leo-in-the-pitt

[leo-in-the-pitt]

I NEED A PART 3 🤣🤣🤣🤣 and please take your allergy medicine cause I need a happy ending!! No more allergic to happy endings

This is actually hilarious! Y’all I decided to add in that ending as I was proofreading it right before posting 😭 didn’t think that many people would want a part 3, but definitely writing it soon!

[leo-in-the-pitt]

Lace and Lies

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Female Reader

Summary: After a hookup at a medical conference with your boss, Dr. Jack Abbot. You're determined to stay out of trouble to protect your career. But with the end of year residency party coming up, everything will change, for better or for worse is the only question.

This is a Part 2 to On Your Own

Warnings: beginning is all fluff but the end is something else, Jack Abbot is a flirt and the sweetest man on Earth, strong language, sexual tension, unprotected p in v sex, fingering, handjob/blowjob, all the dirty stuff tbh 

Word Count: 15.5k

———————————————————————

Jack’s phone alarm blares at 4:30, a shrill beep cutting through the dark, yanking you from a shallow sleep. You’re still facing the wall your body aching from last night. You shift your leg slightly, just enough to signal you’re awake, but you can’t bring yourself to turn over. 

The air smells of stale hotel sheets and lingering sex, a reminder of the line you crossed.

“Good morning,” Jack says, voice rough with sleep, his silver hair a mess in the dim light.

You turn just enough to catch his face, bedhead softening his usual sharpness. 

“Morning,” you mumble, eyes flicking away.

“Sleep alright?” he asks, scratching his head, sensing your distance.

“Uh, yeah, more like a nap, but… fine, I guess,” you reply, staring at the wall.

He pauses, then nods. “I’m gonna shower, grab breakfast downstairs. You eating here or at the airport?”

“Maybe just coffee at the airport. Not really hungry,” you say, pulling the comforter tighter.

He nods, grabs clothes from his bag, and heads to the bathroom, the door clicking shut. You slip out to your room. In your bathroom, the shower’s steam does little to ease your panic. 

I fucked my boss. Or he fucked me?

You throw on jeans and a hoodie, pack your bag, and check Jack’s door before heading down—no answer, he’s gone.

In the lobby, the faint smell of burnt coffee lingers. Jack’s in a corner, plate of eggs untouched, coffee steaming, his eyes on his phone. 

You approach, clutching his shirt and boxers. “Hey, uh, didn’t know if you wanted these back now?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, taking them, stuffing them into his backpack without looking up. “You gonna sit?”

“Think I’ll wait outside, get some air. Got a lot of messages to reply to,” you say, already turning toward the exit.

Outside, you sit on a bench, the morning chill biting your fingers as you scroll through texts—mostly Langdon, his excitement about your win now feeling distant. You text him: Can you call me in an hour?

The Uber ride to the airport is dead silent, the driver’s news radio droning about local traffic. Jack stares out the window, you at your phone, the tension thick enough to choke on.

At the airport, security’s a blur of beeping scanners and shuffling lines. Jack breaks the silence. “Grabbing coffee before the gate. Meet you there?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop by the bathroom,” you say, avoiding his eyes.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face, the mirror reflecting your tired eyes. A text from Jack pings: Got us seats by the gate. 

You find him, two coffees on the table, your favorite, hot caramel latte, steaming in front of an empty chair. You sit, the gate’s chatter and clinking coffee cups buzzing around you.

“Thanks,” you say, lifting the cup, taking a sip. Silence settles again, heavy, like the whole airport feels your tension.

You text Lang: Call me now. Your phone rings instantly.

“I’ll be right back.” You hold up your phone, letting him know where you’re going.

You answer as soon as you’re far enough away from him.

“Hey, there’s the new pride and joy of The Pitt!” Lang’s voice is bright, too bright.

“Hey, Lang,” you mumble, eyes flicking to Jack, who’s staring at his coffee.

“Whoa, that’s not the reaction I expected. What happened, flight get canceled or something?”

“Uh, no, we board in 20 minutes,” you say, voice low.

“We?” Lang pauses.

“Yeah, we. Abbot’s here with me.”

Another pause. “I feel like there’s a long story behind that, and it’s gonna take more than 20 minutes.”

“Lang, I think I fucked up.”

“What does that mean?”

You sigh, deep and shaky, glancing at Jack, who’s still staring down. “I had sex with Abbot last night. Well, a couple hours ago.”

Silence. “Lang, say something, please.”

“You want me to answer as your friend or your senior resident?”

“I don’t know, just… say something before I spiral.”

“As your senior resident, this is one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had. As your best friend? About damn time.”

“What the hell, Lang? What do you mean about time?” You start pacing. 

“You two are practically the same person. Thrive off chaos, calm under pressure. Good match.”

“You’re not helping. Like at all. I don’t know how to sit next to him for six hours.”

“Did you talk about it, or are you just calling me to avoid him?”

“I can’t stop thinking he planned this, flew across the country to get me in bed. But…Lang, it felt real. Like it wasn’t just sex for me.”

“Then you gotta talk to him. Not me.”

“Not sure a quiet plane ride is the place to discuss what us sleeping together means.”

“Look, kid, I know you—the longer you avoid this, the less likely you’ll have it. Who does he think you’re talking to?”

“Didn’t say. Just said I had to take a call.”

“Oh, so he definitely knows it’s me.” Lang laughs. “Doesn’t help you’ve probably made eye contact with him a dozen times during this call.”

You glance at Jack again—he’s looking now, eyes unreadable. “Alright, Lang, I gotta go.”

“Good luck with your man.”

“Lang, I swear to God, don’t call him that.”

“Bye, kid.”

You hang up, walking back to Jack. He’s zoned out, staring at the floor, coffee cup in hand. You kick his foot lightly. “Earth to Jack.”

He blinks, startled. “Oh, hey, sorry.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. You? That was a long call.”

“Just my mom,” you lie, looking away. “Didn’t answer her texts last night, so she was worried.”

“Ah, okay.” He pauses, then leans forward. “Look, I was thinking—”

You glance down, avoiding his eyes. “What was that?” he asks.

“What?”

“That face you just made.”

“I didn’t make a face.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “We’re never gonna talk about this, are we?”

“I just don’t think this is the place to talk about what us having sex means.”

“Alright then. We’re boarding now anyway.” He grabs his bag, standing.

You find your window seat on the plane, heart sinking as Jack takes the aisle seat in your row, the middle seat empty. “Don’t worry, that seat’s staying empty,” he says, voice flat.

“How do you know?”

“Hospital paid for window and aisle. Robby got the middle for himself. Figured you’d want space to rest after the conference. It’s all yours.”

He sits, disappointment etched in his face. Part of you wishes he was closer. “Jack, I do want to talk,” you say, voice small. “Just…not now.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” he says, eyes hard. “Should probably just forget it ever happened.”

“What? Jack, you wanted to talk 20 minutes ago!”

“Then you showed your age by refusing an adult conversation.” He jams his headphones in, leaning back, eyes closed before takeoff.

You stare out the window, the tarmac blurring, your chest tight. Forget it happened? His words sting, and the five-hour flight stretches ahead, heavy with everything unsaid.

———————————————————————

The plane lands in Pittsburgh with a jolt, the gray sky outside the window a stark contrast to San Diego’s sun. The walk through the airport is a blur of rolling suitcases and muffled announcements.

Before reaching the exit to wait for Robby, who’s picking you both up, Jack stops dead in the terminal, his bag slung over his. You turn, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Look, I didn’t mean to be an asshole back there on the plane,” he says, voice low, eyes searching yours.

“I know,” you say, voice clipped, arms crossed.

“But we should be able to talk about this. We work together. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me. I don’t want this to hurt your career in any way.”

You swallow hard, Lang’s warning echoing. “You know what, Jack? You were right earlier. We should forget this ever happened. It was a one-time thing. Just a mistake we can move on from. Right?”

He shakes his head, looking away. “Yeah, just a mistake,” he mutters, voice barely audible.

His phone rings, Robby’s name flashing on the screen, perfect timing to cut the tension. “He’s outside,” Jack says, already moving toward the exit.

Outside, Pittsburgh’s drizzle slicks the curb. Robby’s SUV idles, and you slide into the front seat, Jack taking the back. The car smells of old coffee cups and hospital hand sanitizer, grounding you in the familiar. You feel Jack’s eyes on you from the back, heavy and unspoken, as you stare straight ahead.

You fill the silence with Robby, recounting the conference—your second-place win, the judges’ questions, the networking. “I’m so damn proud of you, kid,” Robby says,  oblivious to the weight in the air. “That grant’s gonna put you on the map.”

“Thanks,” you say, forcing a smile, while Jack stays quiet, his presence a shadow over your shoulder.

The drive to your apartment is short, the city’s gray skyline blurring past. Robby pulls up to your building, and you grab your bag, muttering a quick “thanks” before bolting inside. 

You don’t look back, but Jack’s gaze lingers as you see him out of the corner of your eye jumping into the front seat.

You’ve got three days—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday morning—before your next shift. Three days to recover, to bury this. But you don’t know Jack’s schedule, no way to brace for when you’ll face him again in the ER’s chaos.

———————————————————————

Six shifts left to finish your second year, each one a day shift.  Abbot’s schedule is a wildcard—days, nights, split shifts, the man’s practically married to the ER, his silver hair a constant ghost in the halls. You could see him in passing or be stuck elbow-to-elbow running a code. Either way, you’re not ready. 

San Diego’s still raw in your mind—his hands on your hips, his voice growling your name, the way you screamed for him. You told him it was a mistake, to forget it, but it’s lodged in your head.

Wednesday morning, you step into the ER, the fluorescent lights buzzing like a headache. Your scrubs feel too tight, your stethoscope a lead weight around your neck. You scan the schedule taped to the nurse’s station, heart sinking, no Abbot. Relief and disappointment twist together, leaving you dizzy. 

You dive into the chaos: a fractured femur in Room 2, a COPD exacerbation in 5, a kid with a fever in 7. But your hands fumble, missing an IV on the first try, your mind half in that hotel room, replaying Jack’s “just a mistake” echo.

Langdon finds you by the crash cart, his lanky frame leaning against a wall, coffee in hand, eyes sharp with mischief. “There’s our conference champ,” he says, grinning. “Thought you’d be basking in glory, not ghosting me after that airport call. Spill—what went down with Abbot?”

“Lang, drop it,” you snap, pen shaking in your hand. The ER’s hum—monitors beeping, gurneys rattling—feels louder, crowding your thoughts.

“Nope, not dropping it,” he says, stepping closer, voice low. “You said you told him it was a mistake, to forget it. But you don’t forget shit, kid. You hold onto everything. So, you talk to him yet or what?”

“Told him to forget it,” you mutter, the words blurring. “That’s it. It’s done.”

Lang snorts, unconvinced. “Yeah, sure. You’re a mess, and he’s probably brooding somewhere too. You’re both too damn stubborn.” He pauses, softening. “Look, you gotta sort this before it screws with your head. Or your career.”

Before you can respond, a nurse calls you to Room 3—a chest pain case. You fumble the patient’s history, mixing up meds, catching it only when the nurse raises an eyebrow. 

Get it together, you think, but Jack’s voice—“you showed your age”—loops in your head, throwing you off.

That evening, your co-residents ambush you in the break room with a makeshift party for your second-place win. The room smells of stale pizza and burnt coffee, a “Congrats!” banner taped crookedly to the fridge, balloons sagging in the corner. 

Dana hands you a slice, her smile warm but sharp. “Proud of you, kid,” she says. “Heard you killed it in San Diego.”

“Thanks,” you say, forcing a grin, your stomach churning. Lang hovers, watching you like a hawk. The party’s noise—laughter, clinking soda cans—grates on you, Jack’s absence a heavy void. You’re off your game, and it shows.

Thursday’s shift starts smoother, the ER’s chaos a familiar rhythm. You stitch a laceration, order labs for a septic patient, your hands steadier. 

But at 8 p.m., Jack walks in for the night shift, his silver hair catching the light, scrubs hugging his frame. Your heart lurches, mind flashing to San Diego—his lips on your neck, the bed creaking. 

You freeze mid-chart, pen hovering, until a nurse nudges you. “You okay?” she asks. You nod, fumbling, and hand off your cases to Jack with clipped precision—vitals, labs, plans, no eye contact. He’s professional, voice steady, but his gaze lingers, heavy with what you won’t say.

In the break room, you grab a water before leaving. Leftover party signs—crumpled napkins, a deflated balloon—clutter the counter. 

Jack leans in the doorway, arms crossed. “Nice party they threw you,” he says, voice neutral but edged. “Guess you’re the star now.”

“Just celebrating the grant,” you mumble, avoiding his eyes, the water bottle cold in your hand.

“Yeah, well, you earned it,” he says, then pauses, like he wants to say more. But you’re out the door before he can, heart pounding, the memory of his hands on you drowning out the ER’s noise.

Saturday, Jack’s on your day shift, and the air shifts—not hot, not cold, but different. The ER’s a storm—trauma bay packed, monitors screaming—but the casual banter you used to share in slow moments is gone. 

It’s all business: “Labs back on Room 4,” “Need a consult in 6.” You’re hyper-aware of him, his voice sharp with orders. 

You’re off, missing a chart note, hesitating on a dosage until Lang corrects you, his eyebrow raised. Fuck, focus.

At a lull, you’re restocking supplies when Dana corners you by the suture kits, her eyes narrow, assessing. “You and Abbot got a vibe today,” she says, voice low, folding her arms. 

“What vibe?” you say, too quick, shoving a pack of bandages onto the shelf.

“Don’t play dumb,” she says, smirking faintly. “You two used to joke around, steal each other’s coffee. Now it’s like you’re walking on glass. What happened in San Diego?”

Your throat tightens, hands fumbling a suture pack, dropping it. “Nothing happened,” you lie, bending to pick it up, your face hot. “Just focused on work.”

Dana raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Well, whatever it is, you’re off your game, kid. And he’s quieter than usual. Fix it before it becomes everybody’s problem.” 

She pats your shoulder, leaving you rattled, the suture pack crumpled in your hand.

The rest of the shift, you feel Jack’s presence like a pulse—every glance.

You wanted this, right? To forget it, keep it professional? But the silence where his teasing used to be aches, and your head’s a mess, torn between wanting him closer and dreading it.

Tuesday is a reprieve—Jack’s not on the schedule, and the ER feels lighter, though your mind doesn’t. You move through patients, your hands steady but your thoughts drifting to him. Every door that opens makes you flinch, expecting him.

You’re waiting, wanting to see him, hating that you do. Lang notices, tossing you a protein bar during a break. “You’re moping,” he says. “You’re moping worse than a first-year who failed a sim,” he says, leaning against the counter. “And people are noticing. Dana cornered me yesterday, asking what’s up with you and Abbot. Said the vibe’s off, like you’re both dodging something.”

Your stomach twists, the protein bar heavy in your hand. “What’d you tell her?” you ask, voice tight, avoiding his gaze.

“Told her I didn’t know anything,” Lang says, smirking, but his tone sharpens. “Then I overheard one of the interns in the locker room — saying you’ve been off your game since San Diego. Said it’s like you think you can slack off now that you’ve got that grant.” He pauses, watching you. “They’re wrong, but you’re not helping your case, kid. Dropping needles, missing notes? You’re letting this thing with Abbot mess with your head.”

“I’m not slacking,” you snap, the wrapper tearing slightly under your grip. “I’m just…distracted.”

“No shit,” Lang says, voice low but firm.  “You told him to forget it, but you’re the one who can’t. Talk to him before the party Saturday. Gossip spreads too fast around here for you to be waiting, and Dana’s not the only one sniffing around.”

You shake your head, the lounge’s fluorescent hum drilling into your skull. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you mutter, but the lie tastes bitter, Jack’s absence a weight you can’t shake.

Wednesday is quiet, too quiet, without him. The ER’s hum—beeping monitors, nurses’ chatter—feels hollow. You overhear a nurse mention Jack worked the night shift, meaning he’ll be back for handoff tomorrow morning when you start your final shift. Your stomach twists, knowing you’ll see him. You’re not ready, but the countdown’s on—one shift left before the residency party Saturday, where the whole department will be watching, and the tension between you and Jack could crack wide open.

Thursday, your final shift of second year. You’re done before you start, the ER’s antiseptic tang sharp in your nose, the fluorescent lights drilling into your skull. You beeline for the locker room and shove your bag into your locker, the zipper catching. Six shifts down, one to go, and Abbot’s shadow looms.

At the nurses’ station, three co-residents huddle, their whispers sharp and conspiratorial, the hum of monitors and clacking keyboards. 

Oh God, not about me.

“Hey, guys, what’s going on?” you ask, voice tight, forcing casual.

A third-year, nods toward the front station. “Check it out.” 

There’s Jack, leaning against the counter, his silver hair catching the light, scrubs stretched across his broad shoulders. He’s talking to a tall brunette in a sleek pantsuit, her heels clicking as she laughs, tossing her hair. Her polished confidence screams money, her hand grazing his arm as she gestures. Your chest tightens, a hot spike of jealousy twisting your gut. 

He has a type, alright—confident, polished, not a mess like me. 

The image of his hands on you in that hotel room flashes, now poisoned by her easy smile.

“Who is she?” you ask, swallowing hard to keep the edge out of your voice, your fingers gripping the chart you’re pretending to read.

“Some med device rep. Pushing a new point-of-care ultrasound, I think. Been at it for twenty minutes, though—doubt it’s just about the machine.” Says one of the interns/

The group snickers. “Yeah, she’s all over him. Bet she slipped him her cell number on that card she just handed over.” 

You force a laugh, your face burning.

Jack’s guiding her to the exit now, his hand on her lower back—same spot he touched you in San Diego. The business card glints as she passes it to him, her smile lingering. Your pulse hammers, jealousy searing through you.

Is he moving on? Was I just a fling? The thought stabs, your mind replaying his “forget it happened” on the plane, now layered with her laugh.

Jack strides back, his eyes scanning the group, landing on you for a split second. “Don’t you guys have something better to do?” he snaps, voice clipped.

An intern pipes up from the back, nervous. “Uh, you’re running morning rounds today, Dr. Abbot.”

“Shit, right,” he mutters, rubbing his neck. 

“We still missing two night-shifters?”

“Yeah,” the intern says, shrinking. “Haven’t seen them yet.”

“Then why are you telling me instead of finding them?” Jack’s tone is sharp, sending the intern scurrying.

Rounds start, the group trailing Jack room to room, patient to patient.

You’re zoned out, the brunette’s hand on his arm looping in your head, her card in his pocket a taunt. 

He’s already over it. Over me. 

Your hands tremble. When it’s your turn to present, a 62-year-old with chest pain, you stumble, mixing up troponin levels and med orders, your voice cracking. The words jumble, your mind stuck on Jack’s hand on her back, not the patient’s EKG.

Jack’s eyes narrow, his voice cutting through. “You wanna try that again, or are we just guessing diagnoses now?” His tone drips condescension, loud enough for the group to shift uncomfortably, eyes darting between you.

Your blood boils, weeks of tension—San Diego, the plane, the gossip—exploding. 

“Maybe if you weren’t distracted by sales reps, you’d hear me the first time,” you snap, louder than you mean, the words sharp and reckless. Gasps ripple through the residents, the air thick with shock. 

Too far.

But it’s out, your jealousy and hurt laid bare.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his eyes flashing with anger. “Watch it,” he growls, stepping closer, voice low but carrying. “You don’t get to throw tantrums in my ER just because you’re off your game.” The words sting, public and personal.

All eyes are on you, the residents frozen, the nurse’s station silent except for a distant phone ringing. Your gaze locks on Jack, his face a mix of fury and something else—hurt, maybe. 

You can’t tell. Your chest heaves, the weight of everyone watching crushing you. 

Rounds finish in a blur, two more patients, your voice robotic, Abbot’s corrections clipped. The second it’s over, you bolt, muttering nothing to no one, heading for the back hallway where you’re covering today.

Footsteps echo behind you—Abbot, his presence heavy. You stop in the dim hallway, the air thick. He’s close, too close, his cologne—same as San Diego—hitting you. 

“Hey, what the hell was that about?” he demands, voice low, urgent, his frame blocking the light.

You spin to face him, words caught in your throat, your pulse racing. His eyes search yours, intense, waiting. “Oh, now you’ve got nothing to say when no one’s around?” he presses, stepping closer, his voice sharp but cracking with frustration.

Your blood surges, the brunette’s smile flashing again. “Was just saying what everyone was thinking,” you spit, voice shaking. “That woman you were flirting with, everyone saw it, Jack. You were putting on a damn show for the whole ER.”

His face hardens, but his eyes widen slightly. “Flirting? She was a rep pitching a machine. And even if I was, it’s none of your damn business.”

“You made it everyone’s business!” you fire back, voice rising, the hallway’s walls closing in. “Parading her around, hand on her back, taking her card like some sleaze. You think no one’s talking?”

“I’m not doing this with you,” he snaps, his hands clench, betraying him. “Whatever’s in that head of yours, fix it. I won’t tolerate disrespect in my ER.” He turns to leave, shoes squeaking on the tile.

“Disrespect?” you laugh, bitter and loud, stopping him cold. “Don’t remember you caring about disrespect when you were shoving your dick down my throat in that hotel room.”

His face goes white, eyes wide with shock, darting around the empty hallway to ensure no one heard. Before you can blink, he grabs your arm, firm but not rough, and pulls you through the nearest door into the stairwell, the heavy metal slamming shut behind you. 

The air is cold, the concrete walls echoing your ragged breaths. “Get off me,” you hiss, yanking your arm free, your heart pounding so hard it hurts.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he growls, voice low but shaking, his silver hair disheveled as he runs a hand through it. “You won’t talk to me, but you’re fine shouting about San Diego in front of everyone?”

You pace the small landing, your sneakers scuffing the concrete, your breathing uneven. The stairwell smells of damp stone and rust as the fluorescent light flickering overhead. 

“I can’t even look at you, Jack,” you say, voice breaking, your hands shaking as you grip the railing. 

I want to talk, but what if it meant nothing to you?

He steps closer, his voice softer, desperate. “I didn’t want to make work harder for you. You know that, right?” His eyes search yours, pleading, the same intensity as that night in the hotel. He leans in, breath warm on your cheek. “You think I don’t see you? Every damn shift, I’m watching, waiting for you to look back.” His fingers brush your wrist, his eyes pleading. “I’ve been dying to talk since San Diego. You’re shutting me out.”

“I can’t Jack,” you mutter, looking away, the railing cold under your fingers. 

What if I spill everything and you don’t feel the same? What if it was just a fling?

“Just talk to me,” he says, voice raw, leaning down to meet your gaze, his breath warm against your face. “Please, that’s all I’ve been asking for. Tell me what’s going on in there.” He taps his temple lightly, his eyes locked on yours, searching for a crack in your walls.

Your throat tightens, tears pricking your eyes. “Just- ,” you whisper, voice barely audible, the words heavy with everything you’re scared to say. “Just go home. Please.”

He holds your gaze, his jaw tight, hurt flickering across his face. For a moment, he just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to break, to say what you’re holding back. 

Then he nods, slow, defeated. “Alright,” he says quietly, stepping back, the space between you cold and wide. He turns but stops just before opening the door, “Just so you know, her card was in the garbage before rounds even started. Jealousy’s not a good look on you.” His footsteps fading down the hall.

You slump against the railing, the metal biting into your palms, your breaths shallow. 

Did anyone hear? Is everyone talking now? Did he actually get rid of her card?

You take a minute, forcing your breathing to steady, wiping your eyes before stepping back into the ER’s chaos. The rest of the shift is a blur—patients, charts, orders—but Jack’s absence is louder than anything. Your mind’s on him, on the brunette, on the party Saturday where the whole department will be watching, waiting for you to crack. 

———————————————————————

Saturday night, you’re alone in your Pittsburgh apartment, the rain drumming on the window, a gray haze over the city. 

Everyone’s probably whispering about your rounds snap, maybe even the stairwell. You pace your cramped bedroom, clothes strewn across the bed, torn between fading into the background and catching Jack’s eye. 

A black sweater dress feels too safe, a red top too loud. You settle on a mint-green dress—mid-shin length, tight, spaghetti straps, paired with short black heels and a black shoulder purse. It’s bold enough to make you feel hot, a shield against the stares, but subtle enough to keep you grounded. If they’re talking, at least you’ll look good while they do.

The banquet hall, a twenty-minute drive from your place, is a step above the ER’s break room. The party starts at 6 p.m., dinner at 7:30, awards and dessert at 8:30, and the place is rented until midnight for late-night chaos. 

You arrive at 6:15, parked outside the banquet hall, your old sedan’s engine ticking as it cools, Pittsburgh’s drizzle smearing the windshield. Your hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, the mint-green dress tight against your thighs. Thursday’s stairwell fight with Jack—your reckless “disrespect” outburst, replays.

The gossip mill’s churning and tonight could go two ways: you and Jack crash together, or you crash and burn. You take a deep breath, the car’s stale coffee scent grounding you, and whisper, “Get it together.” You grab your black shoulder purse, check your black heels in the rearview, and step into the rain, the mist cool on your flushed skin.

The banquet hall’s front lawn glows with garden-party charm, string lights crisscrossing above a stone path. High-top tables dot the grass, a few residents already mingling, their laughter cutting through the drizzle’s patter. 

The wraparound porch, lined with cedar rocking chairs, smells of wet wood and earth, fairy lights woven into the railing twinkling softly. You climb the steps, your heels clicking, the mint dress catching a breeze, and push through the double doors into the foyer.

The foyer’s a cozy, lived-in welcome, not some glitzy ballroom. Polished cedar floors gleam under recessed lights, their soft glow bouncing off cream walls hung with framed photos of Pittsburgh’s skyline. 

To the right, a small table holds a game: a cork-board with baby pictures of graduating senior residents, names listed below for matching, some faces unrecognizable. Next to it, a collage of their four years—grainy shots of late-night rounds, group selfies in scrubs, a drunken karaoke night—spills across a poster board, pinned with a “Class of ’25” banner in blocky letters.  To the left, round tables hold seating cards on navy linens, each paired with a small gift bag for the way out.

Hallways stretch from both sides, cedar floors leading to staff-only doors, a coat room with wool coats spilling out, and bathrooms with frosted glass. 

Stairs on each side curve upward to a loft-like second floor, where wedding parties might stay, but tonight it’s a hangout—plush couches, a polaroid station with a “Residency Memories” sign, and a balcony overlooking the main hall. 

You find your name card—Table 8—and weave through the foyer to the main hall, a warm, open space with dark wood beams draped in sheer white fabric. Round tables circle the dance floor, a DJ booth on the right, the bass a soft pulse. A small stage for awards sits center-back, its microphone glinting, making your stomach lurch—you pray you don’t win anything, not after San Diego’s stage led to Jack’s bed. Buffet tables line the left, ready for picky ER doctors, and two bars flank the room, oak counters reflecting pendant lights, barstools already claimed. 

You drop your sweater and purse at your table, the mint dress catching eyes, and scan for exits: a side door by the bar, a back patio past the stage. Escape routes, in case gossip hits too hard.

Before you can hit the bar, Langdon’s frame cuts through, tie loose, grin sharp. 

“Hey, kid,” he says, leaning against your table, his cologne sharp over the bread-scented air.

“Hey, Lang,” you reply, smoothing your dress, nerves sparking.

“You clean up nice,” he says, eyeing the mint fabric. “Who’re you wearing that dress for, huh? Looks like you’re out to make someone notice.”

Your cheeks heat, fingers twisting your purse strap. “No one,” you say, too quick, the lie thin even to you. “I’m wearing it for me.”

Lang snorts, unconvinced. “Bullshit, kid. That dress screams ‘look at me.’ And I think we both know who it’s for.” 

You glance away, Jack’s absence a weight. “Fine,” you mutter, voice low, barely admitting it to yourself. “I wore it knowing Jack wouldn’t be able to stay away, no matter how hard he tries.” The confession burns, Thursday’s stairwell—his hands, his plea—flashing vivid.

Lang grins, nodding. “That’s more like it. Knew you weren’t just playing dress-up for fun. We gonna talk about the elephant though in the room or what?” he adds, voice dropping, eyes narrowing, the DJ’s beat pulsing faintly.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” you mutter, scanning the room—anywhere but him—your fingers twisting the strap tighter.

“Come on, kid. You’ve been dodging me since Thursday’s blowup. I heard some of it, but I wanna hear it from you. Everyone else is already whispering.”

“There’s nothing more to say,” you snap, voice low. “I said something stupid, and I’m lucky it didn’t get me in more trouble. We didn’t exactly hash it out after.”

“So there was more to that talk?” Lang presses, leaning closer, his tie brushing the table.

“It’s Abbot,” you say, exasperated. “Of course there’s more. But I’m not spilling it here. All you need to know is it didn’t fix shit. Probably just made it worse.”

Lang’s eyes flick to the entrance, a smirk tugging his lips. “So what’re you gonna do when you see him tonight?”

Your gaze follows, and there’s Jack, stepping into the foyer like he owns it. Black fitted suit, no tie, top button undone, silver curls defined under the lights. His shiny dress shoes catch the glow, his biceps straining against the jacket, and you swear his cologne hits you from across the room. Your pulse spikes, a flash of his hands on your hips, his growl in your ear. He’s shaking hands, laughing with nurses, his charm effortless, but his eyes never find you, a deliberate avoidance that cuts deeper than you thought it would.

“Running the other direction feels like a good option,” you mutter, cheeks hot, tearing your gaze back to Langdon.

“Let me know how far you get,” he says, clapping your shoulder. “I’ll be around if you need to talk, kid.” He melts into the crowd, leaving you alone, the hall’s chatter swelling.

You mingle, trying to shake Jack’s shadow. Everyone’s betting on awards, their voices loud over the DJ’s beat.

“Robby’s got ‘Best Bedside Manner’ locked,” Chen says, adjusting his glasses. “What about you? Think you’ll snag something after that grant?”

Your stomach twists, Jack’s silver curls flashing in your peripheral as he chats with a nurse across the room, still not looking your way. “Hope not,” you say, forcing a grin. “Rather keep a low profile tonight.” 

Especially after Thursday. You sip a water, eyes darting to Jack—his suit hugs his frame, a reminder of his body against yours in that hotel room.

“Low profile? In that dress?” One of them teases, nudging you. “Good luck with that.”

You laugh, weak, scanning for Jack again. He’s with Robby now, near the stage, his laugh carrying, his hand clapping Robby’s shoulder. No glance your way. It’s like you’re invisible, and it burns.

By 7 p.m., you need a drink to dull the nerves. Jack’s on the far side with Robby and Chen.

You head to the bar, surprisingly empty save for two interns chatting at the far end, their giggles fading into the music.

“Hey, can I get a vodka cranberry?” you ask the bartender, a woman about your age with a quick smile.

“Coming right up!” she says, grabbing a glass, ice clinking.

You lean against the bar, the oak cool under your palms. 

Then you feel him—Jack, sliding up to the barstool on your right, his presence like a heatwave. “Whiskey, please,” he says, voice low, smooth.

“You got it!” the other bartender replies. 

You can’t help it—your eyes slide to him. His jacket’s off, fitted pants hugging his thighs, white shirt rolled to the elbows, forearms corded, hands gripping his biceps as he crosses his arms. The way his shirt clings to his chest screams strength. His silver curls fall just so, and you’re hit with the urge to run your fingers through them, like you did that night. 

He leans back, stretching, a soft sigh escaping—pulling you under. “You should just take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says, a smirk tugging his lips, eyes still on the bar.

You scoff, shaking your head, heart pounding. “Glad to see your arrogance isn’t just for the hospital.”

He stays quiet, no reaction.

“You know,” you start, voice sharp, “you walked in here like you owned the place. Talked to every single person except me, not even a hi. You haven’t looked at me since—”

His head snaps to you, eyes locking onto yours, intense, unyielding, like that stairwell moment stretched into eternity. 

His gaze drops, slow, deliberate, starting at your black heels, trailing up the mint dress clinging to your legs, your waist, your shoulders. His lips part, a flicker of his tongue as he lingers on your curves, a hungry edge to his stare. Your breath catches, heat pooling low. His eyes meet yours again, dark with something unspoken. 

“Hi,” he says, voice low, a tease and a promise.

“Here you go, sir,” the bartender says, sliding his whiskey across.

His gaze breaks, grabbing the glass. “Thanks, man,” he says, nodding.

He turns back, glass in hand, leaning closer, his voice softer, rougher. “You look good,” he says, eyes flicking over you again. “Really fucking good.” The words hit like a spark, San Diego flooding back—his hands, his heat, his bed.

He’s gone before you can speak, melting into the crowd, leaving you breathless, the bar’s chatter a dull roar. The bartender slides your vodka cranberry over, grinning. 

“Girl, I don’t know who that man was to you, but goddamn, that was hot.” Says the bartender.

You stare after Jack, his silver curls vanishing among the tables, your jaw practically on the floor. “That was my boss,” you mutter, voice hollow.

“Good for you,” she says, winking, wiping the counter.

You grab your drink, heart racing, and bolt to find Langdon, weaving through the crowd, the mint dress catching eyes you don’t want. 

You spot him laughing with a group and pull him aside, your grip tight on his arm. “Lang, I’m gonna kill this man,” you hiss, voice low, the vodka cranberry sloshing in your glass.

“Who? Abbot?” he asks, brow raised, glancing over your shoulder.

“He strolls up to the bar, says nothing, then when I finally snap, he looks at me like, like he’s undressing me, telling me I look ‘really fucking good.’ Who the hell does he think he is?”

Lang smirks, unfazed. “Sorry, you think now’s the time to be making eyes at him?”

“I’m not making eyes, he is!” you snap, exasperated, the music’s bass thumping in your chest.

“Dude, go talk to him. Everyone’s mingling, it won’t stand out if you pull him aside.” He nods toward the back patio. “Pretty sure I saw him head out there. You’ve got twenty minutes before dinner and someone’ll come looking. Hurry up.”

“Okay, okay, wish me luck,” you say, downing a sip of your drink, the cranberry’s tang sharp on your tongue.

———————————————————————

You weave through the banquet hall’s crowd, the air thick with laughter and clinking glasses. Your mint-green dress clings to your skin, the spaghetti straps cool against your shoulders as you dodge co-residents, their superlative bets and Thursday gossip—your stairwell outburst, Dana’s probing—echoing in your head. 

Jack’s silver curls flash in your peripheral, his “really fucking good” from the bar still burning through you, a San Diego memory—his lips, his heat—igniting your nerves. You reach the back door to the porch, the brass handle cold under your palm, and pause. 

Is this a mistake? 

Your heart races, fear and want warring, but you push the door open, the hinges creaking softly.

The back porch mirrors the front’s garden-party charm, a romantic cocoon under Pittsburgh’s drizzle. String lights weave through the cedar railing, their warm glow flickering as dusk fades, casting shadows on the weathered floorboards. Potted ferns line the edges, their leaves damp with mist, the air heavy with cedar. A single high-top table sits to one side, holding an abandoned wine glass, its rim smudged. 

The porch is empty except for Jack, leaning against the banister, his back to you, whiskey glass glinting on the rail.

Your heels click on the boards, your vodka cranberry cool in your hand, your pulse hammering.

The floorboards creak under your step, and Jack turns, his eyes locking onto yours, sharp and unguarded. “Hey,” you say, voice low, rough, like you’ve been holding your breath.

You step closer, his gaze dropping, quick but deliberate, tracing the mint dress’s cling from your heels to your shoulders. Heat floods your cheeks, your skin prickling under his stare. 

“Hey,” he says, softer, turning back to the garden, his fingers tightening around his glass.

“You have to stop doing that,” you say, voice unsteady, setting your drink on the banister across the stairs from him. Your hands tremble, the dress’s fabric suddenly too tight, your breath shallow.

He lets out a deep sigh, shoulders tensing, and turns to face you, throwing his hands up, the motion sharp but weary. “What am I doing wrong this time?” His voice carries a plea, his eyes searching yours.

“Looking at me like you’ve seen me naked,” you snap, the words spilling out, your heart pounding against your ribs, San Diego flashing—his hands on your hips, bed creaking.

He steps closer, closing the distance, his shoes scuffing the boards. “But I have seen you naked,” he says, voice low, raw, his gaze piercing. “Did you just choose to forget that?” His eyes hold yours, intense, a flicker of hurt beneath the heat, his cologne enveloping you, making your knees weak.

You freeze, words caught in your throat, your fingers gripping the banister, the cedar’s damp grain biting your skin. The air’s thick, charged, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Jack,” you manage, voice shaking, your body buzzing with the memory of his touch.

He steps closer, his breath hitching, eyes dark with something deeper than desire. “I want you to stop acting like that night meant nothing to you,” he says, voice rough, almost breaking. “Like that whole day in San Diego—laughing, talking, you moaning my name—meant nothing.” His hands flex, like he’s fighting to keep them at his sides, his chest rising and falling too fast.

“It didn’t mean anything,” you say, the lie bitter on your tongue, your voice barely convincing yourself. Your fingers tighten on the banister, nails digging in, your body screaming the opposite—his lips, his weight, the way you screamed for him.

He turns away, pacing a few steps, his shoes echoing on the boards, the string lights casting his shadow long and jagged. 

“Stop lying to yourself. Stop lying to me. Please.” His voice cracks, a raw, desperate edge, his hands raking through his silver curls. He spins back, eyes blazing. “It wasn’t just sex, and you know it. It was never just about the sex.”

Silence falls, heavy, the drizzle’s soft patter and a distant cricket the only sounds. Your heart thuds, your chest tight, the lie crumbling under his gaze. 

He’s right, and you hate it.

