Archive of Our Own

Something is different about you today, Abbot thinks. You’re far too chipper for 6:45am on a Friday. Hell, the fact that he’s even seeing you right now is a surprise. Normally you roll in just before the day shift starts at 7, after Robby has taken over and Jack is on his way out with a brief greeting if he happens to pass you in the corridor. Today, though, you’re there with a gleam in your eyes and a bounce in your step. He looks for the telltale cup of caramel-infused coffee that would explain your unexpected energy but finds nothing within arms reach.

“You look… alive,” he greets with mock confusion.

“And you’re looking old,” you tease, something that has become a habit ever since you spent a couple of weeks with him on nights last month. He’s always been used to banter, doling out as much as he takes if not more, but it always seems to hit him harder when it falls from your lips. Lips which today have a light cherry sheen, accompanied by a glow to your cheeks and delicate flicks of eyeliner. Your hair, normally pulled back for practicality, is now clipped loosely in a practised blend of precision and effortlessness.

“Are you wearing makeup?” he asks. It’s a stupid question, but he can’t help it.

You smirk, your nose crinkling across the bridge. “My goodness, will your powers of observation never cease? Yes, I am.”

A small adjustment happens in the back of his brain, travelling down his spine until he’s straightening, steeling himself. Reminding himself how easy it is for him to volley quips regardless of who they come from. “You needn’t have gone to all that trouble on my account.”

“Aww, don’t flatter yourself. I have a date tonight.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly. He wasn’t even aware you were interested in dating, despite how often your remarks to him sit on the verge of being more than just the usual workplace snark - there’s a whole range of guys here you could have shown an interest in (himself aside), but none of them have ever turned your head. Part of him almost wondered if your lack of attention towards them had anything to do with the easy relationship, in the loosest sense of the word, that you seem to have developed with him, but apparently that’s not the case.

“You don’t have to look so shocked,” you huff. “I do have a life outside of work, believe it or not.”

He pulls himself back together with a remarkable amount of effort. “Well it’s a miracle you’ve managed to find time to meet someone.” He pauses, brows furrowing. “It’s not someone from here, is it?”

You shake your head. “We met online. His name is Nick.” Why you offer that piece of information, you have no idea.

That somehow alleviates and worsens the jealousy he tells himself he’s not experiencing. He doesn’t have to compare himself to the rest of the department, wondering what they have going for them that has drawn you in, but it also means it’s a relative stranger. Someone you’ve sought out. Someone who has never had the privilege of seeing you at 3am, hair wild and eyes exhausted, still finding it in yourself to give a scared patient a warm smile and the time to talk until they don’t feel so alone.

“Well,” he says with far more weight than he intends, “let’s hope the day goes smoothly, so you still look this pretty for him tonight.”

You blush. “You’re only saying that because you’re no longer responsible for whether it does go smoothly.”

He grins, back to his usual self. “Damn right. I’m out of here. Have fun tonight, if I don’t see you.”

You give a playful salute as he glances over his shoulder, unaware that he has already made it his mission to see you before you go.

The moment he’s gone, you drift towards the break room to grab a coffee. You don’t really need one, you’ve got more than enough energy to start your morning, but you need something to do to take your mind off the fact that was one of the most charged interactions you’ve had with Abbot - with anyone, really. You consider the flash of surprise in his expression with cautious interest. Ever since you first set eyes on him when you started working at the Pitt a few months ago, you’ve been harbouring a crush and flirting under the guise of keeping up with the wit he wields like a knife. Until this exact moment, you assumed he just wasn’t interested and didn’t care enough to bother calling you out and making things awkward, but that look might change everything. If you read it right, he genuinely didn’t realise you were in the dating pool, which means there’s a chance he didn’t know you were flirting. You might not have read it right. Your judgement isn’t exactly objective when it comes to him. Still… It doesn’t matter anyway, you tell yourself. He’s had plenty of opportunities to test the waters before now.

“Have you considered asking Ellis to call in sick?” a voice asks behind you.

You almost drop your mug with the speed you whip around. “Jesus, Santos, give a girl a warning next time.” You steady yourself, drawing in a slow breath. “And what are you on about?”

She gives you a look. “The fact that you’re practically vibrating with excitement after one conversation with Dr Abbot.”

You roll your eyes, turning your attention back to the coffee machine to give yourself an excuse to avert your gaze. “That’s not what this is about. I actually have a date tonight.”

You almost drop the mug again when she launches herself towards you. “Oh my god, please tell me he asked you, because I’ve got a bet on-”

“No, it’s with a guy from Tinder.” You pause. You process. You gape. “People are placing bets on us?”

Her lips fold in on themselves as she slowly retreats towards the door.

“Trinity,” you say menacingly. “Get your ass back here and explain.”

She shakes her head aggressively enough that her ponytail practically slaps her in the face. “Nope, nuh-uh.” You glare again, and she hesitates, halfway out the door. “I’m not telling you to make a move, mostly because I want to win, but I’m just saying that if you did, he’d be into it.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you with the quiet of the room and your thoughts. Your head spins as you reach into the back of the bottom cabinet to dig out the bottle of caramel syrup you keep tucked away. Apparently enough people have picked up on something between you and Abbot to start a betting pool about it, but how is that possible when neither of you have picked up on enough to make it worth following through? You’ve been inching your way closer to making a move this whole time but always fall just short, afraid to mess things up and ruin the home you’ve made for yourself within these crisp white walls. It’s not just about Abbot, you have so much love for the people you work with that you can’t do anything until you’re absolutely sure. He’d be into it, she said. Not I think or he might be, just absolute certainty. You’re barely aware of how much syrup you’re adding to the mug; your mind is too busy replaying all the little remarks he’s made, the times he’s stood a little too close in the trauma bays, the way he always seems to soften just a little when you’re around, the ‘so you still look this pretty’. Mostly, it replays that look of surprise. The more you revisit it, the more your mind is able to convince you that it wasn’t just surprise but disappointment.

—

Abbot doesn’t realise anything is wrong until he hears a wolf whistle echo through the Pitt. He’s in the middle of the evening handover with Robby, but the sound draws his attention. When he glances up, his entire body stiffens. Okay, maybe wrong isn’t the correct word for this: the situation is perfectly normal, it’s just his response that’s wrong. Everything else about it is so, so right.

The chaos of the ER around him fades away, leaving only you, walking into Central in a fitted top and a soft floral skirt that hugs your curves. For a second he’s convinced he’s forgotten how to breathe; he forces himself to attempt anyway, the air shallow in his lungs, and tears his gaze away before anyone notices him staring. Instead, he looks for the source of the whistle. That’s a normal thing to do in this situation, right? It isn’t hard to find: Santos, suddenly and thoroughly uninterested in her charting, staring over the top of her computer. Behind her, Whitaker and Javadi have also ground to a halt with appraising nods. Abbot can’t quite make out what they say as you make your way towards them, but it’s clearly complimentary as you give a bashful smile and a small twirl.

Robby elbows him. “Put your eyes back in your head.”

“I was just-” he starts.

“I know what you were just. It’s a bit late for that.”

“Can’t be late if it was never going to happen anyway.”

Robby gives him a curious look, like he doesn’t quite believe him, but at least he says nothing and turns his attention back to the tablet he’s holding between them.

Abbot has just about managed to bring his attention back to work when you swish over with a smile. You look relaxed in a way that rarely shows itself during work hours. He hastily silences the voice that asks what he’d have to do to see that more often.

