the most attentive and caring thing anyone has ever done. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he answered, smiling as he kissed the top of her hair.

He held her close, relief flooding him. Those were happy tears. He needed a new list.  

[daydreamlib]

Darling

Pairings: George Karim x gn!reader

Summary: You use pet names for all your friends, and you're determined to figure out which ones George will tolerate

Content: fluff, flirty banter, unwanted advances, spontaneous fake dating, small injury and blood mention

A/N: I can't believe I've made it to the 2 year anniversary of my first Lockwood & Co fic!! I'm so incredibly grateful for all the support and encouragement, it means the world. Here's to even more fics in the coming year!

Word count: 3.7k

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea @mischiefmanaged71 (let me know if you want to be added or removed!)

“Thanks lovely,” you smiled at Lucy as she passed you a plate of toast, ignoring the way George rolled his eyes.

You'd always been quite open with your affection, and at last you'd found a place where it was appreciated. It had been nerve-wracking at first, settling in to Lockwood & Co, but eventually you felt more comfortable being yourself around your new colleagues and housemates. Things started out small, just the odd compliment here and there, but they were always well received, which gave you enough confidence to step up a notch. “You're a star,” you’d say when someone brought you something you needed while you were working or training, “you're the best, thank you” was often your response to a home-cooked meal, or “oh you legend” when your favourite fancy biscuits made an appearance on the daily snack plate. Finally, you'd progressed to pet names: love, angel, darling, whatever felt right in the moment. Lockwood and Lucy always seemed to perk up a little when you used them, which was half the reason for doing so in the first place. George hadn't been so receptive - the way he rolled his eyes every time was a dead giveaway - so you hadn't got that far with him yet. He didn't have a problem with you otherwise, in fact he practically glowed whenever you called him a genius for helping with research, but clearly this he just couldn't get behind for some reason.

Lucy beamed at your response as she set the toast down before sliding into the seat next to Lockwood. “So what's the plan for today?”

Lockwood shifted his teacup to one side to double check the list he'd scribbled on the Thinking Cloth. “The man who called yesterday, Mr Campbell, wants to discuss hiring us but he's unable to come here so Lucy and I will go and see him. George, can you keep researching the Rowland case, and y/n would you mind doing a quick stock check and heading to Satchells if we need anything? I'd like to get the Rowlands out of the way tonight if we can.” You both nodded, and you quickly washed your plate before heading into the basement. Cold seeped through your socks from the stone floor, and you stuffed your hands in your pockets. The quiet of the space was a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle of your busy life within the agency, which you could hear carrying on above you as the other three prepared to head out for the day, making the floorboards creak and echo down the spiral staircase. You surveyed the shelves. It was a good job Lockwood had called for a stock take: they were looking particularly sparse after a busy few weeks of cases. There you had it, then. You'd be best just buying a set of everything.

Why you thought buying a set of everything was a good idea, you'd never know. The bags that were hanging from your elbows weighed a ton, and you struggled to negotiate the box of flares you were holding into one hand while you unlocked the door of 35 Portland Row, keeping it ajar with one foot while you rearranged your load to fit through. Without warning, the door was pulled open from the inside. Lucy and Lockwood must be back from their meeting already.

“Thanks darling, you're a lifesaver,” you groaned as you heaved the bags up the final step and into the hallway. A huff came from behind the door, and you peered over the box to see curly hair and furrowed brows beneath the top of a pair of glasses. “Oh, didn't realise it was you, George.”

“It's fine,” he brushed it off. “Here, let me.” His hand slipped under the box, brushing against yours and sending sparks through your arm as he lifted it away in one smooth move and took one of the bags with his other hand.

You smiled in relief. “Well, thanks darling, for sure this time.”

He rolled his eyes. “Do you have to call me that?”

Something clicked in your mind, and you chewed your lip with a mischievous grin as you followed him through to the kitchen. Okay, he wasn't keen on being called darling, but you had plenty of other options…

The Rowland house, as it turned out, was a bit of a maze. You'd split up, with Lockwood and Lucy on the ground floor while you and George ventured upstairs. From the glimpse you'd seen on your way in, the other two would be going in circles as the dining room, lounge, kitchen and entry hall were all inter-connected in some way. Up here was even more of a rabbit warren. It seemed like there were more storage cupboards than rooms, so you and George had taken a bedroom each to try and figure out which doors actually led somewhere useful. Yours had four: the entrance from the landing, two built-in wardrobes, and one leading to an en-suite. The en-suite itself had two more. The first was yet another cupboard, and the second you prodded open with your torch. A figure appeared in the light, and you gasped before you could stop yourself. At the sound, the figure spun, lightning fast. The tip of a rapier came dangerously close to your chest.

“Jesus, y/n!” George exclaimed as he dropped the blade in shock. “I could have hurt you!”

You lowered your torch from his face, steadying yourself against him as the surge of adrenaline passed through you (though whether that was from the close call or getting to see George's assured combative side for once, you couldn't say). “Sorry love, I thought this was another stupid cupboard.”

In the heat of the moment he almost didn't notice, but then you watched him replay the sentence in his head and throw you a disapproving look. You mentally filed love alongside darling in the ‘not a fan’ section of this little experiment. However, despite his apparent annoyance he still helped make sure you were unhurt before you moved together to check the next room.

—

Only a few days after the case, you got hit with an unexpected illness which left you feeling thoroughly rotten and unfit for that evening's job. Lockwood had poked his head into your room to reassure you that it was okay for you to rest up, despite how guilty you were feeling (it wasn't your fault, of course, but that didn’t stop you). As the sun began to set, filling your room with golden hues, there was another gentle knock at your door. You mumbled a response from within your duvet, poking your head out at the creak of the hinges to see who it was this time. A bashful George crept in, holding a small tray of tomato soup, buttered toast and a glass of water with some painkillers. He squinted a little against the rays as they illuminated his face in a warm glow.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” he whispered. You shook your head and his shoulders unclenched with relief. “Good. I thought I'd bring you something to eat before we go, but you don't have to eat it if you're not feeling up to it, or I can get you something else or-”

You cut him off before he spiralled, your voice hoarse but soft. “No, this is great, you're an angel. Thank you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in spite of himself. Maybe he was just playing nice because you were in no state to fight back, but you added angel to your ‘maybe’ list just in case. “You're welcome. If your light is still on when we get back I'll check in again, or if not then sleep well.”

From that point on, there was a shift in the way you both handled your use of pet names. For you, it was a matter of when you used them - the more serious ones when George did something endearing, which was surprisingly regular for someone so blunt, and silly ones when he was winding you up and you wanted to get your own back. His responses changed too, of course he would still roll his eyes or bite back at the ridiculous ones, but you couldn't help but notice that when you genuinely called him something sweet he'd seem almost happy before remembering he wasn't supposed to enjoy them and close himself off again. It was a shame because those were your favourite moments, seeing him light up at your words, being able to be so affectionate with him without question or consequence. You weren't ready to admit yet that you were starting to fall for him and all the little things he did for you, so this was the best way you had to show him how much you appreciated it. How much you appreciated him.

—

George stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in his orange trousers and a loose orange and black plaid shirt with rolled sleeves, tapping his foot impatiently. “Come on, the Archives will be closed by the time we get there at this rate!”

You yelled back over the rush of running water as you finished getting ready in the bathroom on the landing. “Give me one minute!”

“You've had fifteen minutes of one minutes!”

“Well excuse me for making sure I'm presentable,” you scoffed as you bounded down the stairs, face fresh and dewy. “You wouldn't want me to get you banned for impropriety, now would you honeybun?”

George pulled a face not unlike someone biting into a lemon. “That's the worst one yet.”

“Worse than snookums?”

The imaginary lemon got even more sour. “Oh please, for the love of god don't bring that one back.”

“Whatever you say, pookie.” You couldn't help but let out a giggle as you walked past and opened the front door, feeling the daggers being glared into your back.

The British Archives were quiet, most people taking the good weather as an excuse to forgo research for the day. Together you and George found a corner table tucked amongst the stacks, right between all the information you needed. You wandered over to the newspaper section and gathered a few. When you returned, George staggered over with a stack of books. Once settled, you drifted into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the rustling of pages and the scratch of pens in your notebooks. After a while, you became aware of George shuffling through the newspapers with a frown.

“Did you manage to find the 1897 article?” He asked.

Oops. “Sorry,” you pulled a face, “I think it's in the other section so I forgot. I'll find it, one sec.” With that, you stood and ventured deeper into the section.

This part of the Archives was laid out quite unusually. Some sections were wide and easy to navigate, but it was just your luck that the article you needed was stashed down a narrow corridor of drawers which culminated in a dead end at a concrete wall. The lighting wasn't particularly good either; one of the fluorescent tubes had blown, leaving you to squint as you flicked through the drawer marked ‘1896-1900’. In fact, you were so focused that you almost didn't hear the approaching footsteps.

“Hi there,” a deep voice came from the end of the corridor. You glanced up to see a tall, broad-shouldered boy in a Rotwell uniform leering at you from the end of the corridor. “Need a hand?”

“No thank you,” you replied as politely as you could, turning back to the drawer. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him approach. You tensed.

“Are you here alone?” His eyes lit up in anticipation of your answer.

Even if you had been, there's no way you would have told him so. “Actually, I'm with someone.” Not technically a lie. Just worded in a way that you hoped would make him leave you to it.

“Well then, he's a fool,” he moved even closer, leaning on the edge of the drawer, his voice as slimy as his expression. You felt for the handle of your rapier, the rapier which you had left at the table. Your blood turned to ice. “Leaving you to do all the hard work by yourself? That's not very chivalrous. Why don't you let me-”

“Oh there you are, muffin,” George said loudly and stiffly as he stepped round the corner of the shelves in a rehearsed sort of way, like he was pretending to stroll in but had in fact been standing there just long enough to hear what was going on. You fought back a snort, hiding the noise with your hand as you stared wide-eyed at your friend. He returned the look, cheeks flushing and seeming very much like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole, but he gave a strained smile and a subtle nod over the taller boy's shoulder. You'd both done that same nod often: follow my lead.

You took a shaky step past the other agent, a step closer to safety. “Sorry, pumpkin, just got a bit… sidetracked,” you replied pointedly. As you got to his side his arm came up and around your waist, fingers hovering just above the fabric of your top, but it was enough to make the Rotwell agent balk.

“Sorry man, I didn't know,” he muttered.

“Well, now you do,” George said with his usual dryness. “Come on, sweetheart, let's go.” You leaned into his touch, allowing him to put himself between you and the other boy as he guided you away.

“Thank you, George,” you whispered into the space between you as you turned the corner, and you could have sworn he held you a little bit tighter.

The moment you were out of view and earshot he let you go, still keeping close until you were calmer and back at your table.

“Well, that was interesting, muffin.” Despite how grateful you were, you couldn't help but tease him; his cheeks were still tinted with rose, and the colour flared again as you emphasised his spontaneous choice of name.

He grimaced as he gathered up the last of your belongings from the table. “Breathe a word of this to anyone and I'll push you into the Thames.”

“You hated every second of that, didn't you?”

“Mostly because of him, but yes. Pumpkin, really?”

“Hey,” you held your hands up in mock surrender, “you're the one who left the house entirely in orange this morning, that's on you.”

“Remind me to burn this outfit when we get back,” he groaned, but there was a small smirk with it.

You were outside now, squinting into the bright light of the day. Not a cloud was in the sky, people were sitting in the nearby open spaces with books and picnic lunches, and as you watched a woman passed by on a vintage bicycle with a basket full of fresh flowers. You turned to the boy beside you. “Do you want to get ice cream on the way home? I know a great place.”

“Sure,” he smiled. “My treat.”

“Aww, thanks sweetheart.” He inhaled deeply, already regretting opening that can of worms, and you ran away laughing as he chased you from the courtyard.

You strolled back to Portland Row with your ice creams, hastily eating before they could be melted by the blazing sun overhead. On the way, you chatted about your research, and while you had plenty to say you noticed that George only chipped in occasionally with his own findings. He was tense; you wondered if he was still thinking about what had just happened. Your suspicions were seemingly confirmed when, upon returning to an empty house (Lockwood and Lucy must be taking advantage of the weather too), he announced that he was going to let off steam in the training area downstairs. You gave an understanding nod, and sat down at the kitchen table to collate your notes. The rhythmic whooshes and thuds from downstairs were surprisingly hypnotic, and you noticed immediately when they stopped for a moment. Your attention wavered. Well, that was as good a time as any to take a break and put the kettle on. You hummed to yourself as the water began to boil, stopping when you heard footsteps.

“Perfect timing, I'm just making tea if you want a cup.”

It sounded like the person behind you was rushing out of the kitchen, his “I'm fine thanks” a hurried mumble. You turned.

“George, you're bleeding!”

“It's nothing,” he brushed you off despite the prominent red streak just below the rim of his glasses.

He was already gone and halfway up the stairs by the time you processed what was going on, but you quickly grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard and followed. If he really didn't want you to get involved, he'd have closed his bedroom door behind him, but it stood ajar. Still, you lingered on the threshold. His room was poorly lit; his curtains were still closed from the early start, and he'd only turned on a small lamp on his bedside table which was fighting to pierce through the stack of comics and books that surrounded it. Amongst it all, George was sitting on the edge of the bed, cheek turned away from you and staring at his hands.

“May I?” you asked, and he shuffled across the edge of his bed to make space in response. You settled down next to him, laying the kit on top of his sheets. “What happened?”

“Rapier caught on the stupid dummy and I slipped and nicked myself.”

“Oh honey, that's more than a nick,” you sighed, unsure whether the grimace that followed was from pain or the name. “Can I take your glasses off?” He gave a resigned nod, and you did so. The cut was a couple of centimetres long, running along his cheekbone, and tiny red dots were pooling along its length. You hesitated for a brief second, not used to having to patch anyone up but yourself, then clicked the latch on the first aid kit and took out an antiseptic wipe.

“Can I ask you something?” you said quietly, dabbing the wipe against his cheek. The cut was in a very awkward position, every time he moved his face it shifted. The dark red line looked almost black in the dim light of his room, and you were perched close on the edge of his bed to get a better look.

He winced. “You can always ask, it's whether or not I’ll answer that's the issue.”

“What do you have against me calling you pet names?”

He paused, and you thought maybe he really wasn't going to answer. He did, though. “It's complicated.”

“Well yeah, I figured,” you sighed. “Half the time it seems like you're okay with it, and then suddenly you'll look sort of irritated and I can't tell whether you want me to stop, which of course I will.”

“Don't.” The word came from him very suddenly, and you blinked. You pulled your hand away a little. He seemed to realise what he'd said. “I mean, you can do what you want, I'm not going to stop you.”

“But if it's annoying I can-”

“I'm not annoyed.”

“Then why do you always look like you are?”

“I'm… it's not… it's just frustrating, okay?”

You froze. That wasn't what you were expecting at all. You dropped your gaze, focusing intently on the first aid kit and willing yourself to look normal enough to put a plaster on without him seeing the tears in your eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, unintentionally twisting the imaginary blade you felt in your chest. “I don't mean it like that, it's not you that's frustrating.” You sniffed and risked a glance up. It was a shock to see him so vulnerable, looking almost as much like he was about to cry as you. “I like hearing you use those names, I do, but I always thought I'd get called them by a partner and it's just a reminder that you're… not.”

That was a perfectly reasonable boundary, you supposed, so why hadn't he said so from the beginning? And why did he seem almost disappointed? You almost dropped the plaster you were holding. Was he saying what you thought he was? Slowly, you peeled apart the wrapping, trying to keep your voice neutral. “So, if we were dating then it'd be okay?”

He hesitated as though he hadn't considered it as an option, and for a moment you were terrified that you'd misunderstood. “I suppose so.”

“In that case,” you bit your lip nervously, “would you like to go out? With me?”

His dark eyes scanned yours, searching for any hint of mocking or sarcasm. When he found none, he smiled softly, the cut shifting again but thankfully not springing open. “How about dinner, darling?”

Your jaw dropped. “Did you just-”

“Could I have my glasses please?” he asked suddenly. You realised you'd put them behind you.

“I'm not done,” you protested, gesturing to his cheek.

“I know, it's just I'd quite like to kiss you if that's okay, and I'd prefer to be able to see what I'm doing.”

You picked up his glasses, plaster immediately forgotten, and placed them on his face with a bashful smile. The moment he was able to see you, he leant in. Your hand was still raised so you tangled it into his hair as he placed his lips gently to yours, and his arm wrapped around your waist to hold you close.

When you parted, he refused to let go, smiling down at you. Miraculously, his cheek had stayed in one piece. “So, dinner?”

“Thought you'd never ask, darling,” you grinned.

“Lead the way, love.”

It seemed he was a fan of those pet names after all.

[daydreamlib]

we're not gonna be friends

one shot

Warnings: none

Content: not enemies, more like annoyed at each other, to lovers, f!reader x George

Word count: 6.8k

Summary: George and y/n can't stand each other, but Lucy can see through their annoyance. Maybe she should help them out a little bit.

