This City Doesn’t Forget (part One · The Wedding)
This City Doesn’t Forget (part one · the wedding)
you weren’t supposed to see him again. not like this. not in this dress, not in this city, not with his last name still catching in your throat. but pittsburgh remembers what you tried to bury
pairing : jack abbot x f!reader
content/warnings: alcohol, mentions of past infidelity (not by reader or Jack), emotional repression, unresolved sexual tension, proximity, flashbacks (not as explicit), lying by omission, angst, guilt, wedding setting, Pittsburgh.
word count : 2,674
a/n : no smut in this part—just aching tension, bad decisions almost made, and the beginning of everything unraveling. If you guys like this perhaps I will write part two sooner than later. 18+ ONLY, not beta read.
You hadn’t planned on coming back to Pittsburgh.
Not really.
Not to stay, anyway.
You’d told yourself it was a city you’d passed through—something borrowed when you were eighteen. Temporary, in that way so many things feel permanent until they’re not. You left with no grand finale. No promises. No reason to return. Just a couple of half-used notebooks, a box of textbooks you never sold, and a past you’d done your best to forget.
But then came Match Day.
And the envelope said,
Allegheny General. Emergency Medicine. Pittsburgh.
Your fingers had clenched the paper just a little too tightly. Someone beside you had screamed. Someone else had cried. And you— You just stared.
Because it didn’t feel like fate. It felt like a dare.
You’d worked for it. You knew this program was good. You applied like it was a long shot, a name you could cross off the list without consequence.
And now, you were a PGY-1 with three weeks to relearn how to breathe in a city you swore you’d never see again.
So you moved back early.
You told people it was to settle in. To be prepared. Responsible. Practical. You needed time to unpack, sign the forms, memorize your badge number, figure out the best spot to get coffee before a night shift.
But that wasn’t really it.
The wedding was this weekend.
And if you were going to return, you might as well rip off the bandage.
You told yourself it would be fine. Just another obligation. You’d show up, smile when it was expected, drink something sparkling from a glass too thin, find your table, and disappear before the second round of speeches.
In and out. Unnoticed.
That was the plan.
But plans don’t account for ghosts. They don’t make room for versions of yourself you thought you outgrew—versions that still remember the way someone used to look at you like they weren’t supposed to.
The version that heard his name mentioned—of course he’d be there, of course he’d be involved—and forgot how to breathe.
You thought she was gone.
But she showed up anyway.
Because some things don’t stay buried. Especially not what happened with Jack.
People know pieces. Just enough to make them look twice when you walk into a room.
They know his brother cheated on you. That you ended things. But no one knows what happened after.
They don’t know it was Jack who showed up that night—quiet, steady. That he found you on the porch, sat beside you without a word, handed you a beer and stayed there, saying nothing until the tears stopped burning your throat.
They don’t know how it shifted.
How grief softened into something slower, heavier. How silence turned into stolen glances, how those glances started to hold.
How one night he leaned in—close enough to kiss you, close enough not to—and you let him. You wanted to.
And that should’ve been it.
But it wasn’t.
It happened again. And again. And then again after that.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t anything you had words for. It was too raw for that. Too hot. Too consuming. It was his hands under your shirt before you could ask him to stop. His mouth on your neck. Your body arching into his like it had been waiting for this—for him—long before either of you were willing to admit it.
He’d show up late, knock quietly, stand in the doorway like he didn’t want to come in.
And you’d let him in anyway.
Sometimes you wouldn’t even speak. Just hands and breath and hunger. His voice rough in your ear. Yours gasping into his shoulder. You were always on borrowed time, always telling yourselves this doesn’t mean anything.
But you kept coming back.
And then, one morning—he didn’t.
No knock. No warning. Just a note slid under your door, folded once. His handwriting, familiar and clipped.
This can’t happen again.
He left for another deployment that week.
You haven’t seen him since.
No one knows the truth. But they know enough.
Enough to feel the shift in the air when his name brushes too close to yours. Enough to catch the tension in your silence. Enough to know something happened between you.
And that whatever it was—it didn’t end clean.
Now, years later, you’re back in proximity with the same family. The same name lingers behind you—woven into laughter, casual conversation, the soft clink of champagne flutes.
And your body still remembers what it felt like to come undone in his hands.
You try to shake the thought. Bury it.
Because now you’re here. At your ex's wedding. Moving through it like it’s just another event on your calendar.
You arrive early—not dramatically, just early enough to avoid the spectacle of walking in late. Early enough to slip through the edges while the music is still soft and no one’s had enough to get loud.
The venue is every Pinterest bride’s dream: string lights, linen runners, eucalyptus draped over archways and tucked into centerpieces like someone spent hours pretending it was effortless.
You keep your expression even. Your heels steady. Your breath controlled.
And then the faces start to register.
A few from college. Some from the family. Familiar enough to sting. One of his cousins waves you over, smiling too warmly, like she’s rewritten history into something forgivable.
You smile back. Offer polite answers. Tell her you moved back for work. Let them fill in the rest.
No one says his name.
Not yet.
But it lingers. In glances, in pauses, in the way people talk about him and wait—just a beat too long—for your reaction.
You keep moving. Find your table. Table Nine.
Close enough to the dance floor to be inconvenient. Far enough from the family tables to make a point.
Your name is written in cursive, tucked beside a sprig of dried lavender. The seat beside yours is still empty.
You don’t even bother to check who it’s for. You’re not planning to stay long enough for it to matter.
You take a slow sip of champagne and pretend it doesn’t taste like memory.
But then—without warning—you’re back there.
Eighteen years old. Barefoot on a back porch in the thick of late July. A cold beer sweating in your hand, your legs stretched across your boyfriend’s lap. Laughter in your throat, someone’s playlist crackling through a speaker tucked behind a lawn chair.
And across the yard—leaning against the railing, one shoulder dipped into the shadows—was him.
Jack Abbot.
The older brother.
You hadn’t meant to notice him. Not like that.
But the moment your eyes caught on his—just for a second, just long enough—you felt it.
Something you weren’t supposed to feel. Something sharp and low and completely out of place.
It didn’t matter that you were wrapped up in someone else’s arms. That you were smiling like everything was fine. That his brother had just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
Your attention still drifted.
To Jack.
He was quiet, unreadable, beer in hand, watching the yard with that steady gaze of his. Not staring. Not even looking directly at you.
But somehow, it felt like he saw everything.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just a moment.
But your skin said otherwise.
You could feel him—without him ever touching you. The tension in your shoulders. The awareness crawling across your collarbone. The heat that rose to your face when his eyes met yours for just a beat too long.
You looked away first.
And you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.
But it stayed with you. Tucked in the back of your mind. Not a fantasy. Not even a thought. Just a question. A flicker.
A what if.
You never said it aloud. Never let yourself imagine it all the way through.
Because it would’ve been wrong.
He was your boyfriend’s brother. And you were still pretending to believe that mattered.
But your body knew it. Even then.
Even before everything fell apart.
And now—now you’re standing in a black dress, back in a city you swore you were done with, and every nerve in your body remembers what it felt like the first time you looked at Jack Abbot and wanted.
What you don’t know is that he saw you the moment you stepped out of the car—and he hasn’t stopped looking since.
He hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t looking for you. Just stepped out front to grab a bottle or a box or something else forgettable from his truck.
Then he looked up.
And everything stopped.
You didn’t notice him. Not then. You were focused on the tent ahead, face neutral, shoulders back, like you were walking into a battlefield and refusing to flinch.
But Jack did notice.
He saw the curve of your neck, the glint of something gold at your collarbone. The way your dress clung like it had been chosen for someone you swore you weren’t thinking about.
He saw you—and for a second, he didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Then, slowly, he stepped back behind the truck, dragging in a breath like he needed to remember what year it was.
He didn’t mean to stare.
But he did.
Because he remembered, too.
And yet, you don’t see him at all—not when you walk inside, not during the greetings, not while you make your quiet rounds with a smile you’ve rehearsed too many times.
He’s nowhere. And then—he is.
You’re halfway through your second glass when you hear him.
That voice. Low. Unhurried. Still laced with the kind of weight that makes people listen. Like he doesn’t waste words unless they matter. Like honesty was hardwired into his bloodstream.
He's older. Broader. Calmer in that unsettling way men get when they've learned to live with their damage. There’s a curl to his hair now, grayer at the edges. His stance is the same—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes scanning everything and nothing.
He’s talking to the officiant. Laughing at something you can’t hear. That same laugh that used to gut you on nights you shouldn’t have cared.
You should look away.
But then he glances over—and this time, it’s deliberate.
His eyes catch yours.
And for one long, breathless moment, neither of you move.
No nod. No smile. No acknowledgment at all.
Just something weightless and sharp, flickering between you like a match never quite struck.
He looks away first.
And your lungs finally expand.
But the ache in your stomach—the one that’s been dormant for years—It returns.
Low. Persistent.
Familiar.
It’s the same ache that started the first time you looked at him and didn’t look away.
The one that never really left.
Not entirely.
You don’t remember excusing yourself.
Just the slow pressure building in your ribs—the kind that makes your necklace feel too tight, your dress too fitted, your very skin too obvious. One toast too many. One laugh from the wrong person. One glimpse of him across the tent and your balance tipped.
So you left.
Out past the bar. Past the music and string lights and curated perfection. Past someone’s grandmother crying over the first dance.
Out to the edge of the venue, where the manicured lawn gives way to stone steps and low hedges and a garden no one’s bothering to look at this late in the evening.
You wait for your pulse to even out. It doesn't.
You tell yourself you just needed air. That you’re not hiding.
But the second you hear footsteps behind you, slow and deliberate, you know—
You weren’t fooling anyone. Especially not him.
Jack doesn’t say anything right away.
You feel him before you hear him. The heat of him. The way the space folds in tighter, heavier, just from his presence.
“You still have a habit of disappearing.”
You stare ahead, voice even. “You still have a habit of following me.”
A pause.
Then: “Only when I’m not ready for you to go.”
You inhale.
Slow. Measured. Dangerous.
When you finally turn to face him, he’s closer than he should be. Hands in his pockets. Tie gone. Shirt open at the collar like he’s trying not to look like a man unraveling.
But he is.
You know it.
“You came back,” he says.
You lift your chin. “So did you.”
“Not the same.”
“No,” you agree. “Not the same.”
He studies you like he doesn’t want to miss anything. The curve of your jaw. The way your lipstick’s fading at the corners. The way you’re still holding yourself like someone waiting for the next impact.
“You didn’t tell anyone,” he says.
You arch a brow. “Tell them what?”
“That you’re back.”
“I’m here for work.”
He smiles, humorless. “That’s all?”
“That’s all you need to know.”
You watch the flicker cross his face. Just a flash of something—hurt, maybe. Or knowing.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
You shake your head, voice quieter now. “When have I ever?”
Jack exhales. Looks down for a second like he’s choosing his next words carefully.
Then he steps forward.
Just enough that you can smell him—clean, warm, a hint of whatever soap he’s always used that lingers even after he's gone.
“You ever think about that summer?” he asks.
You don’t answer.
But your silence is enough.
He sees it.
“All that time we spent pretending we didn’t want it,” he says, voice low. “And all the ways we failed.”
“You left,” you say.
“I had to.”
“You didn’t have to leave like that.”
“I know.”
The air is thick now. Too thick.
You shift your weight, but your feet don’t move.
And then—
He leans in. Not to kiss you. Not even to touch.
Just to be there.
“I think about it every time I come home,” he murmurs. “Every time I walk past your street. Every time I go into work.”
Something stirs behind your ribs.
His eyes flick to your mouth. Just once.
You see it.
And it wrecks you. It shouldn’t feel like anything. He’s not off-limits anymore. Not technically.
But your body still responds like it’s a secret.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” you say.
He lifts a brow. “You are.”
“I needed air.”
He watches you. “Funny. Thought you needed distance.”
You cross your arms. “And yet here you are.”
“I wasn’t planning to be.”
“Neither was I.”
That sits between you for a moment, heavy and unfinished.
You reach for your phone without thinking, just something to do with your hands.
It buzzes the second you unlock it.
“Welcome to Allegheny General. Your orientation begins Monday at 6:00 AM.”
You flinch.
Jack sees it. Of course he does.
“What?” he asks.
You hesitate. Then shrug, trying to pass it off.
“Work stuff.”
“What kind of work?”
You shoot him a look. “Since when do you care?”
“I’m just—surprised. You never said what you were doing back in Pittsburgh.”
You pause. The words come slow.
“I matched. Emergency medicine. It’s… a residency.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not exactly.
But something settles behind his eyes. Something heavy. Knowing.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You really don't know.”
“Don't know what?”
“I work there,” he says.
The world tilts.
“What—”
“Attending. ER.”
You go still.
Dead still.
And he sees it hit you.
The blood draining from your face. The calculation behind your eyes. The memory of every line you just crossed tonight.
You start to speak. You don’t.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.
He just looks at you.
Soft. Dangerous.
And then he leans in—not touching, not even brushing—but close enough for you to feel the heat of him against your skin.
“See you Monday, rookie.”
More Posts from M14mags and Others
God I hate to be that person but ughhhhhh I love that jack fic where they find out reader is pregnant and I'm CRAVING a second part to that (if you're u to of course). Like, how it'd be during her pregnancy, him being sweet but also worried and protective. Omg I need more soft jack w a baby on the way!!!!!
The Camouflage Onesie
part two of he begins to notice (read this first!)
content warnings: pregnancy, medical references, nausea/morning sickness, sexual content (explicit but consensual), body image changes, hormonal shifts, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, labor and delivery scene, emotionally intense partner support, and high emotional/physical dependency within a marriage. yeah. pregnancy
word count : 5,735
WEEK 5
The test turned positive on a Sunday. By Monday morning, the entire medicine cabinet had been rearranged like it was a trauma cart.
Your moisturizer had been nudged over to make room for prescription-grade prenatals, a bottle of magnesium, a DHA complex, and—of all things—two individually labeled pill sorters with day-of-the-week dividers. One pink. One clear. Yours and Jack's, apparently.
You found him in the kitchen at 6:42 a.m., already in scrubs. He was calmly cutting the crusts off toast while listening to NPR and making a second cup of coffee for himself.
When he turned, he gave you a long once-over—not in a critical way, but diagnostic. Like he was scanning you for vitals only he could see.
“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”
You furrowed your brow. “No?”
“Good. You’re hydrating better than I thought.”
You blinked. “Jack, I haven’t even said good morning.”
He walked over and handed you a glass of room-temp water. “I’m loving you with medically sourced precision.”
You stared at the glass. “This isn’t cold.”
“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.”
“Jack.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
He tilted his head. “I’ve watched septic patients stabilize faster than accountants facing a positive Clearblue. I know exactly what this is.”
You pressed your hands to your face and groaned. “You’re not going to hover this much every week, are you?”
Jack leaned down, brushing a kiss over your shoulder. “No. Some weeks I’ll hover more.”
“I made your appointment already,” he said, voice casual. “Friday. Dr. Patel. 3:40.”
You blinked. “You didn’t even ask me.”
“She owes me a favor,” Jack said. “Got her niece into ortho during the peak of the shortage last year. Trust me—she’ll take care of you.”
You frowned, stunned. “How did you even pull that off so fast?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. I’m an ER doctor. I have connections. I can get my wife seen before the week’s out.”
Your eyes welled up suddenly—caught off guard by how steady he was, how sure. You were still half-floating in disbelief. Jack was already ten steps ahead, clearing the path.
WEEK 6
You learned very quickly that pregnancy was a full-time job—and Jack approached it with quiet precision.
The first time you dry-heaved over the kitchen sink, he didn’t rush in with a solution. He didn’t lecture or hover. He just stepped into the room, leaned against the counter, and waited until you looked up.
“Still thinking about that leftover pasta?” he asked softly.
You made a face. “Don’t say the word pasta.”
He crossed the kitchen, wordless, and pulled open a drawer. Out came a wrapped ginger chew. Then he disappeared down the hall.
When he returned, he had your cardigan in one hand and a bottle of lemon water in the other.
You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”
Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”
You stared.
He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.
“You okay?”
You nodded slowly. “I think so.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want toast.”
You half-laughed, half-cried, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “You don’t have to be this gentle every second.”
Jack leaned in. “I’m not being gentle. I’m being exact. There’s a difference.”
Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the cardigan, while Jack quietly swapped your usual diffuser oil with something new.
“Peppermint,” he said when you asked. “Helps with queasiness.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And the bin next to the couch?”
“Let’s call it contingency planning.”
You smirked. “You’re really building systems around me, huh?”
Jack looked at you—soft, certain. “No. I’m building them for you.”
He moved across the room and brushed your hair back off your forehead, thumb pausing at your temple like he could smooth out whatever discomfort lingered there.
“You’re not the patient,” he murmured. “You’re the constant. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep the ground steady under your feet.”
You didn’t have a clever reply.
You just pulled him onto the couch beside you and tucked yourself into his chest—grateful beyond words that this was who you got to build a life with.
WEEK 9
Jack was folding laundry on the bed when you walked into the room barefoot, carrying a bowl of cereal and wearing his old college sweatshirt.
You caught his glance. “What?”
He shook his head, smiled a little. “Just thinking you wear my clothes better than I ever did.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He set a towel down. Reached for your bowl as you sat on the edge of the bed.
“I got it,” you said.
“I know,” he murmured, holding it anyway while you shifted the pillow behind your back. Once you were settled, he handed it back.
You took a bite, then glanced at the basket of half-folded laundry.
“You know that’s mostly my stuff, right?”
Jack looked at the pile. “It’s ours. Who else is gonna fold your seven thousand pairs of fuzzy socks?”
You laughed into your spoon.
He leaned against the dresser and just looked at you for a second. Not in a way that made you self-conscious—just soft. Familiar.
“You’re quieter this week,” he said.
You shrugged. “I’m tired.”
He nodded. “Want to go somewhere this weekend? Just us?”
“Like where?”
“Nowhere big. Just—out of the house. We could rent a cabin. Lay around. Sleep until noon. Let you pretend I’m not watching you nap like it’s my full-time job.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You do that now?”
“Not always. Just when you start snoring like a golden retriever pup.”
“Jack.”
He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.
“Alright, no trips. But at least let me cook something tonight. Something warm.”
You sighed. “You already do too much.”
He looked at you seriously then, crouched a little so you were eye-level.
“I don’t keep score,” he said. “I’m your husband. You’re growing our kid. If all I have to do is make dinner and fold socks, I’m getting off easy.”
WEEK 14
By week fourteen, the second trimester hit like an exhale.
You weren’t queasy every morning anymore. Your appetite returned. You could brush your teeth without gagging. And Jack, for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed enough to sit through an entire episode of something without checking on you mid-scene.
You were curled on the couch together—your head in his lap—when he slid his hand beneath your shirt and rested it on the soft curve of your stomach.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re subtle.”
“I’m consistent.”
You snorted. “You’re clingy.”
His thumb brushed just under your ribs. “I’m memorizing.”
You shifted slightly, tucking your feet closer. “You already know everything about me.”
Jack looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know the before. This part? This is new.”
He went quiet, and you could feel the shift in him—something deeper, more reverent than before.
“I’ve seen pregnancy before,” he said. “But I’ve never… watched it happen to someone I come home to.”
You turned your head to look up at him. “You okay?”
Jack nodded slowly. “I just keep thinking… you’re building someone I haven’t met yet. And I already know I’d give my life for them.”
Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.
“We’re doing okay, right?”
Jack bent down, kissed your forehead. “You’re doing better than okay.”
You smiled. “We’re a good team.”
“The best,” he said. “Even if you keep stealing all the pillows.”
You laughed. “You sleep like a corpse. You don’t need them.”
He grinned. “You’re getting cocky now that the nausea’s eased.”
“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”
“No, I’ll just be glad to have you back.”
You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”
Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”
WEEK 15
It started with the baby books.
Not the ones you bought. The ones Jack picked up—three of them, stacked neatly on the nightstand one morning after a grocery run you hadn’t joined him on.
You noticed them after your shower. He was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, humming something that definitely wasn’t in tune. But the titles made you pause.
“‘What to Expect for Dads,’” you read aloud, holding the top one up when he walked in. “You going soft on me?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Just figured if you’re doing the building, I can at least read the manual.”
You smirked, flipping through a page. “You’re the manual.”
“I’m the triage guy. I don’t have maternal instincts. I have protocols.”
You leaned back against the headboard. “You’re being humble, but you’re gonna ace this.”
He shrugged, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just want to know what’s coming. I’ve done newborn shifts. I’ve handed babies to people shaking so hard they could barely hold them. But this? This isn’t a shift. This is us.”
You touched his arm. “You’ve already done more than I can even keep track of.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment. Then placed his hand over yours. “I don’t want to just be useful. I want to be good. For both of you.”
You didn’t know what to say.
So you leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, deep. His hand slid to your stomach as naturally as breathing.
You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You already are.”
That night, when he thought you were asleep, he cracked open the book again.
And stayed up past midnight reading about swaddling, latch cues, and the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing.
WEEK 16
Jack stood in the doorway of your office for almost a full minute before saying anything.
You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows raised. “What?”
He didn’t move. Just scanned the room—your desk, the bookshelf, the little armchair in the corner that you never actually used.
Then, finally: “Is our house big enough for this?”