“Thank you so much for letting me wrap things up a little early,” you tell Robby. “I’ve already had to reschedule twice, I don’t think I could cancel it again without him getting fed up.”

If only, Abbot thinks, as Robby waves you off with an appeasement and something about staying safe, and makes his excuses with a pointed look over his shoulder.

“Makeup and no scrubs?” Abbot remarks once the two of you are alone. “I hope this guy knows how lucky he is.”

A slight warmth creeps into your cheeks. Trust him to still be continuing with whatever this is - teasing or flirting, you’re never quite sure where the line blurs between the two - while you’re on your way to a date. You should disregard it, remind yourself it’s just another step in the dance you two have been performing around each other for months, but something about the way his voice dips on the second sentence gives you pause. There’s ever so slightly too much sincerity in it for it to be a joke, but it’s one of those things people say at times like this. Just because it’s coming from him, just because he’s saying it like he genuinely believes anyone would be lucky to date you, doesn’t make it mean anything.

“Careful, it almost sounds like you’re jealous,” you say, trying for a lightness that doesn’t quite land.

The words hang between you for a moment, a tension that has never existed before building until you don’t know what to say to break it. You hadn’t meant to stand as close as you are, but he’d shifted when Robby left and now he’s looking down at you with something unreadable in his expression. For half a second, you debate making up a reason to tell Nick you’ve been held back, instead of taking the escape Robby offered you to go through with this. You could say you’ve had to pull a double to cover someone; Abbot might even let you stay for a few hours. Only for realism, of course, nothing to do with the way he’s gazing at you with lowered lids.

“Give me your phone,” he says suddenly.

You blink, a little taken aback, but unlock it and hand it over anyway. His eyes flick briefly over the wallpaper of you, smushed into the middle of a group hug on one of the nights out with some of the other younger members of staff. The look is gone as soon as it appears, and he taps quickly at the screen. When he hands it back, it’s on a contact page. Jack Abbot. A number. Nothing else.

“If he’s not appreciative enough, or if anything happens, call me.”  Why the hell did he say that first part? Of course your priority if things don’t work out isn’t going to be him. But it makes him feel a little better to know that you’ve got an extra lifeline if things truly go wrong. It makes his excuse for wanting you to have his number less flimsy, at any rate.

You stare at the number for a moment, before meeting his eyes with a smile that’s somewhere between playful and heartfelt. “Thanks, Abbot. I’ll be fine, but maybe have your SWAT gear on standby just in case.”

“Oh, the intimidation technique?” he smirks.

You return the expression with one of your own. “You’ve got that covered regardless, you just look good in the uniform.” With that, you turn and make your way towards the exit before he can see the colour rapidly blooming across your cheeks or you can question what compelled you to admit that right before going out with someone who isn’t him.

Abbot stands stock-still in the middle of the ER, overwhelmed by the lingering scent of your perfume and the realisation that maybe Robby was right after all. He had a chance, and he’s missed it.

—

You’re not sure what you expect the next morning. Santos has already had the full rundown of your night over text, but she’ll probably want to hear it from your mouth anyway. Whitaker and Javadi will ask how it went too, maybe Mohan. Dana will make one of her usual remarks. Princess and Perlah will whisper something. Robby will be relieved to see you’ve survived meeting a stranger.

Abbot approaches you with a mug and a smile.

“It’s a little late for you to be drinking coffee, isn’t it?” you raise an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna sleep.”

“I never do,” he replies like it’s not the most quietly devastating thing he’s ever told you. “But this isn’t mine.”

He sets the mug down on the counter, turning the handle to face you. Through the curling tendrils of steam and the bitter notes of coffee, you smell something sweet. Your eyes fly to his, where he’s already looking smug. “Did you- does this have caramel in it?”

“It’s not like you’re subtle about the bottle you hide at the back of the break room cabinet.”

That’s a lie. In all your time working here, nobody has ever picked up on the fact that you put syrup in every coffee you have. Nobody has ever found the bottle you stash, and you know this because otherwise it would be empty within a week. Nobody except Jack Abbot. You ignore the way your chest clenches.

“You tell anyone it’s there and you’ll be glad you work in a trauma center,” you say with exaggerated contempt.

“Relax,” he huffs, “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

“Is that so?”

You have no idea. “How was your date?” is what he says instead.

It was okay. He’s nice enough. He’s not as funny as you. “It was great,” is what you say instead. “We’re seeing each other again this weekend.”

There’s a brief flicker of something heavy, almost sharp, across his expression. “Told you he’s a lucky guy. The offer still stands though, if anything happens…”

You give him a sly smile as you take the first sip of your coffee. God, he got it just right. “If you want me to call you, you can just say so.”

He cocks his head, shifts his weight onto the other foot. “Really don’t think I can say it any clearer.”

You laugh, a bright clear sound that worms its way straight into the hollow of his chest. You know he’s joking, he always is, but it’s fun to picture a world in which he means it. Then again, in that world you wouldn’t be going on a second date with Nick, the guy with the kind eyes and thus far the inability to make you laugh like that. In that world you’d be- No. Not the time.

He clears his throat. “Anyway, I’ve got a lack of sleep to get to.”

“Right.” You try not to sound so dismayed at the prospect of his departure. It doesn’t work. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Any time.” He starts to move away, pauses, turns. “I’m really happy for you, you know.” Then he goes.

“Thanks,” you murmur to his retreating form, cradling the mug like a lifeline and wondering whether it changes anything that he didn’t sound like he meant it.

—

The next couple of months pass in a blur. More long, arduous shifts in the Pitt, with you trying to squeeze in dates around your awkward hours. You and Nick go out for dinner again, then one morning he gets up early to meet you for breakfast on your way to your shift. It’s a sweet gesture. He has to go back to the counter because he forgot to ask for caramel in your coffee. It’s fine. It happens. Not with Abbot, your brain whispers before you can stop it. God, Abbot. You still exchange the usual remarks when you pass in the hallways, if anything slightly tamer than usual. He’s probably just being respectful. Nick asked you to make things official about 6 weeks in. He must have heard.

Then, not long after that, you do actually end up covering the night shift when Ellis calls in with a stomach bug. The shift in energy is palpable. It’s like he hasn’t seen you nearly every morning and evening. Any opportunity for your personal space to become his, he takes - a hand hovering over the small of your back when he has to squeeze past you in one of the trauma bays, a brush of his bicep against yours when he shifts his weight onto his good leg, a comforting hand on your shoulder when you’re flustered by an argumentative patient. All things that you can explain away if you try hard enough. You don’t try that hard.

It’s just gone 4am when a young man with several stab wounds and suspected hypovolaemia gets brought in, already intubated, the gurney flying through Central as Lena directs it to Trauma 2. You follow its course, when Abbot meets your eye across the room. He points and beckons, two fingers curling in a way that makes you almost dissolve into the floor. You hastily banish those thoughts and scamper into the room after him, joined by Mateo and a few other doctors. The flurry of activity already around the table keeps your overactive imagination at bay for a while, focus directed to the information being relayed. Pulse down, BP even lower, sats way under 90. A lot of blood. It’s not looking good. You’re frantically applying a haemostatic dressing to a wound on his abdomen when everything goes south. His pulse drops entirely.

“Cardiac arrest,” Mateo says urgently. You balk, looking at the thick pools of red smeared across the man’s chest. You can’t possibly do compressions on him without making his condition worse.