“I know that night meant something to you because it meant something to me,” he says, stepping closer, his voice softer but fierce. “I didn’t fly across the country to get you in bed. I went to support you, to see you shine. But fuck, I’m glad it happened.” His eyes lock on yours, unwavering, his breath ragged. “I don’t regret a single second—not your laugh, not your screams, not the way you looked at me after. My only regret is letting this drag on, not making you talk to me sooner.”

“Jack—” you start, voice trembling, but he cuts you off, closing the gap, his presence overwhelming.

“No, I’m not done,” he says, voice low, urgent, his eyes burning into yours. “I have feelings for you. Real, messy, scare-the-hell-out-of-me feelings. And I know that terrifies you as much as it does me.” He pauses, his gaze softening, a plea in his voice. “If you want me to stop, to act like you’re just another resident, to bury this and never look back—I’ll do it. For you, I’ll do it. But it’s your call.”

He steps closer, the space between you shrinking to nothing, his body heat radiating, your skin tingling as his shadow falls over you. Even in your heels, he towers over you, his silver curls glinting, his shirt clinging to his chest. “I need you to use your words,” he says, voice a whisper, his eyes searching yours, desperate for a sign.

Your heart slams against your ribs, your breaths shallow. His hands hover near your hips, not touching, testing, his gaze dropping to your lips. 

“If you want this to end, you have to pull away,” he murmurs, leaning down, his forehead brushing yours, noses grazing, his breath warm and scotch-laced against your mouth. “It can’t be me. I’m in this, I’ll always be in this.” His voice breaks, raw, his hands finally settling on your hips, light but searing, anchoring you as your palms press against his chest, feeling his heart race under the crisp shirt.

The world narrows—his breath, his heat, the string lights’ glow. Your lips are inches apart, barely brushing, the tension a living thing, your body trembling under his touch. 

His forehead presses harder against yours, noses sliding, his lips grazing yours, not quite a kiss, a torturous tease. 

“It has to be you,” he breathes, voice thick, his fingers tightening on your hips, pulling you closer, your dress catching on his belt.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, the fabric taut, his heartbeat pounding against your palms. 

You’re drowning in him—his cologne, his warmth, the memory of the hotel room. Then his lips find yours, slow, deliberate, soft and hungry, his tongue tracing your bottom lip, coaxing a gasp from you. It lingers, a few seconds of pure heat, your body melting into his.

You pull back, reluctant, your lips tingling, his taste lingering. You tap his chest lightly, voice shaking. “Jack, I can’t.” The words feel like a lie, your body screaming to stay. Screaming for more. 

He’s still inches away, eyes dark, breath uneven. “You can’t? Or you won’t?” His voice is soft, pleading, his hands still on your hips, thumbs brushing the fabric, sending shivers through you.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice breaking, your hands still on his chest, betraying your words.

“Walk away if you don’t want this,” he says, voice raw, his forehead brushing yours again, lips so close you feel his breath. “Or stay, and we figure this out together. What’s the worst that can happen?” 

His eyes search yours, his hands steady, grounding, his heart thudding under your palms. You can’t move, don’t want to, the air thick with your shared breath. Your top lip brushes his, slow, tentative, his breath hitching, warm in your mouth. Your hands tighten on his shirt, his pulse racing, matching yours.

Your lips meet his again, soft at first, a simple kiss, deliberate and tender. You pull back just enough, lips barely parted, catching his subtle smile—boyish, his silver curls glinting under the string lights. 

That smile undoes you, pulling you back in. Your lips crash into his, hungrier now, intertwining as his tongue brushes your bottom lip, begging entry. You tease, pulling back again, biting his lower lip gently, tugging him with you.

His growl rumbles, “God, I missed you,” scotch-laced, the taste sharp as his hands tighten on your hips, yanking you flush against him, your mint dress snagging on his shirt buttons, the friction sends shivers down your spine.

His lips claim yours again, not asking this time. His tongue dives into your mouth, relentless, sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you, your moans vibrating against his lips. His left hand slides down, cupping your ass through the dress, fingers digging in, possessive almost. You rise on your toes, hands gliding up his chest, locking behind his neck, desperate to erase any space.

His right hand joins, both now gripping your ass, tugging the mint fabric up slightly, the cool air kissing your thighs, a blatant hint he wants more—everything you’ll give. His hips press into yours, the hard bulge in his pants unmistakable, growing against you, screaming his need. 

A rush of heat floods you, your lace black panties—chosen with Jack’s hands in mind—growing wetter with every grind, your core throbbing, betraying how much he’s unraveling you. 

“Fuck, I want you so bad,” he groans into your mouth, voice raw, desperate, his hips grinding harder, the rough fabric of his pants grazing your thighs, intensifying the ache between your legs.

“Someone’s excited,” you tease, voice breathy, playful as you nip his lip again, feeling him twitch against you, your fingers tugging his curls, your panties slicker with each press of his body.

“Have you seen yourself?” he shoots back, eyes dark, voice a low growl, his gaze burning over your dress, your curves, like he’s ready to rip it off right there. His hands squeeze tighter, pulling you impossibly closer, the dress riding higher, your skin electric under his touch.

The kiss turns feral, sloppy, unstoppable—lips sucking, tongues tangling, saliva mixing, his breath hot and ragged in your mouth. 

His lips devour yours, sucking your bottom lip, then your top, relentless, wet, and messy, your moans mingling with his growls. Your bodies grind together, his chest hard against yours, sweat slicking his shirt, your dress clinging to your flushed skin, the lace panties soaked, rubbing against you with every move, heightening your need. 

His tongue plunges deeper, claiming you, your fingers yanking his curls, pulling him closer, your hips rocking against his, feeling his arousal pulse, the porch—string lights, drizzle,—gone. It’s just Jack, his heat, his want, ready to take you right there if you let him.

The door creaks open, shattering the moment. “Hey, you guys, they’re calling tables for din—” Langdon stops, eyes wide, catching you pressed against Jack, lips swollen, his hands on your ass, your arms around his neck, dress hiked up, your bodies melded. “Oh, shit, sorry,” he mutters, covering his eyes, turning away, his shoes scuffing the porch.

Your face burns, embarrassment flooding you, hands dropping as you step back, straightening your dress, the fabric sticking to your sweat-slicked thighs, your fingers fumbling to fix your hair, lipgloss smeared across your chin. 

But beneath the shame, a giddy thrill hums—you kissed him, devoured him, and you wanted every second.

Jack steps back, wiping the mix of your lipgloss and saliva off his mouth with his thumb, a flustered move, then adjusts his pants by the belt, his arousal still evident, eyes avoiding Langdon’s.

“Sorry, just didn’t want you two walking in late—would’ve looked suspicious,” Langdon says, voice awkward, still half-turned.

You nod, eyes on the floorboards, the damp wood gleaming under the lights, your heart racing with Jack’s taste—scotch, heat, him—lingering on your lips. 

He grabs his scotch from the banister, his hand brushing yours, a fleeting spark. “I’ll see you inside,” he whispers, voice low, his left hand grazing your lower back, warm and steady, as he passes Langdon, who shoots him a disapproving glance.

You start toward the door, stopping before Langdon, cheeks hot, the thrill of Jack’s kiss warring with the sting of being caught. “I know you’re gonna ask, but I have no idea what just happened, so I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” you say, voice shaky, avoiding his eyes.

“Mhm, don’t really think an explanation is needed,” Langdon says, following you inside, his tone dry but teasing. “Your tongue was down his throat, think that speaks for itself.”

“First of all, my tongue was not down his throat,” you retort, glancing at him, unable to hide your giddy smile. “His tongue was down mine.” Your voice bubbles with a thrill you can’t suppress.

“Don’t let me catch you guys again tonight, please. I don’t think my eyes can take much more of it,” Langdon groans, shaking his head.

You smack his arm, laughing, and head back to your table.

Before you reach it, Dana steps in, her sharp grin catching you off guard. “Perfect weather out there tonight, huh?” she says, voice laced with knowing, eyes flicking to your smeared lipgloss.

“What? Oh, yeah. Pretty nice out there,” you stammer, heart lurching, smoothing your dress and wiping the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah, don’t think Abbot was out there just to watch the sunset,” Dana winks, smirking, leaning closer.

You laugh, shaking your head, cheeks blazing, your mind still on Jack’s tongue, his hands. “Don’t worry, kid, your secret’s safe with me,” Dana says, voice low. “Just be smart about it.”

“I will, thanks, Dana,” you manage, nodding, the thrill of her knowing mixing with your already racing pulse.

You glance over, spotting Jack heading to the buffet with Robby, his silver curls catching the light, his suit shirt tight across his shoulders. 

You head for food as he’s returning to his table, his path deliberately crossing yours. His eyes lock on you, hot and shameless, the banquet hall fading under his stare. His free hand hovers near your waist, fingers twitching, almost grazing your dress, but he pulls back, mindful of eyes watching. Instead, he leans in, breath scorching your ear, whispering, “I want you, babygirl, so fucking bad.” His voice is a low growl, dripping with need, sending a jolt to your clit, your panties soaking further.

“Still excited?” you tease, voice breathy, tilting your head, catching his dark gaze, bold and uncaring who sees.

“Only for you,” he growls, eyes blazing, his hand brushing your hip, before stepping back, leaving you flushed.

Your face burns red, mind blank, your lace panties clinging,  Jack’s words echoing. You grab your food, hands trembling, and sit down, barely able to eat the food cooling on your plate, your body humming with want. Your eyes keep finding Jack’s across the room, his gaze locked on you, filling the banquet hall with your shared desire. Your panties stay slick, stuck to you, a constant reminder of the porch, his tongue, his hands.

By 8:30, dinner winds down, most people up, mingling, buzzing about awards. Dessert’s grab-and-go, tables laden with cupcakes and cookies, no sit-down. The stage lights up —senior residents’ mini-graduation, names called alphabetically, their next steps announced. You stand at the back left of the dance floor, arms crossed, still feeling disheveled.

As if summoned, Jack strides up, smug, standing to your right, flooding your senses. He interlocks his hands behind his back, stretching forward, chest puffing, a deep breath announcing his presence, his suit shirt tight, curls damp with sweat. You side-eye him. “Just can’t stay away, can you?” you tease, voice low, matching his shameless energy.

He chuckles softly, eyes glinting, raking you up and down, lingering on your dress, your curves. “Wasn’t planning on staying away. Not with you looking like that,” he says, voice husky, uncaring who overhears.

You shake your head, smirking. “No shame, huh?”

He steps closer, right beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, eyeing you again, slow and deliberate, his gaze a caress. “Nothing to be ashamed about here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the “sweetheart” sending a thrill through you, biting your inner lip to hide your grin.

“You know, I’m not sure we accomplished much conversation-wise out there,” he says, voice low, teasing. “Accomplished a lot, actually, but I told you how I felt. Think it’s only fair you do the same.”

You glare at him, heat rising. “Do you really think this is the place for that talk?”

He glances around—everyone’s eyes on the stage, Robby announcing. “Nobody’s paying attention to us. I promise.”

“You’re gonna make me spell it out, aren’t you?” you say, exasperated, but your lips twitch, matching his playful energy.

He smiles, claps absently for the stage, eyes still on you. “Yeah, yeah, I am.”

You shake your head,  heart pounding. “Fine.” You take a deep breath, turning to face him fully, his gaze locked on the stage, but you know he’s all yours. “I like you, Jack. I like-like you. In an absolutely terrifying, all-consuming way. Like I can’t stop thinking about you, your hands, your voice, the way you look at me, the way you made me scream your name. It’s messing me up, but I don’t want it to stop.” Your voice trembles, raw, the truth spilling out, his presence overwhelming.

The corner of his lip curls, a soft glance at you, eyes warm. “You don’t need to be scared. I got you. I’m not going anywhere. The same way I’m not going anywhere when you win an award.” His eyes flick to the stage, a smirk playing.

“Too bad I’m not winning anything,” you say, brow raised.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says, smirking wider, his gaze hot, knowing.

“What did you do, Jack?” you ask, voice sharp, but your lips curve, excitement bubbling.

“You thought I was just gonna stand here and watch everyone else go up on that stage and not you? Last time I saw you on a stage, it turned out to be my lucky night.” he says, voice low.

“And what makes you think you’re getting lucky tonight?” you tease, bold, leaning closer, your shoulder brushing his, the air crackling.

“Because I know that you know my tongue can do a lot more than what you got a taste of out there,” he says smugly, gesturing to the porch, his eyes burning, promising more.

You gasp, laughing, “I’m done talking to you,” but your grin betrays you, heart racing, panties soaked, his smugness fueling your fire.

He says nothing, just stands there, radiating satisfaction, as awards continue. He was right—you win “Most Likely to Publish Groundbreaking Research,” your grant work and presentations cited. Jack slow-claps, like in San Diego, his eyes locked on you. Onstage, his stare burns, his gaze making you feel naked, desired.

Awards end, and you lose Jack in the crowd, taking photos, mingling with senior residents about their next steps, their “your time’s coming” advice ringing hollow. You find Langdon, now an attending at The Pitt, by the bar. “Well, well, if it isn’t The Pitt’s newest attending. Congratulations!” you say, hugging him.

“Oh, thought you were too busy talking to your new man back there to notice,” he teases, grinning, eyes flicking to where Jack was. “Don’t worry, nobody else was looking,” he adds, softer. “If it means anything, you guys do look good together.”

“Thanks, Lang,” you say, smiling, heart skipping, spotting Jack across the room with Robby and Chen, eyes finding you, a quick, hot glance that sets you ablaze.

You decide to have fun without him, joining co-residents at the bar for tequila shots, the burn sharp, then hitting the dance floor, hips swaying, dress clinging, panties slick, your body alive with Jack’s touch. 

By 10 p.m., you’re sweaty, buzzing, leaning against the bar for water, the cool glass grounding you as you watch the crowd. Jack’s off to the side of the dance floor, eyes locked on you, shameless, like he’s undressing you from across the room. You shake your head, smirking, sipping water, your gaze matching his.

You slip out the side door to the hallway, looking for the bathroom. A hand slides around your waist onto your stomach, spinning you and pulling you back against him. His hands clamp your waist, tight, before planting a soft, slow kiss on your lips. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice husky, eyes dark, curls damp with sweat.

“Hey,” you breathe, heart racing, as he kisses you again, tongue flicking, your panties soaking further.

You pull back, breathless, “Wait, did you just follow me out here?”

“Yeah, you gave me that look,” he says, smirking, eyes burning, his hands sliding down your hips, fingers grazing your ass.

You squint, laughing, “What? What look?”

“That ‘hey, follow me for a good time’ look,” he teases, voice low, hands tightening, pulling you closer, his bulge brushing your thigh, sparking heat.

“Jack, what the hell are you talking about? I literally came out here to find a bathroom,” you laugh, pushing at his chest.

“Let’s go find one then,” he says, hands roaming, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts, making you gasp.

“Get away from me,” you laugh, shoving playfully, but he doesn’t budge, hands wandering, over your waist, your hips, fingers digging into your dress.

“No, I’m serious. Let me come with you,” he murmurs, voice husky, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing, his touch hot, possessive. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Jack, there’s literally a bathroom right there,” you say, gesturing left, but your voice wavers, body leaning into him.

“Too many witnesses,” he says, smirking, grabbing your hand, pulling you toward the stairs, his grip firm, eyes daring you to resist.

“Jack,” you protest, tugging back, but your feet follow, heart pounding, desire winning.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, eyes locking on yours, intense, his hand warm, whiskey-scented breath pulling you in.

“You know I do,” you admit, voice soft, giving in, following him upstairs, heels clicking, your body buzzing with want.

At the top, Jack spots the polaroid booth station with feather boas and plastic stethoscopes. His smirk flashes, eyes glinting. “One stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you in. 

The vinyl curtain swishes shut, the cramped space crackling, your dress brushing his suit. He grabs a boa, draping it over your bare shoulders, fingertips grazing your neck. You sticks a fake mustache on him, smirking. 

The first flash catches you laughing, his hand on your hip. He tosses the props, yanking you close, lips crashing, sloppy, whiskey-hot, saliva mixing, your nails in his damp curls, moaning.

For the second, he drapes a toy stethoscope around your neck, fingers trailing your collarbone, his stubble grazing your ear, whispering, “Your hearts racing, babygirl.” The flash captures you biting your lip, his eyes hungry, boa slipping.

“Last one,” he growls, tossing props, yanking you flush, his bulge pressing your thigh.

The final flash freezes you kissing. Two strips print—one for each. Jack tucks his, handing you yours. 

“Keep it safe for me.” You looking down at yourself with no where to put it. He puts it into his pocket with his copy. 

“That better not find is way onto the cork-board,” you warn, stepping out. 

He leads you to a small bathroom at the hall’s end, right side, letting you in first, his hand grazing your waist as you pass, flipping the light on. The room’s warm—plush couches on either side, mirrors and framed photos lining cream walls, a small vanity before the stalls in back.

“This is cozy,” you say, voice light, turning to face him, your dress clinging, panties soaked.

You hear the door shut and lock, the click loud. “Come here,” he says, holding out his hand, eyes dark, hungry, curls glistening with sweat.

Smiling, you take his hand, and he yanks you into him, spinning you, pinning you against the wall with a thud, making you gasp. “Excited already, sweetheart?” he teases, voice low, his body pressed to yours, his hard cock throbbing against your thigh, making your core ache.

He pushes your hair aside, kissing your cheek, trailing hot, wet kisses down your neck, his stubble grazing, your eyes fluttering shut, surrendering. 

His hands grip your waist, tight, pushing your hips into the wall. “Jack,” you moan, voice shaky, nails digging into the back of his neck, your body quivering under his touch.

His lips crash into yours, hungrier than the porch, his tongue plunging into your mouth, biting your lips, sucking, sloppy and wet, saliva mixing, your moans echoing into his mouth. His hands bundle your dress, tucking it behind you, keeping it up, his grip tight, in awe of your trembling body. 

His right hand slides to your inner thigh, caressing slowly, climbing higher, his fingers hot, making your knees buckle. He breaks the kiss, biting your lip hard, growling, “Let’s see how excited my girl is for me.”

“Ah, fuck, Jack,” you whimper, legs shaking, nails clawing his neck, sweat beading on his brow, mirroring your own glistening skin.

He smirks, eyes locked on yours, “I know this dress was for me, but these black lace panties? Those for me too, sweetheart?” His fingers graze your entrance through the lace, the fabric soaked, your clit throbbing under his touch. Unable to speak, only whimpering, you can’t answer him.

“Tell me it’s for me,” he demands, voice firm, face inches from yours, his breath hot, his fingers pressing harder, circling your clit through the lace, making you gasp, nails digging deeper into his neck.

“Open your eyes for me, need you to see what I’m gonna do to you,” he growls, eyes hungry, his fingers relentless, your body trembling, sweat slicking your thighs, your dress bunched, panties clinging.

You obey, eyes meeting his, his gaze feral, awe-struck at your quivering form. “Answer my question,” he says, voice hard, fingers pausing, teasing, driving you wild. “Who are these panties for?”

“They’re for you, Jack. It’s all for you,” you squeal, your hips bucking into his hand, desperate for more, your pussy dripping, soaking the lace.

He grins, “Yeah? This is all mine?” He slides the lace aside, his index finger dipping into your wetness, torturous, your walls clenching, a moan escaping, your eyes locked on his.

“Tell me this pussy’s mine,” he growls, another finger joining, rubbing through your slick folds, teasing, your body shaking, your thighs trembling.

“Fu-fuck, Jack, it’s all yours. This pussy’s all yours,” you cry, voice breaking, hips grinding, your wetness coating his fingers, your clit pulsing.

“Yeah, it is,” he snarls, shoving two fingers deep inside you, curling, hitting your spot, your knees buckling, nearly collapsing. His left arm wraps your waist, pinning you to the wall, his hard cock pressing your thigh, throbbing, making you moan. You shift, dragging your thigh up and down his bulge, teasing, feeling him twitch, a low moan escaping his lips into your mouth while his eyes flutter.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, kissing you sloppily, tongue plunging, sucking your lips, your moans mixing, breathing into each other, nails digging into his neck, his grasp tightening, in awe of your shaking body.

“So wet for me, sweetheart. Been walking around all night like this?” he murmurs, fingers curling, pumping, hitting your spot, your walls clenching, your high-pitched squeal filling the room.

“Ye-yeah, been waiting for you,” you pant, barely coherent, chasing his fingers, your pussy dripping down your thighs.

“Ah, that’s the spot, isn’t it?” he smirks, hitting it harder, faster, fingers curled deep, your squeals louder, your body quaking, his left arm tight, keeping you upright, his cock pulsing against your thigh, your thigh grinding harder, teasing his moan.

“Come on, babygirl, let yourself go. Need to feel you unravel on my fingers,” he breathes, voice raw, his fingers relentless, your orgasm building, both of you sweating, lost in each other.

Your orgasm tears through you, a tidal wave, your body shaking, soaking your thighs. You moan into his mouth, tongues intertwined, breathing heavily, his cock throbbing against your thigh, his moan echoing yours. His fingers slow, rubbing your folds, his grasp tight, keeping you pinned.

He pulls his fingers out, kissing you softly, then trails kisses down your neck, your chest, dropping to his knees. He holds your panties aside, his hot tongue diving into your dripping entrance, licking slow, his stubble scraping your inner thighs, raw and rough, your hands gripping his curls in between your legs.

He sucks your clit, tongue swirling, lapping up your juices, kissing your folds, then down one thigh, up the other, cleaning every drop, his eyes locked on yours, in awe of your quivering body. 

“Fuck, I missed how you taste,” he murmurs, licking his lips, wet with you, standing, kissing you softly, your juices sharp on his tongue, your legs still shaking.

“Can you walk?” he asks, voice teasing, his cock still hard against his pants, your thigh’s teasing lingering.

“Wh-what?” you pant, trying to catch your breath, your dress bunched, panties slick, sweat cooling on your skin.

“Can you walk?” he repeats, enunciating, smirking, playful, his hand grazing your waist, eyes dancing with mischief, his bulge evident, teasing you back.

“Yeah, I can walk,” you say, voice shaky, pulling your dress down, the lace panties clinging, your thighs slick, your body still buzzing.

“Good. I’ll see you downstairs,” he says, adjusting his shirt, his pants, his hard-on clear as he reaches for the door, unlocking it with a click.

“Where the hell are you going?” you snap, breathless, pissed, your body aching for more, your pussy still throbbing, wanting his cock, not just his fingers. 

“Back to the party, don’t want to miss it,” he says, smirking, one foot out, his eyes taking one last look at you—glistening, disheveled, quivering—his tone infuriating knowing he’s leaving you wanting.

“You’re not gonna finish what you started?” you hiss, voice low, anger mixing with desire, your nails itching to grab him, make him fuck you right there.

“Don’t worry,” he says, eyeing you up and down seeing your trembling thighs. “We have all night.” He winks, stepping into the hall with his hands in his pockets.

“Jack!” you call, voice hushed, desperate, but he keeps walking, his smugness radiating, leaving you pissed. Your body his playground, your mind reeling.

“Oh god, this man is gonna be the end of me,” you mutter, taking minutes to compose yourself, wiping sweat from your brow. You check the mirror, fixing your hair, lipgloss, your flushed cheeks, your glistening skin, then slip downstairs, ensuring no one notices, joining a group chatting, your body still humming, Jack’s taste—your juices, whiskey—lingering.

You feel Jack watching, spotting him across the room with Robby, hands in his pockets, casual, like he didn’t just make you moan his name, come undone, lick you clean, promise more only to leave. His eyes lock on yours, intense, shameless, and it pisses you off. Your anger only mixing with want.

———————————————————————

You slip from the group with your  body buzzing, Jack heavy in your mind. 

You grab a water at the bar, cool glass grounding you, chugging it, parched from his tongue, his fingers, his “all night” promise. 

If Jack wants to play games, so can I, you think, a wicked spark igniting. 

You go to your table, grabbing your purse, pulling out your lipgloss, applying it slow, seductive, eyes locking on Jack across the room, mid-sentence with Robby at their table. His words stumbles as his eyes darkening as he watches your glossy swipe.

You strut over, hips swaying, mint dress clinging. “Is this seat taken?” you ask, pointing next to Jack.

He leans back making sure to avoid your gaze, staring at his beer. 

“Yeah, sit. Haven’t had a chance to chat all night,” Robby says, oblivious, gesturing to the chair.

“Well, you guys sure know how to throw a party,” you say as your left hand finding Jack’s shoulder while your breast brushes his arm. His breath catches.

“You know, now that I’ve got you both here, I’ve got a question,” Robby says, leaning forward, eyes playful but sharp. Jack shifts, hips twitching, bulge pressing his pants, your side-eye catching it.

“It’s just—I’m finding it a little weird that tonight, when one of you goes missing, so does the other,” Robby says, smirking, sipping his beer, gaze flicking between you.

A pause. You and Jack stare blankly, heart lurching, photo booth risk flashing, lace dripping. Jack scratches his eye, hiding a grin, avoiding Robby’s gaze, lying poorly. “Yeah, that is a little weird now that you mention it,” he mumbles.

“Well—” you start, squeezing Jack’s shoulder making his eyes snap to you, nervous but thrilled that you’re leading.

“I don’t know if it’s too weird, considering every time we went missing, we were together,” you say, grinning, eyes locked on Jack. Robby nods, glancing at Jack who’s smiling wide.

“I guess sending you to San Diego wasn’t a bad idea after all,” Robby says, chuckling. “Just don’t let me catch you two in an on-call room, alright? Already heard about that back porch business.” 

You laugh as Jack’s hand brushes your thigh under the table. “No promises,” you tease, leaning closer to Jack who’s nothing but thrilled that you’re owning it.

Robby  leaves to head to the dessert table. You turn to Jack, grabbing his hands to lace his fingers into yours

“You upset I told him?” you ask, searching his eyes.

“Upset? No. Surprised? Very,” he says, leaning back, fingers tight in yours, proud. But his bulge hinting at need, your touch isn’t not helping.

“Why surprised?” you ask, leaning closer than before your noses nearly brushing.

“‘Cause this is coming from the woman who, just a few hours ago, was too scared to admit how she felt,” he says, voice low and teasing. 

“What can I say? You convinced me,” you murmur as your left hand slips from his to rest on his thigh making him twitch.

“It was your patience, the way you tell me everything you feel, the way you’re not afraid to tell me you want me, how when I sneak a peek across the ER, you’re already staring, like I’m all you see.” 

He comes as close to you as possible without touching you. “People are watching,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the crowd.

“Let them,” you say boldly left hand squeezing his thigh, feeling his cock pulsing. “Can’t keep a good thing secret for too long, right?”

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice soft.

You press your lips to his. A soft, gentle, peck before you pull back. He plants small, playful kisses — one, two, three —  over and over again on your lips.

“Stop,” you giggle, shoving him lightly. His eyes only focused on you.

“Can’t keep myself away from you,” he murmurs.

“Come on,” he says while tapping your hand. Not standing though as his cock pressing his pants, fighting arousal.

“Where we going?” you tease, voice playful, knowing he’s dying to leave.

“I’m taking you home,” he says with his whiskey laced breath pulling you in.

“Party’s not over,” you say, pushing your chair back to stand.

“You’re joking right? Forget the party,” 

“I already got mine tonight, Jack, so I’d be fine if nothing else happens.” Your smirk is wicked, knowing your bathroom orgasm’s got you smug.

“I’m not done dancing.” But before you can make your great escape, his hand finds yours. 

“Don’t do this to me.” His voice pleading with you.

“Just because you can’t get up,” you look down at his excitement, “doesn’t mean I can’t.”  

His grip on your hand tighter as you try to step away from him. “You’re going to leave me here and act like you haven’t been walking around with your little lacey black panties dripping down your thighs waiting for me to fuck you all night?” His eyes trailing your body, dark and ravenous.

“And your dick has been ready to pop that button right off of your pants since the second you laid eyes on me in this dress. The difference is I can still get up and walk away.” Your voice sultry as you lean into him.

You know you’re going to have to pay for your words later tonight.

“You really think your night’s going to end with just my fingers inside of you?” His voice a growl, hand gripping harder causing you to shiver.

“I want more. And I always get what I want.” You lean down, kissing his cheek, slow, teasing, lips brushing his stubble, then moving to his ear, whispering, “Always.” Your breath hot, clit pulsing, panties dripping, his scent—whiskey, sweat—pulling you in, his control fraying, a thrill surging through you.

You hear him take a deep breath, trying to compose himself, a low groan managing to escape his lips.

Chen pulls you into the group, laughing. “Saw you and Jack,” he says, grinning. “Took you long enough. He’s been eye-fucking you across the ER for two years. You never saw it, did you?” 

You laugh, surprised that nobody acting weird about it.

“No favoritism worries,” adds one of your co-residents, “but you hardheads better not fight over patients.” They all laugh seeming happy for you.

By 11:30, the party’s winding down, people grabbing coats, saying goodbyes. You head to your table, grabbing your purse. Jack strides over with his eyes locked on you. 

“Finally control yourself?” you tease, eyeing him up and down.

“It’s your fault, you know,” he says. His gaze dropping to your ass in the mint dress, making your clit pulse. “Yeah, I’m blaming you.”

“You’re blaming me ‘cause you can barely keep it in your pants?” you snap back.

He grabs your sweater, voice low. “Hurry up, need to take my lady home.” 

You walk out together, his hand holding yours tight. “I’m driving myself home, Jack,” you say, stopping in the front garden as your heels sink into wet grass.

He halts, “Like hell you are,” he growls, hand on your waist, pulling you flush, his bulge pressing your thigh.

“I’m tired, want to get out of this dress, sleep in my own bed,” you say, voice wavering, picturing his car with fogged windows, his cock inside you.

“Then follow me home. You’re not sleeping alone if I can help it,” he says, eyes hungry.

“Jack—” you start, breath hitching, his closeness overwhelming You body screams for him. Wanting him to take you now.

He cuts you off, leaning into your ear, voice low and dirty. “You shoved your tongue in my mouth in front of everyone, and think I’m not gonna take you home and fuck you?” Hand tightens, sliding to your ass, squeezing, clit throbbing, thighs trembling, bulge hard, control fraying, whiskey breath making you shiver.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammer, voice shaky, composure slipping, lace clinging, heat pulling you in.

He growls, breath hot, “I know you’re still dripping under this dress, begging for me.” Hips press closer, bulge throbbing, hand itching to grab him, core aching.

“I have an idea,” you say, pulling back, smirking, breaking his grip, heart pounding, teasing more, knowing you’re in control despite dripping need.

“Oh yeah?” he says, eyes dark, playful but annoyed, curls damp, hand hovering, wanting you back, bulge evident.

You bolt inside finding Langdon with Mel, a 4th-year senior resident, by the dessert table, their vibe obvious but unspoken. “Hey, guys, big favor,” you say, breathless, “I know you drove here together—”

“Who told you that?” Langdon cheeks flush. Mel smirks, confirming your hunch.

“I’m not blind,” you laugh, waving it off, not pushing—Langdon always flips it back to you and Jack. “I need him to take me home tonight,” you say, pointing out the door to Jack, “Can one of you drive my car to my place?”

“What? Just leave it here,” Langdon says, rolling his eyes.

Mel smacks his arm. “We’ll do it. Have fun with your man tonight!” she says, giddy.

“Ugh, thank you so much! Owe you big time!” you say to Mel, then glance at Langdon, smirking, “Not you.” You rush back outside.

“Use protection!” Langdon yells, laughing, as you hit the steps and land in Jack’s arms.

“Do I want to know what just happened?” he asks, smirking, holding you close.

“All that matters is you’re taking me home. To your bed,” you say.

“Whatever you say babygirl,” he murmurs He starts leading you to his car, parked in the lot’s dark corner, where string lights fade. His hand still tight in yours.

He unlocks the car, but as you reach for the passenger door, he spins you, pinning you against it, making you gasp. 

His breath is hot, heavy, moaning in your ear. “You’re gonna pay for all that teasing tonight,” he growls as his hands reach around to the front of your waist finding their way lower. 

Your left hand reaches back, finding his belt before palming his cock through pants, feeling it twitch.

“Oh, is that right?” you tease, squeezing him harder, feeling him pulse. His hips press into you. The outline of his cock against your back. “I want you inside me, Jack. Been begging for you all fucking night,” you whisper. 

He’s fighting to hold it together, his hands gripping your waist ready to rip your dress off.

He smiles, breath shaky, lips brushing your ear, moaning, “Fuck, sweetheart.” He’s had enough. His left hand yanks the door open, hips still pressed against you. “Get in before I fuck you right here in this parking lot,” he growls, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on your lips.

He lets you slide into the passenger seat, closing the door, fighting for composure, before walking to the driver’s side, getting in.

Jack takes a second to compose himself, adjusting his bulge before opening the driver’s side door and sliding into the car, his movements careful, strained. He looks at you, eyes dark with want, before leaning over to kiss you, lingering just long enough to make your lace panties twitch. He turns the car on, clicks his seatbelt, and puts it in reverse, his right hand gripping the back of your seat, body twisting to look behind him. 

As the car pulls out of the lot, his hand finds your lap, fingers digging into your thigh through the mint dress, sending heat straight to your core. You stare at his hand under the flickering streetlights, veins bulging, his grip possessive. At a red light, you place your hand over his, feeling the warmth, the pulse. He looks at you, eyes hungry.

“Jack,” you murmur, voice low.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough, strained.

“Can you please drive faster before I make you pull over and throw me in the back seat?”

“Anything for you.” His grin is feral, and what should’ve been a 20-minute drive to his place becomes 10, tires screeching as he weaves through Pittsburgh’s drizzle-soaked streets.

He parks, kills the engine, and turns to you, voice dripping with promise. “Welcome home, babygirl.”

You reach for the door handle, but he snaps, “Don’t you dare.” He’s out in a flash, rounding the car to open your door, offering his hand like a gentleman hiding a hard-on. You take it, smirking. 

“Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

He leads you into his building, a sleek high-rise with glass doors reflecting the city’s wet glow. In the elevator, the doors barely close before he pins you against the wall, mouth on your neck, sucking hard. You grab his belt, steadying yourself as his tongue traces your pulse, making your soaked lace panties cling tighter. The elevator dings at his floor, but he’s lost in you.

“Hey, loverboy, think this is our stop,” you tease, breathless.

He laughs softly, offering his hand. You grab it, following him down the hall to his apartment, the last door, all dark wood and quiet promise. He lets you inside first, closing the door behind him.

“Welcome to my place. Would’ve cleaned up if I knew a beautiful woman was coming over,” he says, smirking, gesturing to the slightly cluttered space—scattered books, a stray coffee mug.

“No, I think it’s cute the way it is,” you reply, eyes locked on his.

“Well, I should give you a tour. This is the kitchen, that’s the living room—”

“Jack, I’m not gonna lie, the only thing I’m interested in right now is your bedroom.”

“As you wish.” He grabs your hand, pulling you down the hallway, his bedroom the last door on the left. He closes it behind him, stepping close, inches away.

“I’ve already seen under most of this dress, but let’s see the rest,” he murmurs, turning you around. His fingers find the zipper on your mint dress, sliding it down slowly as you kick off your heels. The dress pools at your feet, revealing your matching black lace bra. His eyes light up. “Oh, I get a matching set, huh?”

“You’re getting a lot more than that tonight,” you purr.

The kissing ignites, hungry and deep, as you unbutton his dress shirt, his shoes kicked off, socks tossed aside. You slide his shirt off his broad shoulders, tugging his undershirt from his pants, revealing taut muscle. His tongue grazes your neck as you undo his belt with one hand, popping the button and zipper, his cock straining against his briefs. He grabs your hand before you can tug his pants down. “Let me treat my lady first.”

He lifts you, laying you gently on the bed, towering over you as his pants drop, gray briefs barely containing his hard-on. You’re hungrier than ever. He loses the undershirt, crawling over you, knees parting your legs. His mouth starts at yours, kissing down your neck to your chest. One hand slips behind you, unclasping your bra, sliding it off. He pauses, breathing you in. “You’re fucking perfect, babygirl.”

He sucks one breast, massaging the other, your body arching, helpless under his touch. His hand slides down your thighs, finding your soaked panties. “Still wet for me, sweetheart?” His fingers graze you, confirming it. “That’s my girl.”

His hand slips inside your panties, fingers finding your clit instantly. “Fu-fuck,” you gasp, as two fingers slide into you, pumping fast. Your legs shake, breath caught in his mouth as he bites your neck, leaving marks, making you moan. He kisses down your stomach, down one thigh, up the other. His fingers pull out, leaving you empty, as he slides your panties off. His tongue takes over, sucking your clit, relentless.

“Jack, oh God,” you stammer, words fracturing. “It’s—so fucking—good, I can’t—” Your hips buck, his tongue swirling, sucking harder, driving you wild. “Please, don’t stop, you’re—fuck, perfect.”

He hums against you, vibrations pushing you closer. “Love hearing you like this, babygirl.” Your orgasm hits, stronger than at the party, legs trembling, body writhing, pleasure consuming you. He kisses back up, meeting your face, your breath still ragged against him.

“My turn,” you pant, pushing him off to land beside you. You straddle him, kissing his lips, his neck, nibbling his ear. “You’re in for a treat,” you whisper, voice dripping with promise. Your breasts graze his chest, driving him crazy as you kiss down his torso, reaching his briefs. You kiss his bulge through the fabric, then tug the waistband. He lifts his hips, letting you pull them off. His cock springs free, slapping his stomach, bigger than you remember, head glistening with precum in the lamplight.

You lock eyes, spitting in your hand, mixing it with his precum to slick his shaft. You kiss the head, then the shaft, licking your way back up, taking him deep into your mouth. Jack groans, head thrown back, as you swirl your tongue around his tip, sucking hard, then slow. Your hand pumps the base, lips stretching around him, bobbing deep, throat tight. He grabs your hair, gathering it in a messy ponytail, holding it back as you work him, spit dripping down his cock and around your mouth.