Comment: it took me an embarrassingly long time to write this but i'm so happy it's finally here! It was inspired by the song We're not gonna be friends by PJ Frantz which is attached to this

@neewtmas ; @maraschinomerry ; @oblivious-idiot ; @bella-rose29 ; @bobbys-not-that-small ; @lewkwoodnco ; @clarabowmp3 ; @demigoddess-of-ghosts

The kitchen was silent like it often was before breakfast. Or was it lunchtime already? Despite the number of clocks in the house, y/n couldn’t keep track of the day. Unlike Tendy’s where every agent had to keep a tight schedule, Lockwood&Co taught her to be more spontaneous with her day. She’d been there three months already, but she still wasn’t used to the hours kept by her colleagues. They could eat breakfast at 3am or 11, sometimes had breakfast for dinner or the other way around. The only thing she knew by heart was the quietness before a shared meal. The only noises came from George’s cooking. They would soon be replaced by uninterrupted chatter, the scraping of chairs against the floor and the kettle that was kept on most of the time.

She tried to appreciate the peace before the storm but it was tainted with the heavy stillness of the room. With his back turned to her, George couldn’t see her disappointment at the lack of conversation between them. Despite her best efforts, she hadn’t managed to find any sort of anchor with him. She had tried her best to be friendly, helpful, grateful for everything he did around the house but nothing had worked. Even the best conversation starters she could find about the Problem would get shut down in two sentences or less. Once, she mentioned the conversation she had overheard between two of her ex-colleagues, theories on the best ways to stop the Problem. His eyes had lit up, eager to respond and keep the debate going. He had only taken part of the conversation to contradict whatever the agents had said, but she was glad of the progress she made. However, she had made the mistake of smiling at him which instantly turned him mute once again before exiting the room without finishing whatever thought he had started.

She had grown frustrated of the situation. Frankly, if it hadn’t been for Lockwood and Lucy, she would have given up entirely. But they kept insisting that they could be the best of friends and if she was honest with herself she felt insecure about wrecking the harmony between the three roommates. She already felt guilty enough for making Lucy share her room, no matter how much she insisted that she liked having her here. So, she attempted a new approach: instead of talking to him, she would try to help him out, be of service.

She waited patiently for him to finish whatever step he was on in his recipe to get the plates from behind him. When he rested the spoon he had in hand on the side of the pan, she stood up and went for the plates. He got there first and turned around carrying the four plates. Instead of handing them to her, he avoided her eyes and set them down himself, practically walking through her. She didn’t let his rudeness stop her from helping and opened the cupboard where sat the glasses. He was faster once more and slid his fingers inside the glasses to grab two with each hand. Refusing to back down, she took the forks and knives out and set one of each next to the plates. She went next for the napkins but was stopped in her tracks by the sound of metal hitting plates. She turned around to see George rearranging her table setting, visibly sighing as he placed attentively the forks on the left face up and the knives on the right blades in. He once again avoided her gaze and went back to his dish still cooking on the stove.

“Should I bring the napkins or do you have preferences for that too?” She tried to say on a light tone but her annoyance bled through.

“However you want is fine.”

“Apparently not…” she mumbled.

“They’re just napkins, y/n.”

“They were just forks.”

“That’s differ-“

She slammed the door behind her before he could finish. She wasn’t sure if she was hungry anymore. The front door opened and she came face to face with Lockwood who was coming back from whatever errand he and Lucy had run in the morning.

“Hey,” he said as she passed by him. “Aren’t we about to eat?” he asked, but she was already climbing up the stairs.

He and Lucy exchanged a look before the girl decided to go after her. Even though y/n hadn’t said anything, Lucy was pretty sure George had to be involved. She couldn’t really blame her. She and George had had a difficult start too. But it hadn’t taken this long for the researcher to warm up to her. And y/n was much more polite than she had been. Something was off and he had some explaining to do. She would ask him about it after she made sure y/n was okay. She climbed the stairs up to the attic and found y/n angrily fluffing the pillows on her bed. She didn’t have to ask to know whose face she was picturing while violently adjusting the stuffing of a forest green throw pillow.

“So…” she started carefully, “how was your morning?”

“He is the most obnoxious and condescending jerk I’ve ever met.”

“What happened now?” she asked cautiously, but she couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“I have tried so hard to be pleasant and helpful. I talk about subjects he is interested in, I help out on chores he does, I do everything to be nice and a good roommate and he still won’t talk to me for more than thirty seconds and he won’t under any circumstances let me help out.”

She threw the innocent pillow on her bed to punctuate her annoyance.

Lucy felt torn by the situation. On the one hand she felt bad for her. Getting used to living with George hadn’t been easy for her either, but compared to how he was treating y/n, she had had it easy. He had been irritable lately and he snapped at the slightest inconvenience. On the other hand, she might have an idea of what was really going on.

“Why don’t we go back downstairs and eat something, it’ll make you feel better.”

“And deal with him? No thanks.”

She resolutely sat on her bed, crossing her arms to mark her words.

“I’ll bring up a plate for you.” Lucy said as she made her way back down the stairs.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lucy said as soon as she entered the kitchen.

“Where should I start?” The skull countered in that invasive way he had of barging in on her conversations.

She ignored him and tapped George on the shoulder, making him look away from his cooking.

“Please, Lucy, we’re about to eat.”

“Yeah, well y/n’s not coming down because of you.”

“She’s not?” Lockwood chimed in.

“Our dear friend George annoyed her away.”

Lockwood smiled somewhat fondly. This was classic George.

“I didn’t do anything.” He said flatly.

“You didn’t let her help, you keep leaving her out!”

George took a deep breath before affirming decidedly

“I don’t like the way she sets the forks and knives.”

She and Lockwood exchanged a look. He couldn’t be serious.

“George, please,” Lockwood started, sensing Lucy’s annoyance.

“She doesn’t check if they match and she sets them haphazardly because she can’t be bothered to place them on each side of the plate, it drives me nuts!”

She looked across the table to see Lockwood smiling at her, silently acknowledging his friend’s quirks.

“George,” he started, “I can’t have two team members unable to work together over forks and knives. I’m gonna need you to make an effort, try and be friends.” He punctuated his words with one of his charming smiles.

George stood up and grabbed his plate.

“I can’t be friends with her.” He declared before going in his room.

Lockwood sighed in defeat.

“Don’t worry about it too much.” Lucy told him.

“How can I not? They’re this close to being at each other’s throat.”

Oh I don’t know about throats but something else surely. She didn’t want to say anything yet, but she had a hunch. George was rude, more so than he had ever been to her. He claimed he couldn’t stand y/n, yet he somehow always managed to be in the same room as her. If he truly couldn’t spend a minute in her company, why did she find him researching a case in the library on several occasions with y/n reading nearby instead of going in his room? And why would he spend twice as much time cleaning if not maybe to see her coming in? He may have his preferences when it came to cleaning, but her instincts told her there was something else at play here.

“Maybe we could make them collaborate more…” She told Lockwood with a grin.

They shared a complicit look.

George was halfway through an article when Lockwood called him down. He wondered what could be more important than being prepared for a case but with Lockwood it could be anything. Without looking up from the newspaper he was reading he went downstairs, only to be greeted with Lucy’s insistent stare. She had that look on her face. It instantly filled him with dread. Whatever they did, it obviously meant more work for him.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Nothing!” Lucy answered too quickly. “We just…”

He left the article on the nearest table to cross his arms. He looked back at Lockwood.

“We knocked over a few boxes while training.”

“So? Just clean it up.”

“They’re yours. It’s your records and research on the Problem…”

George stormed downstairs. Dealing with Lockwood’s recklessness in the field was already a lot, but carelessness in the house they all lived in, that’s where he drew the line.

“I’m sorry George,” Lockwood chased after him, “I want to help but I don’t know your system.”

“You’d mess it up anyway. It’s fine, I’ll take care of it.” He sighed.

“At least let me get you some help,” Lucy said, already halfway back into the hall.

Before he could protest, she called “y/n! We need your help!”

The girl arrived shortly after, visibly unhappy about the situation.

“We have errands to run, but have fun you two!” Lucy said cheerfully, quickly exiting through the front door before anyone of them could protest.

George stared at the closed door with round eyes. He wasn’t mad about the files anymore. This was worse. So much worse. How was he supposed to get anything done while she was around?

“What do you need help with?” y/n asked flatly.

Without sparing her another glance he rushed back downstairs to evaluate how much damage had been done. He didn’t want to try and explain his system. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he could. He was aware of his quirks and weird habits, and he was aware that it didn’t make sense to most people. Lockwood had made that clear. And even though Lucy made efforts, his filing system was where she drew the line. He didn’t want to hear the same thing from y/n.

Papers were scattered across the office floor. The filing box labelled ‘Problem’ was upside down, balanced between two chairs and on the verge of joining its content below it. The tabs he had placed inside to keep everything organized hadn’t survived the attack. This would take hours.

“So, you’re not even going to talk to me now?” y/n’s voice resonated from the kitchen.

His heart started to beat faster. With wild eyes, he started to pick up the papers mechanically while his mind reeled. What was he supposed to say? Her footsteps resonated louder as she stepped further down into the basement. The air grew thicker with tension as she did so. He wished he would break through the window and run away from this awkward situation.

“George?” she started, crossing her arms as she reached the last step.

Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes towards her, silently cursing himself for screwing up their relationship this badly. He blinked, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Fine.” she let out, slightly louder.

The look on her face made him ache. She looked terrifying when she was angry. He froze halfway through collecting the papers at his feet. She frowned at him, probably wondering what was wrong with him. She bent down and picked the papers up for him, organizing them in neat piles on the one desk that Lockwood and Lucy had spared.

“You know,” she started, “you’re probably the most confusing person I’ve ever met.”

He still stood in the middle of the room, paralyzed by the coldness of her voice. He stared blankly as she angrily collected the papers and forcefully sorted them, creasing some of them in the process.

“I tried to help around the house, but you never let me. I clean, you clean again after me. I initiate conversation and you find any excuse to leave the room.”

She looked down at the last papers she picked up. They were newspaper cuttings about the most relevant outbreaks of the Problem. She smiled as she read the titles and it sent a chill down his spine. Whatever was coming next was not going to be good.

“I spent hours reading all I could find about the origin of the Problem. Lucy said that was how she got you to open up. I thought we could finally have something to talk about. Instead, you walked out after two minutes.”

George looked back at her, a knot forming in his stomach. Having all his mistakes lined up this way made him realize how badly he had handled the situation.

“Am I really that hard to live with?” she asked. There was a crack in her voice.

He couldn’t stay silent. Not this time. But no matter how much he wanted to find the right thing to say, he came up short.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted out.

She looked up, surprised.

“What was that?” she said, eager to make him apologize again.

“You heard me…” he mumbled.

“No, I don’t think I did,” she smiled. “George Karim apologizing? That’s more unlikely than seeing a ghost hula hooping.”

He smiled back. They stared at each other for a few seconds, long enough to make the air feel warmer in the basement. The first crumb of complicity gave him enough courage to try to make up for his rudeness. He added the papers in his hand to the pile on the desk in front of him before continuing.

“I never wanted to make you feel unwelcome.” He looked down, ashamed to admit he had badly misread the situation. “I’m just used to Lucy pushing back and when you didn’t, I thought… that maybe you were faking it? That you were talking about the Problem just to make fun, and you helped out just to annoy me and slow me down-”

“Oh, being nice is annoying now?”

“I don’t know! I’m a jerk, I see that now.”

“At least we can agree on that.”

He looked back up expecting to see her frowning.

“Why are you smiling?”

“You’re finally honest with me. I take that as a victory,” she said decidedly as she reached for the upturned cardboard box.

“So I’m guessing you have a system to organize your files?”

The question caught him off-guard. Was she really moving on from three months of feud that easily? It felt like a trick. She stared at him expectantly.

“Just… chronological.” He said cautiously.

“I don’t think you’d use that many tabs if it was just chronological. You must have subcategories, right? Like at least geographical and then maybe by source…”

Whatever trick this might be, it was working. He couldn’t resist correcting anyone about his filing system.

“I always start with the chronological order and then I file everything according to geography. For each year, I like to organize the records by city then order them by region and finally-”

“Alphabetically?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “I take the region most located South then move back up East, then North and finish West.”

“Why?”

“It’s easier to visualize on a map.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

When she and Lockwood came back from their errand, which really consisted of going to the coffeeshop closest to the house to let George and y/n have it out, Lucy was shocked to discover that her plan had actually worked. Well, not that shocked. She knew there was something there. They just needed a little push.

They had to climb down the stairs to the basement to finally find them because none of them answered their calls from the hallway. They were deep in conversation about the Problem. The files and boxes had been entirely cleaned up, everything was back on the shelves and… Wait, did George just laugh at something y/n said? How long had they been gone?

Lockwood had a confused look on her face, matching hers. It didn’t leave him the entire way to the client’s house that evening. There was no more tense silence, awkward avoidance or strange atmosphere in the group. The change was radical. Had she known it would have been this effective, she would have locked them up in the basement three months ago. She had been worried they would have ripped each other’s eyes out in such close quarters. In this moment though, they stared intently at each other more than they looked murderous. She smiled to herself, only making Lockwood more confused. She threw him a look. They are so gone for each other. He looked at her sideways, seemingly in disbelief. She raised her eyebrows. I swear! You’ll see. He seemed unconvinced, but she knew. “I can’t be friends with her” George had said. Yes, quite literally, she thought.

The cab came to a halt in front of their workplace for the night. 11 Hall Road. Lucy would have loved to have an exciting new case that she could add to her journal, but the truth was that most cases were plain. An old person dies, the inheritors need to clear the house before living there or selling it. Those who had become apathetical to the Problem said it was just another expense to plan alongside the funeral. She wasn’t in the mood for apathetical. Not when she had two idiotic friends practically holding hands after being at each other’s throat for the past three months. It comforted her to see them remain focused on their tasks without breaking conversation, and she almost didn’t want to tell them to stop to allow her to use her talent. A job was still a job though.

When silence hit them, so did the cold realization of all the sorrow surrounding them. Wailing filled Lucy’s ears and soon the faint outline of the phantasm haunting the place appeared in the corner of her eye. She couldn’t perceive it very well, but its screams made it hard for her to think. Lockwood stepped in front of her, rapier drawn and ready for a fight, while George tried to yell over the disembodied screams what the source could be. y/n was running through the house following his directions but to no avail. His last idea was a miniature car in the bedroom at the end of the hall.

“Found it!” y/n called from upstairs.

But Lucy was the one with the silver nets. She drew her own rapier, aiming for the stairs. The phantasm was faster. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the figure floating upstairs, so fast she doubted her mind for a second. y/n’s scream confirmed she hadn’t been dreaming. Lucy saw the girl running past her in the opposite direction, only stopped by the chest of drawers stationed on the landing. She hit her side with a definite thump, bringing her down and leaving her paralyzed on the floor of the corridor. Lucy hurried up the stairs and came to stand between y/n and the ghost, drawing intricate patterns she had practiced with Lockwood. When she heard the boys climbing the stairs, she used her other hand to take the silver nets out of her pocket. They got caught in her belt and the second she looked away was enough for the visitor to float closer to y/n, still lying a few feet behind her. Using her remaining strength, y/n threw a salt bomb, winning enough time for Lockwood to join Lucy’s side, covering George while he took care of the source.

None of them really spoke on their way back, still shaken from the close call they avoided. Y/n didn’t suffer major injuries, just a few bad bruises, which was a relief. It was enough for Lockwood to tell her to stay home for the next few days. She hadn’t protested, probably because she was exhausted from the night and the drive had rocked her to sleep. When they arrived in front of Portland Row, George didn’t let Lucy wake her up. Instead he carried her inside and despite the night they’d had, she smiled.

The rays of light shining on her face hurt her closed eyes, but not as much as the bruises in her side that decided to wake up as soon as she emerged from her heavy sleep. She was sore, thirsty and only managed to groan when trying to move in what was definitely not her bed. She reached over, eyes still closed, and encountered something cold. Her reflexes kicked in, knocking the glass over and effectively pouring its content on her. She jerked up and immediately screamed at the pain stabbing her side.

“Are you okay?” George asked, worried, as he crashed back into his room.

Desperately trying to get away from the cold wet blanket, she pulled herself up, only managing to hurt herself more.

“No, no, no, slow down. You’re only going to hurt yourself more if you do that.”

He gently nudged her back down, elevating her head with a pillow and removing the blanket to toss it on the floor. She shivered.

“How did you sleep?” he asked as he casually laid something else on her.

“Terrible,” she simply said as she managed to open an eye.

“Do you remember last night?” he continued while helping her sit.

“Yes… I think.” She looked around with half-opened eyes. “Why am I in your room?”

“Lockwood almost passed out after the first flight of stairs.”

She opened her second eye and stared at him dubitatively.

“Fine I wasn’t doing great either.”

She laughed lightly but it only triggered her injury again.

“Here, drink this,” he handed her a cup of tea, “and today you’re on bed rest. No work, no chores, nothing. Not even laughing.”

“I should keep you around then,” she said, before taking a sip.

He threw her a look, but even with eyes half open she could see the shadow of a smile on his face.