“We need to get him up to surgery.” You try to tamp down the quiver in your voice.

Abbot makes a small sound of disagreement beside you. “No time. You ever done a thoracotomy before?” He watches you shake your head. “I’ll talk you through it.”

“You sure?” you ask, eyes wide even as you reach for a pair of surgical gloves. That’s a hell of a procedure to be thrown into at the deep end.

He offers you a reassuring smile, barely a curl at the edge of his lips but enough for you to notice. “You’ve got this. I’m right here.” As if for emphasis, he shifts close enough that your senses are filled with traces of lime shampoo and drip coffee. His arm lifts around your side, freckles stark under the bright overhead light, as he points out where to make the incision. You take the scalpel that is offered and drag it carefully across the man’s skin, precise and deep. In the corner of your vision, Abbot nods his affirmation. Something about that small gesture gives you confidence, and you hold out a hand for the rib spreader without being told. He smiles a little as he hands it to you, Mateo already on standby for suction.

“Occlusion clamp,” you say the moment the spreader is in place and enough blood is drained for you to see. The sight of the man’s heart, unmoving within the cavity, makes your stomach flip, but you can’t let up now. You lean down to fit the clamp as it is handed to you, but your goggles slip precariously down your nose. Shit. You’ve got the clamp in one hand, the man’s aorta in the other, so you scrunch your nose as best you can. Suddenly a gloved hand appears, nudging them back up with its knuckles.

“Keep going,” Abbot whispers in your ear. “I’ve got you.”

The words bolster you even as they send you spiralling. You perform the clamp under his expert guidance, and begin massaging the heart when prompted. Time feels like it stands still, the only evidence that the clock is still ticking the movement of flesh beneath your fingers and the steady draining of the blood bags being held aloft on the other side of the table. The drone of the heart rate monitor provides no evidence, just an unflinching beep. Suddenly, it hitches. So does the organ in your hands.

“We’ve got a rhythm,” Mateo breathes in amazement.

Abbot snaps off a glove beside you, pressing a hand to the man’s wrist. “Pulse is weak but there.”

As if on cue, Dr Emery Walsh strides in, taking a brief assessment of the situation before directing those around you to prepare for a transfer to the OR.

“Not bad,” she tells you, casting an approving eye over your handiwork. “We’ve got it from here.”

You practically slump against the table as he’s hoisted back to the gurney, relief and a drop in adrenaline sapping the energy from your bones. How you’re going to survive pulling a double, going straight into your day shift after this, you can’t even begin to comprehend.

The familiar presence of Abbot settles beside you, his back to the table so he’s half-facing you. He leans down, warm breath against your cheek. “Attagirl,” he mutters, voice low and rough. You fight back a shiver. “Do you want to take 5?”

You nod, still too shaken to speak, and he helps you out of your gown before sending you on your way to the break room.

You sit in the relative tranquility, allowing the hum of the refrigerator and the muffled sounds of the ER beyond to settle your agitated mind. There’s a mug of caramel coffee on the table in front of you, more for the comfort of the smell and the making process than for actually drinking. It grows colder with every second you stare, unseeing, at your phone. You should message Nick. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you have a boyfriend, right? Go to them for support, even if it’s 4:30 in the morning and they’re definitely asleep and wouldn’t even comprehend the magnitude of what you’ve just done. How do you explain the specific emotion that comes from holding a human being’s heart in your hands and bringing them back from the brink of death? You don’t. You can’t. It’d be easier than explaining that given the choice in hindsight, you’d still have chosen to be here instead of at the bar he was supposed to take you to. Or explaining ‘attagirl’. You can’t ever tell him that.

The screen swims back into view, a couple of steps too bright for the stillness of the moment. You don’t even have to look at the name to know that the number is wrong. It’s not Nick’s profile you’ve opened. It’s not the first time that’s happened. Every time you’re about to leave for a date, you cast a glance over it, just to remind yourself. The night Nick asked you to be his girlfriend, you accidentally opened it instead of his when you went to say good night. You caught yourself just before pressing send. Now it sits there, the number emblazoned on the back of your eyelids. You can’t seek comfort there either - not when you have a perfectly adequate boyfriend further down your contacts list, and not when the owner of this number is on the other side of the door.

—

You curse yourself a hundred times over. A few for not charging your phone while you were at work, some more for coming for drinks in an unfamiliar area of town when you’re tired and not thinking rationally. Mostly, for blurting out that you couldn’t do this any more when you realised that you’d spent the entire time thinking about how much more you’d be enjoying yourself if you were stuck on another night shift instead of being in a flashy bar with the poor young man you’ve spent weeks trying to convince yourself you’re into. You told yourself that if you threw yourself into the evening headfirst with the determination to make a go of it and the hottest outfit you could muster, you’d make it out the other side. Apparently not. Quite understandably, he left shortly after your outburst; you didn’t explain exactly why you were ending things, that wouldn’t help either of you, but you at least made it clear that it was nothing he’d done wrong. Your heart just wasn’t in it.

You glare at your barely-touched glass of wine like it’s personally responsible for the mess you’re in. Perhaps it is. If you’d never agreed to a do-over date so soon after your unexpected night shift earlier in the week then you’d never have had Jack Abbot so firmly on your mind, you’d never have been comparing Nick to him, and you’d have been able to continue in blissful mediocrity until you got over your crush long enough to settle for the thoroughly decent guy who had actually chosen you. But no, now you’re receiving uncomfortable looks from sleazy men who are watching you sit alone in a short backless dress and heels you’re starting to regret wearing, while you desperately try to figure out how you’re going to get home. It doesn’t help that all you can think about is-

Oh.

The dead weight of your phone feels heavy in your hands. Would it be weird to…?

You head for the payphone before you can talk yourself out of it.

Jack is just settling down for the evening when his phone buzzes continuously with a call. It’s not a number he recognises, but the tiny voice gnawing at the back of his mind tells him to answer anyway. He does, on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” he grumbles.

There’s a soft gasp on the other end. “Abbot, hi.”

He sits bolt upright, his spine protesting the sudden movement. “Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t know this was your number.”

A beat passes, then two. When your voice returns, it’s quieter. “It’s not. It’s a payphone in the bar. Mine died.”

He shushes the voice telling him that this means you have his number memorised, and keeps his focus on you. “Is everything okay?”

“I, um,” you hesitate, “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have- I know it’s your day off.”

He purses his lips, rephrases. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, just peachy,” you mutter, and he can practically hear the way you crinkle your nose when you’re being sarcastic. There’s an undercurrent of emotion he’d be able to place if his heart wasn’t currently hammering against his ribs. “I know it’s absolutely not your problem to fix, but I’m… kind of stranded and I can’t check bus times or order an uber, and I didn’t know who else to call. I just need someone to tell me-”

“Hey,” he stops you, voice low and with an edge of tightness, “tell me where you are.”

He’s already reaching for his prosthetic and his keys before you even give him the name of the bar.

You hug your thin jacket to yourself, sheltered against the side of the bar. This whole thing was a mistake. You should never have agreed to a date so far outside of your normal area, knowing full well you were on the verge of ending things. You should never have even started a relationship you weren’t ready for - not that you’re not ready for one, just not one that isn’t with him. And most importantly, you should never have called him. Now not only have you ruined Abbot’s night off, but he’s on his way to see you completely at odds with the carefully maintained persona you’ve spent months crafting to wear around him. Forget playful but distanced, now you’re alone and needy and filled with a determination that only comes from the sobering reality of the still night air and a realisation you didn’t even need to get tipsy to reach. You’re scared you won’t be able to console yourself if he doesn’t like the version of you that he finds. You’re scared you won’t be able to control yourself if he does.