“Fuck, babygirl,” he moans, voice wrecked. “So goddamn good—shit, your mouth’s unreal.” His hips twitch, your tongue flicking his head, sucking harder, cheeks hollowing. “Oh, Christ, keep—fuck, like that,” he groans, fingers tightening in your hair. You hum, the vibration making him curse, “Goddamn, you’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m gonna cum, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he gasps, voice breaking. You don’t stop, sucking harder, tongue swirling, until he explodes, hot, sticky seed shooting down your throat. You lather it with your tongue, savoring every drop. He tugs your hair, growling, “Swallow me.”

You crawl up, mouth full, hands on his chest, opening wide to show him before swallowing it all. He’s sweating, biting his lip. “Goddamn, that was hot.”

Your legs straddle his thighs, body pressed against his, his semi-hard cock nestled in your folds. You grind, kissing him deeply, his cock hardening again. “I need you inside me, Jack,” you moan into his ear.

He reaches for the nightstand. “Let me grab a condom, babygirl.”

You stop his hand. “No, I need to feel just you. Please, I’ve earned it, right?”

“You know you have.” His hand slides down, guiding his cock to your entrance, teasing you, rubbing the head against your clit. His hands grip your hips, lowering you onto him. “Fuck, you’re so big, Jack,” you gasp, his size stretching you, pressing every perfect spot.

“You can handle it,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You grind, his hands lifting you, dropping you back down, your hands cupping his face, kissing him as his hips slam up. “Fuck. Fuck, baby, you’re so—fuckin’ perfect. Like you’re made for me.”

Your legs wrap behind his back, his hands cupping your ass, helping you bounce. He lifts you, still inside, kneeling on the bed, then gently lays you down, your legs staying wrapped around him. His hand finds your clit, rubbing tight circles as he fucks you deep, hard, relentless. “Fuck, Jack, feels so fucking good,” you moan, body shaking.

“Yeah, who makes you feel this good, babygirl?” he growls, thrusting harder.

“Only you, Jack. Only you.”

“Fu-uck,” he groans, burying himself deep in one thrust. 

Your nails dig into his back, his rhythm unyielding. “Ja-Jack, I’m so close. Oh God, please, please,” you beg, teetering on the edge.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, shit,” he mutters, hips stuttering, your name spilling from his lips as your orgasm rips through you, body trembling, cunt clenching. “Shit, shit, you want me to pull out?”

“Oh fuck, Jack, just cum inside me. Please, I need all of you.”

“You can have all of me, sweetheart.” His thrusts grow erratic, your legs shaking as he fucks you through your high. His grunts deepen, body collapsing onto yours. A few more strokes, and you feel him fill you, hot and sticky, mixing with your juices. He pushes gently a few more times, then collapses, panting.

You tilt your head to the ceiling, his name echoing off the walls, heart pounding like it’ll burst, legs weak like you’ll never walk again. It’s not enough—for either of you. It only makes you hungrier, desperate for this to never end.

“Never thought you’d be so goddamn loud, babygirl,” he teases, nipping your shoulder.

“Sorry,” you laugh.

“Don’t be sorry. Need you to be like that every time. Fucking love how you say my name. Dreamed about it for so long, you have no idea—” He pulls out, watching his cum drip from your cunt, stringing 

between you. “God, I could look at you forever.”

He flops beside you, both catching your breath. “God, I’m so glad I went to San Diego,” he says, grinning.

“Me too.” You lean over, kissing him softly. “Think I’m gonna go to the bathroom to clean up.”

“I can help,” he offers, eyes glinting.

You laugh. “Think I can handle this part myself.”

“Let me grab you some clothes at least.” He gets up, pulling a t-shirt and boxers from a drawer, handing them to you.

“Wow, I’ve gotten two sets of clothes from you already,” you tease.

“You can keep those if you want.” He winks.

You smile, heading to the bathroom. When you return, he’s sitting on the bed in boxers, lamplight casting shadows. “You mind if I get a glass of water?”

“Sure, you can get that apartment tour now,” he laughs.

He walks you through, pointing out his cluttered makeshift office, a shelf of DVDs, degrees framed on the wall, before hitting the kitchen. You lean against the island, arms crossed, his t-shirt loose on you, holding it tight. A stack of mail sits across from you, days’ worth of junk.

“Jesus, Jack, you don’t ever open your mail, do you?” you tease, flipping through it.

“Most of it’s trash anyway,” he says, grabbing cups from a cabinet.

You sift through—ads, a bill, more junk—then freeze. A business card, her name in sleek font, cell number scrawled across the top. The med rep from Thursday, the one who sparked your stairwell blowup, the one he swore he threw away. Your face drops, heart sinking, betrayal cutting sharp.

“Here you go,” he says, setting a glass of water in front of you, oblivious.

“What is this?” you ask, holding up the card, voice low, trembling.

He sighs, no answer, eyes avoiding yours.

“Jack, why is this here?” you press, more serious, anger rising.

“Ahh, fuck.” He runs his hands through his hair, turning away.

“Jack, I need you to look at me. And tell me what’s going on here.” Your voice is steel, but inside, you’re reeling.

What the fuck, we just fucked, poured our hearts out, and he’s already screwing this up before it even starts?

——————————————————

Hahaha bet you guy thought you’d get a happy ending here. Well clearly I’m allergic to happy endings and have way too many ideas in my mind about where these stories can possibly end up. So literally all I would need is like one person to say they want another part and I’ll write it. Honestly would probably only do one more part to this one. Definitely want to focus on just one part stories after this one for a little bit. But yeah, let me know what you guys think and what you think should happen with them next!!

[leo-in-the-pitt]

i cannot even begin to explain how that video made me feel.

[leo-in-the-pitt]

You bought a new camera and your boyfriend is your role model for every photo.

[leo-in-the-pitt]

Dr Jack Abbot Fic Recs pt 3

07/05/2025

⭒ Look Out For Her by @leo-in-the-pitt

4 years later and your almost done with residency. But it feels like your relationship with Jack may be coming to an end too. That is until you’re hurt and he has to come to your rescue, that he reveals his true feelings for you.

⭒ Until The End by @/leo-in-the-pitt

With your 2 year anniversary coming up with Dr. Jack Abbot, you’re trying to figure out his secret plans and see if you can get over the final hurdle in your relationship before it’s too late.

⭒ Wrong Name (Part 2) by @randompiecesofwriting

⭒ party for you  by @highdramas

you party a little too hard and jack takes care of you in his perfect way.

⭒ a guard dog with a death wish by @/highdramas

at a grief support group that you never wanted to attend in the first place, jack abbot finds you, and pulls you up by your– admittedly– quite sad and pathetic boot straps.

⭒ Sweetpea by @candlelitea

Working with your now bf Jack Abbot is a dream, until your former teammate Spencer ends up in your ER.

⭒ Just In Case by @kilojulietsierra

He had given Robby so much shit about Collins. “Really brother? One of your residents?” Then you had put in a request to move to the night shift and Robby had fucking signed off on it.

⭒ Young At Age, Old In Heart  by @ohtobeleah

Jack Abbots unlikely affinity for the younger PT down at the VA starts to really spiral out of control when she’s brought in during a mass casualty event.

⭒ Your Man by @thepencilnerd

⭒ When the Sun Hits by @/thepencilnerd

⭒ Bias. by @haztory

⭒ where you are. By @/haztory

The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

⭒ I’m Fine by @popcornpoppypop

Callie is sick and stubborn. Jack is doing his best to get her to let him take care of her.

⭒ Broken Smile by @/popcornpoppypop

You are one of PTMC’s best ER residents, but it’s your day off. You head to Pittfest. Robby and Abbot have to pick up the pieces. Reader x platonic!Abbot and Robby

⭒ Like You by @/popcornpoppypop

You’re a single mom to an angry teen boy. Jack isn’t phased, he can handle the anger. He is there for your son, no matter what. Years later, Pittfest makes them more alike than anyone would wish.

⭒ I’m Glad You Stayed by @/popcornpoppypop

A companion piece to the Like Me Series. Matt is graduating and you and Jack are a mess. Matt has a surprise up his sleeve

⭒ They’ll Do It Because They Have To by @/popcornpoppypop

The continuation of Like You. You and Jack reckon with Matt as he starts recovery

⭒ can't pretend by @lauraneedstochill

He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line.

⭒ PEACHY by @thecherrypittttttt

the 4 times they didn’t get caught and the 1 time they did

⭒ white mustang by @vanilleandclove

you take comfort in knowing your boyfriend knows how to de-escalate even the most traumatic and stressful situations with ease. stilettos and the emergency department during a mass casualty event are a complete no-go.

⭒ Playoffs by @/vanilleandclove

pittsburgh has a vibrant pub scene, being of true east coast fashion. when it’s playoff season for the steelers, that can only lead to bar brawls and broken tooths, most times. sometimes it’s bloody knuckles and misogynists. + as jack’s 49th birthday is around the corner, you book him a solo-vacation

⭒ carried away; by @/vanilleandclove

fourth of july always has always dampened a stain on your relationship, for the betterment of it, it helps you both understand each other a little bit differently

⭒ let the light in by @/vanilleandclove

the trials of postpartum can strain any relationship especially when your husband is rarely home from work. sometimes you wonder if you’re living the life you envisioned for yourself a decade ago

⭒ Hints by @somanyideassolittletime

4 Times Shen Hinted to Jack about you, only for you to beat him to it .

⭒ To be loved is to be changed. By @/somanyideassolittletime

3 ways you changed Jack, and one time Jack changed you.

⭒ Crumbs by @/somanyideassolittletime

⭒ Jack Abbot, who forgets that you know him better than he knows himself.  By @/somanyideassolittletime

⭒ The love he deserves by @/somanyideassolittletime

Jack finds himself unworthy, thank goodness he has you in his life.

⭒ Married life by @eden031

When Jack‘s wife is it hit by a patient a worried Jack only comes close behind.

⭒ girl!dad jack abbot headcanons by @jackabbotkisser

⭒ Off-Duty by @thesewordsareallihavetogive

Jack comes into the Pitt on his day off with no intention of working. One of his little guests has an affinity for raising his father’s blood pressure and adding to his gray hair.

⭒ Feeding the Pitt Crew by @/thesewordsareallihavetogive

⭒ Flesh Wound  by @/thesewordsareallihavetogive

Dr. Abbot’s wife’s cancels date night after suffering a kitchen mishap. In an effort to avoid adding to his stress, she takes herself–and her bloody hand–to the Pitt without telling him

⭒ the favorite by @midnghtprentiss

all the times you were everyone's favorite person and one time you were jack’s person.

⭒ mission called convincing daddy to get us what we want  by @/midnghtprentiss

⭒ Do I Divide and Pull Apart? By @silens-oro

Night shift is down an attending and Dr. Robby has volunteered you to fill the space in the interim. Dr. Abbot may or may not have made the request for you specifically.

⭒ Jack’s Morning by @wayiiseetheworld

Jack has a conversation after leaving the hospital.

⭒ Espresso by @/wayiiseetheworld

Robby's normal shift ends with Abbot's wife in the ER.

⭒ Soft by @stellamarielu

jack gets injured on his shift and you’re there to help him get stitched up, making it impossible for him to ignore the soft side you bring out in him— especially when it makes his heart rate jump alarmingly high.

⭒ on the line by @millers-girl

Jack takes a six-week placement across the country. Four specific FaceTime calls—full of banter, longing, and everything unsaid—hold you two together until he comes home.

⭒ a little sliver by @/millers-girl

the fear of being diagnosed with the very disease that took your mother's life keeps you away from the hospital – until a cut on your hand brings you in, and a certain ER cowboy keeps you coming back

⭒ Sticky Fingers, Quiet Mornings by @abbotjack

Jack Abbot was built for crisis—night shifts, trauma codes, war. But fatherhood breaks him in all the best ways. Told in twelve toddler phases.

⭒ Him figuring out you're pregnant before you even notice by abbotjack

⭒ scar tissue by @lovableapocalypse

an unexpected patient arrives in the er and turmoil arises

⭒ Jack Abbot Drabble  by @robbysreaders

⭒ ex!reader and babydaddy!jack  by @/robbysreaders

⭒ Firefighter!reader by @starkenobi

it was supposed to be just a simple rescue, but some casualties force the fire crew to make a stop at the Pitt.

⭒ Undeserving by @ofstarsandvibranium

In a tragic car accident, Jack loses his wife, who was your best friend, and you lose your husband, the father of your child. Now both of you navigate life together and co-parenting your daughter, Evelyn, while also trying to figure out your feelings for each other.

⭒ Crazy, Stupid  by @therobbycuepitt

You get injured on the job and have to pay a visit to your husband at his beloved workplace.

⭒ Boy-dad!Jack by @mercvry-glow

⭒ fan behavior by @writingsforfandoms-multi

the reader and her husband are on opposite sides during a football game

⭒ gym crush by @bitters-n-sweets

⭒ Bruises Pt 1 by @glamorizethechaos

When you find yourself in an abusive relationship, you never thought your attending Jack Abbot would become your protector and saving grace.

⭒ Bruises Pt 2  by @/glamorizethechaos

⭒ neighbour reader by @nineteenninety-six

⭒ Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby by @punkgeekcryptid

[leo-in-the-pitt]

On Your Own

Part 2 out now! Lace and Lies

Pairing Jack Abbot x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a second year resident in the Pitt who’s been working on a research project since you started intern year. The San Diego Emergency Medicine Conference is right around the corner. But when Robby has to cancel on the trip, you’re forced to go at it alone. But are you actually there alone?

Warnings: beginning is all fluff but the end is something else, Jack Abbot is a flirt, strong language, sexual tension, unprotected p in v sex, fingering, handjob/blowjob, all the dirty stuff tbh 

Word Count: 5.9k

Tuesday

The fluorescent lights at the back nurse’s station flicker just enough to make you squint. You’re slumped in your chair sipping your lukewarm coffee. Your tablet’s screen glows with the final draft of your presentation slides—months of work on resident burnout in the ER, distilled into bullet points and graphs. The numbers are grim: 60% of ER residents report severe burnout by their second year, 40% consider leaving medicine entirely. 

You’ve lived those stats, felt the weight of 24-hour shifts and patients you couldn’t save. This research is your lifeline, a chance to make a difference, and the Emergency Medicine Research Conference in San Diego is where you’ll present it.

Robby leans against the counter, his arms crossed, his face etched with exhaustion. “Bad news, kid,” Robby says, his voice low, like he’s breaking it to you gently. “Hospital execs are coming end of the week. Budget reviews, staff evals, the whole circus. I can’t leave.”

Your stomach drops. “What? Robby, we’ve been planning this for months. We’re supposed to fly out Thursday.”

He sighs, rubbing his temple. “I know. I’d rather be in California than kissing up to suits who think ‘trauma’ is a line item on a spreadsheet. But if I’m not here to defend the department…” He trails off, letting the implication hang. 

You’ve seen the understaffing, the broken equipment, the nurses pulling double duty. If Robby doesn’t stay, the ER could take a hit.

“So the conference?” you ask, though you already know the answer. Your palms are sweaty, and you wipe them on your scrubs.

Robby meets your eyes, steady but apologetic. “You gotta go alone, kid. I got the tickets last second—snagged you a window seat, but no way I’m stuck in the middle, so I was gonna take the aisle two rows up. Now it’s just you.”

The words land like a gurney hitting a wall. You’re 29, a second-year resident, competent enough in the ER’s chaos, but you’ve never traveled solo. Not once. Family vacations as a kid, college road trips with friends, even your move to Pittsburgh—you always had someone. The idea of navigating airports, hotels, and a high-stakes conference 2,500 miles away without anyone’s guidance makes your chest tighten. A window seat sounds nice, but it doesn’t dull the panic of flying alone.

But the research—your research—is too important. You spent your intern year interviewing residents, crunching data, and fighting for every scrap of insight into why ER doctors burn out. Second year tightening it all up. This conference is your shot to get it in front of experts, the best of the best ER physicians, to maybe change how hospitals treat their residents.

“I’ve never done this alone,” you admit, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “What if I screw it up? The presentation, the Q&A—”

“You won’t.” Robby cuts you off, his tone firm. “You know this data inside out. You’ve lived it. You’re ready for this, whether you feel it or not.” He softens, offering a half-smile. “Besides, you’re not totally alone. You’ll have colleagues there. Network, make connections.”

You nod, trying to believe him, but the anxiety churns. You glance at your tablet, the slide deck mocking you with its polished charts. 

Robby claps a hand on your shoulder, a rare gesture from him. “Get some rest before you fly out. And don’t let the airport coffee scam you—it’s worse than ours.”

As he heads back to work, you’re left with the hum of the break room fridge and a sinking feeling. 

Three days to San Diego. Alone.

————————————————————

Wednesday 

The next morning, you’re in the ER locker room, shoving your stethoscope into your bag, when Abbot appears in the doorway. 

His silver hair is mussed, his scrubs slightly untucked, like he just woke up in the on-call room. You’ve seen him on night shifts, moving with a quiet intensity that makes him a legend among residents. His past as a war veteran, his steady hands in a crisis—there’s something about him that always catches your attention.

“Heard you’re heading to California solo,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “You nervous?”

“Pretty sure I’m going to crash and burn.”

“And here I was thinking you were gonna win the whole thing.” He shrugs.

You pause, zipping your bag, a flicker of doubt surfacing. “You can’t possibly even think that. You haven’t even read my research.”

Jack’s eyes meet yours, steady and sure. “I know you. That’s enough to know you’ll be okay on your own. You’re gonna kick ass there. Bet you’ll look good doing it too.”

Your cheeks heat, and you roll your eyes to cover it. “Flattery won’t help me survive San Diego alone”

His smirk widens. “Maybe not, but it’s true.” He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod. “Knock ‘em dead kid.” He’s gone before you can respond, leaving your heart racing, his words a quiet spark in your chest.

His words linger, simple but heavy, like a promise. Maybe you can do this after all.

————————————————————

Thursday 

The hotel room in San Diego smells faintly of lemon cleaner and ocean air, a stark contrast to the ER. You drop your backpack on the stiff queen bed, the generic beige walls and stiff carpet doing little to ease the knot in your stomach. The flight was a blur—crowded airports, a window seat next to a snoring businessman. Now, alone in this room with a view of a parking lot, the reality of tomorrow’s conference presentation hits hard. Your research on resident burnout—your life’s work for the past year—feels like a fragile thing, and you’re not sure you can carry it alone.

You pull out your phone and text Langdon, your best friend and senior resident. If anyone can talk you off the ledge, it’s him.

You: Landed in San Diego. In my hotel room. Freaking out. This was a big mistake.

Your phone buzzes almost instantly.

Lang: Yo, you made it! Solo travel champ! Stop spiraling, you’re gonna crush this.

You: Easy for you to say. I’m presenting to a room full of attendings tomorrow. Alone. What if I choke?

Lang: You won’t. You know this burnout stuff cold—lived it, breathed it. Those big shots are gonna eat it up. Take a breath, champ.

You flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The conference doesn’t start until tomorrow morning, leaving you a free day to…what? Wander San Diego alone? The thought makes your chest tighten again.

You: I’ve got a whole day here before it starts. No clue what to do. Never been to California.

Lang: Dude, it’s San Diego. Sun, beaches, tacos. Go explore! Get outta that hotel room. You’re not chained to your slides.

You: Explore? By myself? I barely survived the airport.

Lang: You’re a badass ER resident. You’ve handled codes, psych patients, and that time I spilled coffee on your charts. You got this. Hit the beach live a little. Doctor’s orders.

You smile despite yourself, picturing Lang’s mock-serious face. He’s right—you need to calm down. But the thought of navigating a new city alone, with the weight of tomorrow’s presentations looming, feels like too much.

You: Fine. I’ll try. But if I get lost, I’m blaming you.

Lang: Deal. Send pics of the ocean. And don’t stress—tomorrow, you’re gonna make us proud.

You set the phone down, Lang’s words echoing faintly. The presentation slides are on your laptop, ready for one last review, but the idea of a free day in San Diego tugs at you. Maybe you could step outside, feel the sun, shake off the nerves. Or maybe you’ll just stay here, triple-checking your data until your eyes blur. Either way, tomorrow’s coming, and you’re on your own.

—————————————————————

Friday - Conference Day 

You barely slept. The San Diego hotel room, with its too-stiff pillows and faint hum of the air conditioner, offered no mercy. Yesterday, you wandered downtown alone, the sun too bright and the streets too unfamiliar. You grabbed a burger and a margarita at a crowded taqueria, hoping the drink would dull your nerves, but it just left you buzzed and restless. 

Back in your room, you sprawled on the bed, scrolling through TikTok—endless loops of dance challenges and ER skits that hit too close to home—trying to relax. It didn’t work. 

Your mind kept replaying your presentation slides, the stats on resident burnout, the stakes of today’s conference. By 3 a.m., you were still awake, staring at the ceiling, heart racing like you were running a code.

Now, it’s 5:30 a.m., and you’re rushing to get ready in the hotel bathroom, the mirror fogged from a quick shower. You pull on a tailored navy blouse and black slacks, professional but practical, your hair yanked back into a messy bun, still damp. A swipe of mascara and lip gloss is all you manage, your hands shaky from nerves and lack of sleep, your reflection showing the frazzled edge of a resident facing a make-or-break day. You check your phone one last time—Lang’s texts still glowing with encouragement—and grab your backpack, the weight of your laptop and handouts grounding you as you head out.

Now, it’s 6:30 a.m., and you’re at the San Diego Convention Center, one of the first presenters let in. The hall smells of fresh carpet and coffee, its high ceilings amplifying every sound—clattering carts, murmured setup instructions, the squeak of your shoes. Your table is a small island in a sea of posters and displays, your laptop open, your printed handouts neatly stacked. A foam board behind you screams your research title: Burnout in Emergency Medicine Residents: Prevalence and Pathways to Resilience. The numbers—60% burnout rate, 40% considering quitting—are bolded, impossible to miss. You adjust the board for the third time, hands shaky from lack of sleep and too much hotel coffee.

You’re here to pitch your work to anyone who stops by, from curious residents to stone-faced attendings. Somewhere among them are the judges, anonymous faces deciding the top three projects for research grants. Those grants could fund your next study, maybe even change how hospitals support their residents. The pressure feels like a vice around your chest. 

You’ve never done this alone, and without Robby’s steady presence, every glance from a passerby feels like a judgment.

A young doctor in a UCSD badge pauses at your table, skimming your handout. “Interesting topic,” she says, her tone neutral. “What’s your intervention model?”

You swallow, launching into your pitch. “We surveyed 200 residents across five ERs, found 60% report severe burnout by year two. Our proposed intervention focuses on structured debriefs and flexible scheduling to reduce emotional exhaustion.” You point to a graph, your voice steadier than you feel. She nods, asks about sample size, then moves on. 

You exhale, but there’s no time to relax—another researcher stops, then a group of residents, each with questions you scramble to answer. Are the judges watching? Is that gray-haired attending with the clipboard one of them? You can’t tell.

Between visitors, you check your phone. A new text from Lang.

Lang: You at the conference yet? Bet you’re killing it.

You: Barely slept. At my table, talking to randos. No clue who the judges are. Freaking out.

Lang: Chill, kid. You know this stuff cold. Just be you—smart, badass, saving the ER one slide at a time. You got this.

You smile faintly, but the nerves don’t budge. Another attendee approaches, this one with a conference organizer badge, and your heart skips. “Nice setup,” he says, eyeing your board. 

“Burnout’s a hot topic. Got any preliminary findings on interventions?”

You dive in, explaining your data, but your eyes keep scanning the crowd. Every face could be a judge, every question a test. You’re alone in this, carrying the weight of your research and the hope of a grant that could make a difference. Jack Abbot’s words from Pittsburgh echo faintly—“I know you. That’s enough.”—but right now, it’s just you, your table, and a room full of strangers.

————————————————————

It’s 12:30 p.m., and your stomach growls loud enough to rival the convention center’s hum. You haven’t eaten all morning, too wired to think about food. Your iced coffee sits melted at the back of your table, a sad puddle in a plastic cup, next to a barely touched water bottle. You haven’t sat down, haven’t stepped away to check out the other projects—just kept talking, pitching your burnout research to every passerby. 

The latest group, a mix of residents and an attending, just left, their questions about your intervention model still ringing in your ears. You’re wiping sweat from your brow when a slow, deliberate clap starts behind them.

You turn, and your jaw drops. It’s Jack, standing there in sharp black dress pants and a crisp white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his silver hair catching the convention center’s light, a roguish grin on his face as he keeps clapping. 

You’ve only seen him out of scrubs once before, at last year’s residency year-end party, nearly a full year ago—the next one’s set for two weeks after you’re back in Pittsburgh, to celebrate the end of the residency year and the start of the next for all the ER interns and residents. 

The polished look, not quite a suit but close, makes your pulse skip, his presence as commanding as ever. “Really solid work,” he says, voice low and warm. “Knew I was right—you’ve got a good shot at winning this thing.”

You blink, mouth still open. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, stepping closer. “Well when Robby found out he couldn’t make it, he asked me. Couldn’t pass up a couple days off. And I guess seeing what all this research is about anyway.”

“Oh, so you’re not here for me, you’re here for a free vacation?” you shoot back, half-teasing, half-stunned.

Jack’s grin widens. “Two things can be true.” His eyes flick to your melted iced coffee and untouched water, then back to you. “Think I’d be right in assuming you haven’t eaten today?”

You smile, sheepish. “Uh well no but, I’m fine. I swear.”

“Let’s go,” he says, tone firm but kind. “You need a break. Pretty sure walking away for a bit won’t get you disqualified.”

Your brow furrows, a flicker of worry. “I didn’t think being disqualified was even a thing here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Your research is about resident burnout sweetheart, yet you’re standing here burning yourself out. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, but his steady gaze wins. The “sweetheart

You grab your phone and follow him downstairs to a convention center café, where you snag a turkey sandwich and a soda. 

Over the small table, you spill everything—the terrifying plane ride, the restless night scrolling TikTok, the dozen times you’ve pitched your research today.  He listens, really listens, his eyes locked on you, no trace of the usual ER chaos between you. It’s different from work, where he’s all business and quick quips. Here, he’s present, his quiet nods and occasional smirk making you feel seen in a way that steadies your nerves.

After eating, you both wander the conference floor, checking out other projects—trauma protocols, AI diagnostics, rural ER studies. Jack points out a flashy poster, muttering, “All style, no substance,” and you laugh, tension easing. Back at your table, he grabs a chair behind you, hyping you up between pitches with a quiet “Nailed it” or a teasing “You forgot to mention you’re a rockstar.” His presence is a lifeline, keeping you grounded as the afternoon drags on.

By 5 p.m., the presentation session ends, and there’s an hour wait before the awards in the main room. Jack tries to nudge you toward the front, but you insist on the back, sinking into a chair. “No way I’m sitting up there,” you mutter, nerves spiking again. He relents, sitting beside you as the ceremony starts, specific awards handed out first. Then, the big ones: the top three grants. Third place goes to a researcher from New York. Then—

“Second place: Burnout in Emergency Medicine Residents, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.”

You freeze. Jack glances over, grinning. “Hey, think that’s your name they just called. Told you we should’ve sat up front.” He nudges your arm.

You stumble to the stage, heart pounding, grateful there’s no speech required—you’d probably puke on the front row. After quick photos with the other winners, you weave through the crowd back to him, slow-clapping again, eyes twinkling. “Knew you could do it.”

“Abbot, I’m actually puke,” you say, half-laughing, half-serious.

He chuckles. “At least the worst part’s over. Come on, you’ve barely eaten all day. Now that it’s done, you deserve a nice dinner. Maybe a drink or two. My treat?”

“Yes, please,” you say, relief flooding you. He grabs your sweater from the chair, slinging it over his shoulder, and leads you outside, the San Diego evening air warm and promising.

——————————————————————— 

He taps his phone, calling an Uber as you step into the San Diego evening, the air warm and tinged with salt from the nearby ocean. The convention center’s lights fade behind you, and the buzz of your second-place win still hums in your chest, mixing with exhaustion and something lighter—relief, maybe, or the thrill of his unexpected presence.

“Where are we even going?” you ask, glancing at him as you walk toward the pickup spot.

He smirks, slipping his phone into his pocket. “You don’t like surprises, do you?”

“I don’t think I hate anything more than surprises,” you say, half-serious, your nerves still raw from the day.

“Guess you’ll just have to deal with it tonight,” he says, his voice teasing but warm, his eyes catching yours in the streetlight’s glow.

The Uber pulls up, and you slide into the backseat with him, the driver weaving through downtown to a restaurant that’s equal parts fancy and casual—exposed brick walls, soft lighting, and a bar lined with craft bottles. You settle at a corner table, ordering a glass of wine and a plate of seared salmon, while Jack goes for a whiskey and steak tacos. The food is incredible, the wine smooth and heady, but it’s the conversation that hits harder. 

Away from the ER’s chaos, Jack’s different—not just the war-veteran-turned-legend with steady hands and sharp quips. He talks about his early days in medicine, the desert sunsets from his military tours, the music he listens to when the night shift gets too heavy. You share more than you planned—your fear of failing at the conference, the way Pittsburgh’s gray winters weigh on you, even a dumb story about a TikTok trend you tried to follow last night. He laughs, really laughs, and you see a softness in him, a side the hospital rarely lets out.

The conversation turns deeper, past casual. You talk about burnout—not just your research, but how it feels, the weight of patients you couldn’t save, the nights you questioned why you chose this life. Jack nods, his eyes steady, sharing his own stories—moments from the battlefield that still wake him up. It’s raw, unguarded, and you feel a pull, a connection that’s new and terrifying and good.

The restaurant empties out, and a server’s voice cuts through: “Closing in ten.” You glance at your phone—midnight. Only one other table remains, their laughter faint across the room.

Jack leans back, smiling. “Didn’t even realize what time it was.”

You laugh, a little dazed. “Me neither.” It’s almost midnight. He grabs your sweater from the chair, holding it out to help you slip it on. His hand grazes your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine—not from the cold, but from the warmth of his touch, electric in the best way.

Outside, you walk to a street corner to wait for the Uber, the city quiet around you. The silence between you isn’t heavy, just full, like the moment’s holding its breath. You break it first. 

“Thank you, Abbot. I really needed this tonight.”

He steps closer, his voice soft. “We’re not at work. Call me Jack.” His eyes hold yours, steady and sure. “You deserve all of this. Never seen a resident as incredible as you.”

You’re face to face now, inches apart, your heart pounding harder than it did on stage. Thoughts race—he’s your boss, this is a line you shouldn’t cross—but they blur as his hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers linger on your cheek, warm and gentle, and your breath catches. His gaze drops to your lips, and your pulse spikes, louder than the day’s nerves.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice low, almost a whisper.

You don’t speak, just nod, your eyes locked on his. His lips meet yours, soft, gentle, a quiet promise in the way they move. Your bodies press closer, the world narrowing to the warmth of him, the steadiness of his hands. It’s brief but endless, until headlights flash beside you, the Uber pulling up.

—————————————————————

The Uber drops you off at the hotel, the neon sign casting a soft glow over the entrance. Jack’s hand rests lightly on your lower back as you walk through the front door, his touch steady and warm, grounding you in the buzzing aftermath of the kiss. 

The lobby is quiet, just a bored clerk scrolling on his phone and the hum of an ice machine. You head toward the elevator, and just before the doors slide open, Jack’s hand slips from behind to find yours, his fingers intertwining with a gentle squeeze that sends a spark up your arm.

Inside the elevator, you glance at him, his profile sharp under the fluorescent light. “What floor you on?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

“Four,” he says, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You?”

“Same,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. The elevator dings, and you step out, still hand in hand, the hallway carpet muffling your steps. You realize his room is right next to yours—417 to your 418. He stops at his door, but as you start to walk toward yours, he tugs you back, your body pressing against his again, close enough to feel the heat of him.

“Wanna come in?” he asks, his voice low, eyes searching yours with a mix of mischief and something deeper.

You bite your lip, nerves and want swirling in your chest. “Sure,” you say, the word slipping out before you can overthink it.

He unlocks the door, and you step inside, the room a mirror of yours—beige walls, stiff bed, a single chair by the window. His lone book bag sits on the floor, unzipped but barely touched. You laugh, nodding at it. “Wow, you travel light, don’t you?”

Jack grins, locking the door behind you with a soft click. “Here for less than 24 hours, flight back’s at 8 a.m. No point unpacking my three outfits.”

“That’s cute,” you tease, laughing as you meet his eyes.

He steps closer, his hands finding your waist, pulling you in. “Don’t know if I’ll be needing clothes to sleep in tonight though,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends heat pooling in your core.

You lick your lips, boldness rising. “Oh, so you sleep naked, huh?”

He laughs, a rough, warm sound. “Don’t actually plan on sleeping tonight.” His eyes darken, holding yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

“Oh yeah, what exactly you got planned then, Jack?” you challenge, your voice teasing but edged with want. His eyes darken, holding your with an intensity that makes your breath hitch, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart.

“Why don’t I just show you,” he says, his hands sliding around your back, tugging your sweater off in one smooth motion. You kick off your shoes, sending them skidding across the room, and your fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, pausing at his belt. He yanks your top off, quick and sure, then pops the button on your pants. His lips find your neck, hot and deliberate, grazing the sensitive skin as you shiver.

He pulls back, eyes locked on yours. “You sure you wanna do this?” he asks, voice rough but careful, checking in.

“God, yes,” you breathe, cheat heaving, need drowning out any doubt.

He unhooks your bra with one move, his shirt falling open as you shove it off his shoulders. You shimmy out of your pants, and he pushes you back onto the bed, taking his pants off while standing over you before pinning you under his weight. 

His hands trace your thighs, slow and teasing, as his mouth moves to your chest, lips closing over a nipple, sucking hard enough to make you gasp. You feel him, hard and straining through his briefs, pressed against your thigh. “Already so hard for me,” you tease, voice breathy, running a hand over his bulge, feeling him twitch.

His tongue slips into your mouth, hungry and deep, as his hand slides into your panties, finding you slick and ready.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he growls, his lips trailing to your jaw, then down your neck, each kiss searing your skin. “Tell me what you need, baby. Say it loud.”

“I need you, Jack,” you moan, your head tilting back to give him more access. “God, I need you so bad.”

“Love hearin’ you beg like that,” he says, voice dark, peeling your panties off and tossing them aside. He kisses you again, hungry and deep, his fingers circling your clit, teasing with just enough pressure to make you writhe. “Gonna make you feel so good,” he promises, sliding two fingers inside you, slow and deep, curling perfectly as you cry out, hands fisting in his hair.

“Jack, fuck!” you scream, hips bucking against his hand, the pressure building hot and fast. “Don’t stop, please!” His thumb rubs tight circles on your clit, and you come hard, moans echoing off the walls, body trembling as he works you through it.

“That’s it, darlin’, cum for me,” he murmurs, licking a slow path down your stomach, his fingers still moving inside you, drawing out every shudder. 

“Gonna taste you now, make you scream louder.” His mouth closes over your clit, tongue hot and relentless, lapping and sucking hard as you jerk against him, hands tugging his hair. “Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he growls, pinning your thighs to the bed, his tongue circling faster, driving you wild.

“Jack, oh God!” you scream, voice raw, hips bucking as another orgasm builds fast. “You’re too fuckin’ good!” He sucks harder, fingers sliding back in, curling just right, and you come again, louder, cries filling the room as your body shakes uncontrollably.

He kisses his way back up, lips slick with you, eyes dark with hunger. “You’re fuckin’ unreal,” he rasps, settling over you. You push him onto his back, straddling his hips, and tug his briefs down, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against his stomach. You spit into your hand, stroking him slowly, feeling every vein pulse. Leaning down, you kiss the tip, then suck the head, tongue swirling as he groans, hips twitching.

“Fuck, sweetheart, that mouth,” he growls, voice strained. “Keep suckin’ me, baby, just like that.” You moan around him, taking him deeper, hand squeezing his balls gently, making him thrust into your mouth. “Shit, you’re gonna make me lose it,” he gasps, voice breaking.

“Cum for me, Jack,” you tease, pulling off to stroke him with both hands, feeling him throb. “Wanna taste you.”

He grabs your hair, tugging lightly. “Get that pretty mouth back on me, darlin’,” he growls. You dive back in, sucking hard, tongue working him until he comes hard, spilling into your mouth with a loud, guttural moan. You swallow, licking your lips, wiping your chin with your thumb and sucking it clean as he watches, eyes wide with awe.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re incredible,” he pants, voice raw. “Gonna ruin me.”

“Need a second?” you tease, crawling up to face him, your body buzzing with need.

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” he growls, flipping you onto your back, his body pinning you. His hands roam, squeezing your breasts, then sliding down to grip your hips. “Need to be inside you, now,” he says, voice thick, reaching for his bag, then pausing, cursing softly. “Shit, didn’t plan for this. No condom.”

You grab his wrist, breathless. “I’m on the pill. It’s okay. I want you—want to feel all of you, Jack.”

His eyes flare, a low groan escaping. “You’re sure, darlin’?” You nod, pulling him closer. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth grazing your lip. He positions himself, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance. “Ready for me, baby?”

“Fuck yes,” you moan, legs wrapping around his waist, voice loud and desperate. “Give it to me, Jack, please!”

He pushes in, bare, slow and deep, the raw stretch intense, filling you 

completely. “Goddamn, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” he groans, bottoming out, hips flush against yours. “Feels so fucking good inside of you.”

“Oh, God, Jack!” you scream, nails raking his shoulders, the raw heat of him overwhelming. “You’re so big, fuck!”

He smirks, pausing, eyes locked on yours. “You okay, babygirl? Can take it slow if you need.”

You grimace, adjusting to his size. “Just… you’re huge. Not used to it.”

He chuckles, low and dirty. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I’ll make it good.” He slides out almost fully, then back in halfway, letting you adjust, his lips kissing your neck softly. “Tell me when you’re ready for more.”