You blinked. “For what?”
He gestured vaguely toward your belly, then the room. “All of it. A baby. Crib. Noise. Diapers. More laundry. Less sleep.”
You smiled gently. “I thought we were turning this room into the nursery.”
“We are,” he said quickly. “I just… I keep running scenarios in my head. And this place felt huge when it was just us.”
You closed your laptop. “Jack.”
He looked at you.
“We’ll figure it out. We already are.”
He crossed the room, leaned against your desk. “I’m not trying to panic.”
“I know.”
“I just keep thinking about how everything’s going to change. I want to make sure we still feel like us once it does.”
You stood and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting against his chest. “We will. You think too far ahead sometimes.”
“That’s my job,” he murmured.
“And mine is reminding you that it’s okay to not solve everything all at once.”
He kissed the top of your head. “I know. I just want it to be enough.”
WEEK 19
Jack was unusually quiet on the drive to the anatomy scan.
Not anxious. Just focused in a way that told you his brain had been working overtime since the moment he woke up. His hand rested on your thigh at every red light, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your leggings.
“You good?” you asked, turning down the radio.
He glanced over, nodded once. “Just running through the checklist in my head.”
You smiled gently. “You’re not at work, babe.”
“I know. But I’ve never seen one of these as a husband.”
You reached over and laced your fingers through his. “You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to be here.”
He gave you a look. “I am here. That’s the problem. I’m so here I can’t think about anything else.”
The waiting room was dim, quiet, and smelled vaguely like lemon disinfectant. Jack sat beside you, legs spread in his usual posture, one hand on your knee. His thumb tapped once. Then again. Then stopped.
The tech was warm, professional. She dimmed the lights. Asked if you wanted to know the sex. You said yes before Jack could answer.
You held your breath as the screen lit up in shades of blue and gray.
“Everything’s looking healthy,” the tech said. “Strong spine, great heartbeat, long legs.”
Jack tightened his grip on your hand.
“And it looks like you’re having a girl.”
You exhaled all at once. Then laughed. Or maybe cried. It blurred together.
Jack didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the monitor, jaw tense, eyes glassy.
You turned to look at him. “Jack.”
He blinked. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just—” He swallowed. “She’s real.”
The rest of the appointment was a haze—measurements, murmurs of “good growth,” the gentle swipe of gel off your stomach. Jack didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.
That night, you came out of the bathroom in an old t-shirt and found him standing at the dresser, staring down at something small in his hand.
You stepped closer. “What’s that?”
He held it up without looking—one of the newborn onesies you’d bought weeks ago in a moment of cautious optimism. Light yellow. Soft cotton.
“You think she’ll fit in this?” he asked.
You smiled. “They’re tiny, Jack. That’s kind of the whole point.”
He nodded but didn’t move.
You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “You’re allowed to feel everything. It’s a big day.”
He turned, wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I think I was more afraid of not feeling it.”
You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re allowed to be happy.”
“I am,” he said, voice rough. “I just keep thinking about how I’m going to keep her safe. How I’m going to teach her to breathe through chaos. How I’ll probably mess it up a hundred times.”
“You’re not going to mess it up.”
He looked at you. “You really think that?”
“I married you, didn’t I?”
Jack smiled for real then. “You’ve always been the smarter one.”
You rolled your eyes. “But you’re the one who’s going to end up wrapped around her finger.”
He kissed your temple. “That part was inevitable.”
WEEK 25
Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.
You’d been reluctant—emotionally attached to the place you’d built your early marriage in, skeptical about change when everything in your life already felt like it was shifting—but Jack had waited. Quietly. Patiently.
And then one morning, while you were brushing your teeth, he leaned in behind you, kissed your shoulder, and said, “You deserve a bigger closet.”
That was how it started.
Now, you were standing in a half-empty living room with sun pouring through tall windows and a sold sign posted out front.
Jack had just gotten off the phone with your realtor. “It’s official,” he said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Inspection cleared. We close in three weeks.”
You blinked. “We really bought a house.”
He walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder. “Correction: we bought your dream closet.”
You laughed. “You think you’re funny.”
“I know I am. Also, there’s a window bench in the nursery. You don’t even have to try to make it Pinterest-worthy.”
You leaned into him, eyes scanning the bare walls. “I can already picture her here.”
Jack pressed a kiss to your neck. “I already do. I see her trying to climb that windowsill. Leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the fridge. Falling asleep on the stairs with a book she couldn’t finish.”
Your throat tightened.
You turned in his arms. “You really love it?”
He looked at you seriously. “I love what it gives you. I love that it lets you breathe. And yeah—I love that it’s ours.”
Later that night, back in your current house, you sat on the floor with your laptop open, scrolling through registry links and bookmarking soft pink paint samples. Jack handed you a cup of tea, then lowered himself on the couch beside you with a quiet grunt.
“Is it weird that I already want to be moved?” you asked.
He shook his head. “No. It’s called nesting. I read about it in that chapter you skipped.”
You shot him a look. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the one folding swaddles while you build spreadsheets. This is our love language.”
You leaned into him, content. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
WEEK 27
You’d been on your feet all day—organizing documents, boxing up odds and ends, making lists of what needed to be moved and what could be donated. Jack told you to slow down three separate times, each time gentler than the last.
But now, at 8:43 p.m., you were barefoot in the kitchen, half bent over a drawer of mismatched utensils, when he walked in, tossed a dish towel on the counter, and said, “Okay. That’s it.”
You looked up. “What?”
Jack didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He crossed the room, took the spatula from your hand, and gently nudged you toward a chair. “Sit. Let me take over.”
You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re stubborn.”
You folded your arms. “Same thing.”
Jack crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees. “You’ve done enough today. Let me be the husband who makes you sit down and drink something cold while I finish sorting forks from tongs.”
You softened, your fingers drifting to his hair. “I know you’re right. I just feel useless when I’m not doing something.”
“You’re 27 weeks pregnant,” Jack said, voice warm. “You made a person and folded three boxes of bath towels. That’s two more miracles than anyone else managed today.”
You exhaled and leaned back.
Later, when you were curled on the couch with a glass of iced water and your feet propped on a pillow, Jack settled next to you and tugged a blanket over both of you.
“House is gonna feel real soon,” he said.
You nodded. “She’s going to be born there.”
Jack’s arm slid around your shoulders. “We’ll bring her home to that nursery. Hang that weird mobile you picked that I still don’t understand.”
“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”
“I was being polite.”
You smiled, tired and full. “We’re really doing it, huh?”
“We are.”
You rested your head on his chest. Jack’s hand drifted instinctively to your belly, and stayed there.
“Hey,” you said after a minute. “Thanks for making me sit.”
Jack kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for letting me.”
WEEK 30
You caught him standing in the doorway of the nursery around 9:00 p.m., arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame like he was keeping watch.
The room was nearly done. Diapers in bins. Chair assembled. Books on shelves. But Jack wasn’t looking at any of that. He was staring at the window, like he was imagining the light that would come through it in the early mornings.
You leaned against the opposite side of the doorway, watching him.
“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.
He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
Jack cracked half a smile but didn’t move. “I keep picturing her. Not just baby-her. Grown-up her.”
You walked toward him. “What version?”
He tilted his head. “Seventeen. Wants to borrow the car. Has someone texting her who I probably don’t like.”
You laughed. “You’re already dreading a boyfriend?”
“I’m already dreading anyone who gets to be in her world without knowing what it cost us to build it.”
That stopped you.
Jack finally looked at you then—really looked. “She’s not even born yet and I already know I’d lay down in traffic for her. And I know how fast people can break things they don’t understand.”
You rested your hands on his chest. “You’re not going to be scary.”
Jack raised an eyebrow.
“Well. You’ll look scary. Army vet. ER attending. Perpetual scowl. Built like you bench-press refrigerators for fun.”
He snorted. “Thanks.”
“But you’ll love her in a way no one will mistake for anything but devotion.”
Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.
“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.
“You’re good at us,” you whispered. “That’s all she’ll need.”
He pulled you into his arms then, one hand resting flat against the curve of your belly. “She’s gonna hate me when I make her come home early.”
“She’s gonna roll her eyes when you insist on meeting everyone she ever texts.”
Jack grinned. “Damn right.”
You laughed into his shirt. “You’re so screwed.”
“I know.”
But he held you a little tighter. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there in the dim nursery, one arm wrapped around the two of you, as if holding his whole world in place.
WEEK 32
You’d read the pregnancy forums. The blog posts. The articles with vaguely medical sources claiming the third trimester came with a spike in libido. You thought you’d be too sore, too tired. Too preoccupied.
What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.
It was like your body had one setting: Jack. Crave him. Need him. Get him here, now, fast.
He’d just gotten home from a late shift, dropped his keys in the bowl by the front door, and disappeared into the shower while you laid in bed attempting to not whine out loud. That resolve lasted six minutes.
When he walked into the bedroom, towel low around his hips, water dripping down his chest, you didn’t even mean to say it:
“I’m gonna die.”
Jack froze.
He crossed the room in seconds. “What is it? Where’s the pain?”
You were already on your back, one hand pressed to your belly, the other covering your eyes.
“Not pain,” you groaned. “Just hormones. God, Jack—this is insane.”
He crouched beside you. “You need to describe what’s happening.”
You peeked at him from under your hand. “I need you. I need you.”
Jack stilled. Blinked. Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a long exhale.
“Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, laughing into your wrist. “I just—I’m desperate. I thought it would go away. It’s not going away.”
He lifted his head. Smiled. “Desperate, huh?”
“You’re not helping.”
“I think I am.”
Jack kissed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered over your lips. “You sure you’re good?”
You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”
He didn’t waste another second.
What followed wasn’t frantic—it was focused. Jack stripped you with efficiency and reverence, lips brushing every newly sensitive part of you. Your belly. Your hips. Your breasts. He murmured to you the whole time—gentle things, grounding things.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, kissing the swell of your stomach. “You’ve been patient. Let me take care of you.”
“Please,” you whispered. “I feel insane.”
“I know. I’ve got you.”
He slid inside you slow, controlled, the way he always did when he wanted to make it last. But tonight, there was something more behind it—urgency without rush, intention without pressure.
You clawed at his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Jack, Jack—”
“Right here.”
“I missed you today.”
“I missed you too. I always do.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tightening around his waist. The angle shifted, and everything inside you splintered.
“Oh—God—don’t stop—”
Jack groaned, teeth catching your jawline. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So damn good.”
He guided you through it, one hand braced behind your head, the other cradling your hip like you’d break without it. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears at the corners of your eyes.
He followed seconds later, low and deep and steady, body shaking over yours.
Afterward, he didn’t move. Just curled around you, one arm anchored under your shoulders, the other stroking your belly in long, soothing sweeps.
“Still dying?” he asked eventually.
You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”
Jack smiled into your shoulder. “Guess I’ll keep checking your vitals.”
He pulled back just enough to kiss your chest, then your stomach, whispering something you couldn’t hear but felt down to your bones.
When you shifted against him, needy again already, he looked up with a low laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”
And Jack—predictable, capable, ready-for-anything Jack—just grinned.
“I never am with you.”
The second round was slower. Deeper. You rode his thigh first, panting against his neck, clinging to his shoulders while he whispered filth in your ear—soft, low things no one else would ever hear from him. He touched you like he already knew exactly what you’d need next week, next month, next year.
And when you collapsed against him again, trembling and sore and finally, finally full in every sense of the word—he kissed your forehead and said, “You’re everything.”
“I love you,” you whispered.
Jack tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
WEEK 35
The third trimester had turned your body into a full-time performance art piece. You were a living exhibit on discomfort, hydration, Braxton Hicks, and the high-stakes negotiation of shoe-tying. You’d stopped fighting the afternoon naps, started rotating three stretchy outfits on a loop, and made peace with the fact that gravity was no longer your friend.
Jack had adjusted too.
Without comment, he now drove you to every appointment. Without asking, he refilled your water before bed. Without blinking, he gave up half his side of the bathroom counter for the ever-expanding line of belly oils, cooling balms, and half-used jars of snacks.
But tonight?
Tonight he came home to find you crying at the kitchen table over a broken zipper on the diaper bag.
“Sweetheart.”
You looked up, cheeks blotchy. “It broke. It broke, Jack. And it was the only one I liked.”
“Hey, hey—breathe.”
You sniffled. “It had compartments. It had mesh.”
Jack took the bag gently from your hands, and examined the zipper like it was a patient in trauma.
“Looks jammed,” he said. “Not broken.”
You stared at him. “You don’t know that.”
He looked up. “I do.”
He walked over to the toolbox without fanfare, and returned two minutes later with a small pair of pliers. Thirty seconds after that, the zipper slid closed like nothing had happened.
You burst into tears again.
Jack set the bag down and pulled you into his arms. “Hormones?”
You nodded into his chest. “I love you so much.”
He smiled against your hair. “You want to take a bath?”
You sniffed. “Will you sit on the floor with me?”
“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”
Which is how twenty minutes later you were in the tub, steam curling around the mirror, your swollen belly just breaching the surface, while Jack sat on the floor, reading your baby book aloud like it was scripture.
“She’s the size of a honeydew,” he said, tapping the page. “Still gaining half a pound a week. Lungs developing. Rapid brain growth.”
You hummed. “She’s been moving a lot today.”
He smiled, reached over, and rested a palm over your belly. “She likes the sound of your voice.”
“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”
Jack leaned over and kissed your temple. “She already loves you.”
You sighed, settling deeper into the water. “She’s going to love you more.”
Jack’s voice went quiet. “That’s not possible.”
You looked over.
He was watching you like he was memorizing the moment. Like he knew it wouldn’t last forever and wanted to hold every second of it.
“She’s got the best of you already,” he murmured.
You shook your head. “You’re the one who’s been steady through everything. She’s gonna know that.”
He kissed your hand. “She’s gonna know we did it together.”
And you believed him.
Even through the tears, the discomfort, the slow shuffle from couch to fridge to bed—you believed him.
WEEK 36
Jack came home with a basket.
Not from the store. Not from a delivery service. From the hospital. Carried under one arm like it was made of glass.
You were on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-rubbing the spot where the baby had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight. Jack came in, dropped his keys, and didn’t say anything at first.
He just set the basket on the coffee table and said, “Robby made me promise I wouldn’t forget to give this to you tonight.”
You blinked. “What?”
Jack gestured toward it. “It’s from the ER.”
Inside: a soft blanket. A framed photo of the team crowded around a whiteboard that read “Baby Abbot ETA: T-minus 4 weeks.” A pair of hand-knitted booties labeled “Perlah Originals.” A stack of index cards, each one handwritten—Dana’s in looping cursive, Collins’s in all caps, Princess’s with hearts dotting the i’s. Robby’s simply read: Your kid already has better taste in music than Jack. Congrats.
You turned one of the index cards over, reading Dana’s note about how you were going to be the kind of mom who made her daughter feel safe and loved in the same breath.
“I didn’t know they even noticed me,” you whispered.
Jack rubbed slow circles against your bump. “They notice what matters to me.”
You looked at him.
He shrugged. “You’re my wife. You’re not just around. You’re part of everything.”
The baby kicked again. Hard enough to make you gasp.
Jack smiled, leaned in, and kissed the place she’d just moved. “She agrees.”
WEEK 38
You’d read about nesting, but you thought it would look more like baking muffins at midnight—not following Jack from room to room like his gravitational pull physically outweighed yours.
He didn’t seem to mind. He’d brush his hand down your back every time you passed, help you off the couch like you were recovering from surgery, and kiss your temple every time he walked by.
By Thursday, the baby bag was packed and parked by the front door. You’d zipped it, unzipped it, and re-packed it twice just to check. And when Jack got home that evening, he nodded at it, then set something down beside it with a quiet thunk.
You glanced over. “What’s that?”
“My go-bag,” he said simply.
You raised an eyebrow.
Jack nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Army-issued. Carried this thing through two deployments and six different states. Thought it’d be fitting to bring it into the delivery room.”
You blinked. “You packed already?”
He nodded, unzipped the top, and tilted the bag open for you to see: a clean shirt, a hand towel, a toothbrush, a few protein bars, and a worn, dog-eared paperback you recognized instantly.
“That one?” you said, surprised. “You always said you hated it.”
“I did,” he admitted, zipping the bag shut again. “But it’s your favorite. I read your notes in the margins when I miss you on long shifts.”
You crossed the room and leaned into him. “You’re something else.”
WEEK 40
You woke up at 2:57 a.m. with a tight, rolling wave of pressure low in your spine. It wrapped around your middle like a band and didn’t let go.
Jack was already shifting beside you. Years in the Army meant he didn’t sleep deeply—not when he was home, not when you were pregnant.
“You okay?” he asked, groggy but alert.
You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”
He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”
“Six minutes.”
“Let’s move.”
By the time you got in the car, the contractions were coming faster—steadier. Jack didn’t speed, but he gripped the steering wheel like the world depended on it.
You were wheeled in through the ER doors—because of course you were going into labor at the hospital where Jack worked. Princess met you at triage with a knowing smile.
“She’s in three,” Princess said. “Perlah’s setting it up now.”
You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.
He turned to Collins at the desk. “Patel?”
“Stuck behind a pileup on 376,” Collins said. “She’s trying to reroute.”
Jack muttered something under his breath and scanned the monitors. “Where’s Robby?”
“Down in trauma. He’s finishing up a round.”
Jack didn’t wait. He left you in Princess’s care and went straight for the trauma bay.
Robby was wiping his hands on a towel when Jack stepped in. Hoodie half-zipped. Scrubs wrinkled. Wide awake.
“She’s in labor?”
“She’s in active labor,” Jack said. “And Patel’s not gonna make it, but—”
“You want me in the room,” Robby finished.
“I need you in the room.”
Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”
When Robby stepped into your room, you exhaled like someone had lifted a weight off your chest.
“Hey, doc,” you muttered through a contraction.
“You’re in good hands,” Robby said, glancing between you and Jack. “You’ve got half the ER out there whispering about it.”
“Tell them if they bring me chocolate, they can stay,” you joked.
Perlah dimmed the lights. Princess wiped sweat from your forehead. Robby took your vitals himself and kept your eyes steady with his.
Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“You’re doing perfect.”
“She’s almost here.”
Then everything started to move faster. Robby gave a nod to Princess and Perlah.
“One more push,” he said. “You’ve got this.”
Jack leaned close, his forehead against yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Right here. You’ve got her.”
And then—
A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.
“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.
Jack didn’t move at first. Just watched. His eyes were wet. His hand covered his mouth.
Princess handed her to you, swaddled and squirming. Jack kissed your forehead and brushed a tear off your cheek.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it.”
Later, after they’d cleaned up and the room was quiet, you watched Jack walk over to the bassinet. He held up a camouflage onesie.
“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”
He looked over, completely straight-faced. “This is important.”
“You’re impossible.”
He kissed you once, then again. And held her like he’d waited his whole life.
Call Back - Chibs Telford x Reader
YALL!! I can’t lie, I am a hoe for this troupe if you can’t tell from my other works. Like the close friends daughter? Idk it makes me feral. I swear to god I don’t have daddy issues, like I have the best dad ever so idk why I’m like this but here’s this work that has been stuck in my drafts for weeks.
MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY! Age gaps & smut.
You watched the club members make their way into the club house as you puffed on the joint that rested between your fingers. Chucky had kept you company while you waited for them to come back from a run. As much as you wanted to slap the shit out of Chibs when he come through the door, you held back. Knowing you couldn’t risk Clay finding out that one of his most trusted members had been with his daughter right under his nose. Even if through all the rage you felt right now toward him, you’d never want him to get hurt.
While the MC was on a run, you’d realized you’d forgot many of your things at Chibs house the night before they left. He told you were the extra key was through text for you to get them back, a part of you wished you’d never went in. You found your things and as you did, the phone rung. Before you shut the door to leave, you heard a voice mail being recorded and decided to stay and listen. Sure, maybe it was a little bit of an invasion of privacy but you wanted to know who else needed to talk to him besides the club and you.
“It’s Fi. Fillip, I want our family back. Jimmy is gone, hasn’t been here for months. Haven’t heard from him either. There’s no sense in us stayin’ apart now. Let me know when you get this, please.” Family? What family? The only family you’d known Chibs to have was the MC. You cursed yourself for not listening to Clay and Gemma more when they’d talk about the members and their lives. You’d think the feelings you’d had for Chibs through the years of being around the club would have made your ears perk up when they’d chat about him. Maybe it was a detail you’d heard and didn’t care about, as you’d never met or seen him with a woman, thinking it was an old fling. Chucky filled you in once you brought it up, telling you how Chibs had been married before with a daughter. He didn’t know much more besides that.
“You gotta go home, no need for you to be here.” Clay says, throwing his bag on the pool table. “And put that shit out, this place reeks of pot cause of you.” He walks past you, just like you were a stranger in the house. You didn’t know what happened on the run, but it had to be something tough. Clay typically treated you and Gemma both like dirt on his shoes when a run went bad or an issue come up with the club. It didn’t make the coldness he came off with sting any less. The hurt was plastered on your face, you put your joint out in the ash tray and ran out of the club house in tears. Pushing past Chibs as you did. Jax looks at him, confused as to what happened.
“Think it’s somethin’ with Clay. I’ll go make sure she’s okay.” He says, Jax nods his head and follows the rest into the house. Jax cared about you, sometimes both of you thought he cared more about you than Clay but right now he had to fill his role as VP.
