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abbotjack · 1 month ago

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Asking Robby to walk you down the aisle after u said yes to Jack hOLD MY HAND SYDDDD 😭😭😭😭

The Handoff 𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

a/n : I fear I took your idea and turned it into a 4k word emotional spiral. I genuinely couldn’t help myself. like… Jack crying in uniform??? Robby soft-dad-coded and holding it together until he can’t??? the handoff?? the dress reveal??

summary : Jack proposes in the trauma bay. You say yes. Before the wedding, you ask Robby to walk you down the aisle.

content/warnings: emotional wedding fluff, quiet proposal energy, found family themes, Jack crying in uniform, Robby in full dad-mode, reader with no biological family, soft military references, subtle grief, emotional intimacy, and everyone in the ER being completely unprepared for Jack Abbot to have visible feelings.

word count : 4,149 (... hear me out)

You hadn’t expected Jack to propose.

Not because you didn’t think he wanted to. But because Jack Abbot didn’t really ask for things. He was a man of action. Not words. Never had been.

But with you? He always showed it.

Like brushing your shoulder on the way to a trauma room—not for luck, not for show, just to say I’m here.

It was how he peeled oranges for you. Always handed to you in a napkin, wedges split and cleaned of the white stringy parts—because you once mentioned you hated them. And he remembered.

It was how he left the porch light on when you got held over.

How he’d warm your side of the bed with a heating pad when your back ached.

He’d hook his pinky with yours in the hallway. Leave your favorite hoodie—his—folded on your pillow when he knew he’d miss you by a few hours.

Jack didn’t say “I love you” like other people. He said it like this. In gestures. In patterns. In choosing you, over and over, without fanfare.

No big speeches. No dramatic declarations.

Just peeled oranges. Warm beds. Soft touches.

So when it finally happened—a proposal, of all things—it caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t think he meant it. But because you’d never pictured it. Not from him. Not like this.

The trauma bay was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happens after a win—after the adrenaline fades, the stats even out and the patient lives. You’d both been working the case for nearly forty minutes, side by side, barked orders and that intense, seamless rhythm you’d only ever found with him.

You saved a life tonight. Together.

And now the world outside the curtain was humming soft and far away.

You stood by the sink, scrubbing off the last of the blood—good blood, this time. He was leaning against the supply cabinet, gloves off. Something in his shoulders had dropped. His body loose in that way it never really was unless you were alone.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you in that quiet way he always did when his guard was down—like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you weren’t there to catch him tomorrow.

You flicked water from your hands. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

He hesitated.

Then, casually—as casually as only Jack could manage while asking you something that was about to gut you—

“I’d marry you.”

You froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that he caught the subtle change in your face, the way your mouth parted like you needed more air all of a sudden.

His eyes didn’t move. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

“If you wanted,” he added after a beat, voice a little lower now. A little rougher. “I would.”

It didn’t sound like a performance. It sounded like a truth he’d been sitting on for months. One he only knew how to say in places like this—where the lighting was too bright and your hearts were still racing and nothing else existed but you two still breathing.

Your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant to. “I’d marry you too.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

And then he stepped toward you—not fast, not dramatic, just steady. Like he’d already decided that he was yours. Like this wasn’t new, just something the two of you had known without ever having to say it.

No ring. No big speech. No audience.

Just you. Him. The place where it all made sense.

“You’re it for me,” he murmured.

And you smiled too, because yeah—he didn’t say things often. But when he did?

They wrecked you.

Because he meant them. And he meant this.

You. Forever.

You didn’t tell anyone, not right away.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you didn’t have anyone to tell. Not in the way other people did.

There were no group texts. No parents to call. No siblings waiting on the other end of the line, ready to scream and cry and make it real. You’d built your life from the ground up—and for a long time, that had felt like enough. You’d learned how to move through the world quietly. Efficiently. Without needing to belong to anyone. Without needing to be someone’s daughter.

But then came residency.

And Robby.

He hadn’t swooped in. Hadn’t made it obvious. That wasn’t his style. But the first week of your intern year, when you’d gotten chewed out by a trauma surgeon in the middle of the ER, it was Robby who handed you a water, sat next to you in the stairwell, and said, “He’s an asshole. Don’t let it stick.”

After that, it just… happened. Slowly.

He checked your notes when you looked too tired to think. He drove you home once in a snowstorm and started keeping granola bars in his glovebox—just in case.

He noticed you never talked about home. Never mentioned your parents. Never took time off for holidays.

He never asked. But he was always there.

When you matched into the program full-time, he texted, Knew it.

When you pulled your first solo central line, he left a sticky note on your locker: Took you long enough, show-off.

When a shift gutted you so bad you couldn’t breathe, he sat beside you on the floor of the supply room and didn’t say a word.

You never called him a father figure. You didn’t need to.

He just was.

So when the proposal finally felt real—settled, certain—you knew who you had to tell first.

You found him three days later, camped at his usual spot at the nurse’s station—reading glasses sliding down his nose, his ridiculous “#1 Interrogator” mug tucked in one hand. He didn’t notice you at first. You just stood there, stomach buzzing, watching the way he tapped his pen against the margin like he was trying not to throw the whole file out a window.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to fidget.

He looked up. “You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

“No one died.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyebrows raised. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your mouth—then paused. Your heart was thudding like you’d just sprinted up from sub-level trauma.

Then, quiet: “Jack proposed.”

A beat.

Another.

Robby blinked. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Three days ago.”

His mouth opened. Then shut again. Then opened.

“In the middle of a shift?” he asked finally, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

You smiled. “End of a code. We’d just saved a guy. He said, ‘I’d marry you. If you wanted.’”

Robby looked down, then laughed quietly. “Of course he did. That’s so him.”

“I said yes.”

“Obviously you did.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure.

“I didn’t know who to tell. But… I wanted you to know first.”

That landed.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his face soft in that way he rarely let it be. Like something behind his ribs had cracked open a little.

Then he let out a breath. Slow. Rough at the edges.

“He told me, you know,” he said. “A few weeks ago. That he was thinking about it.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Well—‘told me’ is generous,” he muttered. “He cornered me outside the supply closet and said something like, ‘I don’t know if she’d say yes, but I think I need to ask.’ Then grunted and walked away.”

You laughed, head tilting. “That sounds about right.”

“I figured it would happen eventually,” Robby said. “I just didn’t know it already had. This is the first I’m hearing that he actually went through with it.”

He looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing the rim. Then back up at you with something warm in his expression that made your throat go tight.

“I’m proud of you, kid. Really.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t really have… anyone,” you said. “Not like that. But you’ve always been—”

He waved a hand, cutting you off before you could get too sentimental. His voice was quiet when he said, “I know.”

You nodded. Tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“You crying on me?” he teased gently.

“No,” you lied.

“Liar.”

He reached up and gave your arm a firm pat—one of those dad-move, no-nonsense gestures—but he kept his hand there for a second, steady and warm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “The two of you. That’s gonna be something good.”

You smiled at the floor. Then at him.

“Hey, Robby?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth—hesitated. The words were there. Right there on your tongue. But they felt too big, too final for a hallway and a half-empty cup of coffee.

You shook your head, smiling just a little. “Actually… never mind.”

His eyes softened instantly. No push. No questions.

Just, “Alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

And somehow, you knew—he already knew what you were going to ask. And when the time came, he’d say yes without hesitation.

It happened on a Wednesday. Late enough in the evening that most of the ER had emptied out, early enough that the halls still echoed with footsteps and intercom beeps and nurses joking in breakrooms. You’d just finished a back-to-back shift—one of those long, hazy doubles where time folds in on itself. Your ID badge was flipped around on its lanyard. You smelled like sweat, sanitizer, and twelve hours of recycled air.

You found Robby in the stairwell.

Not for any sentimental reason—that’s just where he always went to decompress. A quiet landing. One of the overhead lights had a faint flicker, and he was sitting on the fourth step, half reading something, half just existing. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows.

He looked tired in that familiar, permanent way. But settled. Like someone who wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Hey,” you said, voice low.

He looked up instantly. “You good?”

You nodded. Walked down a few steps until you were standing just above him.

“I need to ask you something.”

He squinted. “You pregnant?”

You snorted. “No.”

“Did Jack do something stupid?”

“Also no.”

He closed the folder in his lap and gave you his full attention.

You hesitated. A long beat. “Okay, so—when I was younger, I used to lie.”

Robby blinked. “That’s where this is going?”

You ignored him.

“I’d make up stories about my family. At school. Whenever there was some essay or form or ‘bring your parents to career day’ crap—I’d just invent someone. A dad who was a firefighter. A mom who was a nurse. A grandma who sent birthday cards.”

Robby didn’t move. Just listened.

“And I got good at it. Lying. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t have anybody. Why there was no one to call if something happened. Why I always stayed late. Why I never talked about holidays.”

You looked down at him now. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t make anything up this time.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Because I have someone now,” you said. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

You took a breath that shook a little in your chest.

“And I’m getting married in a few months, and there’s this part I keep thinking about. The aisle. Walking down it. That moment.”

You cleared your throat.

“I don’t want it to be random. Or symbolic. Or just… for show.”

Another breath.

“I want it to be you.”

Robby blinked once.

Then again.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something. Closed. Then opened again.

“You want me to walk you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He exhaled hard. Looked away for a second like he needed the extra space to catch up to his own heart.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re really trying to kill me.”

You smiled. “You can say no.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He looked up at you, and his voice cracked just slightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

You hadn’t expected to get emotional. Not really. But hearing it out loud—that he’d do it, that he meant it—it undid something small and knotted in your chest.

“You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me, you know that?” he said.

“I didn’t have a plan when you showed up that first year. Just thought, ‘this kid needs a break,’ and next thing I knew you were stealing my chair and bitching about suture kits like we’d been doing this for a decade.”

You laughed, throat thick. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m gonna need a suit now, huh?”

“You don’t have to wear a suit.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m going full emotional support tuxedo. I’m showing up with cufflinks. Maybe a cane.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood then—slower than he used to, one hand on the railing—and looked at you with that same warmth he always tried to hide under sarcasm and caffeine.

“You did good, kid.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

The music started before you were ready.

It was quiet at first. Just the soft swell of strings rising behind the door. But your hands were shaking, your throat was tight, and everything felt too big all of a sudden.

Robby looked over, standing next to you in the little alcove just off the chapel doors, tie only mostly straight, boutonniere slightly crooked like he’d pinned it on in the car.

“You’re breathing like you’re about to code out,” he said gently.

You gave him a half-laugh, half-gasp. “I think I might.”

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered, eyes already burning. “I don’t know—maybe. Yes. I just—Jack’s out there. And everyone’s watching. What if I trip? Or ugly cry? Or completely blank and forget how to walk?”

Robby didn’t flinch. He just reached out and took your hand—steady and instinctive—his thumb brushing over your knuckles the way he had that night during your intern year, when you’d locked yourself in the on-call room and couldn’t stop shaking after your first failed intubation. He didn’t say anything then either. Just sat beside you on the floor and held your hand like this—anchoring, patient, there.

“Hey,” Robby said—steady, but quieter now. “You’re walking toward the only guy I’ve ever seen drop everything—without thinking—just because you looked a little off walking out of a shift.”

You blinked, chest already starting to tighten.

“I’ve watched him learn you,” Robby continued. “Slow. Quiet. Like he was memorizing every version of you without making it a thing. The tired version. The pissed-off version. The one who forgets to eat and pretends she’s fine.”

He let out a quiet laugh, still looking right at you.

“I’ve seen Jack do a thoracotomy with one hand and hold pressure with the other. I’ve seen him walk into scenes nobody else wanted, shirt soaked, pulse steady, like he already knew how it would end. He doesn’t rattle. Hell, I watched him take a punch from a drunk in triage and not even blink.”

His hand tightened around yours—just slightly.

“That’s how I know,” he said. “That this is it. Because Jack—the guy who’s walked into burning scenes with blood on his boots and didn’t even flinch—looked scared shitless the second he realized he couldn’t picture his life without you. Not because he didn’t think you’d say yes. But because he knew it meant something. That this wasn’t something he could compartmentalize or walk away from if it got hard. Loving you? That’s the one thing he can't afford to lose.”

Your eyes burned instantly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Less pressure on me to be the first one.”

You gave him a teary smile. “You ready?”

Robby offered his arm. “Kid, I’ve been ready since the day you stopped listing ‘N/A’ under emergency contact.”

The doors creaked open.

You sucked in a breath.

And then—

The music swelled.

Not the dramatic kind—no orchestral swell, no overblown strings. Just the soft, deliberate rise of something warm and low and steady. Something that sounded like home.

The crowd stood. Rows of people from different pieces of your life, blurred behind the blur in your eyes. You couldn’t see any one of them clearly—not Dana, not Langdon, not Whitaker fidgeting with his tie—but you felt them. Their hush. Their stillness.

And at the far end of the aisle stood Jack—dressed in his Army blues.

Not a rented tux. Not a tailored suit.

His uniform.

Pressed. Precise. Quietly immaculate.

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for show. It was him.

He hadn’t worn it to make a statement. He wore it because there were people in the pews who knew him from before—before the ER, before Pittsburgh, before you. Men and women who had bled beside him, saved lives beside him, watched him shoulder more than anyone should—and never once seen him like this.

Undone. Open.

There were people in his family who’d worn that uniform long before him. And people he’d served with who taught him what it meant to wear it well. Not for attention. Not for tradition. But because it meant something. A history. A duty. A vow he never stopped honoring—even long after the war ended.

And when you saw him standing there—dress blues crisp under the soft chapel light, shoulders squared, mouth tight, eyes full—you didn’t see someone dressed for a ceremony.

You saw him.

All of him. The past, the present, the parts that had been broken and rebuilt a dozen times over. The weight he’d never put down. The man he’d become when no one else was watching.

Jack didn’t flinch as the doors opened. He didn’t smile, didn’t wipe his eyes. He just stood there—steady, quiet, letting himself feel it.

Letting you see it.

And somehow, that meant more than anything he could’ve said.

The room stayed still, breath held around you.

Until, from somewhere near the front, Javadi’s whisper sliced through the quiet:

“Is he—oh my God, is Abbot crying?”

Mohan choked on a mint. Someone—maybe Santos—audibly gasped.

And halfway down the aisle—when your breath caught and your knees went just a little loose—Robby spoke, voice low and smug, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Well,” Robby muttered, voice low and smug, “remind me to collect $20 from Myrna next shift.”

You glanced at him, confused. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes forward, deadpan. “Nothing. Just—turns out you weren’t the only one betting on whether Jack would cry.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“She said he was carved from Army-grade stone and wouldn’t shed a tear if the hospital burned down with him inside. I disagreed.”

You gawked at him.

“She told me—and I quote—‘If Dr. Y/L/N ever changes her mind, tell her to step aside, because I will climb that man like a jungle gym.’”

You almost tripped. “Robby.”

“She’s got her sights set. Calls him ‘sergeant sweetheart’ when the nurses aren’t looking.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, laughing through the tears already welling. And the altar still felt a mile away.

He finally glanced at you, face softening. “I said she didn’t stand a chance.”

You blinked fast.

“Because from the second he saw you?” Robby added, voice lower now. “That was it. He was done for.”

You had never felt so chosen. So sure. So completely loved by someone who once thought emotions were best left unsaid.

Robby must have felt the shift in your weight, because he pulled you in slightly closer. His hand—broad and warm—curved around your arm like it had a thousand times before. Steady. Grounding. Father-coded to the core.

“You got this,” he murmured. “Look at him.”

You did.

And Jack was still there—still crying. Not bothering to wipe his eyes. Not hiding it. Like he knew nothing else mattered more than this moment. Than you.

When you finally reached the end of the aisle, Jack stepped forward before the officiant could speak. Like instinct.

Robby didn’t move at first.

He just looked at you—long and hard, eyes bright.

Then looked at Jack.

Then back at you.

His hand lingered at the small of your back.

And his voice, when it came, was rougher than usual. “You good?”

You nodded, too full to speak.

He nodded back. “Alright.”

And then—quietly, like it was something he wasn’t ready to do but always meant to—he took your hand, and placed it gently into Jack’s.

Jack didn’t look away from you. His hand curled tight around yours like it was a lifeline.

Robby cleared his throat. Stepped back just a little. And you saw it—the tremble at the corner of his mouth. The way he blinked too many times in a row.

He wasn’t immune to it.

Not this time.

“You take care of her,” he said, voice thick. “You hear me?”

Jack—eyes glassy, jaw tight—just nodded. One firm, reverent nod.

“I do,” he said.

And for once, that wasn’t a promise.

It was a fact.

A vow already lived.

Robby stepped back.

A quiet shift. No words, no fuss. Just one last glance—full of something that lived between pride and grief—and then he stepped aside, slow and careful, like his body knew he had to let go before his heart was ready.

And then it was just you and Jack.

He stepped in just a little closer—like the space between you, however small, had finally become too much. His hand tightened around yours, his breath shallow, like holding it together had taken everything he had.

The moment he saw you—really saw you—something behind his eyes cracked wide open.

He didn’t smile. Not right away.

He didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t reach for you like someone confident or composed.

It was like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life—and still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked—caught somewhere between joy and everything else swelling behind your ribs.

The dress fit like a memory and a dream at once. Sleek. Understated. A silhouette that didn’t beg for attention, but held it all the same. Clean lines. Long sleeves. A bodice tailored just enough to feel timeless. A low back. No shimmer. No lace. Just quiet, deliberate elegance.

Just you.

Jack took a breath—slow and shaky.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking out loud.

You blinked fast, vision swimming.

“You’re not supposed to make me cry before we even say anything,” you managed, voice trembling.

He gave a small, broken laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You could feel the crowd behind you. Every attending. Every nurse. Every person who thought they knew Jack Abbot—stoic in trauma bays, voice sharp, pulse steady no matter what walked through the doors.

And now? They were seeing him like this.

Glass-eyed. Soft-spoken. Undone.

Jack looked at you again. Really looked.

“I knew I was gonna love you,” he said. “But I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

Your breath caught. “Like what?”

He smiled—slow, quiet, reverent.

“Like peace.”

You blinked so fast it almost turned into a sob. “God. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you whispered, smiling through it.

Behind you, the music began to fade. The officiant cleared his throat.

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like it had done a thousand times before—only this time, it meant something.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said softly. “Not in combat. Not in med school. Not even the first time I intubated someone on a moving Humvee.”

You laughed, choked and real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected. “That’s the important part.”

The officiant spoke then, calling for quiet.

But Jack leaned in one last time, voice so low it barely touched the air.

“Tell me when to breathe,” he said.

You smiled, heart wrecked and steady all at once.

“I’ve got you.”

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER attending, man who spent a lifetime holding everything together—closed his eyes and let himself believe you.

Because for once in his life, he didn’t have to be ready for the worst.

He just had to stand beside the best thing that ever happened to him.

And say yes.

#the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #dr robby #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #dr abbot x reader #dr robby x reader #the pitt hbo #the pitt 2025 #fluff #noah wyle #shawn hatosy

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16ferrari · 24 days ago

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Jack abbot x fem!reader

Warnings: fluff, fear of needles, mentions of needles.

“Sweetheart, i need to do this” jack stood in front of you, hands on his hips and a deadbeat exhausted expression on his face.

He was tired, you knew that very much, but the sight of the large, but normally sized, needle on the bathroom counter, made you shake your head. Crossing your arms to protect them from jack inserting the needle into one of them.

“Come on, isn’t there another way?” You whined, sure you probably sounded like a kid, but you’ve never been the huge fan of needles. “Isn’t there a medicine, i could just take, like swallowing wise” you pouted your lips, hoping if you look cute enough he’ll pull out a miracle bottle of medicine that could help you with your infection you were dealing with

Jack sighed for the tenth time that night, he ran a hand through his curls before getting down on his knees to level with you from where you sat on the toilet. He softly Creased your cheek with his rough and working hand, pushing the hair from your eyes, to see the generally terrified look in your eyes.

“Hon, i told you, its a bad infection. Look”

he helped you stand up from the toilet and guided you to the mirror, he stayed behind you tilting your head so you could at yourself in the mirror, tears willed up in your eyes. You did look terrible, skin pale, lips Chapped, dark circles around your eyes, skin around your neck severely red with a rash forming,

“you need the shot, honey or else your gonna get worse. And you don’t want that”

He knew the risks of his next actions could very well get him sick as well, but he could less, he turned you around to face him, he wiped away your fallen tears and leaned forward placing a gentle and loving kiss to your lips, you whined through the pain from his lips meeting your rough ones, and placed your hand on the back of his head pulling him in as close as possible.

You both stayed like that lips connected together, his hands on your waist holding you tightly. “We’re getting distracted” he chuckled against your lips as he pulled away, making you groan throwing your head back, you knew there was no getting out of this.

You retook your sat on top of the toilet and held out your arm for him to inject you with the needle. “Save me doc” you closed your eyes and lowered your head.

Jack couldn’t stop the laugh from leaving his lips, you looked adorable in his eyes. “Promise, you won’t feel it” he filled the needle with the anti-infection medicine, and softly grabbed your arm, flapping it upward, trying to find that particular spot to inject the needle into.

You started humming a song to distract yourself from sharp pain that was to come. Jack looked you eyes soft and yearning, he started humming the song with you, a smile appearing on both of your faces as you both knew what song you were humming, your wedding song.

“Ready”

“No- but sure”

you slightly jumped, biting down hardly on your bottom lip as you felt the metal needle come in contact with your skin. As badly as it hurt, it was over in two seconds, making you chuckle to yourself. “Okay, that actually didn’t hurt” jack’s head fell forward in your lap, a deep laugh leaving his lips.

“I told you honey, it wasn’t” he looked up at you and placed a hand on your cheek, “my little scaredy-cat” he pulled at the back of your head, tugging your head down to plant kisses to your lips.

“Shut up, now your gonna need a shot for kissing me, abbot”

He shrugged his shoulders, “i can handle it” he teased you.