You nod, hands gripping his face. “I’m ready. Want it rough, Jack, please.”

“Fuck, you’re my kinda dirty,” he growls, approval thick in his voice, thrusts speeding up, hips slamming into yours, the bed creaking loudly. The wet slap of his balls against you fills the room, mingling with your moans. “This pussy’s mine tonight, takin’ me so fucking well,” he rasps, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, tight circles, making you tremble.

“Yes, Jack, fuck!” you scream, voice echoing, body shaking as he hits that perfect spot. “Love how you fuck me, don’t stop!”

“Keep screaming my name, babygirl,” he growls, lips at your ear, thrusts relentless, headboard banging. He shifts, pulling your legs over his shoulders, going deeper, making you cry out louder. “Fuck, you’re so tight like this, squeezing me so good.”

“I’m gonna cum, Jack!” you scream, body tensing, orgasm building fast. 

“Please, harder!”

“Cum for me, darlin’,” he rasps, thrusts brutal, fingers working your clit in sync. “Wanna feel this pussy milk me.” You shatter, screaming his name, clenching hard around him, legs jerking as the orgasm tears through you, raw and intense. He groans, thrusts stuttering, “Fuck, babygirl!” his body shaking as he buries himself in you.

“I want you in my mouth again, Jack,” you pant, voice raw, still trembling. “Need to taste you.”

He pulls out, slick with you, and moves to your mouth, stroking himself. You take him in, sucking eagerly, catching every drop as he cuts, moaning your name. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he gasps, eyes locked on yours.

He collapses beside you, both of you slick with sweat, the room heavy with the scent of sex. You grab the sheet, pulling it over your naked body, legs still twitching. He laughs, breathless. “You okay over there, darlin’?”

“Fuck, that was…intense,” you say, catching your breath, turning to face him., your face red, “You wanna go again though?”

He shifts, propping himself up, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “Hell yeah, babygirl.” You crawl under the sheet, straddling him, grinding slowly as he hardens beneath you. “Goddamn, you’re gonna drive me fuckin’ insane,” he growls, pulling your hair back to kiss you deeply, hips rocking up to meet yours.

You guide him to your entrance, sinking down, crying out as he fills you again. “Jack, fuck!” you moan, riding him hard, his hands gripping your hips, guiding your pace. “Make me cum again,” you beg, voice loud and desperate.

“Anything for you, darlin’,” he rasps, thrusting up, hitting deep, making you scream. You come undone, body shaking, moans echoing as he follows, spilling inside you with a low groan.

You collapse onto his chest, his hands finding your hips, both of you panting. “Goddamn, you’re something else,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. 

“Don’t think I can walk back to my room after that.”

“Then don’t. Stay here with me.”

You turn to him and nod gently.

“Let me clean you up.” He grabs a towel, wiping you gently, his touch lingering, making you shiver. “Got a shirt and boxers if you wanna sleep in ‘em,” he says, tossing the towel aside, grabbing clothes from his bag. You nod, taking them, and head to the bathroom, pulling the door shut.

Leaning against it, your heart races. Holy shit, I just fucked my boss. My mentor. The thrill of it—his hands, his voice, the way he made you scream—mixes with a cold wave of panic. He’s your supervisor, the ER legend you’ve admired for years. What the hell did you just do? 

Your phone sits on the counter, 20 unread texts, eight missed calls—Langdon, Robby, Dana, co-residents, all congratulating you. You want to text Lang, spill everything, hear his dumb jokes to calm you down, but you stop. What would I even say? ‘Just slept with Jack Abbot, oops’? No, he’ll come knocking if you stay in here too long.

You slip into Jack’s shirt and boxers, the fabric smelling faintly of him, and step out. The room’s dark except for his nightstand lamp, Jack in just his briefs, sprawled on the bed. “Look better in those than I do,” he says, smirking, but, there’s a flicker of something else- concern, maybe, or hope.

You chuckle weakly, crawling under the comforter, avoiding his gaze. He pulls you close, lips brushing your forehead. “I’m glad we did this,” he whispers, voice heavy with meaning, but there’s a question in it, like he’s testing the waters.

“Yeah,” you say, voice flat, mind racing. He’s my boss. We’re flying back together in hours. What does this mean? The 5+ hour plane ride looms, a confined space where you can’t escape him—or this. “So, what time do we have to get up for the flight?”

His eyes flicker, like he wanted more from you, a hint of disappointment crossing his face. “Flight’s at 8. Uber by 5:45, latest. Up at 4:30? Gives you time to shower, pack.”

“Sounds good,” you say, voice distant. “Think I’ll skip breakfast. Nervous stomach for the plane ride.”

“Oh… okay,” he says, voice soft, sensing your shift. He grabs his phone, setting the alarm, and turns off the lamp. You feel his hesitation, like he’s debating asking if you’re okay or what this night means, but he stays silent. 

You roll over, pulling the comforter tight, facing away from him, your coldness a wall between you. His breathing slows, but you know he feels it—the distance you’ve put there.

You lie awake, mind spinning. He’s right there, inches away, but you can’t face him. The weight of crossing that line, of what it might mean back at work, presses down. You want to say something, to bridge the gap, but the words won’t come. The room feels too small, the plane ride too long, the future too uncertain.

The alarm blares at 4:30, sharp and jarring, less than two hours since you collapsed beside him. Your stomach twists, and you keep your back to him, eyes fixed on the wall, unwilling to turn and face the man who just changed everything.

Woo Woo, haven't posted in like 3+ weeks but, I'm back now! Let me know what you guys think of this one! Already have a rough draft of a part 2 ready for you guys!!

[leo-in-the-pitt]

I like this actor, I should watch more of his movies *opens IMDB page* he should be in better movies

[leo-in-the-pitt]

Fix This

—— —— —— —— ——

Fix This

This is Chapter 7 of the Beginning to End series !

Pairing: Jack Abbott x Wife!Reader

Summary: Your marriage to Jack has been anything but stable, especially with you find out your unexpectedly pregnant with your second baby before your son even turns 1. What lengths are you two willing to go through before its too late?

Warnings:

Established relationship, implied age gap, strong language, some fluff but also porn with plot, unprotected PIV, fingering, oral (both m and f receiving), praise kink, pregnancy, lots and lots of sexual tension

WC: 15.6k (not sure how I managed this again)

The kitchen is quieter now, but it’s not the peaceful kind. It’s the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath, like the air itself is waiting for something to break.

You’re sitting at the kitchen island, a mug of tea gone cold in your hands. The two pregnancy tests are still there, tucked into a drawer now. Jack’s across from you, elbows on the counter, staring at the same spot on the floor. Neither of you has spoken in ten minutes. Not since you agreed to “one day at a time.” Not since the word baby started echoing in the space between you.

Finally, Jack clears his throat, voice rough from disuse. “Have you…thought about what you want to do?”

You look up, startled, though you shouldn’t be. His eyes are on you now—cautious, like he’s afraid of what you’ll say. You know what he’s asking, even if he won’t say it outright. It’s about whether you can even handle this—another child, another life, when you’re barely holding onto each other.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t had time to think. I just…I just saw the lines, and everything stopped. Came straight to you.”

He nods, like he’s trying to process it too. “Yeah.”

You shift in your seat, fingers tightening around the mug. “What about you? What do you want?”

Jack’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, you brace for him to shut down again—to hide behind that wall he’s so good at building. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward, hands clasping together like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“I want us,” he says, deliberate. “I want this kid. I want our son. I want the messy, broken, fucked-up version of us that’s still here, still fighting. But, I don’t know if that’s what you want anymore.”

Your chest aches, sharp and familiar. “Jack…”

“No, let me finish.” His voice is firm, but not angry. “I’ve been a coward. I’ve been running from this—from you—because I’m terrified of losing you again. And I know I’ve made it worse. I know I’ve pushed you away. But this?” He gestures vaguely toward the drawer, toward the idea of the new life you didn’t plan for. “This feels like a chance to do it right. To not fuck it up this time.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words settling into the cracks of your heart. “You can’t just say that and expect it to fix everything,” you say, voice trembling. “Another baby doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t erase the fights, or the silence, or the way you looked at that woman like she was a lifeline I couldn’t be.”

His face falls, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I know. I’m not saying it does. I’m saying I want to try—for real this time. Not just sex. Not just pretending. I want to sit in the mess with you and figure it out.”

You want to believe him. God, you want to. But the memory of his hesitation in the parking lot, the way he smiled at her, still burns. And now this—a baby you didn’t expect, a future you’re not sure you’re ready for. You press a hand to your stomach, instinctive, and the gesture feels like a betrayal of your own fear.

“I’m scared, Jack,” you whisper. “I’m scared of what this means. For us. For him.” You glance towards your son, playing with Cheerios in his high chair. “I almost didn’t make it last time. What if—”

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp. He reaches across the island, his hand hovering near yours, waiting for permission. “Don’t go there. You’re here. And I’m not letting you go through this alone again.”

You let his hand close over yours, but it feels fragile, like a promise that could break under the slightest pressure. “I don’t know if I can trust you to stay,” you admit, voice cracking. “Not after everything.”

Jack’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and steady. “Then let me prove it. One day at a time. Counseling, like we talked about. Whatever it takes.”

You pull your hand back, not out of anger, but because you need to feel your own weight for a moment. “I need you to mean it this time, Jack. No running. No hiding. No shutting me out when it gets hard.”

He nods, eyes steady on yours. “I know. And I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying.”

Your son starts to fuss, soft whimper breaks the moment. You both turn instinctively, hearts lurching in unison. Jack stands first. “I’ll put him down for a nap.”

You nod, watching him go, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. You stay seated, staring at the cold tea, the empty kitchen. You think about the last time you were pregnant—the joy, the fear, the way it all shattered in a blur of blood and panic. You think about Jack, holding your hand through it, and then pulling away when the grief became too much.

You don’t know if you can do this again. But you know you want to try—for your son, for the new life growing inside you, and maybe, just maybe, for the version of you and Jack that still lingers in the quiet moments.

—————————————————————

Later That Night

The hospital is a hum of controlled chaos, even at 5 p.m. You and Jack are on the same shift again, moving through the ER like two planets in separate orbits. Working days to have a somewhat normal schedule with the baby. 

You’re stitching up a laceration in Trauma 2 when Dana slips in, her eyes scanning you.

“You okay?” she asks, voice low enough not to carry.

You don’t look up from your sutures. “Fine.”

She leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You don’t look fine. You look like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders.”

You tie off the stitch, snipping the thread with more force than necessary. “Just tired. Long shift.”

Dana doesn’t buy it. She never does. “Heard you and Jack were screaming at each other in the parking lot a while back. Now you’re both walking around like you’re allergic to each other. What’s going on?”

You pause, needle still in hand, and glance at her. For a moment, you consider telling her—about the pregnancy, about the fight, about the fragility of the relationship. “It’s complicated,” you say instead.

Dana raises a brow. “Yeah, no shit. You two are a walking soap opera. But you’re not talking to him, are you?”

You shake your head, focusing back on the patient. “We’re trying. Sort of.”

She sighs, stepping closer. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know what’s going on with you two. But I know you. And I know you’re stronger than whatever this is. If you need to talk—really talk—I’m here.”

You nod, throat tight. “Thanks, Dana.”

She squeezes your shoulder and slips out, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Across the ER, Jack’s in Trauma 1, intubating a patient with a collapsed lung. His hands are steady, but his mind is elsewhere. He’s thinking about the pregnancy test. About the way your hand felt under his in the kitchen. About the way you looked at him like you were waiting for him to break your heart again.

When the patient’s stable and handed off to the ICU team, Jack steps out into the hallway, scrubbing a hand over his face. He spots you through the glass of Trauma 2, finishing your sutures.

He wants to go to you. Wants to say something—anything—that might bridge the gap. But Robby gets him first, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, man,” Robby says, voice cautious. “You look like hell.”

Jack forces a half-smile. “Feel like it too.”

Robby glances toward you, then back at Jack. “You two gonna make it?”

Jack’s throat tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. “I want to,” he says finally. “But I don’t know if she does.”

Robby’s quiet for a moment, then nods. “Then show her. Not with words. Not with whatever you two do when you’re not talking. Show her with the hard stuff. The real stuff.”

Jack looks at him, something like resolve settling in his chest. “Yeah. I’m trying.”

Robby claps him on the back again. “Good. Because you two are too stubborn to give up.”

Jack watches you through the glass a moment longer, then turns back to the chaos of the ER. He’s not sure if he believes Robby. Not sure if he believes in himself. But for the first time in weeks, he wants to try—really try.

—————————————————————

The Next Morning

You’re in the car, driving to your first OB appointment. You were able to pull some favors to get the appointment immediately. Jack’s in the passenger seat, staring out the window. The radio’s off, and the silence is heavy, but not as suffocating as it’s been. You’re both trying, in your own clumsy way.

“You nervous?” he asks, voice low.

You grip the steering wheel tighter. “Yeah. You?”

He nods, glancing at you. “Terrified.”

You almost smile. It’s the first honest thing you’ve both said today. “Me too.”

The waiting room is too bright with pastel posters about prenatal care plastered on the walls. You sit side by side, knees not quite touching. Jack’s thumb taps a rhythm on his thigh, and you’re hyper-aware of every movement, every breath.

When the nurse calls your name, you both stand, moving in sync like you used to. The ultrasound room is dim, the tech’s voice calm. Jack’s hand hovers near yours, and this time, you don’t pull away. You let his fingers lace with yours, his grip tight.

The tech slides the wand over your stomach, and the screen flickers to life. A tiny, pulsing shape appears—a heartbeat, fast and steady. You both stare, breathless.

“There’s your baby,” the tech says, smiling. “About eight weeks. Everything looks good. Doctor will be in soon. Hang tight.”

Jack’s grip tightens, his eyes locked on the screen. You glance at him, and for the first time in weeks, you see him—not the guarded, angry Jack, but the one who cried when your son was born. His eyes are wet, and he doesn’t try to hide it.

You squeeze his hand back, just a little. It’s not a fix. It’s not a promise. But it’s a start.

———————————————————————

That Night

You’re in the nursery, rocking baby Jack to sleep. His tiny fist curls against your chest, his breathing slow and even. Jack leans against the doorframe, watching you both, his face soft in the dim light.

“You’re good at this,” he says quietly.

You look up, surprised. “So are you.”

He steps into the room, crouching beside the rocker. “I booked us a counseling session. Next week on our day off.”

You blink, heart stuttering. “You did?”

He nods, eyes on the baby. “I meant what I said. I want to do the work. For him. For this one.” His hand hovers near your stomach, not touching, but close. “For us.”

You swallow hard, nodding. “Okay.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s seeing you for the first time in months. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice steady. “Not this time.”

You don’t say anything, but you reach out, resting your hand on his.

It’s not fixed. It’s not perfect. But it’s enough for tonight.

—————————————————————

First Session 

The therapist’s office is suffocating. The beige couch feels too small, forcing you and Jack closer than you’ve been in weeks. You sit with arms crossed tight, knees angled away. Jack’s beside you, hands balled into fists on his thighs, jaw so tight you can practically hear his teeth grinding. The clock ticks, each second amplifying the silence.

Dr. Ellis, the therapist, sits across from you, her calm demeanor infuriatingly neutral. Her notepad rests on her knee. “Let’s start with why you’re here,” she says, voice steady, as if she can’t feel the storm brewing.

You laugh, sharp and bitter, cutting through the quiet. “Why we’re here? Because we’re a fucking mess. Because I can’t look at him without wanting to scream or cry or both.”

Jack’s head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. “Nice, real classy way to kick this off. You’ve been shutting me out for months, acting like I’m the problem.”

“You are the problem!” you snap, leaning forward, voice rising. “You checked out, Jack! You left me drowning in this—alone—while you smiled at some woman in a parking lot like she was the fucking sun!”

His face reddens, and he matches your intensity. “Don’t you dare bring that up again. I wasn’t flirting—I was just being polite. But you? Your’e acting like I had sex with her or something. You’ve been pushing me away ever since Jack was born, you said that I should’ve let you die!”

The words hit like a punch, and you flinch, but you don’t back down. “I already said I didn’t mean it that way! I was bleeding out, terrified I’d never meet our son, and you act like I should just snap out of it. Like I’m supposed to be fine while you hide behind your fucking walls!”

Dr. Ellis raises a hand, her voice cutting through like a scalpel. “Enough! You’re both hurting, and you’re both entitled to that pain. But yelling won’t fix it. Let’s try this: what’s the one moment that feels like the breaking point for each of you?”

The room falls silent. You stare down at the carpet. “The day I gave birth,” you say finally, voice cracking. “I was lying there, feeling my life slip away, knowing our son was out there without me. I was so scared I’d never hold him. And Jack…” You glance at him, throat tight. “He was there, but he wasn’t. Not really. He’s been gone ever since.”

Jack’s fists unclench, his hands trembling now. He stares at his lap, voice barely audible. “I watched you fade away on that table. I watched them take our son away and kick me out of the room to save you. I thought the next time I would see you, you’d be dead. I was useless—standing there, a fucking doctor, and I couldn’t do anything. You think I’m over it? I see it every time I close my eyes. Your blood all over the floor.”

The air shifts, heavy with shared grief. Dr. Ellis nods. “That’s a lot of trauma to carry, for both of you. Have you been able to talk about this fear together, outside of fighting and screaming?”

You shake your head, wiping at your eyes. “Every time I try, he shuts down. Or we fight. Or we…” You hesitate, glancing at Jack. “Distract ourselves”

Jack shifts, uncomfortable. “She means sex,” he mutters, like it’s a confession. “It’s the only time I feel like I’m not failing her.”

Dr. Ellis tilts her head, her gaze piercing. “Sex can feel like connection, but it can also be a way to dodge the harder work. I’m going to suggest something: for now, let’s take sex off the table. It’s a crutch, and you both need to rebuild trust without it. Instead, when you fight, write a letter to each other. Put down what you’re feeling—anger, fear, needs. Don’t share it right away. Write it, sit with it, then read them together when you’ve both calmed down.”

He blinks hard, the idea jarring. ��No sex? At all?”

She nods. “For now, no. You need to learn to connect through words, not bodies. Trust starts there. The letters will help you say what’s too hard in the moment.”

“So nothing? Like no touching at all?”

“Jack.”

He put his hands up. “Sorry, just making sure of the rules.”

You rubs the back of your neck, clearly uneasy, letting out a sigh. “Letters. Okay. I can try that.”

He nods, hesitant, your mind racing. “Yeah. Me too.”

Dr. Ellis smiles softly. “Keep talking, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Your homework is to write those letters after your next fight. And no sex—focus on being present with each other.”

As you leave, Jack’s hand lingers in yours, warm but uncertain. You step into the daylight, the weight of the session settling into your bones, but there’s a flicker of something new—hope, maybe, or just the possibility of it.

————————————————————— 

ER Shift

The ER is a relentless storm—gurneys crashing through doors, monitors shrieking, voices shouting over the chaos. You’re at the back nurses’ station, a dimly lit corner where the fluorescent lights flicker just enough to make your headache worse. Your scrubs are wrinkled, a coffee stain blooming on your sleeve from a fumbled handoff during a code. Working a split shift today. 

Jack’s at home with baby Jack, a rare day off for him, and the absence feels like a missing limb. You’re charting, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the counseling session, the pregnancy, the fear that’s been your constant companion.

Langdon and Dana approach, both in fresh scrubs, coffees clutched like lifelines. Langdon leans against the counter, his usual smirk faltering when he sees your face. Dana’s eyes narrow, scanning you like she’s triaging a patient. 

“Jesus, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” Langdon says, blunt as always. “You and Jack okay, or are we still in soap opera territory?”

You sigh, your shoulders slumping. “We’re… trying. We started couples therapy yesterday.”

Dana’s eyes widen, and she sets her coffee down with a thud. “Therapy? Holy shit, that’s huge. You two don’t do anything halfway, do you? How was it?”

You rub your temples, the session replaying in your head. “It was a fucking mess at first. We were screaming at each other—about everything really. But we talked. Really talked. About how scared we were. And still are”

Langdon whistles, low and long. “That’s some heavy shit. You two actually got anywhere?”

“Maybe,” you say, voice tight. “The therapist told us no sex for now—says it’s a crutch. We’re supposed to write letters when we fight instead. Like we’re in a damn Jane Austen novel.”

Dana laughs, then catches herself, her expression softening. “Letters? That’s old-school. But it might work. You guys need to stop dodging the hard stuff.”

You nod, then hesitate, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I’m pregnant.” Your voice is barely audible over the hum of the ER, but it lands like a bomb.

Langdon chokes on his coffee, coughing hard. “Wait, what? You’re pregnant? Already? With a seven-month-old at home?”

Dana’s jaw drops, her eyes wide with shock. “Holy shit. Two kids under two? While you’re both pulling ER shifts? Are you insane?”

You manage a weak laugh. “Wasn’t exactly planned. Just found out about 2 weeks ago. Still in the first trimester only 11 weeks, just felt like I needed to tell someone.” You took a deep breath. “I’m terrified, guys. What if it happens again? And Jack and I, we’re barely hanging on. I don’t know if we’re strong enough for this.”

Dana’s shock softens into concern, and she steps closer, her hand finding yours. “Oh, honey. That’s a lot. Have you told Jack how scared you are?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “A little, in counseling I guess. But it’s hard. We’re trying, but we’ve been so broken. I keep wondering if we’ll make it through this—another baby, another chance to lose everything. I mean if we don’t work out, then what? We’re gonna have 2 kids together.”

Langdon sets his coffee down, his usual sarcasm gone. “Listen, you two are tougher than anyone I know. You’ve been through hell—literally—and you’re still standing. And Jack? He’s a mess, but he’s your mess. I saw him after that parking lot thing. He wasn’t flirting; he was gutted because you thought he was. He’s in this, even if he’s shit at showing it.”

Dana squeezes your hand tighter. “You’re not alone in this. Two kids under two is nuts, especially with your jobs, but you’re not doing it solo. You’ve got Jack, and you’ve got us. And counseling’s a start, right?”

You swallow hard, their words a lifeline in the chaos. “Yeah. It’s a start. I just…I want to believe we can do this. For our son. For this new baby.”

Langdon grins, trying to lighten the mood. “You will. And if Jack screws up, I’ll drag him back to that therapist myself.”

Dana nods, her voice firm. “You’re stronger than you think. Both of you. And we’re here, okay? For the late-night diaper runs, the coffee, whatever you need.”

You laugh, a real one. For a moment, the weight lifts, and you feel like you might survive this shift, this pregnancy, this marriage. “Thanks, guys. I mean it.”

As they head back to their patients, your heart a little lighter, but the fear still lingers, a shadow you can’t outrun.

———————————————————— 

 Late Night - The Nursery

The nursery is a cocoon of moonlight and soft shadows, the white noise machine humming a gentle lullaby. JJ is asleep in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling, one hand curled against his cheek like he’s dreaming of something profound. You and Jack are on the floor, trying to figure out a floorpan for a second crib. The air smells of a strange mix of new beginnings and old routines.

“We don’t have room for two cribs in here. This room’s too damn small.” Jack snaps.

You’re sitting cross-legged, your own frustration bubbling. “It’ll fit, Jack. We’ll make it work. Stop whining about it.”

He shoots you a glare, his eyes dark under the dim light. “Whining? I’m trying to figure out how we’re supposed to raise two kids in a shoebox while we’re both killing ourselves in the ER.”

You scoff. “Oh, now you’re worried about logistics? Where was this energy when you left dishes in the sink for a week? Or when you forgot to pick up diapers?”

Jacks hands flexing like he’s fighting the urge to throw something. “Don’t fucking start. I’m here, aren’t I? Trying to figure out how to put another kid in here.”

Your blood boils as you stand. “You’re acting like I planned this? You think I wanted to be pregnant again with a baby already right here, terrified I’ll bleed out like last time, while you’re barely present unless we’re fighting or fucking?”

His eyes flash, and he steps closer, voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You’re really gonna throw that in my face? After the therapist told us to cool it? You’re standing there, looking at me like you want to tear my clothes off, and I’m the one who’s not present?”

Your face burns, and you hate how right he is—how your body betrays you, heat pooling low in your stomach at his proximity. You step closer, the air between you crackling. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jack. I’m trying to keep this together, but you’re making it impossible.”

His gaze darkens, and he closes the distance, his breath warm against your face. “You want impossible? Try standing here, wanting you so bad it hurts, knowing I can’t touch you because some fucking therapist says it’s a bad idea.” His hand hovers near your waist, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt, sending a shiver through you.

You swallow hard, your own hands itching to reach for him. You can smell his cologne, faint under the sweat of the day, and it pulls you back to nights when you’d fall into each other without a second thought. Your fingers brush his chest, lingering on the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath. “Jack…” you murmur, voice shaky, caught between want and restraint.

He leans in, his lips brushing yours, soft at first, then hungry, desperate. Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his silver hair as you kiss him back, hard and reckless, the tension pouring out. 

His hands roam your sides, slipping under your shirt, his touch igniting every nerve. You press yourself closer, hips brushing his, feeling the hard line of his body against yours.

But then that voice echoes in your head—no sex, no crutch. You pull back, breathless, hands still tangled in his shirt. “Jack, stop,” you gasp, your voice trembling with effort. “The therapist. She said no sex. We can’t keep doing this.”

He freezes, panting, his hands still on your waist, eyes dark with need. “Fuck,” he mutters, stepping back, running a hand through his hair. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just…fuck I want you so bad right now.”

You nod, your own breath ragged, trying to steady yourself. “I want you too. But we have to do this right. She said write letters when we fight. Not this. It’s only been a week without sex Jack.”

Jack exhales hard, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah. Letters. Okay.” He looks at you, his expression softening, raw with something like love. “I’m trying, babygirl. I swear.”

You meet his gaze, your heart aching with the weight of it all. “I know. Me too. For them.” You glance at the crib, then at your sleeping son.

Jack follows your gaze, his voice barely a whisper. “For us.”

You sit down in the rocking chair in the corner. His hand brushes yours, not lingering this time, but enough to feel like a promise. The nursery is still messy, imperfect, but progress.

“Write the letter,” you say softly, your eyes on the crib. “When you’re mad. When you’re scared. We’ll read them together.”

He nods, his fingers squeezing yours briefly. “I will. I promise.”

The moonlight shifts, and for the first time in weeks, the silence between you feels less like a battlefield and more like a bridge.

—————————————————————

Afternoon - The ER Shift

The ER is a warzone—monitors screeching, gurneys rattling, voices shouting over the chaos. 

You’re 14 weeks pregnant, a faint swell under your scrubs, and the fatigue is a constant shadow, tugging at your limbs. 

Jack’s across the trauma bay, his face a mask of focus as you both work on a difficult patient: a 32-year-old woman with severe abdominal pain, erratic vitals, and a combative streak that’s fraying everyone’s nerves. She’s thrashing, yelling, refusing the IV line you’re trying to place.

“Hold still,” you say, voice firm but strained, dodging her flailing arm. “We’re trying to help you.”

Jack’s at the head of the bed, prepping for a central line, his eyes flicking between the patient and the monitor. “We need imaging,” he snaps, voice clipped. “CT, now. Could be a bleed or perforation.”

You shake your head, securing the IV with a quick twist. “No way she’s stable enough for transport. Her pressure’s tanking—80 over 40. We need to stabilize her first, fluids and pressors.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, his hands pausing mid-motion. “You’re wasting time. If it’s a bleed, we’re screwed without a scan. Push for CT.”

You glare at him, the patient’s moans fading into the background as your anger flares. “And if she codes in the scanner? What then, Jack? We’re not gambling with her life because you’re impatient.”

“Impatient?” His voice rises, sharp enough to draw eyes from the nurses. “I’m trying to save her, unlike you, who’s playing it safe because you’re scared!”

The word hits like a slap, and you step closer, voice low and venomous. “Scared? I’m the one keeping her alive while you’re chasing a hunch. Back off and let me do my job.”

Jack leans in, eyes blazing. “Your job? You’re second-guessing me in front of the team. We’re supposed to be working together, not—”

“Enough!” Robby’s voice booms from the doorway, cutting through the chaos. He’s in scrubs, face stern, arms crossed like a disappointed coach. “Both of you, out. Now.”

You and Jack freeze, the patient’s monitor beeping a frantic counterpoint. Dana takes over the IV, giving you a pointed look as you reluctantly step back. Jack tosses his gloves in the bin, storming out, and you follow, your heart pounding with rage and humiliation.

“Both of you, follow me. Now”

Robby’s office is cluttered with charts, a half-dead plant, and a photo of him and Collins with their two kids. You and Jack sit in mismatched chairs, the air thick with tension. Robby leans against his desk, arms still crossed, his gaze shifting between you.

“Someone want to explain to me what the hell that was?” he asks, voice low but cutting. “You two are brawling in the middle of a trauma bay, undermining each other in front of the team. That’s not how we do things.”

Jack slumps in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “It got heated. We just disagreed on the plan.”

“Disagreed?” Robby snorts. “You were at each other’s throats. That patient’s fighting for her life, and you’re turning it into a pissing contest. What’s going on with you two?”

You glance at Jack, your anger simmering but overshadowed by exhaustion. “We’re trying to figure it out,” you say quietly. “We’ve been in couples therapy for the past month. And um- I- I’m pregnant. Again. About fourteen weeks.”

Robby’s eyes widen, his stern facade cracking. “You’re pregnant? Already? With your boy barely seven months old?” He exhales, shaking his head. “Jesus. No wonder you’re both wound tight. Therapy’s a good step, but you can’t bring that shit into the bay.”

Jack nods, his voice rough. “We know. It won’t happen again.”

Robby studies you both, his expression softening. “You two are some of the best docs I’ve got, but you’re human. You’re carrying a lot—new baby on the way, therapy, the ER. Cut yourselves some slack, but not in my trauma bay. Clear?”

You nod, throat tight. “Clear.”

Jack stands, his shoulders tense. “I’m gonna go check on the patient.” He glances at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

“I’ll be right out.”

You stay seated, your hands twisting in your lap. “Robby…can I ask you something?”

He leans back, nodding. “Shoot.”

“How do you and Collins do it? Two young kids, both of you working, this insane job…how do you make it work?”

Robby sighs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not easy. Our kids are a little over two years apart, which helps—gives the older one some independence before the next hits. Me and Collins, we’re obsessive about our schedules. We carve out time—date nights, family mornings, whatever we can steal. Sometimes it’s just a coffee run without the kids, but it keeps us sane. We trade shifts, lean on family and friends, make it a team effort.”

You nod, absorbing his words, but the doubt lingers. “Jack and I…our kids’ll be under two years apart. I’m scared we won’t make it. Everyone keeps saying we will, but I don’t know if I believe it.”

Robby leans forward, his voice steady. “You will. You and Jack are stubborn as hell—that’s why you’re still fighting for each other. It’s messy, but you’re doing the work. Therapy, talking to me like this? That’s how you build it. One step at a time. If it was really over, you guys would be divorced by now. But you’re both still fighting.”

You manage a small smile, his words a fragile anchor. “That’s what everybody says.”

He chuckles. “Because it’s true. Now go fix things with your man before he sulks all the way home.”

You stand, thanking him, and head out, the ER’s noise swallowing you again. But when you reach the locker room, Jack’s already gone, his bag missing. Your stomach twists—you check your phone, no message. He’s at the car, you realize, and the thought sparks a fresh wave of anger.

The hospital parking lot air is heavy with late afternoon heat. Jack’s leaning against your car, arms crossed, his face a storm cloud. You march over, your scrubs sticking to your skin.

“Thought you were going to check on the patient?” you snap, stopping a few feet away. “And you just leave? What the hell, Jack?”

He straightens, eyes flashing. “They took her up to CT. Our shifts been over for a while now anyway. I needed air. You were cozying up with Robby, so I figured you didn’t need me.”

“Cozying up?” Your voice rises, incredulous. “I was asking him how to survive this—two kids, this job, us. You’re unbelievable.”

Jack steps closer, voice low and sharp. “And you’re acting like I’m the only one screwing up. You tore into me in front of the team, undermined me like I’m some intern. How am I supposed to work with you?”

“Was that supposed to be you working with me?” you fire back, hands shaking. “You didn’t listen, just like you don’t listen at home. I’m pregnant, terrified, and you’re too busy playing hero to notice!”

He flinches, but his anger holds. “I’m trying, damn it! I’m in therapy, I’m here, but you keep pushing me away. What more do you want from me?”

You stare at him, chest heaving, the fight draining into something heavier—fear, exhaustion, love. “I want you to stop running,” you say, voice cracking. “And I want us to do what the therapist said. We’ve been avoiding it. Let’s just write the fucking letters.”

Jack’s eyes search yours, the anger fading into something raw. “You want to write the letters? Now?”

You nod, resolute. “Yeah, now. We go home, we write them, we read them. We’ve been tiptoeing around it for a month now.”

He exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay, fine. Let’s do it.”

You climb into the car, the silence heavy but purposeful, a fragile truce settling between you.

———————————————————————

Back at Home 

The living room is a soft glow of lamplight, cluttered with baby toys, a half-folded blanket, and the faint hum of the baby monitor. Baby Jack is asleep in his crib, moved to the corner of the room for tonight, his tiny snores a steady rhythm. 

You and Jack sit across from each other at the coffee table, notebooks open, pens in hand. The weight of the day—the ER fight, Robby’s office, the car—hangs between you, but the therapist’s advice anchors you to this moment.

You write first, your hand trembling as the words spill out. The pen scratches against the paper, each sentence a raw confession: your fear of another hemorrhage, your anger at Jack’s distance, your love for him that keeps you fighting. Across the table his pen moving slower, deliberate, like he’s carving out something painful.

The silence is heavy, broken only by the occasional creak of the house or baby Jack’s soft sighs. You finish first, setting your pen down, your heart pounding. Jack takes longer, his hand pausing, then starting again, until he finally closes his notebook.

“Who goes first?” he asks, voice low, almost hesitant.

“You,” you say, your throat tight. “Read yours.”

He nods, opening his notebook, his voice rough as he begins. “I’m scared every day that I’ll lose you. Not just to another hemorrhage, but to this—this distance between us. I know I fucked up over and over again, pushing you away, hiding behind work, that stupid moment in the parking lot. I’m trying to be better, but I feel like you’re waiting for me to fail. And today, in the ER, I wasn’t trying to steamroll you. I was trying to protect you, because I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt again. I love you, an- and I’m terrified I’m not enough.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and he looks down, eyes glistening. 

You swallow hard, your own letter trembling in your hands. “My turn,” you whisper, and begin reading. “I’m so angry at you sometimes, Jack—for shutting down, for making me feel alone when I needed you most. The hemorrhage broke me, and I’m terrified it’ll happen again with this baby. I’m scared we won’t make it, that we’ll keep fighting until there’s nothing left. But I love you. I love you so much it hurts, and that’s why I’m still here, trying. Today, I wasn’t trying to undermine you. I was trying to keep control, because I’m afraid I’m losing you.”

Your voice cracks, and you set the letter down, tears spilling over. Jack’s across from you, his own eyes wet, and for a moment, you just sit there, the words settling like a bridge over the chasm between you.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice raw. “For making you feel alone. I’m trying, babygirl. I- I promise.”

You nod, wiping your eyes. “I’m sorry too. For pushing you away. I want us to work, Jack. I need us to work.”

He stands, moving around the table, and you rise to meet him. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm, and you sink into him, your face pressed against his chest. His hands rest on your back, one slipping to the small swell of your stomach, a gentle anchor. You hold him tighter, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, the weight of the day melting into something softer.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands resting on his chest. “No sex,” you murmur, a faint smile tugging at your lips, echoing the therapist’s rule.

He chuckles, low and rough, his thumb brushing your cheek. “No sex. Just this.”

You move to the couch, curling up together, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you. The crib is close, baby Jack’s soft breathing a lullaby. The letters lie on the table, a testament to your effort, your pain, your love. As the lamplight fades, you drift off in each other’s arms, the world quiet for the first time in weeks.

—————————————————————

Another Day, Another Shift 

The ER is a relentless morning storm—monitors shrieking, gurneys clattering, voices slicing through the chaos like scalpels. You’re at a charting station, a tablet balanced on your knee, your scrubs clinging to the subtle curve of your 16-week pregnancy. 

The fatigue is a dull ache in your bones, but your eyes are locked on Jack across the trauma bay. He’s with a patient, a middle-aged man with a suspected MI, his hands steady as he adjusts an IV line, his brow furrowed in that way that makes your chest tighten. 

Two months without touching him—really touching him—has turned every glance into a spark, every brush of his arm into a fire you’ve had to smother. It’s almost happened, too many times: a late-night kitchen encounter, a stolen moment in the hospital stairwell, lips inches apart before one of you pulls back, muttering that fucking rule.

Langdon sidles up, his lanky frame leaning against the counter, coffee cup steaming in his hand. His smirk is softer than usual, his eyes flicking between you and Jack. “You’re staring at him like he’s the last piece of cake in the break room,” he says, voice low enough not to carry. “How’re you two holding up?”

You tear your gaze from Jack, cheeks warming, and set the tablet down. “We’re good. Two months of therapy’s actually helping. We’ve only written three letters so far—haven’t needed more. We’re talking things out before they get too bad.”

Langdon raises a brow, impressed. “Three letters? That’s restraint. Thought you two’d be penning novels with how you used scream at each other. Therapy’s turning you into grown-ups, huh?”

You snort, a small laugh breaking through the tension. “Don’t jinx it. It’s hard, but we’re trying. Really trying.”

His grin widens, but there’s a glint of mischief. “And the no-sex thing? How’s that treating you? Gotta be rough, eyeballing him like that. You’re practically drooling right now.”

You groan, leaning back in your chair, the truth spilling out before you can stop it. “It’s the worst thing ever. Like, torture. We’ve come close—too close, multiple times—but we always stop. But God, I miss him.”