He went back downstairs, leaving her to savor her tea, its warmth welcome after having been awakened in such a brutal way. She looked back down and noticed what George had draped over her. His own sweater, the one he wore in October when the days started getting colder, sat gently on her shoulders, smelling faintly of cedarwood. She hadn’t realized how soft it was, having only touched it with her eyes. The night after the case was a blur, but she could have sworn that only one person had carried her upstairs. She smiled to herself as she looked around his room. Papers were left scattered on his desk, some fallen on the floor. Trinkets were gathered on every shelf that wasn’t already full of books. It was messy, disorganized, but comforting in its own way. She wondered how someone who kept such meticulous files on the Problem could live in a room like this. If she tried to make sense of it, she would probably spend the day here, and she simply refused that. Staying still was out of the question. She carefully sat back up before she tried to get onto her feet. The whole ordeal took about ten minutes. This might not be the brightest idea, she thought to herself, but she was finally making progress with George, they had a semblance of connection and she certainly wouldn’t let one wound stand in the way of her friendship with him.

One painful shower and a whole hour later, y/n made her way downstairs and joined George in the kitchen. She hadn’t even made it through the door that she could already hear him telling her off for getting out of bed. He chastised her about the dangers of disregarding health and how irresponsible it was of her to push her body to its limit. She just took a seat at the kitchen table and smiled at him. He had been talking to her for five uninterrupted minutes with eye contact and everything. Technically it was to yell at her, but still. progress was progress. He gave up when noticing her smile wouldn’t budge.

“Why did you come down anyway?”

“I was hungry,” she said while grabbing an orange from the fruit bowl in front of her.

“You could’ve just told me I would have brought something for you.”

“Actually, since I’m on house arrest and you’re finally speaking to me, why don’t you let me help you out today? You know like cleaning, cooking… everything you do all the time for everyone and never let me help with?”

“No. You’re injured. You shouldn’t move that much.”

“How about research then? That’s just reading.”

“No,” he said decisively, punctuating his rejection with a pointed look.

“Stubborn idiot.”

“Well, I am not the idiot who tripped and almost shattered my hip on a dresser.”

She scoffed and threw the orange in her hand, aiming for his head. He caught it just in time before it made contact with his cheek. He stared back at her with round eyes.

“What the hell was that?” he asked with an edge in his voice. Did she just imagine his voice getting deeper? The slightest grin formed at the corner of his mouth, giving her chills. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re just jealous because even injured I have better aim than you.” She blurted out, hoping the redness of her face wasn’t obvious.

When he didn’t respond, an idea popped into her head.

“And you probably don’t want me to help because you’re scared I’ll be better at research than you are too.”

He smiled, set the orange down on the table and turned back to the dishes he had started before she got there.

“You really think I’d fall for that? Who do you think I am? Lockwood?”

She took back the fruit and slumped into her chair.

“Can you at least let me help? I can’t stay still for so long, I’ll go mad”

She fidgeted with the orange in her hands, planting her short nails into its skin the best she could. She only managed to pull off small pieces each time.

“You’ll slow me down, and I can’t allow myself to miss a single element. I don’t want last night to happen again.”

She looked up to find him already staring.

“I managed to keep up with your files on the Problem, why would that be any different?”

He didn’t have anything to say back. She smiled triumphantly.

“You have no more arguments, I win the argument! Where should I start?”

He sighed, dried the glass he was holding and sat next to her.

“By learning how to peel an orange properly.” He retorted, snatching the fruit from her hand.

Methodically, he sunk his finger under the peel, tearing it confidently. The fruit’s sweet perfume filled the air as George dropped the peel on the table in one piece. While she studied his hands attentively, he proceeded to tear the orange apart, setting its pieces on the table in front of her.

“I can do that myself you know.”

“Can you?”

“Jerk.” She laughed. Being friends with him wasn’t exactly what she had thought it would be, but she had to admit that she liked it.

He got up and snatched a piece from her hand.

“Hey, what was that for?”

“Compensation for my efforts.” He smirked.

He disappeared into the living room and came back with piles of materials in his arms. He did a second trip to bring books and case files, then a third to get notebooks from his room. When he got back into the kitchen, he sat next to her and wrote the name of the client on the thinking cloth. He pushed back his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Let’s get to work.”

George knew that y/n was too stubborn to rest despite her injury, and she was too clever to be tricked into it. To be fair, he hadn’t tried that hard. He really was glad of the company. He gave her some context for their upcoming case and described his usual research methods. He realized he might have been explaining things too fast when he noticed her staring at him with round eyes.

“I lost you, didn’t I?”

“Sort of…” she answered, embarrassed. “Am I wasting your time?”

“Like spending time with you could ever be wasted time” he wanted to say. Instead, he simply shook his head and started his explanation over, shaking off the thought.

He was right, though. Not only was he greatly enjoying himself, she was also a quick learner. By the second hour spent gathering material, they had already uncovered crucial elements about the history of the place and they had started narrowing in on the type of object that could be a potential source. They made a good team.

The day had gone by without any of them leaving the kitchen. They were enthralled in their work with a comfortable silence between them. They sat side by side, sharing documents and exchanging notes on the Thinking Cloth with an appeasing familiarity. Deep down, George felt guilty that they missed out on moments like these in the past because he was too focused on keeping his new colleague at arm’s length. Their knees bumped every once in a while, each moment making his heart skip a beat. Out of surprise, that is, not that he paid it any mind.

In just a day he had learned to read her smile. The soft polite one was how she asked if he wanted more tea. The shy one meant she needed his help but didn’t want to ask. His favorite one was her triumphant smile when she finally figured out what the source must be. He held his hand out high for her to high five him back. She did, her touch electric against his. She didn’t let go and wrapped her fingers around his, lingering there for another second. He stared at their tangled fingers, oddly captivated. His eyes traveled down her arm and up her face to find her already staring. His breath caught. Suddenly he couldn’t care less about the case they had been working on. Nothing mattered except for the way the warm light of the kitchen lit up her eyes. Her lips parted, catching his eye before he could stop it.

“It’s late, I should probably get some sleep,” she quickly said when their eyes met.

“Yeah,” he let go of her hand, “good idea.”

She used his shoulder to stand up and flinched. He didn’t know if it was from the contact or the effort.

“Good night,” he said gently, trying to shake off some of the awkwardness he was feeling.

“Good night. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I can’t promise anything,” he mumbled as he watched her close the door behind her.

He found it ironic that she was giving him advice when she had been blatantly ignoring everything he said about her health all day long. He returned to the newspaper he was reading, every word on the page escaping his attention. What smile had she used when she left the room? He took a pen to keep his eyes from skipping five words at a time. She had touched his shoulder on purpose earlier, hadn’t she? This was useless. He gathered up the rest of the papers he hadn’t read yet and headed back to his room, conceding defeat to the butterflies settling in his stomach.

y/n woke up around 2 am, her aching body forcing her awake demanding a glass of water. Everything was dark around her, but she could hear Lucy’s steady breathing on the opposite side of the room. She did her best to get to her feet silently, ignoring the pain still twisting her side. The steps creaked lightly underneath her bare feet, the sound resonating loudly in the silent house. She reached the first landing discreetly with the hope that she wouldn’t wake anyone up. Instead, she was surprised to see a ray of light coming from under George’s door. It was ajar, so she pushed it lightly to see him hunched over his desk, still reading the newspapers she had left on the table a few hours earlier.

“You’re really stubborn you know?”

He didn’t seem surprised to hear her behind him.

“You’re one to talk,” he retorted.

She knew there was no point in arguing, especially at this hour.

“I’m getting some water, do you want anything?”

“Tea would be fine, thanks.” He turned around. His hair was visibly disheveled. Even though he didn’t put that much effort into it at regular hours, it was obvious that he was tired.

When she came back a few moments later, he was still absorbed by whatever article he was reading. He hardly paid attention when she set the steaming cup next to him. She didn’t really expect him to, so it really came as a surprise when he reached for her hand without taking his eyes off his notes. The contact of his hand on the bare skin of her arm almost made her spill her water.

“Take a look,” he simply said. He pointed at an annotation he had written in the margin of a newspaper article he was reading.

She sat on the stool next to him to inspect his findings. His scribbling was already hard to read in the daylight, but in the dead hours of the night it was almost impossible. He saw her squint and read aloud. The words evaded her. She blamed the lack of sleep and not the fact that his hand was still resting on her arm, gently swaying back and forth. She stared at it, its slow movements calming her down. It made her feel peaceful, appeased. She wondered however why her heart was beating faster if she was feeling so calm.

“y/n?”

“Hmm?” She looked up and was caught off guard by the gentleness in his eyes.

“You should go back to bed.”

“No, no, tell me. I’m listening.”

She could see the cogs turning in his head, weighing his options, whether forcing her to rest would be worth the effort or pointless from the start. He sighed.

“I found another death related to the client’s house. I’m trying to see if the haunting is caused by what we found earlier or if it’s something else entirely.”

“That’s way too much work to do by yourself in one night.”

“Someone has to do it. You should rest, I’ll tell you what I found in the morning.”

She got up, but she knew fully well she wasn’t letting him work all night alone. She took all the papers she could gather in her arms, ignoring his hushed protests, and made herself comfortable in his bed. He looked at her incredulously. She tapped the spot next to her, a large smile lighting up her face.

He sounded defeated when he said “why are you like this?”

“You look out for me, I look out for you.”

It shut him up on the spot. She got under the covers and organized the documents in piles around her while he stared silently, his mouth slightly agape.

“What? If we’re here all night we might as well get comfortable.”

His eyes were so round she thought it must hurt him. “We?”

She tapped the spot next to her again.

“Come on. You can’t tell me to rest if you’re not doing it either.”

Reluctantly, he joined her, looking like he was intruding in the sheets of a total stranger. At first, he pushed the cover aside. It was as if he was allergic to comfort. He kept his distance and even hesitated to reach over to grab a newspaper. They read in silence, the only sound coming occasionally from the turning of pages. He seemed to quickly forget about his awkwardness though, as he leaned in whenever he found something. He got closer each time and she took each opportunity to raise the blanket higher over him. He needed to sleep and he would, even if she had to sneak up on him. By the time he finished his mug, they were shoulder to shoulder, speaking in low voices in each other’s ear. Even in hushed tones, she could sense how enthusiastic he was about what he discovered one newspaper after the other. She could have listened to him talk for hours… if she wasn’t so exhausted. No matter how hard she tried to keep her eyes open, her head was drawing impossibly close to George’s shoulder. She was too comfortable to resist. When he noticed her dosing off, he spoke lower and lower before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She sunk into a deeper slumber, George’s even breathing rocking her to sleep, until the turning of pages disturbed her ears. He wasn’t going to sleep unless she made him. With her eyes still closed, she traced her fingers up his torso to find his neck, his chin, and finally his glasses. She took them off before turning her back on him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Forcing you to get some sleep,” she mumbled.

“Give me back my glasses.”

“Come get them yourself.”

She was certain he would concede defeat after this. What she hadn’t expected was George laying down closer against her with his arms draped around her waist. She froze. His hands traced their way down her arms and his hands locked around hers, gently trying to nudge his glasses out of her hands. She held them tighter, unable to keep herself from smiling. He had his head in the crook of her neck and she felt a smile forming on his lips too.

“You’re impossible. You’re stubborn, insufferable-”

“You used that one earlier already.”

He laughed. “You’re just proving my point.”

A light laugh escaped her too, only it made her bruises act up again. She flinched.

George let go of her hand, his fingers traveling lightly over her side.

“Does it still hurt?”

“A little bit.”

He sighed in her neck, making her shiver.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t figure out sooner what the source was. I could have saved you the injury.”

Something clicked in her mind, clearing all desire to sleep for a moment.

“Is that why you’re staying up so late?”

He didn’t say anything back. She rolled back to face him, his hands now resting on her lower back.

“George, you’re not the reason why I couldn’t avoid running into a dresser.”

He laughed, but he avoided her eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault. Now please get some sleep.”

He looked back at her with intensity. His eyes looked dark in the dim light, almost black.

“On one condition.”

Before she could ask what he needed from her, he took it. His lips crashed against hers with a hunger she didn’t know he had. She was still in shock when he drew back, looking back at her hesitantly. He didn’t seem to know that she loved this unsuspected bold side of him. She tangled her fingers in his hair to pull him back in. He seemed surprised at first, but his hands quickly ran up her back to draw her nearer. She could have expected to feel anything from kissing George. Awkwardness, shyness, a few days ago she would have completely rejected the idea. She certainly wouldn’t have expected it to feel so right. His hands seemed to fit the small of her back like puzzle pieces locking perfectly in place. She was surprised at how quickly she had come to wanting more. She needed him, all of him, impossibly closer. She circled his hips with her leg while her hands roamed down his back. He smiled into each kiss, leaving her lips every now and then to trail her cheeks and down her neck. She looked back at him with sparkling eyes.

“So, one condition?”

“Don’t leave. Please.”

Her smile grew bigger.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

[daydreamlib]

A Year of You

part three of the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two)

summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could have—one small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isn’t something you find. It’s something you make—and hold onto with everything you have.

word count : 11,658

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.

MONTH ONE

It’s the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.

You’re crying, too.

Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.

Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.

“Move over, honey,” he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the baby—your baby—his daughter—like she’s something sacred.

"You’re doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "We’re just outnumbered, that’s all."

You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospital—something sharp and sterile clinging to his skin—but beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.

“C’mon, little bean,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We’ve made it through worse nights than this.”

You snort under your breath.

“She’s five days old, Jack. What worse nights?”

He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like she’s already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “You ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re not in a war anymore, Jack,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughter’s head.

“No,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “But I’m still fighting for something.”

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow.

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

[daydreamlib]

.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.

[daydreamlib]

Wrong Name

Summary: Reader visits her partner Jack in the ED to drop off his lunch catching the excited attention of all of his colleges much to his chagrin

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: None! Just super cute fluff

Author’s Note: My first Pitt Fic! Basically, a short simple grumpy x sunshine reader cause I had the idea. Everyone in the Pitt loves the reader and Jack pretends to hate that, but everyone knows better. Again my first Pitt fic so any and all feedback appreciated and I hope you enjoy!

To say Jack was surprised to see you at Dana’s desk was an understatement.

He had just left you a little over an hour ago, a silent kiss to your temple, a murmured I love you into your hair, a cup of coffee left in his wake on the countertop so it was cooled down by the time you got up, the same as every day. You were still asleep when he left could you have woken up with something? Did he miss something last night?

His head was so full of the hypothetical he didn’t take the extra second to acknowledge how at ease your body language was as you leaned against the tall desk, a soft smile on your lips as you nodded along to whatever Dana was saying.

Instead, he immediately crossed the ED in a few steps, sliding a hand to the small of your back to grab your attention, cutting of Dana’s story without a second thought.

“Hey what’re you doing here are you okay?”

Your eyes flickered briefly to his, the corners of your mouth pulling up slightly at his appearance as you grabbed his bicep and gave it a small squeeze. “Yeah don’t worry I’m fine” before immediately refocusing on Dana, silently signaling her to continue.

Dana, however, as she normally does, knew better, a look shared between the two women as she stayed silent and instead focused on Jack, the man himself having not moved his gaze from your form for a second.

Pinching your shirt at the waist softly he gave it a small tug, physically pulling your attention back to him as his eyes scanned your face “is it that headache you had the other night? Is it back? I can bump you up the CT line”

“Honey” you cut him off with that small laugh that always had his chest warming “I promise I’m fine I texted you like an hour ago to meet me in the parking lot, you just forgot your lunch”

He could physically feel the relief hit his system at your words, his shoulders dropping as he finally took a deep breath, his next words tumbling off his tongue before he could put any thought to them “you didn’t have to-“

But just as he knew you would, you cut him off with a shrug and the same words you always used when he tried to dodge being taken care off “I know but I wanted to”

He couldn’t have fought the fond smile off his face if he had tried, something he knew he was going to get shit over from Dana and inevitably Robby later. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here have you been waiting long?”

“No I’ve been talking to Dana” And it was so entirely you the way you stated it like it was obvious. As if this little act of kindness in going out of your way to get him food hadn’t hijacked your entire morning. He was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to pull you into him, barely registering the way you pivoted back to Dana at the mention of her name.

“A conversation we absolutely will be finishing” spoken like a threat that had the charge nurse chuckling, “drinks later? Location and time TBD?”

“Sounds good kid”

And maybe it was a little selfish of him to want you just to himself in that moment, to pull you out of the Pitt to get even just two minutes of you alone. But Jack had found over the past year that he liked being selfish when it came to you “Oh and Langdon was looking for you earlier if you haven’t seen him yet”

“You spoke to Langdon too” he’ll admit to only faking part of the exasperation in his tone that had you giggling.

“He’s got a new puppy” you protested with a grin “what was I supposed to do? Not ask to see photos”

“You’re right ridiculous question” he conceded easily, “now aren’t you supposed to be at work”

And Jack relished the way he knew what your exact reaction would be seconds before you made it, the way your eyes widened almost comically before you reached for his arm, pulling his watch specifically into your line of sight, Jack using the momentum to press a quick kiss to your temple before he could think any better of it.

“Shit I’m gonna be late” You groaned softly, Jack chuckling at the action.