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbot fluff #jack abbot x you #jack abbot oneshot #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot smut #the pitt imagine #the pitt #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt oneshot #shawn hatosy #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot

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greengoblinswifey · 4 months ago

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Older Wrestlers Do It Better—Shawn Michaels x Fem!Reader

summary— After winning your first Women’s Championship, you finally meet your childhood crush, Shawn Michaels. Nervously flirting with him leads to an unforgettable night where he makes your win ever better.

warnings— age gap(reader is in her 20s, shawn is in his 50s), flirting, cunnilingus, praise kink, possessive!shawn, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare.

a/n— My first Shawn Michaels fic, hope you guys enjoy <3 Literally have had a crush on him for so long🤭

Winning the Women’s Championship was the most surreal moment of your life. Years of grinding in other promotions, building your name, perfecting your craft, it had all led to this. The cheers of the crowd, the weight of the gold on your shoulder, the rush of emotions hitting you all at once as you stepped backstage.

The second you crossed the curtain, a wave of congratulations hit you. Superstars, crew members, even higher ups, everyone was there, giving you pats on the back, words of praise. You tried to take it all in, your heart still hammering from the adrenaline, when you heard it.

A deep, gruff voice behind you.

“Congratulations, champ. I’m proud of you.”

You froze. That voice. That unmistakable, slightly raspy voice. Slowly, almost in disbelief, you turned around and your breath caught in your throat.

It was him.

Shawn Michaels.

Your brain short circuited. For years, you’d admired him. Hell, if you were being honest, you’d been in love with him. Growing up, watching him on your TV screen, mesmerized by his presence, his talent, his everything. And now, here he was, standing right in front of you, looking at you like he actually knew who you were.

“Wow,” you blurted out, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathless. “Thank you.”

Shawn smirked at your obvious nerves, his arms crossing over his chest. “You earned it,” he said. “I’ve been watching you for a while now. I made sure they knew you were the real deal. You’re gonna carry this division better than anyone.”

Your heart nearly exploded. Shawn Michaels had been watching you? Shawn Michaels had put in a word for you?

“I—” You struggled to form words, your cheeks burning. “That means everything. I admire you so much, I love your work, I—” You cut yourself off before you started sounding like a crazy fangirl, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from rambling.

His smirk deepened, and before you could react, he pulled you into a hug.

Holy. Fuck.

Your face pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, the scent of his cologne completely overwhelming your senses. Your brain refused to function, your hands awkwardly gripping onto the back of his shirt as your cheeks burned hotter than ever.

After a few moments, he pulled back, his hand squeezing your shoulder before dropping to his side. “Didn’t wanna take up too much of your time,” he said. “Enjoy your night, champ.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you standing there like an absolute fool.

Later, after the chaos of the night settled, you were lounging with Rhea, Tiffany, and Liv in the locker room, all of them still hyped over your win.

“You killed it out there,” Rhea said, nudging you with a proud grin.

Tiffany nodded, flipping her hair. “And let’s be real, your skin looks so good with gold.”

“Thanks, guys. But guess who congratulated me? And—” You leaned in dramatically. “Was apparently partially responsible for my win?”

The girls exchanged curious looks. “Who?” Liv asked.

You took a breath for dramatic effect. “Shawn. Fucking. Michaels.”

The reaction was instant. Rhea’s eyes widened, Tiffany gasped, and Liv practically shrieked.

“Your crush?” Rhea said.

“The man you said you wanted to marry?” Tiffany added.

“Exactly,” you confirmed, still trying to process it yourself.

“And?” Liv pressed. “Did you keep your cool, or did you embarrass yourself?”

You groaned, throwing your head back. “Oh, I embarrassed myself. I was all nervous, blushing like an idiot, barely forming words. But he hugged me. I swear I almost passed out.”

“Okay, but what does this mean? Do you think he was flirting?” Tiffany laughed.

“God, I hope so,” you muttered before sighing dramatically. “I just want him so bad. He’s so fine. And you know I love older men. Like, I would give anything for him to fuck me hard. With eye contact, might I add. Older men just do it better—”

The sudden silence from the girls made your stomach drop.

You saw their eyes widen, their mouths slightly open, and the moment Rhea subtly nodded toward something behind you, you knew.

Slowly, dreading what you were about to see, you turned around.

And there he was.

Shawn Michaels.

Standing right behind you.

Smirking.

Your heart fell straight to the floor. You were so done. Absolutely finished. WWE was going to strip you of your title, fire you, and blacklist you from the industry.

Shawn crossed his arms, looking far too amused for your liking. “Whenever you’re free and ready to leave,” he said smoothly, “meet me in my dressing room.”

You nodded, entirely incapable of forming words.

He winked before walking off, leaving you frozen in place, your entire soul leaving your body.

The second he was out of earshot, the girls erupted into laughter, squealing and shaking you like you’d just won the lottery.

“You are so lucky,” Tiffany gasped, fanning herself.

Liv was practically in tears. “Oh my god, I thought you were gonna die on the spot.”

Rhea smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Well, champ, looks like your childhood crush just became your reality.”

Your brain was still catching up. Shawn Michaels had heard you. Shawn Michaels wanted you to meet him.

Holy. Shit. You were in for one hell of a night.

Shawn was waiting when you stepped into his dressing room, leaning back on the couch with that signature smirk.

“You took your time,” he teased.

Your heart pounded as you shut the door. “Trying to recover from the fact that you heard all of that.”

“Oh, I heard every word, sweetheart,” he chuckled.

You groaned, covering your face. “God, that was so embarrassing.”

He pried your hands away. “Nah, I liked what I heard.” His smirk deepened. “Older men do it better, huh?”

Your face burned. “Are you gonna keep bringing that up?”

“Maybe,” he said, tilting his head. “But I think I’d rather show you instead.”

Your breath hitched, and he leaned in, voice lower now. “Where you staying tonight?”

You told him your hotel, and he hummed in approval. “Same one. I’ll drive you.”

You texted the girls telling them you’d be with him. There would be a lot to talk about in the morning.

The car ride made you nervous. You stole glances at him, watching the way his muscles flexed as he gripped the wheel. He was even hotter in person. He looked just as good, hell, even better than he did on TV. The years had only added to his appeal, roughening his edges in the best way.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said without taking his eyes off the road, “I might just have to pull over.”

You bit your lip. "Can’t help it. You’re kinda unreal."

His smirk grew. “Come to my room tonight. I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been craving.”

Your stomach flipped.

90s Shawn Michaels had been your first love. But Shawn now? Oh, you’d let him do anything to you.

When you arrived at the hotel, people stopped to congratulate you. You took pictures, smiling through the anticipation burning inside you.

The moment the elevator doors shut, his fingers brushed your wrist. “Last chance to back out.”

“Not a chance,” you murmured.

His hotel room door had barely shut before he turned you, pressing you against it. His hands beside your head, eyes dark as they met yours.

“This what you wanted?”

Your breath caught. “I’ve dreamt about this.”

His lips crashed onto yours, stealing any response you had left. His hands gripped under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as you wrapped around him. He carried you to the bed, sinking onto it with you in his lap.

You could feel him beneath you, hard and eager, as you rocked against him. His hands roamed, mapping every inch of you, his lips never leaving yours.

“Been wanting this for years, haven’t you?” he murmured against your lips, hands roaming your body.

You nodded breathlessly, gripping onto his shoulders for balance.

His smirk returned as he cupped your face. “You’re just as sweet as I imagined.”

His lips trailed down your cheek, to your neck, pressing soft kisses that left you shivering. He moved slowly, savoring, before laying you back against the bed, hovering over you. His eyes searched yours, expression softening slightly.

“This okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“I want this. I want you,” you nodded, already breathless.

He exhaled slowly, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Then let me take care of you.”

His hands found the hem of your blouse, fingers toying with the fabric as he waited for your permission. When you gave it, he lifted it over your head, his gaze roaming over you with something akin to awe.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your heart pounding as he leaned down again, pressing another kiss to your lips. He slipped you out of the rest of your clothes then pulled back, his eyes once again taking over you.

“Look at you, naked in front of me. Fucking perfect,” he said.

He knelt, making you gasp, trailing kisses until he reached your clit, spreading your legs and kissing further and further.

“You're soaked, sweetheart, so wet for me,” he murmured, using his tongue to collect your wetness and spitting it back onto your pussy.

A soft moan escaped your lips, you couldn't believe Shawn fucking Michaels was about to eat you out.

“I love those moans. Let me hear you.”

He dived in, flicking his tongue on your clit before bringing it down to your leaking hole and licking back up. His grip was firm but gentle on your thighs, spreading them wide as he continued. You couldn't believe the utter pleasure you were feeling, he was so skilled with his tongue having you squirm underneath him and moan so loudly, you feared the other wrestlers on the floor would hear.

“Oh, Shawn,” you cried, back arching off the bed.

Cocky Shawn hadn’t been lost due to the years. You could feel the smirk between your legs. “That’s it, sweetheart. Scream my name. I’m the one making you feel good.”

His tongue worked you over sending jolts of pleasure throughout your body as his blue eyes stared into yours. As his movements grew, the coil in your abdomen grew tighter, ready to burst.

“Cum on my tongue beautiful.” A loud moan left your lips and your body lifted from the bed, as he practically took your soul and you squirted onto his face, soaking him. He slurped you up like you were his last meal and you squirmed under his touch, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“You're so beautiful when you cum. You taste amazing,” he panted.

You pulled him up into a kiss, his mouth soaked in your juices. His head moved down to your breasts, suckling and moaning as your fingers clawed his back.

Shawn’s eyes never left yours as he undressed, revealing his toned chest and arms. You smiled, your heart racing as you reached out to gently touch his chest, tracing the lines of muscle with your fingertips. “You’re so so hot,” you whispered.

He let out a soft laugh. “You’re the one who’s hot, sweetheart,” he said, his hands in through your curls, tugging you closer to him.

Your lips met his again, tender and slow, savoring the moment. You pressed yourself against him, feeling his hard cock, the heat of his body matching the desire building between you. His hands were gentle but firm as he guided you to the bed, settling you back gently.

Your gaze wandered and your eyes caught his very hard cock. He was so thick, the full package. Shawn always radiated big dick energy but to see it up close and personal—veins prominent, slight curve, long—it was no wonder he acted the way he did in the 90s. He had all reason to be that cocky bastard. He was perfect.

Your mouth practically watered at the sight and you took ahold of it, hand barely able to go around and angled it towards your mouth but he stopped you.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Tonight’s about you, about making sure you feel good.”

You nodded, heart fluttering as he hovered above you, his hands resting on either side of your head. His expression was soft, his eyes filled with nothing but admiration as he looked down at you.

He used the tip of his cock, dragging it along your wet folds as the sound of squelching filled the room. He teased you a bit more, until he slowly pushed inside, your mouth falling open as he thrusted into you. You moaned at the intrusion and looked down, only to see he was just half way in.

“Y-you’re so big,” you gasped.

“I know, but you can take it. This tight little pussy was made for my cock,” he whispered, leaning down to bite your ear lobe.

It felt like all the wind had been knocked from your lungs as he slid the rest of his length inside you. Tiny whimpers left your lips when he stilled, savoring how your walls began to welcome him in.

“See, you can take it baby, it’s okay.” He began rutting into you steadily, each time, you could feel the head of his cock brush against an area no man had ever come close to hitting before. He was so deep.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, rolling his hips to meet yours.

All you could do was moan, the overwhelming pleasure taking your ability to form coherent words.

“God, I love hearing your pretty moans,” he said, pushing your hair back.

You could barely hang on and “Shawn, cum,” was all you managed to say as you felt the pressure build up like a dam ready to burst.

“I can feel your pussy just sucking me in and gripping me. Go ahead sweetheart, cum for me, s’okay,” he cooed.

You cried out, wrapping your arms around him as he picked up his pace, the dam inside you bursting and your orgasm overtaking you. Your entire body shook and he pressed kisses on your damp forehead, slowly moving inside you to draw every last drop of cum from you.

Shawn had awaken that demon deep inside that you weren’t even aware was there. You needed more.

“I need more,” you moaned, voice shaky.

With that invitation, he increased the pace, thrusting harder and deeper. The headboard slapped against the wall under the pressure, the whole floor probably heard, your nails dug into his back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That’s it sweetheart, scratch my back,” his gruff voice said.

You were lost in the rhythm, your breath quickening, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

He was pounding you hard and relentless, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. He pulled back slightly, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. His voice was a low growl as he murmured against your mouth, “You’re all mine. Mine to fuck and use now.”

A shiver of excitement raced through you, and he continued, “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m all yours, Shawn,” you moaned, the words flowing from your lips as if they were the only truth that mattered.

“Such a good girl.” With a gasp, your body responded to his words, pleasure washing over you in waves as you squirted, soaking him completely. Shawn groaned in response, his grip on you tightening as he felt the warmth of your release.

“That’s so hot baby, that turned you on huh,” he said, now chasing his own orgasm as your body lay shaking underneath him.

You were too fucked out to answer, each deep thrust making your pussy throb around him.

He smirked, that infamous cocky smirk, clearly proud of how he had you at his mercy. He switched his pace, slow and deep, driving you both wild. It was as though he was proving a point to you. Showing you exactly who was fucking you and how good it felt.

You wrapped your legs around him tightly for a moment, pulling him closer before releasing them, spreading wider to accommodate him. The shift allowed him to plunge deeper, each stroke igniting a raw, primal desire within you. You gasped, the sensation overwhelming, and you met his movements with your own, grinding against him as he filled you.

“Just like that,” you urged, your voice thick with passion. “Please cum inside me.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. You words sent him over the edge and with a deep, guttural moan, he bucked his hips inside you, his hot cum filling you to the brim. You moaned in satisfaction, his cock throbbing and practically breeding you from how much he came—triggered your own orgasm.

Your body jolted beneath him, shaking from the pure intensity as you both were on cloud nine together.

“I’ve got you sweetheart, fuck, I can’t get enough of this pussy. I’ve got you,” he groaned.

Your body was still buzzing, your mind hazy as you lay against the soft sheets. Shawn pressed a kiss to your temple, his hands tracing slow, soothing patterns along your bare skin.

“You were incredible,” he murmured, voice deep. “So perfect for me.”

“I think that title belongs to you,” you teased, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I mean, I just won the Women’s Championship and spent the night with you, I’m lucky.”

Shawn chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, sweetheart, I’m the lucky one.” He kissed your forehead before slipping out of bed. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

You watched him disappear into the bathroom, and moments later, he returned with a warm cloth, carefully tending to you with the kind of gentleness that made your heart swell.

“Didn’t have to do that,” you smiled.

“I wanted to,” he replied simply.

Once he was done, he climbed back into bed, pulling you close against his chest. His arms wrapped around you securely, his body warm and solid against yours.

“You’re everything I thought you’d be,” you admitted softly, tucking your head under his chin. “And somehow even better.”

He sighed contentedly, his fingers tracing over your back. “And you’re even more perfect than I imagined,” he whispered. “Strong, talented, and so damn beautiful. I knew you were special the second I saw you wrestle.”

You smiled tiredly as you nestled further into him. The day had been surreal, from standing champion in the ring to this—wrapped up in the arms of the man who had been your childhood crush, your inspiration, and now, something more.

As your eyes grew heavier, Shawn pressed a final kiss to your hair, his voice a low murmur against your skin.

“Sweet dreams, champ.”

And with that, you let sleep take you, still wrapped in the warmth of the best night of your life.

489 notes · View notes

oldermenfucker · 7 days ago

Text

This City Holds My Heart | J. Abbot

summary: He hears you are coming back to Pittsburgh for the weekend. Maybe the reunion will wash away the pain that’s left inside him after your paths divided.

warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, heavy angst, hurt no comfort, right people wrong time kind of thing, p in v, exes reunion, mentions of suicidal thoughts, ex!fem!reader, neurologist!reader, Jack’s prosthetic leg, reader is nondescript except that she has hair (long enough to frame her face), reader has a nickname, mentions of PTSD & trauma, widowed!Jack, sad people in love, alcohol consumption (a few drinks), protected sex, lots of tears, JACK’S POV!!! English isn’t my first language<3

word count: 10.3k+ (BEAR WITH ME OKAY)

an: HI this is my piece for A Doctor A Day challenge hosted by these amazing people [ @clubsoft @ananonymousaffair & @letsgobarbs ]! I’m so excited to know your thoughts on this piece🥹 I poured everything I could into this fic, smut, fluff, angst etc and I really want to know what you guys think!

Prompt: "I know you just landed, and I know you're probably busy, but... I'd love to see you?" + Orange

He doesn’t remember the last time he ate something; was it the banana Shen forced him to take a bite from, or the granola bar Dana shoved into his hands when she came to take the shift? Whatever, it doesn’t matter.

Jack pushes his fists into the pockets of his cargo pants, his tired gaze moving from the edge of the rooftop to the building in front of him, watching as sunrise hits the streets of Pittsburgh slowly, crawling its way between the cars and the old bricks of the walls.

He replays the shift in his head, trying to figure out what he missed that led to three code blues. Each case had its own story, each patient had a unique experience, and families begged him to save their loved ones, but he couldn’t.

He brings his fists out of his pockets, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks at the peachy sky, watching how another day starts. Some people don’t get to see this anymore, he thinks bitterly, some people don’t get to start a new day. They are stuck in yesterday while he moves forward as if nothing’s happened.

He looks back at the edge, he takes a step closer, gazing down at the people who move around, getting ready to battle through another twenty-four hours. He wishes he was this free, to walk down a street without the responsibility of the Emergency department, without the little limp in his leg and reminder of how long it took for the soft tissue of his leg to heal.

He has been tempted before to jump, but nowadays he does not even have the motivation to do that. He is numb and has been like this for a good six years, worse after the Pitfest casualties. That was a year ago, how time passes in the blink of an eye, like the sunrise he watches daily.

He throws his head back, listening to the birds chirping. They made a nest a few weeks back, usually coming to their home around the time he walks to the rooftop. They have a life based on instinct, just as he does; he eats, sleeps, goes to work, and then repeats.

Robby calls him a soulless soldier— he is just as bad as Jack, if not worse — because most of the time, there is no smile on his lips, and his tone drips with sarcasm.

Pittfest changed everyone, including the ER cowboys more than others. Robby broke apart with Jake’s withdrawal, and Jack… Jack tries to survive, day by day, and shift after shift. He still finds joy in little things; when he saves someone’s life by his sharp mind, when a procedure is successful, when he argues with Walsh.

There is still an ache inside him from years ago when his wife died, and it only got worse six years ago, and now? All he is a great doctor and nothing more.

He says nothing when he hears the familiar footsteps on the tiny rocks of the rooftop, his stethoscope moving against his chest as he shifts his weight on his good leg, sighing in relief when the tension is halfway gone from his knee.

“Haven’t jumped off yet?” Robby leans on the railing behind Jack, looking as the sun rises slowly from behind the buildings, “Thought you’d done this time.”

“Why? I don’t think I’ve managed to get more depressed since yesterday,” Jack replies, resting his elbows on the metal railing behind him, looking from his peripheral vision at Robby who smiles and shakes his head.

“A trauma came in just a few minutes ago, an attempt or pushed, we don’t know but he was the same age as you. Nearly sent me to cardiac arrest,” Robby drops his head on the back of his hands, “You better not jump, you didn’t do it last year, don’t do it ever.”

“It’s exhausting, brother,” Jack sighs, tilting his head back as the sunlight hits his face finally, the warmth of it spreading on his skin deliberately, “Coming back here, watching people lose someone they care about, calling us names because they don’t know medicine has its limits. And yet, we come back, for what? I don’t fucking know.”

“You have me, I’m here, I’ll never leave you hanging all by yourself,” Robby nudges his forearm, looking at his face with a pleading look, “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“You’re not lonely,” Jack shrugs, “You have Collins. Who do I have? Fucking Shen? I’m living in a loop, man. Every day is the same old same old. I miss my wife, I miss her, there is not a day that I wish I got the help I needed sooner, but even my therapist can’t do shit nowadays.”

“You are being too hard on yourself, brother,” Robby straightens his back, resting his hand on Jack’s shoulder as they both look up to the sky, “Besides, I might have… some news about—“

“Who?” Jack’s ears perk up, his posture growing rigid as he turns his head to look at Robby, “Who?”

“Her,” Robby says with a small smile, “Your Clementine.”

“Don’t say that stupid nickname,” Jack groans, shaking his head as he takes a step back, resting his waist against the cold metal bars, “She hated it.”

“I think she liked it,” Robby shrugs, looking down at his shoes before he starts talking again, “There is a neurology congress tonight, and apparently a follow-up gala on Saturday night with the Head departments PTMC invited.”

“So?” Jack tilts his head at the older doctor, scoffing when Robby raises his eyebrows at him, “You’re telling me you’re invited to a stupid gala that has nothing to do with me?”

“For a medical genius you sure as hell are dumb,” Robby watches as Jack rolls his eyes, “I’m saying she’s coming back to the city.

Jack’s heart drops to the bottom of his ribcage. This has to be a cruel joke, it must be. He doesn’t know how to react; be happy? Why? The last time you saw each other was to say goodbye. Be sad? He already is for ten thousand different reasons.

So when he looks at Robby with his eyes widened in shock, he knows that he is still deeply into something he has tried to bury for years, ever since he watched you board that plane.

“What?” He sounds so small, like a kid lost in a playground; everything feels natural yet so off, like a distant dream turning into a nightmare in the back of his mind.

“She has kept in touch with Dana,” Robby sighs and tightens the grip he has on Jack’s shoulder, squeezing the muscles gently to make sure Jack doesn’t get lost in his head again, “Dana told me her plane would land around… yeah, seven-thirty, eight at most. Which is now.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jack asks, pressing his lips into a flat line, his hands shaking as his chest begins to rise and fall faster. He rests his sweaty palms on the railings behind him, closing his fists around the cold metal.

“I don’t know,” Robby shakes his head, staring into the distance as the sun finally rises into the blue sky, “I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks, brother, now I won’t be able to get a lick of sleep knowing my ex is in the town,” Jack snaps, running a hand down his face as he grits his teeth, all to stop himself from tearing up.