Langdon chuckles, shaking his head. “You two are a mess, but a hopeful mess. Sure you two will be in an on call room together in no time. Keep it up, doc. You’re tougher than this.”

Across the bay, Jack glances over, his eyes catching yours for a split second. It’s enough to make your pulse spike, a silent acknowledgment of the tension that’s been simmering for weeks. He turns back to his patient, but you see the way his jaw tightens, like he’s fighting the same battle you are.

“Thanks, Langdon,” you say, picking up the tablet, trying to focus. “Now get back to work before I tell Robby you’re slacking.”

He winks, sauntering off, and you steal one more glance at Jack, your heart a tangle of want and resolve.

———————————————————— 

The On-Call Room

The on-call room is a dim with a flickering fluorescent light. You and Jack slip inside after the shift, the excuse being a quick debrief about a patient who coded. The door clicks shut, and the world narrows to the space between you, heavy with two months of restraint.

Jack leans against the wall, scrubs rumpled, his hair a mess from running his hands through it. “That code was brutal,” he says, voice low, but his eyes are on you, dark and searching. “You were solid out there.”

You nod, standing too close, your fingers brushing the edge of a chart you don’t need. “You too. Kept your cool when it counted.”

The silence stretches, taut and electric. You step closer, drawn by the heat of him, the familiar scent of his cologne. His hand grazes your arm, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver through you. “We’re doing good, aren’t we?” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Therapy, talking…but this part’s killing me.”

You swallow, your own hand drifting to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart through his scrubs. “Me too,” you whisper, leaning in, your lips inches from his. “Fuck I want you so bad, Jack.”

His breath hitches, and he cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek, his touch igniting every nerve. Your lips nearly meet, a ghost of a kiss, but the memory of Dr. Ellis’s voice—*no sex, no crutch*—slams into you. You pull back, panting, hands still tangled in his scrubs. “We can’t,” you gasp, voice trembling. “We have to do this right.”

Jack exhales hard, stepping back, his hands flexing like he’s fighting to keep them off you. “Fuck. You’re right. I hate this, but you’re right.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes locked on yours.

You nod, heart pounding, the tension unresolved but redirected. “Remember we have an ultrasound tomorrow.”

He nods, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I always remember babygirl.”

You leave the room separately, the air still charged, your body aching with what you didn’t do.

——————————————————

Morning - The Ultrasound

The OB clinic is a sterile contrast to the ER, with soft lighting and pastel posters about prenatal care. You’re on the exam table, gown crinkling, your 16-week bump more pronounced now. Jack’s beside you, his hand hovering near yours, both of you tense as the ultrasound tech preps the wand. The memory of your hemorrhage looms, a shadow over the screen’s flicker, but you’re trying to focus on the present—the baby, the heartbeat, the life you’re building.

The tech smiles, sliding the wand over your stomach, and the screen comes alive with a tiny, wriggling shape. “There’s your baby,” she says, her voice warm. “Heartbeat’s strong—150 beats per minute. Everything looks great.”

You exhale, tears pricking your eyes, and Jack’s hand finally closes over yours, his grip tight. The heartbeat fills the room, a rapid thrum that drowns out the fear for a moment. You glance at him, and his eyes are wet, fixed on the screen, a mix of awe and terror you know too well.

“Looks like a fighter,” he says, voice rough, squeezing your hand.

“Like us,” you whisper, a small smile breaking through.

—————————————————— 

At Home 

The living room is a soft glow of lamplight. Baby Jack’s crib is in the corner, his tiny snores a steady lullaby. The second crib’s pieces are stacked against the wall, a work in progress for the new baby. You and Jack are on the couch, curled into each other, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you.

He trace your hand with his, feeling the calluses from work, the familiar lines of your fingers. “The ultrasound today,” he says softly, breaking the quiet. “It felt…real. Like we might actually do this.”

You nod, your cheek brushing his shirt, the cotton soft and faintly scented with laundry detergent and him. “Yeah. That heartbeat—God, it got me. Think it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” he says, his fingers pausing, then resuming their slow dance. “A girl would be nice, though. Little spitfire like her mom.”

You smile, tilting your head to look at him, his face softened by the lamplight, eyes warm but shadowed with the day’s weight. “I always wanted a boy then a girl,” you say, your voice light but laced with hope. “Baby Jack’s got the boy part covered.”

Jack chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. “Oh, we’re stopping at two?”

Your eyes widen, and you swat his arm playfully, the motion shifting you closer. “Oh my God, Jack. What, you want more?”

He grins, a flash of teeth that makes your heart skip, his hand sliding to your wrist, holding it gently. “I’m just kidding. Two’s good with me. I’m just thinking about how we make them.”

You raise a brow, sensing the shift in his tone, the playful edge sharpening into something heavier. “Yeah? That’s all that’s on your mind?”

“Recently?” His voice drops, low and husky, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist, sending a spark up your arm. “It’s the only thing on my mind. All day, every day.”

You laugh, but it’s breathy, the air between you thickening. “You really are just like a horny teenager. You know that?”

He leans closer, his lips curling into a smirk, his breath warm against your cheek. “I got no shame about it. Don’t act like you’re not thinking about it too.” 

His voice lowers, a seductive murmur that curls around you like smoke. “Remembering all the times we had sex right here on this couch. All the times you were on top of me, right here, with me inside you.”

Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your stomach, your body betraying you with a flush that creeps up your neck. “What are you doing, Jack?” you ask, voice shaky, trying to hold the line.

His eyes darken, locked on yours, and he shifts closer, his hand sliding from your wrist to your thigh, fingers tracing slow circles through your leggings. “Trying to convince you that sometimes rules are made to be broken,” he says, his voice a low growl, each word deliberate.

You swallow hard, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart, the heat of him seeping through his shirt. “You’re gonna get us in trouble, Jack,” you say, but your voice wavers, your resolve fraying under his touch.

His lips brush your jaw, a feather-light kiss that sends a shiver down your spine, and he trails them lower, to the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath hot and teasing. “What, with the therapist?” he murmurs against your skin, his hand sliding higher, fingers grazing the curve of your hip. “I don’t give a fuck.” 

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his face inches from yours, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leans close to your ear. “Just this one time. It can be our little secret.”

“Jack,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. His kisses deepen, slow and deliberate, along your neck, each one igniting a spark that threatens to consume you. Your body arches toward him, instinctive, the memory of his hands, his mouth, his everything flooding back.

“Come on, babygirl,” he says, his voice rough with need, his hand slipping under your shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist, warm and possessive. “Just have sex with me. I’ll do that thing you like.”

You moan softly, the sound escaping before you can stop it, your head tilting back as his lips find the pulse point below your ear. “Fuck, Jack,” you whisper, your hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling into his hair. “I like all the things you do to me.”

His groan is low, primal, and he shifts, pulling you closer, your legs straddling his lap, the couch creaking under your weight. His hands roam your back, fingers digging in, and you feel him hard against you, the evidence of his want sending a jolt through you. 

Your lips are inches apart, breaths mingling, and you’re drowning in him—the heat, the scent, the weight of two months without this. His mouth hovers over yours, and you lean in, desperate, ready to break every rule.

But the rule—no sex, no crutch, build trust with words. You freeze, heart pounding, and wrench back, your hands braced against his chest, panting like you’ve run a marathon. 

“Jack, stop,” you gasp, voice trembling with effort, your body screaming in protest. “We can’t. The therapist—we’re supposed to be doing this right. No sex. Not tonight.”

Jack’s hands still on your hips, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with need but flickering with something else—guilt, maybe, or respect. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning his head back against the couch, his hands sliding to your thighs, gripping them tightly before letting go. “You’re right. I’m sorry, babygirl. I got carried away.” He meets your eyes, raw and vulnerable, his voice hoarse. “I want you so bad, but I want us to work more. I’m trying.”

You nod, sliding off his lap, settling beside him, your body still thrumming with unspent energy, your heart a chaotic mix of love and frustration. “I’m sorry too,” you say, voice soft, reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “I want you, Jack. But we’re doing good—therapy, the letters, talking. I don’t want to mess it up.”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles, a small, grounding gesture. “Yeah. We’re doing good.” He glances at the crib, where baby Jack’s snores hum softly, then back at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “This kid’s got no idea what his parents are going through.”

You laugh, the sound shaky but real, easing the tension. “He’s lucky. All he worries about is his next bottle.”

Jack pulls you closer, his arm around your shoulders, and you curl into him, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm under your ear. You talk quietly, the words soft, about the ultrasound, about baby names.

The second crib unbuilt in the corner, a reminder of what’s coming, but for now, it’s just you two, holding each other, the letters on the table a testament to your fight.

“We’ll just keep doing the work.”

He nods, kissing your forehead, his lips gentle, chaste. “Yeah. We’ll do it right. For him. For the new one. For us.”

—————————————————————

One Morning

The bathroom is a steamy sanctuary, the shower’s hot water cascading over your 20-week pregnant body, easing the ache in your lower back and the tension of another week in the ER. The glass door is fogged, the tiles warm under your feet, a rare moment of peace on a Saturday morning—your first shared weekend off in weeks. 

Baby Jack is still asleep in his crib, and Jack was sprawled across your bed when you slipped out, his soft snores a quiet promise of a slow day. Three months of couples therapy have smoothed some edges—fewer fights, three letters written, more talking—but three months without sex.

The door creaks open, and you freeze, the shower curtain rustling as you peer through the steam. Jack’s silhouette fills the doorway, his hair mussed, wearing only gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, the faint outline of his arousal unmistakable. “What the hell are you doing in here?” you snap, clutching the curtain, your voice sharp but laced with a traitorous heat.

He leans against the sink, arms crossed, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Forgot I’ve got an oil change appointment this morning,” he says, his voice low, rough with sleep. “But I’ll miss it if you let me get in there with you. Your call, babygirl.”

Your pulse spikes, the water pounding against your skin amplifying the flush creeping up your chest. You grip the curtain tighter, the urge to pull him in, consequences be damned. “Jack, go to the appointment,” you say, voice firm, but your eyes betray you, lingering on the hard lines of his chest, the trail of hair disappearing into his waistband.

He steps closer, his grin turning wicked, his bare feet silent on the tiles. “You sure? ‘Cause all I can think about is your naked body, just inches away, all wet and warm.” His voice drops, a seductive murmur that curls around you like the steam. He reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of the curtain, and you playfully tug it open an inch, revealing a sliver of your shoulder, water beading on your skin.

His eyes darken, a low groan escaping him, but you laugh, breaking the spell, and yank the curtain closed. “Go get your oil changed, you perv,” you tease, your voice lighter now, though your body hums with want.

He chuckles, the sound warm and reluctant. “Fine, but you’re making this real hard, you know that?” He lingers a moment, then slips out, the door clicking shut, leaving you alone with the pounding water and the ache he’s stirred.

You step out of the shower, skin still warm, wrapping yourself in a soft towel that barely covers your growing bump. The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the baby monitor on the bathroom counter. You pad to the nursery, where baby Jack is stirring, his tiny fists waving, his dark eyes blinking up at you. “Morning, little man,” you murmur, scooping him up, his warmth a grounding comfort. You settle into the rocking chair, giving him a bottle, his small hands clutching the plastic as he drinks greedily, his gurgles softening the edge of your thoughts.

Jack’s teasing in the bathroom lingers, a persistent heat under your skin. You try to focus on the routine—changing baby Jack’s diaper, slipping him into a fresh onesie with a cartoon dinosaur—but your mind keeps drifting to Jack’s voice, his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. After putting Jack down for a nap in his crib, his snores a soft rhythm through the monitor, you tackle the laundry, sorting tiny socks and burp cloths, folding Jack’s shirts, the domesticity a stark contrast to the fire he’s ignited.

The baby monitor in hand, you carry it to the bedroom, setting it on the dresser, its green light flickering in the dim morning glow. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled from Jack’s restless sleep, and you climb in, crawling under the blanket, the fabric cool against your skin. You’re in a loose tank top and cotton pajama pants, the waistband stretched over your bump, and as you lie back, the quiet wraps around you, broken only by baby Jack’s distant snores.

Your thoughts drift to Jack—his hands, his mouth, the way he’d press you into this bed three months ago, bodies moving in desperate sync. The no-sex rule has been torture, near-breaches piling up: the kitchen, the stairwell, the on-call room last month. Your body aches for him, a need that’s grown sharper with every teasing glance, every brush of his fingers. Your hands wander, tentative at first, grazing your breasts through the tank top, the sensation sharp against your sensitive skin. A soft sigh escapes you, and one hand slips lower, under the quilt, past the waistband of your pants, finding the heat between your thighs.

You start rubbing, slow circles that draw a quiet moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you picture Jack—his weight over you, his voice in your ear, calling you “babygirl”. Your fingers move faster, dipping inside, the slick warmth pulling you deeper into the fantasy, your hips shifting against the mattress. “Jack,” you whisper, voice breathy, the name spilling out as you chase the edge, lost in the rhythm of your own touch.

A floorboard creaks, and your eyes snap open. Jack’s in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a smirk curling his lips, his sweatpants doing little to hide his arousal. Your heart lurches, and you yank the quilt over yourself, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Holy shit, Jack, what are you doing back already?” you stammer, voice high, scrambling to sit up.

He steps into the room, his smirk widening, eyes dark with amusement and want. “I was the first one there,” he says, voice low, casual, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Glad I made the appointment that early. Didn’t wanna miss “this”.

You groan, pulling the quilt higher, mortified. “Jack, please get out,” you say, voice shaky, your body still thrumming with unspent desire.

He laughs, a rich, warm sound, and shakes his head. “Why, so you can finish this without me? Fuck no.” He crosses the room, dropping onto the small armchair across from the bed, his legs spread, his gaze locked on you. “Finish what you started, babygirl. I’ll wait.”

Your eyes widen, a mix of shock and heat flooding you. “Jack,” you say, voice a warning, but it’s weak, your resolve crumbling under his stare.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his voice a low, coaxing drawl. “Come on, babygirl, let me see how good you are for me. Don’t stop now.”

You hesitate, heart pounding, the quilt still clutched tight. But his eyes—dark, hungry, full of love—pull you in, and you slide your hand back under the blanket, past your waistband, fingers finding the slick heat again. You start rubbing, slow at first, your breath hitching as you hold his gaze, the intimacy of the moment searing.

“That’s it,” Jack murmurs, his voice thick with praise, his hands gripping the armrests like he’s holding himself back. “So good for me. Now put your fingers inside, babygirl.”

You moan softly, obeying, your fingers slipping inside, the sensation sharper with his voice guiding you. Your hips shift, the quilt slipping slightly, and you lose yourself in the rhythm, your eyes locked on his, his praise washing over you— “so fucking beautiful, doing so good, babygirl”. 

The tension builds, coiling tight, and you gasp his name, your body trembling as you reach the edge, his gaze never leaving yours.

When you finish, a shuddering release that leaves you breathless, Jack’s voice is a low growl. “God, I fucking love you.” He stands, his eyes still burning, and turns toward the door.

You sit up, the quilt pooling around your waist, voice sharp with confusion. “Jack, where the hell are you going?”

He doesn’t answer, just slips out, his footsteps echoing down the hall. You stare at the empty doorway, heart racing, a mix of frustration and amusement bubbling up.

You swing your legs off the bed, head to the bathroom to clean up, splashing cold water on your face, your reflection flushed and wide-eyed. The baby monitor hums softly, baby Jack still asleep, and you pull on a fresh pair of leggings and a loose sweater, the fabric soft against your sensitive skin.

————————————————— 

Downstairs

The kitchen is bright with midday light, the windows open to a crisp fall breeze, the scent of coffee lingering from Jack’s earlier pot. He’s at the counter, slicing an apple with a paring knife, his back to you, his sweatpants and T-shirt casual but taut against his frame. The radio hums a soft classic rock tune, and a pile of mail sits unopened on the table, a normalcy that feels surreal after the bedroom.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, voice sharp but laced with humor. “Jack, what the fuck was that?”

He turns, knife pausing, a grin spreading across his face, all innocence and mischief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, popping an apple slice into his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes twinkling.

You step closer, pointing at him, incredulous. “You’re actually unbearable, you know that? You’re gonna do all of “that”, always try to get me to have sex with you, but this time you just walk out?”

He laughs, setting the knife down, leaning against the counter with a shrug. “You’re always saying we can’t,” he says, his voice teasing but edged with something deeper. “Therapist’s rules, right? I’m just following your lead, babygirl.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer, the tension from the bedroom simmering between you. “And what if this was the time I give in?” you ask, voice low, challenging, your heart pounding at your own boldness.

His grin falters, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of hope and restraint crossing his face. “Was it?” he asks, voice softer now, stepping toward you, close enough to feel the heat of him.

You hold his gaze, a laugh bubbling up, breaking the spell. “You wish,” you say, turning away, walking to the living room, your hips swaying just enough to tease him back. 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You sink onto the couch, grabbing a throw blanket, your voice carrying over your shoulder. “To relax while you make me lunch.”

Jack follows, leaning against the living room doorway, his laugh rich and warm. “Lunch, huh? You drive a hard bargain.” He heads back to the kitchen, the clatter of pans starting up, and you curl into the couch, the baby monitor’s soft hum a reminder of your life, your love, your fight.

The morning’s heat lingers, a promise and a challenge. For now, you close your eyes, the sound of Jack humming in the kitchen a quiet anchor, and let yourself rest, one hand on your bump, the other clutching the blanket, your heart full of him.

—————————————————————

Back to Therapy 

The therapist’s office is a familiar cocoon, its beige walls softened by the faint glow of a floor lamp. The clock ticks steadily, a metronome to your nerves, as you and Jack sit on the plush beige couch, close enough that your knees brush but not quite touching. You’re 21 weeks pregnant, the weight of it a constant reminder of what’s coming. Three months of couples therapy have carved a fragile path forward—fewer fights, better communication, only three letters written—but the no-sex rule has been a relentless test, especially after Saturday morning, when Jack caught you in the bedroom, hand in your pants, moaning his name. You’re braced for him to bring it up, your stomach knotted with anticipation, the memory of his smirk and praise still burning under your skin.

Dr. Ellis sits across from you, her notepad balanced on her knee, her gray hair pulled into a neat bun, her expression calm but probing. She adjusts her glasses, her voice warm but direct. “Let’s start with how things have been going since our last session. You’ve been working hard—how’s the communication holding up?”

You glance at Jack, his posture relaxed but his fingers drumming lightly on his thigh, a telltale sign of restless energy. You take a breath, diving in. “It’s been… really good, actually,” you say, voice steady despite your nerves. “We’ve only needed three letters so far, like we mentioned last time. We’re talking through things before they get bad—no more big fights, not at home, not at work. We’ve been able to catch ourselves, talk about what’s bothering us, even the mistakes we’ve made in the past.”

Jack nods, his hand stilling, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, it’s different now. Like, we’ll start to get heated, but one of us will back off, and we actually talk. I messed up last week—forgot to tell her about a late shift—and instead of blowing up, we just… dealt with it. Felt weirdly adult.”

Dr. Ellis’s eyes crinkle with approval, her pen scratching a note. “That’s significant progress. Three letters in three months shows you’re leaning on communication, not just the writing exercise. And addressing past mistakes—trust issues, the hemorrhage, the parking lot incident—takes real vulnerability. What’s been the hardest part of keeping that open line?”

You hesitate, your mind flicking to Saturday, but you stick to the broader picture. “For me, it’s trusting that he’s really here, emotionally,” you say, glancing at Jack, your voice softening. “After the hemorrhage, I felt so alone, and I’m still scared sometimes. But he’s been showing up—listening, talking. It’s helping.”

Jack shifts, his hand brushing yours briefly, a quiet anchor. “Hardest part for me is not shutting down when she’s upset,” he says, voice low but honest. “I used to just… hide, you know? Work, whatever. Now I’m trying to stay in it, even when it’s messy. Like, I know I fucked up before, and I’m owning it.”

Dr. Ellis nods, her gaze warm but piercing. “That’s the work—staying present, owning the past without letting it define you. You’re both doing it, and that’s why you’re here, not screaming at each other. Now, let’s check in on the no-sex rule. How’s that been going?”

Jack bursts out laughing, a rich, infectious sound that fills the room, his head tilting back against the couch. You shoot him a glare, your cheeks flushing, certain he’s about to spill about Saturday. Dr. Ellis raises a brow, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, didn’t think you two would last long,” she says, her tone teasing but curious. “Let me guess—you broke it almost as soon as I mentioned it?”

You and Jack lock eyes, a silent conversation passing between you—his amusement, your embarrassment, the shared weight of that morning. You brace yourself, but Jack leans forward, his grin mischievous, his voice dripping with playful accusation. “Well, “I” didn’t break any rules,” he says, pointing at you, “but her, on the other hand? You gotta ask her yourself.”

Your jaw drops, and you swat his arm, mortified but fighting a laugh. “I didn’t break any rules!” you protest, voice rising, your face burning. “We haven’t had sex in over three months, Dr. Ellis. Not once.”

Jack leans back, arms crossed, his smirk unrelenting. “Well, you still kinda broke the rules,” he says, his tone teasing but pointed, his eyes glinting with the memory of you under the quilt, moaning his name.

Dr. Ellis tilts her head, her expression neutral but intrigued, sensing the undercurrent. “Last time I checked, it takes two people to have sex,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “So if you didn’t break the rule, Jack, neither did she.”

Jack’s grin widens, and he leans forward, undeterred. “Well, she sure as hell found a way around it,” he says, his voice low, almost conspiratorial, his eyes flicking to you, daring you to respond.

Your cheeks flame, and you cover your face with your hands, a mix of embarrassment and exasperation bubbling up. “Jack, oh my God,” you mutter, peeking through your fingers at Dr. Ellis, who’s now openly amused.

Dr. Ellis sets her notepad down, her smile softening the tension. “Sounds like you found a loophole,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact but warm, looking at you. “Self-pleasure wasn’t off the table—I never said you couldn’t take care of yourselves separately. The rule was about not using sex as a substitute for communication. Finding that loophole shows creativity, and it’s perfectly within bounds.”

Jack’s eyes widen, a mock-offended laugh bursting out. “A loophole? Wish I would’ve known that sooner,” he says, throwing his hands up, his voice laced with humor. “I’ve been over here playing saint, thinking I had to be a monk, while she’s getting creative.”

You roll your eyes, dropping your hands, but a laugh escapes, easing the knot in your chest. Dr. Ellis chuckles, shaking her head. “You’ve both shown remarkable restraint,” she says, her voice warm with pride. “Most couples leave my office and jump right back into physical intimacy, but you’ve rebuilt your relationship from the ground up with words—talking, letters, owning your mistakes. That’s rare, and it’s something to celebrate.”

Jack leans back, his grin softening into something more genuine, but he can’t resist a jab. “So, we can have sex now, is what you’re saying?” he asks, his voice playful but hopeful, his eyes flicking to you.

You groan, your voice a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Jack, really? She says we’re doing great, and that’s all you can think about?”

Dr. Ellis raises a hand, her smile steady but thoughtful. “Let’s address that,” she says, her tone shifting to guidance. “The no-sex rule was about building trust and communication without relying on physicality. You’ve done that—your communication is strong, you’re resolving conflicts, you’re vulnerable with each other. If you both feel stable enough in your relationship, you can resume sex. It’s about what feels right for you, together, without it becoming a crutch again. You’ll need to keep talking, especially with the pregnancy and baby Jack adding pressure.”

Jack’s eyebrows shoot up, a spark of excitement in his eyes, but he keeps his tone light. “Well, now I feel like I need to ask more questions about these rules,” he says, teasing, his hand squeezing yours. “Apparently, I could’ve been doing a whole lot more than I was, loopholes and all.”

You laugh, shaking your head, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “You’re impossible,” you say, but your voice is soft, your heart racing with the possibility Dr. Ellis has just opened, a door you’ve both been circling for months.

Dr. Ellis leans forward, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re at a strong point,” she says. “You’ve built trust, communication, and resilience. I think we can scale back to one session a week, maybe even virtual if it’s easier with the baby and pregnancy. You’re managing a lot—ER shifts, a almost 9 month old, a high-risk pregnancy. Virtual could give you flexibility without losing this progress.”

You nod, relief washing over you, the idea of fewer in-person sessions a small but welcome reprieve. “Yeah, that would be really helpful,” you say, glancing at Jack, who nods, his thumb brushing your knuckles in quiet agreement.

Dr. Ellis sets her notepad aside, her expression warm. “You’re doing the work, both of you. Keep talking, keep writing if you need to, and keep showing up for each other. If you decide to resume physical intimacy, communicate about it—check in, make sure it’s strengthening, not sidestepping, your connection. Let’s schedule one session for next week, and we’ll discuss virtual options.”

You and Jack stand, his hand lingering in yours as you gather your things—a water bottle, your bag, the ultrasound images from last month tucked inside, their edges worn from being handled. The session’s lightness lingers, a contrast to the raw intensity of earlier months, but Saturday’s memory hums between you, now framed by Dr. Ellis’s words—loophole, stability, possibility. 

As you step into the hallway, the late afternoon light slanting through the windows, Jack squeezes your hand, his voice low, teasing but soft. “You owe me a letter about that loophole, you know. And maybe a talk about what ‘stable enough’ looks like.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder, your heart lighter than it’s been in weeks. “Keep dreaming, perv,” you say, but your smile betrays you, a spark of anticipation for the conversations, the moments, the messy, hopeful love you’re rebuilding, one word, one touch, one loophole at a time.

—————————————————————

The Parking Lot 

The therapy office door clicks shut behind you. You’re 21 weeks pregnant, your bump a soft curve under the loose gray fabric, a quiet weight that anchors you as you walk beside Jack toward the elevator. The session’s words—*loophole, stable enough, resume sex*—pulse between you, unspoken but electric, like a current running through the air. Jack’s hand brushes yours, his fingers calloused from ER shifts, and you feel the heat of him, three months of restraint fraying with every step. You’re still reeling from his teasing in the session, the way he called out your Saturday morning “loophole” with that damn smirk, but Dr. Ellis’s permission to move forward, if you’re ready, has shifted something, a door creaking open after being locked tight.

The elevator dings, its doors sliding open, and you step inside, the small space a sudden intimacy after the office’s calm. Jack follows, close enough that his arm grazes yours, and as the doors close, his hand finds your lower back, fingers splaying just above your hips, warm and possessive through your sweater. You glance up, catching him biting his lip, his dark eyes raking over you, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. His gaze is a spark, igniting the ache you’ve been carrying since Saturday, since the on-call room, since the kitchen sink three months ago when you last had sex.

“Jack,” you murmur, voice a warning, but it’s weak, your body leaning into his touch despite yourself.

He steps closer, his breath warm against your temple, his voice low, rough. “What? Just making sure you don’t trip, babygirl.” His fingers press slightly, guiding you as the elevator hums downward, and you feel the heat of his palm, the promise in his tightening grip.

The doors open with a soft chime, and you step into the parking lot, the late afternoon air crisp, carrying the bite of fall and the faint tang of exhaust. The lot is half-empty, concrete stained with oil, the hospital’s brick facade looming behind you. Jack’s hand stays on your lower back, steering you toward your car—a beat-up SUV parked under a flickering streetlamp. His stride is easy, but his energy is coiled, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. You feel it too, the weight of Dr. Ellis’s words, the possibility of crossing a line you’ve been skirting for months.

He reaches the passenger side, pulling the door open with a creak, his free hand still grazing your back. You turn to get in, but before you can, he steps forward, turning you gently but firmly, your back pressing against the car’s cold metal frame. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in through your jeans, and he stands inches away, his body a wall of heat, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The streetlamp casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the hunger in his eyes, the faint stubble you want to feel against your skin.

“So,” he says, voice low, a gravelly drawl that sends a shiver down your spine, “do you think we’re ‘stable enough’ yet?”

You don’t answer, your breath catching, your eyes locked on his, the world narrowing to the space between you—the inches of air, the months of want, the trust you’ve been rebuilding. His grip tightens, one hand sliding to your lower back, pulling you closer, your bump brushing his stomach, a soft barrier and a reminder of what’s at stake.

He leans in, his lips hovering near yours, his voice softer now, raw with need but laced with something deeper. “I’m not a mindreader, babygirl. You gotta talk to me. I need to know you trust me, that you feel safe with me again.”

Your heart stutters, his words cutting through the haze of desire, grounding you in the work you’ve done—letters, talks, therapy. You reach up, your hands finding his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart through his jacket. “There’s no place I feel safer than here in your arms, Jack,” you say, voice quiet but steady, the truth of it settling between you like a vow.

His eyes soften, a flicker of relief, and then he’s kissing you, his lips crashing into yours, urgent and hungry, three months of pent-up desire pouring out. His tongue slips into your mouth, warm and insistent, tasting of coffee and him, and you meet him with equal need, your hands fisting his jacket, pulling him closer. Heavy breaths mingle, your gasps swallowed by his mouth, his teeth grazing your lower lip, a low groan rumbling in his chest. The kiss is messy, desperate, tongues tangling, heat building as you press yourself against him, the car’s metal cold at your back, his body searing at your front.

He pulls back, panting, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot against your lips. “So, you heard what she said, right?” he murmurs, voice rough, and before you can answer, he kisses you again, slower this time, deep and deliberate, his tongue tracing yours, drawing a moan from your throat. He breaks away, eyes dark, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We can have sex again.”

You laugh, breathless, your hands still on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breaths. “You have to be honest with me first,” you say, voice teasing but pointed, your eyes narrowing playfully.

He tilts his head, brow furrowing, but his smirk holds. “Honest about what?”

You lean closer, your lips brushing his jaw, your voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ve been walking around horny every second of every day since the last time we had sex, and now you wanna sit in there and act like you haven’t been doing anything behind closed doors?”

He laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates against you, his hands tightening on your hips. “No idea what you’re talking about, babygirl,” he says, his voice a mock-innocent drawl, and he kisses you again, quick and teasing, his lips lingering just long enough to stoke the fire.

You pull back, smirking, your hand sliding from his chest to his belt, fingers tugging lightly at the leather, the metal buckle cool against your skin. His body twitches, a sharp intake of breath, his eyes darkening as he watches you. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, strained, a warning and a plea.

You tilt your head, mimicking his innocence, your voice a playful echo. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you say, your hand creeping lower, grazing the bulge growing through his jeans, the denim taut under your fingers. He lets out a moan, low and guttural, his hips shifting toward your touch, his hands gripping your hips tighter, like he’s fighting to hold himself back.

“Holy fuck, babygirl,” he groans, his voice breaking, his forehead dropping to yours. “I need you so fucking bad, you have no idea. I could take you right here in this parking lot.”

You laugh, a soft, teasing sound, your hand stilling, fingers brushing the edge of his jeans before pulling back, leaving him trembling. “You wish,” you say, voice light but laced with challenge, stepping out of his grip and sliding into the car, your heart racing, your body thrumming with the game you’ve just played.

He stands there a moment, hands braced on the open door, chest heaving, eyes locked on you, a mix of frustration and amusement in his gaze. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?” he says, but his voice is warm. He shuts the door, circling to the driver’s side, and as he slides in, the tension lingers, your trust, your love.

—————————————————————

The car's engine hums to life as Jack slides into the driver’s seat, his face flushed and his movements a little too deliberate. You catch the way he shifts in his seat, tugging at the front of his jeans to ease the obvious strain against his zipper. A smirk tugs at your lips, and you can’t help yourself.

“Trouble there, big guy?” you tease, leaning back in the passenger seat with a playful glint in your eye. “Looks like you’re about to bust a seam.”

Jack shoots you a look, half-embarrassed, half-cocky, his lips twitching into a grin. “Keep laughin’, babygirl. You’re the one who got me in this state and you’re the one that’s gonna have to pay for it.” He adjusts himself one more time, muttering under his breath, then grips the steering wheel. “Alright, you need to tell me what we’re doin’ here. Because either we go to Robby and Collins’ to pick up our son, or you let me take you home and remind you just how much you’ve missed me.”

His voice is low, gravelly, and the heat in his gaze sends a shiver down your spine. You bite your lip, pretending to mull it over, but you already know the answer. “Take me home,” you say, your voice soft but decisive.

Jack’s eyes darken, but before he can say anything, you pull out your phone and dial Collins. As it rings, you steal a glance at Jack, who’s watching you like a hawk, one hand still gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Collins picks up, her voice warm and cheerful. “Hey! Everything okay?”

“Hey, yeah, everything’s great,” you say, trying to sound casual despite the way Jack’s staring at you. “I was just wondering if you and Robby would be okay watching Jack Jr. for the night? We, uh, might need a little extra time.”

In the background, you hear Robby’s voice, loud and playful, mixed with the giggles of kids. “Tell ‘em to take their time!” he hollers, clearly wrestling with the kids or tickling them into a frenzy. “Y’all can repay us with breakfast in the mornin’. Pancakes. Bacon. The works!”

Collins laughs. “You heard him. We’ve got JJ covered. You two have fun.”

“Thanks, Collins,” you say, grinning. “We owe you big time.”

As soon as you hang up, Jack’s hand lands on your thigh, firm and warm, his fingers squeezing just enough to make your breath catch. He glances over at you, his eyes smoldering. “Don’t think we’ll be gettin’ much sleep before that breakfast,” he says, his voice a low promise that sends heat pooling in your core.

You lean closer, resting your hand over his, guiding it a little higher up your thigh. “Oh, I’m counting on it,” you murmur, and the way his grip tightens tells you he’s already planning exactly how he’s going to make good on that promise.

—————————————————————

The car’s engine cuts off with a soft click, and before you can even reach for the handle, Jack’s already out, jogging around to your side. He yanks the door open, his eyes raking over you, dark and hungry, taking in every curve accentuated by the tight hoodie and sweatpants. “Let’s go, babygirl,” he says, voice rough with want. “I’ve been waitin’ too long for this.”

You grab his outstretched hand, feeling the calluses against your palm as you climb out of the car, your heart pounding. “You’re not the only one that’s been waiting,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing as you step closer, your body brushing against his. “Take me to bed.”

Jack’s grip tightens, and he leads you toward the house, his pace deliberate but laced with urgency. The front door barely clicks shut behind you before he’s on you, spinning you around and pressing you against the wall. His lips crash into yours, hot and demanding, mouths moving in perfect sync. His tongue sweeps against yours, teasing, exploring, a hungry edge to every movement as you melt into him, your hands in his jacket.

You tear into each other, frantic and desperate. Jack’s hands find the hem of your hoodie, yanking it up and over your head in one swift motion, taking your t-shirt with it. The cool air hits your skin, leaving you in just your bra, your 21-week baby bump softly rounded and exposed. His eyes flick down, a flicker of awe mixing with the heat in his gaze before he’s back on you, kissing you deeper.

Your fingers work fast, shoving his jacket off his broad shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Jack pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest, and you fumble with his belt, the metal clinking as you tug it free. Shoes go flying—yours skitter across the hardwood, his land somewhere near the couch—as you both stumble further into the house, a tangle of limbs and heat. Jack’s hands slide down your sides, hooking into your sweatpants and dragging them down your hips, leaving you in just your underwear.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, both of you standing there, stripped down to your underwear, chests heaving. His eyes are locked on you, dark and intense, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a touch. “Are you gonna take me to bed, Jack?” you ask, your voice a sultry challenge as you tilt your head, lips parted.

He smirks, biting his lip as he steps closer, crowding your space. His hands settle on your hips, fingers brushing the edge of your panties, sending a shiver through you. “Oh, babygirl,” he says, voice low and dripping with promise, “you have no idea what I’m about to do to you.”

—————————————————————

Jack’s hand stays firm in yours as he leads you up the stairs, his grip tight with anticipation. He pushes you through the bedroom door first, and you stumble slightly, landing on the soft mattress with a soft thud. You scoot back, propping yourself on your elbows, your eyes locked on his, daring him to come closer. He doesn’t hesitate, crawling onto the bed with a predatory glint in his eyes, using his knees to spread your legs wide. 

“Fuck, babygirl,” he growls, positioning himself over you, his broad frame casting a shadow. “You’re mine tonight.”

He starts at your neck, lips hot and relentless, kissing and sucking hard enough to leave dark hickies blooming across your skin, marking you like you’re teenagers sneaking around. You moan loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet house, and he chuckles against your throat. “That’s it, let the neighbors hear you, baby. Let ‘em know how much you want this.” 

His hands slide under your back, deftly unhooking your bra and tossing it aside, exposing your breasts. His mouth descends, sucking one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling, while his hand massages the other, kneading with just the right pressure. His free hand braces himself above you, muscles flexing as he holds steady.

“Goddamn, you’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust as he trails wet kisses down your pregnant belly, his lips soft against the curve of your 21-week bump. He kisses down one thigh, nipping at the sensitive skin, then back up the other, teasingly slow. When he reaches the apex, he pauses, eyes darkening as he stares at your panties. “Fuck, babygirl, you’re dripping through these already. Just for me, huh?” His voice is a low rumble, and he presses a kiss right over the soaked fabric, making you gasp.

He crawls back up, capturing your lips again, his tongue plunging into your mouth, hot and desperate. You moan into the kiss, loud and unrestrained, your hands clawing at his back. His fingers trace your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, before slipping under the band of your panties. He groans against your lips as his fingers find your slick heat, rubbing small, torturous circles over your clit. “So fucking wet for me,” he says, pulling back to watch your face. “You want Daddy’s fingers, don’t you, good girl?”

“Yes, Daddy, please,” you whimper, hips bucking against his hand. He smirks, pushing one finger inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. Your head falls back, a loud moan tearing from your throat as he works you, the neighbors probably cursing your names by now. “More, please, Daddy,” you beg, voice shaking.

“Greedy little thing,” he teases, adding two more fingers, stretching you, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. “Look at you, takin’ my fingers so well. Cum on ‘em, baby. Come on, I know my good girl can do it.” 