“I mean it, you didn’t have to bring my lunch in today”

“Please we both know you wouldn’t eat anything if I hadn’t” you brushed him off thoughtlessly before brightening and exclaiming “oh before I forget”. Suddenly you were pulling back from him, reaching deeply into your bag and rummaging slightly before pulling out a fistful of protein bars “give these to Dennis”

“To Dennis” he repeated with a raised brow as you pushed them into his chest.

“Yeah Dennis, well except for the chocolate ones”

“You want me to give these to my med student” he repeated with another exasperated sigh.

Again you responded exactly like he hoped you would, a giggle and a teasing push against his chest “yes except for the chocolate ones he doesn’t like those he likes the fruit ones. He won’t tell you that though, he’ll gladly take them all but he’s just being nice about it because he doesn’t want to offend you”

He couldn’t help but appreciate how well you seemed to fit into his life. How you’d forged relationships with each member of the Pitt’s team that existed wholly outside of him. It was tough now to believe there existed a time when he had been hesitant to introduce you to the chaos of the Pitt given how you now had seemed to adopt each member of his chosen family on your own.

His train of thought was effectively cut off as he watched your gaze suddenly deviate from him to something behind him, the corner of your mouth ticking up as you took one of the bars back from his grasp and yelled across the room “Dennis”

The poor kid looked terrified for a brief moment as he spun around before breaking out into a relieved grin once his eyes landed on you.

That was all the acknowledgement you needed before you were throwing the bar at him, Whittaker to his credit only looking panicked for a brief moment before he was effortlessly catching the bar, grinning down at his new snack appreciatively once he had it “Thank you Mrs. Abbot”

“Not my name” you corrected breezily with a wave “but bug Jack if you want more I’m giving him the rest”

“Great now if you’re done upsetting the natural order of my ED don’t you have work to get to” Jack cut in with fake exasperation.

“Natural order of the Pitt” you scoffed “that’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one”

Your comment had Dana snorting as she didn’t even bother to try hiding the fact that she had been eavesdropping on your conversation up to this point.

“Yeah yeah now get out of here” he rolled his eyes with a fond smile “one of us has to make sure our bills our paid this month”

“I’m going I’m going” you groaned with a matching eye roll, pushing up slightly onto your toes and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, pulling away much too quickly for Jack’s liking with a whispered I love you.

Then you were gone, headed back the way you came leaving nothing but the soft scent of your perfume in the air around him as Jack forced his eyes down to the chart in his hands, pointedly ignoring Dana’s gaze.

Just when he thought he was going to be trapped in the inevitable teasing of his charge nurse Dr. King came running up to the station, Jack more than happy to turn his attention to her and ready to distract himself with whatever case had her moving so fast.

Instead, however, Mel’s expression with brimming with barely contained excitement, her gaze searching everywhere around Jack but never properly landing on the man himself “Was that Y/N I heard? Is she here?”

With a disbelieving huff, Jack went back to his chart “you just missed her”

“No she’s by the door with Robby” Dana cut in with a smile, enjoying the way Jacks neck nearly snapped as he whipped his gaze across the ED to where you now stood with Robby, talking animatedly about something while the older man listened with  a smile on his face and hands in his pockets, looking much more relaxed than the two of them usually saw him within the department.

Mel peeled off without a second word to either of them, the pair watching the way your expression lit up once more as you recognized her as she approached.

“You gonna correct that” Dana nodded vaguely in your direction, her and Jack leaning onto the counter of the nurse’s station from opposite sides watching you give Mel an enthusiastic high five over whatever story she had rushed over to tell you.

“Probably talk to everyone at some point” Jack shrugged in response “the Pitt can’t afford to come to a screeching halt every time she so much as walks in the doors”

“No dumbass” Dana admonishes with a dramatic groan “it’s good the way everyone brightens up when she’s here. God knows we could use some positivity around here. I mean Whitaker’s comment about the wrong name”

“I mean she’s already told him to call her by her first name but I could talk to him-“

Dana silenced Jack with a glare, the attending turning his attention back to you from across the room as you eagerly talked to Mel and Robby.

“Was thinking about asking Robby to go ring shopping with me this weekend” he admitted softly “Scale of 1-10 how bad of an idea is that”

“Not where I thought this story was going but love is love so I support-“ now it was Jack’s turn to silence Dana with a glare, the charge nurse enjoying way too much the way the tips of his ears colored at the admission.

“a seven” she mused with a shrug, turning her attention back to you as you finally said goodbye to the two doctors “maybe a six” she let the silence settle around them and watched as Jack eyed her with a skeptical glare from her periphery “invite me along and I can keep it below a three”

Jack studied her for a second, crossing his arms over his chest before nodding softly “done”

Dana fought to keep the grin off her face as Robby finally started to make his way towards the two of them, Jack catching him slipping an awfully familiar looking protein bar into the pocket of his sweatshirt “Jesus how many of those does she have”

Robby shrugged with a chuckle, eyes casting up to the board above the desk as he did so “she mentioned something about having extra chocolate ones”

“I saw her slipping Santos bags of trail mix earlier if you’d prefer that” Dana chimed in with a smirk as Jack huffed dramatically.

“did everyone get to talk to her but me this morning?”

“You get her every day, stop being so selfish” Robby clasped his shoulder with a smug grin, giving it a soft shake.

 “Selfish” Jack repeated under his breath with a shake of his head, eyes going up to the board to pick out his next case as he did so “god forbid I want to spend time with my future wife”

He hadn’t even realized he said it out loud until the Pitt around him seemed to go unnaturally quiet. Casting his gaze back down he caught Robby and Dana sharing pointed, amused looks before turning their teasing grins back on him.

All he could get out was a simple “no” before he was storming off to the closest room, refusing to acknowledge the way Robby yelled out a threat after him “We will be talking about this later”

[daydreamlib]

all that gleams (18+)

parings. jack abbot x nurse!reader

summary. everyone seems to be hitting on you tonight, and your husband doesn't seem to appreciate all of the attention you're getting.

warnings. this is 18+ so mdni, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough/jealousy sex, half plot/half porn, sex in the work place, hospital setting, age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s to early 30s), reader gets hit on by men who are not jack, non-consensual touching (patient grabs reader), reader has hair, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. where the fuck do I even begin? uhhhh- so many people asked for a sequel to all that glitters and I never thought I'd actually do it but here we are! I absolutely live for their dynamic, and they're softcore rich which is truly the dream. I'm actually really proud of this, especially bc this is my second time writing any form of smut! as always any and all feedback is appreciated and please enjoy!

wc. 4700+

all that glitters

There wasn’t a person in your life who hadn’t told you getting married so young was a mistake. A newly minted nurse with a shiny new degree, a big diamond ring, and a big house in the nicest part of town—people loved to talk. And they did, especially behind your back.

“Too fast,” they said

“Too young.”

 “She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.”

But they didn’t know Jack.

He’d been your constant through it all. Through the twelve-hour shifts, the night terrors you both had but didn’t always talk about, the tangled mess of silky bed sheets and plain coffee mornings. He never missed a beat, not with you. He always made sure the front door was locked, that you didn’t forget to eat, that you never had to face a bad day completely alone.

Jack Abbot was your storm and shelter all at once.

Still, some days it felt like you were speaking two different languages. You’d grown up with champagne brunches, sorority sisters, and an Ivy League education on Daddy’s dime. Jack grew up fast though—boots on the ground, blood on his hands, and scars no one could see unless he let them. 

His world had edges, and darkness only he could understand. 

Yours had comfy throw pillows and a walk-in closet.

Falling for each other had been a whirlwind, but staying in love… that took work. 

Especially now.

Lately, every conversation felt like walking on eggshells. He was short with you. Distant. And maybe you were a little more sensitive than usual—he always said you felt deeply, cared too much. Maybe you did miss the way he used to look at you, touch you, talk to you like you were the only person in the room.

Now? Now he was somewhere else—lost in his head, behind some wall you couldn’t climb no matter how hard you tried.

And you still tried.

 You showed up to work, same time as him, hair curled, and lip gloss on as usual. Your scrubs were still fitted just right, your badge reel sparkled, and your sneakers matched your pastel compression socks of the day. You were tired, overworked, and emotionally frayed—but damn it, you still tried, for yourself, for him, and most certainly for your patients .

He didn’t even say “Hi,” when you checked in.

Just a curt nod, eyes already scanning a trauma sheet.

Fine. You had a job to do anyway.

The ER was chaotic, as usual. You floated between rooms, upbeat as always, soft-voiced with your patients, making the new interns laugh with your sparkly pens and habit of humming softly under your breath.

That’s when he showed up.

Leo, tall, handsome in a sun-kissed, ex-lifeguard in the Baywatch kind of way, and new. The latest temp nurse from another hospital, and definitely not shy.

“You always this put-together at 7 p.m.?” he said, grinning as he helped you restock the IV cart.

You glanced up from your clipboard, smiling just enough. “Only when there’s new employees to impress.”

He laughed, nudging your elbow. “Well, consider me thoroughly impressed.”

Across the hall, you didn’t see Jack. But he was seeing everything.

You caught a flash of movement in your peripheral vision—him, leaning against the med station, pretending to read a chart. The way his jaw clenched was less than subtle. So was the way he suddenly had something urgent to discuss with Dr. Reese, right behind where you were standing.

You didn’t react. Just went back to scanning meds, asking Leo if he needed help finding anything on his first night. You were being polite. Friendly. Maybe a little intentionally oblivious—but only because it felt good to be noticed by anyone today.

Jack didn’t say a word.

But every time you turned around, he was there. Close. Watching.

He didn’t like it. You could feel it.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt something that wasn’t just disappointment.

You felt giddy.

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

But if he was suddenly remembering the woman he married? The one who lit up a room? The one who still wore t-shirts to bed and nothing else, even when he acted like he didn’t care?

Good.

Let him remember.

The next few hours passed in a blur of motion and monitors—IVs, trauma alerts, vitals to chart and families to console. You stayed busy, focused, but not so focused you didn’t notice the way Jack kept drifting into your orbit.

Not close enough to talk.

Just… there.

Lingering near the nurse’s station when you laughed at something Leo said. Answering the trauma bay calls himself when you usually did first. A silent presence, watching without watching, always just a little too close not to be intentional.

There had been so much to do between learning about coworkers drama, taking care of patients, and dealing with incoming traumas that you’d been on your feet for almost seven hours straight before getting any sort of break.

Still not having found the right time to touch the overnight oats in your lunchbox.

Typical.

You finally ducked into the break room around 2:30 a.m., practically vibrating from a bit too much caffeine and sheer stubbornness. Your sneakers squeaked on the tile as you opened your lunch tote, pulling out your jar with a satisfied “Aha”. You gave it a little shake and popped the lid, the faint scent of almond butter and cinnamon curling into the air.

Leo was already in there, lounging in the corner with a Coke Zero and half a sandwich he didn’t seem particularly interested in eating.

“That looks suspiciously healthy,” he said, eyeing your jar like it confused him.

You grinned. “It’s delicious. Cinnamon, chia seeds, oat milk, with a little bit of honey and almond butter. You should try it sometime—maybe it will lower your blood pressure.”

Leo let out a low whistle. “Oof. She’s cute and judgmental.”

You wiggled your spoon at him. “I’m not judgmental. I’m just stating a fact,”

“Same difference,”

You laughed, shaking your head as you settled on the couch. Your big water tumbler clinked softly on the table as you set it down. Leo glanced at it.

“Okay, real talk. How many cups do you own?”

“Oh at least ten,” you said proudly. “And yes, they all match my scrubs and socks.”

He chuckled. “Of course they do.”

You were in the middle of telling him about your latest homemade electrolyte concoction—something with sea salt, lemon, and maple syrup—when the door creaked open.

Jack stepped inside, silent as ever. No one noticed at first, but you felt him before you saw him. That familiar pull.

You looked up and smiled, just a little.

He didn’t smile back.

He walked to the cabinet, pulled out a pod of instant coffee, and started making the world’s saddest cup of caffeine.

“You good?” you asked, casually, spoon still dangling from your mouth.

Jack shrugged. “Fine.”

Leo gave him a nod. “Rough night, man?”

“Same as every night,” Jack said coolly.

There was a pause.

You went back to your oats.

Leo leaned over slightly, stage-whispering, “Is it true you color-code your vitamins?”

You lit up. “Oh my god, yes! You have to! It’s so satisfying.”

Jack let out a breath—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything.

Just something.

Leo turned to him. “She’s kind of a fairy, huh? Healthy, pretty, and scary organized.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just stirred his coffee with the kind of force that made the spoon clink too loudly against the mug.

“I mean, who even makes time for meal prep on night shift?” Leo kept going, still playful, still oblivious. “She comes in glowing while I’m running on vending machine Pop-Tarts and anxiety.”

You grinned again. “You say that like Pop-Tarts are bad.”

Jack finally looked up. Right at you.

“I liked you better when you were sneaking granola bars from my locker.”

Your breath caught a little—not because it was mean. But because it sounded like a memory.

You raised a brow. “You never let me finish the boxes.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move.

“Maybe I liked the distraction.”

The room went quiet again.

Leo cleared his throat and stood. “Okay, I’m gonna grab another Coke. You two want anything?”

“No,” Jack said, a little too quickly.

You shook your head. “I’m good, thanks.”

When Leo left, the silence stretched.

You scooped another spoonful of oats, pretending not to feel the weight of Jack’s stare.

“You didn’t answer my text,” he said finally.

You blinked. “Which one?”

“The one about locking the side door this morning.”

“Oh.” You smiled faintly. “Sorry, I was halfway through meal prepping for us and my mom called... You know how she gets.”

Jack nodded, jaw tight. “You’re supposed to text me back.”

You raised a brow again, but this time softer. “Jack. It was about a door.”

“It was about you being safe.”

That landed somewhere in your chest.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just set your spoon down and leaned back into the couch.

“I was fine,” you said gently. “I promise.”

Jack didn’t reply. But he reached for your cup, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip (not using the straw) like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stared. “That has lemon in it.”

He grimaced. “Tastes like a scented candle.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

But the corners of his mouth twitched—just a little.

He set your water with a quiet thud, the lid clicking into place like it was holding something back for him, too.

You tilted your head, watching him in that way you always did when you were trying to read what was going on behind those stormy, hazel eyes. “You're drinking lemon water,” you said, voice lilting. “Should I be worried?”

Jack didn’t look at you. “I was thirsty.”

You smiled. “And yet the entire fridge full of bottled water didn’t do it for you?”

He shrugged.

“Grumpy,” you said under your breath, just loud enough.

His eyes finally flicked to yours. “I’m not grumpy.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m tired.”

“You always say that when you’re being grumpy.”

Jack gave you a slow look—flat, dry, and just a little amused. “You finished?”

“Not even close,” you said sweetly, your elbow propped on the arm of the couch. “You’re cranky, you’re overcaffeinated, and you get weirdly possessive whenever someone’s nice to me.”

That got his attention.

“I’m not possessive,” he said.

You smirked. “Jack, you nearly snapped Leo’s neck when he said I had good handwriting.”

“That’s not what he said, and you know that.”

You blinked, then laughed. “Okay, fine. ‘Prettiest charting I’ve ever seen,’ and he winked. So what?”

Jack’s jaw tightened—just slightly.

You stood, stretching your arms overhead in a way that made your scrub top ride up just a little. His eyes tracked the motion like muscle memory.

You stepped closer, toes nearly brushing his boots. “I like that you care about this,” you said, softer now. “It’s kind of hot, actually.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time all night.

“You drive me crazy, kid.” he muttered.

You beamed. “So you are jealous.”

Jack sighed through his nose, the tension melting from his shoulders like an exhale he’d been holding in too long. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long.

“I know you’re mine,” he said quietly. “I just… sometimes I forget the rest of the world doesn’t always know it.”

Your chest tightened. Not in a painful way. In a finally, you’re here with me again kind of way.

You reached for his hand and squeezed. “Well, they do. But if you ever forget again, I’ll tattoo your name on my ass”

That earned you a snort—low and surprised.

“I’m serious,” you teased, squeezing his fingers. “Right across my cheeks. Property of Jack Abbot. Think it’d go with my Bikinis when I start tanning again?”

His lips twitched. “You’re insane.”

“Mm. And you’re stuck with me.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice quieter now, as he dipped down for a soft kiss,  “Wouldn’t change it.”

And there it was.

The part of him no one else got to see—the softness under all that armor he put up. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in this chaotic, blood-slicked hospital worth holding onto.

Before you could say anything else, the overhead crackled to life:

“Trauma en route. ETA four minutes. MVA, two patients. GSW secondary.”

Jack’s head lifted, all instinct now. You were already moving toward the door when his hand caught yours.

He didn’t pull, didn’t squeeze—just held.

“Be careful,” he said.

You leaned in again, kissing his cheek, quick and certain. “Always.”

Then the moment passed, and the hallway swallowed you both—he leading, you following, hearts synced in the rhythm of the ER. But his hand brushed yours again as you walked.

The trauma had come in hard and fast—twisted metal, broken glass, and enough blood to soak through your shoes. Jack had been in the thick of it, barking orders, steady hands moving like muscle memory while you worked across from him, suctioning, suturing, stabilizing. For a while, there was no room for anything else. No talking. No teasing. Just the two of you, back in sync, locked in the rhythm you knew so well. It was easy to forget the cracks when the adrenaline kicked in.

