Eyes On Me | Jack Abbot X Popstar ! Reader

bitter/sweet

a Dr. Jack Abbot one-shot (The Pitt)

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: when a stubbornly charming chef keeps showing up in his ER, Dr. Jack Abbot finds it harder and harder to ignore the pull toward something—or someone—he didn't plan for…

warnings/tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine, food as a love language, age gap, fainting/medical emergency, mild language

word count: 5.5k

a/n: my new hyperfixation i guess ???

“Fuck,” you grumbled, clutching your thumb in a blood-soaked kitchen towel, the fibers more crimson than cotton. The pain throbbed in pulses, each step sending a sharp reminder up your arm. You kept your eyes on the linoleum floors, following the resident as he led you deeper into the chaos of the emergency department and into an exam room.

“Oh,” the resident, Student Doctor Whittaker, said, his voice pitchy as he glanced at the kitchen towel. He quickly averted his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yeah, maybe we should keep that wrapped.” 

You arched a brow at him, settling onto the exam table as the paper crinkled beneath you. The air in the room smelled sterile – alcohol wipes, latex gloves, and that faint antiseptic sting. “You’re not afraid of a little blood, are you? Because hate to be the one to tell you – you might be in the wrong profession.” 

He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no – just… been a rough day,” he said, the humor dropping from his voice. “Can’t really handle another loss.”

You paused, tone softening. “Oh. Well, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” You glanced down at the towel, now visibly seeping. “Did you get a hold of my sister?” 

He shook his head, eyes already shifting toward the door. “I tried, but she’s in the OR; still scrubbed in. But, don’t worry; Dr. Abbot is the attending on call tonight. He’s one of the best – ”

You frowned. “Abbot? Where’s Robby?” 

Before he could answer, the door opened and a tall man entered the room, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves with a practiced snap. His scrubs were black, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his expression was carved from stone. His salt-and-pepper hair was short but wavy; he easily had fifteen or twenty years on you… Still, he was cute.

“Well,” he began, his voice low and even, “It’s almost nine, and contrary to popular belief, even Robby needs to go home and rest. So, lucky you – you get me.” 

You blinked. “Wow, smart and pretty. Lucky me indeed.” 

He gave a subtle eye roll before his gaze met yours – steady, unreadable, deeply hazel. “So, what’ve we got?”

Whittaker stumbled to present. “Uh – female, 27. Has a deep laceration on her thumb. Cut it open on a grater – ”

“Mandoline slicer,” you corrected.

Abbot moved toward you, taking a seat on the wheeled stool. As he unwrapped your hand, you couldn’t help but ask, “Careful – you’re not gonna get queasy, too, are you?”

Without missing a beat, he stoically answered, “Only if this turns into something worse than a hand injury… like small talk.”

You let out a surprised laugh, half from the pain, half from how dryly he delivered the line.

“You’re funny,” you grinned. “I like you.” 

He said nothing in response, merely peeled the cloth away, sticky and crimson, revealing the deep gash across the side of your thumb. Cold air kissed the open skin, and you hissed. He examined it without a flinch, gently turning your hand between his fingers.

“So, what were you doing with the mandoline slicer?”

“I’m a chef,” you answered. “The prep rush was insane today – guess my hand just slipped.” 

He pressed carefully at the space between your thumb and index finger. You flinched, instinctively pulling back, but his other hand caught yours firmly, anchoring it. 

“What?” you asked, watching his expression shift as he looked up.

“Stitches,” he decided.

“Fuck that.” 

He arched his brow. “It’s a deep cut; can’t just put a bandaid on it and kiss it better.” 

“Well, that’s because you haven’t tried,” you flirted, finding it to be an easy distraction from the pain. Still, his face remained unchanged. “Come on, are you serious? You really can’t just wrap it up and call it a day? I have to get back before the dinner rush.”

“It’s not optional,” he informed. “It’s not gonna heal if it’s not stitched up.” 

“Don’t worry,” Whittaker piped up again, voice chipper. “Dr. Abbot could do this in his sleep.” 

“I could,” Abbot said, already reaching for gauze. “But Whittaker’s going to do it instead.” 

“What?” You both asked, heads whipping to him.

“It’s a good learning opportunity,” he replied casually. “And Robby’s always goin’ on about how we’re a teaching hospital. Besides, it’s just a few stitches – a teenager could do it.” 

“A teenager is about to do it,” you muttered. 

“He’s older than you,” Abbot pointed out, making your frown set on him. 