His voice is a filthy promise, and you’re screaming now, body trembling as the pleasure builds to a breaking point. Your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clenching around his fingers, and you cry out his name, loud enough to wake the whole damn block.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. “Fuck, you taste so good.” He slides down, yanking your soaked panties off and tossing them onto the chair across the room—the same chair where he once watched you touch yourself, smirking at the memory. 

“Lemme clean up the mess I made,” he says, voice dripping with hunger. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as his tongue dives into your pussy, swirling around your clit with devastating precision. He knows exactly what you like, alternating between soft flicks and hard sucks, and you’re moaning so loudly it’s a wonder the windows aren’t rattling. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling hard as your second orgasm builds fast. 

“Cum for daddy again, babygirl,” he growls against you. You shatter, screaming his name as your legs shake uncontrollably, your release flooding his mouth. 

He laps it up, groaning like he’s savoring every drop. When he pulls back, his lips glisten, and he grins. “You need a minute, baby?” he asks, voice teasing but gentle, his hands still stroking your trembling thighs.

“Fuck no,” you pant, pushing him onto his back with a sudden burst of energy. He laughs, low and rough, as you crawl between his legs, kissing his neck, sucking hard to leave hickies of your own. 

“My turn, Daddy,” you whisper, trailing kisses down his chest, his abs, your hands rubbing him through his briefs. He’s rock-hard, straining against the fabric, and he lifts his hips, letting you tug the briefs down. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, already dripping precum onto his stomach.

You spit on him, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking up and down with a firm grip. “Fuck, babygirl, just like that,” he groans, head falling back as you work him. 

You lean down, taking him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the tip before you slide down, taking him deep. His hands gather your hair, guiding you gently but firmly as you bob, sucking him hard, moaning around his cock. 

“Goddamn, you’re so fuckin’ good at this,” he pants, hips twitching. “My good girl, takin’ Daddy’s cock like that.” You hum, the vibration making him curse, and soon he’s tensing, groaning your name as he cums hard in your mouth. You pull back, opening your mouth to show him before swallowing every drop.

“Good girl,” he says, voice hoarse, eyes blazing with pride. You grin, wiping your lips. “What, you need a minute, Daddy?” you tease, mimicking his earlier question.

He laughs, dark and hungry. “I’ve had months to wait for this, babygirl. I ain’t waitin’ no more.” In one swift move, he flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. “You won’t be walkin’ by the time I’m done with you,” he growls, positioning himself at your entrance. He teases you, sliding just the tip in, making you whine and arch against him. “You want it, don’t you? Beg for Daddy’s cock, good girl.”

“Please, Daddy, fuck me,” you moan, voice desperate. “I need you inside me.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, and with one hard thrust, he fills you completely, stretching you until you’re gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. 

He pauses for a moment, letting you adjust, then starts thrusting, deep and relentless, hitting that perfect spot every time. “Fuck, you feel so good, babygirl,” he groans, his pace brutal and perfect. “So tight, so fuckin’ wet for me. Scream for Daddy, let ‘em all hear you.”

You do, screaming his name as the pleasure builds, your body shaking beneath him. The headboard slams against the wall, the bed creaking, and you’re both lost in it, moaning and cursing, bodies slick with sweat. 

“Cum with me, baby,” he pants, his thrusts growing erratic. “Let daddy feel you cum.” You both hit your peak together, your orgasm ripping through you as he spills inside, both of you trembling, gasping, bodies shaking from the sweet release.

He collapses beside you, both of you panting, tangled in each other’s arms. “Fuck, that was worth the wait,” he says, voice rough but warm, pulling you close. You laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah, but you’re gettin’ a vasectomy, Jack. No more surprises.”

He chuckles, kissing your forehead. “Deal, babygirl.”

You fall asleep wrapped in each other, bodies pressed close, completely spent. The next morning, you wake in a panic—no alarm, just sunlight streaming through the curtains. You glance at the clock: 9:47 a.m. “Shit, Jack, wake up!” you say, shaking him. “It’s almost ten!”

He jolts upright, rubbing his eyes. “Oh, shit, breakfast!” You both scramble out of bed, rushing to freshen up and throw on clothes. 

As you head downstairs, ready to bolt out the door to pick up breakfast and head to Robby and Collins’, Jack stops, staring at your neck. “Fuck, baby, you’ve got hickies everywhere.”

You laugh, pointing at his own neck, marked up just as bad. “Look who’s talking, daddy. You’re not exactly spotless.”

He grins, shaking his head. “Well, guess this better be some damn good breakfast so they don’t make fun of us as much.” You both laugh, heading out the door, still buzzing from the night before, ready to face the day—and the teasing—with a smile.

—————————————————————

Never actually thought I’d write 7 chapter to this but here we are anyway. Let me know if you guys would want more or have any ideas for a different type of story! I got some more sitting in my notes that I’ll be posting sometime soon too! Enjoy !

[leo-in-the-pitt]

Me reading smut at 3am 🤭

[leo-in-the-pitt]

this one look ruined a generation of girls (me)

[leo-in-the-pitt]

Rabbot + touch

[leo-in-the-pitt]

trouble's my middle name

Summary: Dr. Robby has been your mentor all intern year. But with second year comes a deepened connection, charged with possibility but restrained by professional boundaries.

Warnings: Just some flirty fluff

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader

WordCount: 650

The ER at PTMC is a warzone tonight. Monitors scream, gurneys crash, and the air hums with urgency. You’re just starting your second year, three weeks into the grind, and already drowning in the chaos of a day shift. A trauma case—a construction worker with a punctured lung—has you sprinting to keep up. Dr. Michael Robby, the attending with a reputation for being brilliant and brutal, is barking orders.

“Get me a chest tube, now!” Robby’s voice slices through the noise, his blue eyes locking onto you. You nod, grabbing the kit, your hands steady despite the adrenaline. You’re at his side in seconds, prepping the patient while Robby’s gloved hands move with surgical precision.

“Faster next time,” he mutters, but there’s a glint in his eye that wasn’t there last year. You catch it, and your lips twitch despite the chaos.

“Yes, Dr. Robinavitch,” you reply, a hint of sass in your tone. He glances up, eyebrow raised, and you swear there’s a flicker of amusement before he refocuses.

The patient stabilizes, but the shift doesn’t let up. By 2 a.m., you’re bone-tired, scrubbing your hands raw in the break room sink. The door swings open, and Robby steps in, his scrubs rumpled, sweater thrown over, dark hair a mess. He grabs a coffee pod, popping it into the machine, and leans against the counter, watching you.

“You’re still standing,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. “Most would’ve cracked by now.”

You dry your hands, meeting his gaze. “Guess I’m not like most.”

He chuckles, a rare sound that sends a spark down your spine. “Careful, hotshot. Confidence gets you in trouble here.” His tone is light, but his eyes linger, sharp and curious.

“Trouble’s my middle name,” you quip, leaning against the sink, close enough to feel the heat of his presence. The air shifts, charged with something unspoken. Robby’s lips curve, not quite a smile, but close.

“Prove it,” he says, stepping just a fraction closer, his voice dropping. “Next trauma, you take lead. Don’t screw it up.”

You tilt your head, matching his intensity. “Only if you’re there to catch me when I don’t.”

His eyes narrow, playful but guarded, like he’s sizing you up. “Deal.”

The next shift tests you. A teenage overdose case hits the trauma bay, and Robby nods for you to take point. Your heart pounds, but you call the shots—naloxone, IV fluids, vitals. Robby watches, silent, his presence steadying you. When the patient’s pulse stabilizes, he nods, a quiet approval that feels like a victory.

Afterward, you’re outside the ER, stealing a moment of peace in the ambulance bay. The Pittsburgh night is cold, the city lights flickering in the distance. Robby finds you, his breath fogging as he sits on the bench beside you. No scrubs now—just a worn jacket and that intense stare.

“Not bad in there,” he says, voice softer than usual. “You’ve got guts.”

You smirk, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Learned from the best. Or so they say at least.”

He laughs, a low, warm sound. “Flattery’s dangerous, you know.” His arm brushes yours, lingering a beat too long. Your pulse quickens, but you keep it cool.

“Danger’s my specialty,” you say, turning to face him. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the ER’s chaos fades. It’s just you and Robby, the air crackling with possibility.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he murmurs, his voice a mix of warning and invitation. He leans closer, just enough to make your breath catch, but pulls back before it crosses a line.

“Who says I won’t finish?” you counter, holding his gaze. His smile is slow, almost predatory, but there’s warmth there, buried deep.

“Careful, rookie,” he says, standing. “I might hold you to that.” He walks back inside, leaving you in the cold, your heart racing with the promise of more.

————————————————————————

First little Dr. Robby fic! Let me know what ya'll think orrrr if anyone would want something a little more to follow this one!! :)

[leo-in-the-pitt]

in two years Pedro Pascal said:

"I felt more confident with the whip I enjoyed more"

"I'm into a submission"

"I’m into… I’m a pleaser"

[leo-in-the-pitt]

what if all I need is a big miller daddy who yells at me, manhandles me, spanks me, sits me on his lap, then brushes my hair and then fucks me with anger at first but softens when he realizes i'm taking him good, then comes to my ear to whimper and to tell me how much of a good girl i'm being for him, what if that's all i need.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

[leo-in-the-pitt]

New To Town - Joel Miller

New To Town 

Summary: You just moved to town, hopeful to make some new friends. and what better place to do that then the gym.

Warnings: Beginning is fluff, age gap (Reader is 28, Joel is 48), strong language, lots of dirty talk, P in V, protected sex, fingering, praise kink

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Word Count: 8.3ish k

You were new to town. Finally saved up enough money to move out of your parent’s house and into a place of your own. It wasn’t much — a thrid-floor walk-up with creaky floors and water stains on the ceiling — but it was yours. 

For the first time, the silence in the room was something you owned.

The town itself felt like a half-finished sentence. Quiet streets, friendly enough faces, and the kind of coffee shop where no one asked too many questions. You liked that. You weren’t running from anything or to anything. Just looking for space to figure out who you were when no one was watching.

After a week of living off takeout and staring at blank walls, you decided it was time to get out. Do something. Feel human again. So you joined a gym a couple of miles down the road from you. A place with foggy windows and the constant clank of weights hitting the floor.

It wasn’t fancy. The mats were worn, the lockers dented, but the energy inside was electric. No one knew you. No one cared why you were there. And that gave you room to breathe.

You stuck to the basics: treadmill, a few machines, stretches in the corner. In between sets, you scanned the room — not obviously, just curious. Who here was around your age? Who looked like someone you might talk to?

There were groups — a few guys spotting each other at the bench press, a pair of girls laughing by the squat rack, earbuds dangling. Nobody looked your way, but that was fine. You weren’t ready to start anything. But you would need to meet people in this town eventually.

———————————————————— 

Two days later, you went back.

Same gym, same time, same low-humming music vibrating through the floors. You figured consistency might help — not just with workouts, but with feeling like you belonged. Like this was your place, too.

You warmed up on the treadmill again, eyes flicking over the usual crowd. Some familiar faces — the guy who grunted too loud during deadlifts, the couple who always worked out in matching gear.

You were stretching near the mirrors when it happened.

Across the gym, by the free weights, a man looked up. He was older — definitely older. Late 40s, maybe 50s. Strong build, sharp features, the kind of face you couldn’t immediately read. Serious.

Your eyes met.

Just for a second — maybe two. Long enough to register it wasn’t accidental. Not the kind of glance people throw when they’re scanning the room. This was deliberate. Curious. Measured.

You looked away first.

Heart ticking a little faster, for no good reason. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just went back to his set like nothing had happened.

But you felt it. That pause in time. That split-second flicker of being seen. You weren’t sure what to make of it. Maybe it meant nothing.

Still, for the rest of your workout, you couldn’t help but glance back — just once or twice — to see if he looked again.

He didn’t.

But somehow, that made it more interesting.

————————————————————

A week later, things started to shift.

You’d come to the gym enough times now that people had started to recognize you — nods from the front desk, the occasional “done with that machine?” from someone mid-set. It felt less lonely.

That’s when you met her. Her name was Marlene. Late twenties like you, high ponytail, sarcastic smile, arms toned from months of dedication. You were both doing dumbbell rows when she cracked a joke about how the gym always played the same five songs on a loop. You laughed, and that was that — workout buddies by silent agreement.

That day, you were doing a light circuit together, joking between sets, when your eyes drifted again. Across the gym, at the bench press, there he was. Same guy. 

Same quiet intensity. Older, broad-shouldered, focused.

And once again, just for a moment, his gaze met yours.

You looked away fast, pretending to adjust your grip on a dumbbell. But Marlene caught it.

"Ahhh," she said, dragging out the sound like she’d just discovered a secret. “That’s who you keep looking at.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just gave a half-smile like, What? No I don’t.

She grinned. “That’s Joel Miller.”

You blinked. “You know him?”

She shrugged, wiping sweat from her brow. “Kind of. Everyone here knows of him. He’s been coming for awhile. Doesn’t talk much. Keeps to himself. But…” she tilted her head, smirking, “people notice.”

You glanced over again. He wasn’t looking this time. Just racking his weights with practiced ease, face unreadable.

Marlene nudged you with her elbow. “I mean, yeah, he’s older. But something about him, right?”

You didn’t answer. Because yeah. Something about him. You weren’t sure what it meant yet — or if it meant anything at all.

But now he had a name.

“So,” you said casually, like it wasn’t the only thing on your mind, “what else do you know about him?”

Marlene looked over, smirking like she’d been waiting for you to ask. “Well, what do you want to know?”

You tried to keep your voice neutral. “He’s married?”

“Nope, single. Has been for a while apparently.”

You nodded slowly, then frowned. “But he’s like, older, right? Late forties?”

“Early fifties maybe,” she said. “But yeah. Definitely older than us. That a dealbreaker?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Nope, just curious.”

Marlene stretched her arms behind her head, letting out a breath. “He has a daughter. Sarah. She’s a teenager — maybe fifteen, sixteen now? He’s always been super protective of her. I think that’s why he keeps to himself. Doesn’t really date much, at least not around here.”

You pictured him — not just as the intense, silent figure at the gym, but as someone who went home to a daughter. Made dinner. Probably worried constantly. Maybe carried a few more burdens than he let on.

“Pretty sure it’s just the two of them. I don’t know the full story, but her mom’s not in the picture.” Marlene’s voice softened. “People say he raised her on his own. Took a break from work for a long time to do it.”

You nodded again, quiet.

“So yeah,” Marlene said, stretching out on the grass. “He’s a little older. Kinda broody. But solid. People like him. Respect him. Just don’t expect him to be chatty. Or open.”

You let that sink in.

Joel Miller.

Not just a guy with a good build and quiet eyes. A father. A man with history. A life already half-written.

And for some reason that made you want to know him more.

———————————————————— 

It was just another day at the gym. You and Marlene finished your set later than usual, sweaty and sore in the best way. You were both laughing about some guy in the corner who insisted on curling in the squat rack like it was a personal stage.

You were almost to the parking lot when you froze.

“Shit,” you muttered.

Marlene raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“My water bottle. Left it by the pull-up bar.”

She groaned theatrically, already unlocking her car. “I’m starving. You good to get it?”

“Yeah, I’ll meet you later.”

She waved and drove off, music already blasting as she pulled away.

You turned back toward the gym, pushing open the door with your elbow. Just as it swung wide, he was there—Joel.

He was leaving, towel slung over his shoulder, baseball cap low over his brow. You nearly collided. He stepped aside just in time.

You looked up, surprised, and your eyes met again. That same look. Heavy with something you couldn’t name.

You opened your mouth to say hi, but nothing came out.

He didn’t say anything either. Just nodded—barely—and kept walking.

Your heart beat faster as you grabbed your bottle and jogged back out, half-scolding yourself. Say something next time, coward.

Then you got to your car. Turned the key. Nothing. Tried again. Click. A groan from the engine, but it didn’t turn over. You checked the dash — no lights. No sound. Dead.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and smacked the steering wheel gently with the heel of your hand. Of course.

Then a shadow passed in front of your windshield.

You looked up. Joel.

He was a few feet away, hand on his truck door, watching you with that same unreadable expression. After a beat, he walked over, slow and measured, as if giving you time to bolt if you didn’t want him there.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low and rough — like gravel under tires.

You blinked. “Uh. Car won’t start.”

He nodded once, looking down at your hood like he could diagnose it just by proximity.

“Pop it,” he said.

You did.

And just like that, he stepped into your orbit — sleeves pushed up, hands steady, eyes focused. Close enough now to smell his cologne — faint, woodsy, clean.

“Battery’s dead,” he said after a moment, standing upright. “You got cables?”

You shook your head, embarrassed. “No. I- I just moved here. Haven’t really stocked up on that kind of thing yet.”

He gave a tiny grunt that might’ve been a laugh. “Figures.”

Then he jerked his chin toward his truck.

“I got some.”

Joel’s truck was parked two spots down — a battered old Chevy that looked like it had seen more miles than most people. He pulled open the back and dug around for a moment before coming up with jumper cables, coiled and worn but reliable.

You stepped aside as he connected the cables with easy confidence. No wasted motion. No small talk. Just a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

You hovered near the front bumper, not sure if you should say something. His presence was heavy in the air — not in a bad way, just solid. Grounding. You found yourself watching his hands more than you meant to. Veins.

After a few moments, he stepped back. “Alright. Try it now.”

You slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine came to life with a grateful hum.

You exhaled. “Thank God.”

Joel came around, closed your hood gently — like he didn’t want to startle it — and returned the cables to his truck.

You got out, unsure if you should offer a handshake, a thank-you, a full conversation. Instead, you just stood there for a second, then said, “You always rescue stranded strangers in parking lots?”

He glanced at you, lips twitching just slightly — maybe the beginning of a smile, maybe not. “Only the ones who stare at me across the gym.”

Your stomach did a weird little flip.

You looked away, caught off guard. “That obvious, huh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned against the side of his truck, arms folded across his chest. “You’re new here.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Moved here a couple weeks ago.”

“Marlene said your name was…” He let it trail, waiting.

You told him.

He nodded. “Joel.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I know.”

For a second, the silence between you felt like something alive — not awkward, but waiting. Like a held breath.

“I, uh… I appreciate the help,” you said, stepping back toward your car..“Seriously.”

He nodded again, eyes steady. “Keep cables in your trunk next time.”

“I will. Promise.”

You paused, half-turning to leave, then glanced back. “See you around?”

He didn’t smile. Not really. But his voice was softer when he said, “Yeah. You will.”

———————————————————— 

You found yourself watching for him more, scanning the gym for that protective glance, the rare smile. It made your curiosity grow, but also something deeper.

One evening, a few days later, you showed up at the gym just as it was closing. The usual crowd had thinned, leaving the space quiet except for the soft thud of a punching bag someone was still using.

You were about to leave when you noticed Joel packing up his gear near the lockers. This time, he didn’t have his usual air of distance. He looked tired.

On impulse, you walked over. “Hey,” you said softly.

He looked up, surprised, then nodded. “Hey.”

You hesitated, then asked, “How’s Sarah doing?”

He paused, eyes darkening for a moment before a small smile tugged at his lips. “She’s good. Typical teenager — smart, stubborn, keeps me on my toes. Wait, how do you know her name?”

You laughed, and the tension between you eased a little. “Oh uh, Marlene told me. Must be hard, raising a teenager on your own.”

He shrugged, looking away for a second. “Hm so you’ve been asking around about me?” He smirked, “ but yeah, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But also the most important.”

You nodded, suddenly feeling like you understood a little more about the man behind the quiet.

“Thanks for asking,” he said quietly.

For the first time, the space between you felt less like a wall and more like a bridge.

————————————————————

The gym was quiet now, only a handful of people left. You grabbed your bag, towel still damp from your workout, and headed for the exit

Just as you pushed the door open, Joel came out from the other side, pulling his sweater shirt on. He paused when he saw you.

“Heading out?” he asked, voice low, calm.

“Yeah,” you said, surprised by how natural it felt to say.

He nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Same here. Thought I’d try to get some rest early tonight.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” you said, adjusting your bag strap. “Been a long week.”

He glanced over. “Work, or…life?”

“A bit of both,” you admitted. “New city, new routine. It’s a lot to take in.”

Joel nodded knowingly. “I get that. Sometimes it feels like you’re carrying a weight no one else can see.”

“Exactly,” you said. “It’s like everyone expects you to have it all figured out already.”

He smiled slightly, a little sad. “Most of us don’t if that makes you feel any better.”

You fell into step together on the sidewalk, the cool evening air wrapping around you. The parking lot was nearly empty, the few cars scattered and familiar. Your car was just two spots away from his truck.

For a few moments, you walked side by side in comfortable silence — the kind that didn’t need filling.

Finally, he glanced over. “So, Sarah’s got that away soccer game this weekend. I’ll be alone all weekend.” 

“Oh,” you said. “Some time for yourself is always a good thing.”

He smiled, a little more open than before. “Yeah. It’s important.”

You glanced at him, curiosity nudging at the edge of your thoughts. “Must be tough, balancing all that though.”

He nodded. “It is. But somehow, it’s worth it. You learn a lot about yourself.”

You smiled. “Sounds like she’s lucky to have you.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “Means a lot to hear that.”

After a pause, he cleared his throat. “Hey — I don’t usually do this, but would you maybe want to grab a drink or dinner later? Just unwind a little?”

Your heart skipped.

“Yeah,” you said before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, holding it out. “Here—put your number in. I’ll pick you up around eight?”

You smiled, taking the phone carefully, thumb hovering over the keypad.

“Sounds perfect,” you said, typing in your number.

He glanced at the screen, nodded once.

You both reached your cars. He paused at his truck, looking back at you.

“See you tonight.”

“See you,” you said, your smile lingering as you turned toward your car.

The night suddenly felt full of possibility.

———————————————————— 

The knock at your door was soft but firm. You checked the clock — right on time. Heart fluttering, you smoothed your hair and opened the door.

There he was — Joel, casual in a leather jacket and jeans, holding a small single rose.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Thought you might like this.”

You smiled, surprised and touched. “It's beautiful. Thank you.”

He stepped back, giving you space. “Ready to go?”

You grabbed your bag and locked the door behind you. The evening air was cool, fresh — a perfect contrast to the buzz inside your apartment.

Joel led the way to his truck, opening the door for you with a polite nod.

As you settled in, the truck’s engine rumbled softly. For a moment, neither of you said anything — just the comfortable silence of two people beginning to discover each other.

“So,” he said finally, “what’s your favorite kind of music? I’m terrible at guessing.”

You laughed. “Honestly? A little bit of everything. Depends on my mood.”

“Good answer,” he said with a grin. “I’m more of a classic rock guy myself.”

You smiled, feeling the tension ease.

“Alright,” he said, pulling out of the parking lot, “let’s see what this night has in store.”

———————————————————— 

Joel eased his truck onto the quiet streets, the city lights flickering past like tiny stars. Inside, the soft hum of the engine mixed with the low background music playing from the radio—classic rock, just like he said.

You watched the glow from the street lamps dance across his face—lines that told stories, eyes steady and calm. It felt good to be here, riding with someone who didn’t rush the silence.

“So,” he said after a while, glancing over with a curious smile, “tell me something about you that Marlene didn’t mention.”

You laughed softly. “Like what? I’m pretty normal.”

“Come on. Everyone’s got a story.”

You thought for a moment, then smiled. “Alright. I moved here about a month ago. Wanted a fresh start, you know? New city, new job, new everything.”

He nodded, “I get that. Sometimes you need to shake things up.”

There was a comfortable pause before he asked, his voice casual but with a hint of genuine curiosity, “How old are you, by the way?”

You blinked, not expecting the question but not surprised either. “I’m twenty-eight.” you said, watching the road light flicker in your side mirror.

Joel nodded slowly. “Forty-eight,” he said quietly, with a small smile — not a boast, but a statement of fact.

You bit your lip, feeling the weight of the number hang between you for a moment. “Does that bother you? I mean, the age difference?”

He shook his head, eyes warm and sincere. “No. Age is just a number. What matters is who you are — what you bring to the table. The connection we have right now? That’s real.”

You felt a rush of relief mixed with something hopeful. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

He glanced your way, voice softening. “Me too. There’s something about you — something that makes me want to see where this goes.”

You smiled, heart a little lighter. “Same here.”

The truck rolled on, the night stretching out in front of you — full of possibilities neither of you quite knew yet.

The truck slowed as Joel turned into the restaurant’s parking lot, the headlights cutting through the growing darkness. The engine’s steady hum filled the small space between you — the quiet before something electric.

Your heart was pounding, every nerve alive with anticipation. You could feel it in the way the air seemed thicker, warmer.

Joel glanced over at you, eyes locking with yours — dark, intense, curious.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. “Yeah,” you said, voice barely above breath.

He shifted in his seat, leaning just a little closer, closer than before. The scent of his cologne mixed with the faint leather smell of the truck’s interior.

His arm rested lightly on the center console, just inches from yours, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight,” he said, his tone deeper now, more intimate.

Your breath hitched. “Me too.”

The tension between you thickened, charged like electricity waiting to spark. You felt the warmth radiating from him, the subtle shift in the space shrinking the distance.

Joel’s gaze flickered down at your body, then back up, a slow, deliberate smile curling on his lips. Just then, he slowly leaned even closer — close enough that you could feel his breath, warm and inviting.

But before anything more could happen, he pulled back slightly, voice husky. “We should probably get inside.”

You nodded, heart racing, your fingers tingling where they almost touched.

As you both climbed out, the cool night air wrapped around you like a contrast to the fire sparking between you.

————————————————————

The booth felt like its own little world, separated from the rest of the restaurant by soft shadows and flickering candlelight. You sat side by side, the bench wrapping around you both, giving a sense of closeness that was both comforting and electric.

The dinner had been easy — laughter over shared stories, light teasing, moments where your eyes met and held just a little longer than necessary. Now, the plates of dessert sat before you — something rich and sweet you hadn’t even noticed arriving until the warmth in Joel’s presence drew your attention away from the food.

You reached out to take a bite, and as your hand moved, you suddenly felt it — his hand, warm and steady, sliding onto your bare thigh beneath the table.

A spark shot through you, sudden and undeniable. Your breath hitched slightly, heart skipping a beat.

Joel’s fingers moved slowly, deliberately tracing gentle circles on your skin, the touch both grounding and thrilling at the same time. His hand was careful, respectful, but the intent was clear — a quiet invitation, an unspoken promise.

Your eyes flicked to his, catching the steady, warm gaze that didn’t rush, didn’t demand — just held.

You found yourself leaning in just a little, drawn to the warmth and the quiet intensity of the moment. The restaurant noise seemed to fade away, the soft music and murmured conversations turning into a distant hum behind the steady rhythm of your pulse.

He smiled, just a small curve of his lips, knowing but gentle, and you responded with a smile of your own — shy, a little breathless.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The connection between you — electric and tender — filled the space beneath the table, unspoken but undeniable.

His hand stayed there, fingers brushing lightly, slow and deliberate, while above the table your eyes locked in a conversation that words couldn’t touch. It was a delicate balance — charged with possibility, wrapped in quiet understanding.

And in that moment, everything felt suspended — the beginning of something new, something real.

————————————————————

Joel’s fingers continued their slow, steady circles on your thigh beneath the table, the warmth spreading through you like a quiet flame

He leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady, just above a whisper. “If you’re not quite ready for the night to end, maybe you want to come back to my place?”

Your breath caught — the invitation hanging in the air between you, both thrilling and a little nerve-wracking. You hesitated for just a heartbeat, then nodded, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness.

Joel’s hand didn’t move; instead, his touch grew a fraction more confident, grounding you in the moment.

“Good,” he said softly. “I want tonight to be about you — no pressure, just whatever feels right to you."

You smiled, the tension between you shifting — becoming something warmer, more tender.

The rest of the restaurant faded away as you both leaned into the quiet understanding building between you.

————————————————————

The night air hit you as you stepped out of the restaurant, cool and crisp against your skin. Joel was close behind, his presence steady and reassuring.

He reached for the car door handle and opened it for you with a small, polite smile. You paused for a heartbeat, your eyes locking with his in the soft glow of the streetlights.

Without thinking twice, you stepped forward and pulled him gently toward you.

Your lips met his in a kiss — slow at first, searching and warm. Joel’s hand came up to cup your cheek, fingers threading through your hair as the kiss deepened.

The world around you — the city, the passing cars, the distant sounds — all fell away until there was only this moment, this connection, this spark.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, he smiled again, his eyes shining.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, heart racing.

“Then let’s go.”

————————————————————

The drive to Joel’s place was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that begged to be filled. It was charged, heavy with anticipation, the kind that made every glance feel like a conversation. His hand rested on the gearshift, close enough to brush against your knee when he shifted, and each time, it sent a small jolt through you. You caught him stealing a look at you once, his eyes catching the streetlight’s glow, and you smiled, looking out the window to hide the heat creeping up your cheeks.

His house was on the edge of town, a modest two-story with a neatly kept lawn and a porch that looked like it had seen a few late-night conversations. The truck rolled to a stop in the driveway, and Joel cut the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the moment.

He turned to you, his expression soft but searching. “You sure about this?”

The question wasn’t just about coming inside—it was about everything. The spark, the connection, the leap you were both taking. You nodded, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “Yeah. I’m sure.

He gave a small nod, like he was sealing something, and got out, coming around to open your door again. You stepped out, the cool night air brushing your skin, and followed him up the porch steps.

Inside, the house was warm, lived-in. A couch with a throw blanket slung over it, a few framed photos on the mantle—Sarah, younger, grinning at a soccer game; another of her and Joel at what looked like a school event. The space felt like him—solid, unpretentious, with a quiet strength that made you feel safe.

“Want a drink?” he asked, tossing his keys onto a small table by the door.

“Sure,” you said, slipping off your shoes. “Whatever you’re having.”

He moved to the kitchen, and you followed, leaning against the counter as he pulled two beers from the fridge. The pop of the caps was the only sound for a moment, and he handed you one, his fingers brushing yours. That touch again—deliberate, electric.

You both settled on the couch, close but not crowded, the beers sweating small rings onto the coffee table. The conversation started easy—small talk about the town, a funny story about Sarah sneaking out to a concert once and Joel catching her before she got too far. His voice softened when he talked about her, and you saw that protective streak again, the one that made him more than just the guy from the gym.

But as the minutes ticked by, the air shifted. The spaces between words grew longer, heavier. You set your beer down, and he did the same, his eyes finding yours. There was no rush, no pressure—just a pull, like gravity, drawing you closer.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “When I first saw you at the gym, I thought… I don’t know. Someone just passing through, maybe. But you’re more than that.”

You tilted your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “What am I, then?”

He leaned in just a fraction, his gaze steady. “Someone who makes me wanna stick around and find out.”

Your heart did a slow flip, and before you could overthink it, you closed the gap, your lips finding his again. This kiss was different than anything you'd felt before—deeper, hungrier, like you’d both been waiting for this moment since the parking lot at the gym. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair, and you melted into him, the warmth of his touch grounding you even as it set you on fire.

When you pulled back, both of you a little breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. “You alright?” he murmured, his thumb brushing your jaw.

“Better than alright,” you whispered back, and he smiled—a real one, unguarded, the kind that made you want to see it again and again.

That was all he needed. He kissed you again, slower this time, but with a purpose that made your thighs press together. His hand moved higher under your sweater, palm warm against your ribs, thumb brushing just below the curve of your breast. The sensation sent a spark straight through you, and you arched into him, craving more.

“Joel,” you whispered, his name slipping out like a plea.

He groaned softly, lips trailing to your jaw, then down the side of your neck, each kiss deliberate, searing. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. “Say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

Your head tipped back, giving him better access as his lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear. “I want you,” you managed, the words shaky but sure. “All of you.”

His hand tightened on your hip, and he pulled you fully onto his lap now, your legs straddling his as he leaned back against the couch. The shift brought you closer, the hard line of his body pressing against you in a way that made your breath stutter. You could feel him—warm, solid, and unmistakably affected by you, the evidence of it pressing against your thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, as his hands roamed your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips found yours again, the kiss messy now, all heat and need, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he tugged gently. Your hands slid down his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him.

He helped you, shrugging the shirt off without breaking the kiss, leaving him in just his white under shirt, the fabric stretched tight over his broad chest. 

Your fingers traced the lines of muscle, the faint scars you hadn’t noticed before, each one a story you wanted to know but not now—not when his hands were sliding under your sweater again, pulling it off your shoulders in one smooth motion.

The cool air hit your skin, but his hands were there immediately, warm and steady, pulling you back to him. His eyes raked over you, dark with want, but there was something else there too—admiration, maybe even reverence. “You’re beautiful,” he said, voice so low it was almost a growl.

You flushed, but before you could respond, he kissed you again, one hand sliding up your spine, the other cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. His thumb brushed over the sensitive peak, and you gasped, pressing yourself closer, craving the friction. He seemed to sense it, his hips shifting just enough to press against you, the heat of him making your head spin.

“Bedroom?” he asked, voice rough but steady, giving you an out, a chance to slow things down.

You didn’t want to slow down. You nodded, breathless, and he didn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, he stood, lifting you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you down the hall. His strength was effortless, like you weighed nothing, and the way his hands gripped your thighs made you feel like you were burning from the inside out.

The air in Joel’s bedroom was thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made every breath feel heavier. You were tangled in each other, the world outside reduced to a distant hum, irrelevant. His body pressed against yours, the weight of him grounding you even as it set every nerve alight. 

His lips were on yours again, hungry and slow, like he was savoring every second. The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against yours, a deliberate tease that made you arch into him, craving more. His hands roamed your body, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your spine, then lower, gripping your hips with a firmness that sent a pulse of heat straight to your core. You gasped softly into his mouth, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark and intense, searching for permission.

His lips crashed against yours, the kiss deep and desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that made your head spin. You could taste the beer from earlier, sharp and heady, as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, pulling a soft moan from you. His hands were everywhere—rough, calloused fingers digging into your hips, then sliding up to cup your face, tilting it to deepen the kiss. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as you pulled him closer, needing more.

Joel’s hands slid to the hem of your dress, his fingers grazing your thighs as he tugged it up and over your head in one slow, deliberate motion, leaving you bare under his hungry gaze.

He pulled back, his eyes dark and wild, pupils blown with want. “Fuck, darlin’,” he growled, voice low and gravelly, vibrating through you. “You’re driving me fuckin’ insane, lookin’ like that, all spread out for me.” His words sent a jolt of heat straight to your core, and you arched into him, craving the friction.

“You have no idea what you’re doin’ to me, Joel. I need you to fuck me so badly right now” you shot back, voice breathy, your hand sliding down to palm him through his boxers. He was rock-hard, thick and pulsing under your touch, and he hissed, grabbing your wrist to slow you down, his grip firm but not painful.

“Slow down, baby. You’re killin’ me with that dirty mouth,” he rasped, his eyes burning into yours. “I wanna fuck you so bad, I can barely stand it.”

Your breath hitched, the raw need in his voice making your thighs clench. “Joel,” you gasped, your hand stroking him slowly, feeling him throb against you. “I want you too, want to feel every inch of you.”

He groaned, low and deep, his head dropping to your shoulder. “Goddamn, woman, you’re gonna make me lose it,” he muttered, his hand sliding between your thighs, finding you already slick and trembling. 

“So fuckin’ wet for me,” he growled, his fingers circling your clit with a teasing pressure that made you moan. “You want this, don’t you? Want me to fuck you right now.”

“Yes,” you breathed, your hips bucking against his hand. “Please, Joel.”

He chuckled, a dark, filthy sound. “Begging already? You’re gonna feel so good around my cock, darlin’.” His fingers slid inside you, slow and deep, curling just right, and you cried out, your hands fisting in his hair. “Fuck, I love those sounds you make,” he said, his thumb working your clit as his fingers fucked you, slow and relentless. “Gonna make you scream my name all night.”

The pressure built, tight and hot, and you came with a shudder, your moans filling the room as he pushed you over the edge. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured against your skin, licking a slow path down your stomach. “Cum all over my fingers, let me taste you.”

His mouth closed over you, his tongue hot and insistent, lapping at your oversensitive clit. “Joel, fuck,” you gasped, your hips jerking as he sucked hard, his hands pinning your thighs to the bed. “You’re too fuckin’ good at this,” you moaned, your body trembling as another orgasm built, faster this time, your hands tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop, please.”

He didn’t stop, his tongue working you with ruthless precision, and you came again, hard and loud, your cries echoing in the quiet room. He kissed his way back up, slow and deliberate, his lips slick with you. 

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he said, his voice rough as he settled over you, his hard length pressing against your thigh through his boxers.

You reached for him, tugging the fabric down, desperate to feel him. “I need you inside me,” you said, your voice raw, stroking him slowly, feeling him pulse in your hand. “I want that big cock stretching me out, Joel.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, his hands shaking as he reached for the nightstand, grabbing a condom. “You talk like that, and I’m gonna fuck you into next week.” He rolled the condom on, his eyes never leaving yours, dark with promise. “You ready for me, baby?”

“Fuck yes,” you said, pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist. “Give it to me.”

He pushed in, slow and deliberate, filling you inch by inch, the stretch intense and perfect. “Goddamn, you’re tight,” he growled, his voice strained as he bottomed out, his hips pressed flush against yours. “So fuckin’ perfect, wrapped around my cock like that.”

You moaned, your nails digging into his back as he started to move, slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. “You’re so big,” you gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Fuck me harder, Joel, I can take it.”

“Goddamn, you’re a filthy little thing,” he said, his voice thick with approval, his thrusts quickening, hips snapping against yours with a force that made the bed groan, the headboard slamming against the wall. “Love how you take my cock, baby. It’s like this pussy was made for me.”