“I didn’t say it to—“ Robby cuts himself off with a deep breath before he pats Jack’s shoulder and takes a step back, “Take it easy, man. I’m gonna go.”

Jack listens to Robby’s footsteps; it takes ten large steps to reach the door, and he stops Robby by the eighth one, shocking both him and his friend to his dismay.

“Is her number still the same?”

Jack’s voice is shaky like he doesn’t trust himself to say it loud enough for Robby to hear, but his friend does, stopping in his steps to glance back at Jack with a small smile.

“Yeah.”

One, two, and Robby is out of the door, leaving Jack heaving with each breath. Jack dodges the railing and steps on the safe side just to lean over the metal bars, his lips parting as he gasps for air.

You are back to Pittsburgh, you are in the city he watched you leave, the same city you made so many memories with him in the streets and bars. The same city that he broke your heart in, the very same one you told him you couldn’t do this anymore.

He lets out a shaky breath, reaching for his phone absentmindedly. One call wouldn’t hurt, right? It wouldn’t tear his heart and break his bones surely. People call their ex-lovers every day, why shouldn’t he?

He opens the list of his contacts, scrolling until he sees your name with a red heart next to it; he didn’t have it in him to change the name, nor could he delete your number.

That is why his fingers are trembling over your phone number, trying to make up his mind before he does anything stupid. But luck is not on his side today it seems — not like it ever was — and his finger slips accidentally and presses the call button.

“Fuck, fuck—“ he yells, putting the phone against his ear quickly, his hand going to his hip as he starts pacing the rooftop, his heartbeat racing with each beep of the line, “What am I doing?”

He doesn’t know if he wants you to pick up the phone or not, he probably does but the thought of talking to you again after the farewell you had makes him anxious. What would he say? Hello? How are you doing? Aren’t these too cliche when you are calling your ex?

The beeping finally stops, and he can feel his heart stopping for a second before it goes to voicemail.

“Hi! Thank you for reaching out, please leave your message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!”

Your voice… fuck, your voice is still as sweet as he remembers. He calms down instantly, a tired smile covering his face as he listens to the voicemail repeating itself. You sound so beautiful, so free as if you didn’t cry hours in his arms as he pushed you away once more, as if he never happened to you.

After the third repeat, he remembers he can leave you a message, hoping you still have his number and he isn’t just an unknown caller.

“Hey,” he clears his throat, running his free hand through his unruly curls, “Hey, um, this is Jack! Y’know, Jack Abbot? Yeah well urm… I heard you are back in town, yeah, Robby said something about a congress you’re attending. I know you just landed, and I know you're probably busy, but... I'd love to see you?"

Fuck, fuck fuck fuckfuck—

He hangs up immediately, his fingers gripping his phone so tightly he thinks it might break. What did he fucking mean he’d love to see you? He is a fucking idiot, a total moron, a dumb piece of scum, but when his phone dings a few minutes as he is near going into a full panic attack, he stops.

“Jack, hi! I’m exhausted now, but I’d love to meet with you before my congress! Our usual cafè near The Pitt?”

He nearly drops the phone, opening the text in the blink of an eye, rereading the message over ten thousand times to make sure it is really you. And when he opens the contact, he sees that it is true, you have texted him, accepting to meet up with him, at the cafè you usually went to after the night shifts.

“Yes, of course. See you at 6?”

He presses send and starts pacing again. Waiting for a reply after six years makes him nervous to the point he thinks he might drop dead on sight.

“See you, Jack!”

He sighs in relief when he reads your reply, chuckling dryly as he rereads the conversation, not truly believing how he is going to meet with you again.

He walks downstairs with flushed cheeks and a heart beating in anticipation. When Robby and Dana see him walking inside The Pitt, he rolls his eyes at them and nods when Dana raises an eyebrow at him in a silent question.

It is going to be a crazy day for sure.

He dresses up as best as he can; a navy blue button-up with worn-out jeans and his black sneakers. Which is so… not Jack. He feels like he has put on a persona he didn’t know he had, his walls slowly building up with each step he takes toward the location.

He thought walking would be a good idea because now his nerves are making him sweat, his palms growing more clammy with every step he takes.

What will he say? Will he ask about how you have been doing? How you are doing? Do you have anyone waiting for you at home—

The thought makes him shiver, stopping him midway to open the door of the coffee shop. He hates the idea of you with someone, he despises it, he fucking loathes it. Even the image of someone holding your hand makes his eyes tick, and his fingers shake over the glass door, but he has to pull through.

The bell over the door dings when he steps inside, memories flooding his mind as he looks around, remembering all the exhausted morning dates after the shifts, all the cries and hushed arguments you two had here.

Bittersweet yet wholesome. He misses the days he could hold your hand, but he gave up as soon as everything got serious.

He rounds the corner to the spot you would always sit, and when he does, his eyes fall on you. He freezes, hands dangling on his sides as he stares at your silhouette.

The orange hue of sunset shines through the windows on your face, your hair framing your face just as beautifully as he remembers if not more. Your hand is tucked under your chin, looking down at the marble table, tracing the shapes mindlessly.

You are ethereal.

Jack feels his lungs are about to collapse when you turn your head and find him standing there, and he watches how your lips stretch into a soft smile, steading yourself with your palm on the edge of the table as you stand up.

He licks his lips and glances down for a brief moment to catch the breath you are stealing from his lungs from a few meters away. He looks up quickly, crossing the remaining distance slowly before he stands in front of you, his eyes swimming with various emotions unknown to him — is it love? Longing? Sadness? He doesn’t know.

“Hey,” he greets you quietly, hazel eyes locking into yours as he waits with bated breath for you to say something, anything. Instead of talking, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close as you mumble a ‘Hi, Jack!’ Into his shirt.

Hugging. You are hugging him after years of no contact. He can’t think even if he wants to. He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you close by muscle memory, breathing in your scent as he buries his face into your hair, trying his best to not cry right here and then.

He lets go of your waist when he feels you lose your grip on him, slowly pulling back to look at his face, and he takes his time memorizing every up and down, every corner of your face.

He thinks of the days he used to kiss every single inch of your face when you were on rotation and he was getting ready to go to the hospital. He remembers how he used to caress your cheek when you fell asleep on his chest on his old couch during movie nights.

He also remembers the days you tried to not let your sadness show on your face when brought up his wife again, putting the bricks of the protective wall on top of each other to shut you out.

“Shit, sorry,” you chuckle awkwardly, pulling away and he misses the weight of you in his embrace, the warmth you provide by just existing and breathing the same air as him, “Please, sit! I know you’ll be back in The Pitt in a few hours.”

“Yeah, urm, yeah…” he huffs a slight laugh and walks around you to pull your chair out for you, “Ladies first.”

“Ever the gentleman,” you tease him, thanking him as he pushes your chair in when he knows you are secured and smiles at you before he walks towards his own chair and sits down, “What are you having?”

“Well… something highly caffeinated,” he shrugs, looking down at the wedding band he is wearing—

Fuck, he totally forgot to take it off. Did he though? Did he ever want to take it off or did he think about it but didn’t ponder over it, like a passing joke in his head?

He looks up instantly, finding you already looking at the black ring before you tuck your hand under your chin again, meeting his eyes with a small smile before you look away and gesture for the waiter to come and take your orders.

“Espresso it is then,” you try to break the ice he notices, but he has already started to fuck everything up again from the very first second. He covers his left hand, nodding at you with a ghost of a smile on his lips while he feels as if he is about to vomit his heart out with how insanely fast it is beating.

“Welcome, what can I get you?”

“A cup of tea with carrot cake and,” you look back at him, smiling before you glance back at the waiter, “A shot of espresso.”

“Coming right up!”

He watches you closely — he is staring but that’s a creepy way to put it — and he nearly melts when you turn to look at him with the softest smile he has ever seen.

“Carrot cake? Really?” Jack grins when he watches you grimace, hiding your face in your hands as you look at him from between your fingers, “Never thought I’d see the day that you will eat a carrot cake.”

“You’re insufferable!” You chuckle, resting your chin on the heel of your palm, and he watches these micro movements with such an endearment it makes his heart clench, “It’s just a newly formed habit in the hospital. My assistant brings me tea and her very sweet orange carrot cake every evening. Who am I to say no to a home baked sweet treat?”

“Understood,” he nods and smiles, taking a deep breath to calm himself without making a mess of himself. Your laugh is still the same, even more beautiful than he remembers and it feels so good to be there to witness it again, “How’s Boston?”

“Oh, you know, colder than here but I enjoy it,” you explain, resting your elbows on the table as you look at him, “The bars are pretty amazing! Not that I have much time to explore them because of the hospital and applying for a fellowship. But… it’s okay, I guess.”

“Wow, you’re thriving,” he grins, biting the inside of his cheek, “I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you, Jack,” you reach across the table to hold his hand — a habit you had when you were nervous, and he quickly realized his touch grounded you when you needed it the most, “Enough about me, how have you been?”

“Same old same old—“

“Don’t do that!” You squeeze his hand, glaring at him before your eyes soften when you notice his defeated ones, “You know I hate this phrase, Jack. Come on, tell me about The Pitt!”

He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, running a hand over his face as he notices the waiter coming with your orders to the table.

You pull your hand back, letting the waiter put down your cups and plate, asking if you need anything which Jack replies with a quick ‘no, thank you’ before he looks back at you.

“I’m sure Dana is keeping you updated—“

“I want you to tell me,” you cut him off with a soft frown he knows so well, you always gave him this expression when you knew he was dodging the question poorly, “How’s Robby?”

“He is great,” he shakes his head and chuckles, briefly thinking about how his friend has gotten his life together before he focuses on you again, “He is in a relationship with one of the new attendees, Heather Collins. I don’t know if you know her…”

“Dana said something about Robby dating a resident after I left but that’s it,” you reply, taking a sip of your tea, “But please tell him I’m so happy for him. He went through a lot and deserves to have an amazing life.”

“Will do,” he nods, drowning all the espresso shot in one move, kissing his teeth as he looks back at his ring again.

“Take it easy, soldier,” you push the carrot cake plate towards him slowly, handing him a fork to eat something sweet, “How are you doing, Jack?”

“Me?” He chuckles dryly, trying to come up with a sarcastic reply but when he sees how worried you look for him, “I’m fine.”

“That’s it? Six years and you don’t have anything to tell me about?” You press the matter, giving him a teasing look but he has none of it.

“We had a mass casualty last year, Robby lost his stepson because he couldn’t save Jake’s girlfriend—“

“That’s Robby’s story to tell, I’m interested to know—“

“Know about me?” He looks at you as if you have hung the stars, as if every moment he spends looking at your face illuminated by the dark fading orange light of sunset doesn’t make his heart stop, “Well, I go to the rooftop every day thinking I might jump this time, and when I look down I feel numb, maybe the therapy is working because I can’t do it. I see my wife in my sleep, I imagine the life I could have had with her.”

You take a deep breath at the mention of his late wife — or wife as he always calls her — you take two large sips of your hot tea and he mentally face palms himself at rambling all these shitty thoughts to you.

“You still go up?” You ask, your voice small and trembling, thinking of all the kisses and fights you shared on that damned rooftop.

“Yeah,” he looks out of the window, his eyes filling with tears before he wipes them quickly, enjoying the cold sensation of his ring over his heated eyelids, “It’s the only place that isn’t corrupted by death.”

“Cut it some slack, our first kiss was on that rooftop,” you reach for his hands again, and he hates how easily he calms down from such a soft touch, “I don’t think I can ever forget it.”

“Well, it wasn’t an easy trauma, the patient died before we could get our hands on him,” he squeezes your hands, “And you were so mad at me for not letting you go for the fourth round of epi.”

“You had to shut me up somehow,” you laugh, looking down at your joined hands, “Fuck, I was so immature back then.”

“No, you weren’t,” he caresses the soft skin of your wrist, his hazel eyes locking into yours with sincerity, “You were hopeful.”

“Which was horrible for emergency medicine,” you shrug, “I still am, though. That’s why neurology was a great choice. It has death, I still feel the panic sometimes, but they don’t die while I’m operating on them. It’s such a dick thing to say but… I’m glad I’m not there to witness it.”

“I get it,” he takes a deep breath, his eyes moving slowly from your hands up to your neck and face, falling over your lips, “That’s why the rooftop visits exist.”

He looks down at his watch before he finds the courage to look into your eyes again, seeing how it is time to go back home and put his scrubs on.

Jack doesn’t wanna go, he doesn’t wanna leave. He wishes he could stay in this very moment, just in this picture pretending everything is fine and you are back, that he can delude himself into believing he has you back in his arms for an eternity.

“I totally forgot, my congress starts at eight,” you pull your hands away from him, leaving his palms cold and itchy without yours in them, and he slowly drags his forearms back to his side, standing up to say the word he hates so much again.

“Are you… are you leaving?”

“Yeah, I have to…” you pout, and it takes everything in him not to reach out and kiss you until the pout is turned into a grin, “But there is a gala tomorrow night. Fundraising and everything, I’d be in town.”

“Yeah, cool,” he nods, forcing out a smile, standing up after you and waiting for you to say something, anything…

“Will I see you there?”

Yes. Yes. He can make it work. Say yes—

“No, I don’t think so,” he curses himself in his head, fisting his hands, nails digging into his palms, “I’m not invited.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes widening as if you have heard the most devastating news ever, fingers rolling the band of your purse as you gaze into his eyes, “Well then… this is goodbye I guess.”

“Yeah, yeah—“ he gasps when you wrap your arms around his shoulders for the second time in six years again, holding him close for one last time before he wraps his large arms around your back as well, “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Me too, Jack,” he nearly drops on his knees when he hears you say his name with tears stinging your eyes, “Me too.”

“Goodbye.”

He watches you with red eyes as you try to hold back a sob before you reach for your purse to pull out your wallet and pay for the drinks, but he stops you with a hand on your cheek.

“I’ve got it,” it pains him that he cannot lean down and kiss you when you nod and scrunch up your nose in order to keep the tears from streaming down your face, “You’ll be late.”

You move forward, pecking his cheek slowly, and he marvels at how soft your lips feel against his stubble, and he hopes whoever gets to feel your lips back in Boston worships you the way you deserve — the way he wanted to do but fucked it all up.

He watches you leave, for the second time, and it ruins him, making a tornado inside him that wrecks the remaining parts of his sanity. You are okay, you are happy, and that is all that matters.

He inhales sharply before he reaches for his phone, opening his text messages with Robby before he sends a quick text.

“Will you go to tomorrow's gala?”

It has been years since anyone had seen Jack in a fucking tuxedo. He thinks the last time he tried one was for his wedding, and after that, he dropped the thousand dollar fabric in the trash.

But now? He is wearing one, with a white shirt under his black coat and a simple black tie he is trying so hard to fix. He looks in the mirror one last time, running a hand in his hair before he moves out of the bathroom, following the sound of music until he reaches the entrance of the hall.

He feels out of place immediately. It’s not him who is supposed to be here, it’s Robby, but he can’t lose his last chance of seeing you again. So here he is, grabbing a glass of champagne as the waiter walks past him, drowning the sparkling liquor like water.

He scans the hall, not finding you anywhere as he moves between people until he reaches the bar, ordering a Double Black Label neat while his eyes wander from one woman to another in hopes of finding you somewhere among them.

He sips on his whiskey, leaning on his elbows on the barstool as he watches the doctors and CEOs get together in various groups. It is a ridiculous shit show, some people go to the podium to give their speech, some linger and chat, and it seems the only person he is interested in is nowhere in sight.

He shifts his weight off his prosthetic leg, sitting on the barstool only to stare into the glass he has in hand, swirling the liquid with gentle moves of his wrist.

It is still too far from him, but he can hear your laughter from a mile away. His ears perk up, and he almost breaks his neck when he turns around abruptly to catch you walking with a couple next to you, conversing casually before you spot him through the crowd.

He stands up instantly, nearly losing his balance when he sees you are coming towards him, hearing a soft ‘I would like to introduce you to someone’ before you lead the couple to where he is standing.

“This is Dr. Jack Abbot from PTMC,” he nods, smiling politely at the couple who introduce themselves as well, shaking his hand before the three of them look back at you, “I used to be his resident before I changed to Neurology.”

Jack’s hand finds the small of your back as he talks with the couple, finding out about their specialty and where they work, how they know you, and how proud they are to be represented by you in this gala.

“Well, we will take our leave for now,” The male doctor says, shaking Jack’s hand before he shakes yours, his wife doing the same before she pulls you in for a quick hug, and the two of you watch as they walk away.

“Hey, stranger,” you turn to him, beaming at him when he smiles back, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I had to see you again,” he mumbles, his hands caressing a path from your wrist to your shoulders, feeling the bare skin of your arms and skimping down to your sides, resting over your hips with a gentle squeeze, “It didn’t settle right when we said goodbye yesterday.”

“It will never settle right, Jack,” you look away from his intense gaze, chuckling when you notice his crooked tie, “You still haven’t learned how to do your tie, or you left it like this on purpose?”

“Little bit of both,” he shrugs innocently, his eyes taking in your face; you are so close he can smell the champagne mixing with your perfume, your soft lashes kissing your undereye when you blink, your lips painted in a nude shade of pink, and your hair falls around your face like a curtain leading to the hanging Gardens of Babylon — you look like a goddess compared to him.

“Good thing you have the right person to take care of you,” you whisper, eyes glinting playfully as you pull on his tie to redo it correctly.

Jack relishes the feeling of your touch on his collar. He feels as if his senses have heightened somehow because he swears he can literally feel every movement of your fingers on his skin through his clothes.

He looks down at your dress, watching as the classy design clings to your body just the right way, showing off your curves and shoulders in the most perfect way.

“You look so beautiful,” he breathes out, letting his hands wander over your back, knowing quite well that he is crossing an invisible line, but he doesn’t care now, you are here, back in his arms, exes or not he has the chance to have you all to himself tonight if you take him back for just a few hours.

“Thank you,” he leans down to kiss your forehead when he notices how flustered you get, but his demeanor grows closed off when he notices a man making his way towards you, stepping next to you before he extends his hand.

“Would you do me the honor and dance with me?”

You pull back from Jack a little, mouth agape as you look between the man and Jack, but with a little squeeze of his hand on your waist, you give him an apologetic smile before taking up the man’s offer and resting your hand in his palm.

“Of course.”

Jack watches from his spot how the man leads you to the dance floor as other people pair up and join you there, the band starts playing the music and to his dismay, he has to be subjected to the sight of another man twirling you around the hall.

Even if he is seething in his seat, he can’t deny how elegant you look with your dress flowing behind you and that smile you give your partner… this smile makes his pulse quicken, a warm blush covering the tip of his nose and cheeks.

He watches as the man lies his hand on your waist, pulling you a bit closer, and it makes his blood boil even though he knows he has no claim over you. You are not his lover, not his girlfriend, hell you are not even his resident anymore.

He can’t take it anymore, so as soon as the song ends he drowns the rest of his whiskey and strides towards you, clearing his throat to catch your attention.

“May I have your next dance?” Jack asks, his heart hammering against his ribs as he waits for you to accept his offer, and you do, with a bright smile that lights up his world.

“Yes, you may,” you turn around to the man you danced with earlier, “Excuse me, please.”

Jack tucks you close to him when a new song starts, his hand moving from your shoulders to your hip, the other one holding your smaller hand in his as he sways both of you gently to the rhythm of the music.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?” He leans down to whisper in your ear, smirking when your hand wanders up to his shoulder, cupping the side of his neck gently.

“Once or twice,” you chuckle, dropping your forehead on his shoulder as he leans down to breathe in your scent, holding you close until the thoughts of you ever leaving again fade away for a few hours at least, “Aren’t you supposed to be at The Pitt?”

“They don’t need me there,” he says, putting a distance between the two of you to hold your joined hands up so you can twirl before he pulls you in a bit roughly, keeping your chest pressed into his.

“And you thought you were needed here?” You ask, batting your eyelashes at him as his smirk widens, his band on your waist moving to your hip to squeeze you in response.

“Am I not?” He feigns innocence, his tone matching yours playfully, “I could leave now if that’s what you want—“

“I never said you weren’t needed,” you don’t break eye contact, and it thrills him as if it was six years ago when you danced for the first time at Dana’s wedding anniversary, “But I know a place if you wanna leave…?”

“Tempting, very tempting,” he brings your hand to his lips, pressing feather light kisses all over your knuckles, “Are you suggesting?”

“It might be the few champagne glasses I had but,” you break away from his grip, interweaving your fingers with his as you tug on his hand gently, “My room is on the twentieth floor if you are interested…”

“Lead the way.”

Your journey to your room is uneventful; you don’t have a chance to do anything because you are never alone. Not in the hallway he wanted to press you against the wall, not in the elevator bunch of people jumped into when the doors were about to close, not even as you walked on the floor because one of the doctors’ rooms was also on the same fucking lane.

He is trying to act unbothered as you fumble with the key card, trying to open the door while Jack has his hands roaming your back absentmindedly, his touch trembling slightly in excitement.

He is going to have you again, after all this time, he is going to hold you as if you are his again.

You push the door open and tug Jack in by his tie, crashing your mouth into his as you press him against the closed door. He gasps into your mouth before he closes his eyes and kisses you back, one of his hands coming up to grab the back of your neck, pulling you closer until there is no space between you.

You taste like Moet and cherry lip gloss with a hint of Vanilla in your perfume, and your hands feel warm and welcoming, anchoring him to reality because his life had no purpose before this very moment.

You ground him, just as you have always done, with subtle kisses and tugs and a hidden hunger slowly pouring into your touch. He feels it all; the small skip of your fingers over his tux as they reach to undo the tie, the quiver of your bottom lip as they chase his chapped ones.

Jack’s entire world has faded, and all he can see is you.

He guides you further inside the room with slow deliberate steps, careful not to hit something and hurt you in the process. You break the kiss when you reach the edge of the bed, gasping for air before you push him down on the mattress gently.

He sits without a fuss, his pupils blown out as he watches you take off your heels and slowly straddle his lap, pushing his coat and tie off slowly. Jack doesn’t blink, he is afraid of even missing one second of tonight. He wants to remember this forever in case…

No. He shouldn’t go there now, he has you and that is all that matters.