But by 4:15 a.m., the ER had slowed to a lull.

The kind that was never quiet, but at least breathable.

You’d just finished helping a resident clean up trauma one when they wheeled in another patient—mid-40s, minor head lac, walking wounded and very, very drunk.

You smiled politely, grabbing a suture kit.

“Alright, sir. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Can you sit still for me?”

He gave you a once-over that made your skin crawl. “Sure thing, sweetheart. For you, I’ll be real good.”

You kept it professional. “Thank you.”

But the longer you worked, the bolder he got.

“You married?” he slurred.

You didn’t answer.

“Bet your husband’s not half as pretty as you.”

You offered a tight smile. “Try to stay still. This part stings a little.”

He didn’t even flinch. “You ever date older guys? I got a boat, you know.”

You glanced around the bay, but the resident was long gone, charting somewhere out of earshot.

“I’m flattered, really, but I already have a boat,” you said lightly, finishing the last stitch. “And you’re gonna feel real silly about this in the morning.”

He grinned, crooked and gross. “Not if you give me your number.”

And then he reached out—his hands brushing your hips in a way that was not accidental.

You stepped back instantly, heart thudding.

“That’s enough sir,” you said sharply, your voice still steady, still calm—but colder now. “I’m going to step out for a minute, since I’ve finished. Someone else will check on you soon.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

You slipped into the furthest supply closet you could easily find and leaned against the shelves, chest rising and falling like you’d just run a sprint. Your hands were shaking—more with anger than fear—but still. It clung to your skin.

The door creaked open a minute later.

“Hey.”

Jack.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, gaze scanning your face. “One of the other nurses said he got grabby.”

You looked up at him, throat tight. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer that right away. Just moved closer and touched your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he needed to ground himself.

“You sure?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded. “Just… gross. Not the first, won’t be the last.”

His jaw flexed. “It shouldn’t be happening at all.”

You leaned into his hand. “It’s okay. I handled it.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

You looked up at him. “Jack—”

He stepped closer, and suddenly his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid and steady. His hands found your waist, rough fingers curling around your hips.

“I should be the only one touching you,” he said, voice low.

“We’ll get written up…”

“I don’t care.”

But Jack wasn’t hearing logic right now. He was standing there like he could still smell every guy you had met tonight on you, like the air hadn’t cleared yet.

“Hey.” You placed your hands on his chest, grounding him. “We don’t have to do this here…”

His hands squeezed your waist. “You’re mine.”

“I know.”

“You don’t flirt like that with anyone else, right?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Flirt like what?”

“Like you did with that prick.”

You frowned a abit. “I was being nice. He asked if I wanted  something from the vending machine- he asked you too and you looked at him like he offered me lingerie.”

Jack didn’t budge. His grip didn’t loosen.

You tried again. Softer this time.

“I steal your clothes. I come home to you. I wear the ring you bought me, and I’m your wife. I chose you.”

His eyes searched yours—tired, and heavy, with a mix of something else.

You rose on your toes, placing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m yours, Jack.”

And then his arms were around you fully, pulling you in like he needed to feel your heartbeat to believe it. Your heart thudded in your chest, a beat behind your breath. You looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips parted.

You didn’t hear him lock the door.

You felt it.

That soft, decisive click behind you—like a promise.

“Did you just lock the door?”

Jack’s answer was a look—slow, hot, and so heavy it pinned you in place. He stepped with the kind of precision that said this wasn’t spontaneous. No, he’d decided the second he saw you walk into the closet room, cheeks flushed, lip gloss smudged, tensions high. 

The second all these guys started paying attention to you tonight. 

Jack hadn’t liked that.

He tried to be quiet about it, like always. Quiet the way a storm is—only right before it breaks.

He stopped just barely inches from you, hand coming up to trace a line along your jaw. His fingers were thick, rough, warm, familiar. His touch didn’t ask permission. It remembered.

“You keep smiling like that,” he said low, his voice a gravel-coated whisper, “and I’ll have to fuck the memory of it out of you.”

Your breath caught—somewhere between outrage and arousal. “Jack—”

But you didn’t get the rest out.

He kissed you.

Not sweet. Not careful.

Claiming.

His hands tangled in your hair, dragging you into him like it was instinct, like your mouth had always belonged to his. You melted into him, your body curving against his like you were built for this—built for him. His hips pressed forward, pinning you to the wall of the storage closet, and your head thudded back softly against the cool plaster as his lips slid down to your throat, sucking, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“Locked the door for a reason,” he murmured, tongue flicking against the skin where your pulse fluttered. “Tired of pretending I didn’t want you every second we’re here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping his shirt like lifelines. “You’re sooo jealous.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes devouring. “Damn right I’m jealous.”

His hand slid under your scrub top, skimming up your ribs, palm flat, hot and possessive. “You’re mine—I can’t fucking stand it when they look at you like you’re not.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” you whispered, breathless, lips grazing his.

His answer was a growl.

Jack spun you, quick and controlled, pressing you front-first against the shelves. Supplies rattled, somewhere above you—gloves, gauze, sterile wraps—but it was the sound of his breath at your neck that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His hands roamed—under your shirt to your tits, over the waistband of your scrub pants, every inch of bare skin he found earning a new kind of heat.

“You wanna be flirted with?” he whispered, voice dragging down your spine. “Fine. But I get to remind you who makes you cum”

You gasped as his mouth met the base of your neck, teeth grazing, tongue following. “Jack…”

“You knew,” he said again, almost reverent now. 

And god help you, you did.

Because you’d walked in here to take a second, needing this—needing him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you come apart so effortlessly, but this claiming. This reminder. That under all the stress, the silence, the long nights and missed moments—the fire still burned. Hot. Unrelenting.

His fingers slipped lower, teasing the waist of your scrub pants, and you pressed back against him without thinking, needing more, needing everything.

“You’re mine,” he murmured again, lips brushing your shoulder, low and slow. “Say it.”

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “I’m yours, Jack. Always.”

And that was all it took.

He kept you facing the shelves, a hand coming down to your hips to steady you as he continued to feel you up with the other. “Yeah? You gonna be my good girl, sweetheart?” 

The whimper you let out was pathetic. A low pitched sound that came from the back of your throat, as Jack started to flood your senses. He gave your ass a quick, hard, smack. Hand going back to rub over the spot, as it snapped you out of your daze. “I asked you a question, baby.” 

You nodded, desperately. Already whoozy from the assault on your sense that your husband brought on. “Mhm! Jack-”

He shushed you, gently pushing down your scrub pants, “Gotta make this quick and quiet, or they’ll all know what a bad girl you’ve been.” 

Reaching back, you straightend up leaning into his burning touch, wanting him closer than he already was. You could feel how hard he was beneath his cargos, half chubbed as he ground his hips into your panty-clad ass. 

You would’ve felt embarressed if this hadn’t felt so right. 

Clothes barely off, lazily grinding against your husband in a closet like you’re back in some college frat house at UPenn. 

Jack doesn’t waste anymore time though, hastily shoving your panties down, rough fingers making quick work of finding your swollen clit. The tight circles he does against you, make you feel dizzy—legs already beginning to shake, as if you haven’t been working for ten hours already. 

Your moans are muffled by your arm as you lean further into the shelves, but press your hips back toward Jack. Your resolve slowly slipping, as he dips a finger in your wet heat. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” he groans out softly, continuing as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. 

Then he just pulls away.

Not entirely, still so close that you’ve basically become one. It’s enough for you to whine at the loss of contact, pushing back into him hoping he’ll start again. 

“Why’d you stop?” Jack can practically hear the pout in your voice. The breathy little lilt of displeasure showing in your tone. 

“Sorry, baby. We only have time for one thing, and I’d much rather make you cum on my cock.” He kisses the back of your neck, gentle and loving as ever as he reaches down to free himself from his scrub pants. 

He’s aching, he’s so hard. 

He takes a few deep breaths before haphazrdly stroking himself. Fisting his cock in his meaty hand, already slick after playing with your wet little cunt. 

Jack wasn’t going to make love to you. 

He was going to fuck you like you needed it. 

Lining himself up, Jack pushed in with a solid thrust of his sturdy hips. You just about collapsed into the shelves, already feeling so full of Jack as he started a steady rhythm. It was overwhelming, one of his hands tight against your hips as he used it to guide you into his thrusts, the other snaked over your mouth to muffle your breathy moans because the hallway was just beyond the locked closet door.

“Shit- you’re so fucking tight, baby.” you cleched against him as he drove himself further into you, trying to angle himself to hit the spot that would have you seeing stars in no time. 

Your walls hugged him tight, leaving him a mess as he watched himself slip in and out of you in a trance like state. 

“Fuck Jack-” you start mewling, hips pushing and grinding to meet his thrusts. “Ah- ah, you’re so deep.” 

He mumbles something incoherent against your shoulder, both of his hands moving to your hips and ass to get more leverage to fuck you nice and hard. 

You can tell you’re making a mess of yourself, panties clearly ruined with how you’re leaking down your thighs and his cock. Each thrust is a new shockwave of pleasure you don’t expect, but Jack doesn’t let up and you don’t want him to. 

“Too m-much,” his cock throbs, hard and heavy inside you as he stills for just a second. 

“Yeah? It’s too much for you, Sweetheart?” It’s almost mocking as he draws it out into longer deeper strokes—the ones that make it hard to breathe, the air escaping your lungs faster than you can take the chance to gasp for air. 

“You’re just so big,” you whimper out, trying to keep yourself from collapsing back against him as your legs start to feel like jello. 

Jack gives you a light scoff, “Good thing you’re being a good girl, and takin’ me so well, huh?” He keeps the pace steady, if not a bit quicker. Switching up the tempo to keep you on your toes and eager for him. 

“Mhm!” You can feel your orgasm building, that all too familiar pressure in your lower tummy bubbling over. “Fuck- fuck I’m gonna cum-”

It’s like a switch flips in his brain, kicking him into high gear as he spins you around to face him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close as he lifts one of your legs around his waist. 

“Yeah, pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?” He asks you through a sloppy kiss, one that smears what’s left of your lip gloss. 

You feel like you’re about to implode, too tense and too loose all at once. Your hands find purchase on his clothed chest and the curls at the base of his neck, as he continues his loving assault on your body and senses. Jack is everywhere, and you’d never want it to be different. 

He watches as you finally let go, shivering your way through your orgasm as you cum on his thick cock. Your breath catches as he kisses you slowly, working his cock in and out of your gushing pussy still chasing his own release. 

“Fuck- you ruin me baby,” He groans into your kiss swollen lips, giving you a few more sloppy thrusts before burying himself as deep as possible. His own breathing shallow as he spills his load deep into your cunt, right where it belongs. 

Blinking slowly, you return to your body. Jack looks down at you, capturing your lips in one last sweet kiss as he gently pulls out of you. Your body shudders at the now empty feeling, “You with me, Baby?”

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, gentle and loving as you just stare at him a little dazed. You manage a soft hum, and he begins the process of putting you back together for the public. 

You cringed a bit as he helped you pull the pants of your scrubs back up, at least they were dark… right? You’d change into your backups as soon as you found the courge to leave the storage room. Then there was your hair which Jack lovingly braided as quickly as he could, before fixing himself the best he could

“Everyone’s totally gonna know… Ugh…”  you leaned your head against his chest, sighing at the thought of John or Ellis questioning where you two were for the past 15 minutes. 

“You look fine, besides who cares?” He questioned, “Do you know how many times I’ve heard the same story from other departments,” 

“Yeah but this is us,” you gave him a deadpan expression, as he reached behind you so that he could grab your stethoscope and badge reel from one of the many shelves behind you. 

He gave you a nonchalant shrug, and one last kiss on the forehead. “You ready to go get ‘em tiger?”

“You’re so dead whe we get home, it’s not even funny Jack Abbot!” 

“We still have about two more hours, so I think I’m safe, Princess.” 

mercvry-glow 2025

[daydreamlib]

no but sending jack nude pictures of yourself while he’s on shift?? him literally having to rub one out in the hospital bathrooms cause his wife keeps sending him the most outrageous pictures of herself

you're toast.

you suspect it the second you send the photo, and you know for certain after seeing the read receipt pop up on your phone. no response. not even an annoyed scold through text for you to cut it out.

just a read 5:46 am, answering the question of whether he's seen them or not. the three pictures you sent him... the second of the bunch a shot of you hugging your chest and just barely covering where your nipples sit pebbled at attention.

you only feel a little bad hitting send but being off tonight means missing him. and missing him means dealing with the ache between your legs he's usually there to take care of. to make matters worse, your fingers don't do anything, even when you close your eyes and pretend they're his.

the third picture is the meanest, you'll admit. a capture of said fingers, slick and shining with the mess of juice gathering along your slit. but you're wet and desperate and searing with something only jack can expel.

you wake a few hours after the sleep hijacks your attempt of waiting up for your husband to open-mouthed kisses across your chest. it's particularly the tugging of one of your nipples between two sharp rolls of teeth that have you gasping back into consciousness.

blinking open your eyes, you find jack already staring back at you. he growls into your tit, giving it one more suck before yanking his mouth away.

he stares at you for a long second, gaze dark with something that makes your heart skip a beat.

"...hi," you rasp out, voice slightly weak from sleep but also because of the way jack shifts to rest on his elbows and hang over you with a clenched jaw. "how was work?"

a gulp bobs your throat when you count at least seven seconds go by before he finally answers.

"do you have... any idea what you fucking do to me?"

your ability to answer is completely snatched away by the depths of his voice. low yet steady as he asks you, lowering to cage you in further. he's so close that his breath fans across your chin, and you don't dare look away from him.

"you know..." the words pepper out of jack through a grin-less chuckle, and pairs with a nudging of the head into the heat of your slit. he's already naked, you finally realize, and there's a lethargy to the way he pushes himself inside you that forces your eyes lids to flutter. "i think you do, actually. i think there is not one doubt in your mind that sending shit like that to me while i'm at work fucks me up so bad that I can't remember one of the nurses' names."

"'m sorry," you whine, legs moving to wrap around when his hips meet yours. a shiver ripples throughout your body when he nudges deeper, sinking so deeply that he's pinning you against the mattress now. "i just–fuck–i just missed you."

jack lets his weight hang heavy, and you pant at how full you feel. his cock sits thick and snug inside you, throbbing better than you imagined during the hours prior. he shifts purposefully, his eyes still cemented to the way your face contorts as the veins across his shaft ripple against your walls.

"i missed you, too, gorgeous," jack coos, moving the hands you don't realize you've planted on his chest to pin them at the sides of your head. his hips rear back barely before rutting hard to plunge himself back into you as deep as you'll let him.

you cry out out a choked moan, entire body jolting at the force behind the thrust.

"but i also gotta make you pay for getting me all chubbed up during my shift. had me fucking aching for five goddamn hours. you're lucky it was an easy night, too. gave me a chance to sneak away for a bathroom break," jack whispers, voice edging with more anticipation than irritation.

tightening his grip around your wrists, jack starts to fuck you at a furious pace. he bucks, channeling all the energy he pent up while trying not to come in his scrubs during the drive home behind every thrusts of his hips. he huffs out a breath with every rut, grunting at the way you squeezing around him.

he only lets go of your wrist so he can fully collapse against you, one of his hands grabbing at your chin so the only thing you can see is him.

"you come, and i stop," he states roughly, and you whine in protest.

"but–" you try, and jack shushes you with a sloppy kiss. his tongue bullies into your mouth, lapping against yours with a fever you just barely match.

"but nothing," he declares between the deep snog, hips pausing so he can take a breath. "you sent me, what? three pictures? so that means i get to edge you three times."

"jack–"

"might make it four" he thinks. "cause that last one was just rude, baby."

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[daydreamlib]

One of me is cute, but two though?

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.7k (not proofread)

Warnings: NSFW (18+ ONLY) age gap, swearing, fluff, established relationship, poorly written explicit smut, p in v, the slightest bit somnophilia, breeding kink, cockwarming?, female anatomy, male anatomy, unsafe sex, (let me know if I missed anything) MDNI 18+

Notes: pls be gentle with me this is my first time writing smut like this and Im so inexperienced it’s not funny. Enjoy the Sarah Paulson meme I put in there. Also I’ve been blown away by the love my work has recent gotten and I truly appreciate it. Anyways enjoy <3

Gif cred: @xxdrixx

———————————————————

You don’t exactly remember how you and Dr. Robinavitch got together. It started out with stolen glances and innocent touches at work and a kiss outside your apartment when he walked you home one night.

Today was busy and you were ready to go home. Except it wasn’t even noon yet.

You sit down at a computer with a huff. Your feet silently thanking you for a break. The sounds of the ED ringing in your ears as you try to focus on the screen in front of you. Your leg begins to bounce out of habit and your eyes look around the busy hospital.

Santos takes a seat at the computer across from you. She gives you a small smile. You return the gesture before your eyes look back at the computer and stare at the time. All you wanted to do was go back to Robby’s apartment and cuddle on the couch with your sweats on. With how this day was going the dream of your Friday night plans were beginning to fade away. Is an easy day so hard to ask for?