“I want you to do it.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

“Because he got queasy just looking at the kitchen towel,” you explained. You and Abbot both turned to Whittaker, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “It’s either you, or I wait for my sister to finish surgery,” you stubbornly gave him an ultimatum. “And she told me about those patient satisfaction scores.” You let out a low whistle.

Abbot stared at you for a beat, then turned to the student doctor. “Whittaker.” 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Go get me the lidocaine.” 

You grinned in victory before offering your hand back out to Abbot.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” he muttered, arms crossing.

“You and my sister should start a support group,” you shot back.

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, maybe we will.” 

When Whittaker returned, Abbot explained the procedure before getting to work: numbing first, then the sutures, probably six or seven. His voice was calm, precise. You clenched your other hand into a fist, eyes fixed anywhere but the needle. The sting of the lidocaine made your jaw tense.

“Ready?” Abbot asked. You nodded silently, lips pressed tight. 

His hands were rough but skilled, careful – you could sense it. 

As your eyes gazed over the room, they settled on the chain tucked beneath the neck of Abbot’s scrubs. 

“Military?” you asked, voice quieter now as your free hand reached out to pull at the dog tags.

Without looking up, Abbot momentarily halted his work to swat your hand away. When your hand settled back by your side, he replied, “Used to be a medic. Liked the chaos so much, I went to med school for emergency medicine.” 

You winced as one of the stitches tugged. “You good?” he asked, glancing up. 

You gave him a wry look. “If I cry, will you hold my hand?” 

“I’m already holding your hand,” he deadpanned. 

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Then, buy me dinner? Or, let me buy you dinner, at Francesca.”

“Francesca?” Whittaker perked up. “Wait – you work there?” You nodded, smiling. “That’s cool. I’ve heard some of the other residents talking about it. They really love the food.” 

You turned back to Abbot with a pointed smile. “See? Good food, good company – what more could you ask for?” 

“Probably some peace and quiet,” he muttered. But, before you could press, he was already tying off the sutures and wrapping your hand with fresh gauze.

“So,” you said eventually, “what’s the damage?”

“You’re a rightie?” he asked; you nodded. “It’s your dominant hand. That, and the fact that restaurants have a high risk of infection – wet, hot, high-contact. It’s gonna take a minute to heal. Probably five days off work to initially heal and reduce strain; another five until you’re back to full-duty – and when you are, make sure you wear some sort of splint or gloves. Come back then and I’ll take ‘em out. Sound good?” 

A week off work. 

You already knew you weren’t waiting that long.

Still, you grinned up at him. “Whatever you say, handsome.”

Two weeks later––four days after you were meant to get your stitches out––you finally found yourself back in the hospital. You couldn’t say you missed the bright fluorescent lights or the constant beeping of machines – you weren’t sure how your sister did it every day.

You did, however, miss Dr. Tall, Dark, and Broody. 

That’s what you’d started calling Dr. Abbot in all your conversations with your sister. She’d blinked at you, been less amused, and professionally corrected you every time you brought him up. 

“You mean ‘Jack’?” She’d say, and you’d grinned at that, ready to use this ammunition against him.

And, even though you had every intention to return earlier so you could see Jack sooner, work at the restaurant had gotten busy. Between a busted oven and two line cooks calling out, you’d been elbow-deep in chaos. You’d barely been convinced by Eleni, your sous, to come back even now. She had to practically push you out the front door. 

Taylor, the charge nurse who brought you in, gave a smile as she informed you, “Dr. Whittaker will be in in just a few minutes.” 

Your spine straightened immediately. “Actually, can you get Dr. Abbot? Tall one with the storm cloud for a personality. You know the one.” 

Taylor nearly dropped her tablet laughing. “Oh, I like you,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Let me see what I can do.”

Luckily, it seemed like a slow night in the ED––well, slower than usual––and in a few minutes, your request had been granted.

“You know,” Abbot said by way of greeting when he entered the room, “you don’t get to request a specific doctor in the ED. That’s not how it works.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah? Then how come you showed up?” 

He ignored that. “Why didn’t you let Whittaker take them out?” He already sounded annoyed, and it brought you much more glee than it should’ve. “You know he’s perfectly capable of removing stitches. And putting them in.” 

“And pass up another moment of your stellar bedside manner? Now, why would I do that… Jack?” You smiled sweetly.

His eyes flicked up fast at the sound of his first name. “I hate your sister,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“She’s the best and you know it.”

Instead of arguing, Jack gently pulled the wrap from your hand. His fingertips were warm through the gloves, deliberate in their movements as he examined the injury. 