“Love,” He begins to say. You turn around, laughing as you did. Between the new found information of him being married and your fathers cold demeanor toward you, something snapped inside of you.
“Shut up!” You yell at him, he’s confused and shocked as you’d never talked to anyone this way before in your whole life. Even if you had Gemma for a step mom you weren’t quick to yell out in anger or use your fists to resolve issues like her, even sometimes being like a dog that keeps getting beat down makes anyone eventually explode. “Don’t you have a fucking wife to get back to?” You ask, Chibs eyes widen. He’s speechless and you take the opportunity to get in your car and drive off from the club. Wanting to be anywhere but here.
_____
You laid on your bed looking up at the ceiling, unable to think of anything other than Chibs. Even your father snapping at you today didn’t hurt like this did. That you were used to, being lied to by someone you trusted deeply wasn’t. It was 12:42AM, not a word from Chibs or Clay. You were shocked that Gemma hadn’t been crawling up your ass to find out where you were. Typically you’d go over to visit before heading to your house but today you just wanted to be alone. Trying to sleep hadn’t worked out in your favor and you’re forced to lay in bed with only your many racing thoughts. Before anything else can cross your mind, you hear a knock at the door. You grab your pistol, not knowing who would be here at this time of night. When you look through the peep hole, you’re somewhat shocked at who you see.
“What do you want?” You ask, opening the door. A part of you was excited that he was here so the two of you could talk, but the anger in you didn’t want to see him at all.
“I want to talk.” He says, pushing past you into the house. You couldn’t lie, it was kind of hot that he asserted himself like this. It was always sexy when he did it, one of the many reasons you liked him. He sits down on the couch and you sit on the other end, looking at him. He was looking at you, almost like he was waiting on an explanation. You chuckled, slapping your hands on your thighs as you did.
“What?” You ask sharply, he leans back into the cushions, placing his hands on the top of his head.
“I listened to the voicemail that you heard, and deleted it as soon as it was done playin’. I married Fi when I was in Ireland and younger, a man named Jimmy O got me kicked out of the IRA and married Fi. Raised my daughter, Kerrianne.” This was a lot to process right now, your head still swimmy from the tears youd shed through the day. “Also, did this to ma face.” He says, pointing at the scars that ran over his cheeks. You sit, listening to everything he’s saying. It sounds like some kind of TV show, how the hell do you get kicked out of a country unless you’re a terrorist?
“Listen lass, I should have told you about Fi and my Kerrianne, but it just wasn’t something I thought about bringin’ up to ya. You make me forget all the bad shit in my life, when I’m with ya I don’t have to think about any of it.” He moves over to sit beside you, brushing a piece of hair out of your face. “Fi hasn’t had a hold on me since the day you decided to spill ya drink on me.” You smiled at him and laughed. It was your first night back in Charming after moving away for college, Chibs only faintly remembered you when you were younger but you’d made an impression on him your first night back. Being drunk out of your mind, staggering everywhere and eventually bumping into him and your drink flying all over him. You sigh deeply, looking away from him as you attempt to hold anymore tears from coming out. He turns your head back to him, resting his forehead onto yours.
“I know it’s wrong and I know Clay would put a bullet in ma head if he knew about this, but I love you lass. I can’t help it.” He says, at this moment you don’t need to hear anything else he has to say. You lay your lips onto his and he returns the favor. You feel his rough and calloused hands run up your leg, shivering as the coldness from his rings hits your skin. You let out a soft whimper as you’d missed this familiar feeling of his hands on your body.
“How I’ve missed that noise.” He breathes out, breaking the kiss. You stand up, adjusting your clothes. You don’t know why you did, sooner rather than later they’d be scattered across the floor anyways. You reach a hand out and he accepts, following you to your bedroom. Once the two of you are in, he sheds his kutte and lays it on the desk that sits in your corner. The familiar scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke takes over your senses as he places his lips to your neck, kissing gently and carefully not to leave a mark on your precious skin. Before you knew it, your shorts and underwear were scattered on the ground along with his clothes. You lay down on the bed as he hovers over you, typically you got things rolling by landing on your knees for him but he felt like he needed to make this about you. The beads that hang from his neck are hanging in-front of your face, a sight you’ll never get tired of seeing. You feel his hand sliding to your dripping cunt, he slides in two fingers and you arch your back in pleasure. He would have started off with one, but he knew you’d immediately tell him to add another just like you always did.
“So beautiful.” He says as he’s kissing the inside of your thighs. “So wet.” The kisses, how his fingers curl inside of you, hitting your spot just right it was all enough to send your head spinning. His fingers are buried deep in you, but he’s moving them at such an agonizing pace. Knowing you were going insane and silently begging him to spend up his movements. He leans down to you, placing his lips onto yours. This time it’s messy, almost sloppy but you don’t mind.
“Always takin’ my fingers so well, can you still take this cock just as good love?” It had been a few weeks since the two of you had sex due to him being on the run and you’d longed for this moment since the day he left with the MC for Tacoma. You nodded your head yes, knowing if you tried to speak you’d just embarrass yourself by stammering around. He slides himself into you, your hands tighten around his arms as you feel yourself stretch around him. Once he’s buried himself into you and sees the pleasure across your face, he starts to thrust into you slowly trying to set his pace.
“Fuck.” You manage to moan out, he moves the hair from your face so he can take in your beauty. To the both of you, the sex you had was like a drug. Once never being enough. The first time it happened, he insisted it would be the last as well. The minute he slid himself inside of you, seeing your face and feeling you clench around him he knew he’d made himself a liar. Every-time was sensual, even when it was a quick fuck it was always meaningful.
“You always take me so well, love. Almost like this pussy was made just for me.” He lets out as the grip on your hips tightens. You feel your stomach begin to tighten, your face burning and you know you’re there. He knows it too, pumping into you steadily but harsher. “Be a good girl and let go all over me aye?” The words sent you over the edge, bucking your hips against him to intensify the experience. It sends him over the edge, watching you like you can’t get enough of him and he releases into you. Not worrying wether there was a condom on or not. He pulls himself out, grabbing a towel to help you clean up and get himself situated. You wrap yourself up in a silk robe as you watch him dress, knowing the worst moment of him leaving was coming.
“You know you can stay right? Dad shouldn’t be down this way anytime soon.” You tried your best, hoping he’d give in. He sighs, tightening his belt. He walks over to you, kissing your forehead.
“I’ll see you tomorrow love. I have some things to take care of tonight.”
Chibs rides home, it’s almost 3AM and he’s feeling it as his eye lids become heavier and heavier. He silently thanks God when he makes it inside that he didn’t crash his bike into a semi on his way here from the fatigue. He sits on the couch, staring at the phone. He listens to the voicemail from Fiona once more, thinking of her and the life they had. How they had a shot of getting that back. His mind then went to you, he loved you and he couldn’t shake the feeling. He hated to lie to you, but at this moment he didn’t know which path to go down. Telling you the voicemail and feelings for his wife were gone was better than saying “I don’t really know what to do”. He couldn’t bare the thought of hurting you as he’d already seen how that went earlier in the day at the club house.
He didn’t fear anyone, but he knew it would be tricky with you due to Clay. He knew he’d never be able to boast or call you his old lady. Things would be a secret till the day Clay died, and Chibs didn’t like keeping those. He picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number, praying he’d get the mailbox before he had anymore time to think.
“Hey Fi. It’s Fillip. Just wanted to see if you still wanted to talk.”
I never ask, and I've been MIA on here lately. But I read this prompt and I could picture Chibs 😍
11. “Those kids? They get their noise right from you, you know.”
❤
Oh my gosh HELLO love! How nice to see you pop up in my inbox, how've you been? And yes, you most certainly can! Enjoy :)
"Dad, dad, DAD?"
"Tell 'em I went out." He moves to the pantry in the corner of the kitchen, closing the door behind him, prompting the soft fits of laughter from you that always inevitably bring about his own.
"Dad! Can we play William Tell? Can we? Where are the apples? Mom? Do we have apples?"
At hearing this, he can't remain hidden. "Where did you find that?" he demands to your youngest son, snatching the very real, very sharp bow and arrow out of his grasp. "How many times have I got to tell you, you're not to shoot apples off your sister's head with a bloody bow and arrow!"
"You have to get better at hiding things, dad!" you son grins, and that grin? 100% Telford DNA.
"And you need to stop nosing around the garage and climbing up the stepladders. Go on now, back outside, you wee shite!" He reaches to ruffle his hair, pointing the hyperactive maniac of a seven-year-old in the direction of the back door, he and his sister hurtling back out into the sunshine, screaming. Always screaming.
“Those kids? They get their noise right from you, you know.”
You turn with a look of mild incredulity. "Oh, they do now, do they?"
He chuckles, wrapping you in his arms. "Aye, they do. Well, it depends on the context, but we both know there's one place you're never quiet."
Smacking you on the butt, he picks up an apple from the fruit bowl, taking a big bite as he goes off to hide the bow and arrow once more. Or at least you hope that's what he's going to do.
have some sexy shawn scenes from reckless
Death and the Lady: Chapter Seven: Chibs Telford x Reader
PREVIOUS CHAPTER FOUND HERE
Slightly NSFW 18+
TAG LIST:
@youngadult9016 @mrsfilipchibstelford @mamawiggers1980 @ravennaortiz @liveinsteadofdreaming @redwoodmaya
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Chapter Seven: Unconventional
Y/N was thankful that Skeeter had been willing to allow her to borrow his Toyota pick up truck as she was quite sure the old hearse would not even manage to make the short thirty mile drive from Charming to Lodi.
Although it should reasonably only take her a couple of hours to travel from the funeral home in Charming to Saint Elizabeth’s Institute in Lodi, Y/N was not willing to take the risk of anything happening to the old hearse.
Given that her Acura was still in the care of TM Auto, and would be for a while at least according to Chibs, she was not looking to add another broken down vehicle to her problems.
Skeeter had not seemed to mind her borrowing his truck for a few hours at the very least. He knew she’d been putting this off for far too long now.
Y/N would be lying if she tried to claim she had not been tempted to use her lack of reliable transportation as a reason to avoid making this trip today, but she knew she’d been putting it off for far too long now.
The last time she’d made the trip had been two Christmases ago when she’d visited home for the holidays.
She adjusted her coat pulling it closed tighter against her body as she made her way through the long hallways of Saint Elizabeth’s.
It was a plain looking building, a little dull to be honest. It was a large structure that looked very much like any other hospital. The sign out front simply stated Saint Elizabeth’s Institute and stated the year it had been established.
The inside of the building felt sterile and always held an odor of bleach and an undertone of something quite unpleasant that someone had attempted to cover with lavender air freshener. The scent always gave Y/N a headache.
The entire place actually made her feel ill. The building always felt far too cold even in the winter. The sparse furniture in the hallway and the lack of decor only added to the feeling of cold. The walls were all either white or a pale blue. She’d assumed the color choices were meant to be calming, but it just made her feel lethargic.
The overhead lights gave the hallway a far too bright tone and patients and nurses alike passed Y/N on occasion as she slowly made her way through the halls, though the patients for the most part seemed to be escorted by a nurse or some other aide.
Y/N cringed as she neared the hospital’s recreation room having been told by the nurse on hand that this would be the best place to visit with her brother.
Lunch had ended not long ago and medications had just been given out. Most of the hospital’s residents were in their rooms or off to their daily therapy sessions. Y/N had been told simply to head to the recreation room and a nurse would fetch Daniel and bring him to her.
She sighed as she reached the room trying not to cringe as she took a seat in a plastic chair by a small table. She’d never grow accustomed to the strange furniture in the institute. It was all plastic and mostly bolted down to the floor.
She knew the reasoning of course; some patients might be prone to violent fits and it wasn’t wise to have heavy furniture that was not attached to the floor. A nurse had reassured Y/N, the first time she’d noticed the strange furniture, that it was intended both for the safety of the staff and residents alike.
The recreation room didn’t seem to have much for recreation. There was a television which was bolted up high against the wall, a few board games in a cabinet, a few books and magazines, and a few jigsaw puzzles. Y/N guessed that the staff kept most of the recreation locked away until it was time to use it.
Y/N adjusted the visitors badge that had been attached to her coat, briefly debating taking the coat off but deciding against it as she noticed a chill to the air as the air conditioner switched on making the cold space all the more icy.
She shifted in her seat crossing and uncrossing her legs. She frowned slightly regretting not wearing something more casual.
She’d chosen to wear an outfit she might usually wear at work; a black dress, tights, a dark coat, and a pair of black ballet flats.
She was technically making this trip during a work-day after all, so she’d dressed for the work day.
She sighed, staring down at her hands as she placed them on the table in front of her. She resisted the urge to pull out the pocket mirror she carried in her purse and check her appearance. She silently debated if she should have worn her makeup a little lighter. The darker lipstick most likely made her look all too much like a woman in her late twenties instead of the girl Daniel at times remembered her as being.
A voice in the back of her head warned her that Daniel might not entirely recognize her today, though she’d been told by the nurse that he was having a good memory day.
Y/N knew that most of the time though Daniel most likely still pictured her as that eighteen year old girl with a nostril piercing and an honestly peachy tone of pink hair that had faded over the summer, her roots all too noticeable. He remembered her as she’d been back when he was 24 years old, the year he’d had his accident.
She knew she’d grown since then. She no longer appeared to be that rebellious punky teen girl. She looked like an elegant young lady.
It felt strange to realize that though she was the younger sibling it felt as though she'd somehow taken the role of the older sibling. She was older now than her brother had been when he'd had his accident.
She was certain her more professional adult look might seem alarming to him if his memory happened to be struggling that day.
Y/N wouldn’t lie, at times she feared that a day would come where Daniel would no longer recognize her as his sister. As they grew older she knew her appearance would change all the more.
The doctors didn’t seem to have any clear answers as to whether his memory would decline further with his head injury. For the most part she felt that the doctors seemed to stick to the line that no head injury was exactly alike. She’d heard the promise that they would monitor his symptoms but only time would tell what the future held for him.
All they knew was that her brother struggled with his impulse control, his emotional control, and occasionally short term memory. He also struggled with self-care; remembering to do something as simple as bathing and brushing his teeth. Then there was the issue of the seizures, though they were rare.
The medications he took were meant to control the seizures as well as his emotional outbursts.
For the most part Y/N felt that the medications only made him drowsy and slow. They’d caused him to put on weight as they increased his appetite. That was why he would not stay on them if he was left to his own devices. He didn’t like how they made him feel, but without them his symptoms only worsened.
She knew that because of all of these issues that the hospitalization was necessary. It didn’t stop her from feeling guilty as hell though.
She tried to appear as though she was carefree as the nurse she’d spoken to entered the room guiding her brother over to the table.
Y/N hesitated to reach for him as he was sat down at the table across from her. She always feared touching him first, almost certain that one day he would only see her as a stranger.
Her brother was clean shaven; it was a stark contrast to how he’d been before the accident. He usually always wore some scruff. His hair was no longer shaggy the same way he’d once kept it; instead it was cut shorter than he’d ever keep it if it was entirely up to him. He seemed far too pale and the dark circles under his eyes were far too noticeable. He was wearing the same thing he usually wore each time she saw him; gray sweatpants and a white t- shirt with socks and houseshoes.
He was at least clean; the staff made sure he bathed.
Y/N at least made sure to send him clothing as often as she could, always initialing the tags with his name so that it would hopefully not be misplaced when the laundry was done. The hospital bracelet he wore on his wrist alerted staff of his name and his level of care along with some other information. The print was always too fine to read without making her feel like she had to strain her eyes.
She was relieved as he seemed to recognize her after a moment of uncertainty. He spoke his voice a raspy sluggish tone as his hand reached out for hers. “What are you doing here?”
Y/N spoke her voice soft as she tried to pretend the nurse wasn’t lingering nearby clearly monitoring the situation. “I was in the area. I thought I’d come for a visit.”
“Is dad here too?” The question spilled from Daniel’s lips Y/N doing all she could not to outwardly grimace.
Telling her brother that their father was dead was not something that had stuck in his memory. He went back and forth between remembering their father was dead to forgetting it entirely.
His doctors had advised her not to tell him that their father was dead during the times he seemed to forget. It was too upsetting to him, she’d been told. It would only make him relive the fresh grief over and over again.
“No, he couldn’t make it…work is busy. Skeeter and he had a big funeral they had to prep for.” Y/N lied through her teeth hating that it had to be like this.
She knew it was the best case scenario of course. It was cruel to keep making him relive that grief in times like this.
However it was difficult to pretend that their father wasn’t dead and buried in Charming’s cemetery where he’d been for months now. She knew well enough he was dead. She’d embalmed his body at his request in his final wishes. She’d chosen the casket and the flowers as well as the pamphlets for the funeral. She’d found a minister to speak at his funeral. She’d written the obituary and paid to have it posted in Charming’s local newspaper. She had stood in a receiving line for mourners playing the role of the bereaved instead of the funeral director. She’d had to take on the emotional and financial burden of the funeral. She had to read his will and realize her life was changed forever.
She had to do it all by herself, and now she had to carry on this act pretending that none of that emotional turmoil had happened.
Daniel twisted his lips, his brow furrowing. “He’s mad at me.”
“Why would you say that, sweetheart?” Y/N asked managing to give his hand a gentle squeeze trying to keep her voice level.
She winced a voice in the back of her head taunting her that she was an awful sister, lying to her brother carrying on this charade that their father was alive.
Daniel scoffed at the question, his brow furrowing further. “I don’t know…he’s just mad at me. I must have done something awful. That's why he never visits.”
Y/N sighed that cruel voice in the back of her head insisting if their father was still living and had any reason to be mad at anyone then she would probably be the one in deep shit at the moment given her current ties to SAMCRO. She was quite sure she would be the reigning champion of being the family disappointment at the moment.
She pushed the thought from her mind, her voice cracking somewhat as she struggled not to start crying. “That isn’t true, my darling. He’s not mad at you. He loves you very much. He loves both of us more than we know. Even if we upset him, he’d never deny us that love. You know he’s always been there for us…even when we mess up. That’s the kind of dad he is. Remember that time I broke that brand new urn that we had in the display room because I kept playing in the display room after he told me not to. He was so upset but he didn’t even yell or spank me. It was a super expensive urn too…uh had the gold edges to it…it probably cost a fortune, but he only gave me a firm talking to and didn’t make me feel bad for it for too long. I was barely grounded. You know dad’s heart. He wears it on his sleeve. Even if you upset him, he wouldn’t be a jerk about it.”
She paused, taking a deep breath once again lying through her teeth. “You know how he is, Danny. He’s a workaholic. Once he gets caught up with work there’s no pulling him away. I’m sure he’s going to visit soon…maybe once work slows down.”
“When can I go home? I want to go home.” Daniel remarked, apparently moving on from the subject of their father on to another difficult subject.
She sighed, shaking her head, not surprised by the choice in subject. They had this talk often and it was always difficult. “I don’t know when, Danny. You’re still not well. You have to stay here a little longer. Just until you get better. I know it’s hard, but you have to stay here a little longer.”
“I feel fine though. I feel okay, I just want to go home. Please, Y/N take me home.” He insisted his voice cracking, he squeezing her hand almost hard enough it hurt.
She took a deep breath shaking her head, a stray tear working its way down her cheek. She wiped it quickly with her free hand. “I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t…not yet.”
“Why not?” He snapped, squeezing her hand even harder enough to make her flinch the pain shooting through her nerve endings.
She sighed as the nurse stepped forward ready to step into action if things got too out of hand.
She spoke, taking a deep breath. “Because you aren’t well. I know you think you feel fine, but you aren’t ready to go home yet. Just be patient, sweetheart.”
“It’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to stay here.” He snapped again his grip on her hand not loosening even slightly.
She took another deep breath, shooting the nurse a glance of reassurance before she spoke again. “I know. I’m so sorry. I would take you home if I could, in a heartbeat. We have to wait though.”
She spoke again trying to distract him knowing it was the best method to take when he got worked up like this. “In the meantime try to find things to keep you busy. The grounds here are nice, aren’t they? I saw some flower beds the last time I was here. I know you like going outside and seeing them when it's nice out. You should see the greenhouse back home. The tomatoes and cucumbers are getting big…the strawberries are looking good too. I can bring you some strawberries next time, if they’ll let me. You like those right? The strawberries were always your favorite. I know you didn’t care much for the gardening part of it…except for that time you grew that marijuana plant that you tried to hide behind my tomato plant. I was so annoyed when I found it…and it didn’t really work anyway because you couldn’t keep enough light on it to actually do anything. Remember that?”
“I don’t care, I want to go home.” Daniel snapped at her squeezing all the harder she audibly letting out a gasp the pain becoming a little too much to ignore.
With this the nurse stepped forward two orderlies seeming to appear out of nowhere.
Y/N cringed as her brother was yanked from her by two large orderlies while fighting against the pull. She held her aching hand trying to ignore the pain and keep her voice soothing as she spoke to him. “Daniel, please. Don’t fight them. Just take a deep breath and calm down. It’s okay, just calm down, please, my darling.”
Of course, her soothing did little good, her brother struggling against the hold. Y/N shrank away as the nurse stepped forward placing a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got this handled, Miss. Y/L/N. Don’t worry. We’re going to give him something to relax him.”