Collins catches your eye as she tries to soothe a crying baby. Robby tells her something before she carefully hands the child to him. Your eyes immediately gravitate seeing your boyfriend gently rocking the fussy infant. You perk up, now sitting up straight. If this wasn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen you don’t know what was. The two of you haven’t brought up the conversation of kids just yet.

You knew he was getting older and while you were still young, you weren’t sure of motherhood just yet. You’ve seen the horrors and heartbreak of childbirth in this hospital but you’ve also seen the light it brought to people. When the tears of pain turn into tears of joy. You’ve always imagined having a family but you never had a timeline. That was until you saw your man holding a baby right then.

You feel yourself grow hot and your pulse quickens. Suddenly, images of a future as a family with him flash through your mind. Being pregnant with Robby by your side, gently rocking your child to sleep, getting them ready school in the morning. You want it. All of it. God you wanted to climb like a tree right here.

The attending can feel someone’s eyes on him. His eyes search the room before they land on yours. His gently shushing comes to a stop. He gives you a confused look, not able to read your expression. Your lustful eyes soften as your face flushes from enamorment. You love him. You shake your head silently telling him it’s nothing.

He gives you a smile that says ‘I love you’ but a look that says you’ll be talking later. He continues to softly shush the infant in his arms before going to find the mother.

You don’t hear Collins approach the desk. She follows your gaze and lets out a laugh, “You okay there, Doc?”

Santos doesn’t look up from her computer, “She’s been like this for 5 minutes. Making bedroom eyes at Dr. Robby.”

“I think my body just had a physical reaction.” you joke.

Santos grimaced, “I don’t need to know about that. You keep that to yourself.” Collins lets out a snort as you scoff.

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

You let out a yelp as a hand pulls you into an unused room. The person pulls you into them. Out of reflex you start resisting. Which ends up to be you sadly hitting their chest.

“It’s just me– stop hitting me. Hey!” Robby grabs your hands, stopping you from hitting him more.

Your eyes widen in shock, “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Surprised turns to annoyance. You glare at him, “Why didn’t you just leave me a note like you normally do?”

He lets go of your hands and lets out a laugh. You try to fight turning your scowl into a stupid grin at his laugh.

His hands slither around your waist, pulling you flushed against him, “Is it so wrong for me to want a spontaneous moment alone with my beautiful girlfriend.” You roll your eyes as your hands reach up to rest on his chest.

He leans down and his lips meet yours for a gentle kiss.

He slowly pulls away after a few seconds, “We really need to get you trained on self defense because whatever that was earlier– was sad.”

You hit him again.

“Ow!”

You shut him up with a quick kiss, “Don’t be a wimp. I didn’t hit you that hard.” He grins.

His thumb sneaks under your scrub top and grazes the bare skin. Subconsciously, you feel your body shiver at his cold touch and lean into him closer. He smirks down at you. “What was with that look you gave me earlier?”

Your eyes look up at him with innocence, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A pinch causes your hips to jerk. His fingers caress the area. You sigh and nervously play with his stethoscope around his neck. “It’s dumb.” You mumble.

He gives you a displeased look, “Trust me it’s not.”

You purse your lips and can feel your heart beating faster, “When you were holding that baby,” the image pops into your mind, “It made me realize I want that with you. Like really, really badly.”

Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow at you, not expecting that.

His face softens, “You want a baby with me?”

You nod.

“I want a family with you too.”

Your hands reach up and pull him down for a searing kiss. He kisses you back immediately.

The two of you slowly pull away to catch your breath.

Robby placed a kiss on your forehead, “I love you.”

Your face turns red at the thought of earlier. You laugh and hide your face in his chest. “Michael, I wanted to fuck you right then and there. It was so embarrassing.”

His laugh rumbles his chest. “So that’s what that look was.”

Your groan comes out muffled from his chest.

“Well, how about tonight when we get home,” his thumbs start tracing your skin again, “We can work on that. Plus, you’re ovulating…”

You pull away with a scoff, slightly amazed. “How the hell do you even know that?”

He shrugs, giving you a sheepish grin, “It’s the doctor in me…and the boyfriend in me.”

A knock interrupts you two. Dana’s voice rings out, “Robby! We got a teen. Respiratory arrest. ETA 2 minutes.”

You both pull away from each other. Robby runs his hands down his face before they drop to his side. He sighs.

You lift your hand to his cheek and bring his face to yours.You press a kiss to his other cheek. “I love you.”

He gives your hand a squeeze before walking out to prepare for the coming case. You pull out your phone for a minute, not wanting to make it obvious you were in the room with your attending alone.

You walk out of the room, mentally trying to prepare yourself for what’s to come for the rest of the shift. A body waiting outside the door scares you. Dana.

You greet her with a shy smile, “Hi, Dana.”

The charge nurse gives you a knowing smirk, “Hi, kid.”

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

Robby waits outside the hospital by the bike rack with one AirPod in. He focuses on McVie’s bass while ‘The Chain’ plays in his ear, blocking out the thoughts of his shift. His eyes follow the headlights of the cars passing the building.

You see Robby standing with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. As if he could feel you coming, he looks up to meet your tired eyes. He greets you with a faint smile.

“Sorry, Collins stopped me on my way out about one of my patients.”

You didn’t want to tell him that the actual conversation was. It was just Collins leaning into you in passing with a “I hope it sticks tonight” ,a cheeky grin, and thumbs up for luck. All while you gaped at her.

You reach for his hand as you begin the walk to his place. Like most days when you and Robby share the same shift, the two of you walk to his apartment in comfortable silence. Robby normally listened to music to clear his head as you paid attention to the night life of the city.

Robby opens the door to his apartment and walks in after you. After dropping your bag at the table, you walk over to the door and take off your shoes. Out of the corner of your eye you see Robby walking over to you with a smolder.

He goes to reach for you but your hand stops him, “We are not doing anything until I am out of these scrubs and we have food in our stomachs because I know you didn’t eat anything today but a granola bar.”

Robby sighs in disappointment and you let out a snicker. He opens the fridge and pulls out leftovers as you grab two plates out of the cabinet.

The two of you eat while sharing conversations about positive things about your shifts. He brings up working with Whittaker as you share how your cases with Santos went well.

After you both finish, Robby picks up both of your plates as you start putting away the food you didn’t eat, “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

You wave him off and he gives you a quick peck on the lips before you start working on the dishes. After a bit, the kitchen is now clean. It had been a mess since this morning when the two of you left in a rush for work. You finish washing your hands before throwing the paper towel in the trash. The water had stopped a while ago and figured Robby had gotten ready for bed.

You make your way to the bedroom and find Robby sitting against the headboard in his boxers with a book in his hands. He glances up at you, his readers resting on his nose,“Thank you for cleaning, honey.”

He reaches his arm out to you. Walking over, you lean down and give him a quick kiss. “I’m going to shower. I’ll be quick.”

You come out of the bathroom feeling refreshed, wearing Robby’s bathrobe and some spare panties you had in the apartment. Rummaging through his dresser for a shirt, you feel Robby’s eyes on you. You laugh, “Stop looking at me like a teenage boy.”

“I can’t help it.” You glance down at the bulge growing in his boxers.

He motions you over and you immediately follow. You climb over him with ease, now straddling him. He notices your dilated pupils and how your breathing deepens. His calloused fingers trail from your thighs up to your hips.

Your eyes move from his eyes to his lips once more before leaning down and capturing his lips with yours. He kisses you back feverishly.

His fingers quickly untie the robe. He slips it off you and tosses it across the room. You let out a whimper as his hands immediately grasp at your breasts. Your kiss gets interrupted by your phone ringing from the other room.

You shake your head, “Ignore it.”

He leaves kisses down your neck. His teeth scraping, leaving you out of breath. You subconsciously begin to grind your hips. He lets out a groan before gently biting down on your pulse point.

His fingers push aside your panties. “Fuck,” He choked a groan feeling how wet you were.

You let out a whimper as his fingers collected your wetness. His thumb gently brushes against your clit. You fall into him with a gasp.

Your ringtone interrupts you again. You pull away with a sigh.

Robby’s hands rest on your hips. “Go get it. It could be important. Besides, I’m not going anywhere. ” you nod before he gives your hips a squeeze as you get off him.

You quickly grab an old junky shirt from his dresser. Your footsteps pad against the hardwood to the kitchen and you pick up your phone. You see two missed calls and a message from your mom. Call me.

What you thought was an important call ended up being 15 minutes of your mom trying to catch up and you repeating you would call her tomorrow. The ‘call me’ was just to tell you that she and dad got a new dog. You wanted to slam your head against the wall.

You come back into the bedroom with a snort, ready to tell your boyfriend what happened. You stop to find him asleep leaning against the headboard with his mouth slightly open. Soft snores fill the room. You let out a quiet laugh.

You turn the light off by his bedside and carefully take off his reading glasses before crawling into bed with him. You aimlessly scroll on your phone, looking at social media.

You don’t feel him shift, his head finally sinking into his pillow, “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

You roll onto your side and face him.

“For being tired after a long shift?”

He grumbles and you snuggle into him with your head laying on his bare chest. “It’s okay, I’m tired too,” you reassure him while stifling a yawn. He lays a gentle kiss on the top of your head. You both fall asleep within minutes.

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

When you woke up in the morning you were expecting it to be the smell of coffee and not your boyfriend copping a feel. Your eyes flutter open to see Robby’s fingers carefully massaging your breasts under your shirt, gently pinching your nipples. All while pressing kisses down your neck.

His hardened cock rubs against you. You let out a tired laugh before turning to face him, “Well, good morning to you.”

He gives you a boyish grin. He watches as you climb on top of him. In the same position as last night. “Good morning, hon.”

Your fingers graze his bulge before giving it a squeeze, “You weren’t joking about trying for a baby right away.”

Robby shakes his head while biting his lip trying not to moan. Noticing the damp spot on your panties, his rough fingers brush against your clothed clit, “Not wasting any time.”

You let out a whimper. “P-Perfect.”

He slides your panties down and you awkwardly take them off before he takes his boxers off. His cock springs against his stomach. You lower your hips. Robby grips your hips once more and you gently begin to move. Your slickness now coating his thick member as your pussy slowly rubs up and down. Your hand covers your mouth as you let out a muffled moan when your clit brushes against his tip.

Robby throws his head back, “Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, “if you keep this up. I-I can’t cum in you.”

You nod. You don’t think you can form a sentence right now. Your body was on fire. Your hips lift as Robby guides himself to your entrance. You let out a whine at the same time Robby lets out a breathy moan as you slowly sink down on him. Every inch stretching you as if it’s your first time together again.

You slowly begin to move your hips up and down as you ride him. After a few seconds you feel yourself grow tired and slow down. Robby lets out a chuckle.

“Don’t laugh. I’m doing all the work, old man.” His fingers find your clit and gives it a soft pinch. You let out a shaky gasp. “Don’t be mean.” You warn.

Your hands scratch at his chest as his hips begin to thrust up meeting yours. The sounds coming from his mouth edge you closer to finishing.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Robby warns with a grunt. His hooded eyes staring at your blissful face. His thumb rubs small circles on your clit.

“Oh fuck, Michael- baby,” you whine as he speeds up his thumb motion.

After a few more thrusts, Robby cums inside you with a guttural moan. Your release follows shortly after, loudly moaning as you feel him cum. Your hips continue to grind, riding out your bliss.

Suddenly, you feel heavy as your orgasm bliss wears off. Your muscles screaming at you. Panting, you tiredly slump on top of Robby. He gently rubs your back still inside you. The two of you even your breathing.

You lay in comfortable silence as you listen to his heartbeat. Robby draws shapes on your back. The sun peaks through a crevice of the blackout curtains.

“I feel good about that one,” you joke, “Having two of me will be a handful for you.”

Getting a second wind, Robby flips you both over. Now smirking down at you on your back, “We should keep trying…just to be safe.”

[daydreamlib]

Hands On

Dr Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader

Summary: when innocent flirting and longing looks turn into hiding in the on call room. Porn with a lil plot

Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors dni, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, fingering, little bit of exhibitionism if you squint, fucking in the hospital, he talks her through it, age gap (yk the drill, reader is 35+, robby is 50), established relationship, brief mentions of reader having hair long enough to braid, mentions of Robby being taller

WC: 4.2k

A/N: yay! Finally some more Robby smutties! This was mostly just me being horny and too tired to write convoluted plot. I did get some requests so I’ll work on them as soon as I finish the semester. But for now I wanted to feed yall so you wouldn’t forget me. Enjoy :)

i want to note that this was inspired by this post by @abbotjack so some dialogue bits are inspired by their post. Also thank you to @wittyjasontodd for putting up with my insanity and for encouraging having a quickie with this old man in the middle of a shift <3

This was so agonizing. You didn’t know what demon possessed your soul or why you were so flustered and bothered. All fucking day, from the moment you woke up. In his bed, tangled up underneath his sheets. You didn't know if he was the cuddling type, but you woke up in his arms, on his chest, every time. And this time? You wanted to fucking stay there. All over him. You could feel it, crawling in your skin, perpetually warm even after you shrugged your hoodie off your shoulders like it had offended you. You were hyper aware of his presence at any given moment. If you heard his voice, your head was snapping in that direction. He came in to assist with a patient? You gravitated toward the side he was on to be as close to him as possible. You even got lucky a few times when he was hovering over you, standing behind you to look over your shoulder. It was subtle, always professional, but he would never stand this close to another resident unless he was doing the procedure himself. He could watch from a distance, but he didn’t, because he could tell. 

You were on hour five of your twelve hour shift when you managed to sneak into the doctors lounge to munch on a granola bar and attempt to down your lukewarm coffee. You sat for a collective two minutes when Robby came through the door. Suddenly your pulse spiked and you nearly choked at the sight of him. He was on his phone, typing something, black framed glasses sitting on his pretty nose. Your eye nearly twitched. Why you were having such visceral reactions to seeing your boyfriend today, you didn’t know. You offered him a smile nonetheless, slightly nudging your head at the empty chair next to you. The lounge was empty aside from you, anyway. 

“You hiding?” He shot you a look, a tiny eyebrow raise making you smile a bit. Yes, from you, you thought. You nodded slowly as you chewed on your bar. 

“Maybe.” You mumbled quietly, eyeing him as he leaned back on the chair, casually sliding down it until his knee was touching yours under the table. You jolted the slightest bit, blinking at him, but you otherwise didn’t comment. 

Robby was a very observant man. Call it age, call it wisdom, call it whatever, but it didn’t take him long to be able to read your body language like an open book he read for the sole purpose of his amusement. Your fluttering eyelashes, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, your opposite leg bouncing incessantly. The way you damn near shuddered every time he barely touched you. Whether it was a subtle hand on your lower back when he walked away from assisting with your patient, or your shoulder just barely touching his arm as you talked to him in the hallway. Or how you nearly kneed the table just now. You were aching for something you couldn’t have, and it was driving you to madness. 

“Me too, I saw Gloria in the hallway.” He shuddered, shaking his head aggressively, which made you let out a giggle. God, he loved all your sounds, every one. 

“Want it?” You offered the last bit of your granola bar as you sat in that familiar silence that was often shared between people who had already said everything needed to be said. You sat in silence a lot, you didn’t need to fill it with small talk, but today you were painfully aware of his presence, his warm brown eyes lingering on you every once in a while, his knee touching yours. A subtle act, nothing more than a gesture of affection. But today, god, it would be your breaking point. You quickly realized turning your head to look at him would be a mistake. 

“Uh-huh. Thank you.” He happily and graciously accepted your offering, one hand lifting his glasses off his face and set down on the table as he grabbed your bar with the other. It was the most normal thing he could ever do, he did it all the time, it wasn’t like he wore his glasses for everything. But the simple act as he so unbothered munched on your leftovers made you dig your nails into your palm. “You did really good on that car crash patient, by the way. Readjusting a hip dislocation and a sternum fracture is pretty damn impressive.” 

You nibbled on your bottom lip, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise. It always took you aback when he so casually praised you, it always left you a flustered fucking mess. “Mmm, really?” 

“Mhmm, yeah.” He replied, nonchalant. He blinked at you slowly, big brown eyes swallowing you whole. You could hear your breath as he slowly leaned in, stopping when your shoulders touched. 

“Are you gonna kiss me right now?” You dared to ask, which made him slip the tiniest grin. 

“No. But you want me to, don’t you?” He was toying with your sanity, a straight face meeting your fragile demeanor. You knew he would never display such affections so openly where you could be seen. Yes, everyone in the ER was well aware of your relationship, but that didn't mean he would shove it in their faces. But that didn’t mean you didn't  wish he would just grab you by your hair and kiss you silly. “If you want something, you ask for it.”

“You are so evil for that, I hope you know that.” You sighed out, a little unevenly, not amused in the slightest. He let out a dry chuckle, head tilted at you.

“I'm not doing anything.” He shrugged, the slightest bit of amusement lacing his tongue, but his expression remained stoic, probably to tease you even more. You found no humor in this, and you kicked his knee with your own under the table. “Okay, ow.”

You rolled your eyes, opening your mouth to berate him a little about the torture you have been enduring all day and that would continue to endure until you got home because how dare he not stay in bed with you like you begged him to that morning, but just as you were, the door of the lounge opened and Dana peaked her head inside. She shot you a suspicious look, but neither of you said anything. 