A sleek black truck pulls into the parking lot. It’s slightly too nice to be practical, slightly too practical to be nice. You know it’s Abbot’s before you even see the salt-and-pepper curls appear from the driver’s side. He parks haphazardly, striding over to you with the same purpose with which he carries himself through the ER.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” he asks immediately, brows knitted, taking in the way you’re trembling beneath the black fabric wrapped around your shoulders. There’s a strip of burgundy below it, reaching barely halfway down your thighs. He tries not to pay as much attention to that.

You shake your head. “Only my pride. Don’t worry, I’m not going to have you doing triage on your night off. Sorry for interrupting that, by the way - I hope you weren’t doing anything important.”

“Not as important as this,” he shrugs, a gesture that would have been nonchalant were it not for the tension in his shoulder as he guides you towards the car with a hand between your shoulderblades. “Where’s your boyfriend in all of this?”

A slow breath seeps out from your nose, a tiny crack in your defensive exterior. “My ex-boyfriend went home. I couldn’t exactly ask for a lift post-breakup.”

His fingers tighten ever so slightly across your back, sending a shiver up your spine that you pray he doesn’t notice. “I could kill him,” he mutters.

“You should thank him,” you reply, amusement heavy in your voice in spite of everything, “for this wonderful opportunity to hang out with me. I know I’m grateful.”

He rolls his eyes, but still reaches out to open the passenger door and help you up into the seat. “Your ability to wind me up regardless of the scenario is admirable, truly.”

“It’s my favourite hobby,” you beam, the first smile he’s seen all night.

“You need better hobbies.” Preferably ones that don’t involve tempting him to carry out an HR violation at work. Then again, you’re not at work right now. The unwritten rules of workplace teasing no longer apply. You’re not doing this as a performance for your coworkers, nor to find entertainment in an otherwise stressful or crushing environment. Is it instinct, habit, that keeps you going? You can’t be serious, you can’t actually be glad to spend time with him in the wake of a breakup; he can’t allow that to be a possibility, because that would mean opening himself back up to feelings he’s told himself he isn’t allowed to indulge. If you’re choosing him, trusting him, for more than just a convenient lift home, then… He narrows his eyes. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Don’t worry, your upholstery is safe,” you sigh almost wistfully. “Kind of hard to think about finishing  your wine when you desperately want to get out of a place.”

His heart does a backflip before he can stop it. You’re pretty much sober. Whatever happens, it’s all you. Not that anything will happen, there’s no precedent for that. Other than the fact that apparently your first instinct was not to drown your sorrows but to call him. On a number that you know by heart. Fucking hell.

The interior of the car is pleasantly warm. It hadn’t even been that cold outside, but you’re in a short dress and barely anything of a jacket and you don’t mind that but Abbot has decided to turn the small blue-red dial in the dashboard a few degrees to the right anyway. The gesture feels cosier than any heating. Maybe it’s just because he’s cold, you tell yourself; he’s in a short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans after you dragged him away from his evening. Is this what he wears at home, or was he out somewhere? Both thoughts are equally treacherous. So is the sight of his biceps, smattered with freckles all the way down to the broad hands that grip the steering wheel. The radio plays quietly in the background, an evening easy listening station that neither of you are paying attention to. You watch him - study him - take in the way he’s angled just a fraction towards you, the way his gaze flicks to your face as often as it does the rear view mirror.

“I’m sorry again for dragging you all the way out here, Abbot,” you tell him softly.

“Jack. And don’t be, I gave you my number for a reason.” He leaves it at that. Whatever you want to interpret the reason as is your own business.

“Yeah, but that was weeks ago.”

“Still, ‘if you want me to call you, you can just say so’, remember?”

He remembers what you said. He wanted you to call. Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve been an idiot, a colossal idiot. But you still have to be sure; that was what held you back all along. “That was before I had a boyfriend,” you say carefully.

He glances at you again, just briefly. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

The words sit between you for a while - not uncomfortably, but taking up the space that they deserve. There’s a weight to them that you’ve been carrying around these past weeks, and it’s somewhat of a relief to know that it isn’t just you that’s been holding it. You just wish you’d noticed sooner. Maybe, though, this is how it’s supposed to go. Maybe you needed things to not work out with someone else to realise just how much you wanted to try and make it work out with him.

The stillness settles back around you like a blanket, comforting and familiar. You start to question whether that’s as far as the confessions are going to go. Then the air shifts.

“I’m sorry he left you,” Jack murmurs into the quiet of the car with surprising sincerity.

You bite your lip. “If you mean ditching me, then thanks, but if you mean the break-up, that was all me.”

He glances at you, gaze darkening. Maybe it’s just the shadows of the buildings alongside. “I thought you liked him? Did he do something?”

You shrug. “No, he was nice enough, he just wasn’t-” wasn’t you, your mind finishes. You can’t say that. Instead you conjure up that old familiar wit he always seems to bring out in you. “Well, I’ve grown accustomed to a certain level of banter that he just couldn’t live up to.”

“Glad to know your standards are so well-founded.”

There it is, that spark you’ve been missing. You didn’t realise how much you’ve missed the night shift, by which you of course mean him. The day crew are fun, and you know Robby and Abbot are close enough for their traits to have rubbed off on each other, but even he doesn’t equate to this. “Easy, Jack,” you roll your eyes, “or I might start thinking you’re interested in the vacancy.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch his jaw twitch, a silent battle playing across his face. “How strict are your other criteria?”

“Oh, incredibly. I’m not going to settle for someone who doesn’t understand the pressures of my career path or the importance of the syrup in my morning coffee. He’s got to be compassionate, attentive, good with his hands. Extra points if he can pull off camo print.” It’s the boldest declaration you can make, but you figure at this point you have nothing left to lose, and the possibility of a lot more to gain.

He swallows. Hard. “I might know someone who fits the bill.”

The car grinds to a halt as the lights ahead switch to red. You turn to face him and find him already watching you. Even with the light of a streetlamp shining straight through the window, his gaze is darker than ever. A hint of a smirk plays across his lips as he tilts his head, questioning, testing.

“Oh really? Maybe I should schedule an interview.”

His hand shifts on the gear stick, knuckles rippling. “That only covers half your list. If you want to be thorough, which I know you are, then you need a practical demonstration.”

You open your mouth to offer another retort when the hand leaves the gear stick and slides onto your bare leg. Whatever you were going to say, as snarky as it almost definitely was, is gone, replaced by warmth and pressure and the slight scratch of worn callouses. Your breath hitches, earning you a toying squeeze as the hand edges higher. When it reaches the hem of your dress, it doesn’t push at the fabric. Instead, it roves inwards, to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. His thumb delivers a light pinch, before stroking in a lazy arc that brings the edge of the nail up to brush against the hem of your underwear. A small whine gathers in the back of your throat as your insides coil tighter.

The lights change.

The hand recedes, leaving behind only a lingering heat in your thigh and your cheeks, and changes gear with a firm grip. The whine escapes you before you can stop it. Beside you, Abbot lets out a low, satisfied chuckle.