Y/N parted her lips tempted to snap that she didn’t want him doped up more than he already was, but she kept the words at bay
She turned her eyes to the floor feeling helpless as the nurse guided her from the room. She felt the tears begin to fall at the words that were shouted at her by her big brother as she left the room. “I hate you! I don’t want you to come back! I hate you!”
—---
She didn’t allow the tears to fully fall until she left the building, practically collapsing against a bench on the walkway up to the entrance.
She took a deep breath trying her best to keep her composure as she wiped at her eyes furiously.
She was thankful that there were seemingly no other visitors nearby though she had a feeling if there were they would not pay her any mind. She had a feeling her reaction was a normal one for those visiting loved ones at the institution.
She took another deep breath trying hard to push the last words she’d heard her brother say from her mind.
She knew he didn’t mean them, not really. That was the thing about his condition. The filter that should stop him from saying the first thing that came to his mind just didn’t exist anymore.
Y/N stared down at her purse, opening it and searching through it for the travel sized container of tissues she always carried, her hands brushing across her cell phone.
She was stunned as a thought crossed her mind; she wanted Filip.
It felt odd to admit, even if it was only in her head.
It had been a few weeks since that date they’d had and surprisingly Chibs had called her loyally every single day. Although the calls were never quite at the same time each day, they still managed to be a daily occurrence.
It was strange to admit that she’d found some comfort in the calls.
The calls were something she actually found herself looking forward to.
It was almost funny to consider how a few weeks before she had just wanted her admittedly criminally prone Scottish admirer to get lost, but now she happily anticipated the daily phone conversations they had.
She was a bit surprised that he had not pushed her to plan the second date she’d promised him. A small part of her had to wonder if perhaps he was waiting on her to make the next move. It felt almost amusing to consider that the scary outlaw was feeling nervous and waiting for her to make the next move.
The phone conversations they'd had felt light, especially considering the way she’d practically dumped her past traumas into his lap on that first date.
They’d talked about their days, Y/N discussing whichever body she was prepping or her frustrations with the local florist who was always screwing up orders for funeral flowers. He’d talk about something dumb Half-Sack or Juice had done and a bike or car he was working on at the garage.
She’d found that she liked the clear sense of adoration she heard in his voice when he discussed his brothers even when he called them idiots. She’d also discovered that she liked the passion in his voice when he talked about whatever motorcycle he was repairing.
She’d enjoyed listening to him discuss a terrible but healthy smoothie Juice had tried to get him to drink or something truly awkward Half-Sack had managed to say right in front of Clay.
She was surprised to find that Chibs made her laugh. Even when she was stuck in the gloom of embalming a difficult case that felt honestly depressing; she was able to place Chibs on speaker phone and feel some sense of light through the gloom.
The conversations had felt easy with him though they hadn’t necessarily been deep conversations.
It still felt nice; discussing her day with someone. It wasn’t something she’d had with someone in a very very long time.
She was stunned to admit that she had found a sense of comfort with Chibs. It was such a contradiction when she said it outloud; the dangerous outlaw biker felt comforting.
She was surprised to find that he was sweet; it was something she’d not expected. She knew no one would believe her. It sounded like another huge contradiction; the admitted criminal was sweet.
She wasn’t naive of course. She knew that Chibs most likely had a side to himself that was far from sweet. She was aware enough to know that he had most likely done horrible things in the past and was capable of doing terrible things in the future.
It was a simple fact that she was surprised failed to invoke fear in her. If anything, a voice in the back of her head was quick to remind her that she’d done a few awful things of her own lately…even if those awful things were at SAMCRO’s request.
That voice in the back of her head still taunted her of course that Chibs would only lead her back to being the unhappy girl she was living in the chaos of SAMCRO. The voice was all quick to call Chibs a devil who’d tempt her back into being in that dark place she’d been in almost a decade before. The voice insisted he’d lead her right back into hell. It reminded her of something her grandmother used to say; you can’t dance with the devil and then keep wondering why you’re in hell.
Another voice snapped that it was hard to believe she would be unhappy though. She certainly didn’t feel unhappy around him. Being around him didn’t feel like she was in hell. Sure, she was aware that the world he existed in came with a level of chaos.
She reasoned that in a way she had already signed herself back up for that chaos. She’d signed herself up for it the second she’d agreed to help SAMCRO out and had insisted she would be their new funeral home contact for future favors.
She had asked the devil to dance first hadn’t she?
She was still surprised she’d felt so comfortable explaining everything with her brother and dumping some of her childhood traumas onto Chibs. She was even more surprised that he’d not run screaming.
Y/N could admit she’d not exactly been open about the darker aspects of her childhood and teen years with past boyfriends.
She had only mentioned that she’d been raised in a funeral home and her brother was special needs. She’d casually mentioned she’d been rebellious at one point in her life not going into too much detail.
With Chibs, she’d realized that he’d find out the reality of her brother eventually. If she didn’t say something, surely someone around town would mention it.
She’d guessed telling him herself would at least let her control the narrative. At least if it came from her lips then he’d get the truth and not whatever wild tale he might hear from someone else.
Somehow even with the truth about her brother and the darker aspects of her childhood, Chibs had not seemed to shy away.
It was something she was astonished by. She was accustomed to people leaving when she was too much.
She’d more often than not been told she was too exhausting to be around. She’d more than often been referenced to as being difficult by boyfriends and friends alike. She was too morbid, too snarky, too moody, and just flat out too much to put up with for the long-term.
Chibs didn’t seem to think that she was too much.
So maybe that was why she reached for her cell phone dialing the familiar number.
She let out a breath she’d not even realized she’d been holding at the sound of his voice on the other end of the line. “Hen, I was jus’ thinkin’ bout ya.”
She managed to feel a small tight smile cross her features at the statement. She was no longer tempted to tell him that he was full of shit and just trying to flatter his way into her pants.
He’d often started out the phone calls he made to her the same way I wanted to call because I was thinking about you.
It felt nice to believe that he thought about her enough to want to hear her voice.
She managed to speak grimacing as she realized her voice felt as weepy as she felt. “Hey.”
“What’s wrong? Ya sound rough, lass.” The concern was evident in his voice. She could distinctly hear the sounds of the garage in the background hinting he was at TM Auto.
The noise grew fainter indicating he seemed to be moving further from the garage most likely wanting to find some privacy for their conversation.
“I just…I’m out in Lodi…visiting my brother.” She admitted staring down at her lap the stark black of her clothing looking inky and harsh against the pale concrete below her feet.
“Aye, wasn’t a good visit I’m guessin’?” Chibs was fast to respond that concern still so clear in his voice.
She let out a weak laugh shaking her head as she responded. “No, no it wasn’t”
Chibs was fast to speak his voice taking a softer tone, the sound feeling soothing. “Ya wanna talk ‘bout it?”
“I kind of want a good stiff drink to be honest…but uh…yeah…I mean, it’s just difficult. He doesn’t remember our dad is…gone…and he doesn’t get why he can’t go home. It’s just…it’s a shit situation. The last thing he said before I left was that he hates me and never wants me to come back.” She remarked a shaky sigh leaving her, her eyes still focused on the pavement below her trying hard to not let herself break down again.
“Oh, Hen, ya know that ain’ true righ’. He doesn’ mean it. He’s jus’...confused, love. Yer his sister. He loves ya.” was the reply she received. She was a bit surprised to hear a hint of shakiness in his own voice.
“I know, I know…he’s no longer has the ability to stop himself from saying the first thing that comes to his mind…I mean most people if they’re upset might first think they hate someone…but usually that filter in their head will stop them from just blurting that out…his filter…it just doesn’t do what it should. I just hate it…today was allegedly supposed to be a good memory day too…so much for that.” She remarked another shaky sigh escaping her lips.
She swallowed the lump developing in the back of her throat before she spoke again not having it in her to hate how needy her voice sounded. “Can you talk to me about something different…anything? Something nice?”
She was surprised by the response she got. “Ya ever had shortbread? Scottish Shortbread?”
“Uh, I mean…I’ve had shortbread cookies…from the grocery store.” She admitted, a bit thrown off by the conversation choice, but she had requested that he talk about literally anything else other than her current situation.
She rolled her eyes, unable to stop the hint of a genuine smile from crossing her lips at his quick reply. “Nah, not that. That’s pure shite, Hen. Leave that grocery store prepackaged stuff alone. I’m talkin’ real Scottish shortbread.”
“I guess, I’ve never had it then. What’s so special about it?” She dared to ask the misery she felt a moment before lifting by the second.
Chibs didn’t waste a moment to reply. “It’s amazin’, one of my favorites. My ma used to make it the best…I can’ get hers round here of course. The trick is ya gotta have it fresh, with tea or milk on the side. I’m gettin’ ya some real shortbread. Ya gotta try it at leas’ once.”
She spoke, shaking her head the words falling from her lips. “Maybe you should take me to get some then. I apparently need to see what I’m missing.”
“Aye, ya askin’ me out on a date, Hen?” The response came so naturally a flirty tone entering his voice.
She smirked it not taking her long to answer. “I am…and I won’t even bribe you with car repairs.”
She felt as though the misery she’d felt just moments ago was long gone as Chibs managed to laugh at the response he fast to respond. “Aye, ya don’ gotta bribe me to take ya out, love.”
She shook her head ignoring the cruel voice in the back of her head that claimed she belonged locked up right alongside her brother if she was agreeing to another date.
She distinctly remembered the comment Gemma had made the day she’d given Y/N a ride home. It's never just one date.
It would seem indeed that it was not destined to be just one date.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chibs sighed, his stomach churning as Tig gazed up at him as he passed by the bar in SAMCRO’s clubhouse. “You going to see Y/N again?”
Chibs let out a huff knowing that the cologne he’d put on had most likely given him away. He’d only worn it once afterall the last time he’d taken Y/N out. He was certain Juice must have blabbed his big mouth all about Chibs’ big date and the effort he’d put into his appearance for said date . “Aye, I am.”
“You’ve been talking to her a lot lately. Lots of phone calls.” Tig observed the comment making Chibs feel uneasy.
“Aye.” He kept the response short, shifting the box of shortbread he’d rode out to pick up from a bakery early this morning before they had a chance to sell out.
It wasn’t his mother’s shortbread but it was the closest thing he could find all the way out in California.
“So, you hitting that?” Tig dared to ask, Chibs narrowing his eyes at the question, his free hand that wasn’t holding the box of cookies forming a fist.
He pushed back the desire to throw a punch as he replied. “Ain’ none of yer business.”
Tig smirked, clearly spotting he’d maybe struck a nerve with his brother. Occasionally he could admit he liked pushing his brothers’ buttons…mostly out of boredom.
He’d taken notice of course, that Chibs had been skipping out on Friday night parties and had definitely been neglecting the croweaters.
There was only one possible thing keeping Chibs so distracted. He’d definitely noticed the little looks Chibs had sent SAMCRO’s new asset that night at the crematorium.
Tig didn’t particularly care to be honest. He was struck by a sense of curiosity though.
He had been around almost a decade before when Y/N had been a frequent visitor to the clubhouse. He could remember the mouthy girl who had been more than willing to drink and smoke a joint. He could also distinctly remember that she’d been less than interested in letting him in her pants….and he’d tried quite hard to charm his way into them.
He could admit it was a bit of a knock to the ego to think that Chibs might very well be traversing territory Tig had failed to explore. He had to admit he felt envious of the Scot.
Tig shook his head. “Just saying, brother. Be careful with that one. She knows a million ways to get rid of a body. I wouldn’t piss her off.”
“Ya ain’ got nothin to worry bout.” Chibs snapped thinking back to the tense conversation he’d had with Clay before that first date he’d had with Y/N.
Tig shook his head a sigh leaving him not helping but to prod a little more even if he knew his next statement was an asshole move. He could admit that a sense of jealousy was maybe pushing him to run his mouth. “I’m guessing little Miss. Death doesn’t know about your wife back in Belfast…pretty sure you’d already be in a casket somewhere if she did. Didn’t think she’d be cool with being a mistress. I mean, she was wild back in the day, tight as hell and a great set of tits from what I heard too, but she still had some moral backbone.”
Chibs moved forward, his fist partially raising but he didn’t have a chance to get far, Juice taking enough notice to step in between Chibs and Tig. Juice maneuvered Chibs away quick to speak. “Let’s take a walk man, come on.”
“Ya keep yer fuckin mouth shut bout her. Ya don’ know what yer talkin bout.” Chibs snapped sending a warning glare at Tig's direction as Juice pushed him away.
Chibs yanked from Juice’s attempts he glaring down at the younger man. “I don’ need a fuckin’ walk. Ya tell that prick if he ever mentions her body or calls her a mistress again I’ll fuckin’ bash his head in.”
Juice groaned as he watched Chibs storm off towards his bike. He rolled his eyes as Tig approached him, the man shrugging his shoulders apparently not minding the death threat. “Was it something I said?”
Juice shook his head as he watched Chibs ride off. He sent Tig a look he speaking. “Really?”
Tig shrugged, playing innocent. “I’m just looking out for him. She finds out about his wife, he’s dead meat. Not to mention, if he pisses her off real good then we lose our funeral home contact.”
Juice shook his head, not responding as he made his way back into the clubhouse. He had to hope that if Chibs continued whatever he had going on with Y/N that he explained his complex past and she didn’t murder him.
Even with as crude as Tig had been, Chibs most likely would be buried alive if he kept that tidbit of information from Y/N.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Y/N sighed as a firm knock sounded at her office door, cracking slightly Skeeter’s head barely peeking in.
The man spoke, his eyes rolling ever so slightly at the information he was about to share with his boss. “You have a gentleman caller.”
Chibs frowned, unable to see past Skeeter as Y/N let out a groan from behind the half closed door. “I can’t decide if that’s worse than calling him the outlaw biker. It sounds less panic inducing to anyone that might overhear it, but it makes me sound like I’m some sort of freaking Southern Belle.”
She paused before speaking again. “Well, let him in.”
Skeeter did as he was told though he looked as though he’d much rather deny Chibs entry. Chibs didn’t miss the stern look of disapproval as he passed by the mortician.
Y/N spoke, spotting that Skeeter was still lingering. “You can go, Skeet. I promise I’m fine all on my lonesome.”
Chibs didn’t miss the glare Skeeter sent his way before he shut the door behind him.
He took a deep breath trying to calm any rage that was still lingering around in his gut after his confrontation with Tig. He refused to let her see the enraged parts of him.
He studied her, the sight of her soothing him. She was dressed in another work outfit, another black dress similar to the one he’d seen her wear the first time he’d come to the funeral home.
He had to wonder how many black dresses she owned. He had a feeling it had to be quite a few.
She pushed back her chair standing up from her desk and rounded it as she made her way over to him.
She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, the action soothing him further. She spoke, spotting the tension practically vibrating off him. ‘Are you okay? You seem…agitated.”
Chibs did his best to give her a smile though he knew it came out as more of a grimace. “Jus’ Tig bein a fuckin’ prick.”
She let out a small bitter laugh rolling her eyes at the comment. “I guess he hasn’t changed much in my time away.”
Chibs took a deep breath tempted to ask her if she’d ever been intimate with Tig, but he bit his tongue.
He had a feeling she’d not given Tig had only commented on what he’d heard about her.
Chibs silently reminded himself that he didn’t care what her past with SAMCRO was. She had said it herself. She was no longer a club hangaround.
A possessive little voice piped up in the back of Chibs’ head insisting she was his now. Another voice piped up that he’d meant what he’d said to Tig. He’d kill the man if he ever commented on her body ever again. He didn’t care if the man was his brother, he’d bash his face in.
He took a few more deep breaths trying to calm himself.
Another thing Tig had said had troubled Chibs; the mention of Fiona. It was something Chibs knew would have to come up sooner than later.
Chibs knew Tig was right about one thing…if he kept that part of his past hidden from Y/N she’d probably shove him in the ground. In fact, Chibs was sure that if he withheld this information from her then Y/N would bury him so deep that the devil himself would need a shovel to dig him back up again.
He took a deep breath holding out the box of shortbread he’d gotten; he was no longer as giddy about presenting it to her as he’d been moments before. “I got ya somethin.”
She took it from him, a soft laugh leaving her becoming distracted from his clearly tense mood. “Shortbread. I’m supposed to drink it with tea right, or milk?”
“Aye, whichever ya want. Try it tonigh’ and let me know what ya think.” Chibs replied, his strained mood fading by the second.
She placed the box on her desk giving him a soft smile. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here just to give me some cookies.”
“Aye, I wanted to…I was hopin’ I could take ya out fer lunch too.” Chibs insisted, having made up his mind on the way to the Funeral Home.
He had to come clean about his past. He had to open up and pray she didn’t hate his guts or assume he was attempting to make her into the other woman.
She gave him a soft smile nodding down to her clothing. “Do you mind if I change shoes? I don’t think heels are a smart idea on the back of a bike.”
He nodded his head trying his best to give her a smile and hide the anxiety beginning to bubble in his stomach. “Aye, heels are probably not a good idea, Hen. I’ll wait on ya.”
She pressed another kiss to his cheek, that warm feeling washing over him again soothing a bit more of his agitation and anxiety.
He watched her leave the room, taking a deep breath as he dropped down into one of the chairs across from her desk.
He stared around the office studying the multitude of items. He clasped his hands together spotting a thick binder sitting on a shelf behind her desk that was labeled casket catalog 2007-2008.
He prayed to any God that might be listening that she wouldn’t shove him in any of those caskets after he broke the news about the life he’d been banished from in Belfast.
Chibs tried to find something less distressing to focus on. His eyes caught a photo on the wall it lifting his spirits momentarily.
He barely recognized Y/N in the photo. She was so young, clearly barely a teenager. He could distinctly spot a pair of braces on her teeth and a t-shirt emblazoned with Charming’s nearest high school’s mascot. He guessed that perhaps it was a photo leftover from when the office had belonged to her father.
Another photo was framed beside it. Y/N was even younger in this one sat on the front porch of the Funeral Home with a little boy beside her. She looked quite miserable in the soft pink dress she was wearing judging by the clear scowl fixed into her little features. He felt his stomach turn realizing the boy sitting beside her had to be her older brother.
He sighed thinking back to the phone call they’d had the day before after she visited her brother, hoping he wasn’t about to give her another reason to cry.
He didn’t have long to focus on the fear as the office door opened the object of his adoration reentering the room, a pair of black converse on her feet and a dark coat over her dress.
She spoke nodding to him. “Okay, I’m ready when you are.”
He stood up taking her hand in his once again praying to anyone who might happen to be listening that he wasn’t about to lose the woman he’d just barely managed to start winning over.
—---------------------------------------------------
The taco stand was a bit of a surprise. Y/N didn’t think much of it though, deciding that she was just happy to have a second date with Chibs even if it was a little more spontaneous than she’d expected.
They sat outside on benches the weather thankfully not cool enough for the outdoor space to feel uncomfortable. They seemed to be the only patrons at this stand and she hoped that this wasn’t a sign of the quality of their meal.
Chibs himself was debating if the taco truck was the best plan. He’d decided that an outdoor space was probably best for the bombshell he was about to drop on her.
He sighed as she spoke, raising an eyebrow at him taking notice of the fact that he seemed distracted. He’d not even touched his food yet and had seemed dazed as he’d ordered. “Are you sure everything is okay? I mean, how bad did Tig piss you off?”
She cringed worrying that she was pushing it. She imagined it had something to do with the club. She wasn’t sure if they were at the level where Chibs was going to be that open with her about anything related to the club despite her partnership with SAMCRO as a provider of favors.
Chibs let out another sigh deciding he wouldn’t repeat exactly what Tig had said. He had a feeling she’d probably kill the man for commenting on her body in that crude of a manner especially in relation to her past. “He’s jus’ an arse sometimes. It’s jus…I got somthin to tell ya.”
She felt her stomach roll hating that statement. It sounded so ominous. “What’s going on?”
Chibs sighed, deciding to ease into this. “I know I ain’ told ya much bout my family.”
Y/N spoke her cheeks flushing the words falling from her. “I haven’t given you much of a chance. I mean…I kind of turned our first date into a trauma dumping session. I didn’t leave you much room to talk about your own family.”
Chibs spoke, shaking his head reaching out his hand pressing over hers. “It’s fine, Hen. I didn’ mind it.”
He took a deep breath speaking again the words falling out of his lips. “I have a daughter.”
She widened her eyes, not expecting that. She guessed it shouldn’t be too surprising though. He was in his forties. He had to have some life before her. “How old is she?”
“Thirteen…Kerrianne…her name is Kerrianne.” Chibs responded a small smile crossing her features.
“That’s a pretty name, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before. What’s she like?” Y/N asked genuinely curious to know.
She was surprised she didn’t mind the concept of dating a guy with a kid. She’d never really been around children, but she liked them. She had never really put much thought into if she wanted children of her own. She found that she liked Chibs enough to accept that he was a parent and to accept whatever role she played in that if their relationship should progress to that point.
Chibs cringed the words falling from him. “I don’ know…I ain’ seen her since she was bout four.”
Y/N felt her stomach drop at this information. He was a deadbeat? She felt her stomach sour at the thought.