Jack’s hand comes up to your face, gently caressing your cheek, his thumb going over to your lips as he traces the edge of them while you work on his buttons, finally taking in the sight of his chest.

He is so mesmerized by the look of pure affection you have that he doesn’t notice you have got him half naked already until you grab his hands and move them to the zipper of your dress.

“What are we doing?” He bumps his nose into you as he asks, leaning forward to unzip your dress. Your hands roam his naked torso, fingers tracing the soft grey hair on his chest before slowly moving down to his soft belly.

“Reliving our best memories.”

Your answer is simple yet effective, and it awakens a deep ache inside him. He understands, he truly does. Your best memories were the ones where you were tangled under his sheets, limbs resting against each other while your mouths left soft traces of love on each other’s skins.

It might not be the best thing to do with your ex, after six years of no contact, but Jack takes what he can because if he doesn’t, he will lose himself forever.

You are the last string that attaches him to this life.

His lips find your shoulders as soon as he pushes the straps of the dress down, kissing the hallow part of your shoulder above your collarbone, sucking in a red mark on the thin skin before he moves upward to your neck, licking your pulse point as he drags his tongue to your jaw.

You whimper, you fucking whimper, and it makes his head spin with an intensity he had no idea he possessed. He kisses a path to your lips, breathing your soft breaths while he pushes down the neckline of your dress, pulling back from your mouth only for his gaze to drop down to your chest, breasts covered with a thin strapless bra.

His brain short circuits when you roll your hips down, grinding against the very painful bulge in his dress pants. His lips part as he huffs out in shock, totally forgetting about his not-so-little problem while he was tasting you.

“I need you,” he whines, cupping your face in his large palms as he stares into your eyes, “I need you so bad. Please let me have you, please let me pretend I didn’t lose you just for a few hours.”

“You have me, Jack,” you raise your hands to rest them on top of his, leaning your forehead against, “I need you too.”

He nods immediately and takes his shirt off completely, watching as you stand up to drop your dress next to your shoes, and for the first time in years, his jaw nearly hits the floor when he finally takes in the sight of your body.

“Fuck,” it’s a slow gasp, but you hear it perfectly, grinning before you dart toward the hotel’s bathroom, coming out with the pack of condoms in hand. He barks out a laugh when he sees what you are holding, “I’m not that young, we certainly don’t need a whole pack—“

“Have some faith in yourself, old man,” you grin and watch as he raises his hips and takes his pants and briefs off, his prosthetic leg catching the light of the room. You move to stand in front of his greedy eyes, glancing at his leg before he guides you back onto his lap, “Does it hurt?”

“No, not right now,” he mutters but it soon turns out into a deep throaty groan when you wrap your fingers around his cock, gently stroking him while you bring the condom to your mouth, tearing it open with your teeth, “That has to be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Ready?” You peck his lips, rolling the condom on his cock until it reaches the base, “Cause I can’t wait any longer.”

“Me neither,” he pushes your panties to the side, swiping his fingers through your folds, dropping his head on your chest when he feels how wet you are, “You are soaked, baby.”

“All for you,” you whisper as you line his tip with your entrance, slowly lowering yourself as the fat tip breaches your walls, both of you moaning at the contact.

He forgot how warm you were, how world-consuming your body felt, but now that he is feeling it all again, he remembers the nights he lost himself in the sensation of your cunt wrapped around him.

“You’re so big,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, nails digging into his back as you finally take all of him inside you, “Fuck, I forgot how good you feel.”

He can’t form a coherent word without looking like he is having a stroke, because fucking hell he might be having one just now. Your cunt is stretched around his cock, and he can feel your pulse around his girth even through the condom.

“Jack,” you whimper his name, grabbing his jaw so you can look into his eyes as you slowly move your hips in circles. He is pretty sure he already looks so fucked out with his lips ajar and eyes glassy with desire while he has to focus on your face so he doesn’t come too fast and embarrass himself.

He reaches around you to unclasp your bra without looking away, short breaths falling from his lips as you begin to move up and down, and he successfully manages to get that thing off you before latching his lips to your nipples.

He closes his eyes and groans when he feels your walls clenching around him as soon as he swirls his tongue around the tightened bud, his hands moving to grab the back of your thighs to help you move faster.

He is so close, embarrassingly so, because he has been imagining this for so long. Jack clings to you as you ride him faster, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in his head, leaving him panting and dizzy.

He opens his eyes and finds your head thrown back as you fasten your pace, damp hair sticking to your forehead as you chase your release.

He is hypnotized by how beautiful you look; his body glistening with sweat and thighs shaking around his hips. He watches closely how you moan loudly when his cock nudges your sweet spot deep inside your core.

“Fuck, fuck— I’m gonna come,” he groans out the words, and you nod absentmindedly, leaning down to press your lips to his, kissing him as you grind down harder, urging him to let go.

“Me too, baby,” you gasp against his lips, your body trembling as the knot in your stomach tightens and in a blink, it breaks, waves of euphoria rushing through your veins as you release around him.

He hugs you close, snapping his hips up one, two, and three times before he buries his face into your neck, groaning from the depths of his throat as he empties his cum into the condom.

He holds you as he comes, wanting to carve the memory of tonight into his head so he can remember it until his last breath.

“Jack,” you whisper his name, running your fingers through his curly grey hair, kissing the side of his face as he tries to regain his breath, “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Thank you for giving me a chance,” he replies quietly, gently lowering you on the bed before he hovers over you, pulling his softened cock out of your swollen hole, “It’s been a long time…”

“For me too,” you smile sheepishly, kissing his forehead before you sit up slowly so you can go and clean up, “I’ll go to the bathroom and order room service. What do you wanna have?”

“Anything, I’m starving,” he smiles, flipping on his back as he watches you walk to the bathroom before he looks up at the ceiling, shuddering as it finally dawns on him what he has done. Sex. With you. After six years of radio silence. After all the arguments, after the farewell you shared at the airport, after him realizing how emotionally closed off he was — is.

“Bathroom’s yours,” you walk back into the room, reaching for his white shirt on the floor, putting it on before you crawl on top of the bed, kissing him sweetly on the lips a few times before lying down and reaching for the phone on the nightstand.

He turns on his side, kissing your bare thighs before he stands up and walks to the bathroom to get rid of the used condom. Jack splashes water on his face, shaking his head as he looks at his reflection in the mirror.

Was it a mistake? Probably. But he doesn’t regret it, not now, not ever. He will forever cherish every moment he spent and will spend with you for a long time, perhaps forever.

A deep unsettling sadness fills the pit of his stomach suddenly, and he runs a hand down his face when he remembers you will go back to Boston in a few hours. He wants to do something to keep you here, locked away from the world and its demands — just you and him.

He cleans up quickly before the tears threaten to fill his eyes, washing his hands and wiping the sweat off his body with a damp towel while he walks to the bedroom, reaching for his briefs.

“Greasy cheese Burger with extra fries, what do you say?” You ask, pulling back the covers on the other side so he can crawl in next to you, but before he has the chance the doorbell rings, “Let me go get it—“

“Na uh,” he wraps an arm around your waist, pinning you to the bed before he plants a kiss on your nose, “I’ll get it, ain’t no way I’m gonna let anyone see you like this.”

“Like what?” You sit up on your elbows, dragging your nose against his neck until you reach his lips, not kissing him just hovering while he breathes the warm air that you exhale.

“All glowing and pretty,” your lips are practically pressed together, but still he doesn’t close the tiny remaining distance, “And in a white shirt only. No, this is mine to enjoy.”

He smirks and pulls back, chuckling when you whine and drop back on the bed as he gets up to answer the door, hiding his prosthetic leg as he pulls in the table before he shuts the door.

“Oh my goodness it smells so good already!” You have moved to the edge of the bed, hands around your legs and head resting on your knees, waiting for him to bring the food to you.

Jack’s stomach grumbles, making you giggle. He gives you a shy smile before he sits next to you, pushing the table closer to you. He watches as you dig in, taking a huge bite of your burger, moaning at the taste.

“That good?” He asks, popping up a few fries into his mouth, nodding as the spices fill his tastebuds, “Fuck, yeah. It tastes delicious.”

It doesn’t take long to finish your meal, but the time is filled with teasing and bantering, sharing bites, and saucy kisses while you eat.

What he doesn’t expect is to find himself on his side, with one arm under your head after you both finished your food. It feels… ordinary like he has done it every day, as if it is a routine. Domestic.

“What happened to us?” He asks like a lost baby, his eyes exploring your face closely; from your lashes to your cheek, down to the soft small hairs on your jaw while he traces a path from your thumb up to your shoulder with his knuckles.

“Many things,” you sigh, kissing his freckles on his shoulders gently, your hands on his chest as they wander, “You, me, your… your late wife.”

You reach for his left hand that is touching your arm, pulling it to your face so you can look at the black ring he is still wearing. You twist the metal, and each circle twists his heart.

He forgot to take it off again.

“You were not over her back then,” you whisper, scooting closer to rest your head on the crook of his neck, “I don’t think you are now either. We just… became something so… good in a difficult time.”

“I loved you,” he replies and hides his face in your hair, smelling your comforting scent before he resumes, “I still do. I fucked it all up. I… I wanted you for a lifetime but I wasn’t okay back then. I had lost my wife three years before we met and… and I tried, y’know? I tried to let you in, I tried to open up it just—“

“I know, Jack, I know,” he lets the tears fall when you cradle his face, pulling him close until he is only a breath away, “I wanted to stay there and watch you heal, but you refused to seek any help, and I couldn’t watch you slip through my fingers any longer than I did.”

“I’m sorry I ruined it all,” he sobs, tears streaming down his face. He reaches to mimic your position, cupping the side of your head, “I wish I listened, I w-wish I didn’t just… give up like a coward. It was not me, I never give up—“

“You are not a coward, Jack, look at me,” he forces his eyes open, those bloodshot hazel orbs looking so devastatingly beautiful, “I gave up on you too. I pushed you too hard sometimes, I… I got jealous when you would bring up your wife. I was a fucking dick about it, so no, you didn’t ruin it alone. I had a hand in it too, a big one.”

“You were in the right though,” he kisses the tears that fall on your cheeks, mumbling against your skin as another sob wrecks through his body, “We were happy together, fuck, how much of an idiot I was to bring up my dead wife when I had you. We could’ve had a future, we could’ve lived together and built a life, but I clawed on the past too hard that I was blinded.”

“I loved you from a distance for the past six years,” you whisper, pecking his lips gently, “Boston… it felt lifeless without you in it. It’s not the city that holds my heart, it’s just a passing location in life. You made this city shine brighter in the mornings, made the coffee taste sweeter, but at the same time… nothing was truly okay here.”

“It feels like a distant dream when you talk about it,” he shuffles downward a little until he can rest his head on your chest, “But we were in love, why didn’t it make a difference?”

“Because love isn’t enough,” he wraps his arm around your waist, holding you tightly as he cries softly into the shirt you are wearing, “Sleep, baby, you probably haven’t had more than a few hours to rest. I’ll wake you when I have to leave.”

He wakes up with dread even though you are kissing his head and cooing at him. You are leaving, again. He has to let go of you for the second time, and it fills him with so much agony that his leg begins to hurt.

“Hey, honey,” you angle his head so you can plant a kiss on his lips, grinning down at him as he blinks sleepily, “You slept like a baby.”

“How long?” He grumbles and hides his face into your stomach, “Don’t wanna get up…”

“Me neither,” you reply, and he can hear the pure sadness in your voice, but he doesn’t make any move to get up, instead his hands go under your shirt — his technically — so he can grope your waist, “But my flight is in an hour and a half…”

“I slept the whole night?” He ignores your last sentence, sitting up slightly, keeping his weight on his forearm next to your chest, “I’m sorry, I—“

“Hey, don’t be sorry!” You pull him down so he hovers over you, playing with the tiny curly hair on the nape of his neck, “I loved it. It reminded me of the time when you’d fall asleep on top of me after a rough shift. It felt so good to sleep with you again.”

“I haven’t had a good night's sleep until… until tonight,” he confesses quietly, leaning down to drop a kiss on your lips, but when he wants to deepen it, you push him away gently with your hands on his chest. He looks down at you, confused and a bit hurt, “What?”

“Jack…” he watches you swallow the words down as best as possible, but at the end of the day, you have to utter them somehow before it is too late, “I have to go now, I’ll miss my flight.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

His eyes water as soon as the words fall from his lips. He truly doesn’t want you to go, he needs you here, with him, in his bed, in his clothes. He breathes better when you are with him, he can think, and he can live.

“I don’t want to go either,” you wipe the tears that stream down your face, “But I can’t stay, not when I have a life in Boston. Maybe one day I’ll come back, hell, maybe I’ll come back for my fellowship, but… for now, I have to go.”

“We can get you a position in PTMC, I can talk to Gloria myself—“

“Jack,” the way you utter his name breaks his heart into a million pieces, because he knows, deep down he knows he has to let you go. He has been denying it for hours, but in the end, he knows there is no way he can keep you here.

“I’ll drive you there then,” he moves to the edge of the bed, taking off his prosthetic as the tears fall down softly. He begins massaging his leg slowly as you get up and pack your things, still only in his white shirt and nothing more.

You look strikingly gorgeous; hair unruly, bare thighs, puffy face from all the crying, and he thinks he has never seen something more surreal.

“Wait,” you halt in your step when he reaches for his coat on the floor, pulling out his phone before he takes a quick photo of you.

“What was that?” You chuckle, moving toward your luggage to drop everything you own in it while you see Jack staring at his screen, “Baby?”

“I… I wanted to have something from you to look at later,” he explains, his voice barely above whispers, “For when I miss you.”

You suck in a sharp breath, he hears it clearly. But you don’t turn around toward him after it, probably shocked to your core by how raw and emotional he sounds.

After taking out the clothes you wanna wear for your departure, you walk to Jack, standing between his legs as you slowly unbutton his shirt, taking off the fabric before you hand it to him — the last thing you had touched from his belongings.

He takes it without a word, wearing it before he puts his prosthetic leg back on, trying his best not to break apart at how his shirt now smells like you. He won’t wash this again, he would hang this behind his door so he can smell it daily before he goes to the hospital.

You get ready in thick silence, an uncomfortable one that you both know will break ten times worse than before eventually, and that it will lead to something far too devastating than anything you have experienced.

He grabs your luggage, hand reaching to hold yours as he guides you out of the hotel room after you check it multiple times in case you missed something. You walk together, shoulder to shoulder, ride the elevator down by your head on his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around you.

Jack watches as you check out, smiling and thanking the receptionist before coming back to him with a tired look on your face. He knows how you must be feeling, he feels even worse than you, because suddenly it is six years ago as he watches you pack your bags and ride to the airport together.

He drives you there himself, muscle memory he thinks bitterly, with his hand on your thigh and your fingers caressing the freckled skin. He doesn’t wanna break the bubble you are in, he doesn’t wanna believe he is seeing you go again. He can turn the wheel and drive to his place, he thinks about it too, but he knows you are not ready yet, and he isn’t ready either.

He looks down at his wedding band shining under the sunlight. The memories of your tears over this black ring rush into his mind, and he takes a deep breath to calm his racing heart — he isn’t ready for sure.

He wants to say something, anything as he helps you through the airport, but he can’t, he doesn’t dare to utter a word and he hopes that his actions and eyes are showing what he hopes to say.

“Don’t go,” these are the only two words he manages to let out as you look at him, hearing how your flight’s boarding has started through the speakers, “Please don’t go.”

“I have to, Jack—“

“No, no you don’t have to!” He presses his lips together tightly, his cheeks flushed and eyes red, “You just- just have to stay here, with me, be my Clementine again—“

“You still use that stupid nickname?” You give him a watery laugh, cupping his face before you press your lips to his, muffling his sobs as best as you can, feeling how your tears mix together and fall on your chins.

“Yeah, of course,” he kisses you back quickly, like he is in a rush to win a game, an endless competition with no victory, “I know you fucking hate it—“

“I love it, I love you,” you peck his mouth again, “But this is where we need to part ways, Jack. It’s in our faith it seems.”

“Curel fucking faith,” he bumps his nose into yours, hands clutching your hips so tightly as if you would vanish if he loses his grip, “I love you, too.”

“Reach out to me when you forget to put your ring on,” you step back, letting his hands fall to his sides, “Find me when you don’t need to go to that rooftop, I’ll be waiting for you, even if it takes ten or twenty years.”

And Jack watches you leave again, the same way you did six years ago, from the same spot. He watches you take his heart to another city, leaving him with an empty aching chest for an eternity.

The next day, he walks toward the same staircase that leads toward the rooftop while twisting his ring, but it is not his late wife he is thinking about; it’s you.

Today may not be the day, but someday he will find you, he is sure of it.

#ADAD2025 #ADOCTORADAY #the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #jack abbot smut #jack abbot fluff #jack abbot angst #jack abbott smut #jack abbott x reader #jack abbot x female reader #the pitt x reader #the pitt smut

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silens-oro · 28 days ago

Text

Slowly We Unfurl (Well Enough Alone Companion Piece)

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Chicken Hawk (companion piece) Part III Part IV Trespassing (companion piece)

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

General Synopsis: A quiet night reflecting. Word Count: 927 Content Warning: no warnings. all fluff. A/N: This companion piece is brought to you by Lotus Flower by Radiohead. Here's some fluff to buffer the absolute nightmare to come :) please comment & reblog :)

Hawk let out a sigh when she reaches over to Pope’s side of the bed and feels nothing but rumpled sheets. Her eyes cracked open and saw that the room was still dark, stars twinkling in the sky outside of her sliding door, and she laid there for a moment contemplating whether or not she wanted to get up out of the comfort of her mattress. She could hear an indistinguishable sound coming from the living room, the television, she surmised, and decided to hoist herself up.

Hawk threw a t-shirt and pajama shorts in, barely opening her eyes as she padded down the hall until she reached the back entrance to the sunken living room. A small table lamp illuminated the room in a soft, warm glow that didn’t quite reach the ceiling. The back of Pope’s head was facing Hawk, and Pope was sitting up on the sofa as the tv’s glow fell over his bare torso. She gently rested a hand on the junction of his neck, just at the edge of his curls, and she felt him twitch beneath her.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” Hawk breathed out as she kissed the top of Pope’s head before rounding the sofa and dropping down next to him. He was only wearing his boxer-briefs and his legs were spread just far enough to leave nothing to Hawk’s imagination.

Pope’s arm instantly wrapped itself around Hawk’s shoulders to pull her flush against him, while his other hand pulled her legs over his thighs. His fingers trailed up and down her calf, down to knead under her foot for a moment, then made its way back up. He repeated those motions over and over, switching from leg to leg as they watched the tv.

“What are we watching?” Hawk asked, eyes opening and closing as she fought the pull of sleep from Pope’s ministrations. Her arm was wrapped around his waist, palm flush against his chest as she also tenderly rubbed the bruised skin.

“How the Earth Was Made” He replied with a shrug. The History Channel was already on the tv when he hit the power button in the remote, and he was oddly fascinated with the show the second he sat down.

“Huh.” Hawk raised her own brows in response as she looked up at him. “Is it any good?”

“Stimulating.” Hawk chuckled at Pope’s dry response. Pope had been living with her for nearly a month and it had only been a week since they finally decided to take the proverbial plunge. The time they spent together felt natural, like they had been together for twenty years -and in a way Hawk guessed they kind of were. Kind of.

They were comfortable with each other because they knew one another. Knew their quirks, their likes and dislikes. Knew how the other operated.

Hawk and Pope lounged comfortably in the ambiance of the History Channel for a while before Hawk quietly broke the silence.

“Something keeping you up?” Pope shrugged again, eyes staying locked on the tv. He was watching it, sure, but there was something going on inside of his mind that kept him occupied enough to not stay in bed as he had the previous nights.

“Nothing in particular. Just couldn’t sleep. Old habits.” That wasn’t entirely the truth. A lot of things haunted him when he closed his eyes at night, things he couldn’t ever tell Hawk, so he did the only thing he was proficient at -he suffered in silence. Hawk shifted her legs off of him and scooted over to the other end of the sofa.

“Come here,” Hawk beckoned Pope, patting her lap. Pope twisted to lay on his side, his face pressed into her thigh with a heavy sigh as he brought his legs up to stretch out. He rubbed his cheek against her, finding comfort in the warmth she radiated as he wrapped his arms around her waist. The feeling of his muscles against her body was her own kind of comfort that he provided, whether he knew it or not. Pope was strong, protective, and nurturing in his own way that Hawk was discovering through his own love language.

Acts of service were big for Pope when it came to Hawk. He’d do things for her, not because she asked or expected it, but because he knew she appreciated it when he did them. He’d bring her coffee in the morning before she got out of bed because he got up before she did. One day she found him weeding the garden because he noticed some pesky intruders popping up in her bed of clarkias while they were hanging out by the pool the night before. Pope carried in groceries without being asked even though she told him she’d get them. The list went on and on in Hawk’s mind of little things here and there, and as she looked down at Pope, it scared her to think what life was going to hold with him.

It scared her even more to think of a life without him.

Hawk flipped the switch off to the lamp next to her and darkness draped where the tv’s beams didn’t touch. She ran her fingers through Pope’s curls, occasionally letting the pads of her fingers run over his brows and his eyelids when he finally closed them. Hawk pulled the throw blanket that was hanging over the back of the sofa to cover them as she shifted just enough to get comfortable. It didn’t take long for both of them to pass out, finally getting some well needed rest.

please comment & reblog :)

#pope cody #pope cody x reader #pope cody imagine #animal kingdom #animal kingdom fanfic #animal kingdom tnt #animal kingdom imagine #shawn hatosy #fluff #well enough alone universe

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nizhspo · 26 days ago

Text

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff

pairing: atsumu miya x fem!reader

summary: lost in japan.

you’re lying on your stomach on the couch, your phone propped up awkwardly against a mug on the coffee table, facetime crackling slightly with the spotty wifi.

atsumu’s grinning at you through the screen, chin propped in his hand, hair messy and flattened a little on one side like he just woke up.