You pout. You absolutely will not let him have the upper hand (quite literally), not when you’re the one who started this. A mischievous smirk spreads across your face. “Not a bad audition, but I might have to see some other candidates first.”

The engine lets out a dull roar as he presses fractionally harder on the accelerator. “No callback?”

“That depends,” you almost purr, eyelashes fluttering as you reach for the bicep tensed between you and run a finger along it, feeling every vein and muscle. “What else is in your repertoire?”

He shifts in his seat. “Soon as I’m home, I’ll send you a CV.”

“I don’t know if I have the patience for that.”

“I know.”

“Rude.”

“I thought one of your criteria was ‘attentive’, or should I not be noticing things about you?”

Your traitorous heart skips a beat. He’s been paying attention. “Any other observations, Doctor?”

If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he shivers. “You’re infuriating.”

“You say that like it’s news.” Your smirk returns.

“And you really need to stop looking at me like that,” he says without taking his eyes off the road, adjusting his posture again. His jaw is tight, carving out the curve beneath his golden-tinted stubble.

The smirk widens. “Or what?”

“Or so help me, I will pull this car over.”

You falter. “Are you kicking me out?”

“No, but my backseat is closer than my bedroom.”

Something stutters deep in your chest, a shock that tugs at your core and sends blood rushing to your cheeks. You’ve done what he asked - you’ve stopped looking at him mischievously. Instead you’re incredulous that all your hopeful teasing has built to this, an open declaration from a man who keeps his cards so close to his chest that you never even knew this was an option. He watches you, gaze remarkably measured for one so full of want. Even after everything that has happened tonight, all the evidence you’re starting to realise he’s been collecting long before now, he still looks for confirmation. That alone makes your knees go weak.

“Now who’s impatient?” you murmur, voice thicker than you expect.

He groans, a sound that rumbles up through his whole body, and you finally notice the tension, the barely controlled restraint in every muscle. The way his hips twitch almost involuntarily. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Nope.” You pop the p, accompanying it with a hand on his thigh that makes his eyelids flicker and his Adam’s apple bob. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The car slows slightly. He casts you a look, half challenge, half warning. “I need to hear you say you’re okay with this.”

God. He’s going to be the death of you before anything even happens. “Yes. I am. Please.”

You wait for the car to stop. It speeds up. You throw Abbot a confused stare.

“If you’re going to make fun of me for being impatient, I’m going to make you wait.”

You let out another whine, this one more petulant than before. He chuckles, and relents by returning his hand to your thigh as he veers away from the route that would take you home.

—

Despite his teasing, it doesn't take long before you pull up outside a modest white brick bungalow. It's a relief for certain, because with the way his hand has been straying up your thigh the whole way there's already a wet patch between your legs and it's taken all of your willpower not to give him the satisfaction of you lifting your hips to invite his touch closer.

It only takes a second for him to put the truck in neutral and switch off the engine, then he all but launches himself out to get round to your door before you can open it for yourself.

“Aren't you a gentleman?” you croon, taking the hand that is offered to you as you step onto the footplate and down to the pavement.

“Not even close.”

With your hand firmly in his, he twists you until your back is against the rear door and you're gasping with the rush of a dozen sensations. Rough, desperate lips crashing fiercely against yours; stubble grazing across your chin; fingers curling into the hair at the base of your neck; a wall of muscle where your free hand instinctively rises to meet his torso; a prominent bulge in the front of his jeans, pressing just above your already clenching core. You whimper into the kiss, the sound parting your lips just enough for his tongue to flick out and taste you. The sound makes his entire body twitch towards you, the lingering tang of coffee filling your mouth as your tongues brush against one another. His hand leaves yours, and for a moment you mourn its loss until his fingers hook under the front of your dress, stroking across the damp strip on your underwear and toying with the waistband.

“Jack,” you gasp, a blend of scandalised and excited, as his hand slips beneath the fabric, “what if your neighbours see?”

He grins at the way your eyes widen when, despite your shock, one finger begins to gently stroke your clit. “I do nude yoga, they learned to stop looking this way a long time ago.”

Your eyes somehow grow even wider as you lean back far enough for your gaze to roam down his body. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't frequently pictured what lies under those slightly-tight T-shirts he wears so often, but it only now occurs to you that you might be about to see him completely naked. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, sending a shiver up your spine. Jack notices, because of course he does. The way he's studying you makes it abundantly clear that he can tell by your gaze exactly what thought has elicited the reaction, but there's a softness to it.

“Come on, it's freezing out here.” Reluctantly, he removes his hands from your dress and hair, pulling out his house key with one and taking your hand to lead you to the door with the other.

As much as you want to keep your focus on the man behind you currently peppering kisses up your neck as he peels off your jacket and guides you by the waist towards his bedroom, you can't help but take in the house. This is the first time you've been here, your first opportunity to experience what Jack is like outside of work and the occasional team nights out. It feels like him. The decor is simple but tasteful, walls a blend of neutrals and the odd feature colour or subtle patterned wallpaper. One side of the hallway bears a mirror and a small array of framed photos. To your left is the living room, with soft green seats and a full shelf of books. A half-drunk beer sits on the table, a set of crutches lean on the arm of the sofa, and both are illuminated in a soft glow by the TV's standby screen. Your heart flutters a little harder at the realisation that he must have left the moment you called, not even waiting long enough to turn the TV off. Every time you think this man can’t get any hotter, he finds a new way to surprise you. Pulse thrumming in your ears, you turn into his touch, revelling in the way the fabric of your dress bunches as his hands continue to hold your waist and his lips never leave your skin - they simply continue to move over your shoulder and onto the front of your neck, then up across your jawline. Your lips part expectantly but he moves away from them and towards your hairline.

“Impatient,” he murmurs, voice tantalisingly deep and so close to your ear that you can feel his breath.

You bunch a hand into the front of his T-shirt, trying to pretend it’s not to stop your knees from giving way beneath you at the way that solitary word has punched its way directly through to your insides. “Eager,” you correct.

“Good.” His lips move away from your ear, which would be disappointing were it not for the fact they immediately meet yours again. There’s less of the desperation of the first kiss, but just as much ferocity. He kisses you like a man starved, and you return the gesture like he’s your only source of oxygen. That oxygen quickly leaves when his hands slide down to cup your ass, hoisting you up. You immediately wrap your legs around his hips and let him carry you down the hallway.

You’re so fixated on the feeling of him against you that you barely even register the transition from light cream walls to dusky blue. In fact, you don’t even notice that you’re in his room until he lowers you onto the bed, lips still not leaving yours until he pulls back to crouch and remove your heels. It’s an unexpectedly intimate gesture, especially with the way he winces slightly as his leg protests the movement. You want to tell him that you can handle it yourself and don’t want to cause him any discomfort, but you can’t deny that watching his hands, which you’re so used to seeing deftly carry out medical procedures, undo the straps around your ankles with the same focused precision, is deeply attractive. When he’s done, he straightens, giving you an exclusive angle with which to appraise the strain in his jeans, the way his T-shirt clings to the underside of his pecs, the emphasised sharpness of his jawline as even now he tries to maintain some semblance of discipline.

He nudges your legs apart with a knee to stand between them, eyes sharp in their surveying and glimmering with passion. “You're still wearing far too many clothes.”

“I'm only in a dress,” you protest.