Chibs sighed, shaking his head, spotting the look on her face only able to imagine the thoughts running through her mind. He had a feeling none of them were positive. He spoke again the words sliding from his lips before he could stop them. “She lives in Belfast…with my wife.”
Y/N was certain if she had a drink in her hand she would have tossed it in his face. She glared at him, yanking her hand from his her voice harsh. “You’re fucking married? Are you serious?”
She scoffed getting up from the bench before he had a chance to register what was happening.
She spoke, snatching up her purse and her coat as she prepared herself to leave her temper rising by the second. “What am I then? Am I just some stateside fun? Was I meant to be the girl you fucked in the US while your wife and kid sit back in Ireland? I mean, I knew you SAMCRO guys were kind of dysfunctional when it came to relationships and monogamy but this really takes the cake on fucked up. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me from Jackson and all your little friends down at the clubhouse. I know I haven’t always been smart about the guys I’ve hooked up with in the past, but I have developed way more of a sense of self worth than I had almost a decade ago. I am no one’s fucking mistress. Have a nice life Chibs…actually, no, you have the life you deserve. You are such an asshole.”
Chibs scrambled up from the bench moving quick to follow her. He reached out taking her hand in his not shocked as she yanked it away her voice raising. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
Chibs moved fast moving in front of her placing his hands on her shoulder he fast to speak. “Just give me five minutes…Jus’ five minutes to explain.”
“Explain what? You’re a married deadbeat dad, I’m the other woman. End of story. Good riddance.” She snapped moving aside trying to move past him.
Chibs moved just as fast stepping in front of her. “There’s more to the story, lass. Jus’ please, hear me out. If ya still hate me after I tell ya the entire story, I’ll fuck off.”
She groaned tempted to tell him that there was not a story on this planet he could tell to explain away the bombshell he’d just dropped on her.
She gazed up at him, hating to admit that she noticed the longing in his eyes. There was a sense of desperation there that she didn’t like.
She let out a huff crossing her arms over her chest. “You have five minutes. If I sense even an ounce of bullshit, I’m leaving and not looking back.”
Chibs nodded his head nodding over to a nearby bench. “Can we sit?”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Fine, but the time to go to the bench and sit deducts from the five minute timeline I set.”
He spoke as they sat he sighing. “Fiona an I are estranged. I ain’ seen her in close to a decade now. I ain’ even spoke to her on the phone.”
“But you haven’t divorced her and you don’t see your kid.” Y/N snapped not entirely impressed if this was his attempt to explain himself.
Chibs cringed fast to speak again. “It ain' an option… neither the divorce or seein my Kerrianne.”
He paused, spotting the look of annoyance on her features as she spoke. “Let me guess? Getting divorced is a huge Catholic no no? Is being a deadbeat dad just a passion project for you?”
Chibs let out a huff shaking his head. “I ain’ exactly practicin’ So, no’ entirely and I ain’t a deadbeat by choice.”
She glared at him her words harsh. “ Don’t you dare try to feed me that my ex is nuts and won’t let me see my kid bullshit. I have heard it from a guy before and I don’t believe the story.”
He spoke shaking his head. “This ain’t me being some arsehole da abandonin his kid. Fiona ain’t the one keepin me away.”
He paused, clearing his throat knowing he had to tell the entrie story, every painful detail. “I met Fiona when I was sixteen. I’d moved to Belfast with my ma an my sister Cait. We moved from one housin’ estate to another…we were poor…My da…he was a real prick…mean bastard who no one missed when he walked out…my ma worked herself to the bone to barely scrape by. I was angry, mad at the world. I was pissed at the government and establishment in general. Fiona…er family was involved in the cause. Third generation…True IRA.”
He paused not wanting to meet Y/N’s eyes as he explained this bit of information. He spoke again, a sigh leaving him. “She talked bout the cause…bout her family. Told me grand tales of the figh’ fer a free Ireland. I was entranced with her stories…entranced with her. By the time we were married I was fully involved in the cause.”
He took another deep breath taking a chance to peek over at Y/N not liking that a hint of fear had joined the rage in her eyes.
He spoke again hoping that even if she understood the history behind Fiona and him that the mention of his involvement with the cause wouldn’t destroy things anyhow. “There was this lad…an ol’ friend of Fiona’s…they were childhood friends. He knew her before I did…Jimmy O’Phalen. He loved her before I did…He hated me…hated that I won Fiona…hated that she loved me…hated my background. He claimed I couldn’t be loyal to the cause given my ancestry…I wasn’ Irish, so I wasn’t as dedicated…I didn’ pay him any mind. I kept on with the cause. Life went on. The years passed by. Fiona an I somehow survived all of our twenties intact..made it to our thirties.”
“Kerrianne…she was born and it was like my life…it got brighter. I loved bein’ her da. I saw it as a chance to be a better lad than my bastard of a da. I stopped bein’ so angry…I…Jimmy O’ called it a weakness…He rose up in the ranks of the cause…got himself into a pretty high spot on the food chain…He started sowing distrust among others involved…started sayin’ I was a loyalist to the crown…sayin I was not truly dedicated…and then when my Kerrianne was barely a year old…Jimmy O’ did this to me.” Chibs explained reaching up to slide along the scars embedded into the flesh along his cheeks.
He paused his throat growing tight still not wanting to meet Y/N’s eyes. He spoke again a shaky sigh leaving him. “I gotta nother scar, along my belly. He tried to gut me too…it was…I almost died…I los’ a lotta blood, lost consciousness. I think the face…the attack was a play on my birthplace…Glasgow…He…he changed his mind toward the end I guess, decided not to kill me. Decided to give me a chance to live. Had his crew drop me off at the front steps to a hospital. He excommunicated me from the cause.”
“Fiona…your daughter?” Y/N dared to ask amazed she found the words as she tried to absorb everything he’d told her thus far her mind going a million different directions all at once.
Chibs let out a shaky breath the words falling from his lips. “Jimmy O’ took em as his…Fer over a decade now…they’ve been with him. He took my wife an’ raised my little girl as his own. Told me if I ever tried to get em back he’d kill em.”
He shook his head a sigh leaving him. “I wished I’d died tha’ nigh’ fer a long time….i wished he’d just killed me instead of keeping me alive to torment me. I joined up with SAMBEL…Belfast Sons. I knew em from business with the cause. I was their firs’ prospect. They took care of me. I found my place in that world. I…I tried to watch my Kerrianne from a’far…Jimmy O’ let me fer a wee bit…guess he liked dangling her round me…tormenting me with seein’ her from far away…I lasted in SAMBEL fer a few years…but it jus’ it got so…it hur’ seein’ my sweet wee Kerrianne…not bein’ able to even go near her. The chance to patch over to SAMCRO came up an I took it. I wanted to escape.”
He dared to look over at Y/N as he spoke, explaining himself. “Divorcin’ Fiona ain’ an option. Jimmy O’ won’ even let us speak on the phone…I ain’ seen her since I left Belfast. Ya ain’ my mistress. Ya can’t be the other woman when the only reason I ain’ divorced is ‘cause I can’t even talk to my estranged wife to start a divorce.”
Y/N let out a shaky sigh, her mind and her heart feeling heavy. She let everything he’d just told her soak into her brain, her mind going a million different directions.
The rage she’d felt left her body making her feel exhausted. She felt as though she’d been hit by a mack truck. She felt so drained that all she wanted was to lie down and not move again for a long while.
Those pesky voices in the back of her mind that screamed that Chibs would lead her to ruin were so fast to speak up insisting that everything he’d just told her was the only evidence she needed to know that he’d lead her to destruction.
Her heart spoke up easily picking up on the pain in his voice as he recalled the story. She thought of him lying in a hospital recovering from the attack all alone wishing for death knowing he’d lost everything.
She thought of his reaction each time she’d kissed his cheek thus far, the look on his face that told her that no one had shown him that kind of softness. It hit her that she’d kissed a reminder of all that he’d lost.
She let the realization that he was still legally married roll through her brain debating his insistence that she was not his mistress.
She thought of his daughter and his wife, what their lives must be with the man who had harmed Chibs. She questioned why Fiona had not fought for him though she cursed herself for having such a thought. She didn’t know how she would react if it had been her…if she’d been a mother.
She felt her stomach turn, her mind flashing back to what he’d said about the True IRA. The thought frightened her.
She sighed knowing that she’d already realized that Chibs had most likely done horrible things in the past and would do horrible things in the future. She knew he’d never pretended not to be a criminal…at least to her.
She felt a voice in the back of her mind perk up pointing out that Chibs had not given her a reason to think he might harm her. If he was going to harm her he would have killed her that night in the cemetery when she was burying those cremains.
Yes, his past involvement with the cause definitely made her stomach turn and she had a feeling that SAMCRO was still involved given his mention of SAMBEL being involved with the True IRA.
A voice in the back of her head piped up that she wasn’t exactly innocent. She’d done some pretty heinous things for the club lately.
The realization hit her that she didn’t feel afraid of him even with the past misdeeds he may have done for the cause. Even with what he’d done…what he would do in the future for the Sons; she was shocked to find that she didn’t fear for her life.
Chibs felt as though he was the last person on this planet she expected might harm her. Filip Chibs Telford was no monster.
She thought of how sweet he’d been on that first date and how lovely he continued to be.
A monster wouldn’t hold her hand so gently while she spilled her heart about her brother and her past. A monster wouldn’t bring her shortbread. A monster would never look at her like she was a fine work of art.
Chibs dared to speak knowing he had to spill his heart as a last ditch effort to hopefully not lose her. “I ain’ been interested in a woman fer more than sex since I…since Fiona…I took advantage of all that came with the clubhouse.”
Y/N cringed decoding that he meant the croweaters.
Chibs spoke again, a sigh leaving him. “I let myself get swallowed up by life in the Sons...I didn’ want to feel…din’ want to let my heart get involved…Then I met ya. I didn’t expect ya…didn’ expect I’d like ya as much as I do. All I know is yer the firs’ woman I met in over a decade who I wan’ more than just sex with. I like bein’ with ya. I love talkin’ to ya. I think bout ya more often than not. I feel good with ya around. I’m havin a good time with ya and I want to see where it takes us. I don’t want to lose ya when I’ve jus’ barely gotten to have ya. I know I ain’ conventional…I may not be able to give ya the traditional path mos’ relationships take…I jus’ know that when I’m with ya…I don’ want get swallowed up by chaos to escape the misery. So, all I’m askin’ fer is the chance even if it ain’ conventional.”
Y/N let the words marinate in her mind. She picked up on what he said about wanting to be swallowed by chaos to escape feeling awful. Wasn’t that what had led her to hanging around SAMCRO almost a decade before?
She sighed at the realization that no, Chibs would not exactly be able to offer her the stereotypical relationship path. If he was still married there would be no white wedding in the future.
She furrowed her brow knowing she wasn’t exactly in the place in this relationship with him to even consider marriage. The concept of even thinking that far into the future this soon in a relationship that was barely even beginning to bloom was preposterous.
She glanced over at Chibs her heart telling her that she’d had fun with him. She didn’t want to sink into misery and isolation when he was around.
She recalled the thought she’d had that first date when she had to leave to attend to the deceased that had fallen into the care of her funeral home.
For the first time in her life she preferred the company of someone living and didn’t want to avoid life to tend to the dead.
Her heart screamed that she didn’t want to go back to isolating herself and spending all her time with the dead.
She wanted to live. Chibs made her want to live.
She reached out, making up her mind, her hand sliding over his as she spoke. “Do you promise me every single thing you just said to me is the absolute truth? I am not the other woman?”
“I swear to ya. You are not a mistress. I may be a bastard, but I ain’ goin to lie bout that.” Chibs insisted his heart daring to lift just the slightest.
Y/N sighed telling the fears in the back of her head to shut up, deciding to listen to what her heart screamed. “Okay. I’m here…I’m not going anywhere Filip.”
She paused, shaking her head as she spoke again. “I’ve never been the conventional type…I don’t expect traditional from you…at least not in the white picket fence stereotype ... .I do expect monogamy, Filip. If you want someone who’s fine sitting by while you get your dick wet somewhere else then I’m not the girl for you.”
“I am fine with that. I don’ want anyone else, Hen. I haven’ even considered it since we met.” He replied being completely honest with her, surprised to find that he didn’t think he’d miss the freedom of not being committed.
She paused, deciding to be honest. “Just promise me something Filip…Swear to me that I’m not a cheap replacement or a fill in for your estranged wife. I can’t be a substitute for what you want ... .I can’t just be the girl you bide your time with while you wait for what you really want to come back to you. I have already filled the role as a substitute pussy for a guy in the past. I refuse to do that again. I don’t want to be used to fill a void in a man. I’m worth more than that.”
Chibs furrowed his brow surprised by the anger that bubbled up in him at her admission about this man from her past.
He gave her hand a squeeze, the words leaving him without hesitation. “Yer not fillin any void fer me…ya ain’ a substitute fer Fiona. I ain’ bidin my time with ya. I want ya fully and completely fer exactly who ya are. Ya ain’ filling a spot fer anyone else.”
She let out a shaky breath, her heart insisting that this was all she needed to know.
She leaned in her lips close to his cheek as she spoke. “Is this okay?”
He widened his eyes as he realized what she was asking. He nodded his head quick to reply. “Yes, please.”
She pressed her lips to his cheek he surprised by the dampness gathering at the corners of his eyes.
The kiss remained lingering, Y/N reaching up to wipe a stray tear from his face as she finally pulled back.
She spoke her voice soft, finding some humor in the moment. “Okay, next date no trauma. We aren’t allowed to cry on the third date.”
Chibs let the laugh leave him, he nodding his head agreeing wholeheartedly.
He wrapped an arm around her waist not helping but to tease her the horrible mood he’d been in all afternoon lifting. “So, I’m gettin a third date?”
She leaned into his embrace a small laugh leaving her. “So long as you promise we don’t cry.”
“Aye no tears from me.” He insisted, squeezing her all the tighter.
She relaxed against him, her eyes closing her body feeling lighter than it had felt in so long.
She knew this was far from conventional but she wasn’t lying. She’d never been a conventional girl.
F!Reader x Dr. Jack Abbot! <3 little oneshot
Sum: you answer a small newspaper ad, which leads to you living with the one and only, Dr. Jack Abbot.
Cw: “and they were roommates” trope ish? Younger female reader, age gap relationship, roommates, Jack has night terrors, widow Jack Abbot, fluff. Your a ghost writer of smut bc that’s my favorite c: MDNI not proofread
The house was too empty. Too quite. Too much for one person to take care of. It was supposed their dream home, but his late-wife never got to see it.
Never got to be carried through the threshold, never got to have morning coffee with him at the book nook, or enjoy the fire pit.
His therapist says he finds comfort in the dark but also in the barren. Never giving life to the home that was supposed to be theirs, even years later.
So when she suggests a roommate, Abbot quite literally doesn’t know what to do with that. There was plenty of room, sure, but did he really want that?
Looking around, he knows he could use someone’s help. It’s too much house, too suffocating on days like this.
Sighing, he reaches for the local pitts area newspaper for the add space number. It’s old school, almost dead but if anyone’s gonna live here with him, they should at least know what a newspaper is.
Looking for a quiet roommate. 49, Male. Looking for someone to help manage an old house for less rent. I work night shifts. No loud parties or gatherings. Contact at *********
——
Meeting you felt like a twist of fate. Some people had responded sure, but none he took seriously until he heard your soft voice over the phone.
New to the city, a writer by trade, so you assured him quite days and help around the house. You mostly worked from home and he had at least 20 years on you.
But god were you charming, he thinks swallowing as he helps you move in your small boxes.
“Dr. Abbot? Is there anything I should do or not touch?.” You asks as you settle another box on the kitchen counter. You didn’t have much but it was enough to fill the small guest room across his.
You were so grateful to have found the ad, you quite literally shook calling him. The house was perfect, yet empty, you note. Must be because he works night shifts, you think taking every thing in. It doesn’t help the good doctor is wildly attractive.
“Jus’ need some help talking care of this old thing during the day, cleaning and stuff if you don’t mind kid. Just.. just stay away from the closet at the end of the hall upstairs” he tells you, a far away look in his eyes for a moment before a little smirk graces his handsome face.
“Oh and no fires if you can help it. Firefighters are my enemy,” making you giggle.
“Sir yes sir!” You say while giving him a little salute, making him laugh. After helping you move, you’ll be honest, you rarely see him at first.
You hear him come home and leave, saying “goodbye” and “welcome home” when you catch him but never getting to really know eachother, with the both of you focused on work. You were just two roommates, trying to survive.
——
That was, until you started leaving him leftovers, feeling bad there was never much in the fridge for him. That small decisions led you to start a breakfast routine together. You shared little tired laughs and always fought on who did the dishes after.
Until you started packing lunches for him, after quickly making yourself dinner. The first time he noticed you left him food to take, his heart thumped in ways he hadn’t felt in years.
Until you started working in the living room, the little book nook becoming your spot. He’d sometimes find you passed out on it, curled up like a cute rabbit. On those days, you’d always wake up covered by a soft blanket, smelling suspiciously like a certain doctor.
Until you started leaving fresh flowers in the living room, which make him still and smile looking at them. One day, there was a small bottle of aroma massage oil next to them and a little note saying “to help with the pain!,” in your curly writing. He carries that little bottle and note with him everywhere.
Until the house started looking and feeling more like a home
Until he had his first night terror in years.
——
It started with whimpers. Fear reached you as you shot up, thunder and raining muddling the sounds coming from the end of the hall.
You gently crept out of your room to stand in front of his closed door, stalling before turning the knob. You’d never gone in his room before, not even to clean.
You see Abbot sweating in his sleep, tossing and turning. He looks like his in pain and it’s killing you inside.
Slowly you make your way to him, gently sitting before rubbing small circles on his chest to soothe him. Little hums and shushes come out of you, as you go to rest against his headboard.
You try not to think about how firm him chest is, the little salt and pepper curls that match his hair or the scars that litter his body.
It’s takes time but you feel his body relax back into a peaceful sleep, as it reaches you too. Your soft snores fill the room, as you fall asleep next to the man you haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
——
He’s confused at first. Waking up to you curled softly against him, face nuzzled against his chest. He’s alarmed, body tensing unsure of what to do. A small part of him wants to go back to bed, pull you closer and sleep and another wants to run. His tense body wakes you up and the part that wants to run, shushes, looking at your sleepy face and tussled hair.
Your eyes widen as you realize you fell asleep against him.
“I’m so sorry! You.. you were having a nightmare and I came to check and I’m sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep here”
You look away, unable to make eye contact in shame as he swallows heavily.
His arms stop you from leaving as he tells you it’s okay. “I’m sorry I get.. from the war. I get nightmares sometimes. Thank you.. for helping me”
You couldn’t help but smile carefully. “It’s okay, I’m here for you”
——
Things changed at a rapid pace from there with Abbot, now Jack.
You were both each others closest companion. You spent his off days together, continued your shared meals and learned more than you dreamed of.
From his deployments, his late wife, his love of pineapple pizza and more.
Giggling you can’t help but recall when his red tinted cheeks when he learned about your job as a ghost writer for small smut books. It became natural, to seek eachother out, and one way or another, you always ended up in his bed.
Snuggled asleep in his arms, the two of you refused to say anything about this new tradition. The fear of breaking the comfort it brings stops you both.
Your pillows and blankets join the bed, and the room becomes more and more “our room” then his.
——
Robby can’t help but notice a small pep in Abbots step. How he suddenly comes in with well packed food and how his eyes looked brighter. Suspicion runs deep, as he wonders what changed for him.
“Getting more sleep brother?” He asks, watching Abbot get ready to leave.
Abbot can’t help but smirk “something like that”
——
The warm months great you as you and Jack settle closer into each others hearts.
He ponders, if he should ask. Ask what this is as he watches you plant flowers in his garden. His home is beautiful now, he thinks, like you.
“I think, I think we should have a house warming party.”
You can’t help but laugh as you glance up at him from the flower beds, “Can it be a housewarming if you’ve been here for years?”
“Never had or wanted one before. Seems like we should change that sweetheart”
Jack walks over steadily to you, kneeling to kiss you on your forehead.
You understand, and agree completely.
——
The backyard is bustling with new life. The flowers you planted being ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ at, as you’re introduced to all of Jacks friends and coworkers.
You find yourself particularly drawn to Mel and Langdon, giggling up a storm with the two of them.
Jack can’t help but watch you from the corner of his eyes, not quite focused on his conversation with Dana and Robby.
“So” Robby inturpts his thoughts of you. “How long have you been dating her?”
Jacks eyes brows raise, a crinkle settling into his forehead.
He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “We’re just roommates”
Dana and Robby can’t help but share a tired and concerned look.
“Jack, she lives with you. Cooks for you. Decorates your home and entertains your friends for you. If I had roommates like that I’d probably have more kids ” Dana says, trying to get a better answer from him.
“She’s young, we don’t want to see you hurt brother,”but Jack shrugs off both if their worries again, taking a sip of his beer.
A small smile appears on his face as he watches you mingle, knowing he didn’t have to worry about you or the ring in his nightstand.
Eyes On Me | Jack Abbot x Popstar ! Reader
Jack Abbot x f!Popstar ! Reader
Summary: You’re a breakout popstar on your first headlining tour. Fame hit fast—sold-out shows, screaming fans, and nonstop momentum. But behind the scenes, it’s overwhelming. You’re struggling to keep up with the pressure and pace. After collapsing backstage after a show in Pittsburg, you’re rushed to the ER—where you meet Dr. Jack Abbott.