“You didn’t wait the five days before going back to work,” he said flatly, frown setting in.

Your brows furrowed. “What are you talking about? Of course I did – In fact I – ” 

You cut yourself off when you saw the look he gave you. All stern disapproval and low-simmering frustration – hot. And in a moment, you crumbled.

“Okay, okay, fine – but I took three days off! That has to count for something! I was going stir-crazy in my apartment, Jack.” You squirmed under his gaze.

He let out a deep sigh, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he grumbled, brows pinched slightly as he prepped the suture scissors in that deliberate, quiet way of his.

You couldn’t watch as he moved with steady practiced precision. Instead, your eyes settled back on his dog tags and after a moment of silence, you asked in a soft voice, “How could you tell? That I went back to work early?” 

He met your eyes then, frowning. After a beat, he answered. “The skin around is red, irritated. The inflammation just started going down. You should’ve come in early if you were gonna go back to work. I said day 10.” 

“I know.” 

Dryly, he continued, “This is day fourteen.” 

“I know, Jack.” You frowned now too. “You know, if you keep on like this, you’re not getting your present.” 

That was when he noticed the light pink bag that sat on the chair by the exam table. 

“I brought you something. As a thank you for stitching me up.” 

Jack tilted his head to the side. “Not a bribe to soften the blow because you knew I’d know you went back to work early?”

You smiled up at him, this time in a way that asked for his forgiveness. “Why can’t it be both?” 

Jack rolled his eyes, then began removing your stitches. “It’s healing,” he noted, “but slower than it should be. You pushed it too hard.” 

“I was careful,” you defended. “I let Eleni do all the chopping and lifting heavy pans – I just ran the line… and plated.” 

Jack hummed, observing. “You’re holding tension through your whole arm. That’s not careful.” 

You opened your mouth to protest, but just then, he snipped one of the sutures and you flinched with a hiss of discomfort. His hands paused immediately, and his expression shifted – not annoyed this time, but concerned.

“Still hurts?” he asked, quieter.

You tried to play it off, half-laughing. “Hurts less than not being in the kitchen.” 

Jack sighed again, shaking his head. “You think I’m impressed by your stubbornness?” 

You gave a crooked grin. “No, but I think you like it.” 

He didn’t answer, just focused on removing the next stitch. Silence stretched between you, the only sound the soft snip of scissors. When he finally leaned back, he said, “Okay, that’s the last one. Take it easy, okay? I mean it. Just plating for now – carefully.” 

You lifted your head. “And if I don’t? You going to come hold my hand through the dinner rush?” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll come by the kitchen if I have to.” 

You watched him, smile growing. “Still thinking about saying yes to that dinner I offered?” 

Just as quick, he quipped, “I’m thinking about you not landing in my ER again.” 

Your brow rose. “Keep it up and you’re not getting the tiramisu.” 

As he was wrapping your hand in new gauze, his gaze flickered up to meet yours. “Tiramisu?” 

“My sister said you wouldn’t stop talking about it a few days ago. Got a craving.”

“Yeah, for DiAnoia’s,” Jack corrected. 

When he was done wrapping your hand, you hopped off the exam table and offered him the light pink bag, with a tiramisu boxed inside. 

“It’s better than DiAnoia’s,” you promised, already halfway to the door. 

He snorted at that, not believing you. “But, be careful, it's sweet. Might clash with the whole brooding thing you’ve got going on.” 

“I don’t brood,” he called after you.

You turned at the doorway, walking backward as you smirked. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.” 

Then, you spun on your heel, feeling his gaze on you as you let the door swing closed behind you.

You couldn’t tell if the emergency room was changing or if you were just getting used to it. The fluorescent lights felt ambient now, the loud chatter muffled, and the beep of vital machines now felt distant.

“Miss me?” You grinned up at Jack as he strolled towards the nurse’s station. You leaned casually against the counter, trying not to let your excitement show too much.

Without looking up from the chart in his hands, he replied, “Still haven’t recovered from the last time.”

You glanced over at Taylor, who sat typing behind the station, and dropped her a wink. “That’s not a no,” you stage-whispered, giggling. 

Jack finally looked at you then, eyes tired but alert, like your voice had stirred him awake. “What are you doing here?” he asked, handing off the chart to Taylor.

“What, can’t a girl visit her local cute, broody doctor?”

“I already told you I’m not that,” he frowned. 

You tilted your head. “Cute?” you asked, pretending to be confused. 

He narrowed his eyes on you. “Broody.”