“Alright break time’s over. Langdon needs you in trauma one,” she shot Robby a knowing look, to which he simply sighed, choosing not to comment. And then she looked at you, “and you, you can take the auto versus pedestrian that’s coming.” 

So much for your little coffee break. You shot Robby a look that was a reminder that this conversation was not over and he would be hearing from you for the rest of your shift. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

You managed to compose yourself for the most part. Sure, you were a little amped up, a bit hot and bothered, your cheeks were a little flushed and your heart raced every time Robby was in the same room as you, but, you promised yourself you would finish your shift before you actually jumped his bones. And your plan has been working so far.

You were just leaving a patient’s room when you saw Robby, annoyance and a little irritation written all over his face.

“What happened to you?” You chuckled a little as he shot you a pointed look. You definitely noticed that his hoodie was gone and his scrubs were suspiciously a size too small for him. This was definitely not helping your issues today.

“Bleeding ulcer, apparently they failed to mention they had a cough when I was doing the exam. I had to change scrubs and now I have to try and get that blood off my hoodie.” He sighed out a groan, rubbing the back of his hair a little exasperated. You held in your laugh and simply gave him a sympathetic look. 

“I can try to wash it off when we get home.” You offered, knowing he hated throwing away hoodies when they got stained. He shot you a half smile and nodded. But you still couldn't overlook the way the sleeves were tight on his biceps, riding up more than normal, which revealed the slightest bit of his tattoos. And you definitely noticed the way they fit a little too short on his torso. “Couldn't find scrubs your size?”

“No, actually. All they had was medium. And of course, I didn’t bring a fucking spare today.” you could see how this predicament would be quite annoying, you, too, would be annoyed if your scrubs were too tight. But you were definitely enjoying this a little too much. Teasing him back was also a bonus.

“Don’t let Myrna catch you looking like this.” You snorted, bringing the back of your hand to cover your mouth. You had to bite down your lip to muffle your laugh at the glare he shot you. He tilted his head at you, eyes narrowed the slightest bit like he was plotting. 

“Don't start.” He warned you, voice low and leveled. You leaned your chin on your hand and shrugged. 

“No, really, it's a good look. Definitely one way to bring up your patient satisfaction scores. Whore yourself out a little bit. You’re definitely popular among a certain demographic.” You truly wanted to keep a straight face but the way he looked at you the more you teased him made you swallow a bit. Like he was considering whether or not to drag you by your arm somewhere. He found it so rich that you said that, like you weren't damn near fifteen years younger than him.

“Don’t you have patients? There’s plenty of people in the waiting room if you’re bored.” He said blankly, arms folded over his chest. You caught him subtly trying to fix his sleeve on his bicep and your eye nearly twitched, your lips curled up into the tiniest grin.

“Okay fine, Jesus. You're such a grumpy old man. You need a vacation or something.” You gave him one last jab as you started to walk away, but not before he shot you the sharpest glare, his jaw so tight you thought he would dislocate it.

“I swear to g—” you shrugged at him, blowing him a kiss over your shoulder as you all but ran away from his wrath. He chuckled dryly, shaking his head at himself as he plotted just how he was going to get back at you. It didn't take him long to devise a plan. With the one thing you were choosing to tease him about.

You balanced the ipad on one hand as you motioned around different points on the screen with each word you spoke. Mel stood beside you, she helped assist on your auto versus pedestrian case. She was always so sweet, so polite, she didn't mind your racing mouth or your chaotic explanations. 

“There’s a pretty substantial cranial fracture right here,” you pointed at the results from the head CT and X-ray you ordered. Your eyes sometimes wandered as you waited a few seconds for whoever it was you were on a case with to match your racing mind. Your eyes ultimately found your boyfriend sitting at his workstation, glasses sitting on his nose as he typed. Thank the lord you could multitask as well as you could. “I also saw some rib fractures on the left side, we should keep an eye out for pneumothorax and possible hemothorax.” 

Robby always noticed when you entered a room, he wasn't sure what it was, but he always knew where to look for you in a crowd. When he looked up from his computer, he saw you with Mel. You made brief eye contact as you spoke to Mel. it wasn't fully conscious, not entirely malicious, but it did work in his favor, perhaps. 

“What do we look for if there’s a possible pneumothorax?” You knew that she knew perfectly, but Robby always encouraged active teaching. You were listening, you truly were, until your eyes wandered again and you caught a glimpse of Robby stretching. Nothing strange about that, other than the fact that you caught in perfect view the way his scrubs rid up his stomach. You don't think anyone else cared nor noticed, but you went absolutely mental. Catching a glimpse of his thick happy trail was definitely the last straw holding your sanity together.

“Doctor…?” You heard Mel—sweet soul—say your name with a bit of concern. You swallowed a bit, trying to ignore the heat rushing to your cheeks and the racing of your stupid heart. You felt like a horny teenager. Is this what it has come to? Getting horny at the sight of your boyfriend's happy trail? Or was it the way he held his arms behind his head, further testing the strength of those scrubs? Fuck. You looked at her and gave her a strained smile. 

“Yeah, perfect. I have to go check on a patient, I’ll come get you in a bit to check on our patient, ‘kay? ‘Kay.”

An hour hadn't gone by when you realized you couldn’t take it anymore. You were hot and bothered, face flushed and warm to the touch. You were thanking the Gods that it seemed to have slowed down for now, nobody was grabbing you to assist on bleeding patients. You were waiting on some lab results. Which gave you even more time to think about how horny you were, as juvenile as it was. You were praying he would have mercy on you. You caught him walking out of a patient’s room, unbothered, blissfully unaware of your torment. Or maybe it was entirely conscious. You didn't know, or frankly, cared. You aggressively typed into your phone. He was pretty quick about answering, he almost never answered immediately.

Come. Here. 

Robby looked up from his phone, searching around the crowds of patients and staff, until his eyes landed on you. He tilted his head at you, curiosity in his eyes. He had the tiniest grin on his lips as he met you in the middle. He read your face with curiosity, amusement, even. Wide-eyes, fluttering eyelashes, bottom lip pulled between your teeth, god you looked a mess and he hadn't even touched you.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” He tilted his head at you, leaning down a bit to your level. The pet name was definitely adding insult to injury. He never addressed you by anything other than your name at work. He truly wanted to drive you mad. And he had the audacity to even ask. You oughta beat him up just for that. 

“Shut up, just come.” You spoke in a hush, tone sharp and laced with frustration. You grabbed his wrist without saying another word, making sure that nobody was actually paying attention to what was happening. Robby said nothing as he allowed you to drag him, realizing where you were going where you turned the corner next to the lockers. 

You dragged him inside the empty on-call room. You let out the loudest, most exasperated sigh as soon as he shut the door behind him.

“Do you have any fucking idea the day I’ve had? I just—“ You stopped in the middle of the room, a short breath leaving your heavy chest, your eyes all but pleading. “I just want you, please?”

“Honey,” his voice was low, steady, almost like a warning, with a head tilt as you heard the soft click of the lock. “You know we don’t do that.” Quickies were absolutely not Robby’s thing. A quickie in the ER? Recipe for disaster.

“I know!—” You gritted your teeth at your volume, immediately biting down on your lip. God, you felt so pathetic. Robby met you in the middle, crowding your space, and for a second your brain short circuited at the way he looked down at you. “I know, I just need you right now. I need you inside me and I don’t think I can wait another six hours.”

Who was he to ever deny his sweet girlfriend anything when she asked so nicely?

“Hmm, yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper, raspy and baritone in your ear. You were this close to fainting. You felt dizzy, flustered and bothered, all at once. “You’re just needy today, hm?” You completely lost it when he grabbed your jaw, long fingers sprawled across your neck as he forced your head back to meet his lips. The moan that left your throat was so pathetic as he made you back up against the closest wall. 

His mouth just felt so good against yours, almost as good as his free hand finally touching your flushed skin. He didn’t waste any time, much to his dismay, but he had you at home anyway. This was about pure and raw release. He could make love to you in the warm embrace of your own bed, right now, he was okay with just fucking you. 

“You really want it, right here?” He spoke with the slightest bit of amusement laced with anticipation, he knew the answer, but he just wanted to hear it out of your pretty lips. Anticipation sat heavy on your chest, your breath heavy as he slipped his hand into your scrubs.

“Yes, yes, I want you to take me right here, please, please,” shame? You didn't know her. You would do and say anything to get what you so desperately needed. Robby was always so calculated, observant, with everything he did. He watched for your microexpressions, your little sighs and whimpers. They were always so gratifying to him. He took in the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head when his long fingers brushed your sensitive clit and easily slipped inside you.

“Fuck, you are so wet. Have you been like this all day?” There was a bit of humor in his tone, teasing as he fucked you with his fingers. You bit down on your lip, keeping your noises to a minimum as you bunched up the front of his scrubs around your hand. 

“Michael, please.” Words left you in a halt, breathless as your head fell forward against his chest. You wanted to hide how pathetic you looked, jaw hanging wide open, face flushed and glowing with a thin layer of sweat. But Robby loved looking at you, he loved memorizing the ruined fucking mess he made of you. His free hand found the back of your hair to force you to meet his eyes.

“Look at me just like that,” he wanted to focus you, ground you, remind you that it was him making you feel this way. His fingers left you empty, pulsing and throbbing. 

Out of breath, you watched as he dragged your scrubs down until they pooled by your feet, you unconsciously stepped out of one leg, but your panties were still on. You held your breath in your chest as he slowly pulled the soaked fabric to the side and a groan rumbled in his chest at the sight of your swollen clit and glistening thighs. Oh, that was all for him, and he was going to make good on that. He pulled his throbbing cock out of his scrubs fast, and while still keeping eye contact, you braced for what was about to come your way. Without a word, and still holding your panties to the side, he slides into you in one thrust that has you sliding up the wall. There was no, take it slow, or adjust to it. It was so sudden you gasped so loud you swore whoever walked by heard it.

“Uh-uh, quiet. I need you quiet, baby.” His hand was on your mouth, stifling your sweet little sounds as he drove into you. His other hand found your thigh and he was lifting your knee as high as it could go until only your heel was touching his shoulder. You wanted to fucking scream. “You wanted this, so now you take it, but you take it quietly.” 

His weight was pinning you against the wall as he drilled into you, his hand still covering your mouth. He could hear your little gasps, your high pitched moans each time his cock brushed up that one spot inside your walls that made your thighs shudder. His small sighs of exhaustion were right in your ear, a reminder that he, too, was trying desperately to hold himself together, and was failing by the second. 

“You were just so desperate for it. Wanted this so bad? Hm?” His conceding words were in your ear, raspy and out of breath. Your brain has completely turned off, there wasn't a single thought in that head of yours other than the feeling of his cock filling you exactly how you wanted. Deep strokes that have completely ruined you, broken your mind. Just how he liked it. His hand left your mouth just to make you answer him. “You can use your words.”

“Yes, god, yes, I couldn’t think about anything else.” Your voice was broken, desperate, completely overwhelmed with how good he was making you feel. This was the one thing in this world you didn't have to think about, he thought for you, he could take over and make you forget about the world around you and that drove you mental.

“You just wanted to be fucked like you deserved, trust me I know.” His words were sharp, like the way he drove into you. It wasn’t fast, but it was deep, intense and with purpose. He had no need to run in circles, he knew what he needed to do, and like with everything else he was infuriatingly good at, he did it with purpose. You, fucked. That was it. “I want you to feel me for the rest of your fucking shift. Remember what it feels to be just mine.” 

Just mine, he repeated, like a mantra. A reminder that he had to share you with everyone else in this fucking place. But when it was just the two of you? He could take over every little intricate part of your mind, of your body, all of it was just for him. And you let him. You begged him to. And for that? He would fuck you stupid every single time.

It felt like an eternity, it truly did. Every agonizing minute one closer to being caught or heard. Though you had to admit that only added to your purely animalistic arousal. Your trembling hands grabbed and pulled at whatever you could. You dug your nails into his torso under scrubs with one, holding him each time he rutted his hips against yours. Your forehead was leaning on his collarbone, and he didn't even bother to redirect you this time. You clutched his shoulder like vice and you were sobbing into his scrubs as your orgasm hit you way too soon for your liking. It was absolutely delirious, left you sputtering and absolutely wrecked. You were hoping your sounds didn't pass the door.

“Just like that, breathe through it.” His words only added to your delirium. His voice, his rough hands, his authoritative presence, it fucking wrecked you and you were afraid you would never be able to come back from it. You were ruined and only he could have you now. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me. You’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”

His words grounded you. His voice. His hands cradling the back of your head as he fucked you through it. And he didn’t stop until he filled you, and when he did, it was with a breathy moan that got lost in your hair. He held you there until he felt your body collapse over his chest. Without saying a word he carried you to the makeshift bed everyone slept on when they were on call. He sat you down, amusement circling in his pretty brown eyes at the sight of you so cock-drunk. You half assed lifted your scrubs up your thighs but stopped when Robby grabbed your hand.

“Let me clean you first at least.” He chuckled quietly, to which you replied with a quiet oh. The neat braid your hair had stayed in for the past six hours was completely fucked, hairs sticking out everywhere. It was a lost cause. He was always so gentle when he cleaned you, so delicate and tender, a true juxtaposition of the predicament that led you here. “Next time? Wait until the end of our shift.” He wasn’t scolding you. It was more of a, we did something we weren't supposed to, tone.

“I know.. I’m sorry, I don’t know what was wrong with me today.” You were a bit sheepish, shifting and grimacing each time he touched you. As your eyes were down, you caught a glimpse of the angry red marks forming just underneath his scrubs. Wide-eyed, you reached to lift his scrubs and winced at the red nail marks that covered his side and stomach. “Ohhh, wow, my nails aren't that long, are they?”

“Uh, yes, yes they are hun.” He replied, mostly unbothered. You should see the ones you left on his back when he didn't have a shirt, he thought. “I hope no one asks.” He finished his thought with an awkward smile and raised eyebrows. “Oh, and by the way, maybe get yourself together before going back out? You looked like you got fucked.”

The next six hours of your life were going to be the longest of your fucking life, for sure.

[daydreamlib]

Hello! If your request are open may I request Robby Robinavitch smut where he finds out that you get turned on when he curses?

Curses | one shot

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Requested

Summary: Robby figures out just what gets you all hot and bothered.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: smut is still new territory, so I hope you like it @happyfox43 !

Word Count: 1k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content.

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), afab!reader, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, an absurd amount of cursing, Robby being a menace, slight dom!Robby (all consensual), written with an age gap in mind, pet names (sweetheart, baby)

not beta read

You were not exactly sure how it manifested, or how he figured it out, but you felt like a deer in the headlights when he brought it up. About how you clenched just a bit tighter when he cursed, or how you got hot and bothered when the word fuck slipped passed his lips over something mundane, how you seemed to want his attention in the moments after.

It felt embarrassing, him knowing how much it affected you — and you were flustering more than normal. Despite the fact that you lived together, you still felt like his experience far outmatched yours.

He was in your space, breath on your neck, skin brushing yours just enough to make you flush.

“I know you like that, sweetheart.” His hot mouth was on your pulse point and you squirmed, fisting his shirt. “Fuck, I know you like it.”

Warmth pooled low and your head got hazy. His hand slipped lower, moving to the waist of your panties, soft enough to be teasing but deliberate enough to know he wasn’t messing with you. His fingers brushed past your folds to find you already wet.

“Mike—” Your voice was strangled.

He hushed you, circling your clit a few times. You felt his bulge hardening against your thigh and you whined. He kissed up your neck, stopping to run his tongue along your skin, his breath in your ear.

You attempted to get under his skin by moving your hand to his length, rubbing him over the fabric of his pants. You wanted him to be equally as flustered, to lose the smug edge at knowing your secret.

He groaned against the column of your throat and you squeezed your thighs together, pulsing under his deft fingers.

Gripping his shoulders to try to keep your knees from buckling, you brought your lips to his. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you sighed. He broke the kiss long enough to push you gently down onto the bed.

“Spread those legs for me, sweetheart, show me how fuckin’ pretty you are.”

Your cheeks were ablaze, but you obliged him without a thought to do otherwise. He was on you in the next moment, fingers kneading the flesh of your thighs, kissing up your skin. He stopped on his way up to graze his teeth along your thigh, and a coil tightened in your belly.

“Look at you already so wet for me. Fuck. Is that for me, sweetheart? Does it turn you on to hear me curse?”

You shifted your hips to try to get some friction, but he pushed them back down on the bed.

He tsked, “Use your words, baby. Come on.”

You whined, “Yes. Yes, it’s so hot. Please.”

He rewarded you with his mouth on your clit, tongue hot and sending a jolt through your system. The pleasure hummed low, and heat licked up your insides at the pressure of his tongue. He ate you out like he had come home to a hot meal after not eating all day — slow, deliberate, but starving. The way he enjoyed it made you clench around nothing.

“Mike—Mike—ohmygod—” You dragged your fingers along his scalp, trying to find purchase.

He hummed, and the vibration had you rolling your eyes into the back of your head. His tongue circled expertly, and he moved two fingers to tease your entrance.