Word Count: 6491
Warning: Age Gap (mid 20’s/late 40’s or early 50’s,) Mentions of mental health struggles discussions of suicidal thoughts/behavior
Author's Notes: Hi I’m ryn. Honestly this fanfic was is for myself LOL. Jack Abbot x Popstar ! Reader has been circling in my brain for the last 3 days and I just had to brain dump a story. Sorry for any grammatical errors and/or inaccuracies and unrealistic aspects. Like I said brain dump I just needed to get this out of my head before I went crazy. This is just for fun. Okay, enjoy.
Pittsburgh—night 22 of 36 shows on your tour across North America, all crammed into two relentless months.
Your career had skyrocketed overnight. One day, you dropped your first single, Hands and the next, your song was all over the radio. Suddenly, you were doing live performances on late-night shows, Hollywood events, and festivals, posing for magazine covers, releasing your debut album Sultry, and now headlining your first tour.
Performing and creating music was everything you ever wanted, but it came at a cost. You’ve been silently struggling for a while now. The pace, the preassure, expectations, the sheer magnitude of it all were starting to wear down—physically, mentally, and emotionally. You just wished you could hit pause. Slow it all down. Everything was happening so fast. You were trying to figure out how to process it all. And beneath all that, you felt incredibly lonely.
You were exhausted, but you kept going anyway. You had to. People depended on you, your fans, your team, the crew, your label. You didn’t want to let anyone down, so you pushed through, running on fumes, but after tonight's show, it finally caught up to you. Once the curtains closed and your adrenaline wore off, you collapsed.
—-
11:25 pm Dr. Jack Abbot reads on the computer at the ER’s Central station. His shift had started three hours ago, and so far, it had been uneventful. A few drunkards in a bar fight, some run-of-the-mill illnesses, the occasional kitchen mishap—nothing out of the ordinary. The night was still young.
“We got the bus coming from PGG Paints Arena. ETA 5 minutes” a nurse calls out.
“Heard!” Jack shouts as he types.
“Oh skin to skin, your touch feels like a sin- I want you can’t you see, I need your hands all over me…” Doctor John Shen sang under his breath a high pitch voice as he picked up a clipboard off the central counter and scans through it.
John continued to mumble words. Jack raised an eyebrow, glancing up from the report he was typing up to look at his fellow attending.
John could feel Jack's eyes and looked up at him. John shrugs “Hey, Hands is a catchy song…gulity pleasure” he said, unbothered by being caught singing something vaguely suggestive. Jack didn’t ask—he just assumed it was some pop song.
“Never heard of it…”
John was shocked. “You’re kidding! You never heard of Hands?” It’s all over the radio- pretty sure it's ranked at number 3 on Billboard Hot 100.”
Jack sighs, “I don’t listen to the radio, or pop music for that matter, Shen”
“Right, you listen to a police scanner in your free time like you’re-” John drops his voice into a gravelly imitation and makes a grump face “Batman”
Jack rolls his eyes, continuing to type.
“Honestly, if nightshift were a superheros you’d definitely be Batman- you know, you finding comfort in the dark and all-” John was a talker, already veering into one of his usual tangents.
“Anyway, the singer of Hands, biggest Popstar in the world right now- she had a concert tonight at the area- she’s sold out 36 shows across North America– impressive honestly–”
Jack was only half-listening—actually, not even that. He hummed and nodded anyway, pretending he was following along. Jack usually zoned out when John was on his tangents when it was something not related to work.
“You should listen to her stuff, it’s actually really good! Her album Sultry—I’ve been playing it on my way to work some nights. For a debut album, it’s pretty solid. Bop after bop, banger after banger—”
“Don’t you have patients to attend to, Shen?” Jack cut in, needing him to stop yapping.
Jack looks over his shoulder, his attention drawn to sudden commotion in the ambulance bay behind him. Muffled noise, shouting, screaming, and strobe of camera flashes lit up the glass of the automatic doors. The chaos was visible—but just barely contained.
“What the hell is going on?” He furrowed his eyebrows as he fully turned around, and straightened himself from hunching over one of the computer monitors.
“The bus just pulled up,” John says
“Yeah, but-”
Before Jack could take a step or say anything more, the automatic bay doors slid open. The muffled noise from outside crashed into the ER like a wave.
The paramedics burst through, wheeling in the gurney. The head of the gurney was propped at an angle.
“Well I be damned, it's her” John said casually, like Jack was supposed to know exactly who she was.
Jack furrowed his eyebrows as he looked over John “Who?”
John shot Jack an annoyed You weren’t listening look and said your name. “Only the biggest popstars in the world right now—ring any bells? The whole conversation we just had- came on, old man, weren’t you listening?”
From where Jack stood, he could see a young woman—you—trembling, your breaths shallow and rapid.
Your hair was disheveled, makeup smudged and streaked. A bomber jacket draped loosely over your shoulders. But beneath it, he caught a flash of purple sparkles—stagewear, most likely.
Beside the two paramedics wheeling you in, three people buzzed around you like bees, talking over one another, yet you looked numb. Not registering or taking anything they were saying.
The paramedic shouted over all the noise and commotion "Twenty-five-year-old female, syncopal episode post-performance. Now conscious and alert—”
Somehow, through the rush and chaos, your eyes managed to find Jack’s. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul—and in that moment, yours didn’t lie.
Jack didn’t see a popstar. He saw a human. A woman who looked disassociated, exhausted. Sad. Worn thin.
He’d seen that same look before—in the military, and even here, on the job. That quiet, aching kind of broken. The kind that creeps in when you’ve been running on empty for too long.
Time seemed to slow as you were wheeled past him. He was an older man, a doctor you assumed. You couldn’t look away from his dark eyes. The look in his eyes. No one had ever looked at you like that—not the way he was in that moment. Different from every glance, every stare you’d ever known. And for a moment, you thought he could see you. Really see you. The weight of it made you sit up slightly, still staring back at him.
“I got this one- South Wing, Exam Room 4 —move her!” John barked, falling in step beside the gurney as it sped past, your eye contact with Jack breaking.
Snapping out what felt like a trance, Jack gets back to work.
“Call for more security-” Jack snaps one of the nurses as he bolts from central, heading to the ambulance bay. The two security guards on duty were overwhelmed, struggling to control the crowd.
“Hey! HEY! you can’t be here unless you are sick, injured, dying or are here for someone that is!” He shouts over the chaos “If not get the hell out of my ER and ambulance bay!!!”
The commotion only grows—cameras flashing, people yelling, shoving for a better view, the frenzy thick with screams and blinding light.
More security comes to help push everyone back out, managing the crowd. Jack exhales, knowing they’ve got it under control. Without another word, he turns on his heel and makes his way back inside, the chaos fading behind him like background noise.
He was going to head to your exam room—something about you lingered. That look in your eyes. He’d seen people in pain before, but this was something different. Quieter. Deeper. And he couldn’t shake it.
He was gonna head over to your exam room, but he was cut off by another nurse.
“Doctor Abbot! Trauma Room 1—stabbing victim”
Jack glanced down the South Wing, hesitating for half a second.
“Copy that,” he said, before turning and rushing toward Trauma Room 1.
___
The exam room was loud and overcrowded. Your manager, publicist, and assistant hovered around you as a nurse tried to take your vitals and ask you basic intake questions. Doctor Shen was trying–unsuccessfully– to get your team to leave so their staff could do their job, but my manager refused.
“It’s best if you wait outside-” The doctor states.
Your manager protested “No!”
“Look, we can’t do our job effectively and efficiently if-” the doctor is cut off by your manager.
“Well your medical professionals! I’m pretty sure you can handle extra people in a room! Hello, you do surgeries and what not with more than five people in a room!”
Your chest heaved as you sat there, still listening, your breathing shallow and uneven.
“For the sake of the patient—”
“Well, the sake of my client—”
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Stop!” You said sharply. “Mac, give them space-”
“What?” Your manager blinked, stunned.
“Let them do their job. I—I feel fine, like I told the paramedics,” You said quickly, forcing a shaky smile. “They just need to check me out. Once they see everything’s okay, I’ll be out of here in no time. And we’ll hit the road”
That was a lie. You didn’t feel fine.
All these eyes on you—the world—and yet none of them truly saw you.
They couldn’t tell you were faking it. Couldn’t see how much you were silently struggling. How you really felt. Not even the people you saw every day. Part of you felt guilty for even being here—for slowing everything down, for putting yourself and your team behind schedule. Everyone was counting on you. And you were falling apart.
Your manager sighed “Alright.” nodded in agreement, and the rest of your team quietly made their way out of your exam room and directed to the family room.
You let out a sigh.
“Sorry about them, I didn't mean to cause any trouble.” You apologized to Doctor Shen and the Nurse as they began to check my vitals.
“Don’t sweat it. It’s fine—comes with the territory in the ER. Your team’s not the first to argue with us, and they’re definitely not the worst.”
You let out a breath, nodding faintly.
“Still… I hate that it got like that.”
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. What we should be focusing on is you. Is it okay if we go over a few questions?”
Doctor Shen and the nurse continued their routine—asking questions, checking my vitals. I answered them all, but inside, I felt numb. Like I was moving through it on autopilot.
When they finally left, the silence swallowed everything.
You later there for god knows how long. Curled up on your side, motionless.
Your boots were scattered nearby, forgotten. The tights clung to me like a second skin, and the purple sparkle bodysuit caught the fluorescent lights—still shimmering like it belonged on a stage, not under a hospital ceiling.
But you kept it all in. You didn't let yourself break. Even though you wanted to. Desperately. Ypu wanted to scream. To beg someone to just see me. To understand. To notice what youwere holding together by threads.
You needed somewhere to go. Anywhere but these walls.
You slid off the exam bed, my boots still on the floor, untouched. You didn’t bother putting them back on. You didn’t need to. Out in the ER, the chaos buzzed around me—everyone seemed preoccupied, moving in their own world. But none of that mattered. You didn’t stop.
As you quickly searched for an escape, anything to get away, I finally found the stairs. Floor after floor, my body moved on autopilot, pulled by some quiet instinct—a need for silence. For up.
The rooftop door wasn’t even locked.
And suddenly, there you were —standing beneath the open night sky, the wind pulling at my hair, the city lights stretching out below me like a pulse, faint but steady.
___
Jack peeled off his gloves and paper gown, tossing them into the overstuffed disposal bin without a second glance. His safety glasses came off next, dropped into a tray with a soft clatter.
The stabbing victim had finally been stabilized—barely. They’d coded multiple times on the table, the blood loss severe, the damage extensive. It had been a fight, but for now, they had a pulse.
Jack made his way to the center of the ER, eyes lifting to the patient triage board glowing on the monitors above the central station. He stood there for a moment, just staring—taking it all in, processing the chaos the way only someone used to it could.
John approached quietly, coming to stand beside him. For a moment, neither of them spoke—just two physicians staring up at the ever-shifting list of names, numbers, and needs blinking across the screen.
“Rough night,” John finally said, his voice low, more of a statement than a question.
Jack didn’t look away. “When isn’t it?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the board, but his mind drifted.
The popstar.
He didn’t even need to say her name—she was already burned into the back of his mind. The look in her eyes when they brought her in.
“How’s she doing?” he asked finally, still staring ahead.
John followed his gaze for a beat, then glanced at the chart in her hand.
“Vitals stabilized. Labs were all over the place when she came in—dehydration, low electrolytes, stress markers through the roof. But mostly?” She paused. “She’s just exhausted. Like, bone-deep. Extreme fatigue. Burnout, plain and simple.”
Jack finally turned to face him.
“Does she say anything?”
John shook her head. “Not much. I didn't need to. You could see it all over her.”
Jack nodded slowly, jaw tightening just slightly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “You could see it the second she walked in… or was wheeled in.”
He leaned on the edge of the counter, eyes distant now, somewhere far above the triage board. “It wasn’t just physical. It was in her eyes. Like she’d been running on fumes for a long time, and this was the moment her body finally said ‘no more.’”
John studied him for a moment. “You connected with her.”
Jack didn’t answer right away. He just let out a quiet breath through his nose, staring at the board, but not really seeing it anymore.
“Maybe it’s because I’ve seen it before,” he said quietly. “That look. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show up in lab results. The kind that runs deeper than what anyone can measure. You can tell when someone’s been running on empty for too long... and their body just finally gives out.”
John says “She still has 14 more shows left. With the pace she’s been going, I honestly don’t know how she’s made it this far.”
A flash of purple caught their attention.
Jack’s eyes snapped to the hallway just in time to see you slip from your room—glittering tights and a purple sparkle jumpsuit, unmistakable even in the dim hospital light. You moved quickly, your bare feet barely making a sound against the cold tile, as though you were trying to be unnoticed, trying to outrun something—or maybe trying to find something.
John caught the movement too, his gaze following you down the hall. “I bet she’s headed to the roof,” he muttered, voice low, tinged with understanding.
Jack’s eyes stayed fixed on you, his jaw tightening.
Jack didn’t respond immediately. His jaw tightened as he watched you slip through the door at the end of the hall, already heading for the stairs.
John frowned, glancing at Jack. “You think she’s gonna be alright up there?”
Jack didn’t answer immediately. He just stared after you, his mind racing. There was something about the way you moved—like you were running, but didn’t know where you were running to. It made something shift in him.
“People like her… people like us, sometimes,” Jack began, his voice quieter, “they forget they don’t always have to do it alone. That there are moments where it’s okay to stop pretending.”
John didn’t push, but there was a silent understanding between them.
Jack was already moving toward the stairwell, his steps purposeful now. "I’ll check on her."
Jack follows your path, climbing up several flights of stairs to get to the roof
When he finally reached the rooftop, the door creaked open softly, the cool night air greeting him as he stepped out onto the open space. His eyes immediately found you on the other side of the railing, standing still, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you were trying to hold together everything that felt like it might break.
You were staring out into the distance, as if the city lights could somehow offer you the answers you were looking for.
___
“Hey,” he says, his voice low but steady.
You let out yelp, startled by the sudden voice. You hadn’t expected anyone else up here. Your hands instinctively grab the railing behind you, gripping it tightly for support. There was still a sliver of space between you and the edge, but your heart was already racing.
“Whoa, whoa—careful now,” says quickly, a hoodie draped over his arm. His hands rise in a calming gesture, fanning out as if to steady you.
You glance over your shoulder, blinking in disbelief. It’s him—the man you locked eyes with earlier across the chaos. Tall, calm, dressed in black scrubs that cling to his frame like a shadow. His salt-and-pepper curls are tousled just enough to soften the sharpness of the stubble along his jaw.
“I’m Doctor Abbot,” he continues, stepping closer but keeping his distance.
“I didn’t come up here to jump—” you say defensively.
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“No, really—I’m serious. I just—” You hesitated, your eyes drifting away.
It wasn’t a total lie. The thought had crossed your mind once or twice before—on different nights, in different places—This wasn’t that.
You just needed space. A moment to think, to breathe.
“Hey…” he says softly. “I get it. I head up here to get away from everything down there.”
He nods toward where you’re standing. “That spot? It’s usually mine.”
You glance at him, surprised.
“I’ve seen enough chaos for ten lifetimes,” he adds with a faint smile. “Up here’s the only place where no one’s life is on the line or yelling at me.” His voice carries a dry edge—half joke, half truth.
He steps closer to the railing.
“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the space beside you, silently asking for permission.
You give him a quick glance, and he understands—it’s okay. He ducks under the railing and steps up beside you, settling in quietly.
He lowers himself to the ground, knees drawn to his chest, arms resting loosely on top. His back leans against the railing with a quiet familiarity. After a moment, you follow suit, settling beside him, sitting cross-legged in the hush of the night.
A silence falls between us as we look at the city skyline.
“I come up here when I need to feel like a person again. Not a doctor. Not the guy who’s supposed to keep it all together. Just… me.”
He lets out a slow breath. “There are nights—some harder than others—where the thought crosses my mind. Of just… stepping off. Letting go.”
He pauses “But something always stops me. Reminds me why I stay.”
He glances at you, voice quieter now.
“It’s the need to help people. To connect. Even when it’s messy… even when it hurts. It’s what keeps me tethered. It’s what drives me. It’s in my DNA”
Jack hadn’t shared that part of himself because he was looking for comfort. He shared it because he saw something in you—something he couldn’t ignore.
He couldn’t shake the look in your eyes from earlier, when they wheeled you in. That numb, exhausted sadness. The silent plea buried deep in your gaze. A quiet scream for someone—anyone—to really see you.
You were young—early twenties, maybe. A pop star. To the world, you probably seemed untouchable. Perfect. Living the kind of life most people only dream of.
But up close, all Jack saw was someone unraveling. Someone barely holding on. And he’d seen enough to know that pain doesn’t care who you are, how famous you are, or how bright the spotlight is.
And he couldn’t imagine what it must be like.
To be seen by the eyes of everyone… but never really seen.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is… this is where I come to stop pretending. So… no pretending. You don’t need to be anything up here, okay? I see you.”
My head snaps up at his words. “W-what?” your eyes widened, caught off guard.
“I said… I see you,” he repeats, voice steady, eyes locked on mine with quiet intensity.
Something in you breaks. Your lips start to tremble, and then the tears come—uncontrollable, unstoppable. You start to sob, the weight of everything finally cracking open.
This man—this stranger—was the first person to really look past the surface. To notice the pain you’d been drowning in. To see you, not the version of you the world demands.
And in that moment, you realize how long you’ve been waiting for someone to do exactly that.
Without a word, he takes the hoodie he’s been holding and gently drapes it over your bare shoulders, shielding you from the cool night air. The fabric is warm, worn, and smells faintly of him—clean soap and something grounding.
You lean into his side, drawn by a comfort you didn’t know you needed.
He hesitates for a moment, unsure, then instinct takes over. His arm wraps around you, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to startle you. His hand begins to rub your arm—slow, steady circles. Not to fix anything. Just to let me know you're not alone.
The sobs come in waves—raw, jagged, leaving your chest aching and my throat tight. I try to stifle them, to keep it quiet, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stays beside me, steady and still, his hand never leaving my arm.
Eventually, it passes. Not completely, but enough for you to breathe again. Your chest still hiccups with the occasional shuttered breath,
“I—I don’t even know where to start,” You whisper, voice hoarse from crying. “I just… I’m so exhausted.”
He says nothing, but his presence says I’m here. Take your time.
“Everything happened so fast—my career, all of it. It’s like I’m on this train, expecting stops along the way… but it just keeps speeding past every one of them. No breaks. No time to breathe.”
You pause, trying to find the right words through the tightness in my chest.
“And then there’s the pressure. The expectations. People depend on me—my fans, my team, the crew, the label... all of them. I’m supposed to be the one who holds it all together.”
Your voice wavers. “But inside, I’ve been unraveling. It’s like I’m screaming, and no one hears it. Or worse—they hear it and just… don’t care.”
You glance up at him, tears clinging to my lashes, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I have everything I thought I wanted. Everything I dreamed of since I was a little girl. And I still feel empty. So lonely. Like I’m surrounded by people… but completely alone in all of it. My voice cracks on the last words. I look away, ashamed.
Jack doesn’t speak right away.
He just watches you, eyes full of something that feels a lot like understanding. His arm is still around you, steady and warm. And when he finally speaks, his voice is low. Gentle.
“I know that feeling,” he says. “Being surrounded… and still feeling like you’re the only one in the room who’s not okay.”
He exhales slowly, like the weight of my words hit something deep in him too.
“You’re not broken. You’re human. And humans aren’t built to carry everything alone—no matter how strong the world expects us to be.”
He shifts slightly so he can face me more fully, his hand still resting on my arm, grounding me.
“You’re allowed to feel lost. You’re allowed to not have it all together. And just because people look up to you doesn’t mean you owe them everything. You still deserve to be a person. To rest. To be seen.”
He pauses, taking a breath, then adds softly, “Your job is demanding, I get that. But sometimes, you have to do what’s best for you. Put yourself first, even if it means letting others down in the process. You have to take care of yourself. You have to. Don’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it, either. Because if you don’t, you’ll find yourself on a path that’s hard to get off of.”
Thank you, Doctor Abbot.”
“Jack,” he corrects gently. “My name’s Jack.”
“Jack,” you repeat with a small smile, then introduce yourself.
He chuckles. “You know… I’m really aging myself here, but I only found out who you were a couple hours ago.” Trying to lighten the mood.
You laugh. “Honestly? That’s kind of refreshing.”
“I don’t really keep up with pop culture,” he admits. “Dr. Shen was the one singing your earlier in our shift—what was it? Hands?”
“Oh god…” you groan, burying your face in your hands. That song was definitely suggestive. Of all the songs…
Jack grins. “What was it—‘Oh skin to skin, your touch feels like a sin… I want you, can’t you see, I need your hands all over me’?” He stumbles through the lyrics, trying to recall them.
“No, no, please don’t sing it!” you laugh, half mortified, half amused.
Jack arches a brow, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why not? It’s catchy?”
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Don’t encourage it.”
“Oh, come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s stuck in my head now.”
“Why don’t you sing it?”
You lift your head, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
Jack leans back against the railing, feigning innocence. “What? Fair’s fair. I butchered it—might as well hear it from the professional.”