“i should come see ya,” he says, offhand, like he’s just talking about picking up groceries.

you snort, lazily twirling the pen in your hand. “yeah, okay. you’re only a couple hundred miles away.”

“a couple thousand,” he corrects with a mock-offended look, lips jutting out in a pout. “but sure, close enough.”

you laugh under your breath and roll your eyes. “mhm. sure. see you in five minutes then.”

there’s a loud clatter as your phone slides sideways off the mug and onto the table, giving him a lovely view of your kitchen ceiling.

“hey, hey!” you hear him protest, voice crackling through the speaker. “put the camera back up, i wanna see my beautiful girl.”

smiling stupidly to yourself, you pick it back up and angle it toward you again, chin resting on your folded arms.

he’s smiling too, this soft, slow, lovesick kind of smile like you’re the best thing he’s seen all day.

“there she is,” he murmurs.

you feel your cheeks heat a little, biting your lip to hide the way it makes you want to kick your feet like a schoolgirl.

he gets a call on his end. you hear the little notification ding and he grimaces. “shit. i gotta go, babe. team stuff.”

you sigh dramatically, clutching your chest. “abandoning me in my time of need.”

“i’m comin’ back soon, promise,” he says, playful but sincere, like he means it.

“i miss ya,” he adds, softer.

“miss you too,” you say back, a little quieter.

he blows you a kiss, stupid and exaggerated — before the call cuts off.

you spend the rest of the afternoon in a cozy haze.

you do some studying. half-hearted, if you’re honest, tapping away at your laptop in the soft sunlight slanting through the windows. you clean up your tiny apartment, vacuuming around the cluttered corners and scrubbing down the little kitchenette. you even throw on sneakers and wander downstairs, picking up a bag of groceries from the corner konbini, yawning the whole way back.

by the time evening drapes itself over the city, you’re exhausted.

you make yourself a cup of tea, nibble at a convenience store pastry, and settle into a lazy rhythm: answering a few emails, half-finishing a homework assignment, scrolling your phone aimlessly.

tokyo outside your windows is breathtaking at night: rivers of golden headlights threading through the streets, towers lit up like constellations, neon signs blinking in and out of existence like fireflies.

your little apartment feels even smaller against it, but it’s cozy. warm.

you tug on one of atsumu’s old t-shirts, massive and soft and falling halfway to your knees, and a pair of fuzzy socks. your hair’s a little tangled, your skin clean from a quick shower, and you flop onto the couch, flicking on cars for maybe the twentieth time this month.

the gentle hum of the city floats up through the cracked window. you curl deeper into the cushions, blinking slow and heavy-lidded at the screen.

you’re asleep already when the knock comes.

at first you think it’s a drunk neighbor knocking on the wrong door. maybe a late package you forgot you ordered.

you blink blearily at the door, not quite processing it.

then comes another knock. louder this time, hurried.

you shuffle over, yawning, dragging your feet. you peek through the peephole—

and your heart nearly stops.

atsumu’s standing there.

hoodie shoved over his messy hair, mask pulled down under his chin, a tiny half-zipped suitcase by his ankle.

and in his hand, a bouquet of flowers, messy and half-wrapped, an explosion of color like he just grabbed the wildest, brightest thing he could find.

his smile when he sees you looking is crooked and breathless, golden under the cheap hallway lights.

he leans against the doorframe, casual like he didn’t just cross the entire world for you, and says, “ya gonna let me in or make me stand here lookin’ stupid?”

you fumble with the lock so fast you nearly pull it off the door.

he steps inside like he belongs there, suitcase forgotten, standings on the backs of his uggs, a little dazed from the travel and the weight of finally being here.

he holds the flowers out to you, sheepish. a little battered, a little squashed. still beautiful.

“ya wouldn’t believe how much airport flowers cost,” he mutters, almost shy, and it makes you laugh, breathless and stunned and a little choked up.

you take them in both hands, hugging them to your chest, the stems cool and damp against your fingers.

then he’s pulling you into his arms. lifting you slightly off your feet, holding you so tight you can barely breathe.

he buries his face into your neck, breath warm against your skin, hoodie soft against your cheek. he smells like airplane air and his favorite cologne, a little musky from running around, a little familiar, a little like home.

and into the hush of the tiny apartment, into the glow of the city outside your window, he mumbles, “missed ya like crazy.”

you laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder, arms wrapped so tight around his back you never want to let go.

you’re half-convinced you’re dreaming, but he’s real, solid, warm, right here.

he leans back just enough to look at you, that dumb, gorgeous grin tugging at his mouth.

“idiot,” you whisper, voice shaking.

he just bumps his forehead gently against yours, still smiling, and says,

“your idiot.”

#haikyuu fluff #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu #atsumu x you #msby atsumu #atsumu fluff #atsumu headcanons #atsumu x reader #haikyuu atsumu #hq atsumu #atsumu miya #atsumu fanfic #miya atsumu #atsumu x y/n #shawn mendes

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maevawrites · 1 month ago

Text

'forbidden love' . . . jack abbott

✦ disclaimer/warnings?: medical inaccuracies, age-gape but not clearly specified (yay age-gap april), oneshot, jack abbott x f!resident reader, fluff, possible grammar/spelling mistakes, probably more but i can't think of any atm

✦ word count: 865

he's the mentor.

you're the mentee.

he's had years of experience.

while you're a fourth year resident, still getting used to the way your name sounds when someone calls you "doctor."

he's severallll years older than you.

and it feels like you're just now getting a hang of adulthood, learning how to push through all the chaos.

dr. jack abbott—the war-hardened night shift attending. with sturdy hands, and broad shoulders, he runs the pitt with precision and calm, like nothing phases him. like he's already survived the worst of it, and everything else is just noise.

after working under him for two years, watching how he works through traumas with a sort of silent confidence and unwavering ease, you couldn't help but start feeling something towards him.

trouble, is what you told yourself.

liking jack abbott would only bring trouble.

logically, you knew better. it felt forbidden to even think about him in that way, considering the ethics. the power imbalance. the un-professionalism it'd bring. but your heart? it had a mind of its own. beating entirely too fast whenever he's helping you through a procedure you've never done before, or when he murmurs good work after you've poured everything into a trauma.

now, you're sitting at the nurses' station trying to finish up some notes from the case you had just wrapped up, when all you could hear was the thumping of your heart in your ears.

you'd just worked on a case with jack and to say you were flustered was an understatement. he had let you take the lead—something you had noticed he usually didn't do with other residents. as you spoke with the patient, jack stood alongside you, agreeing to everything you had to say, only speaking to back you up or add a final thought. on your way out, as you both were throwing your gloves away, he gave you a firm nod. "did great doc." your ears immediately felt hot at the compliment and all you could do was muster a "thank you" before practically bolting off to the nurses station.

and now here you were, at the nurses station, pretending to focus on charting, still buzzing from the three simple words he had said to you.

still in your head, you hadn't noticed dr. ellis slid next to you.

"what's got your head in the clouds, doc?" ellis teased.

"nothing. nothing at all." you tried to play off.

she smirked, clearly not buying it. "right.." and then after she paused, then leaned in just a little. "so you're gonna tell me that dr. abbott staring at you right now doesn't have you day-dreaming just a bit?"

following her graze, you look up, and see a pair of eyes set on yours.

dr. jack abbott stood in front of the trauma board, hands in his cargo pockets, with his chin slightly tilted back. the glow of the screen illuminating his features.

but he wasn't looking at it.

he was looking at you.

your eyes widen and without thinking you give him a small smile—shy, unnerved, before immediately looking back down. ellis, watching the whole thing play out in front of her, lets out a chuckle.

"girl, i know damn well." she snorted. "you don't know a damn thing," you snapped back "a damn thing." giving her a pointed look and she raises her hands in surrender. "if you say so." she says laughing under her breath, walking away to find another case to work on.

you shook your head, attempting to regain focus but before you could do anything, a warm presence was standing behind you.

"how's charting going?"

you knew the voice. low, gravelly voice that makes your brain short circuit. it belonged to jack.

you spin you chair a tad to get a better look at him. "uhm, charting is going well. pretty riveting stuff you if you ask me." you say in a dry, humorous tone, trying to mask the tremble in your voice. lord did this man have an effect on you.

"riveting, huh?" he says with a crooked smile. arms crossed over his chest, causing his biceps to flex and fill up the sleeves of his scrubs.

you try not to ogle at him, maintaining eye contact the best you can. "i just wanted to come over and say again how you did really well in that case." his voice was lower, somehow warmer. "you stayed focused, worked efficiently, and took the lead." woah, does this man ever stop with the compliments? "oh—thank dr. abbott. couldn't have done it without a great teacher like you." you say sweetly. you really meant it. jack abbott was a damn good teacher and was someone you constantly looked up to in the emergency room. someone you wholeheartedly trusted.

he gave you a final, reassuring nod and then patted your forearm, giving you a quick wink before walking away.

you turned your chair back to your notes and slid down in your chair immediately. if it was even possible right then, you'd melt away.

your heart was beating faster than even and all you could think to yourself was:

yeah, we're in big trouble.

✦ maeva's thoughts: heyoooo!! i know i've been MIA but i hope this post makes it up to y'all. school has been whooping my ahh but i'm just trying to remind myself i have 5 weeks left and then i'm free from the shackles. i'm utterly obsessed with the pitt and dr. abbott. been on that since the couple scenes we saw of him in ep 1. also thought this song was prettyyy fitting for this piece.

i've been playing around with the theme of my blog and i honestly think it's pretty dope but y'all lmk what you think.

the gif is not mine!!

#the pitt #dr jack abbott #jack abbot #medicine #x reader #fluff #x y/n #dr ellis #slow burn #yearning #jack abott #shawn hatosy #jack abbott x reader #Spotify

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komotionlessqueenmm · 9 months ago

Text

Headcanon/Preference # 35

Gifs NOT mine.

Year posted - 2024

Rating - SFW & NSFW

Reading time (roughly) - 18 minutes

It's been a minute since I've watched all the Resident Evil movies, so some stuff might not be super accurate. Just roll with it my lovelies.

------------------------------

SFW

• You are really Weskers one and only true weakness, and he is both terrified, and enraged by the thought of someone exploiting that fact.

• So obviously he is very tempted to inject you with the virus. But he's worried that it might not bond with your genetics like his.

• So he runs like a million different tests, without your knowledge, to find out if it would undoubtedly bond with your genes.

• When he comes to the conclusion that it will in fact bond with your genes, he feels as if a weight is lifted off his chest...

• Now he's just got to figure out how to convince you to take it.

• If push comes to shove... He might just inject you against your will.

• If that's the case, he will do whatever it takes to earn your forgiveness, and make you understand that this was for the best.

• Wesker would burn a thousand world's to protect you okay. He'd abandon everything he's worked for, if it meant keeping you safe. You are his world, and his one and only.

• He would die for you if he had to, and he will fight to his very last breath to get back to you.

• You literally can have the world on a silver platter. If you want it, simply ask and it's yours.

• Money, power, jewelry, clothes, his attention, hell you simply want food? Weskers gonna pull out all the stops, and make you an amazing dinner.

• Can't bring yourself to ask for what you want, and you'd rather leave hints? No worries Wesker can read you like an open book, consider it yours already love.

• On that note. Wesker is an amazing cook, like seriously good. You'd think he took culinary classes before he got into working for Umbrella. In reality it's just a natural skill he was practically born with.

• He makes cooking complex meals look easy, and to him it is easy, second nature really. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy cooking for you, doing anything that makes you happy, makes him happy in return.

• You're also the only person that can get him to open up and talk more. Something's he won't tell you about from his past, but those things he claims are better left in the past.

• Wesker loves reading to you, but he also loves listening to you read to him as well. And when you both wanna read your own books, curling up and spending the evening together reading quietly is perfect to.

• You make him so unlike himself at times. Sometimes even he wonders how you have such an effect on him. Not that he's complaining, he loves it in fact, it goes to show how special you really are.

• If you ever want to just go and get out of the infamous bunker, simply exploring what's left of the outside world. Wesker will let you, he knows you can look after yourself.

• But is he back at the bunker pacing back and forth like crazy? Yeah he totally is... For about 20-25 minutes before he decides he can't handle not knowing, and he goes after you.

• However he won't let you know he's there, he'll simply shadow you unless you really need him. He just needs to be certain you're okay, infected or not he still worries.

• He definitely teaches you how to fight. Hand to hand combat of course, but along with teaching you how to use just about any weapon he can get his hands on... Which is a lot.

• He'll teach you how to drive if you never learned, how to operate a helicopter, small plane, and even a fucking tank just in case.

• Don't know how to swim? No worries love, Wesker will take however long necessary to teach you. Don't have great endurance? He's got you covered.

• He's actually a very good teacher. He pushes you, but he never pushes you to far. He's fair. And he's driven to help you, become an even more amazing you. He's very patient, and very encouraging.

• Wesker loves everything about you. Anything you consider a flaw, he considers incredible. His praise is through the roof. He practically worships the very ground you walk on.

• As stated before Wesker can read you like an open book. So whenever you're scared, he's there to comfort you. Or if you're stressed, he's happy to draw you a warm bath.

• Maybe you're just tired? You know the kinda tired no amount of sleep can fix. Well he's there for you, holding you, letting you rest, and assuring you that he loves you.

• Despite how incredible he is, and how mush pride he has. Sometimes he can't help but feel a bit insecure at times. Are you afraid of his eyes? Of him perhaps? Will you grow bored of him and leave? Is he worthy of you?

• It's rare that these thoughts occur, let alone bother him. But sometimes late at night, while holding you in his arms, he can't help but wonder.

• He pushes those thoughts away, and the following morning you always manage to unknowingly, reassure him that he has nothing to worry about.

• Arguments with Wesker are pretty seldom. When it does happen, typically it's you hollering at him, and him sitting there silently waiting for you to calm down.

• He has raised his voice to you once, but it was brief, and he apologized almost immediately. The only reason he raised his voice, was because he was worried when you did something extremely reckless.

• Wesker is extremely patient, and understanding with you. He knows sometimes you're not quite yourself, whether it's because you're tired, you're hurting, or simply overwhelmed with something.

• If something is bothering you, but you don't want to talk about it. He'll quietly scoop you up into his arms, take you to bed or nearest couch, and simply lay down with you atop him. Petting your hair and simply letting you relax.

• He's seen you cry many times, and he's never once thought poorly of you for it. He knows you've been through a lot, and adapting to this new world isn't easy for you.

• You've seen him cry once. There was an accident while exploring the outside world, and Wesker thought he'd lost you, that he'd failed you, and you'd paid the ultimate price.

• Even as he looked up at you from his position on his knees, tears continued to roll silently down his pale cheeks. You were alive and well, but he was so close to losing you.

• You held him in your arms, and simply let him get it all out in silence. His strong frame, typically as unfazed as a brick wall, shaking as his heart wretched in his chest.

• He'd never known pain like that before, and he was grateful you didn't think any less of him for it. Hell it brought you both closer together, and strengthened your bond in ways he had never considered before.

• Wesker encourages every one of your hobbies, even if it's something he doesn't quite see the appeal of. It makes you happy, and that's good enough for him. He'll find you supplies whenever he leaves the bunker, and really anything he thinks you might like.

• The beginning of your relationship was odd. Before you started dating, Wesker would follow you around like a grumpy cat. Acting like you mean nothing to him, but always insisting on being near you.

• Actually there are a lot of reasons you could compare Wesker to a cat. And if you ever tell him that he denies it admittedly, all the while practically purring as you toy with his hair absentmindedly.

• He'll literally be staring at you without his sunglasses, and his slit pupils are now wide and round. And the moment his attention is drawn elsewhere they shift back into thin slits.

• Wesker has a secret sweet tooth, and again if he's called out on it, he'll deny it to hell and back. Even if he has a sweet in his hand, or even his mouth. You can't prove anything!

• Will definitely steal food from you just to tease you, a playful smile on his face the entire time. Actually he steals all sorts of stuff from you just to taunt you, and he absolutely loves it when you chase after him trying to get it back.

• Will he use his power to speed away? Possibly. But he honestly enjoys letting you think you can really catch him.

• Aka he enjoys playing cat and mouse, but you never know who's the cat, and who's the mouse until the cat gives chase.

• All in all he loves you with every fiber of his being, and he would follow you anywhere, and do anything for you. It doesn't matter what you might say or do at times, you are his everything.

NSFW

• Oh and before you ask, yes the cat and mouse play, is something that occurs in the bedroom. And again it varies on who's the cat and mouse depending on yours and his mood.

• Wesker enjoys all sorts of role playing. Acting like he's the STARS Captain, that needs to do whatever it takes to get you to confess to a crime. Being the good doctor who must cure your mysterious illness.

• And even acting as if the virus has altered his mind, and made him into a mindless sex crazed beast. He especially enjoys this one, because it plays into his breeding kink.

• This man wants to breed you so so bad. It's partly a side effect of the virus, but he's always had an interest in it long before he injected himself. Now with you as his love, he feels as if he needs to breed.

• Rough sex, slow sex, quickies, you name it he wants it. His sex drive is high now that you're together, but he is very patient if you don't want sex as much as him.

• Wesker is incredibly romantic, and he loves spoiling you. He's a giver through and through. So that being said if he could live the rest of his life, with his face buried between your thighs he would.

• Oral is a must anyhow. Wesker is big, he's well aware of this fact, and he doesn't want to hurt you. So he'll spend at least a half hour between your legs just prepping you.

• And boy does he know what he's doing. You often loose count of how many orgasms he pulls from you.

• From base to tip he is roughly 7.9 inches long, and 2.1 inches wide. The tip is very prominent, and he is surprisingly uncircumcised. His cock also leans a little to the left when hard.

• His cock is a pale as the rest of his body, but when he's hard the head gets very pink. He has two very prominent veins that feel absolutely divine.

• Wesker loves cockwarming so much, sometimes he insists on sleeping with his cock still buried in your heat. But his favorite time is when you're sitting together reading.

• He's such a tease when you're cockwarming. Giving the occasional thrust just to hear you whine needily. He will pump load after load into you, and keep you plugged up with his dick, even if you are sensitive.

• Aftercare King GOD! He will massage your sore muscles, clean you up, run you a soothing bath, bring you a snack and plenty of water or maybe some soothing tea. He'll whisper sweet nothing's into your ear, praise you, and remind you of how much he truly loves you.

• You just wanna cuddle afterwards? Perfect it'll give it time for his seed to work its way deeper. Want a bath or shower immediately after? That's okay too, he'll change the sheets while you do so, then join you once he's done.

• You can always tell when he's horny, not only by the way he'll paw at you, or the evident bulge in his pants. But also because his eyes glow exceptionally bright, and the slits of his eyes are wide.

• He sounds like a beast as he nuzzles into you, growling and purring as he tries to coax you into helping him out.

• That being said Wesker is very vocal. He moans, growls, purrs, and spews praise the entire time. He isn't super loud about it, as he prefers to have his face buried in your neck, but sometimes he will get a bit loud. Typically that's when he's really needy.

• When he's extra needy, he whimpers so much. It's so fucking hot when you get him all worked up like that. Making him weak and needy, whimpering and begging you for his release. It's divine, and makes you feel so very powerful.

• He loves loves loves making you loud as fuck. His goal is to make your voice horse by the time he's done. Especially if others might be around. He needs them to know who you belong to, and ensure no one is dumb enough to try anything.

• Wesker takes so much pleasure in fucking you dumb. And when you get cock drunk, he's so fucking proud. He will make an absolute mess out of you, and then praise you for being so good for him.

• There are very few things he isn't willing to try with you. He isn't willing to share you with anyone... With the exception of a clone of himself... He will fuck you roughly, but he doesn't take it to far considering his strength, and the amount of damage he can inflict with little effort.

• He does enjoy bondage, both for you and himself. And yeah he could break out of his binds very easily, but why would he, he's enjoying you taking control, and using him for your pleasure. His favorite technique of binding you is with a straitjacket, and it plays into some of his favorite role playing stories.

• Wesker will fuck you anywhere at any given time, seriously he has no shame, just ask and he is yours. That's not to say he won't kill anyone for interrupting or catching you. Your pussy is for his eyes only.

• While he loves pumping you full of his cum, he will never pass up an opportunity to cum on your tits. Especially if you beg for it so sweetly, I mean he loves fucking your tits anyhow. So if you want him to paint your breasts with his cum, who is he to deny you?

• But if you don't ask him to cover you in his cum, or cum in your mouth. Wesker is gonna stuff you with his cock and finish in your warm cunt. Even if he only gets the tip in before he starts to unload, as long as he's inside your heat he's satisfied.

• That isn't to say he won't make you eat his cum. His favorite way of doing that, is to cum inside your pussy, finger you until you cum, and make you suck on his sopping fingers. Sometimes with his gloves on, because he knows you love the leather.

• If you're together before being locked up in the bunker, Wesker is not above letting you suck his cock at his desk. In STARS or Umbrella, he is yours to do with as you please. And if he can return the favor while you're at work, he's more than happy to.

• Wesker also loves seeing you wearing his clothes so much, that it often gets him all hot and bothered, and he's on you real quick like.

• When you inevitably fall pregnant, Wesker is the first to know. He knows before you know. He could sense the changes to your body, and eventually he could hear the extra heartbeat.

• But he'll wait for you to figure it out, and come to him. And like a good lover, he'll act surprised by the news, because he knows it'll make you happy.

• He praises every change your body goes through, some of which he seriously adores. Like how your hips widen a bit, and your breasts swell with milk for the babe.

• He will pamper you 1,000% more than he already did, waking you up most days with his tongue buried in your sweet pussy. And when your breasts grow heavy and sore, he's there to relieve the pain.

• Lactation kink unlocked!

• Initially it started with him massaging your sore breasts, but as he watched milk bead from your tender nipple, he instinctively licked it clean.

• You moaned, he growled. And within seconds your nipple was in his hot greedy mouth. Wesker groaned at the taste of your milk, tweaking your other nipple until it began leaking.

• He played with the milk for a moment before swapping breasts. Back and forth he went until he was satisfied, and the pressure in your breasts had subsidied.