“Exactly, and you look stunning in it, but it's got to go.” He tugs you up by the hips and removes it with practised ease, fingers trailing down the bare skin exposed on your side as the zip peels away and he sits you back down. Despite the tingle of self-consciousness prickling at your skin, you can't help the satisfaction at the way his eyes widen and his cheeks flush when he realises you're not wearing a bra.

“Look at you,” he murmurs appreciatively, placing one knee between yours on the edge of the bed to allow him purchase as he leans down and delivers deliberately slow kisses from your neck to your collarbone and lower. Every touch of his lips elicits a sigh, a small burst of fire across your skin.

“Your turn,” you murmur between each exhale.

He hums against your sternum, a clarification he's too entranced to seek.

“Too many… clothes… wanna… see you,” you manage to huff.

The corner of his lip quirks upwards as sits back to remove his prosthetic. “If you can get them off me, you can see.”

You follow him up, reaching greedily for the hem of his T-shirt. It's almost too easy. Almost. His smirk sharpens as he gathers both your wrists in one hand and pushes them above your head, flipping you backwards onto the bed and using the momentum to bring himself up and on top of you. You let out a tiny yelp.

“You okay?” he asks, a blend of amusement and concern in his features, pupils blown wide by the dim lighting and lust. When you nod, he raises an eyebrow. “Words, please, sweetheart.”

“Holy shit,” you manage.

A laugh bubbles up, the sound in your ears and reverberating into your chest where it's pressed against his. “That'll do.”

Any lingering hesitation dissolves, melted by the heat simmering between your bodies, as his free hand slides into your pants, palm flat on your stomach. Every single thought leaves your head and plummets to somewhere within your abdomen as his middle finger swipes, testing, through the slick already gathered. His gaze remains trained on you, watching for any indication that he’s going too far (or perhaps not far enough) before the finger pushes deeper, eliciting a low moan that you barely even notice leaving your mouth as it curls inside you. As he starts to move, touch gradually moving faster and deeper, you try to stifle yourself against his lips.

“Ah ah,” he chides with a grin, “let me hear you.” As if to emphasise his instruction, he moves his mouth away, and for one terrible moment you truly think he’s going to leave it at that before he shifts down and latches onto your breast, teeth grazing lightly across your nipple.

“Fu-uck,” you gasp, back arching between the points of stimulation. “Jack, I, ahh-”

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice gravelly, as he switches breasts and adds a second finger.

You swear you see stars. You don’t want to know how he got so good at this, and frankly you don’t care. What matters is that his touch is hitting exactly where it’s supposed to, somehow both overstimulating and not enough, and if he keeps this up you’re going to be like putty in a matter of minutes. You bite back another moan, earning yourself a warning nip to the soft flesh of your chest for your trouble.

Suddenly his lips move back to yours, hungry and insistent. You devour him, as though it hasn’t been barely five minutes since he was last there. His tongue flicks against yours, teeth dragging over your bottom lip, all the while his hand never letting up its pace.

“If I let go of your hands,” he says into you, voice dry and splintering with desire, “can I trust you to keep them to yourself?”

“Please, Jack,” you beg, hips twitching upwards to allow him to beckon you in even further. His fingers spread ever so slightly, and you roll your eyes back with fluttering lashes.

“What if I told you I’ll last longer if you do?” His voice has dropped into a dark, low register you’ve never heard from him before, the sound alone tightening the coil of elastic in your core. The words themselves drag you from the haze of ecstasy just enough to realise his own hips are shifting like yours, clothed erection seeking out the friction of the mattress edge. Need claws its way into your chest, so desperate it hurts.

“Why don’t you just-”

He cuts you off with a shake of his head, another kiss. “It’s not about me right now. Want to make you feel good first.”

You get the feeling he’s not just saying that because you’ve just gone through a breakup, even if it was self-inflicted. “Then stop talking and kiss me,” you urge.

He does as instructed, pressing his lips to yours once more. It doesn’t last long. He must be able to feel your body tiptoeing closer to the edge, the way you tighten around his relentless ministrations. The pressure around your wrists lessens as it builds everywhere else, and he uses his now free hand to remove your underwear entirely before guiding one of your hands into his curls. You delight at the feel of them as you weave your fingers in. It feels so good to have a part of him that you can touch that you almost don’t notice when his head moves, taking you with it. You wait for the sensation of his lips against your chest again. It doesn’t come. His now free hand provides the contact instead, kneading and caressing, bringing little gasps when the pads of his fingers press against the bruises his teeth have already created. All it would take is one more kiss, one more brush of his tongue against yours, to tip you over the edge. Your other hand clutches desperately at the sheets.

His fingers slide out of you.

“Jack!” you cry plaintively, clenching around the sudden absence.

You sit up a little to glare at him, outraged to have your release stolen away. The sight almost stops your pulse entirely: his hair a mess around your fingers, cheeks flushed, hazel eyes almost eclipsed with black and sheltered beneath hooded lids,  lips swollen and curved into the most wicked smirk, chin resting just below your belly button. He watches you take him in and slowly raises an eyebrow. Teasing. Pushing. Not a single word said.

“Jack, you motherf-”

You hand follows his curls as he dips down and licks a deep stripe between your folds.

“-fuck!”

Your head hits the mattress again as his name flows from your lips over and over, a prayer and a curse all in one. He smiles against your skin, pulling away quickly to deliver a bruising kiss to your inner thigh before returning to lick deeper, alternating between both legs until your voice cracks around the noises that drift unbidden from your lips. All the while his hand remains roaming across your chest, squeezing each breast in turn and pinching at your nipples when it seems like you’re stubbornly resisting the high the rest of you is chasing. His other hand clutches your hip, keeping it steady as he works away at you. The shift in your voice is immediately noticeable, vague coherency giving way to a broken whine as you teeter on the edge. Motions unrelenting, he brings the hand from your hip round to toy with your clit. The elastic holding you together finally snaps under the added pressure, and your hand grips tighter into his hair to hold him to you and ground yourself as the blinding wave of an orgasm rips through you. You needn’t have worried about keeping him there; his mouth follows your hips as they lift from the bed, never so much as flinching as you spill onto his tongue. He guides you through the climax, movements slowing as he laps you up until you’re easing back down to reality.

“Feeling okay?” Jack asks, tone remarkably caring for someone whose face is still between your thighs.

“Oh my god,” you mutter while you wait for your head to stop spinning.

He laughs. “C’m’ere.” At last he retreats, chin glistening with saliva and slick, and helps you turn until your head is on one of the pillows. You watch, exhaustion giving way to rapidly renewed arousal, as he kneels above you and finally removes his T-shirt. Beneath it, the sight you’ve been waiting for all evening is every bit as rewarding as you’d hoped: broad chest, toned pecs, slightly soft stomach, a clutch of grey-brown hair down his sternum, and a whole galaxy of coppery freckles. Your breath catches in your throat, and he gives a cocky smirk even as his ears flush pink.

Energy renewed, you sit up and place a hand on his chest, fingers splaying across the muscle. When he raises an eyebrow, you nod towards the other pillow and apply a little pressure. He lays back with minimal resistance. Trying to act like your hands aren’t shaking, you reach out to undo his jeans and slide them down his legs. The sight of his erection, now restrained only by his boxers, makes your eyelids twitch.

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?” he murmurs, not a hint of pressure either way. “I don’t think I have any condoms.”

You consider for a moment, quietly grateful for the encouragement to take your time. “I am. I’m clean, and on the pill. But we don’t have to if you don’t-”

“No, I want to,” he cuts you off, nodding emphatically, and places his hands on your hips. “I want you.”