You stare at him, mouth open. “You want me to sing that song? Right now?”
He shrugs with a teasing glint in his eye. “You’re the one who wrote it. Own it.”
You groan again, dramatically flopping your head back. “Absolutely not.”
He arches a brow, clearly amused. “Why because it’s…?”
You shoot him a glare, cheeks burning. “You know why.”
Jack smirks. “Nope. Enlighten me.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands for a second before peeking at him through your fingers. “Because that song is suggestive, okay? And I’m not gonna put on a whole performance for the guy I just met while sitting on the edge of a hospital rooftop.”
He grins, utterly unbothered by your embarrassment. “I mean, you might as well—you’ve got the outfit, so you’re halfway there.”
Jack shrugs, his expression playful. “It’s not every day I get to share a rooftop with a pop star. Kind of a once-in-a-lifetime moment, don’t you think?”
You come back quickly. You cross your arms, giving him a teasing look. “But hey, if you’re lucky, I might just give you a private concert… somewhere a little less public.”
You freeze for a heartbeat, flustered, but the moment passes just as quickly as it came. Jack looks out over the city again, that easy smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
His brows rise, amused, but he doesn’t say anything right away—just lets the silence stretch for a beat too long before offering a slow, teasing smile.
“Oh really?” he says lightly, head tilting. “Didn’t realize I’d stumbled into the VIP experience.”
Your eyes widen. “Wait—I didn’t mean it like that, I—” You groan, running a hand through your hair. “That came out so wrong. I swear I’m not flirting.”
Oh, but you were.
And so was he.
Somehow, without meaning to, the two of you had tangled yourselves into this strange, electric mess. One minute you were unpacking the weight of everything you’d buried inside, the next, you were tossing playful banter back and forth like it was the most natural thing in the world. Somewhere between the quiet confessions and the shared silence, something shifted. Neither of you planned for it, neither of you were sure what to call it—but whatever this was, it felt real. Unexpected, but real.
Jack knew this was unprofessional—wildly unprofessional. He knew better. He should have known better. She was a patient—vulnerable, barely holding herself together just hours ago and years younger. The kind of line he’d never imagined crossing. Every rule in the book told him to step back, to keep the boundary clear and intact.
He told himself it was harmless. Just words, just a moment. He told himself it was just a moment. Just a conversation. But even he knew that was a lie. Jack knew it was more. This wasn’t about flirting. It was about connection—messy, imperfect, unexpected connection—and despite everything telling him to walk away, he couldn’t bring himself to.
Not yet.
Jack chuckles, clearly enjoying every second of your flustered state.
“Oh great—now you’ve seen me at my absolute worst and my most embarrassing.”
You groan, pressing your palms to your face. “I swear, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh, I know what you meant,” he says with mock seriousness, nodding slowly. “A pop star tries to seduce a jaded ER doctor with a rooftop concert. Very scandalous. Very tabloid-friendly.”
You peek at him through your fingers, trying not to laugh. “Stop.”
You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “This is humiliating.”
“Come on,” he says, nudging your arm with a lopsided grin. “If anything, I should be flattered. First time I’ve ever flirted with a pop star on a rooftop.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” you insist, a little defensive.
“Keep telling yourself that,”
Silence falls between you two again.
Jack looks at his watch. 1:13 am
“We should probably head back down,” Jack says, standing up and using the railing to steady himself.
“Right…”He ducks under the bars, making his way back to the safe side.
You follow suit, and he extends his hand toward you, offering support as you step back over to the safer side. You take his hand, steadying yourself as you make the move.
___
None of you speak as you head back down to the main floor of the ER. The silence hangs between you as Jack walks you back to your exam room, his footsteps steady and measured.
Once inside, Jack’s gaze softens, his expression shifting to something more serious. “The tests came back, and it’s clear you’re dealing with extreme fatigue and exhaustion,” he says, his voice calm but insistent. “Your body’s been running on empty for too long, and it’s starting to take its toll.”
He pauses for a moment, letting his words settle before continuing. “I’m recommending that you take some time off, but I also think it’s crucial that you talk to someone—a therapist. You’ve been through a lot, and it’s important to get the support you need to process everything properly.”
Jack looks at you with genuine concern. “We’ll discharge you soon, but I want to make sure your team knows what’s going on. I’ll have a word with them so they understand the need for you to take a step back for a while. You need the time to focus on yourself and heal.”
He pauses again, reaching into his pocket. “I’m also going to write down some resources for you—therapists and support groups, people who can help you through this. I want you to have everything you need to get better, okay?”
“Thank you,” you say quietly, feeling the weight of everything finally starting to settle.
Jack gives you a small nod, his expression softening. “The nurse will come back soon to hook you up to an IV to rehydrate. Rest as much as you can.” He pauses for a moment before adding,
“I’ll come in a check up you soon”
With a final glance, he turns and leaves, the door clicking softly behind him. The room feels quieter now, but in a way, the silence feels less heavy—like a small sense of relief has finally started to creep in.
___
6:30am Day shift would be coming soon to relieve the night shift.
You’d stayed in the ER throughout the night. Your team stayed with you too—quiet, worried, but present. When you woke up, you finally opened up to your manager. You told him everything—how you’d been feeling, how long it had been building, how it all finally broke.
He listened. Really listened.
And when you were done, he looked at you—genuinely shaken. “I had no idea you were carrying all that,” he said, his voice low with guilt. “I’m so sorry. You should’ve never felt like you had to keep this to yourself.”
He reassured you that things would change. That they’d meet with the label, reevaluate everything. “If we have to cancel the rest of the tour, so be it,” he said firmly. “You—your well-being—that’s what matters now. Nothing else is more important.”
___
“Alright you’re all set” Doctor Shen says, officially releasing you from the hospital.
I was still in my stage outfit, my boots in hand, and wearing Jack’s hoodie.
“Thanks, Doctor Shen,” you say, grateful as you start to turn.
“Wait!” he calls after you, stopping you in your tracks. “Before you go, do you think I could get your autograph?”
You pause, surprised, then smile. “Yeah, of course,” you say, walking back over with a light laugh. It’s a small, sweet moment, something you didn’t expect, but somehow felt right—maybe even grounding in its own way. You take a moment to sign, your pen moving across the paper as you look up at him with a warm smile.
“Thanks for everything,” you add, handing it back to him.
You see Jack, approaching.
“Would you like an autograph too?” I joke
“Wow I really downgraded there. What happened to my VIP Experience? My private show?”
“You’re still on about that?”
Jack laughs, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, I had big expectations for this VIP experience. Autographs? Really?” He sighs dramatically, pretending to be disappointed.
“Raincheck on the VIP experience?”
He nods, chuckling softly. “Alright, I’ll hold you to it”
“So…what are your plans now?” He asks.
You glance behind your shoulder, catching sight of Mac pacing on the phone, waiting for you by the automatic doors of the ambulance bay. “Uh, headed back home actually. Mac, my manager, is talking to the rest of the team and my label about me canceling the rest of the tour, taking care of my wellbeing,” you explain.
“That’s great to hear,” Jack says, his tone soft, genuine.
Silence falls between you two, an awkward pause that neither of you knows how to fill. You both understand, without saying it, that this is probably the first and last time you’d be seeing each other.
You shift your weight, unsure of what to say next, and Jack clears his throat, glancing down at the ground for a moment before meeting your eyes one last time. “Take care of yourself, alright?” he says, his voice sincere.
You give a small nod, managing a quiet, “You too.”
Jack steps back, his hands in his pockets, his expression still thoughtful. “I meant what I said earlier… about getting the help you need. It’s important.” His words hang in the air between you, as if he’s trying to convey something deeper, something he might not have the chance to say again.
You nod, the weight of the moment settling in. “I will,” you reply softly, feeling the weight of everything you’ve been through start to press against you again.
You start to walk towards the automatic doors, the hallway stretching ahead, but you stop. You can still feel Jack’s eyes on me, pulling me back. You turn around, your feet moving almost without thinking, and walk back to him.
He looks up at you, confused by your sudden change, but before he can say anything, you drop your boots on the floor and fling your arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. You hold him for a moment, feeling the warmth of his embrace, his hands finding your waist and wrapping his arms under his hoodie that you’re wearing.
“I didn’t think anyone could see me,” you murmur, your voice soft and vulnerable. “But somehow, you did. All these eyes on me, yet you’re the one who truly sees.” You hold him tighter. “Thank you… for seeing me. For truly seeing me.”
Before you pull away, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, a gentle gesture that lingers for just a second longer than expected. You let go, picking up your boots, and walk toward the automatic doors.
You take one last glance back, giving him a small wave, and for a fleeting moment, you catch his gaze. But then, you turn away, making your way out, leaving the hospital and the weight of everything behind you. I won't look back again.
___
Doctor Michael Robinavitch, 30 minutes early for his day’s shift, strolled beside Jack with a coffee cup in hand. He noticed the young woman in a shiny outfit, wearing Jack’s hoodie, leaving the ER with her boots in hand. She shot Jack a final look, and then disappeared out of the automatic doors.
Jack stood there, still in a bit of a daze. He hadn’t noticed Michael approaching. He could still feel the warmth of her kiss on his cheek, the feeling lingering far longer than it should have.
Michael finally broke the silence, glancing at Jack. “She took your hoodie.”
Jack blinked, coming back to himself, and then offered a small smile. “I know,” he said, his voice a little distant.
Michael raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, guess that’s one way to make a lasting impression.”
Jack chuckled, a soft, almost wistful sound. He rubbed his cheek absently, still feeling the imprint of her kiss. “Yeah… guess so.”
Michael leaned against the counter, watching his friend with a knowing look. “You’re still thinking about it, huh?”
Jack met his gaze, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Maybe.”
A quiet moment passed between them. Jack knew, deep down, he’d probably never see her again. She was a pop star, and he was just another ER doctor. Their worlds were too different. But still, there was something about that moment—that made him hope he’d be wrong.
“I hope I do,” Jack muttered, almost to himself.
Michael looked at him, the playful edge gone from his voice. “Yeah. I can see that.”
Jack didn’t say anything else, his mind still caught up in the strange, fleeting connection. He wasn’t sure if it would ever turn into anything more, but for now, the memory of her was enough.
(another part??? let me know)
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.
When the Sun Hits
summary: What begins as a hospital-wide power outage leaves you trapped in a supply closet with your emotionally unavailable attending. But when the lights come back on, what lingers between you can’t be shut off so easily. genre/notes: forced proximity, slow burn, panic attack + trauma comfort, domestic fluff, my fave kind of intimacy, mutual pining, humor/crack, soft!Jack that can't flirt for shit, idiots in love but neither of them will admit it, you discover you have a praise kink in the most inconvenient of ways warnings: references to trauma, depiction of a panic attack, mentions of grief and burnout, implied but not explicit smut, praise kink word count: ~ 7.1k a/n: down bad for whipped Jack Abbot
You had just turned to ask Jack if he could grab another tray of 32 French chest tubes when the lights cut out.
One second, the supply closet was bathed in its usual flickering overhead light—and the next, everything dropped into darkness. Sharp. Sudden.
You froze, one hand on the bin. Jack swore behind you.
"Shit," he muttered, somewhere just inside the door. The backup emergency lights flickered red from the hallway, but barely touched the cramped space around you.
Then the intercom crackled overhead: Code Yellow. Facility-wide outage. All staff remain on current floors. Secure all medications and patients.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Automatic lock.
You turned just as Jack tried the handle. It didn’t budge.
He sighed. "Well. That’s one way to guarantee a five-minute break."
You looked at him sharply, but he was already scanning the room, looking for anything useful, keeping his voice light.
"Guess we’re stuck for a bit," he added.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The air felt too tight in your lungs, too warm all of a sudden.
Because now, the supply closet didn’t just feel small.
It felt like it was closing in.
It had been a normal day.
Or as normal as anything ever was around here—high-pressure shifts balanced by the strange rhythm you and Jack had settled into over the past few years. You worked together well—efficient, quick to anticipate each other's needs, almost telepathic during traumas. Partners in crime, someone had once joked. Probably Robby.
You’d learned how to read his silences—the kind that weren’t dismissive but deliberate, like he was giving you space without needing to say it aloud. He’d learned how to decode your muttered curses and side glances, how to step in behind you without crowding, how to let his shoulder bump yours during charting when words failed you both.
There was a kind of ease between you, a rhythm that didn’t require explanation. He’d hand you tools before you asked for them. You’d finish his sentences when he gave consults. Even in chaos, your partnership felt oddly... quiet. Intimate, in a way that crept in slowly, like warmth from a mug clasped between two hands after a long shift.
When you were paired on trauma, nurses and med students stopped asking who was lead. They knew you moved as one.
People had started to notice—how the two of you always seemed to stay overtime on the same days, how Jack would make dry, cutting jokes around others but soften them just enough when talking to you. Robby, in particular, teased him about it relentlessly.
"Jack, blink twice if this is you flirting," he’d once called across the ER after Jack mumbled, "Great work Dr. L/N," while watching you tie off a flawless stitch or nailing a differential.
Jack huffed. "It’s efficient. She's efficient."
"God, you’re hopeless," Robby laughed.
"She’s my best resident," Jack shot back, like it explained everything. Like it wasn’t a deflection.
You snorted into your coffee. "You say that like it’s not the fifth time this week."
Jack, without missing a beat: "That’s because it’s true. I value consistency."
He was awful at flirting—stiff and dry and chronically understated—but you’d grown to read the fondness buried in the flat delivery.
Like the morning he handed you your favorite protein bar without a word and then said, as you blinked at him, "Don’t faint. You’ll ruin my numbers."
Or the time he stood outside your call room after a brutal night shift, coffee in hand, and muttered, "You deserve a nap, but I guess you’ll have to settle for caffeine and my sparkling company."
He always made sure to loop you in on the interesting cases—"Figure it’s good for your development," he’d say. But then linger just a little too long after rounds, just to hear your thoughts.
And when you were quiet too long, when something in you withdrew, he never asked outright. Just gave you space—and a clipboard he’d pre-filled, or a shift swap you hadn’t requested, or the gentlest, "You good?" when you passed each other by the scrub sinks.
And now, here you were. Trapped in a closet with the man who rarely made jokes—and never blushed—except when you were around.
Now, you were stuck. Together.
The air felt thin but simultaneously stuffed to the brim.
Jack turned on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the room. "We’re fine," he said, calm and certain. "Generator will kick in soon."
You nodded. Tried to match his steadiness. Failed.
The closet was small. Smaller than it had ever felt before.
The walls crept in.
You didn’t notice the way your hands started to shake until he said your name.
Your vision tunneled. The room blurred at the edges, corners shrinking in like someone was folding the walls inward. The air felt heavy, every breath catching at the top of your throat before it could sink deep enough to matter. It felt like someone had filled your veins with liquid lead, your entire body suddenly weighing too much to hold upright. You staggered back a step, hand scrambling blindly for something to anchor you—shelf, handle, Jack. Your heart was pounding—loud, ragged, out of sync with time itself.
You tried to swallow. Couldn’t.
Sweat prickled your scalp. Your fingers tingled, every nerve on fire. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you crumbled to the floor—head buried between your knees, hands clasped behind your neck, trying to fold yourself into a singularity. Anything to disappear. Anything to slip away from this moment and the way it pressed in on all sides. There was no exit. No sound but your own spiraling thoughts and the slow, careful way Jack said your name again.
You blinked. Your eyes wouldn’t focus.
"Hey," Jack coaxed, his voice cutting through the static—low and steady, somehow still distant. His full attention was on you now, gaze locked in, unmoving. "Breathe."
You couldn’t.
It hit like a wave—sharp and silent, rising in your chest like pressure, no space, no air, no exit.
Jack’s hands found your shoulders. "I’ve got you. You’re okay. Stay with me, yeah?"
He crouched in front of you, grounding you with steady pressure and careful, deliberate calm. His hands—firm, callused, the kind that had seen years of split-second decisions and endless sutures—gripped your upper arms with a touch that was impossibly gentle. Like he could mold you back into yourself with his palms alone. His thumbs brushed lightly, not demanding, just present. Just there.
"Can you breathe with me?" he asked. "In for four. Okay? One, two, three…"
You tried. You really did.
Your chest still felt locked, ribs tight around panic like a vice, but his voice—low and even—threaded through the chaos.
"Out for four," he murmured, exhaling slowly, deliberately, like the sound alone could show your body how to follow. "Good. Just like that."
The faint light dimmed between you, casting his face in half-shadow. He was close now—close enough for you to catch the scent of antiseptic and something warm underneath, something that reminded you of winter nights and clean laundry.
"You’re here," he said again, softer this time. "You’re safe. Nothing’s coming. You’ve got space."
You reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve and clutching it like a lifeline.
"Good girl," Jack said softly, instinctively, like it slipped out without permission.
Your brain short-circuited. Of all things, in all moments—that was what hooked your attention. You let out a strangled little laugh, shaky and almost hysterical. "Fucking hell," you murmured, pressing your face into your arm. "Why is that what got me breathing again?"
Jack blinked, startled for a second—then let out the smallest huff of relief, like he was holding back a smirk. "Hey, if it works, I’ll say it again," he said, a thread of warmth sneaking into his voice.
You groaned, half-burying your face in your elbow. "Please don’t."
He was still crouched in front of you, his tone gentler now, teasing on purpose, like he was giving you something else to hold onto. "Admit it—you just wanted to hear me say something nice for once."
"Jack," you warned, half-laughing, half-crying.
"You’re doing great," he said quietly, real again. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."
And eventually—one shaky inhale at a time—your lungs obeyed.
When the power came back on, you stood side-by-side in the wash of fluorescent light, blinking against it.
You were still trembling faintly, your breaths shallow but more even now. Jack didn’t step away. Not right away.
"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low, steady.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Jack stood slowly, offering a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.
Then he tried, awkwardly, to lighten the mood. "If calling you a good girl was really all it took, then I’ve been severely underutilizing my motivational toolkit."
You let out a startled laugh, breath catching mid-sound. "Jesus, don’t start."
He gave you a crooked smile—relieved, even if the corners of it were still tight with concern. "Whatever works, right? Next time I’ll try it with more enthusiasm."
"Next time?" Your eyes widened like saucers—absolutely flabbergasted, half-tempted to dissolve into laughter or hit him with the nearest supply tray.
He shrugged, another smug grin threatening to cross his lips. "Just saying. If you’re going to unravel in a closet, might as well do it with someone who knows where to find the defibrillator."
You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until the light flickered again.
Only then did you both step apart.
You didn’t say much.
He didn’t ask you to.
You’d made it as far as the locker room before the adrenaline crash hit. You rinsed your face, changed into sweats, and shoved your scrubs into your bag with trembling fingers. Jack had walked you out of the department without a word, just a hand hovering near your lower back.
"Thanks," you said quietly, as you scanned out. "For earlier."
Jack shook his head, like it was nothing. "You don’t need to thank me."
"Still," you said. "Just… please don’t mention it to anyone?"
He looked over at you, mouth twitching at the corner. "Mention what?"
That made you laugh—brief, breathless. "Right."
You parted ways near the waiting room, sharing your usual post-shift goodbyes.
Or so you thought.
Jack had been about to leave when he saw you—doubling back through the double doors, slipping through the staff-only entrance and back into the ER.
His brow furrowed.
He hesitated, then turned to follow.
The corridor was quiet. Most of the day shift hadn’t arrived yet, and the call room hallway echoed faintly under his footsteps. He paused outside the on-call room and knocked once, gently. When there was no response, he eased the door open.
The room was cramped and windowless, just enough space for a narrow bunk bed and a scuffed metal chair in the corner. The mattress dipped in the middle, the kind of sag that never quite let you forget your own weight. The attached bathroom offered a stall that barely passed for a shower—low pressure, eternally lukewarm, and loud enough to make you question whether it was working or crying for help. It felt more like a last resort than a place to rest.
Your bag was on the bed. Half-unpacked. Toothbrush laid out. Socks tucked into the corner. Like you were staying in a hotel. Like you’d been staying here.
He was still standing there when the bathroom door cracked open and you stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted tightly around your torso.
You both froze.
Your eyes widened. Jack’s went comically wide before he spun around on instinct, shielding his eyes like it was second nature. "Shit—sorry, I didn’t—"
"What are you doing here?" you asked at the exact same time he blurted, "What are you doing here?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jack cleared his throat, ears bright red. "I… saw you come back in. Just wanted to check."
You were still standing in place like a deer in headlights, towel clutched in a death grip.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck, eyes very pointedly still on the wall, as if the peeling paint had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
Fingers clenched around the edge of the towel, embarrassment prickled across your chest like static. "One second," you murmured, disappearing back into the bathroom before either of you could say anything more.
A minute later, the door creaked open and you stepped out again—now wrapped in an oversized hoodie and soft, baggy sweatpants that made you look small, almost swallowed whole by comfort. Jack’s brain did something deeply inconvenient at the sight.
You lingered in the doorway, sleeves tugged down over your hands, damp hair framing your face. "You can look now," you said, voice softer this time.
Jack didn’t move at first. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat in a way that sounded more like a stall tactic than anything physiological. Only after a beat did he finally turn, cautiously, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
He caught himself staring. Made a mental note not to think about it later. Failed almost immediately.