His hand slid between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your vision blur. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his lips brushing your ear. “Love me fuckin’ you deep, making this pussy cum all over me.”

“Yes, fuck, Joel,” you moaned, your body trembling as the pressure built again, hotter and tighter than before. “I’m gonna cum!”

He growled, his pace quickening, hips snapping against yours with a force that made the bed creak, the headboard slamming against the wall. “Like that, darlin’?” he rasped, his hand sliding between you, fingers finding your clit again.

His dirty talk pushed you closer, the pressure building again, tight and unbearable. “Joel, I’m— fuck” you started, but the words dissolved into a scream as he thrust harder, his fingers circling your clit in perfect sync. You came undone, your body clenching around him, pulling him deeper as you shattered, your cries filling the room.

“Come for me, baby,” he rasped, his thrusts relentless, his fingers working you in perfect sync. “Let me feel that tight pussy squeeze my cock.” You shattered, your orgasm crashing through you, your body clenching around him so hard he groaned, his thrusts stuttering as he fought to hold on. “Fuck, that’s it, milk me, darlin’.”

He didn’t last much longer, his hips snapping hard a few more times before he came, a low, guttural “Fuck, baby” spilling from his lips as he buried himself deep, his body shuddering against yours. You felt the heat of him, the way he pulsed inside you, and it sent one last tremor through you, leaving you both panting, slick with sweat.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. The sheets were a mess, damp and tangled, but you didn’t care. 

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his lips brushing your forehead. “Stay,” he murmured, voice soft but heavy with meaning. “I ain’t done with you, sweetheart.”

You smiled, still buzzing, your body pressed against his. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere.”

He chuckled, low and warm, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass. “Good. ‘Cause I’m already thinking about fucking you again.”

The bedroom was still heavy with the afterglow, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the sheets tangled and damp beneath you. You were curled against Joel’s chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your shoulder. His warmth, his solid presence, grounded you, but the faint throb of desire still lingered, a quiet pulse that hadn’t quite faded. His lips brushed your forehead, and when he spoke, his voice was low, rough, and laced with a warmth that made your core clench.

“You’re something else, darlin’,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to squeeze your hip. “Took me so fuckin’ well.”

The praise hit you like a spark, igniting something deep inside, making your breath hitch. You shifted slightly, pressing closer, and he noticed, his eyes flicking to yours, dark and curious. “What’s that?” he asked, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips. “You like that, don’t you? Like hearing how good you are for me.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away, the heat in his gaze pulling you in. “Maybe,” you said, voice soft but teasing, your fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

Joel’s smile turned wicked, his hand sliding lower, cupping your ass with a possessive grip. “Oh, baby, you’re gonna be so fuckin’ good for me again,” he growled, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “My perfect girl, takin’ everything I give her.”

The words sent a shiver through you, your thighs pressing together as a fresh wave of arousal pooled low in your belly. He noticed—of course he did—his eyes darkening as he shifted, rolling you onto your back, his body looming over yours. The lamp’s soft glow caught the edges of him, the scars, the hard lines of muscle, and the hunger in his expression made your pulse race.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with want, his hands spreading your thighs as he settled between them. “So goddamn beautiful, lying there all ready for me. You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind., you know that?” His fingers brushed over your folds, finding you already slick again, and he groaned, low and dirty. “Fuck, baby, this pussy’s still so wet for me. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped, the praise lighting you up, your hips arching toward his touch. “I’m your good girl, Joel.”

He growled, his fingers sliding inside you, slow and deep, curling against that spot that made you moan. “That’s right,” he said, his thumb circling your clit with a pressure that had you trembling. “My perfect fuckin’ girl, takin’ my fingers like you were made for it. You love this, don’t you? Love being so good for me.”

“Fuck, yes,” you moaned, your hands fisting the sheets as he worked you, his fingers relentless, stretching you, filling you. The way he talked—filthy, commanding, but laced with that warm praise—had you teetering on the edge already, your body desperate for more. “Please, Joel, I need you."

“Need what, baby?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, his free hand pinning your hip to the bed. “Tell me what my good girl needs. Tell me how bad you want my cock.”

“I want it so bad,” you begged, your voice raw, the praise making you bolder, needier. “I want your cock, Joel, want you to fuck me so hard again until I can’t think. I wanna be good for you.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, his fingers slipping out, leaving you aching and empty. He reached for another condom, tearing it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he said, rolling it on, his hands shaking slightly with the intensity of his want. “Gonna fuck you so good, baby, gonna make my good girl scream.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with the tip, sliding it through your slick folds as he watched your face, drinking in every reaction. “Look at you, all desperate for me,” he murmured, his voice dripping with approval. “My beautiful girl, so ready to take this cock all over again."

“Please,” you whimpered, your hips lifting, chasing him. “Fuck me, Joel, I need it.”

He pushed in, slow at first, stretching you inch by inch, the thickness of him overwhelming, perfect. “Goddamn,” he growled, his voice strained as he filled you completely, his hips flush against yours. “This pussy’s so tight, so fucking perfect around me. You’re doin’ so good, baby, takin’ every inch like you were made for it.”

You moaned, loud and unashamed, your hands gripping his shoulders as he started to move, deep, deliberate thrusts that hit that spot inside you every time. “You’re so big,” you gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Feels so good, Joel, you’re so good to me.”

“That’s right,” he said, his pace quickening, his hips snapping harder, the bed creaking under the force. “My good girl loves this cock, doesn’t she? Loves being fucked hard, loves being so fuckin’ perfect for me.” His hand slid between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your vision blur. “Gonna make you cum so hard, baby, gonna feel this pussy squeeze me tight.”

“Fuck, Joel, yes,” you moaned, the praise and his filthy words pushing you closer, the heat building fast and intense. “I’m your good girl, please, don’t stop Joel, dont stop."

“Never,” he growled, his thrusts relentless now, his fingers working your clit in perfect sync. “You’re so fuckin’ good for me, takin’ this cock like a champ. Come on, baby, let me feel it. Cum all over my cock, show me how good you are.”

The words sent you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you, white-hot and overwhelming, your body clenching around him so tight he groaned, his thrusts stuttering. “Fuck, that’s it,” he rasped, his voice raw with awe. “My perfect girl, cumin’ so hard for me, milking my cock just right.”

He didn’t stop, fucking you through it, his thrusts deep and punishing, his fingers never leaving your clit. “One more, baby,” he said, his voice a filthy command. “Give me one more, show me how good you can be.”

You were shaking, oversensitive, but his praise kept you grounded, kept you wanting. “I can,” you gasped, your hands clawing at his back, nails leaving marks. “I wanna be soo good for you, Joel.”

“You are,” he growled, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “So fuckin’ good, taking me so deep. This pussy’s mine, and you’re my perfect fucking girl.” He angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and you screamed, your body trembling as another orgasm built, faster, harder, unstoppable.

“Cum for me,” he said, his voice rough and commanding. “Show me how much you love this cock.” 

You did, your body shattering again, your cries filling the room as you came, your walls pulsing around him, pulling him deeper. 

He groaned, his thrusts erratic now, and then he came, a low, guttural “Fuck, baby, you’re so good” spilling from his lips as he buried himself deep, his body shuddering against yours.

You collapsed together, slick with sweat, tangled in the sheets, your breaths ragged and uneven. He pulled out slowly, careful, and disposed of the condom before pulling you into his arms, his chest heaving against yours. His fingers traced your spine, soft and grounding, as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Goddamn, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice soft but still laced with that raw edge. “My good girl, fuckin’ incredible.”

You smiled, your body still buzzing, the praise wrapping around you like a warm blanket. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you said, voice teasing but shaky, and he chuckled, low and warm, pulling you closer.

“Stay,” he said, his voice quiet but heavy with meaning. “I ain’t done praising you yet. The nights far from over.”

You nestled into him, your heart racing with something more than just the afterglow. “I’m not going anywhere. Might have to go to the gym more to keep up with you though.”

———————————————————— 

Wooo first Joel Miller fic! Still mourning his character so here something happier ;) Let me know what you guys think and what you want to see next down below!

[leo-in-the-pitt]

🌈 NURSES OF THE PITT ↳ @tvdoctors Nurses Appreciation Week 2025

[leo-in-the-pitt]

Stay Or Don't

—— —— —— —— ——

Stay or Don’t  

This is Chapter 6 of the Beginning to End series !

Pairing: Jack Abbott x Wife!Reader

Summary: After having your first child with Jack, you're in the ICU. But once you're discharged from the hospital, your perfect family grapples with a fragile connection that’s slowly unraveling. Is love alone enough to hold you two together?

Warnings:

Established relationship, implied age gap, strong language, some fluff but also porn with plot, unprotected PIV, fingering, oral (both m and f receiving), praise kink, pregnancy, birth trauma

Word Count: 13.9k (don't even know how tbh)

2 hours Later 

The room was dim and cold, machines humming in the background like ghosts whispering. The only light came from the heart monitor, pulsing steady and green, casting soft flashes across your still face.

Inside, you lay in the hospital bed, a fragile silhouette against the sterile white sheets. Intubated, pale, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of your chest. Tubes and lines surrounded you. Blood transfusion halfway through. Monitors beeping steadily—too steadily. Like they didn’t care what you'd just survived.

Jack stood just outside the door. Twenty minutes, and he hadn’t blinked

The OB had come to stand next to Jack. Still in his scrubs, surgical cap gone but mask dangling off but mask hanging off one ear like an afterthought. His voice soft, steady, but carried the weight f what he’d just pulled you back from. “Jack.”

He didn’t respond, just flicked his bloodshot eyes toward him, then back to you, unyielding.

“She’s stable now.” He turned toward her slowly. His expression—something between a plea and a threat—cracked with grief. “Critical but, stable.”

Jack turned slowly, his face a fractured mask—grief, rage, and desperation warring in his eyes. “She was fine,” he rasped, voice cracking. “We were laughing. Then she was—” He stopped, choking on the memory of blood pooling too fast to stop.

The doctor nodded with a tight swallow, hands folded in front of him. “She had a severe postpartum hemorrhage, likely due to uterine atony. Her uterus wouldn’t contract after delivery, and she started losing blood fast.”

Jack’s lips parted, then pressed shut again. He nodded like he understood the words—but couldn’t accept them.

“We used an intrauterine balloon tamponade to stop the bleeding. It's inserted into the uterus and inflated to create pressure from within. It helped stabilize her, along with transfusions. We intubated her to protect her airway."

“A balloon,” he muttered, the word bitter, absurd. “That’s what’s keeping her alive?”

“For now. It’s working. Her vitals are holding.”

Jack turned his face away, jaw tight. A moment passed before he spoke again. “Is she going to wake up?”

“We’re hopeful. There’s no reason to think there’s any brain damage. Her vitals are holding. We’re keeping her sedated for now to help her body rest and heal.”

“She barely even saw him.”

“He’s doing well. In the nursery—strong vitals, good reflexes. He looks like you.”

Jack’s throat bobbed. He rubbed his hands down his face, trying to breathe through the storm inside him.

“She made it, Jack. You both did. But she needs time now. And you need to let yourself breathe, too.”

He looked back at you. You looked so far away behind that glass. “I don’t know how to be a father without her.”

“You won’t have to. She's still fighting. And you need to fight for her too. For both of them.“

A long silence.

Then Jack stepped forward, slow and unsure, and opened the door.

He pulled the chair closer and sat down beside you. His thumb brushed your knuckles. They were ice cold.

His wedding ring rested against the inside of your palm, his thumb brushing slow, constant circles across your knuckles—like if he just kept moving, you’d stay tethered to him.

“I don’t know how to do this part,” he whispered. “You always tell me what to do, what to say.”

He laughed quietly, voice cracking. “You’d probably tell me to breathe. Or make some sarcastic joke. Or call me dramatic.”

His forehead lowered to your hand. “But I am. I’m dramatic. And scared. And I don’t know how to be a dad if you’re not there to tell me when I’m doing it wrong. I’m no good without you. I can’t raise him alone — not the way he deserves.”

He sat back, eyes stinging. “You’re the strong one. Not me. I fall apart, remember? I panic. I spiral. That’s my thing.”

Your monitors beeped steadily in reply. Jack exhaled, long and trembling. “I need you to wake up, babygirl. I’m not me without you. I may have only known you for a couple years but, I don’t know how to live without you anymore.”

Then—just barely—your hand twitched under his. Jack’s eyes snapped to your face.

“You come back to us,” he whispered. “You have to come back. We’re not done yet.”

Robby stood just inside the doorway. Quiet.

“I brought you clean clothes,” he said softly, holding up a bag. “And something to eat.”

Jack didn’t look at him. Just gave the barest shake of his head.

Robby stepped closer, set the bag down.

Jack finally spoke. “They said the bleeding’s under control now.”

Robby nodded. “She’s stable. For now. They’re going to keep her sedated until she’s strong enough to breathe on her own.”

Jack turned to him, eyes red, his voice barely a whisper. “She said… she wanted to name him after me. Just before. As she—”

“I know,” Robby said gently. “You know when I told her I’d look out for you if something happened, I meant it.”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut.

“She knew,” he breathed. “God, it’s like she knew something bad was going to happen to her.”

Robby didn’t respond—just stepped forward, placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“You did everything right, Jack.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Jack rasped.

Robby swallowed. “She’s still here.”

Silence fell again, thick and aching. Jack looked at your face—soft, colorless, beautiful—and reached up with shaking fingers to brush a strand of hair from your forehead.

I told her she’d be okay,” he whispered. “I promised her. I don’t know if she even heard me.”

Robby hesitated. “She heard you.”

“But we don’t know that.”

 Robby held his stare. “I do.”

———————————————————————

Later That Day

The ICU nurse glanced up when Jack entered, arms cradling a tightly swaddled bundle against his chest.

“He shouldn’t be in here long,” she said softly.

“I know,” Jack whispered. “Just a few minutes. I promised her.”

The nurse nodded and stepped out, giving them a moment.

Jack looked at you—still sedated, pale, intubated, but alive. The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator was steadier today, your vitals slowly climbing toward normal.

He pulled the rocking chair as close as he could and sat down beside you, adjusting the baby in his arms.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing a hand gently down your arm. “I brought someone to meet you.”

Your eyes didn’t open. But Jack spoke anyway, softly, like you were just asleep.

“This is him. Our boy. Jack.”

The baby let out a tiny grunt in his sleep, shifting in Jack’s arms. His face was round and pink and peaceful. A full head of dark hair like yours. His tiny fist had latched onto Jack’s finger and hadn’t let go since the nursery.

“He’s perfect,” Jack whispered. “He looks like you. Thank God.”

He looked back at you.

“You missed his first diaper. You’re welcome,” he added with a soft, shaky laugh. “But you’re not missing anything else. I’m serious, babygirl. You wake up. You come back. We need you.”

“I need you to come back, okay? Because I can’t do this without you. I mean—I will. I’ll do everything. Every feeding, every diaper, every panic attack at 3 a.m. But I want to do it with you.”

He swallowed hard, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“I’ve never been more scared in my life. Not even in the ER. But he’s here. You brought him here. And I swear to God, I will love him the way you love—completely. No holding back.”

Jack sat back slightly, watching you in the silence, machines still blinking.

A long pause.

“I’m keeping everything you gave him—your stubbornness, your kindness, your strength—alive in both of us. Until you open those eyes again.”

He leaned forward and placed the baby gently on your chest—carefully, so your wires and monitors weren’t disturbed.

“See that?” Jack whispered. “That’s your mom. She’s the strongest person I know.”

The baby stirred slightly, his face turning into the warmth of your chest, nose brushing against the hospital gown.

“You already know her, don’t you?” Jack asked quietly. “You heard her voice every day. She wanted you to have my name. But I want you to know hers too. Because everything good in you—it’s going to come from her.”

He sat there, one hand on your arm, the other cupping the back of his son’s head.

“I want this to be the first thing you remember when you wake up,” he whispered. “Your boys. Right here.”

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, landing on the edge of your pillow.

The machines continued to hum. The baby breathed slow and even. And Jack just sat there—watching you, hoping, and loving you in silence.

Waiting for you to come back home.

———————————————————————

One Day Later 

You were still intubated, sedated. Still fighting. Jack hadn’t left your bedside all night. His chair was pulled up so close that his arm rested along the edge of your bed. He hadn’t slept. His eyes swollen and red, hand still wrapped gently around yours. Monitors beeped in quiet rhythm. 

A soft knock came at the door., breaking the silence. Jack turned.

Robby stepped in first. Face drawn but hopeful. Behind him came Dana, eyes already glassy. Langdon followed with his usual confident stride, though today it seemed to be lacking. Then Mel, who was clutching a paper coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping her upright. And Collins, silent and unreadable, lingering at the back of the group.

They hesitated just beyond the door.

Jack stood slowly, voice rough from disuse. “You can come in.”

They filed in quietly, instinctively keeping their voices low.

“She looks… better than I expected.” Said Dana.

“That doesn’t mean much. We’ve all seen patients look fine and crash thirty minutes later.”

“Langdon.” Mel nudged him. “Sorry. I just— I’m sorry.”

Jack didn’t say anything. He turned back toward you, brushing a strand of hair off your forehead.

“How’s her neuro status?”

“No deficits so far but, she’s been sedated all night so there’s no way to know for sure. They're weaning sedation later today. Hopefully do a breathing trial later before extubating. Ballon’s coming out soon.”

That silence again. Unspoken fears.

They stood around you, quiet, taking you in—not just as a patient, but as their friend. Their colleague. Their family.

“The nursery said your son is doing great. Healthy lungs, strong vitals. He’s a screamer.”

Dana, smiling through tears,  “Definitely your kid.”

Langdon looked over at Jack, “Have you held him yet?”

Jack shook his head. His voice barely made it out, “I’m not leaving her.”

“Jack, she would want you to. He’s here. He needs you too.”

Jack looked at you, then at the group. His throat worked hard to swallow the emotion building again.

“I know, I know. I just—what if something happened and I’m not here?”

“Then she’ll forgive you. Because you’ll be holding your son.” Collins said softly.

Dana reached across the bed, taking your other hand gently. “We love you, 

okay? You’ve scared the absolute shit out of all of us. But we’re here. And we’re not going anywhere.”

Jack lowered himself back into the chair, still gripping your hand.

The group stood around you—all used to worse case scenarios, usually sharp-tongued and quick-footed, now quiet and reverent. They didn’t know what to say. But they didn’t need to.

They were there. With you. With Jack. 

The world came back in pieces.

First, the sound of the ventilator, the quiet beep of a monitor, distant voices softened by sedation. Then the sensation of weight, of oxygen filling your lungs in a way that felt both foreign and yours.

“We’re ready to extubate.”

The next voice was closer. His voice. “Take your time, baby. We’re here.”

Those words—the one your soul answered to—cracked something open.

The respiratory therapist leaned over you. “Okay, sweetheart. On the count of three, we’ll take the tube out. Nice and easy. Just breathe with me.”

One hand held yours. Warm, grounding, trembling just slightly.

You tried to inhale.

The nurse nodded. “Good. Now exhale.” The tube slid free.

You gagged, coughing, throat burning like fire. The oxygen mask was placed almost immediately, cool air rushing in to soothe the sting. You blinked against the blur, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

Shapes came into focus. And then—them.

Jack stood just behind the nurses, your son held in his arms like the most sacred thing in the world. Swaddled tightly, resting against his father’s chest, your baby blinked and stirred like he knew something had changed.

Jack’s eyes locked on yours the moment he saw them open.

And your voice—shaky, raw, barely there—rose with everything you had left:

“There’s… my boys.”

Jack’s breath hitched. His lips parted like he hadn’t expected you to speak—hadn’t dared hope.

The nurse turned, quietly stepping away. The moment belonged to you now.

Jack moved closer, his arms cradling the baby, his face wet with tears.

“You came back,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed. “God, I didn’t know if you would.”

Your eyes fell to the tiny bundle against his chest. Your son. So small. So alive.

You reached one trembling hand out toward him.

Jack adjusted carefully, gently placing the baby into your arms, guiding him into the space above your heart like he’d always belonged there.

The weight of him. The warmth. The miracle.

Your eyes never left his face.

“Hi, babyboy,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words. “Hi, I’m your mom.”

The baby stirred, as if he recognized your heartbeat. Jack leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

“We’re okay now,” you breathed.

He nodded, tears falling freely. “Yeah, babygirl. We’re okay.”

For the first time since labor. You weren’t just alive. You were somebody’s mother.

And your boys were right there with you.

———————————————————————

One Week Later

The sliding doors of the ER ahead, wide and bright under the late afternoon sun. It felt surreal—like walking through a dream you weren’t sure you’d ever get to see.

You were in a wheelchair, bundled in soft clothes that weren’t your own. Pale, a little unsteady, but awake. Breathing on your own. Alive.

Jack stood behind you, one hand on the wheelchair handle, the other cradling your newborn son tightly to his chest. The tiny blue beanie on the baby’s head was slightly crooked. 

“You ready?”

You nodded, voice still weak. “As I’ll ever be.”

Jack pushed you gently through the lobby. Every foot of distance from the ICU felt earned. Nurses waved from the desk. A few staff paused in the hallway—smiles tugging at their tired faces. You were one of their own. And you'd made it out.

Dana, Robby, Collins, Mel, and Langdon waited near the exit, in the middle of their shift, coffee in hand. Nobody dared to miss this moment.

“Well look who decided to check out.” Dan grinned. 

“I figured it was about time I stopped hogging the monitors.”

Robby let out a chuckle, “You scared the hell out of us.”

“I scared the hell out of me.”

They surrounded you briefly—hugs, careful touches. Your son slept through all of it.

Langdon looked over to Jack, “You sure you can handle a car seat?”

Jack scoffed, half-laughing, half-exhausted. “I’ve triple-checked the latch system. Don’t test me.”

You smiled, hand brushing the baby’s head. “Someone’s definitely nesting.”

“Text us when you're home. We’ll bring food. Or alcohol. Or... both.” Said Robby drawing laughs from the group.

You looked up at Jack. He met your eyes for a beat, then leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“Let’s go home.”

The sliding doors opened with a quiet whoosh.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime—you left the hospital not as two ER doctors. Not as survivors of the unimaginable. But as parents. As something new.

The front door creaked open like it was welcoming you back.

It was quiet—eerily so after the hum and buzz of the hospital. No monitors. No hallway chatter. Just the echo of your own breath and the creak of Jack’s boots across the hardwood floor.

He stepped inside first, carrying the car seat like it held the most fragile thing in the universe. You followed slowly, still sore, hand trailing the doorframe as you looked around.

Same house. Same light filtering through the windows. But everything was different now. This was home.

Jack set the car seat down gently on the living room rug and crouched beside it, brushing a fingertip across your son’s cheek. “Welcome home, buddy,” he whispered, his voice already catching in his throat.

You lowered yourself onto the couch, slow and careful, letting your body melt into the cushions. You hadn’t realized how much tension you’d been carrying until you could finally release it in your own space.

Jack looked over, watching you like he still couldn’t believe it. “You okay?”

You nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah. Just… overwhelmed.”

He joined you on the couch, arm instantly wrapping around your shoulders. “Me too.”

The silence that followed was the good kind. Safe. Sacred.

You both looked down at the tiny human asleep in front of you. His fists curled. His mouth slightly open. Perfect.

“He looks so small here,” you whispered.

Jack smiled softly. “He looks like he belongs here.”

You leaned your head against his. “So do we.”

You sat there like that for a while—just the three of you, breathing in the peace that had felt so far away for so long.

Eventually, Jack broke the silence with a chuckle. “We’re parents.”

You turned to him. “We really are.”

“And he’s ours. Like—we don’t have to give him back to anyone.”

You laughed, wiping a tear away. “Don’t say it like we stole him.”

Jack grinned, eyes never leaving yours. “Well, he did steal my heart.”

You reached for his hand and held it over your lap. “Good thing I already had it first.”

He leaned in and kissed you. Deep, slow, and full of everything unspoken.

When you pulled back, you were both quiet again—watching your baby breathe, rise and fall, rise and fall.

The home was filled with something new now. Not just furniture. Not just you and Jack.

But love. Real, tangible, life-altering love. And this time no alarms. No blood. No fear. Just a family, finally whole.

———————————————————————

That Night

The house was quiet in that sacred, newborn way—dimmed lights, soft shadows, and the occasional gentle hiccup from the crib beside the bed.

You were curled on your side, nestled into Jack’s chest, his arms wrapped securely around you. One of his hands rested just above your hip, the other gently stroking your arm in slow, unconscious motions. Protective. Present.

The baby stirred in the crib a few feet away, a sleepy little sigh and a stretch of impossibly tiny limbs. You both turned your heads instinctively at the sound.

Jack whispered, lips brushing your temple. “He’s okay. Just dreaming.”

You nodded against his chest, eyes barely open. “He does that thing with his fingers when he sleeps… same as you.”

Jack smiled softly, tightening his hold on you just a little. “I don’t know how we got here.”

“Yeah, it definitely didn’t happen because you wouldn’t stop staring at me from across the ER.

He laughed lightly. “You that’ll do it.”

You lifted your head p to him. “Were you scared?”

Jack’s answer didn’t come right away. When it did, it came low and raw. “I thought I lost you. I… I kept saying your name like that would keep you here.”

You shifted slightly to look at him, brushing his cheek with your fingers. “I heard you.”

He blinked hard. “Yeah?”

“All of it. While it all happened. And in. The ICU when you stayed up all night with me. Thought I was going to lose my hand if you held on any tighter.”

His eyes welled again, throat tight. “I couldn’t let you go.”

Jack buried his face in your hair and exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath since the moment everything went wrong. “You’re here. You’re both here.”

You listened to your baby breathe in the crib beside you. His little hand had slipped free of the blanket and lay against his cheek in a way that looked almost thoughtful.

You let your eyes fall closed again, letting yourself believe this was real. That you made it. That you were safe.

Jack’s hand settled over your heart. “Go to sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in days, you did.

———————————————————————

10 Weeks Later

The sunset filtered in through the blinds, casting warm lines across the hardwood floor. A bottle warmer hummed quietly on the counter. The baby was asleep in the bassinet nearby, milk-drunk and peaceful.

You stood in the kitchen in leggings and his soft old sweatshirt, hair still damp from a quick shower. Stronger now—healthier. The color had returned to your cheeks. Your movement, still cautious, was full of purpose.

Jack walked in wearing scrubs, travel mug in hand, stethoscope draped around his neck. He looked good, but tired—two weeks back on shift already taking its toll.

You turned as he came in, casual. “So I’m going back”

Jack’s eyes snapped to you, mug pausing in mid-air. He knew that tone. “Back where?”

You offered a small smile, trying to ease into it. “Work,” you said, like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “I talked to Robby. yesterday. I’m coming back at twelve weeks.”

He laughs. Sharp. Disbelieving. “Twelve weeks? You’re fucking joking. You told Robby before you talked to me?”

You nodded, wiping down the counter, like the conversation wasn’t about to explode. “Yeah, that was always the plan. I don’t need your permission.”

“You’re right, that was the plan before your heart nearly stopped. You might not need my permission but, you do need some fucking common sense. Do you even hear yourself right now?”

You turned around, crossing your arms—not defensive, just bracing. “Don’t talk to me like I’m insane. I’m a doctor Jack, not just a mom you can lock up and keep quiet so you can sleep at night.”

Jack set his mug down a little too hard. His voice came out low and tight. “You wanna talk about sleep? You know when I stopped sleeping? When you almost died. When I heard our son crying as your blood poured onto the floor right in front of us!”

You blinked. Hard. “Jesus, Jack— it’s always going to come back to that isn’t it? You think I don’t remember that? I was the one whose fucking body gave out, Jack! Mine! I live that moment every second of every day now. You just get to visit the trauma whenever it’s convenient.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering underneath the fear.

“Oh, fuck you. Don’t start with that bullshit. You think this is about control?Don’t you dare minimize what I went through. We almost lost you. And now you want to just walk back into the trauma bay like nothing happened?”

“You didn’t fucking go through it Jack! You watched it. There’s a very clear difference! You’re not the one who wakes up in a cold sweat wondering if you’ll even get to see your son grow up because your body betrayed you so violently it almost took you out!”

“And I don’t wake up in cold sweats? You think you’re the only one broken from this? Maybe act like you actually care!”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“You almost died!”

“And now what? I sit in this house all day and rot while you go back to work like none of it fucking happened?!”

“Because I don’t have a choice! I don’t get to fall apart!”

“Neither do I! I’m not going to stay here like your fucking prisoner.”

“No, you’re just the woman who nearly left me to raise our kid alone. I saved your fucking life. Don’t forget that.”

“Then maybe you should’ve let me die, if this is how you were going to treat me after.”

The moment shatters. 

You both freeze.

“What did you just say?”

Your voice cracked, but you didn’t back down.

“If this is how you’re going to treat me… like I’m some fragile, broken mess who needs guarding every second of the day—maybe you should’ve let me go.”

He stepped back like you’d hit him. He blinked hard, like trying to see past something bloody. His jaw flexed. Eyes glassed over. Jack’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no words came out. Only rage and something deeper—shattered, terrified grief.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t even know what I mean anymore. You dot get to play God Jack, you don’t get to fucking decide what I do, or where I go, Or what makes me feel alive again.”

“You’re the one who lived, but you walk around like you fucking resent us for it. You don’t get to fucking die on me and act like I’m the asshole for not being over it.”

“Because you are smothering me every single second I try to breathe!”

He grabbed his keys and wallet off the counter with a violent motion. His hands shaking. 

“What does it even mutter, huh? You clearly don’t give a shit what I have to say. Go back to work. Bleed out in the trauma room. Maybe next time, you’ll get your wish. You want to play brave little martyr, go right ahead. Because I swear to God, if you’re trying to prove something by killing yourself, don’t expect me to fucking clap!”

“Get out,” you choked.

“What?”

Tears started to fill your eyes, “Get the fuck out of my house, Jack.”

“Gladly.” The door slams like a gunshot.

Your baby wakes, screaming. You ran to him instantly, sinking to your knees, heart pounding, hands trembling.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

But some part of you did.

And some part of him did too.

———————————————————————

The automatic doors slide open, and Jack steps into the chaos of the emergency department like a man walking into war. His jaw is clenched, his scrubs wrinkled. There’s a storm behind his eyes. He walks fast. Doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t make eye contact.

Langdon clocks him instantly from the central desk. “You’re early.”

Jack doesn’t respond. Just takes the chart from Langdon’s hand with a snatch and keeps moving.

“She okay?”

Jack stops walking, shoulders stiff. “No. I’m not fucking okay, Langdon.”

He disappears down the hall.

The trauma room is a flurry—nurses, EMTs, shouting over one another as a gurney barrels in.

“Twenty-nine-year-old male, GSW to the abdomen. BP dropping. We’ve got a pressure dressing but he’s losing blood fast—” The EMT shouts.

Jack’s already gloving up. His voice is sharp. Unforgiving. “Move. I’ve got it.”

He barks orders with an edge.

“Push two liters wide open. Where’s the fucking O-neg?!”

“It’s en route—” said a nurse. 

“Then fucking run!” His shout jolts the room. Even the patient, half-conscious, twitches under the weight of Jack’s fury.

He works like a machine—hands steady, mind ruthless. Every motion is precise: clamping vessels, packing gauze, barking for suction. The bleeding slows. The patient stabilizes. Jack saves him, because that’s what he does. But there’s no triumph in it, only a burning rage.

The transport team wheels the gurney out, and the room falls silent. Jack doesn’t move. Blood smears the gloves he hasn’t stripped off. His breaths are shallow, ragged.

Dana comes in quietly. Her voice is gentle, but steady. “Jack…”

He doesn’t answer.

“You look like you’ve been through a meat grinder. What happened?”

“I said shit I can’t take back, Dana. Fucked-up cruel shit. Then I slammed the door on my wife and my screaming kid and came to work like a fucking coward.”

He lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed, glassy. “She said I’m suffocating her. And she’s not wrong.”

Dana steps forward, but doesn’t touch him. “You’re grieving. Just in a different way.”

“No. It’s not grief.” His voice cracks, raw and bitter. “Its pure fucking anger. I’m angry she almost died. I’m angry she wants to walk right back into the fire. I’m angry that I couldn’t stop it—and that I still can’t.”

He slams a fist against the crash cart. Metal clangs, instruments scattering. His knuckles split, blood welling. Dana flinches. 

He breathes hard, fists trembling. “I’m scared. I don’t even recognize myself right now.”

Dana nods, voice soft. “Then go home. Before you get your blood on someone else.”

He doesn’t move. His gaze drifts to the blood on his hand, then to the doorway. Going home means facing you. Facing the truth of what you both said.

What if you meant all that you said?  What if he did too?

———————————————————————

Golden morning sun filters through trees. A few joggers pass by, birds chirp, kids’ swings creak in the breeze.

And there’s Jack—sitting on a weathered wooden bench just off the walking trail. Scrubs wrinkled. Hoodie pulled up. Hands in his lap, holding your wedding ring on the chain you bought him.

He stares at the exact spot of grass where, right where he said “I love you” first, right where you said yes to his proposal. 

Now, he's silent. Still. And completely alone.

You storm through the emergency department, baby carrier in one hand, diaper bag half-zipped, fury radiating off you like heat.You look exhausted, still in yesterday’s clothes. Your son whimpers, fussing, as you march straight up to the nurses’ station.

You haven’t slept. You haven’t cried. You don’t have time.

“Where the hell is he?”

Robby, mid-chart, looks up. Blinks. “Who?”

“My husband. Your best friend. Tall, moody, full of rage? Usually parked right next to you?”

Robby sets his pen down slowly, expression shifting, carefully. “He left this morning. Didn’t say much. Didn’t seem right though.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I mean he looked like he hadn’t slept in a while and might shatter into dust if anyone breathed too loud near him.”

You close your eyes, breathing hard. The baby cries again.

“Did you two…?”

You glare.

“We screamed at each other so loud I’m pretty sure we violated noise ordinances.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.” You look around, growing more anxious by the second. “He didn’t come home. Turned his location off. I thought he’d be here.”

Robby’s concern deepens.

“I haven’t seen him. But if I had to guess—he’s probably somewhere that still feels like the world hasn’t completely fallen apart.”

You pause. Your eyes flick toward the doors. Across the street. To the little park with the rusted bench and broken streetlamp. Where Jack once knelt and held out a trembling ring.

Your expression softens. Just a little. “Fuck.”

You turn, hoist the baby bag higher, and start walking—hard and fast, with a knot in your throat and fear creeping in behind your ribs.

Jack hasn’t moved.

He holds the chain tighter now, eyes closed, head back. Like he’s begging the sky for forgiveness.

Footsteps crunch across gravel.

He opens his eyes just as you appear, panting, flushed, baby fussy in your arms, rage etched across your face—but under it, hurt. Deep and blistering.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

He stiffens. Doesn’t speak.

“This is where you’ve been? For hours Jack? It’s already past noon! You don’t answer your phone and I find you moping in the goddamn engagement park like we’re characters in some tragic love story?!”

“I didn’t-“ he starts, voice hoarse. 

You cut him off. “No, stop talking. You don’t get to play sad and silent. Not after the shit you just pulled last night. You don’t leave me wondering if you’re lying in a ditch somewhere. You don’t leave him.” You looked down at your son, “—wondering if he’s ever gonna see his fucking dad again!”

Jack looks at the baby, face crumpling. “I couldn’t - I didn’t know what to say.”

“Grow the fuck up, Jack. You’re worried about me dying but, you don’t show up home all morning?”

The baby starts crying again. You bounce him gently, but your hands are trembling.

“I didn’t mean—“

“You never fucking mean it, Jack! That’s kind of your whole fucking thing!” You screamed loud enough for everybody else in the park to hear.

The baby starts to cry again, sensing the storm in your voice, but you're past reason.

“You called me reckless. Said I almost left you to do it alone—like I chose to bleed out on that fucking table! Like I wanted to almost die!”

“I didn’t mean it like that. You have to know that.”

“Bull. Shit.”Your voice cuts sharp. “You didn’t know how to face the mess you made, so you ran. Real fucking heroic.”

You get in his face. “You meant it. You meant all of it. You threw that pain at me like a fucking weapon. And now what? You sit here like some tragic widower while I carry both of us on my back?”

He finally snapped. 

“I needed a fucking minute, okay?! Just one goddamn second to not be the asshole or the husband or the fucking doctor! Just one second to breathe without feeling like I’m watching you die all over again! Im terrified, everyday, that I’ll lose you again!”

“Terrified? Your laugh is bitter, cutting. You get your space. What do I get? I’m haunted by it too, Jack, same as you. But I don’t get to run.”

“You said you’d come back to work. You said you were fine. And all I could think was: What if she’s not? What if I lose her again, and this time it sticks?”

“So instead, you just decided to leave me alone now?”

“I didn’t want to lose my mind in front of you.” He runs a hand through his hair, yanking hard. “I didn’t think you’d want me to come back!”

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

He stares at you—cracked, bleeding, furious. You’re breathing like you ran a mile. The baby cries harder.

Your voice shaking, “You should’ve come home. You should’ve fucking come home.”

Jack drops his head into his hands, eyes squeezed shut, like he's trying to hold the world inside.

“I didn’t know how.”

“But you knew how to walk away just fine.”

That hits him harder than anything you’ve said to him I the past 5 years of knowing each other. 

Silence falls. Just the baby wailing. Just the weight of all the words said and unsaid.

“I don’t know how to be the person you need.”

“Then maybe we’re too far gone. I’m taking our son home. The door will be unlocked if you decide we’re worth coming home to.”

You turn. 

And this time, you don’t look back.

———————————————————————

12 Weeks 

You’re both back in the ER. Nights. When you overlap, it’s cold.

You pass each other in hallways like strangers who used to be something.

When you do talk, it’s clinical. Nothing more. As if the wedding rings you’re both wearing have lost all meaning. 