Nothing more needs to be said. You hook your thumbs in his waistband, dragging the fabric down with agonising discipline, inch by inch, nails running over his muscular thighs. His cock is already rock hard and leaking by the time you turn your attention back to it. When you settle yourself across his hips, he gently places his hands on the sides of your ass to guide you down onto him, being sure to allow you to set the pace. You let out a small gasp as you open to accommodate him, sinking down slowly enough that you feel every last centimetre brushing against your walls. Jack groans beneath you, a guttural sound that makes you clench around him before you’ve even started moving.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, “you’re gonna finish me off.”

“That’s the idea,” you grin as you lift your hips, raising until you hover just over his tip before dropping down again. Each thrust makes your core burn a little hotter, your breath come a little faster, your pulse stutter a little harder. Jack watches you with nothing short of adoration, his jaw slack and eyes gleaming. His hands are still on your ass, fingers pressing into the tender flesh, steadying you in your movements. It doesn’t take long before you feel him start to twitch beneath you, hips rising from the mattress to meet you and seek his release; in the same way he toyed with you, you begin to slow down. This time, however, Jack has just as much control. He wraps one hand into your hair, bringing you down towards him and clasping his lips to your collarbone. The new angle opens you up even wider, and he snaps his hips up at a pace that is sudden and blinding. You gasp, whimper, any number of noises your voice sees fit to produce at the rapid change in pressure. It brings you closer to the edge, but it’s like you can see the breaking point ahead rather than standing over it. To his credit, it seems Jack can see you being held back too, already intimately aware with the signs your body gives off. His instincts have always been on top form, but this is on a whole other level. He cushions the back of your head as he rolls you over to the other pillow, pace barely faltering. Immediately, you follow his lead when he reaches behind your thighs to hook your legs over his shoulders. Your ankles cross behind his head, holding him close as he continues to drive into you, hitting fast and deep and oh so attentive to the tiny signals you emit. It’s almost like he sees your orgasm coming before you do, broad hands lifting your hips to find the angle that triggers your undoing. The moment it hits you, you clench around him and he’s done for. His eyes scrunch shut as he finally surrenders, cum thick and hot as it spills into you. You reach a hand up to his shoulder, bringing his lips down to meet yours as you both pant your way through the euphoria.

For a while, the two of you just lay side by side, staring at the ceiling with heaving chests and giddy smiles. Eventually, though, you stand and ask for directions to the bathroom, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts. There are too many and not enough. Part of his brain is in overdrive, committing every millisecond of the night to memory. The other part is overthinking, wondering whether this was too good to be true. Maybe this was just a distraction from your breakup, a release in whatever form you could get. If that’s the case, he’ll still take it. When it comes to you, he’s happy with whatever he can get, and he never thought this was even on the table. He wishes it could be more, of course, but he’s not going to push things if you don’t seem interested. That was always his rule.

You return a few minutes later, face rinsed and hips gently swaying. In your hands are his crutches. “Thought you might need these,” you say simply.

Something heavy and warm makes its home in his chest. Maybe he doesn’t need that rule after all. This required thought. This is caring. This is your way of showing you’re interested. He smiles warmly as you move round to his side of the bed to lean them against his bedside drawers.

“Thanks,” he brushes a hand up your side. “There’s, uh, pyjamas in the bottom drawer if you want something to sleep in.”

You return his smile with a bright, beaming one of your own as you crouch and pull out a top and shorts. You toss him the bottoms and slip into the top.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs drowsily. “No makeup, in my clothes, and still a goddess.”

You bury your blush in the collar of the top. It smells like him. Inhaling deeply, you round the bed and slip under the covers. Your bodies slot together like they were always meant to be with each other, hands finding skin and lips gently meeting for the hundredth time that night.

“Goodnight, Jack,” you whisper into the darkness.

He pulls you closer. “G’night, sweetheart.”

—

The rhythmic beep of an alarm cuts through the early morning air. You let out a low groan as the room swims into view, tinted a pale blue by the early morning light seeping in around the curtains. It takes you a moment to remember where you are as you reach for your phone to silence it and find it further from your fingertips than usual. The warm arm draped around your waist is a pleasant reminder. So is the crotch that shifts closer to your ass as you lean away. Fully aware that you should be getting up and ready for work, you allow yourself a moment to nestle back against Jack and are instantly rewarded with his arm tightening to hold you close and the scratch of his stubble against your shoulder as he nestles into your neck. Craning your head, you see that he’s still fast asleep, and the memory of him telling you he never sleeps resurfaces from a flurry of butterflies in your stomach. He looks so peaceful that you feel immensely guilty for sneaking out, but you need to go home and change into something work-appropriate and it seems such a shame to wake him just to say goodbye. So, you carefully unhook him from your waist and neatly rearrange the covers over his bare chest as you slip from the bed.

Jack awakens in a manner altogether unfamiliar: slow and rested, not dragged kicking and (sometimes literally) screaming from the shallow hold of unconsciousness. There’s a lingering warmth in his bed, but not the person it came from. The house is quiet. For a minute he questions whether he imagined the whole thing, but the ache in his body says otherwise. Then he wonders if you left. God, please don’t let you think it was a mistake. He’s about to reach for his crutches when he falters. Behind them lies a square of paper, one he recognises from the pad he keeps on the hall stand, which bears handwriting he could probably recreate from memory. “Thanks again, for everything x”. A small, neat heart has been drawn in the corner. He allows himself a genuine smile as he picks up his crutches and makes his way out of the room.

You snap your head up at the sound of soft thudding in the hall, just in time to see the shirtless figure appear in the doorway.

“Please tell me you’re not about to do the walk of shame into our workplace,” he remarks, taking in the way you’re already back in your dress, burgundy fabric bunched unfairly high on your legs as you crouch to fasten your heels.

You straighten. “Sorry, did I wake you? I tried to be quiet. And no, I was going to swing by home and change quickly.”

He glances at his watch. “You’re cutting it fine.”

“I know, I really didn’t want to run off and leave you, but duty calls.”

His heart swells again at the admission. He settles onto the couch, returning his crutches to their usual place, and gives you a knowing look. “You know, I’ve got clothes you can borrow, and I could give you a lift. That’d give you a good fifteen minutes extra.”

You know exactly what that look means. It’s not one you can indulge if you ever want to make it to work. “Good point, that would give me time for breakfast.”

“Mm,” he hums, trying and failing to hide his smirk as he beckons you closer. “Sure. Breakfast.”

You huff a laugh as you lean down and press a light kiss to his lips. “I'm going to be late because you can't keep it in your pants.”

Before you can pull away, he tugs you to straddle his lap. Between the early start and the sight of you in that dress in the soft light of the morning, he’s already half-hard beneath you. “So phone in. If Robby asks, you can blame me.”

You swat him away with a smile, standing with your phone before he can cause any more mischief. It doesn't help. Over the shrill dial tone, you hear him haul himself up unsteadily, and the moment the call is connected his hands wrap around your waist.

“Robinavitch.”

“Dr Robby!” you greet as casually as you can. The hands pull you closer.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, notes of worry bleeding through.

“I'm really sorry, I- ah!” you cut yourself off at the sensation of teeth carving a hickey over a pulse point in your neck. A laugh stifles itself against your skin. “I got a bit- mm- held up.” One of the hands snakes up towards your chest, enveloping the tender underside of your breast with probing fingers. “Is it okay if- hhngh- I'm a bit late?”