“Right,” you nodded solemnly. “Of course not.” 

The silence between you lingered a second longer than expected – long enough for you to catch the faint circles under his eyes, the crease between his brows. His scrubs looked wrinkled, like he’d been running nonstop since the start of shift. Your smile softened. 

“I’m dropping some food off.”

His brows furrowed now. “For me?”

Your smile only widened, but faltered just a touch as you took in just how off he looked, a little out of rhythm. That bone-deep kind of tired. You wondered if he’d eaten at all tonight.

“For my sister,” you said lightly, though your feet were already carrying you toward the break room. You grabbed a paper plate and plastic fork, and returned just as quickly. You set the plate down and began undoing the takeaway box you’d packed.

“Wait,” Jack started, a note of warning in his voice – he already knew where this was going. You ignored him, and scooped a generous portion of pasta onto the plate before sliding it his way. The steam curled up toward Jack’s face.

“Try some.”

He sighed, saying your name like it was both a complaint and a surrender. 

“Come on,” you coaxed. “Just a bite. And if you hate it, I’ll leave you alone.”

He gave you a long-suffering look – but brought the fork to his mouth anyway. The first bite had his eyes fluttering closed, just for a second. A soft sound escaped him – barely audible, but unmistakable. You caught it.

“That was a compliment,” you accused, pointing at him with a victorious grin. “I heard it! Everyone heard it!” You turned dramatically to Taylor, who watched with a dry amusement before shuffling over to a patient’s room. 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Ok, hotshot, relax. It’s just pasta. Hard to mess it up.”

You scoffed. “You’d be surprised.” He shrugged, and you took it as a challenge. “Okay, then what? What can I make to convince you it’s not just luck – it’s these magic hands.” To make a point, you wiggled your fingers. 

To your surprise, he actually gave it some thought. A flicker of memory seemed to pass through him. His voice was quieter when he spoke.

“There was this dish we used to get when I was in the military – in this little town outside Kabul. Locals made it in the market stalls. It was kind of like a lamb stew, over some flatbread. Spicy. Kinda messy to eat. But damn good.” 

You blinked, surprised he’d offered to share something so personal. You cleared your throat, softly asking, “You were stationed in Afghanistan?” 

Realizing the slip-up, Jack shrugged it off like he regretted saying anything. His eyes drifted to a fixed point behind you.

“Jack,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand over his, which rested on the counter of the nurse’s station. The gentle tone of your voice kept him from pulling his hand out from underneath yours. If anything, that, alongside the glint in your big eyes, made him want to spill everything.

“It was the 68W program – for combat medics,” he revealed, using his free hand to pull the dog tags from under his scrub top. “Standard issue accessory.” 

“I disagree,” you murmured, playful but sincere. “I’ve heard medics are some of the toughest ones in the room.” 

Jack let out a tiny almost-smile. “We were just the ones who didn’t get to shoot back.” 

You paused, then asked, “What was it called? The dish.” 

He thought for a second. “I don’t remember. I think maybe – palau something – or – I don’t know. Doesn't matter.” 

You shook your head, heart melting. “If it stuck with you… it matters.” 

Jack didn’t say anything to that, but his gaze found yours again – direct. You caught him staring. He didn’t look away.

“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to think you like me,” you teased, tone light.

He didn’t even deny it, just shook his head – either in denial or disbelief, you couldn’t tell. 

“That’s okay. I like you enough for the both of us.”

That brought a pink tinge to his cheeks. 

Instead of bringing attention to it, you simply offered a half-smile. “Okay. Challenge accepted. One mystery lamb dish, coming up.”

At that, Jack raised a skeptical brow. “You’re gonna recreate something I haven’t eaten in ten years, from a place you’ve never been, with no recipe?”

You shrugged. “Maybe it’ll finally convince you to come to the restaurant.” 

And there it was – just for a second. The edge of a smile. Maybe even the beginning of a laugh. You nudged his side with your elbow.

“Admit it. You’re rooting for me.” 

Jack just shook his head, but didn’t speak. Didn’t stop smiling either. Didn’t even say no.

The next time Jack saw you in the hospital, the occasion was less momentous. You didn’t have a light pink box with the Francesca logo on it and a sweet treat––or Afghani dish––inside. You weren’t your happy, bubbly self jumping around the place. Forget jumping, you weren’t even on your feet. 

You were in a hospital bed, fluids pumping steadily through an IV line taped to your arm. into your veins through IVs. Your sister, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, was scrolling through her phone with the ease of someone used to hospitals – until Jack stumbled in.