• He kissed you hungrily afterwards, letting you taste your own milk. Before kissing his way down your body until he reached your sex, eating you out as if he were starved.

• Wesker fucking loves pregnancy sex. He loves holding your swollen belly as he makes slow sensual love to you. He loves how extra responsive you are, and how extra sensitive your body is.

• He is very attentive and will help you in the shower or bath, and when your all cleaned up, he can't help himself and he will finger you to climax.

• And when it gets to hard to shave yourself, Wesker is happy to lend a helping hand. Which unsurprisingly ends with him licking your pussy.

• Forgot to mention it before, but Wesker enjoys eating pussy very messily. It's so obscene the sounds he makes as he licks and slurps at your sex, growling and moaning as he dose so.

• The sounds are so obscene you often find yourself blushing like crazy. Even though you tend to suck his cock all noisily as well, something he takes great pleasure in of course.

• Wesker loves having you ride his face, when you're pregnant and when you're not. Don't worry you can't hurt him, so grind away. He'll keep a firm unrelenting hold of your hips, so you don't gotta worry about falling or anything like that.

• Once your child is born, Wesker is eager to get you pregnant again, after you've healed up of course. Although if you would rather wait a while, he'll comply to your request.

• So he'll cum on your belly, on your tits, your butt, your back, or down your throat. Wherever you want really. But he will beg you to let him breed you again, eventually. He can't help it, he needs to breed you.

• If you downright refuse, then he's gonna get you into anal if you aren't already. So he can atleast cum in your ass if you won't let him cum in your pussy anymore. But again he will still try to convince you at some point to let him cum in your pussy again.

• He needs it, don't be mean.

------------------------------

Movie Wesker is a dreamboat okay! I freaking love Shawn Roberts, and he looked so good as Wesker.

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dreamersworldduh · 18 days ago

Text

BREWING OF FEELINGS

• SHAWN MENDES x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — When your best friend is practically family, you sign up for the good, the bad, and the completely ridiculous. You're their rock, their reality check, their safe place—no matter what. But nothing tests that bond quite like getting a wedding invitation... with your ex-fling on the guest list. That's the situation when Ella, your lifelong best friend, drops a letter that changes everything.

WARNING! FLUFF.

WORDS! 8.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! None at the moment, I’m too tired—although this sort of a slow burn with a promising ending. So bare with our lovely couple, enjoy your reading.✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! —HOME, SWEET, HOME

THE SMELL of sizzling bacon and fresh pancakes filled the cabin as you moved effortlessly around the kitchen, your hands busy whisking eggs and flipping golden pancakes on the griddle. Cooking had always been second nature to you—a calming ritual that helped steady your mind, even on mornings like this.

The sound of the front door opening drew your attention briefly, followed by the unmistakable thud of sneakers being kicked off onto the wooden floor. Jake's voice rang out first, loud and cheerful. "Smells like heaven in here."

You didn't respond immediately, focusing instead on plating a stack of pancakes. But then you saw them out of the corner of your eye: Jake and Shawn, stepping into the kitchen, shirtless after an early morning run.

Jake moved with his usual ease, heading straight for the coffee maker without a second thought. But Shawn lingered near the doorway, just behind Jake, his chest still rising and falling from exertion. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin caught the morning light streaming through the windows, highlighting the sharp lines of muscle across his chest and stomach. His black running shorts clung low on his hips, the waistband of his underwear peeking out slightly. His damp hair was pushed back haphazardly, leaving a few strands falling forward.

Your eyes betrayed you, lingering for just a second too long before you forced them away. You turned back to the stove, flipping another pancake with deliberate indifference, the heat from the stove doing nothing to hide the faint warmth rising to your cheeks.

"Smells incredible," Jake said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "You're a lifesaver, man. We'd probably be eating protein bars all week without you."

"Figured someone should feed you," you replied evenly, cracking another egg into the bowl. Your tone was calm, but you felt your pulse quicken slightly when Shawn finally stepped fully into the kitchen, his presence commanding even without saying a word.

"Morning," Shawn said softly, his voice still a little hoarse from the run.

"Morning," you replied, keeping your eyes fixed on the stove as you reached for the spatula.

Jake took a long sip of his coffee and leaned against the counter, completely oblivious to the undercurrent in the room. "Seriously, man, you didn't have to do all this. We're spoiled."

"It's not a big deal," you said with a shrug, sliding another pancake onto the growing stack. "Just trying to keep everyone alive."

Jake laughed, turning toward Shawn. "See? This is why we keep him around. I told you he could cook."

Shawn smiled faintly, stepping closer to the counter but keeping a respectful distance. "It smells amazing," he said, his voice low.

You nodded curtly, still not looking directly at him. "Breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes."

Jake, clearly energized from the run, began rattling off a story about something funny that had happened outside, gesturing animatedly while Shawn listened, occasionally chiming in with a quiet laugh. You kept your focus on the food, pretending the room wasn't shrinking around you with every passing second.

But as you flipped the last pancake onto the plate and turned off the stove, you could feel Shawn's eyes on you—watching, waiting, like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how.

You exhaled slowly, picking up the plate of pancakes and turning to set it on the table. "Eat up before it gets cold," you said, your tone neutral, brushing past both of them as you moved to grab the bacon.

Jake clapped Shawn on the back. "Guess we earned it after that run, huh?"

Shawn didn't respond right away, his gaze flickering briefly toward you before he followed Jake to the table.

The sound of heavy footsteps thudding down the wooden stairs broke the growing tension in the kitchen. Lexie appeared in the doorway first, her hair a chaotic mess from sleep, her voice carrying its usual dramatic flair.

"Is that bacon I smell?" she called out, her eyes lighting up as she zeroed in on the kitchen. "I love you," she added, making a beeline for the coffee pot with zero hesitation.

"You only love me when there's bacon," you shot back, smirking despite yourself as you slid a fresh batch of crispy strips onto a plate.

"Accurate," she said unapologetically, pouring herself a generous cup of coffee. "But I'm not sorry."

Sophie was next, trailing sleepily behind with Nate and Matt close on her heels. Nate stretched his arms overhead with an exaggerated groan. "This smells like heaven," he said, his voice muffled by a yawn. "You've outdone yourself, Chef Extraordinaire."

"Breakfast royalty!" he added dramatically, throwing his arms up as he collapsed into a chair at the large wooden dining table. "We're not worthy."

You rolled your eyes at the theatrics but couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at the corners of your lips. "You're impossible," you muttered, grabbing a platter of pancakes and setting it down in the center of the table.

Matt clapped a hand on your shoulder as he passed, plopping into a chair with a grin. "Seriously, though, you're spoiling us. What's the catch? Do we owe you our firstborn or something?"

"Just your undying gratitude," you replied dryly, grabbing another plate of bacon and adding it to the growing feast on the table.

Sophie groaned appreciatively as she slid into a seat, grabbing a plate. "I could cry right now. You're a genius."

"Don't cry on the pancakes," you said, smirking as you handed her the syrup.

The table quickly filled with plates, silverware, and a steady stream of chatter. The group fell into an easy rhythm, teasing each other and passing around food as they woke up and came to life. Jake and Shawn joined the table, sliding seamlessly into the lively conversation as if the earlier tension had never existed.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. The warmth of the morning sun streaming through the cabin windows, the smell of coffee and bacon, and the sound of your friends' laughter—it felt almost normal, almost easy. Almost like old times.

SHAWN SLID into the seat directly across from you, his movements unhurried but deliberate. The lively chatter of the group swirled around the table, a comfortable hum of teasing, laughter, and clinking plates. You focused on your own breakfast, carefully pouring syrup over your stack of pancakes, the golden liquid pooling on the plate. It was a simple task, but it gave you something to do other than acknowledge the occasional flicker of his gaze in your direction.

The quiet sound of his voice cut through the surrounding noise, soft and just loud enough for you to hear. "This is... really good," he said, almost hesitantly, as though testing the waters.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment. There was something there—something you couldn't quite place. Gratitude? Nostalgia? Regret? Whatever it was, you didn't linger long enough to decipher it. Instead, you shrugged lightly, your voice even as you replied, "I've had practice."

His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, into a faint smile. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but the conversation around the table shifted, cutting off whatever he'd been about to add.

"Alright, pancakes or bacon?" Matt declared, holding up a plate dramatically. "You can only pick one. Choose wisely."

"Pancakes," Lexie said without hesitation, snatching the plate from him. "Obviously."

"Wrong answer," Nate chimed in, shoveling a strip of bacon into his mouth. "Bacon for the win."

The table erupted into playful arguments about breakfast superiority, drawing everyone into the debate. You seized the moment, focusing back on your plate, though you could still feel Shawn's presence across from you. His gaze lingered for a second longer before he turned to join the conversation, letting the moment between you dissolve into the noise of the group.

But even as you pushed your fork through the soft stack of pancakes, you couldn't quite shake the feeling that Shawn's words—simple as they were—had carried a weight neither of you were ready to address. Not yet.

Ella cleared her throat with deliberate drama, rising halfway from her chair and clinking her spoon against her glass like she was officiating an important ceremony. The cheerful clatter of breakfast conversations faded as all eyes turned to her. She wore a mischievous grin, clearly relishing the attention.

"Okay, everyone! Since Jake and I are technically responsible adults now—" she paused as Lexie snorted into her coffee, causing a ripple of laughter around the table, "—we decided to plan some fun stuff for the week, so you all don't just sit around getting drunk and playing old-school Mario Kart like we're still in college."

"That feels like a direct attack," Nate said, raising a forkful of eggs with exaggerated mock offense. His expression drew another wave of laughter.

Ella grinned triumphantly. "It was."

Jake leaned forward from his seat beside her, resting his forearms on the table. "We figured, since we've got the whole week before the wedding, we'd mix it up a bit. Bring back some of the old traditions and maybe throw in a few new ones."

Lexie perked up, already intrigued, her coffee mug suspended mid-air. "Okay, but is this gonna be like that time you planned a 'fun hike' that turned into a five-hour death march in the middle of nowhere?"

Jake threw his hands up in mock surrender. "No extreme hikes this time. I swear. I've learned my lesson."

Ella smirked, pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from her pocket with a dramatic flourish. She flattened it on the table, smoothing out imaginary creases as though revealing some grand plan. "Alright, listen up! Here's what we've got lined up."

She began ticking off items with her finger. "Tonight, we're kicking things off with a bonfire by the lake—s'mores, drinks, stories... the whole nostalgic experience."

"Classic," Matt said, nodding in approval. "Perfect excuse to hear Nate's overly exaggerated camping disaster story for the hundredth time."

"I barely survived that trip," Nate shot back with mock indignation, earning another round of laughter.

Ella continued, undeterred by the group's antics. "Tomorrow, we've booked a boat rental for the entire day—sunbathing, tubing, swimming, and fishing, if that's your thing."

"Lake day, yes!" Sophie cheered, reaching across the table to high-five Lexie.

Jake leaned back in his chair with a grin. "And, since we know some people here thrive on competition..." His eyes flicked between you and Matt with a knowing smirk. "We've set up an old-school game tournament. Pool, darts, and, of course, Mario Kart."

The room broke into excited cheers and groans, the prospect of a heated throwback challenge clearly hitting the right notes.

"Hope you all like losing," Matt said confidently, stretching back in his chair with a self-assured grin. "I've only gotten better since college."

"You wish," you shot back, unable to resist a small smirk. "You still steer with the joystick like it's a spaceship."

"That's called precision," Matt replied with mock seriousness, setting off another round of laughter.

Ella tapped the table to bring the group's attention back, her grin widening. "Wait, wait—there's more!"

The chatter quieted, though you couldn't help but notice Shawn's gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary after your brief, unguarded laugh.

"Thursday night," Ella continued, her voice softening slightly, "we're having a special dinner—all of us together. Something nice, before things get crazy with wedding prep."

The table stilled for a moment, the mood turning thoughtful. You could feel the nostalgia settling over everyone, wrapping the group in a quiet understanding of just how much these moments meant. Ella's words carried a weight that wasn't lost on anyone.

"And Friday?" Sophie asked, breaking the silence.

"Friday's surprise night," Jake announced, his grin taking on a mischievous edge. "We've got something big planned to end the week right."

"Define 'big,'" Lexie said suspiciously. "Because the last time you said that, we ended up camping in a thunderstorm with no cell service."

Jake laughed. "Trust me. You'll love it."

Ella leaned forward slightly, her expression soft and genuine. "We just... we really wanted this week to be about us. All of us. It's been way too long since we've done something like this."

There was a chorus of murmured agreement, heads nodding around the table. Even the usual banter and teasing quieted for a beat, replaced by the unspoken understanding of how much these connections meant. You glanced around the group, seeing the same sentiment reflected in everyone's eyes: this wasn't just another trip—it was something more.

And then, like clockwork, Matt raised his coffee mug high, breaking the moment with his signature grin. "To surviving Ella and Jake's intense activity list."

Everyone laughed, lifting mugs, glasses, and utensils in a chaotic toast.

"To the best week ever!" Ella corrected, clinking her glass against Jake's with a beaming smile.

The group echoed her cheer, the lively energy returning as plans for the day unfolded. You found yourself glancing at Shawn again, catching his thoughtful gaze as he watched you from across the table. It felt like old times for a second—a glimpse of something unspoken, still lingering between you.

As the group burst into playful teasing about who would dominate Mario Kart and who would inevitably tip the canoe later, you couldn't help but feel the quiet tug of something bittersweet, nestled beneath the surface of the laughter.

Something that felt a lot like hope.

THE BONFIRE had burned down to a steady glow, its flames reduced to smoldering embers that pulsed with warmth, cutting through the crisp night air. The temperature had dropped, and the group huddled closer around the fire, blankets wrapped snugly around shoulders and mugs of whiskey or coffee cradled in chilled hands. Matt, in his usual animated fashion, was midway through yet another outrageous tale from his self-proclaimed "adventurous" past.

"So there I was," he declared dramatically, gesturing wildly, "face to face with a snarling beast."

Sophie, already laughing so hard she could barely breathe, interrupted, waving her hand for him to stop. "You did not wrestle a bear!" she wheezed, doubling over with laughter.

"I didn't say I wrestled it, I faced it," Matt countered indignantly, his grin betraying him. "And technically, it was more of a... large raccoon. But the principle is the same!"

The group dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that came easily after a few drinks and years of shared memories. Even Jake, usually the calm one, was wiping tears from his eyes.

As the laughter ebbed, Ella leaned forward, her eyes glinting with mischief in the firelight. "Okay, okay. Enough about Matt's epic battles with wildlife. Let's do something real."

Lexie groaned loudly, leaning back in her chair. "If this is another one of your 'deep bonding moments,' I'm leaving."

"It's not bonding," Ella insisted, rolling her eyes, though her grin suggested otherwise. "I just think it's time to play Remember When. You have to share one memory from high school or college—something that still makes you smile. No dodging, no cop-outs."

The group exchanged wary but intrigued glances. There were a few groans, but nobody outright protested.

Jake went first, raising his hand like a kid in a classroom. "Alright. Remember that summer when Matt and I decided we could build a raft out of pool noodles?"

"Oh, God," Lexie groaned, already laughing.

"And we definitely thought it would float!" Jake continued, grinning. "Except it didn't even make it halfway across the lake before it started sinking."

"It was engineering genius," Matt interjected proudly. "We just needed more noodles."

"And maybe basic knowledge of buoyancy," Sophie quipped, earning another round of laughter.

Next, Sophie chimed in with her own story, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Lexie and I crashed that homecoming dance junior year—remember that? We weren't even invited, so we pretended to be catering staff to sneak in."

"I still have the pictures!" Lexie added, cackling. "I looked ridiculous holding a tray of fake hors d'oeuvres."

The laughter came easily, rippling through the circle, but when it was your turn, the group fell quiet, their attention shifting to you.

You hesitated, staring into the glowing embers. The memories swirled in your mind like the sparks drifting skyward, so vivid you could almost feel the summer heat on your skin, hear the sound of distant waves lapping against the dock.

"I..." you began, your voice soft, "remember the first summer after high school. We all snuck onto the old dock by the lake at midnight. Just... lying there, staring up at the stars."

The group stilled, their faces reflecting the same wistful warmth that flickered in the firelight.

"We talked about everything," you continued, your voice growing steadier. "About what life would be like when we 'grew up.' About the things we wanted, the places we'd go." A faint smile touched your lips. "It felt like nothing would ever change."

A quiet hum of nostalgia settled over the group. Heads nodded slowly, smiles tugged at lips, but no one spoke. The memory was shared by all of you—a moment frozen in time, perfect in its simplicity.

"I thought," you added softly, your gaze dropping to the fire, "that things would always stay the same."

The air grew still, heavy with the weight of what had been and what had changed. The only sounds were the crackling fire and the distant rustle of trees swaying in the cool night breeze.

Across the fire, Shawn's eyes found yours. They were steady, unguarded, carrying a familiar intensity that made your breath hitch. His gaze held something unspoken, a flicker of shared memory that tethered you both to that long-ago night. For a moment, the world around you faded, leaving only the soft glow of embers and the weight of the history still pulsing between you.

The spell was broken when Lexie clapped her hands together loudly, her voice cutting through the stillness. "Alright, enough feelings. Someone pass the whiskey before this gets too sentimental."

The group laughed, the tension dissolving as quickly as it had formed. Matt eagerly reached for the bottle, making a joke about how Lexie always killed the mood.

As the conversation shifted back to lighter topics, your heart was still pounding. You tightened the blanket around your shoulders, your mind lingering on the memories and the way Shawn had looked at you—as though those moments hadn't just been a memory for him either.

The quiet ripples of the lake mirrored the ones inside you, soft but insistent, refusing to settle.

THE SUN blazed high in the sky, its golden rays casting sparkling reflections across the vast, mirror-like surface of Lake Marigold. The air was warm, laced with the crisp scent of pine and sunscreen, while a soft breeze rippled through the water, carrying bursts of laughter from your group. Ella and Jake had delivered on their promise of a perfect lake day with the old but reliable pontoon boat they'd rented—a roomy, slightly weathered vessel equipped with a cooler packed with drinks, inflatable water floats, and a Bluetooth speaker blasting a nostalgic playlist from your teenage years.

You stood at the edge of the boat, leaning casually against the side rail, the occasional cool spray from the lake refreshing against your sun-warmed skin. You wore your favorite swim shorts and a lightweight tank top, though the heat was quickly convincing you to shed the layer. The boat swayed gently, its rocking motion soothing, as if the lake itself was welcoming you back to simpler times.

"Cannonball competition!" Matt's voice rang out from the rear of the boat, shattering the relative calm. He launched himself off the deck with a dramatic leap, his arms flailing for effect before he plunged into the water, sending up a towering splash. The spray drenched everyone nearby, including Lexie, who squealed before holding up an imaginary scorecard.

"Ten out of ten for the splash," she called, lounging on one of the padded deck chairs with her sunglasses perched on her nose and a drink in hand. "Minus points for the form, though."

"You're all critics!" Matt yelled back from the water, grinning as he splashed toward the ladder.

Beside you, Nate appeared, his hair still dripping from his last jump. He leaned casually on the railing, his grin as wide as the lake. "You in?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

You laughed, shaking your head. "I'm saving my energy for tubing. You're going down later."

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" Nate teased, leaning in closer, his voice dropping mock-seriously. "Better back that up, because I'm not letting go of that tube until I win."

"Hope you've been working on your upper body strength," you shot back, nudging him playfully with your elbow.

Before you could react, Nate's grin turned wicked, and his hand shot out to grab your wrist. "Or maybe I'll just take you down now."

"Nate—don't—!" you protested, laughing as you tried to pull free. But he was faster, and with a firm tug, he yanked you toward the edge. You tumbled together into the lake, the water wrapping around you in a cool, shocking embrace.

You surfaced with a gasp, brushing water from your face just in time to see Nate grinning triumphantly. "Told you!" he said, holding his arms up in mock victory.

"Payback's coming," you shot back, launching yourself toward him with a splash that sent him flailing. The laughter between you was easy, uninhibited, like the kind you hadn't felt in a long time.

From the boat, Shawn watched quietly. He stood near the railing, one arm resting casually against it while his other hand held a water bottle. His black swim trunks clung to him, and his hair was damp from an earlier swim, curling slightly at the ends. He hadn't said much all day, but his eyes stayed on you now, following the way you laughed and splashed with Nate like nothing else in the world mattered. His gaze was thoughtful, almost wistful, as if trying to decipher the person you'd become in the years since.

When you finally climbed back onboard, breathless and dripping wet, you tugged off your soaked tank top and tossed it onto an empty chair. The sun warmed your skin as you grabbed a cold drink from the cooler, and that's when Shawn saw it.

The tattoo.

A delicate stream of black-inked butterflies trailed gracefully down the side of your neck and shoulder, each one unique, their wings intricate and fluid. Interspersed among them were faint words in elegant, flowing script:

"Learn to love yourself first."

Shawn's gaze lingered, tracing the path of the ink like it was a secret waiting to be unraveled. He remembered you mentioning once, long ago, that you wanted a tattoo, though you'd never said what or when. Seeing it now—seeing you now, bold and unapologetically yourself—hit him in a way he wasn't prepared for.

Lexie, sprawled in her chair, noticed the tattoo first. "Damn!" she called out, lifting her sunglasses to get a better look. "When did that happen?"

You glanced over your shoulder, absently brushing your fingers over the ink. "Couple years ago," you said, your voice casual but distant. "It was... something I needed at the time."

"It's gorgeous," Lexie said sincerely, raising her drink in a mock toast. "Good choice."

Before you could respond, Shawn spoke, his voice low but clear. "It's... beautiful."

The sincerity in his tone made you pause. You turned to meet his gaze, and for a moment, something unreadable passed between you. His eyes were steady, full of quiet admiration and something deeper, something unspoken.

"Thanks," you said softly, holding his gaze a second longer than you intended before Nate called your name from the front of the boat, waving you over to help with the tube.

You nodded and turned away, leaving Shawn standing by the railing, his thoughts visibly racing as he watched you walk off.