Like you’re a colleague. Like he’s forgotten how your voice used to sound when you whispered his name in the dark. No softness. No warmth.

You chart at the same desk. You sit in the same chairs. But it might as well be worlds apart. Sometimes your knees brush under the desk and both of you freeze like it burned.

Like the contact is too much. Or too little.

When you do talk, it’s sharp. Brief. Controlled. Like throwing knives and pretending it’s a handshake.

“Room three’s ready for dispo.” “Did you sign off on the chest CT?” “I’ll grab the kid in four. Don’t wait on me.”

Jack stays late at work often. You see it in the deepening lines under his eyes.

You want to ask him where he goes. You want him to ask if you’re eating. If you’re sleeping. If the headaches have come back.

But all either of you ever do is swallow the words before they leave your throat.

Like if you don’t say them out loud, they can’t hurt you.

The baby goes to daycare or with a friend. Sometimes Langdon/Mel or Robby/Collins picks him up. You barely speak about it—just leave a note.

You still see next to each other. Inches apart. 

The few times you do talk, it’s like striking matches just to see what’ll burn.

Then silence. Or worse: you both walk away.

People at the hospital notice. Dana gives you long looks. Mel offers to babysit more often—she doesn’t say why. Robby has tried, multiple times, to corner Jack in the break room. Each time, Jack brushes past him with a polite nod that could kill a conversation at twenty paces.

At home, the distance is worse. Because there’s no chart to hide behind there. No chaos to keep your hands moving.

Just the sound of your son babbling. The scent of formula and soap. The occasional buzz of a phone that neither of you rush to answer.

You take turns holding the baby. Passing him off like a shift change. You smile at your son, stroke his hair, kiss his forehead like a prayer. And Jack does too. You both still love him more than anything. But he’s the only thing you have in common anymore.

You lie facing opposite walls, backs rigid, afraid to turn and find the other already gone in every way but physical.

Sometimes you pretend to sleep just to avoid speaking. Sometimes you wait, holding your breath, listening to see if Jack will say something—anything.

He doesn’t.

He used to breathe your name like a lifeline. Now he just breathes.

And you both think it, louder with every night:

“Say it. Please, just say it.” “We’re not okay.”

But no one says it.

No one says the word divorce either. But you’ve both felt it, breathing at the edge of the bed. At the foot of the crib. In the passenger seat during the drive home, when neither of you even bother turning on the radio anymore.

You tell yourself you’re holding on for your son. But sometimes, you wonder if your son is the only one holding you. You wonder if the next shift is the one where it all cracks. If someone will raise their voice.

Or reach out. Or pack a bag.

But for now, you both pretend. Pretend the baby doesn’t notice. Pretend the coworkers don’t stare. Pretend the ghost of that night isn’t still standing in your kitchen, bleeding out between you.

Because saying we’re not okay would mean admitting it broke.

And neither of you are brave enough to look at the broken pieces just yet.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

———————————————————————

14 Weeks

The shift’s dragging. Overhead lights buzz. Monitors beep. The smell of antiseptic is a constant background noise, and you’ve been charting what feels like forever, when Langdon walks over, leaning against the counter with a takeout coffee in hand and his usual smirk just slightly dimmed ready to start his day.

He glances between you and Jack—who’s on the other side of the ER.

“So…” Langdon says casually, sipping his coffee, “what’s the plan for the big day?”

You blink. “What big day?”

He lifts a brow. “Anniversary. Two, actually. Three years together, one year married. In like, what — two weeks?” He smiles. “I mean, I don’t know what kind of sickos celebrate both, but I assumed you’d at least pretend to give a shit.”

Your fingers pause on the keyboard. You blink slowly. You hadn’t forgotten. You just weren’t thinking about it. Couldn’t afford to.

Across the ER, Jack starts walking toward you. Neither of you see him.

He falters, suddenly unsure of his joke, of this moment, of everything.

“Anyway…” he says, trying to backpedal, “figured you guys had something planned. Dinner, maybe? A night off? Or just some baby-free time?”

You keep typing. “Pretty sure he’ll find a reason to leave the house.”

Langdon frowns. “Come on. That’s—look, I get it, things are rough. But anniversaries matter. Even if it’s just one night where you both pretend to still like each other.”

You snort, low and dry. “If we make it through a diaper change without arguing, it’s considered foreplay at this point.”

Langdon cracks a grin, then hesitates. “Okay, but real talk? You ever think maybe what you guys need is just one massive, completely inappropriate round of hate sex? Clean the pipes, scream it out, whatever.”

You huff a laugh, but it dies quick. “As sexually frustrated as I am, hate sex won’t fix this. We’re too far past that. There’s nothing left to burn.”

Langdon watches you. His expression shifts. Less teasing now. More concerned. “I don’t know. Thought maybe you’d want to remember why you did all this in the first place.”

You don’t answer. Not at first.

And then, voice low: “Some days I can’t remember what that reason was.”

Behind you, Jack reaches the station. You don’t hear his footsteps. But Langdon’s eyes flick behind you—and his mouth snaps shut.

You don’t realize he’s there until Jack speaks.

“Some days,” Jack says quietly, “I wonder if it was ever real.”

Your spine stiffens. Your hands go still.

Langdon takes a step back like someone just hit a tripwire. “Okay. Yeah. I’m gonna go be literally anywhere else.”

He walks off fast, his usual sarcasm nowhere in sight.

You turn slowly. Jack’s eyes meet yours.And it’s not indifference. It’s not even anger. It’s something hollow. Bruised. And dangerous. You stare at him, pulse ringing in your ears, and you don’t know what you’re more afraid of:

That he meant it. Or that you believe him.

But you don’t say anything. Neither does he.

You turn back to your screen. Jack takes the chart he came for.

And for the rest of the shift—hell, maybe the rest of the week—you don’t speak.

Not even when you pass each other in the trauma bay. Not even when your hands brush by accident while gloving up. Not even when your baby, that night, looks between you with wide, wondering eyes like he can already sense the cracks forming in the walls of your home.

You wonder if silence is safer than honesty. You wonder how many more words you can leave unsaid before the whole thing collapses.

You wonder if you’re still in love. Or just in mourning.

——————————————————————— 

15 Weeks 

The baby’s finally asleep upstairs, but the silence in the house isn’t peace. It’s a powder keg, waiting for a spark.

You sit on the couch, numb, scrolling through your phone without really seeing anything. The kitchen light is on, and you hear Jack unloading the dishwasher like a man ready to explode—plates clattering louder than necessary, fists clenched.

Then the sound of breaking glass. A bowl hits the floor, shattering like a gunshot in the quiet house.

“FUCK!” Jack’s voice cuts through the air, harsh and raw.

You jump up. “Seriously? You’re losing it over a fucking bowl?”

No response.

You step closer, voice rising. “Is that all this is now? You breaking shit instead of talking? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Jack spins around, eyes wild. “You want to know what’s wrong? This! This goddamn mess of a life! The silence between us, the cold that’s sucking the air out of this house!”

You’re trembling now, anger bubbling beneath exhaustion. “Oh, so it’s my fault? I’m the problem because I’m still standing, still trying to hold it together?”

He laughs—bitter and broken. “Yeah. You’re fine, aren’t you? Back at work like nothing happened. Like you didn’t almost die on that table and leave me standing there with my hands tied!”

You throw your hands up. “And what? You think I wanted to die? You think I chose to go through that? You think it was easy for me?”

“No,” he snaps. “But you act like it’s over. Like we just pick up and move on.”

“You left me!” Your voice cracks. “You shut me out. You turned your back when I needed you the most.”

Jack’s face twists, the weight of it all crashing down. “I didn’t leave. I stayed. But you were so busy pretending everything was fine, I was drowning alone.”

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to say I left first.”

Silence crashes down like thunder.

Jack’s voice softens, raw with pain. “I miss you. I miss us. But it feels like every time I reach for you, you pull away.”

You swallow hard. “Maybe because every time I reach for you, you’re already halfway gone. Why are we still together Jack?”

“Why are you acting like we’re divorced already?”

That was the first time one of you had said that word out loud. 

The baby cries from upstairs, a sharp, desperate sound that cuts through the tension.

You look at Jack. Your voice breaks. “You should go check on him. You’re the only one who can calm him right now.”

Jack hesitates, eyes searching yours like trying to find a lifeline in the wreckage.

You turn away before he answers, heart pounding with the fear that maybe, just maybe, this might be the moment everything finally falls apart.

———————————————————————

16 Weeks Anniversary Day.

Over 5 years of knowing each other. Three years together. One year married. The calendar reminder pings on your phone that morning and you silence it without looking.

You and Jack pass each other in the kitchen like ghosts. The baby babbles in his high chair, spoon in hand, oatmeal on his nose. He’s the only one making any noise.

No one says “Happy Anniversary.” No plans. No smiles. No eye contact.

You grab your keys and your list. Open the fridge. Slam it shut a little harder than needed.

“I’m going to the store.”

Jack, at the sink rinsing out the bottle, nods. Doesn’t turn around. “Okay.”

And that’s it. You leave without saying goodbye.

An hour and a half later.

You walk back in the door, reusable grocery bags in hand, shoulders stiff from the weight of it all—not just the food, but the silence, the grief, the way this day was supposed to be something.

But the house is quiet. Too quiet.

You stop in the entryway. No baby noises. No Jack.

“Jack?”

No answer. You walk into the living room. Empty. No baby babe. No clatter of toys. No Jack.

Then you see the note. Scribbled on a page from a prescription pad, resting on the coffee table:

“Robby and Collins picked him up. Just for a few hours. Come upstairs.”

Your chest tightens.

You move slowly, guarded. You haven’t climbed these steps without your heart in your throat in weeks.

But then you reach the top—and the bedroom door is cracked open.

Candles. Soft music playing on your old Bluetooth speaker.The bed made—sheets clean, quilt pulled tight. Your favorite bottle of wine on the nightstand, still sealed, in silent acknowledgment you probably won’t want it.

And Jack.

Standing in front of the dresser. Wearing the shirt he wore the night he proposed, sleeves rolled up like he’s ready for a fight.. Nervous. Pale. Eyes rimmed red like he hasn’t slept. He turns when he hears you step in. 

“I know I don’t deserve a chance. I know I waited too long. But I didn’t want today to go by like this.”

You don’t say anything yet. He gestures at the room—at the awkward attempt at intimacy, at effort, at something.

“I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if we can. But I thought maybe if I could just stop time for a minute, just us—without the fights, or the hospital, or the weight of what we’ve done to each other—maybe we could just remember.”

He swallows. Hard. You can see his hands shaking.

“Please don’t walk away from this without letting me try.”

You stand there. Breath caught. So many things to say, none of them safe.The room is silent again. Except now, for the first time in weeks, it’s not angry silence. It’s something else. Your throat is thick and your eyes sting and your knees feel like they might give out, and for the first time in months, you see him. Not just Jack the co-parent. Not just Jack the stranger sleeping next to you.

You see your Jack.

The one who used to trace circles on your back at 2 a.m. The one who held your hand through contractions and cried harder than you did when your son was born. The one who fucked everything up and knows it.

You take a step inside. Then another. And Jack doesn’t move—not yet—but his eyes stay on yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

You reach out. Just lightly. Fingers brushing the side of his shirt.

He breathes in sharp—like even your touch hurts now, like he doesn’t think he deserves it.

“I’m still so mad. And I still don’t trust this version of you. And I don’t know if we can make it.”

His jaw tenses. Nods. He whispers, “I know.”

“But I want to. I want to at least try.”

His eyes drop. You place your palm flat against his chest.

“I miss you Jack. And I hate how much I miss you. I need us back. But not if it means pretending this didn’t break us. I need us to start from here. From this.”

Jack’s breath hitches. Hands trembling as they reach for yours. He opens his mouth to speak but, you cut him off, stepping even closer to him.

“I really fucking miss you, Jack. I still want you.”

His eyes flash. “I never stopped wanting you. Even when I hated myself.”

And the space that was between you was gone.

He grabs your face like he’s drowning and you’re air. You kiss him hard, teeth clicking, mouths crashing—months of silence and grief and fury all unraveling between lips that remember too much.

He gently pushes you on to the edge of the bed. 

“You know this won’t fix anything?”

He uses his knee to part your legs and stand in between them.

“Of course not. Nothing will. You’ll never fucking let go.”

“You checked out. And now you want to play house like none of it happened?"

"I wanted to disappear. I couldn’t breathe with you looking at me like I ruined your goddamn life."

"You did. You ruined everything."

His eyes go dark as he stands directly above you, panting already.

"Then hate me. Fucking hate me. But don’t pretend you don’t want this." He wraps his hands around your neck.

“You still want this?”

“You want me to show you?” he growled. “You want to see how much I fucking want you?”

Your heart was pounding in your throat. “Yeah. I do.”

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was punishing. Teeth and tongue and bruised lips, months of swallowed arguments and half-hearted apologies spilling out all at once.

His hands roam boldly, sliding under your shirt, fingers skimming over the soft skin of your ribs, down to the curve of your waist. He pauses there, thumbs pressing into your back, pulling you flush against him.

Jack’s fingers work fast, unclasping your bra with practiced ease, and his mouth drops to your collarbone. His teeth nip gently, and you gasp, breath hitching as his tongue flicks over a sensitive spot behind your ear.

The contrast of his warm mouth on your cool skin makes your head fall back, exposing your throat to his hungry kisses. His hands roam lower now, fingers trailing down the curve of your hips, pressing firmly into your flesh, anchoring you to him.

He peels your shirt off with a rough tug, revealing your bare stomach, the skin flushed pink from his touch. His hands explore every inch—tracing the hollow of your waist, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over taut nipples that harden under his attention.

His fingers slip between your legs, finding the slick heat already pooling there. Slow, teasing strokes, circling, pressing just enough to make your breath catch. “You like fighting with me?” he asks, voice low, dangerous. “You’re so fucking wet,” he muttered against your neck, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. 

You glared down at him. “I like when you act like you want me.”

His eyes met yours—dark, seething, and full of something else. Something raw. “Oh, I fucking want you. You have no idea how bad I want to fuck you.”

He takes his time, worshipping you with slow, deliberate kisses, the wet heat of his tongue sending tremors through your core. His hands hold your thighs apart firmly, pressing you open for him. You writhed, fingers threading into his curls, already falling apart.

You come fast and hard, a trembling gasp and shudder that leaves you breathless and begging. But Jack doesn’t stop. His mouth trails up your body, kisses brushing over your stomach, chest, and finally back to your lips — tasting you, claiming you.

“Get on your knees.” He commands, voice husky.

He fumbled with his belt, yanking his pants down, and you reached for him—fisting his cock, already hard and leaking for you.

“Come on babygirl, I need to feel the back of that fucking throat.”

Your tongue flicks out, tracing the vein that pulses with every heartbeat. You take him in slowly at first, tasting the salty precum, the heat slick and inviting. His breath hitches, deep and ragged, as your lips slide down, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head.

Jack’s fingers tighten in your hair, anchoring you, guiding you. You suck gently, then faster, lips moving in a slow, sinful rhythm that sets both of you on fire.

You wrap your hands around his thighs, feeling the hard muscle tense under your touch. His hips shift forward, pressing into your mouth, and you take as much as he offers, gagging lightly, but eager to please, to show him how much you want him.

He groans—a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into your bones. The sound sends shivers racing through your spine.

“God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he pants, voice thick with need.

He pulls back just enough to look down at you—eyes dark, wild, filled with a hunger that mirrors your own. His hand slides from your hair down to your cheek, thumb brushing softly over your flushed skin.

“Get up.” You obeyed. 

His hips press against yours, the heat of his body igniting every nerve ending.

Slowly, he pushes inside you, filling you completely. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling as the sensation overwhelms you.

He pulls out just a fraction, then thrusts in deep again—steady, unrelenting. Each movement is precise and powerful, driving straight to the core of your desire.

You bite down on your bottom lip to keep from crying out. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room—their rhythm a raw, unfiltered conversation between two bodies desperate to reconnect.

Jack’s hands grip your hips tighter, fingers digging in as he sets a brutal pace. His breath is hot against your neck, words swallowed by ragged gasps and groans.

“Say it,” he hisses, voice dark with need. “Say you’re mine.”

You don’t have to think. The words fall from your lips like a prayer, breathless and raw: “I’m yours.”

He shifted, sitting up on his knees, dragging your hips up with him so he could watch himself disappear inside you over and over again. “You been fighting me for months, just to get filled like this, huh? That it, babygirl?”

Your voice broke. “Yes—fuck, Jack—don’t stop—”

He leaned down again, kissed you hard, held your face with one hand, your hip with the other, and slowed just enough to drive you insane. You clawed at his back, pulling him closer.

“Look at me,” he demanded. “Cum with me. I need to feel you fall apart on me.”

Locked your eyes with his and let it hit—hard, fast, shattering.

You convulsed around him, sobbing his name, shaking under him.

Jack came with a strangled moan, spilling inside you, hips still thrusting as he rode it out.

The aftermath was silent but heavy.

He didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, chest heaving, arms trembling from the strain. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and held him tight, legs still tangled.

Your voice cracked. “We’re a mess.”

He laughed quietly against your collarbone. “Yeah. But you’re my mess.”

After a long moment, he rolled to the side, pulling you with him until you were curled against his chest. He kissed your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

You buried your face in his neck. “I’m sorry too.”

A long beat.

He pulled the blanket over both of you and whispered against your hair, “Happy anniversary babygirl.”

You smiled against his skin. “Happy anniversary, Jack.”

He laughed. You kissed him again—slow, soft, no fight left in it.

Just love. And the kind of heat that only comes from knowing each other inside and out—rage and all.

———————————————————————

20 Weeks Later

You sit at the edge of the break room table, shoulders hunched like you’re carrying the weight of the world. Your voice is barely more than a whisper, fragile as glass.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” you say, “Jack… he’s here, but he’s not really here. When I try to say anything important, he just shuts down. Like I’m invisible. Like none of this matters anymore.”

Langdon is silent, watching you with that look—the one that says he knows but doesn’t want to hurt you more.

“We don’t fight. Not really. We don’t argue or scream. Instead, we have sex. Too much of it honestly. It’s the only thing left that even feels like a connection.” Your voice breaks, a quiet sob catching in your throat. “But it’s empty. Hollow. Like trying to hold water in my hands. It doesn’t fix anything. It just... reminds me how far gone we are.”

Your fingers tremble as you pull at the sleeve of your scrubs. “I’m so tired, Langdon. So scared. Because every time I look at him, I wonder if he’s already given up on us, on me.” You close your eyes for a moment, swallowing hard. “I’m scared I’m holding onto a ghost.”

Langdon’s hand finds yours, warm and steady. “You don’t deserve this,” he says softly.

“I just want to be loved — truly loved — and not be afraid every time I reach out that he’ll disappear all over again.”

The quiet stretches. You feel utterly alone in a room full of people.

Langdon’s voice is barely above a whisper, “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, but the hollow ache in your chest feels endless.

——————————————————————— 

24 Weeks Later - Working Together 

You’re exhausted. Not just from the patients or the hours—but from pretending you’re okay. Pretending your marriage is still whole. Your shift is about to start but, you left your badge in the car and ran outside to find it.

That’s when you see him. Jack.

Standing just off to the side, half in shadow. Wearing that faint smirk he doesn’t know he has. And standing in front of him—maybe mid-20s, stylish jacket, glossy hair pulled up into a high ponytail—is a woman laughing a little too hard at something he said.

You slow. Stop. Watch.

She touches his arm lightly when she laughs again. A touch that lingers just a second too long.

Jack doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t say he’s married. Doesn’t mention you.

Your stomach turns. Not rage. Not jealousy. Something worse. Something hollow and sharp and old.You can’t hear what they’re saying. But the body language says enough. She leans in. He’s not exactly leaning back.

You swallow hard and start walking again. Not toward them. Past them.

But Jack sees you. Mid-laugh, his eyes catch yours—and for a second, his face falls. Just a flicker. Like he’s been caught doing something shameful.

She follows his gaze, glancing over her shoulder at you, then back at him. “That one of your coworkers?”

Jack hesitates. Just a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s actually my wife. The mother of my son."

“Oh, power couple huh?”

“Excuse me for a second.”

You keep walking. You don’t wait. You don’t stop. But you hear his voice call out behind you. “Hey—hey, wait—”

You don’t. You just push through the parking lot, heart in your throat, pulse pounding in your ears.

It wasn’t cheating. Not technically. Nothing happened. But you know what you saw. Jack catches up to you just before you reach your car.

“Hey—wait.” His voice is too calm for how fast he’s moving. Like he knows he should sound casual. Like he knows he shouldn’t sound guilty.

You don’t stop. Just open the door and grab your badge.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

You finally turn. Slowly. Your face is blank, but your eyes—your eyes are wildfire. Not yelling. Not crying. Worse than that: quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I wasn’t aware I needed to stay and wait while you flirted with someone.” you say.

Jack scoffs. “Are you kidding me? Her dad was admitted last night, she was just telling me how he’s doing now.”

“She touched your arm,” you snap, “twice. You didn’t move. You smiled at her like she made your night.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. “I’m allowed to be polite.”

“No. You’re allowed to be present. With me. Which you haven’t been for weeks unless I’m on my knees or naked.”

His expression hardens. “So this is about sex now?”

“This is about everything, Jack,” you say, voice low but shaking, "This is about how I have to go to Langdon just to feel heard. How you shut down every conversation unless it ends with you inside of me.”

He laughs under his breath, a bitter sound. “You act like I’m the only one who shuts down. You don’t exactly run toward the hard conversations either.”

“Because I can’t reach you,” you fire back. “And you know it. Every time I try, you dodge or distract or fuck your way out of it. And I blame myself to because I let you.”

The silence between you crackles. Heavy. Full of words neither of you can say without risking collapse.

Jack rubs the back of his neck. “So what, now I’m cheating because I didn’t push someone’s hand off my arm?”

You exhale sharply, trying not to shake. “You didn’t cheat. But you hesitated. And that’s enough.”

Jack takes a step closer, voice softer. “You don’t really believe I’d do that. You know me better than that.”

You shake your head. “I thought I did.”

That lands.

Jack’s face twists like you punched him. But you don’t take it back. You can’t.

———————————————————————

The Next Morning - After Shift 

The hum of the vending machine is the only sound in the break room. You sit, waiting for Jack to finish handoff so you can go home.

Langdon comes in, ready to start his shift. His first stop, the coffee machine, as usual. “What happened to you kid?”

 You finally speak, your voice barely above a whisper. “I saw him outside. Jack. Talking to another woman, the daughter of one of his patients.”

Langdon says nothing. Just waits.

You swallow hard. “She was laughing. Touching his arm. He didn’t move. He didn’t even look uncomfortable.” You force a breath. “He looked…flattered almost.”

Langdon’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I don’t think he did anything wrong. Not technically. But that’s what makes it worse, you know?” You finally look up, eyes red. “He hesitated. She asked if he knew me, it was almost like he didn’t want her to know he’s married.”

Langdon’s jaw clenches. “I’m sorry.”

You nod once, staring at the table. “It’s not about her. I don’t care about her. It’s about the fact that I felt more like a stranger than a wife when I saw them together.”

Langdon leans forward. “Have you told him how that made you feel?”

You give a hollow laugh. “No, thought we were going to scream at each other in the parking lot last night. I walked away before someone needed to call security.”

Langdon’s expression softens. “That’s not love. Not the kind you deserve.”

“I know,” You blink fast, trying not to cry. “Sometimes I think maybe he’s already gone and I’m just the only one who hasn’t left yet.”

Langdon is quiet for a long time. Then he says, carefully, “You’re not crazy for needing more. For needing something real. Jack’s not a bad guy, but he’s broken. And he’s dragging you down with him.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t want to give up.”

“I’m not telling you to,” he says gently. “But don’t forget yourself in this. Don’t disappear just to keep him.”

You nod slowly, the ache in your chest blooming all over again. “Thanks, Lang.”

He squeezes your hand. “I’ve got you. Always.”

And for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

———————————————————————

The Morning Drive Home

The car ride is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in from all sides. Jack drives with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming restlessly against his thigh. You sit beside him, arms crossed, gaze fixed out the window. The radio plays something low and forgettable.

Finally, he breaks. “You gonna say anything?”

You don’t turn to him. “About what?”

His voice sharpens. “Don’t do that.”

Your jaw tightens. “Do what, Jack? Be quiet? I thought you liked that version of me.”

He exhales hard, gripping the steering wheel. “Jesus. Are we seriously back here again?”

You turn now, slowly. “We never left.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He shakes his head. “You know what? Say it. Whatever it is you’re dying to get out, just say it.”

You lean toward him slightly. “I don’t trust you.”

That lands hard. His knuckles go white on the wheel.

“You don’t trust me?” he says, incredulous. “Over what? A conversation outside the hospital?”

“She touched you,” you snap. “You smiled at her. And when she asked about me, you paused. Like you had to decide.”

Jack slams his palm against the steering wheel. “A split second. You’re blowing it up because you’re pissed at me for everything else.”

You laugh, humorless. “No, Jack. I’m pissed because I haven’t seen you in months. The real you. And when I finally did, it was from twenty feet away while some girl ran her fingers down your arm like she had a chance.”

“Nothing happened.”

“It’s not about what happened!” you shout, louder than you meant to. “It’s about what keeps not happening. You don’t talk to me. You don’t see me. Unless I’m naked and begging you to.”

He pulls into the driveway too fast, jerking the car into park.

You’re out of the car first, slamming the door hard behind you.

Inside the house, neither of you bother taking off your shoes. The air between you is thick, static with everything unsaid.

Jack rounds on you as soon as the door shuts. “So what, you just assume I want someone else now?”

“I assume you don’t want me,” you fire back. “Not really. You want the version of me that doesn’t cry. That doesn’t need anything. That moans instead of talks.”

He steps closer. “You think I don’t want you? You think I haven’t been crawling out of my skin trying to keep us together?”

You scoff. “All you’ve done is fuck the cracks shut.”

Silence. Breathless. Charged.

Jack’s eyes are dark, jaw tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. “What do you want from me?” he growls.

You take a step forward, voice low, trembling. “I want to matter.”

That’s the moment everything tilts.

He grabs you like he’s drowning, like you’re both falling. Your mouths crash together—furious, aching. He presses you up against the wall, hands in your hair, teeth grazing your jaw.

It’s not gentle. It’s not tender. It’s desperate. Like the only way either of you knows how to speak anymore is with skin and pressure and bruises left behind.

You claw at his shirt. He lifts you like he’s done it a hundred times before—because he has. Because this is familiar. Predictable.

He groans, low and ragged, and lifts you like it’s muscle memory, your legs wrapping around his waist as he stumbles toward the couch. 

You hit the cushions hard, his weight following, pressing you down. His shirt is gone now, torn off in a frenzy, and your hands roam the familiar planes of his back, tracing scars and muscle you’ve memorized over years. 

But it’s different this time. Every touch is laced with something sharp—grief, maybe, or the fear that this is all you have left. His fingers fumble with your scrub top, shoving it up, and the air hits your skin like a shock.

His mouth follows, hot and urgent, grazing your collarbone, your ribs, as if he’s mapping you, trying to remember.

You claw at his back, nails digging deep into muscle and scar, desperate to feel something real, something raw. Your breath hitches as his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants, cool air shocking your overheated skin as he shoves them down, baring you completely.

His fingers don’t hesitate. They press inside you, slow and teasing at first, circling with sharp intent, coaxing a moan from your throat that sounds more like pain than pleasure. You bite down hard on your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying out.

“Fuck,” he growls, his voice thick and rough. “You’re so fucking tight. So damn wet. I need to be inside of you right now.”

Then he’s moving—his pants and boxers gone faster then you can blink. He undress you in one solid move and positions himself on top of you.

He pushes inside you hard and fast, hips slamming against yours with brutal urgency. No gentleness, no softness. Just harsh, relentless need.

You cry out, part shock, part release, your body arching up to meet him, muscles clenched tight around him as if holding on for dear life. The air around you thick with the sounds of skin slapping skin, ragged breathing, and the desperate, angry mix of frustration and desire that you both refuse to say out loud.

“You think this is just sex?” Jack hisses, teeth clenched, eyes blazing as he thrusts deeper. “This is everything we’re not saying. Every goddamn fight, every silent night, every lonely morning.”

You don’t answer with words—your body is the only language you have now. Nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer, lips parted in gasps and cries as you meet every brutal thrust with your own desperate hunger.

His hands grip your hips, bruising the skin as he pounds into you harder, faster, his voice dropping into a ragged growl. “You want me to hurt you? To tear you apart? Because that’s all I’m good at these days.”

You shake your head, breath coming in broken bursts. You can’t speak. 

Your whole body trembles, tears stinging your eyes, the heat of it crashing over you like a wave.

Jack follows moments later, muscles spasming as he spills inside you, groaning your name in a way that’s both fierce and pleading. The tension that held you both taut finally snaps, and the silence that follows is heavy, thick with everything unsaid.

Lying tangled on the couch, sweat still cooling on your skin, your breaths mingling in the heavy quiet, Jack’s eyes flutter open. His gaze drifts over you for a moment — softening, searching — before a sharp flicker of something else crosses his face.

He sits up slowly, the heat between you replaced by sudden tension. His hand runs through his damp hair, voice rough as he breaks the silence.

“Wait, we have to go pick up Jack.”

You blink, the question catching you off guard. “He was going to stay with Robby and Collins until tomorrow after our shift.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. “I know, I just- I need to see him.”

You sit up too, the weight of the morning pressing down again. “We can get him now but, he’ll be in daycare at the hospital tonight then.”

Jack stands, running a hand over his face, frustration and exhaustion mixing. “Yeah, that’s fine, I don’t see a problem with that.”

You reach out, grabbing his arm gently. “I’ll just go and get him then.”

He shakes his head, determination sparking in his eyes. “You’re going alone?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ve got this.” You put your clothes back on and grab the keys. You’re out the door before he can stop you.

The fight between you momentarily paused — until the next time life pulls you back under.

———————————————————————

That Night - Work

You sit at the small table, elbow on the surface, chin resting in your palm. You’re staring blankly into your untouched cup of coffee, like maybe it’ll give you answers you haven’t found anywhere else.

Langdon closes the door behind him and leans against the counter. He doesn’t say anything at first. He should be going home but, he knows something’s wrong.

Langdon nods, cautious. “You guys actually talk about it yet?”

A humorless laugh escapes you. “Besides for me confronting him right after? No, of course not. Almost turned into a fight when we got home but”, you shook your head, “We had sex. That’s what we do now. We fight and then act like nothing’s wrong in bed. Or maybe we both pretend that’s the talking part.”

Langdon’s face tightens. “You guys are like two horny teenagers.”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I know. I think its the only thing that makes us feel close, even if it is just physical and nothing more.”

“Where is he anyway?”

“Dropping baby Jack off at daycare.”

“Thought Robby and Collins watch him while you guys are here if they’re off?”

“Yeah, they usual do. But after we had sex he just needed to see him. It’s like he's the only thing holding us together.”

Outside the break room, Jack’s hand freezes on the door handle. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—he just came looking for you. But your voice, low and tired, stops him cold.

“I keep trying to convince myself it didn’t mean anything yesterday. That she didn’t mean anything,” you continue, voice breaking a little. “But it wasn’t about her. It was about the way he smiled. Like she reminded him he still had something left to offer. And I haven’t seen that smile in months. Not around me.”

Langdon’s voice is quiet. “You think he’s checked out?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know,” you say carefully, “that I’ve been waiting for him to come back. And I’m starting to realize he might already be gone.”

Jack exhales sharply on the other side of the door, like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

Inside, Langdon crosses the room and sits across from you. “You still love him?”

You look up, eyes glassy. “I always will. But I don’t know if he sees me anymore. Or if he even wants to.”

“You ever tell him that?”

You shake your head. “Every time I try, I lose him behind that wall he puts up. And I can’t always be the one breaking through it. I’m tired, Lang. I’m so tired of needing more than he’s willing to give.”

Langdon reaches across the table and gently squeezes your hand. “You deserve to be seen. Loved out loud. Not in silence. Not just in bed.”

You nod, blinking quickly, but the pain in your chest is sharp and unmoving.

Jack steps back from the door like he’s been burned, shame etched into every movement. He doesn’t come in. He doesn’t knock. He just stands there—crushed by words that weren’t meant for him, and somehow more honest because of it.

Inside, you sigh.

“I miss him,” you whisper. “I just don’t know if he’s ever coming back.”

And Jack, for the first time in months, feels exactly how far he's drifted from you.

—————————————————————

That Night 3 A.M.

The night hit a lull and you needed some air. Outside, you found the bench in the ambulance bay to compose yourself. Sitting on the edge of an unused stretcher, head in your hands. The weight of the last few weeks—maybe months—pressing down so hard you can barely breathe.

Footsteps approach. Slow. You don’t look up until he’s right in front of you.

Jack. Still wearing that tired, guarded expression he’s had for weeks. But his voice is different. Quiet. Careful.

“Can I sit?”

You shrug. It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no.

He eases down beside you, arms resting on his knees. You both stare ahead for a moment. Same direction. Different planets.

Then, softly— “I heard what you said to Langdon this morning.”

You stiffen.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he adds quickly. “I came looking for you and I just—stood outside the door. I didn’t know if me coming in would actually be helpful.”

You wait. You don’t help him.

He exhales. Rough. Like it costs him something.

“You’re right. About everything. I shut down. I made sex into a shortcut because it was the only place I didn’t feel like I was failing. It was the only place I still knew how to reach you. I thought if I could keep touching you, maybe you wouldn’t realize how much I’ve been disappearing.”

Your eyes sting. You don’t speak.

“You’d come to me—needing something real—and I’d shut you out. Because hearing how much I was hurting you made me feel like I was already too late. So I avoided it. I avoided you.”

His voice is thick now. Raw.

“But I was still here. Watching you drift further away. And I hated myself more every time.”

You glance over. He’s not crying. But his jaw is tight. His hands are clenched between his knees.

“I never stopped loving you,” he says. “Not for a second. But I got lost. And instead of reaching for you, I hid. And now you’re right—there’s this wall between us, and I don’t know how to get over it.”

You whisper, “So why now? Why say this now?”

Jack looks at you, finally meeting your eyes.

“Because I can’t get the look on your face when you saw me with her yesterday moning. I wasn’t flirting—I swear I wasn’t—but I saw the way it hit you. And it broke something in me.”

He leans in, voice barely a breath: “You thought I’d already moved on. That I could be that guy. And it made me realize I’ve been so absent, I stopped earning the right for you to believe in me.”

You blink fast. His words settle like splinters in your chest.

“I want to make it right,” he says. “Not with sex. Not with flowers. With the ugly stuff. With the work. We can go to counseling. I’ll talk when I want to shut down. I’ll sit in the fire with you if that’s what it takes. Just… please don’t give up on me.”

Silence stretches. Heavy.  Your voice, when it comes, is soft. Barely there.

“I don’t need you to be perfect, Jack. I just need to know you still want to fight for us.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“I do,” he whispers. “God, I do.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

And when he reaches for your hand—tentatively, gently—you let him. Just for a moment.

Not because everything is fixed.

But because maybe—finally—it could be.

—————————————————————

One Week Later

The warm scent of garlic and onions sizzles softly in the pan as Jack stirs dinner. The clink of utensils and soft bubbling fills the space.

Across the kitchen island, baby Jack coos happily in his high chair, fingers exploring the edges of a soft toy. His wide eyes follow Jack’s every move, a small smile lighting up his face.

You step into the kitchen, footsteps hesitant, face blank — like you’re carrying a secret too heavy to hold close. Jack looks up from the stove, brows knitting with concern.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You alright?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you reach into your pocket and place something carefully on the counter — a small white plastic stick, the kind you never expected to see again.

Jack’s eyes follow your movement, locking onto the pregnancy test. His hand stills mid-stir.

For a long moment, silence hangs between you, thick and charged. You take a slow step back, avoiding his gaze, the weight of the moment settling like a stone in the room.

Jack’s hand trembles slightly as he sets the spatula down, eyes locked on the small stick on the counter. The unmistakable two pink lines glowing back at him.

“Is- is this real?” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

You swallow hard, still avoiding his gaze. “It’s positive,” you say quietly. “I took two.” You take the other test out and lay them side by side. “Both positive.”

The baby babbles happily in his high chair, oblivious to the tension rippling through the room.

Jack runs a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders shifting from frustration to something else—something fragile, raw.

After a long pause, he finally speaks, voice low and tentative, “I don’t know what to say.”

You shrug, the tension tightening your chest like a vise. “Neither do I. I wasn’t expecting this.”

He moves closer, his hand now steady on your arm, grounding. “Are you scared?”

You nod, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “Terrified. And hopeful? Confused? I don’t know.”

Jack swallows hard, jaw clenched, then drops his hand, running it through his hair again. “We’ve been so broken lately.”

You finally meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

“But maybe…” His voice softens. “Maybe this is a chance. To fix things. Or at least try.”

You stare at him, searching his face for something — hope, fear, love, regret — and find it all tangled there.

“I want to believe that,” you whisper. “But it’s going to take more than a baby to fix us.”

Jack nods slowly, the reality settling in like a fragile promise. “Then let’s take it one day at a time. For him. For us.”

The baby gurgles from across the island, a tiny reminder of what they already have — and what this new life could mean.

You take a deep breath, and for the first time that day, a small, shaky smile crosses your lips.

“Okay,” you say. “One day at a time.”

Jack reaches out again, this time not hesitating. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining, grounding you both.

In that quiet kitchen, surrounded by uncertainty, maybe, just maybe, this is a start. 

-----------------------------------------

I wrote this like 2 weeks ago and just never finish it because I got too focused on playing The Last of Us Part 2 before show finished. Hope you guys enjoy this part! Let me know what you think and if anyone would like a next chapter!