There's tension, almost suspicion, in his voice when he speaks again, after slightly too long of a pause. “If it's an emergency, we can-”

“I told you to tell him it's my fault,” Jack mutters, leaning round to press a kiss to the free side of your lips.

You can practically hear Robby processing. “Is that your boyfriend?”

Before you can stop it, the phone is lifted from your hands. “Excuse you, we've not put labels on it yet.”

Robby almost drops the phone. You almost choke on the word ‘yet’. “Jack?”

“Don't worry, brother, I'll drop her off soon, can't have you down a resident.” With that, he ends the call and tosses your phone onto the couch behind him, kissing your neck again.

After what feels like an age, he pulls away and you help to pass him the crutches that are now just out of reach. The thoughtful gesture earns you another kiss - a proper one this time, sleepy and languid but no less passionate than last night. You rest your hands on his hips as you kiss back.

“There’s spare towels in the bathroom cabinet. Go and get a shower before we leave.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply jokingly.

His gaze darkens as he rocks his hips forward into yours. It’s not forceful, not pushy, just enough to let you know that it’s only your imminent departure that’s holding him back. “Say that again and I’ll be calling Robby back to tell him you’re not coming in.”

You run a hand, frustratingly light, over the front of his shorts. “Yes, sir.” He groans, but before he can react further you throw him a wink and drift away towards the bathroom.

It isn’t until you’re under the warm water, basking in the sharp citrus edge of his shampoo running down your shoulders, that you realise your mistake. You can’t change back into your dress. With a sigh, you shut off the tap and quickly dry your hair until it’s no longer dripping, before wrapping the towel tightly around yourself and wandering out.

The bright sizzle of hot oil draws you towards the kitchen. Jack has his back to you as he stands in front of the stove, prosthetic fitted and shoulders relaxed as he hums along absent-mindedly to the radio. The comforting scent of toast and eggs drifts through the sun-dappled room. It’s a perfect picture of domesticity, and you’re almost tempted to call Robby back after all. It would be so easy to stay here all day, drinking in his presence, basking in the feeling of home you never expected to find here. It seems like he wouldn’t mind you sticking around. Unfortunately, your need to pay your bills wins over, and you softly clear your throat.

Jack turns over his shoulder, spatula in hand. His eyes widen at the sight of you in his towel, hair damp and skin dewy and radiant. “Oh, fuck me.”

“No time, baby,” you tease. “Can I, um, borrow something to wear?”

“Already told you you can. Help yourself to whatever.”

You smile, hands on his bicep to steady yourself as you reach up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then return to the bedroom. His wardrobe is fairly minimal, mostly T-shirts and jeans, a few sweatpants, then SWAT gear and scrubs. As much as you’d love to see everyone’s faces if you showed up in either of the latter, you suspect people would notice. Instead you settle for a plain black T-shirt, praying it’s loose enough on you to hide the fact you don’t have a bra, and a pair of grey sweats. Indecision washes over you as you consider the state of your underwear, before you quickly rummage through his drawers and find a pair of boxers that look like they’ll fit. As you leave, you check in the mirror to make sure there’s a sliver of space where the waistband is visible.

Back in the kitchen, Jack is carefully wrapping a sandwich, scrambled egg and cheese between two crisp slices of toast, in greaseproof paper. There’s a travel mug on the counter beside him. “Thought you might want to eat on the drive over,” he explains almost shyly as he hands it to you, before his gaze drifts to the elastic across your hip. “Jesus, sweetheart, are you trying to kill me?” he huffs, voice thick.

“Right, I forgot you’re at higher risk of a heart attack at your age.”

He snatches the sandwich from your hands. You pout.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he places a hand at your back and leads you into the hall

You freeze.

“What’s wrong?” he frowns.

“Shoes.”

“Fuck.”

After all that, dodging every other inconvenience, every other excuse to stay here instead of returning home, you’ve fallen at the last hurdle. “I can’t show up in my heels.”

“Do you have spares in your locker?”

You nod.

“Okay. Go grab yourself some socks. Second drawer down.” He glances at the shoe rack. It’s mostly boots. Shit. There’s a pair of battered running shoes at the bottom. A little big, perhaps, but they’ll have to do for now. You return hastily, plain black socks already on, and lace the trainers tightly to keep them in place. Jack finally gives you back your sandwich as he locks the front door and helps you into the truck. Once you’re settled, he hands you the travel mug and starts the engine. You eye it a little warily.

“It’s coffee,” he says simply.

You murmur your thanks as you slide back the catch on the lid. It was sweet of him to go to the trouble; it won’t be perfect, won’t be as good as that first cup he ever made you, but that’s your own fault for being so specific about how you have it. You’ll just have to have a caramel one again once you get five minutes at work, if you even find time while making up for your lateness. The rich scent of freshly brewed beans coils out of the opening in a puff of hot air. It’s sweeter than you anticipate. Your hands clench around the warm mug as something low and tender wraps around your heart. Caramel.

You open your mouth, trying to find the right words amidst the wave of incredulity. How? When? Why?

Jack’s gaze flicks to you as he pulls onto the main road, a ghost of a smile haunting his features. “I bought a small bottle. Just in case.”

If he wasn’t driving, you’d have kissed him again.

—

By some miracle you make it to your locker and your spare shoes before anyone can corner you, but Robby sidles up to you the moment you make a break for the scrub dispenser and the bubble of calm that surrounds it. Your heart pounds.

“So…” he says slowly, “you and Jack?”

You think you can physically feel the blood splashing off the insides of your veins as it rushes to your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, he- that is not how I wanted people to find out. Especially not you, I know you two are close.”

“We are,” he agrees, “but you’re also my resident. I want to be sure you’re okay with whatever happened.”

Oh god. You cannot be having this conversation right now. This cannot be real. “Mhm,” you nod, voice higher than you expected. “Everything is fine. Good. Great. Really great.” Shut up, shut up, shut up.

He smiles a little. “Good. As long as you didn’t feel pressured or anything, then-”

“Nope,” you blurt, suddenly desperate for this to be over so you can go and find a quiet room to recoup your dignity. “Not at all.”

To your surprise, his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Did you initiate this?”

“I… I guess it was mutual?” Please, whatever god is listening, please let the floor open up and swallow you whole.

Whatever reaction you expect, a conspiratorial lean and cheeky grin is not it. “Well, your secret is safe with me. For now, at least. I do have a pretty sizable sum to collect once people notice you’re wearing his clothes.”

Your jaw drops. “You bet on us?” Your brow furrows. “And you didn’t bet on Jack making the first move?”

His grin widens as he begins to move away, casually, like this moment never happened. “I know him too well.”

The moment he’s gone, you pull out your phone and call up the number you’ve had memorised for weeks.

Robby fucking bet on us!

The reply comes barely seconds later.

Remind him he owes me $100 of it.

You clutch your phone a little tighter, your pulse thrumming in your ears. Not angry. Curious. Almost amused.

You knew about this?

Typing. Typing.

Maybe.

Maybe?!

Typing. You can practically hear his laughter. Typing.

I did, and he knew I wouldn’t make a move until I knew for sure you were interested. Can’t blame him for capitalising on it. Or me.

I can and I will >:(

Typing.

Even if I use it to take you out for dinner?

You laugh, not caring if anyone hears.

Stooping to bribery now?

Typ-

You love me really x

You do. God, you do.