The day carried on with wild tubing rides, splash wars, and sun-soaked moments that would become the kind of memories you'd talk about years later. But for Shawn, the image of your tattoo lingered in his mind—a symbol of how much you'd changed, grown, and healed.

And it reminded him of how much he still wanted to be a part of your life.

THE SUN had begun its slow descent, casting golden light over the lake and softening the edges of the world around you. The group had settled into quieter activities—some lounging on the boat's deck, others lazily floating on inflatable tubes tethered nearby. The energy from earlier had simmered down, leaving behind a calm, reflective atmosphere.

You had slipped away from the group, finding a quiet spot on the pontoon's rear deck. Sitting on the edge with your legs dangling just above the water, you trailed your fingers lazily through the cool surface. The rhythmic lapping of the waves against the boat was soothing, a moment of peace you hadn't realized you needed.

Footsteps on the deck behind you made you glance back. Shawn stood there, his hands stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his swim trunks. His damp hair was slightly tousled by the breeze, and the sunlight caught on the droplets of water clinging to his skin, giving him a golden glow. For a moment, he just stood there, his expression hesitant, almost cautious.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice carrying easily in the quiet.

You turned back to the water. "Hey."

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, stepping closer.

You hesitated, considering your answer. Part of you wanted to stay in this moment of solitude, free from the complexities his presence always seemed to bring. But before you could think better of it, you shrugged. "Sure."

Shawn sat down beside you, mirroring your position with his legs dangling over the edge. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn't easy either. It was weighted, heavy with everything unspoken between you.

He finally broke the silence, his voice quiet but steady. "I've been meaning to ask... how's life been? Since, you know... high school."

You didn't answer right away, your fingers skimming the water as you watched ripples expand and fade into the lake. "It's been... a lot," you said finally, your tone careful.

Shawn nodded, as though he'd expected the vagueness. "I figured," he said softly. "I mean, with everything you've done... the way everyone talks about you now. It's incredible."

You let out a faint, humorless laugh, glancing sideways at him. "Yeah, it's been great. Busy. A whirlwind." You paused, your voice dropping slightly. "But not always as perfect as it might look."

Shawn's expression softened, and he leaned back on his hands, his eyes scanning your face. "I get that," he said. "Sometimes it's easier to just... keep moving forward. Makes it harder for people to see what's really going on."

You turned your gaze back to the lake, the truth of his words hitting closer than you liked. "Yeah. Something like that."

There was another pause, longer this time. Shawn shifted slightly, his movements careful, like he was testing the waters of a conversation he wasn't sure you wanted to have.

"You've... changed," he said finally, his tone thoughtful. "Not in a bad way. You just seem... stronger. Like you've figured things out."

You gave a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Figuring things out is a process. I think I'm still in it."

"Your tattoo," he said, his voice almost hesitant. "It's beautiful. And it feels like it says a lot about what you've been through."

You stiffened slightly, surprised at how easily he'd read the meaning behind it. "Yeah," you said after a moment, your voice softer now. "It's a reminder. For me, mostly."

Shawn nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands. He seemed to weigh his next words carefully before speaking. "I've thought about you, you know. Over the years. Wondered how you were. What you were doing."

You glanced at him, catching the faint vulnerability in his expression. It was disarming, and for a moment, the guarded wall you'd built felt less solid.

"I wasn't sure you would've cared," you admitted, your tone sharper than you intended. "You didn't exactly... make it easy to think otherwise."

Shawn flinched slightly, but he didn't look away. "I know," he said, his voice laced with regret. "I made a lot of mistakes. Hurt you in ways I didn't understand back then. I was stupid and scared."

You swallowed hard, the old wounds he was touching on still raw in some places. "Yeah, well, we were kids," you said, your tone deliberately detached. "It's all ancient history now."

Shawn opened his mouth as if to argue, but then he stopped, his jaw tightening briefly before he spoke again. "Maybe it is," he said quietly. "But I still wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. For everything."

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with sincerity. You didn't know how to respond, so you didn't. Instead, you focused on the way the water glimmered in the late-afternoon sun, the ripples from the boat spreading out endlessly into the lake.

After a long moment, you finally said, your voice softer now, "I'm glad you asked how I've been. I think... I think I'm okay now. Most of the time."

Shawn's gaze flicked to you again, and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes that looked like hope. "I'm glad," he said, his voice quiet but warm.

The conversation drifted back into silence, but it felt lighter this time, less burdened. For now, it was enough.

THE CABIN had settled into an almost eerie calm, a sharp contrast to the earlier chaos. The living room bore the evidence of the group's gaming marathon—empty snack bowls balanced precariously on the edges of tables, half-finished drinks scattered across every available surface, and a few abandoned controllers lying in a tangled mess near the TV. Jake had claimed the crown of Mario Kart champion after a nail-biting final race against Matt, and the cheers and laughter that followed had felt like stepping back in time.

Now, the energy had drained from the space, leaving it quieter than it had been all day. One by one, the group had drifted off, retreating to their rooms with groans about sore muscles and heavy eyelids. The day's adventures—tubing, fishing, and far too much competitive gaming—had taken their toll.

You lingered behind, moving through the room with quiet purpose. You grabbed stray cups and empty cans, stacking them carefully before ferrying them to the kitchen. A throw blanket, half-slid off the leather couch, caught your eye, and you tossed it back into place, smoothing it out instinctively. The act of tidying, of restoring some sense of order to the space, felt grounding after the lively chaos of the evening.

The cabin creaked softly as you made your way down the dimly lit hallway toward the shared bathroom near your room. The faint scent of pine and lingering smoke from the earlier bonfire seemed to cling to the walls. You pulled your shirt over your head as you walked, the fabric sticking slightly from the long, active day. The promise of a hot shower was irresistible, a reward for the ache in your shoulders and the slight sunburn prickling at the back of your neck.

The bathroom was small but cozy, its wooden walls lined with hooks for towels and a small shelf cluttered with travel-sized toiletries. You turned on the shower, the old pipes groaning for a moment before the water began to flow. Steam quickly filled the space, curling around you and fogging up the mirror. The heat was immediate, soothing, as you stepped under the powerful spray, letting the water cascade over you.

The tension of the day began to dissolve as the water worked its way over your skin, washing away sunscreen, sweat, and the faint smell of lake water. You closed your eyes, tilting your head back, and let the steady rhythm of the droplets drown out everything else—the laughter, the noise, the subtle undercurrents of tension that had woven through the day.

For a few minutes, it was just you, the warmth of the water, and the comforting hum of the cabin settling into the night. The outside world faded away, leaving behind nothing but steam and the quiet sanctuary of the moment.

Meanwhile Shawn wandered down the dim hallway, the cabin unusually quiet after the day's lively energy. He was still sipping the last of his water, the coolness a welcome contrast to the warmth lingering in the house. The day had been long and full, but his mind kept drifting back to you—the way you'd laughed with Nate on the lake, the easy way you'd shared memories during the gaming marathon, and especially the conversation you'd had earlier on the boat.

He hadn't expected to feel so at ease with you again. The years between you, the mistakes, the regret—they'd weighed heavy on him for so long. But talking to you about your career, your tattoo, the way you seemed more confident and self-assured than ever, had stirred something deep in his chest. A mix of admiration, nostalgia, and something else he didn't quite have the words for.

The hallway creaked softly under his bare feet as he moved toward his room, the glass of water dangling loosely in his hand. As he passed the shared bathroom, the faint sound of running water registered in the back of his mind. For a moment, he thought it was the old pipes acting up, or maybe someone had forgotten to turn off the shower entirely.

He glanced at the light streaming under the door, assuming the room was empty. It wasn't unusual for someone to leave a light on in their rush to bed after a day like this. Without a second thought, he reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

The warm rush of steam hit him first, curling outward as the door swung wide enough to give him a clear view inside. His mind caught up a moment too late, his eyes taking in the figure standing under the shower spray, the glass door slightly frosted but not enough to obscure you entirely.

Shawn froze, the glass of water slipping slightly in his grip as his heart lurched into his throat. His first instinct was to look away, to backpedal, to somehow undo the mistake he'd just made. "Shit—sorry!" he blurted out, his voice sharp but laced with panic.

You spun toward the door, your hands instinctively reaching to shield yourself as best you could. "Shawn?!" Your voice was equal parts shock and mortification, the heat of the water now nothing compared to the burning rush of embarrassment flooding through you.

"I—I didn't know you were in here!" Shawn stammered, his face going red as he immediately turned away, his hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him from bolting. "I thought the light was just left on, I swear!"

"Get out!" you shouted, your voice muffled slightly by the sound of the shower spray

"I'm going! I'm going!" he said quickly, fumbling to pull the door closed behind him. The steam seemed to follow him as he stumbled back into the hallway, his pulse racing and his mind scrambling to process what had just happened.

Shawn stood there for a moment, the coolness of the hallway doing little to calm the heat in his cheeks. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Back inside the bathroom, you turned the water off with a sharp twist, the moment replaying in your head as you grabbed for a towel. Your heart was pounding, equal parts anger and humiliation swirling in your chest.

Shawn lingered outside the bathroom for a second longer, debating whether to say something or retreat entirely. But when he heard the sharp click of the shower turning off, he quickly made his decision, heading straight for his room without another glance back.

Whatever peace the night had held for either of you was long gone.

THE MORNING sun bathed the cobblestone street in a soft golden light, casting long shadows from the quaint storefronts that lined both sides. The group strolled together, their energy still buoyed by the lingering high of the week's adventures. The laughter and banter from the past few days seemed to follow you like a warm breeze, wrapping everyone in an easy camaraderie.

Lexie was darting in and out of shops, her enthusiasm infectious as she called out to Sophie, who trailed behind her with a resigned but amused grin. Every so often, Lexie would burst out with an exclamation—something about a vintage jacket or a ridiculous souvenir—and Sophie would groan playfully, shaking her head before following her friend inside.

Up ahead, Jake and Matt were locked in a lively debate, their voices carrying easily over the cobblestones. They were animatedly arguing about which old diner in town had served the best burgers during your teenage years. Jake was gesturing emphatically toward one corner of the street, while Matt shook his head, pointing in the opposite direction.

"You're insane if you think Charlie's had better fries!" Jake said, his tone incredulous.

"Charlie's fries were soggy half the time," Matt retorted. "Now, Mel's—that was perfection. Crisp, golden, and they gave you free refills on ketchup."

"You're basing your entire argument on ketchup?" Jake groaned, throwing his hands in the air. "I can't with you."

You walked a few steps behind them, laughing softly at their exchange but keeping mostly to yourself. The morning air was cool against your skin, and the quiet rhythm of your steps on the uneven stones grounded you as your thoughts wandered.

Shawn lingered toward the back of the group, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his denim jacket. His gaze moved over the street, the bustling shops, the familiar faces of your friends—but it always seemed to drift back to you. He walked with an easy, unhurried stride, but his thoughts were anything but calm.

He couldn't stop thinking about the night before—the moment in the bathroom that had caught both of you off guard. He'd felt a rush of embarrassment, of course, but beneath it, something else had stirred. In that fleeting, awkward moment, he'd felt the weight of how familiar you still seemed, even after all the time and distance that had stretched between you. It wasn't just the sight of you—it was the way you moved, the way you'd reacted, the way you'd looked at him, even in anger and shock. It had stayed with him, replaying in his mind long after he'd retreated to his room.

Now, as he watched you from a few steps behind, he felt the same pull, the same sense of gravity that had always drawn him to you. He wanted to say something, to bridge the gap that still felt so wide between you despite the small steps you'd taken back toward each other this week. But every time he opened his mouth, the words wouldn't come.

You glanced back briefly, catching his eye. For a moment, neither of you looked away, the world around you seeming to blur as the connection between you crackled like a live wire. Shawn's lips parted slightly, like he might finally say something, but then you turned back toward the group, leaving the moment suspended in the air.

"Hey!" Lexie's voice rang out, breaking the spell as she burst out of another shop, waving something in the air. "Look at this ridiculous hat!" She planted it on her head—a wide-brimmed monstrosity with fake flowers—and struck a dramatic pose, sending the group into peals of laughter.

"Perfect," Matt said, grinning as he gave her a thumbs-up. "That's exactly the vibe we're going for."

Shawn smiled faintly at the exchange but remained quiet, his attention still half-fixed on you. He wondered how long he could keep holding back, how many more moments he'd let slip away before he finally found the courage to tell you what was on his mind.

The cobblestone street felt alive with memories as you walked beside Nate, pointing out the old record store just a few doors down. The shop's faded sign and scuffed window displays were exactly as you remembered, a nostalgic throwback to teenage afternoons spent flipping through vinyl and saving up for limited-edition releases. Nate grinned as you shared a quick story about an epic argument with Lexie over who got the last copy of a rare album, the kind of playful bickering that had defined your group back then.

But mid-sentence, you faltered, your words trailing off as your attention snagged on a familiar pair across the street.

Caroline and James Whitmore.

Caroline stood in front of a boutique that practically screamed exclusivity, its polished windows and pristine displays a perfect match for her perfectly curated appearance. She adjusted her designer sunglasses with the precision of someone who wanted to be noticed, her posture straight and commanding like she was posing for the cover of a fashion magazine. Even from across the street, you could feel her air of superiority—the kind that had been her trademark since high school.

Her sharp gaze scanned the street lazily, as if she owned it. When her eyes landed briefly on your group, her expression barely changed. There was no recognition, no warmth, just a flicker of disinterest before she turned away, dismissing you all like you were background noise in her perfectly crafted world.

But it wasn't Caroline who really held your attention—it was the person beside her.

James Whitmore stood casually next to her, a takeout coffee in one hand and an easy smile on his face as he chatted with the shopkeeper in front of him. He was tall, with the same striking features as his sister, but that was where the similarities ended. James radiated warmth and charm, his relaxed demeanor a sharp contrast to Caroline's icy poise. While Caroline looked like she could cut someone down with a single glance, James had always been approachable, down-to-earth, and, well... genuinely likable.

Your memories of James were mostly positive—moments of easy conversation and unexpected kindness that had stood out in the whirlwind of high school drama. He'd been one of the few people in Caroline's orbit who didn't seem to care about wealth or status, a refreshing anomaly in a world that often felt dominated by people like her.

Nate followed your gaze, his expression shifting when he spotted them. "Wow," he said under his breath. "Caroline Whitmore in the wild. I thought she only existed in penthouses and glossy magazines."

You snorted, your lips quirking into a half-smile. "Guess even royalty needs a coffee break."

"James is still around too, huh?" Nate added, nodding toward him. "Man, I actually liked that guy. What's he doing hanging out with her again?"

"They're siblings," you pointed out, shrugging. "Even nice people have baggage."

Nate laughed at that, but his attention soon shifted back to your group, leaving you with your thoughts. Your eyes lingered on James for a moment longer, noting the way he laughed easily at something the shopkeeper said. It was strange—seeing him and Caroline together, the stark contrast between them as vivid as ever.

You turned back to Nate, brushing off the encounter with a casual air. "Come on," you said, nodding toward the record store. "I want to see if they still have that hidden section in the back."

But as you walked away, you couldn't shake the feeling that the Whitmores' sudden appearance was more than just a coincidence. Something about it stirred old memories, old tensions. And while James had always been a pleasant surprise, Caroline was a reminder that some things—and some people—never really changed.

THE DOOR of the record store swung shut behind you, the small bell above it jingling softly as your group stepped out onto the sunlit cobblestone street. You were still laughing at something Nate had said, your arms laden with a few choice finds from the store, when you turned the corner and almost collided head-on with a familiar face.

"Hey!" James Whitmore's voice rang out, warm and unmistakable. He crossed the street toward you with long, confident strides, his hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight. His easy smile widened as he approached, and for a moment, it was like no time had passed at all.

"I thought that was you guys!" he said, his tone infused with genuine excitement.

Your steps faltered, caught off guard by the unexpected encounter. But as James stopped in front of you, his presence as charming and down-to-earth as ever, you couldn't help but feel yourself relax.

"Back in town, huh? For Ella and Jake's wedding?" he asked, looking at you with the same sincerity that had always set him apart from his sister.

"Yeah," you replied, nodding. "It's been a while."

"Way too long," he said, his gaze lingering on you. There was a warmth in his expression, something genuine that made your stomach flutter unexpectedly. "You look... good."

"Thanks," you said, feeling a faint blush creep up your neck. Before you could respond further, the sharp click of heels on cobblestones interrupted the moment.

"Oh. You people," came a familiar, disdainful voice. Caroline Whitmore stood a few steps away, her arms crossed and her sharp eyes narrowing behind oversized designer sunglasses. Her glossy hair shimmered in the sunlight as she flipped it over one shoulder with dramatic precision.

Caroline's voice dripped with condescension as she continued. "Didn't know they let tourists loiter downtown now."

Behind you, Matt let out a theatrical sigh. "Still a delight, Caroline," he deadpanned, earning stifled laughs from Lexie and Sophie.

Caroline's eyes darted to Matt, her expression as icy as ever, but she didn't dignify him with a response. Instead, she turned her attention back to James, her patience clearly wearing thin. "James," she said sharply, her tone carrying an air of authority, "Mother wanted you back ten minutes ago."

James didn't even glance her way, waving her off with a casual flick of his wrist. "Tell her I'm busy."

Caroline's mouth opened, likely to protest, but she seemed to think better of it. With a dramatic huff, she spun on her heel, her expensive heels clicking loudly against the cobblestones as she strutted back across the street.

"Good talk," Matt called after her, earning another laugh from Lexie.

James chuckled, shaking his head. "She hasn't changed a bit."

"Some things never do," you quipped, a grin tugging at your lips.

James laughed softly, his attention returning to you. "It's good seeing you again," he said, his tone quieter now, almost thoughtful.

"Yeah," you replied, matching his tone. "You too."

From a few steps away, Shawn lingered in the shadows of the moment, his hands stuffed tightly into the pockets of his denim jacket. His jaw tightened as he watched the interaction unfold, his gaze fixed on James. The easy way James leaned in, laughing at something you said, his hand briefly brushing yours—it was effortless, familiar, and far too comfortable for Shawn's liking.

Shawn's lips pressed into a thin line, his narrowed eyes betraying the practiced indifference he was trying so hard to maintain. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though the movement could somehow shake off the tension building in his chest.

Lexie appeared beside him like a wisp of smoke, silent and sharp-eyed. She tilted her head toward you and James, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. "You're staring," she said quietly, her voice low enough not to draw attention but loud enough to needle him.

"I'm not," Shawn muttered, his voice clipped as he tore his gaze away, focusing instead on a crack in the cobblestones beneath his feet.

"Uh-huh. Sure," Lexie replied, her tone dripping with amused disbelief. She folded her arms, leaning closer. "He's very charming, isn't he?"

Shawn's jaw clenched visibly, the muscle twitching. "He's fine," he said flatly, his voice devoid of conviction.

Lexie laughed softly under her breath, a sound that was more perceptive than mocking. "Relax," she said. "It's just James. They've always been friends."

"Good friends," Shawn muttered before he could stop himself, the edge in his voice cutting through the quiet. His eyes flicked back to James, who was now lightly touching your shoulder as he spoke. The gesture was casual, innocent even, but it burned in Shawn's chest like a live ember.

Lexie's smirk faded, replaced by something softer, more thoughtful. She studied him for a moment, her perceptive gaze seeing far more than he was comfortable admitting. "You know," she said finally, her voice dropping, "if this is bothering you, maybe you should figure out why."

Shawn's jaw tightened further, but he didn't respond. He didn't need to—Lexie's point had already landed.

Before either of them could say more, James called over, his voice warm and inviting. "Hey, you guys coming to the brewery later? They're doing live music tonight."

"Absolutely!" Matt answered instantly, his enthusiasm cutting through any lingering tension. "We're so there."

James grinned, his hazel eyes flicking back to you. "Hope I'll see you there," he said, his tone meant just for you.

You felt your cheeks warm under his gaze but nodded, your smile easy and genuine. "Wouldn't miss it," you replied.

As James crossed back to the boutique, you watched him go, the exchange leaving you with a pleasant warmth. Talking to him had been effortless, like stepping into a time capsule of simpler days. It felt good—comfortable in a way you hadn't realized you'd missed.

Shawn, however, remained rooted beside Lexie, his posture rigid. His heart pounded with a mix of jealousy, regret, and something far more complicated than he was ready to name. His eyes flicked to you again, catching the faint smile lingering on your face as you turned back toward the group.

"See you tonight," you said, your voice carrying easily as you addressed the group—but your gaze lingered on Shawn just a moment longer. His expression was hard to read, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable, and you couldn't help but wonder what, exactly, was running through his mind.

#gay #shawn mendes #shawn mendes x male reader #fluff #x male reader

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harrywavycurly · 24 days ago

Text

Glitch: What Do You Mean?

Masterlist: Here

CW: Jealous Harry, manipulation (thanks Jeff), language, emotional immaturity (you were literally turned on less than three weeks ago so things are new for you), and some dramatic moments that could be called “causing a scene”.

A/N: It’s truly just so fun to write an unhinged Harry so I hope you enjoy and also I don’t think Shawn is anything like this it’s just for funsies. Enjoy the absolute drama that is this chapter.💓

Tag List: @alicivava @cosmicneptune @daphnesutton @valeriiyuhh @drewrry @obsessiveenthusiast @me-undiscovered @psicostyles @umadirectioner @styleswithaseaview @sunflower-tia @tulips4harry @gmikaelson @fangirl509east @howling-wolf97 @outofthisworl-d @namoreno @harryscherries28 @blckburd @harry2121 @cevans-winchester @prettygurl-2009 @maudie-duan @sassamanda77 @triski73 @mema10

Summary: When Harry sees you with someone else you have a hard time understanding why it makes him act the way he does💓

Harry hates going to events that require him to dress up and mingle with people he doesn’t know, it’s one of the major downsides to fame and it’s a giant reason why he’s enjoyed his time off for so long. Because in his mind, the music industry really doesn’t want anything to do with you if you don’t have anything to offer. So keeping out of the studio and having a life away from writing lyrics and chasing the melodies that are stuck in between passing thoughts in his head have done him a massive favor, it’s kept him out of the spotlight and off guest lists for parties such as the one he’s currently in the middle of. But famous or not Harry has always been one to rise to the occasion for important events in order to support the people he holds near and dear to him so of course when he got invited to a charity gala for a cause close to the heart of one of his bestfriends he was quick to RSVP, notably without checking the box for a plus one.