“You taste so goddamn good,” he told you, face wet with your slick, as he moved his fingers inside you. He curled them upwards deliciously and you keened, raising your hips in search of his mouth.

He kept moving his fingers, kissing along your hip before moving back to your heat. The warmth swelled, and the coil tightened, and just when your breathing turned ragged, he was pulling away.

“No—no, please.” You cried, reaching out for him.

You were met with a low chuckle, as he kissed up your abdomen. “You’re doing so fuckin’ good for me, baby. But you know you feel so good when you come on my cock, hmm?”

“Fuck,” you breathed out, staring into his eyes. “Fuck, please.”

He grinned, “Isn’t that my line?”

You pulled him down to kiss you, feeling his wet chin against yours from your slick. His tongue slipped into your mouth and you were invaded by the taste of yourself. You groaned, curling your fingers into his hair, wrapping your legs around his hips. You felt desperate to feel him inside you.

He swirled his length around your clit before moving down to your entrance. The low curse in the back of his throat sent sparks down your spine, lighting your desire on fire.

“Fuck, you feel so good.”

You moaned, feeling the stretch of him until he was at the hilt. Your head buzzed as his hand slipped down to your clit to circle quickly. You squeezed around him, and his breath hitched.

“Shit, yeah, you like that?”

“Yes.” You moaned out, eyes screwing shut as the white-hot pleasure approached. “Please, I’m so close.”

You felt his smile against the skin of your throat, his hips keeping pace. Each thrust brushed against the divine spot inside you, and you clenched tighter around him, approaching the edge.

“You’re fuckin’ mine, sweetheart. You know that? Goddamn. C’mon, say it.”

You mewled, tears gathering in your eyes at the overwhelming feeling in your belly, “Yours. Yours.”

“That’s it. Come on, I can feel it. Let go f’me. Fucking hell.”

The tight rubber band snapped, overloading your senses with scorching heat and you moaned out his name like a mantra. You fluttered around him, and he let out a few unintelligible curses, hips beginning to stutter as he fucked you through it.

His mouth enveloped yours in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. You swallowed his grunts, feeling like you might float away.

“Fuck, sweetheart. So good.”

His release came quickly after, losing the pace until it slowed to a stop. He panted above you, head buried in your neck and a long sigh of contentment left your lungs.

He kissed along your jaw, leaving a final kiss to your lips before he smiled at you.

Perhaps Michael knowing your little secret wasn’t so bad after all.

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @girl-obsessed-with-things @laurenkate79 @woodxtock @rosie-posie08 @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged @pastelbunnelby @jetjuliette @that-one-fangirl69

All content taglist: @nixandtonic

[daydreamlib]

first thing

jack abbot x female reader

summary: lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations or jack topping you from the bottom while you ride him first thing in the morning!

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, literally nothing but smut, established relationship of some sort (let your imaginations run wild), p in v sex, dirty talk bc of course, excessive use of the nickname baby, jack being a veryyy lowkey pleasure dom

word count: 1.1k

author’s note: i’m a firm believer that our dear dr. abbot has a filthy mouth, so of course i had to write something nasty for him. the lack of smut for that smug son of a bitch is criminal. also i am convinced that he would call you baby in bed, but only in bed. i dont think he’d be one for pet names, but something about him being all pussy drunk and calling you baby through low raspy groans. yeah. that is all… enjoy!

“You havin’ fun up there?” Jack’s voice was peppered with self-righteous teasing. His words melted into the air through a lazy drawl as you straddled his lap, his dick buried deep between your legs.

Fifteen minutes ago, you were both fast asleep, bodies intertwined under his linen sheets.

You stirred awake in each other's arms, a tangled mess of limbs in the soft yellow hues of morning light that fought through the blinds. Slow sensual touches on bare skin led to your body on top of his. Feeling the familiar stretch as you sunk down on him, you took your time rolling your hips and coaxing quiet grunts from the man below you before either of you could even think about getting out of bed for the day.

It was rare for you to have an upper hand in the bedroom. When it came to Jack, dominance was his territory, the power associated with it fed his ego. It was uncommon to catch him in a moment of vulnerability, but sometimes you found him trading his strong willed attitude for a more docile demeanor. It often appeared when he was preoccupied or overcome with the need for relief, giving into the soft comfort of your hands on his body. He had to be just needy enough to willingly let take the lead, and even then, he could never fully submit.

He used his words in retaliation.

Maybe his rigid frame would melt under your touch, or his inhibitions would fall to the side at the sound of your pathetic little moans, but he would always rely on his words to remind you who was really in charge. 

“Nice and slow just like that.” The deep rasp of his voice echoed between your bodies; his instruction still laced with sleep. 

A smirk peeked through his slumber worn expression, fingertips resting at the flesh of your waist as your body pressed into his.

His head fell back into the pillow, eyes threatening to close, and you could feel his fingers hug harder into your skin with each rock of your hips.  

“There you go.” He held you, trying his best to let you set the pace, but desperately wanting to tighten his grip and drag you along his body— rough and impulsive. 

Your fucked-out stare scanning him from above was the only thing keeping him in check.

Your pleading eyes begged for control. They practically oozed with desperation as you rode him. It was enough to make his grasp soften as he surrendered to your desire, watching as you used him to please yourself. Used him. His dick pulsed at the notion. 

Jack was addicted to you, mind numbingly obsessed with the soft gasps that fell from your lips every time you came. He swore those sounds alone could give him a buzz unlike any drug. Some nights, he’d make you finish on his fingers so many times he’d lose count. He needed to make you feel good— wanted to watch the way your body reacted to his touch. It held a different kind of control, witnessing you give yourself over to him with your back arched and your head thrown back.

“Show me how you want it baby.” His voice was attentive as he fed into your delusion of power. 

You were grinding into him. Your movements bordering on pitiful with your palm flat against his chest as you held yourself upright. Little whimpers of surrender made their way from your chest with each pass of your hips over his, angling yourself just right so that his tip brushed against the perfect spot with every movement. 

Fluttering shut in the inevitable anticipation of release; your eyes left his. You were basking in the warmth of his hands on your bare body; one of them trailing up your torso, the pads of his fingertips tracing into your skin, higher and higher until,

“Eyes on me.” Delicately, he held the nape of your neck, forcing your stare back on his as he pulled you closer to him. 

You dumbly nodded your head. Handing him back an ounce of authority as you followed his command through a hooded gaze.

“Look at you. So goddamn pretty for me.” 

Your jaw went slack at his words, mouth slightly open and brows knit together as the pressure building in your abdomen threatened its release. 

He could feel each greedy response of your body— could sense your impending orgasm with every clench of your thighs, and he was done letting you take the reins.

His hips snapped up to meet yours. Thrusts moving in tandem with each grind of your hips.

“Shit- you feel too fuckin’ good.” Profanities spilled from his throat at the satisfaction of having full control.

He was holding onto your hips and fucking into you from below. The tensing of your body and the sweet moans dripping from your tongue only adding to his pleasure. You were his. He needed it— craved the promise of your devotion in the breathless praise of his name on your lips.

“Come on baby let me have it.” Growling out in a low moan, he all but begged you to finish for him— finish on him. Pushing you right over the edge with just a few simple words and the persuasive quality of his voice. 

Your walls hugged tight in obedience, a string of whines leaving your throat as you came undone around him.

“There she is.” His statement of recognition seeped with affection while his grip on your hips remained unrelenting.

The high of your release persisted as Jack’s thrusts kept purpose, his hands on your body holding you steady. 

“Got another one for me?” A sadistic warmth took over his voice, and he drove into you harder. The question obviously rhetorical as he made sure to hit the spot that made you clench around him.

The day began around you as gentle sunlight filled the room, but neither of you had a single thought of getting out of bed anytime soon.

[daydreamlib]

weather the storm

dr. jack abbot x female!wife!reader

wc: 1.8k

summary: you take you and jack's son to the er in the middle of the night when he's sick, but your marriage happens to be on the rocks atm

warnings: reader and jack have 11 year old son, medical inaccuracies, mentions of marital differences/separation, mentions of surgery/medical procedures, established relationship, light angst but happy ending, not canonically accurate, reader has her dogs out

a/n: i don't know why i'm struggling so bad to characterize/write for abbot but i hope this does him justice. i def think he's more goofy in the show but this is a more sensitive situation so idk? i hope you like it okay!!! ugh!!!! i want to write sm more for him so maybe it will come easier to me

You were deep in sleep when you felt a familiar small hand grasp your shoulder. Your eyes shot open and you inhaled sharply as you sat up on your elbow. Your son’s face came into your weary vision. He was grasping your arm and bent over the bed, a distressed look on his face. 

“Mom.” He spoke in a pained whisper. 

“Benjamin?” You blink and clear your eyes, anxiety skyrocketing at the sight of Jack and your son’s form. You grab onto his arm that’s gripping your shoulder and squeeze. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

His voice is soft and broken, “My side. My side really hurts.”

You sit up immediately and push the covers back. “Your side?” 

You run your hands over his arms and move the one that’s covering his midsection, lifting his pajama top. It looks normal to the eye.

“Here?” You place a gentle hand on him.

He nods, grimacing. 

You curse under your breath and stand, guiding Ben to sit on the edge of your mattress. It’s definitely his appendix and you’re praying to yourself it hasn’t ruptured.

You grab your phone off the nightstand. “You’re okay, baby.” You reassure him as you dial Jack’s number. 

You know it’s a shot in the dark. Jack was working an overnight shift again and you had been separated for two months now. Your marriage was one full of love and a deep connection to each other, but lately you’d been struggling. He’d been working nights full time and barely saw you. He tried to make time for Ben, which you appreciated, but it was a different story for you. 

You started spending more time at work in his absence and found yourself desperate for his attention, and when you reached a breaking point you pushed him away. You two fought like you’d never fought before and things buried deep inside came to the surface. After the two of you cooled down, you spoke with a marriage counselor and a brief separation was suggested.

So, here you were. At home in the house you used to share, the bed that you still kept to your side of. Jack had gotten a small townhouse closer to the hospital and stopped by for the occasional dinner and to pick up Ben. But, as the phone rang you internally begged him to pick up, all drama aside. 

You get his voicemail. Realistically, you know the ER can get chaotic at night, but you can’t help the curse that escapes again. You toss the phone down and grab your shoes near the closet, the ones you swore you’d pick up days ago. 

You help Ben move to the car, holding his groaning form up. You hide your fear and anxiety and whisper reassurances to him. 

The dashboard reads 2:38 am as you drive the fastest and safest way you can to the hospital. You park and help your son to the familiar ED’s waiting room. It’s less busy than you would have thought, the night shift seeming to usually catch the weirdest cases. 

The receptionist is one you recognize thankfully, and her eyes shoot up when she sees you and Ben.

“I think it’s his appendix.” Your voice shakes. 

Ben leans into you, his eyes tearing. “Mom-”

“It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re here now.” You repeat. 

The receptionist pages back and Dr. Ellis exits the locked doors with a nurse not a moment later. 

“Abbot?” She uses your last name as she rushes over and assesses Ben’s state. The nurse follows with a wheelchair and she helps you sit Ben in it. 

“I think it’s his appendix. Jack didn’t pick up and I have no idea if it’s ruptured-” 

Ellis cuts off your rambling, “Don’t worry, we got him.”

You follow her as they put Ben in a room and start an IV. You step forward and run a hand over your son’s hair, trying to comfort him. 

“Is Dad here?” He groans. 

“He’s in Trauma 1.” Ellis answers, giving you a look as she pulls the ultrasound over. 

“He’ll be here in a little, baby.” 

Ben nods but drops his head back defeatedly. 

Ellis moves closer to her boss’s son and speaks gently. “I’m going to lift your shirt and check out what’s going on, okay, kid?” 

Ben nods and she puts the soft gel on the wand, moving it over his abdomen. She watches the screen and Ben holds onto your hand, wincing softly. 

Ellis hums to herself, before placing the wand back and wiping your son’s side. “Good news is it’s not ruptured yet. I’m going to admit him to General Surgery and they’ll get him in pre-op.”

“He needs surgery?” You thought you’d heard of doctors being able to reverse appendicitis with medication. 

She nods. “It’s pretty inflamed, I’m not sure the antibiotics would work in time to stop a rupture.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah. Thank you. Can- can you just get Jack when you have a chance?” You know he’s working and you’re not in the best place but you want him here. 

“Of course.” She takes a moment to explain what’s going on to Ben before exiting. You sit on the edge of the mattress and squeeze Ben’s hand, trying to soothe him. 

Jack had been in Trauma 1 when you had entered the ER. A GSW had come in through the ambulance bay and the patient was critical. He had spent the first 10 minutes coding him, then working to stabilize him enough to send him up to the OR. 

When he finally exited and shoved off his gown, exhaling a deep sigh, he wasn’t in the mood to find out why Ellis was moving towards him in such a grim way. 

He went to glance up at the board but Ellis’ tone caught him off guard. 

“Dr. Abbot,” Her inhale was shaky, “Your son is in South 15.”

His world stopped. His years of training and education abandoned him in that singular moment. “What?” His voice was barely audible. 

“Your wife brought him in, looks like appendicitis. It’s inflamed and I don’t think there’s time for antibiotic treatment. He’s getting prepped for General Surgery-” He didn’t stay to hear her finish. His movements were controlled but hurried as he moved to the curtain he would find you behind. 

He shoved the curtain back and took in the scene before him. You were sitting on the small hospital bed, still in your tank top, striped pajama pants, and familiar worn flip-flops you’d had since before Ben was even born. You were whispering soft words to your son. Your son, whose face was scrunched up and who was lying back in a hospital gown, IV dripping into his arm. 

You turned at the curtain’s movement and sighed deeply in relief. Ben glanced up. 

“Dad.”

Jack was by his side in an instant. “You okay, buddy? What happened?” 

You stood and watched Jack run his hand over Ben’s hair, pushing the curls he’d inherited from the man back. 

Ben spoke softly, “My side started hurting, it woke me up. I woke Mom up and she brought me here.”

“I tried to call. I got here as quick as I could-” You continued. 

“You did everything right.” Jack nodded, his voice soft and eyes firm. 

He grabbed a pair of gloves from the box on the wall and pulled the ultrasound machine back over. 

You knew he trusted Ellis and her professional opinion, but he also wanted to make sure his son was okay for himself. 

Ben laid back as his dad examined his abdomen. You ran a hand over your bedhead and watched Jack shift into the all too familiar doctor he was. His expression unreadable, his movements precise. 

He wiped the machine and his son’s stomach before speaking, “You’ll be okay, kid. One less appendix for you.” He smirked, winking at the young boy.  

Ben smiled weakly at his dad and you let out the breath you’d been holding. Hearing that everything would be okay from Jack was the most reassurance you could get at that moment. 

A few more nurses came in, giving Jack sympathetic glances and prepping Ben to head to the OR. When Ellis came back in and gave the all good, you pressed a long kiss to your son’s head. Jack squeezed his hand and whispered ‘I love yous’ in his ear. You watched as they wheeled him towards the elevator. 

You knew he would be okay and that he was in the best hands, but your eyes watered. The night was catching up with you. A sob wracked through you and Jack watched your shoulders shake. 

He stepped close behind you, his hands finding your shoulders. 

“It’s okay.” His voice was quiet and that was all you needed to let the tears fall. 

Turning in his arms, you fell into his chest. His familiar hands, rough and calloused, wrapped around your crying form and his head came to rest on yours. 

It was overwhelming. Ben needing surgery in the middle of the night and Jack not being there next to you to know or help. You let yourself cry for a while, before pulling back. You said nothing as you let Jack lead you to the elevator. 

He kept his arm around you as you moved to the surgical floor. He sat with you in the waiting room, even finding a PTMC hoodie to wrap around your shoulders. He didn’t push you. He let you lean on him and intertwine your fingers with his. 

“Do you need to go back down to the ER?” You sniffle, head on his shoulder. 

“Shen can manage. I told him to page me only if there’s an emergency. I’m not going anywhere.” He squeezed your hand. 

You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, serious and soft. 

“I’m sorry,” you start, “about everything. Tonight- the whole night, I just kept wishing you were there with me. That I didn’t have to worry about calling or you being across town if something happened.” 

A tear escapes as you continue, “I don’t like this. Not knowing where we stand. It’s killing me. I miss you, Jack. All the time.”

His face contorts in emotion and he swallows before responding in that soft tone of his. “I miss you too. All the time. I’m sorry, baby. I thought- I thought this would help. That you’d feel better away from me.”

Your head shakes and a few more tears fall. “I don’t, I don’t. I want you to come home.”

His jaw visibly clenches and his nod is firm, but it carries the emotion you know he’s feeling. “I want that, too. I want you, Ben, all of us together.”

“Together.” You repeat and clutch his hand tighter. 

He pulls you into his arms and you let him. You fall into him for the first time in months with no second guesses. No imaginary lines being crossed. 

You feel his lips graze your hairline and you pull back slightly, hands cupping his face. His lips find yours easily and it feels brand new again. Your heart full and your mind at ease. 

“We’ll be okay.” His words wrap around you like his arms and you know in all certainty they’re true.

[daydreamlib]

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Another knock. This time, softer. Almost...polite.

Your hand rested on the knob.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."