A breath left your lungs, quieter than the room deserved. You crossed to the bunk and sat down on the edge, fingers fidgeting with the seam of your sweatpants. "You can sit, if you want," you said, barely above a whisper.
The mattress shifted a second later as Jack lowered himself beside you, careful, slow—like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His knee brushed yours. He didn’t move it. You didn't pull away.
Your eyes fluttered shut, a long exhale dragging out of you like it had been caught behind your ribs all night. "I’ve been staying here," you said finally. "Not every night. Just... enough of them."
You looked over at him, then down at your hands. "It’s not about work. I just... I didn’t want to go back to an empty place and hear it echo. Didn’t want to hear myself think. Breathe. This place—at least there’s always noise. Even if it’s bad, it’s something."
That made him pause.
"I don’t want to be alone..." you added, quieter.
Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, slow. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "You know I’m always here for you."
You looked down at your lap. "I didn’t want to be a burden."
Your fingers twitched, and before you realized it, you’d started picking at a loose thread along your cuff. Jack’s hands came up gently, catching yours before you could do more than graze your skin. He held them between his palms—warm, steady. Soothing.
His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "You never have to earn being cared about," he said softly. "Not with me."
A few moments passed in silence. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.
Then, quietly, Jack reached into his pocket.
And handed you a key.
"I have a spare room," he said, voice low. "No expectations. No questions. Just… if you need it."
You stared at the key. Then at him.
He still didn’t look away, even as his voice gentled. "Don’t sleep here. Not if it hurts."
You took the key.
Not right away—but you did. Slipped it into the front pocket of your hoodie like it might vanish otherwise, like the metal might burn a hole through the fabric if you held it too long.
Jack didn’t press. Didn’t ask for promises.
He stood to leave and paused in the doorway.
"I’ll leave the light on," he said. "Just in case."
You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, barely, and stared at the key in your lap long after the door shut behind him.
The call room was quiet after he left.
Too quiet.
You stared at the key until your fingers itched, then tucked it beneath your pillow like it needed protecting—from you, from the space, from the hollow echo of loneliness that filled the room once Jack was gone.
You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.
And two days later—after another long shift, after you’d showered in the same miserable excuse for plumbing, after you’d sat cross-legged on the cot trying to convince yourself to just go home—you took the key out of your pocket.
You didn’t text him.
You just went.
The last time you'd been to his place was different. Less quiet. More raw.
It was the night after a shift that left the entire ER shell-shocked. You'd both ended up at Jack’s apartment with takeout containers and too much to drink. You’d lost a kid—ten years old, blunt trauma, thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation, and it still wasn’t enough. Jack had lost a veteran. OD. The kind of case that stuck to his ribs.
He’d handed you a beer without a word. The two of you had sat on opposite ends of his couch, silence stretching between you like a third presence until you broke it with a hoarse, "I keep hearing his mother scream."
Jack didn’t look away. "I keep thinking I should’ve caught it sooner."
The conversation didn’t get lighter. But it got easier.
At some point, you’d both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bent and shoulders almost brushing.
He told you about Iraq. About the first time he held pressure on someone’s chest and knew it wouldn’t matter.
You told him about your first code as an intern and the way it rewired something you’ve never quite gotten back.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. Just passed you another drink and said, "I’m glad you were there today."
And for a while, it was enough—being there, even if neither of you knew how to say why.
You’d gotten absolutely wasted that night. The kind of drunk that swung from giggles to tears and back again. Somewhere between your third drink and fourth emotional whiplash, you started dancing around his living room barefoot, music crackling from his ancient Bluetooth speaker. Tears for Fears was playing—Everybody Wants to Rule the World—and you twirled with your arms raised like the only way to survive grief was to outpace it.
Jack watched from the floor, amused. Smiling to himself. Maybe a little enamored.
You beckoned him up with exaggerated jazz hands. "C’mon, dance with me."
He shook his head, raising both palms. "No one needs to see that."
You marched over, grabbed his hands, and tugged hard enough to get him upright. He stumbled, laughing under his breath, and let you spin him like a carousel horse. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even really dancing. But it was you—vivid and loud and alive—and something in him ached with the sight of it.
He didn’t say anything that night.
But the way he looked at you said enough.
You were still holding his hands from the dance, your breathing slowing, your laughter softening into something tender. The overhead light had gone dim, the playlist shifting into quieter melodies, but you didn’t let go. Your fingers stayed laced behind his neck, your forehead nearly resting against his chest.
Jack’s palms found your waist—not possessive, just steady. Grounding. His thumbs pressed gently against your sides, and for a moment, you swayed in place like the world wasn’t full of ghosts. You were sobering up, but not rushing. Not running.
You hadn’t meant for the dance to turn into this. But he didn’t step away.
Didn’t look away either.
Just held you, as if the act itself might keep you both tethered to something real.
You woke the next morning to the sound of soft clinking—metal against ceramic, a pan being set down gently on the stovetop.
The smell of coffee drifted in first. Then eggs. Something buttery. Your head pounded—dull, insistent—but your body felt warm under the blanket someone had pulled up around your shoulders during the night.
Padding quietly down the hall, you peeked into the kitchen.
Jack stood at the stove, hair ever so slightly tousled from sleep, wearing the same faded t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He hadn’t seen you yet—was humming under his breath, absently stirring a pan with practiced rhythm.
You leaned against the doorframe.
"Are you seriously making breakfast?"
He turned, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it’s not a medically necessary intervention."
You snorted, stepping in. "You’re using a cast iron. I didn’t even know you owned one."
"Don’t tell Robby. He thinks I survive on rage and vending machine coffee."
You slid onto one of the stools, blinking blearily against the light. Jack set a mug in front of you without being asked—just the way you liked it. Just like always.
"You were a menace last night," he said lightly, pouring eggs into the pan.
You groaned, cupping your hands around the mug. "Oh god. Please don’t recap."
He grinned. "No promises. But the dance moves were impressive. You almost took me out during that one twirl."
"That’s because you wouldn’t dance with me!"
"I was trying to protect my knees."
You laughed, head tipping back slightly. Jack just watched you, eyes soft, like the sound of it made something settle inside him.
And for a moment, the silence that settled between you wasn’t hollow at all.
It was full.
If only tonight's circumstances were different.
Jack opened the door in sweatpants and a black v-neck that looked older than his medical degree. He blinked when he saw you—then smiled, just a little. Not wide. Not obvious. But real. The kind of expression that said he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were there.
He said nothing.
After a slow smile: "Didn’t expect to see you again so soon," he said lightly, trying to break the ice. "Unless you’re here to critique my towel-folding technique."
Lifting your hand slowly, the key warm against your skin, you tilted your head with a deadpan expression. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you said, tone dry—almost too dry—but not quite hiding the twitch of a smile. Jack’s mouth quirked at the corner.
Then you held the key out fully, and he stepped aside without a word.
"Spare room’s on the left," he said. “Bathroom’s across from it. The towels are clean. I think."
You smiled, a little helplessly. "Thanks."
Jack’s voice was soft behind you. "That was a joke, by the way. The towel thing."
You turned slightly. "What?"
He shrugged, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. "Make it... easier. Or, y'know. Less weird. That was the goal."
The admission caught you off guard. Jack Abbot had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous, and this was definitely that.
You didn’t say anything right away, but your smile—this time—was a little steadier. A little sweeter.
"Careful, Jack," you murmured, feigning seriousness. "If you keep being charming, I might start expecting it."
He looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to double down or play it cool.
"Guess I’ll go work on my stand-up material," he mumbled, half under his breath.
You bit back a laugh.
He ran a hand through his hair again—classic stall tactic—then finally nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
The room he offered you was small, clearly unused, but tidy in a way that suggested recent care. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed. A new toothbrush—still in its packaging—rested on the nightstand. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mixing with the soft clean trace of his detergent. The air had that faint freshness of a recently opened window, and the corners were free of dust. Someone had aired it out. Someone had taken the time to make space—room that hadn’t existed before, cleared just enough to let another person in.
You set your bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the blanket. Everything felt soft. Considered. You stared at the corner of the room like it might give you answers.
It didn’t.
But it didn’t feel like a hospital either.
You took your time in the shower, letting the heat soak into your skin until the mirror fogged over and your thoughts slowed just enough to feel manageable. Jack's body wash smelled different on you—deeper, warmer somehow—and the scent clung faintly to your skin as you pulled on the softest clothes you had packed: shorts and an oversized shirt you barely remembered grabbing.
When you stepped out of the guest room, damp hair still clinging to your neck, the smell of garlic and something gently sizzling greeted you first. Jack was in the kitchen, stirring a pot with practiced ease, the kind of domestic ease that tugged at something inside you.
He turned when he heard your footsteps—and froze for a beat too long.
His eyes swept over you and caught on your hair, your shirt, the visible curve of your collarbone, the quietness about you that hadn't been there earlier. He blinked, clearly trying to recover, and failed miserably.
"Hey," you said gently, brushing some damp strands behind your ear. "Need help with anything?"
Jack cleared his throat—once, then again—and turned back to the stove, ears visibly reddening. "I think I’m good," he said. "Unless you want to make sure I don’t burn the rice."
You crossed the room and leaned against the counter next to him, still slightly flushed yourself. The scent of his soap clung to your sleeves, and Jack caught a trace of it on the air. He said nothing—but stirred a little slower. A little more carefully.
"Your apartment’s just as nice as I remembered," you said, soft and genuine, fingers brushing the edge of the countertop.
Jack glanced over at you, a flicker of something warm behind his eyes. "You mean the sterile surfaces and suspiciously outdated spice rack?"
You gave him a knowing smile. "I mean the parts that feel like you."
That stopped him for a second. His stirring slowed to a halt. He looked back down at the pot, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.
"Careful," he murmured, voice low. "If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."
You nudged his elbow gently. "I might. Don’t let it go to your head."
He smiled to himself, the kind of expression that didn't need to be seen to be felt. And in the soft space between those words, something settled. Easier. Closer.
Dinner was simple—pan-seared salmon, rice, roasted vegetables. Nothing fancy, but everything assembled with care. Jack Abbot, it turned out, could cook.
You said so after the first bite—and let out a soft, involuntary moan. Jack froze mid-chew, raised a brow, and gave you a look.
"Wow," he said dryly, lips twitching. "Should I be offended or flattered?"
You flushed, laughing as you covered your mouth with your napkin. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a piece of salmon?"
He grinned. "I’m a man of many talents," he said dryly, passing you the pepper mill. "Just don’t ask me to bake."
You smiled over your glass of water, a little more relaxed now. "No offense, but I didn’t exactly have ‘culinary savant’ on my Jack Abbot bingo card."
He shot you a look. "What was on the card?"
You hummed, pretending to think. "Chronic insomniac. Secret softie. Closet hoarder of protein bars. Dad joke connoisseur."
Jack snorted, setting down his fork. "You’re lucky the salmon’s good or I’d be deeply offended."
You grinned. "So you admit it."
And he did—not in words, but in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long across the table. In the way he refilled your glass as soon as it dipped below halfway. In the quiet, sheepish curve of his smile when you caught him looking. In the way his laugh lost its usual edge and softened, like maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.
After dinner, you moved to the sink before Jack could protest. He tried, weakly, something about guests and hospitality, but you waved him off and started rinsing plates.
Jack came up behind you, handing over dishes one by one as you scrubbed and loaded them into the dishwasher to dry. His presence was warm at your back, the occasional graze of his hand or arm sending tiny shivers up your spine. The silence between you was companionable, laced with unspoken things neither of you quite knew how to name.
"You’re seriously not gonna let me help?" he asked, bumping your hip with his.
"This is letting you help," you shot back. "You’re the designated passer."
"Such a glamorous title," he murmured, his voice low near your ear. "Do I get a badge?"
You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you survive the suds.
Jack leaned in just as you turned back to the sink, and for a moment, your arms brushed, your shoulders aligned. His gaze lingered on you again—your profile, your damp hair starting to curl at the edges, the stretch of your hoodie down your back.
You glanced back at him, close enough now to kiss, breath caught halfway between surprise and anticipation when—
Jack dipped his finger into the soap bubbles and tapped the tip of your nose.
You blinked, stunned. "Did you just—"
Jack held your wide-eyed gaze a beat longer, then said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Nice look, Bubbles."
And the dam broke. You laughed, bright and unguarded, flicking water in his direction.
He dodged each droplet as best he could with a grin, triumphant. "I stand by my methods."
You scooped a pile of bubbles into your hand with deliberate menace.
Jack immediately backed away, holding both palms up like he was under arrest. "No. No no no—"
You grinned, nodding slowly with mock gravity. The chase ensued. He darted around the counter, nearly tripping on the rug as you chased after him, suds in hand and laughter trailing like a siren’s call. He was fast—but you were relentless.
"Truce!" he yelped, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands held high in mock surrender.
You smirked, one brow raised. "Hmm. I don’t know… this feels like a trap."
Jack looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Mercy. Have mercy. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t soap me."
You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Anything?"
"Within reason. And dignity. Maybe."
You tilted your head, letting the moment draw out. Jack watched you carefully, breath held, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"I mean…" he started. "If praise is your thing, you’re doing a fantastic job intimidating me right now."
Your mouth parted, stunned. "Did you just—"
Jack smirked, sensing an opening. "You excel at it. Really. Top tier menace."
You laughed, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god. You’re the worst." The bubbles had dissipated by now, leaving you with only damp hands.
"And yet, here you are," he said, still kneeling, still grinning.
You shook your head, stray droplets slipping from your hand, your laughter easing into something softer. "Get up, you idiot."
But Jack didn’t—not right away. Still on his knees, he shifted closer, hands resting lightly on your knees. His touch was featherlight, reverent, thumbs brushing along the curve where your thigh met fabric.
"I mean it," he said, voice quieter now, almost solemn. "You terrify me."
Your breath caught.
"In the best way," he added, gaze lifting. "You walk into a trauma bay like you own it. You fight like hell for your patients. You get under my skin without even trying."
His hands slid up slowly, still gentle, still hesitant, like waiting for permission. "Sometimes I think the only thing I believe in anymore is you."
Your heart thudded. Your hands, still damp, twitched against your sides.
"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, and that was when your knees nearly buckled.
The joke was long forgotten. The laughter faded. All that was left was the way Jack looked at you now—like he wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.
His hands had made a slow, reverent climb to your bare skin, thumbs sweeping small, anchoring circles into your skin. You felt the heat of him everywhere, your body taut with anticipation, nerves stretched thin. He didn’t rush. Just looked up at you, drinking in every unsteady breath, every flicker of hesitation in your gaze.
"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low, hoarse. "You want to stop?"
You shook your head—barely—and he nodded like he understood something sacred.
"I want you to feel good," he said softly, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your shirt. "I want to take my time with you. If you’ll let me?"
The question lodged in your chest like a plea. You couldn’t speak, only nodded, and his hands flexed slightly in response.
Jack stood first, rising fluidly, eyes never leaving yours. As he straightened, your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck. That was all it took—the smallest pull, the softest touch—and the space between you collapsed.
Not in chaos, not in desperation, but in something careful. Like reverence wrapped in desire. Like he’d been waiting for this, quietly, for longer than he dared admit.
And when his lips met yours, it was a live wire.
Deep. Soft. Unapologetically tender.
But it didn’t stay chaste. Jack’s hands found your hips, drawing you closer, fitting your bodies together like a secret only the two of you knew how to keep. His tongue brushed yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt.
The kiss turned hungry, molten—slow-burning restraint giving way to a need you both had held too tightly for too long. Jack’s hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine, and you arched into him, a quiet gasp slipping free.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured between kisses, voice thick, reverent.
You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Don’t you dare."
That was all he needed.
And when he kissed you again, it was like promise and prayer and everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.
His hands moved with aching care—one sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, the other splaying wide at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was slow and encompassing, more smolder than spark, until it wasn’t—until it ignited all at once.
Jack walked you backward until your hips bumped the counter, and he pressed into the space you gave him, forehead resting against yours. "You undo me," he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. "Every single time."
You were already breathless, clinging to his shirt, heart pounding in your throat.
His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, hands exploring—confident now, reverent, like he was learning every part of you for the first time and never wanted to forget. You moaned softly into the kiss, and Jack cursed under his breath, low and ragged, like the sound had torn through his composure.
And then there was no more space. No more distance. Just heat, and hunger, and the slow unraveling of restraint as Jack lifted you gently onto the counter, your knees parting for him, his name spilling from your lips like a secret.
You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was your only chance to get it right. He needed to feel you pressed against him to believe it wasn’t just a dream.
The kiss deepened, urgent and breathless, until Jack was devouring every sound you made, like he could live off the way you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped lightly down his back, your body arching into his hands like instinct.
He touched you like a man memorizing, devout and thorough—hands mapping the curve of your waist, mouth dragging heat across your throat. He tasted sweat and shampoo and you, and that alone nearly undid him. You felt the tension coil in his spine, the restraint he was holding like a dam, every movement deliberate.
"God," he rasped, lips at your ear, "you have no idea what you do to me."
And when you gasped again, hips shifting, he exhaled a shaky breath like he was trying not to fall apart just from the sound.
"You smell like my soap," he murmured with a rough chuckle, nosing along your jaw. "But you still taste like you."
You whimpered, and he kissed you again—harder now, letting the hunger break through, swallowing your reaction like a man starved.
He praised you in murmured fragments, over and over, voice low and wrecked.
Beautiful.
Brave.
So fucking good.
Mine.
Each word making your skin feel like it was glowing beneath his hands.
And when he finally took you to bed, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was everything he hadn’t said before now, every ounce of feeling poured into his mouth on your skin, every whispered breath of worship like he was praying into the hollow of your throat.
Jack kissed you like he needed to memorize the taste of every sound you made, like your skin was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud. His hands roamed slowly, confidently, with that same quiet focus he wore in trauma bays—except now it was all for you. Every inch of you. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach—pressing his devotion into the places you tried to hide.
You felt undone by how gently he worshipped you, how much he wanted—not just your body, but your breath, your closeness, your everything. He murmured praise against your skin like it was sacred, like you were something holy in his arms.
And when he finally moved over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes searching yours like he was asking permission one more time—you nodded.
He exhaled like it hurt to hold back. Then gave you everything.
Later, tangled in blankets and the afterglow, Jack pulled you closer without a word. One hand splayed wide against your back, the other curled around your fingers like he wasn’t ready to let you go—not now, maybe not ever. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and comfort and safety.
"I’m gonna need you to stop making that noise when you taste food," he murmured eventually, voice sleep-thick and amused.
You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. "Or what?"
"I’ll marry you on the spot. No warning. Just a salmon fillet and a ring pop."
Your laughter shook the bed.
Jack smirked, the ghost of a tease already forming. "If I’d known praise got you going, I’d have started ages ago."
You swatted at his chest, heat blooming across your cheeks. "Don’t you dare weaponize this."
He grinned into your hair, voice low and wrecked and entirely too fond. "Too late. I’m gonna ruin you with kindness."
You huffed, hiding your face in his shoulder.
Jack chuckled and pulled you closer, murmuring, "You make blushing look really good, by the way."
You were never going to live this down. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.
Because Jack Abbot being a secret softie had officially made its triumphant return to your bingo card—and if you were being honest, it had probably been the center square since day one.
"You know," you murmured against his chest, lips curving into a grin, "for someone who acts so stoic at work, you sure have a lot of secrets."
Jack stirred slightly, arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah? Like what?"
You propped yourself up on one elbow, counting off on your fingers. "Secret softie. Great cook. Total sex god."
Jack groaned into your shoulder, bashful. "Jesus."
"I'm just saying," you teased. "If there’s a hidden talent for needlepoint or poetry, now would be the time to confess."
He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep and amusement. "I used to write really bad song lyrics in middle school. That count?"
You laughed, light and easy, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "God, I bet they were terrible."
Jack smirked. "You’ll never know."
"I’ll find them," you said with mock determination. "I’ll unearth them. Just wait."
He kissed your forehead, chuckling softly. "I’m terrified."
And he was—just not of you. Only of how much he wanted this to last.
Jack smiled into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're incredible, you know that?"
You shook your head, bashful, eyes cast toward the sheets—but Jack didn’t let it slide. His hand curled tighter around yours, his voice still soft but firm. "Hey. I meant that. You are."
When you didn’t answer right away, he leaned in a little closer, his thumb brushing along your wrist. "I need you to hear it. And believe it. You’re—extraordinary."
The earnestness in his voice left you no room to hide. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.
Jack held your gaze like a promise. "Say okay."
"Okay," you whispered, cheeks burning.
He smiled again, slower this time, and kissed your temple once more. "Good girl."
You didn’t answer—just smiled you were on cloud nine and squeezed his hand a little tighter.
Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, you drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in warm limbs and steadier breath, heart finally quiet for the first time in days. Jack’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.
Your limbs were tangled with his beneath the softened hush of early morning, the sheets kicked messily down to the foot of the bed. Skin to skin, steady breathing, fingers still loosely clasped where they had found each other in the dark. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, murmured something you didn’t quite catch—but it didn’t matter. The weight of the night had passed. What remained was warmth. Stillness. Something whole.
You fell asleep like that, curled into each other without pretense. Closer than you'd ever planned, safer than you thought possible. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the quiet wasn’t heavy.
It was home.
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