He is on his second leisurely lap around the event space, a massive ballroom of some upscale hotel that he can’t be bothered to remember the name of, when he thinks he sees someone he knows out of the corner of his eye. It’s the skirt of a gown that catches his attention, not being able to see anything else other than a few bright pink and orange flowers embroidered on a sheer white fabric before it disappears in the crowd. But a sense of something begins to stir deep down inside his chest, like he knows there’s only one person in the world that would be wearing a floral gown in a sea of stark black and the occasional red dresses but the odds of it being who he thinks are slim and while the universe may be on his side most of the time and he has been fortunate to be on the receiving end of its luck he knows tonight the luck of the universe has all but abandoned him. Because he gets a feeling that’s similar to a shiver that goes down his spine as he turns around at just the right moment and sees something that makes his blood turn to ice in his veins and his jaw to clench.

You’re standing there in a white floor length gown with a sheer lace overlay that has brightly embroidered flowers all over the skirt leaving the top half mostly white with the delicate lace creating a slightly more modest neckline and while Harry thinks you might actually be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen that’s not what draws his attention. It’s the person that’s standing next to you that earns his narrow eyed glare, the person with a hand on your waist as they stare down at you with a smile Harry knows is a playful smirk that clearly followed something cheekily said based on how your face has a faint blush to it and you bring your hand that’s not gripping the flute of champagne up to your face in an attempt to try and hide your embarrassment.

Normally Harry would just brush off the fact you’re here with someone, not caring at all what brought the two of you together let alone to a random charity event thrown by one of his close friends. Especially since Harry is trying to convince himself he doesn’t know you well enough to be bothered by any of that, considering he’s not sure if you’d even call him a friend at this point. But it’s who you’re with that changes everything for him, making him unable to just move on and go about his evening as if he never saw you because you’re with him.

Shawn fucking Mendes.

The one man he can’t stand for reasons even unknown to him, the man he swears does things just to get a rise out of him, the one person he has to actively hold himself back from smacking the silly little smile off his pretty little face, the man you just so happen to be giggling at as you place your hand on his arm. Honestly, of all the arms for you to be holding onto as you laugh at a joke Harry is sure isn’t even very funny and if it is then it’s one he stole from someone far more entertaining, of course it had to be Shawn’s.

It just further proves the feeling of the universe turning it’s back on Harry as he watches the two of laugh and whisper little things in each other’s ears as if you’ve known one another for years and suddenly Harry begins to wonder if maybe you have and that’s why he hasn’t ever seen you until recently. Because Jeff knows his distaste for the Canadian singer so it makes sense that he’d keep you tucked away in his contact list until he knew your entanglement or whatever it is that’s going on with you and Shawn was done with, but clearly Jeff made a mistake because by the looks of it your relationship with Shawn is anything but over.

If Harry was being honest with himself he’d admit how truly creepy he’s being as he watches you and Shawn from a relatively safe distance, but still close enough to hear your laugh filtering through the sounds of glasses clinking and muffled small talk between the other guests. Somehow the two of you have managed to be in the center of the room, near the bar and Harry finds himself slowly circling you as if you’re the center of his universe and he’s simply keeping himself in the comfort of your orbit. After a few laps that have him stopping for a few pointless conversations about things he has no interest in he gives up on trying to remain out of sight. And when he sees Shawn’s hand slide to your lower back as he helps you maneuver your way through the crowd Harry decides now is as good a time as ever to go a give you and your poor choice of a plus one a proper hello.

He gives a few people polite nods and tight lipped smiles as he makes his way towards you and it’s almost like you could sense he was near, a measly arms length away when you turn around and smile at him. It’s a smile that makes your eyes seem brighter as they get little crinkle in the corners and to top it off you raise your hand and wave at him. It almost knocks Harry off kilter for a moment having not expected such a warm greeting seeing as he’s the one who stormed off the last time he saw you in Jeff’s living room not even two days ago.

“There you are.” Your voice is like a soft melody he wants to put into a song that’s just for him and no one else so he can get lost in it while he listens to it over and over. “I was wondering when you’d come say hello.” Your words have a slight heat rising to Harry’s cheeks as he closes the small gap between the two of you so he’s now standing directly in front of you.

“Yeah Styles we saw you circling us like a shark in the water waiting for his time to strike.” Shawn’s voice makes Harry’s jaw tick as he slowly removes his gaze from yours so he can look at the tall annoying man to your left.

“Don’t flatter yourself Shawn I’d never waste my time on a little guppy like you.”

“You sure? I hear wasting time is all you like to do nowadays.”

“Hear about that while off not touring and just galavanting around in jungles and beaches huh?”

“Just shows how far and wide word travels when it’s about how boring Harry Styles has become.”

“Or it just shows how obsessed you are with me that you even manage to gossip about me while off trying to find yourself.” Harry doesn’t mean to go tit for tat with Shawn but he can’t seem to help himself, it brings a sick kind of joy to Harry knowing he can get a rise out of the normally very docile and charming young man. He ignores the glare the brown eyed boy is giving him as a slow smirk works its way onto his face as he raises an eyebrow at him. “How’s that going by the way? Figure out the meaning of life yet?” What Harry isn’t prepared for is how easily Shawn is able to brush off all the sarcasm that’s dripping from every word that leaves his mouth like rain dripping off the edge of an umbrella, as if it’s no concern to him because right now he has the upper hand seeing as you’re by his side and not Harry’s.

“You know,” Shawn’s arm loosely drapes over your shoulder as he begins to answer the question all while Harry watches, a look of disapproval etched on his face when Shawn looks down at you with one of his annoyingly perfect smiles. “I might have.” It’s the horrible attempt at a subtle wink he shoots you that has Harry seeing red, immediately knowing what the man is trying to imply while it’s clear by the look of slight confusion on your face that you have no clue what’s happening and what this conversation the two men are having is actually about.

“How have you been?” Shawn holds back a laugh as you try to dive into the conversation having no clue about the tension you just cut through making Harry’s attention fall back onto you. “I’m sorry for the other day I-I really didn’t mean-”

“You don’t have to apologize for speaking your mind.” Harry says quickly before you can divulge any details of what the two of you spoke about while in the presence of a man he can’t stand.

“Oh did the two of you have a little disagreement?” You just shake your head as Shawn’s hand rubs the top of your arm as if he’s trying to comfort you but Harry didn’t miss the slight flinch when his thumb makes contact with your skin, letting him know you aren’t exactly comfortable.

“No not a disagreement it-”

“None of your fucking business is what it is.” As soon as the words leave Harry’s mouth he knows Shawn has somehow managed to win this round of whatever game the two of them are playing. Because the harshness of his tone and the loudness of his voice makes you jump ever so slightly letting Shawn swoop in as some sort of protector as he subtly uses the arm that’s still draped over your shoulder to pull you closer into his side.

“Come on love let’s go take a walk and let Harry here get some air so he can maybe calm down a little.” Shawn says while looking down at you with a smile that Harry can see right through, he knows it’s not genuine he knows this is all an act to make him look like he’s the caring one but Harry knows him better than you do so he knows it’s just a ploy to get you to trust him and do what he wants.

“Oh uhm okay.” Your voice is low as you look over at Harry who is staring daggers at Shawn’s hand as he watches as it slowly travels from the top of your arm down to your lower back as he turns you towards an opening in the crowded space that the two of you can escape through.

“Nice seeing you Harry.” It’s not until you’re saying bye to him that Harry realizes just how much of a mess he’s made of this whole thing, how he let someone as unimportant as Shawn get in the way of the reason he even approached you in the first place, to talk to you and apologize for his behavior. But you’re swept away and once again lost in the sea of people before he can even attempt to say anything so he’s left standing there with words left unsaid and an unfamiliar hurt in his chest.

You look back over your shoulder in hopes to catch one last glimpse of Harry but it’s too late, his figure is already hidden by a small group of people heading to the bar to refill their drinks. You feel Shawn put a little more pressure on your lower back as he guides you to a secluded section of the party near the railing of the staircase the two of you had to walk down upon entering the event. When you look over at him he has his eye focused on what’s in front of him you take the time to get a better look at him, trusting that he won’t let you fall or have you bump into someone.

Now you’re well aware that Shawn is an attractive looking man, his jawline is impeccable and his smile makes your tummy flutter but something about him seems off and you can’t quite figure it out. All you know is that while he is nice to look at and is a decent conversationalist, you feel a tiny bit uneasy when he touches you like it feels wrong somehow, as if the hands you’re meant to be feeling on your arm and your cheek when he brushes some hair out of your face aren’t his but someone else’s.

You’re good at hiding your feelings because you don’t want to come across as rude considering he’s the one who invited you as his plus one to this charity event so you don��t want to ruin his night out. Especially since this is your first time meeting him in person having only shared a few phone calls over the last two days when he called to introduce himself to you and told you how Jeff was the one who mentioned your name to him and you trust Jeff, so you agreed to being his plus one and when he made you laugh at a silly joke you felt like maybe spending an evening with him wouldn’t be so bad. But that changed the moment you noticed a very familiar pair of emerald green eyes that seemed to be glued on you as you made your way around the event space, and by the way Shawn’s hand seemed to grip your waist even tighten you could tell you weren’t the only one who noticed the two of you were being watched.

“How do you know Harry?” The question makes your brows pinch together as you try to come up with a response that doesn’t seem too vague because honestly Harry is one of those people much like Jeff that you feel like you’ve just known forever. So you just go with the answer that isn’t a lie but also doesn’t feel like the exact truth.

“Through Jeff.” Shawn just nods as he leans an arm on the railing and looks towards you but you can tell he’s looking through you and scanning the crowd for any signs of the tall British man in question. “We uhm met at a party a couple weeks ago.”

“Must’ve been some party because he’s clearly got a crush on you.”

“Who?”

“You’re cute when you’re clueless.” Shawn says with a light chuckle as you look at him with a confused expression on your face because you really don’t know who he could possibly think has a crush on you. “You really don’t see it? The man is acting like a jealous-”

“Jealous?” You quirk a brow as the word leaves your mouth, having no idea what it really means and why it would be something you could see or a way someone can act. “I don’t know what you mean by that.” You explain making Shawn look at you in a way that makes you feel as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Harry is jealous.” He states plainly making you tilt your head as you try to figure out what that statement really means. “That’s why he’s acting the way he is and being-pardon my language but an asshole.”

“I just don’t think he likes you very much that’s all.” The laugh that leaves Shawn’s mouth as you shrug while giving him your response makes your eyes widen in concern because it’s a laugh that is more mocking than it is joyful.

“You’re not wrong but he also very obviously has a crush on you and that’s why he’s being extra-”

“A crush? On me? No-no way you’ve got it-”

“I don’t blame him.” You look down at your wrist as Shawn’s hand reaches out and gently wraps around it making the uneasy feeling begin to bubble up in your chest. “You’re stunning.” His eyes roam over your face before meeting your eyes.

“Tha-thank you.” You fumble with your words as the grip on your champagne flute tightens. “I uhm think I’m going to go get another drink.” You lift up your nearly empty glass making Shawn just give you a soft smile as he drops his hand from your wrist.

“Do you need me-”

“I’ll be fine thank you though.” Your words are rushed as you take a step away from him and towards the crowded bar area, when he doesn’t argue and just lets you walk away you let out a sigh of relief finally feeling as if you can breathe normally again the more distance you put between the two of you.

“One whiskey. Neat please.” Harry’s voice brings a smile to your face the moment you hear it, a deep and smooth sound that makes your heart do a weird sort of flip in your chest. When he turns to lean against the bar as he waits for his drink your eyes find his and all of a sudden he’s standing up straight and walking towards you as if on autopilot, moving through the crowd until he’s standing right in front of you.

“You forgot-” The rest of your sentence gets caught in your throat when Harry places a hand on the side of your face and before you can even blink has his lips on yours in a kiss that makes your whole body feel relaxed and at ease as if it’s finally figured out exactly whose hands are meant to be the ones touching you.

“I’m sorry.” His words are mumbled against your lips as his other hand comes up to cup the other side of your face. “I’m sorry for how I acted at Jeff’s and how I acted tonight I-I just got-”

“Jealous?” You ask as he pulls away just enough so he can look you in your eyes. The small twitch to the corner of his lips makes you aware that he is fighting back one of his signature smirks that makes a weird fuzzy sensation take over your mind.

“Yes.” He admits as he leans his forehead against yours. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me but I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else but-but I especially can’t stand him getting to be the one who’s arm your on and-”

You don’t hear the rest of his explanation, your mind too busy trying to piece together the little bits of information you’ve gotten throughout the night. It’s all a jumbled mess inside your head making you almost feel like your mind is stuck in a fog as you stand there with the warmth of Harry’s hands on your cheeks and his thumbs gently running up and down your cheekbones. You close your eyes briefly and when you open them again the fog in your mind begins to lift and you see everything more clearly and it’s got your heart dropping to the bottom of your stomach.

“I get it now.” You get a stinging feeling in the back of your eyes as you take a small step away from Harry making his hands fall from your face, everything begins to click into place in your mind as you replay the whole night over in your head. And when you let out a watery laugh as you come to the conclusion of why Harry suddenly decided to kiss you, it makes his face contort into one of confusion mixed with hurt as his brows scrunch together.

“You get what?”

“Jealousy. I know what it means now.” Your words have Harry instantly reaching out for you but you’re quick to step away before his soft hands can make contact with your skin. “You-you did that because of Shawn because you’re-you’re jealous-”

“No no-well I mean yes I was jealous but-” You don’t give Harry time to finish explaining himself before you turn and start to walk away from him. You place your champagne flute down on the first table you walk by and when you finally get free of the crowd you place a hand over your chest as you try to take deep even breaths.

The feeling that starts to creep its way up from the deepest part of your being is one you’ve never felt before, it’s all consuming and has you gasping for air as if your lungs are being constricted and your eyes are doing that annoying thing where they just let rivers of tears pour out of them no matter how hard or often you try to blink them away. It’s as if you can feel a piece of your heart actually break and fall off, landing in the lowest part of your chest. The hurt you feel from it nearly brings you to your knees but before you end up on the floor you feel an arm around your middle holding you up.

“Come on.” When you look over you see Jeff giving you a smile, even through the tears you can tell it’s sad like he feels bad for you in this moment and wants to help you. “I have a car out front that will take you home.”

“He kissed me.” You mumble making Jeff just nod as he helps you up the steps. “But-but only because of Shawn.”

“I’m sure that’s not-”

“Please don’t leave.” You and Jeff stop your slow climb up the stairs at the sound of Harry’s voice coming from behind. “Please just let me explain.” Jeff turns to look over his shoulder at his bestfriend and the look of panic and what he would also describe as heartbreak on his face almost makes him want to help him but he doesn’t, he does what he thinks is best and gives your waist a little squeeze before he turns his attention back to the steps in front of him and continues helping you up them.

“Not now Harry.” Is all the man says making Harry stop in his tracks only a few steps behind the two of you.

“Don’t leave please just-”

“Leave me alone.” Your voice is what does it for Harry, it’s what sends him rushing up the stairs until he’s standing in front of you forcing you to look at him.

“No.” The word is followed by a glare sent in Jeff’s direction that has him slowly moving his arm from around you and waking up the rest of the stairs alone, letting Harry have his space. “I’m not going to leave you alone until you let me explain what just happened.” His voice is soft with a slight edge to it that has you avoiding his eyes.

“I know what happened. You kissed me because-”

“I kissed you because I wanted to or or-more like I needed to. It had nothing to do with that prick you came here with.” You bring a hand up to wipe at your face as Harry ducks down until you have no choice but to look him in the eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening but ever since meeting you I-I can’t think of anything or anyone else besides you and it’s because you-you see me the real me and you see things about me no one else does and I don’t-” He pauses to take let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what to do about you.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t see me again until you do.”

“Please don’t-”

“It was nice seeing you again Harry.” You both know you’re lying and just trying to end this whole ordeal on a slightly positive note. “I have to go now.” You tell him as you fight off a new wave of tears, he lets out a sigh of defeat as he moves over a bit on the stairs to let you walk by him.

“I’m sorry.” You hear him whisper when you walk past him and you just rub your lips together to keep them from trembling as you look up to see Jeff standing there sliding his phone into his back pocket with an unreadable expression on his face but when he sees you he gives you a tight lipped smile as he holds his arm out for you to loop yours through.

“Give him some time to sort his shit out and maybe try to talk to him again.” He advises as he leads you out of the building and towards the sidewalk where his driver is waiting for you in a black SUV. “It’s going to be okay.” You just nod as he gives you a hug before opening the door and helping you climb into the backseat.

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Jeff just smile at you before he closes the door, once the car is headed down the street he lets out a frustrated groan as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Fuck why can’t I just get one night where things go the way I need them to? Just one fucking night that’s all I need.” He mumbles to himself as he pulls his phone out and scrolls over to the app that lets him control your personality traits deciding that you need to be a little more forgiving if he has any hope of you wanting to see Harry again.

But then he taps on your intelligence letting him have a wider control of what you do and don’t know and he feels his hand grip his phone almost too tight when he sees your knowledge on jealousy and intimate relationships is practically at zero, letting him know exactly why the evening turned out the way it did. Once he’s done fiddling with you he closes the app and slides his phone into his back pocket. He runs a hand over his face before turning around so he can go back inside and do damage control, seeing as not only did one of the world’s biggest stars just kiss a random girl in front of hundreds of people he also got left standing on a staircase on the verge of tears by the same girl. This makes Jeffery swiftly enter manager mode to make sure the no phones policy was strictly in effect and photos or videos of the incident won’t be leaked online, at least not until he wants them to be.

As Jeff walks back into the event he knows exactly where he’ll find Harry, at the bar drying to drown his sorrows in a glass of whiskey. Luckily Jeff also knows that his bestfriend tends to get more emotional when drunk and the more emotional Harry gets the more likely he is to put his feeling down onto paper and if he can get at least a single line of a possible song then tonight won’t go down as a total bust. So instead of cutting him off, Jeff orders another round when he makes it to the bar and stands next to his friend who is leaning over the top of it with his head in hands.

“If you tell me it’ll be okay I will punch you in the face Jeffery I’m not kidding.”

“Actually I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Yeah? Then what were you going to say?”

“I think you should just move on.” He knows those are the last words Harry wants to hear, it’s the words that will have him taking shots and mumbling things about how beautiful you are as the night goes on and by the end of it he will be drunk dialing Mitch to help him figure out which word he should use that rhymes with your name that doesn’t sound too cheesy.

“Fuck you.” Jeff has to bite back his smile as Harry lifts his head and grabs his glass and downs the rest of his drink on one gulp. “You’re an asshole you know that right?” His voice is harsh as he straightens out his suit jacket and runs a hand through his hair before turning and glaring at his friend. “Tell Shawn I said bye will you? Since I know you’re the one who invited him to this.” Jeff feels the color drain from his face as Harry reaches over and places a hand on one of his shoulders, he doesn’t know how Harry knows but clearly he does and stupidly Jeff opens his mouth to try to deny it.

“I didn’t-”

“Save it for someone who’ll believe it.” He gives Jeff’s shoulder a harsh pat before stepping to the side of him. “I’m going to go fix this bullshit your little stunt caused and if you’re smart you’ll tell Shawn to stay the fuck away from her before it’s more than just insults that I toss at him.”

“Okay.” Is all he can manage to say as Harry makes a show of shoving his shoulder into his chest as he walks by.

“Oh and one more thing.” Jeff turns around to face Harry as he lifts a finger in the air while turning around and pointing it directly at him. “Do something like this again and you’re fired.” The way he says it isn’t threatening, no it’s said like a promise that Jeff knows he will keep so all Jeff does is nod and swallow down his nerves as he watches Harry turn on his heal and walk off towards the stairs.

“This is fine.” Jeff says to himself as he turns to grab his drink off the bar. “I can work with this.” He says with a nod as he tries to calm himself down enough so he can try to think of a plan to get this to work in his favor.

After a few minutes and some hearty sips of his drink later he franticly pulls out his phone and sends a text to the man that he just watched walk away from him, sending him your number and address in hopes it will not only begin to help Harry forgive him for this whole thing but also aid him in the process of finding you and working things out, both things Jeff needs in order to reach the end goal of this whole thing. When his phone buzzes in his hand he looks down and sees it’s a text from Harry, a one word reply that while being simple still has Jeff smiling to himself because maybe just maybe tonight won’t be a total waste.

Thanks

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abbotjack · 13 days ago

Text

Irregularities

prequel to the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two ✧ part three ✧ part four)

summary : A federal audit brings a sharp, brilliant compliance officer face-to-face with Jack Abbot, a rule-breaking trauma doctor running a shadow supply system to keep his ER alive. What starts as a confrontation becomes an alliance and the two of them fall in love in the messiest, most human way possible.

word count : 13,529

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! explicit language, medical trauma, workplace stress, injury description, mention of child patient death, grief processing, alcohol use, explicit sex, hospital politics, emotionally repressed older man, emotionally competent younger woman, mutual pining, slow-burn romance, power imbalance (non-hierarchical), injury while drunk, trauma bay realism, swearing, one (1) marriage proposal during sex

Tuesday – 8:00 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Lower Admin Wing

Hospitals don’t go quiet.

Not really.

Even here—three floors above the trauma bay and two glass doors removed from the chaos—there’s still the buzz of fluorescent lights, the hiss of a printer warming up, the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed. But this floor is different. It's where the noise is paperwork, and the blood is financial.

You walk like you belong here, because that’s half the job.

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so, its lapel still holding the shape of your shoulder from the bus ride over. Your shoes are silent, soft-soled—conservative enough to say I’m not here to threaten you, but pointed enough to remind them that you could. Lanyard clipped at your sternum. A pen looped into the coil of your ledger notebook. A steel travel mug in one hand.

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : [email protected] Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh — The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. “I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,” you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re home.

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