His eyes immediately found yours, and whatever breath he’d been holding on the way in came out sharp.

“Every day you’re here – you come and find me. Every day,” he said, voice low and urgent. “So, what changed today? Why was Robby the one to tell me you fainted?” 

You and your sister exchanged a glance. She was already putting her phone down, her expression turning serious.

“Because it literally happened an hour ago…?” you offered, wincing a little. “And that’s still day shift.” 

Jack raked a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every sharp movement.

“Robby had it covered,” your sister said, trying to calm Jack.

It didn’t help.

“Did he do an ECG?”  

“Yes.” 

“Echocardiogram?” 

“Yes, Jack,” she sighed.

“What about a head CT?

You frowned. “Why would he do a CT?” 

“Because you probably hit your head when you fell.” 

You let out a breath, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t hit my head.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because Eleni caught me.” 

Jack’s eyes bounced between you and your sister. “This happened at work?” You nodded, slowly. “Did this happen because of work?” 

Suddenly, you were having a hard time meeting his eye. 

To make matters worse, your sister answered for you. “She was covering for one of the other line chefs, stressed about a critic visit – Eleni said she was barely sleeping – ”

“The critic’s a big deal!” you defended, “and Luca was getting burnt out. He needed a break.” 

“No, babe,” your sister cut in, not unkindly, “You need a break.” 

Jack stepped closer to the bed, scanning the IV bag. His fingers brushed against your arm, checking the line, then pressing gently against your wrist. “Did Robby hook her up to saline?” 

Your sister nodded.

“What about electrolytes? She’s dehydrated.” 

“He – ” Your sister paused, then asked, a little surprised, “How did you know that?” 

“Her lips are dry,” Jack responded, as if it was obvious. “She squints every time she looks up at the lights. And her leg is tense – probably cramping earlier.” 

You and your sister shared another look, then you grinned up at him, pushing his hand away from your arm to grab it in yours, warm and steady. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“You were worried about me,” you grinned, all grin and no apology.

He exhaled deeply, rubbing his free hand defeatedly over his face. “Oh, my God. You fainted and this is what you’re focused on?” 

You gave him a small shrug. “I’m fine.” 

And, truthfully, you were starting to feel better. Color was returning to your cheeks, and the constant throb behind your eyes had dulled to a whisper. The IVs were helping; the rest, too.

A voice crackled over the intercom, paging your sister to OR 3. She stood, hesitating. 

“Go,” you said, waving her off. “I’ll be fine. Go back to work.” 

“Fine, but tell someone to page me when they discharge you. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

You rolled your eyes but nevertheless nodded. As she stepped out, Jack moved to sit on the edge of the chair beside your bed, one hand running along the railing.

“How mad do you think she’s gonna be when I tell her you’re not going anywhere? I’m keeping you overnight.” 

Your head whipped toward him. “What? Why?” 

“For observation. I want to make sure it really was stress-related and not some underlying medical condition.”

You groaned, tilting your head back against your pillow. “Jack,” you groaned, frustrated by this decision.

“Oh, I know,” he mocked gently. “How could I do this to you? Keeping you overnight to make sure you’re healthy? I’m the worst.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as dramatically as you could manage while tethered to an IV. 

“Don’t be like that,” he tried, his hand uncrossing yours. Then, the same hand lifted to gently cup your cheek. “You know, you didn’t have to faint just to get my attention. Could’ve just called.”

The blush that crept to your cheeks was immediate, and you cleared your throat, looking away. “Dr. Abbot with the jokes – never thought the day would come.”

“What can I say?” he replied with a shrug. “I’m a complex guy.”

He tugged your blanket higher, gently tucking it around you like it was second nature. “Now, get some sleep. I’ll come check on you in a bit.” 

You nodded, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settle behind your eyes. As Jack slipped out, he left the curtain half-open so he could keep an eye on you from the nurse’s station or while he was passing by to other patient rooms. 

Instead, you found your eyes drifting to him. Even through the haze of sleep, you watched him move through the ED like a controlled current – swift, focused, unshakable. He was in full command, teaching, managing, healing. Something about how intense yet calm he was eventually lulled you to sleep. 

When you woke again, sunlight was peeking through the slats of the blinds, and Jack was beside your bed, carefully unhooking the IV line. 

“Morning,” he greeted, voice soft as it pulled you from your deep slumber. “How are you feeling?” 

You rubbed at the sleep in your eyes and let out a groggy sigh “Wow, thought I died and went to broody heaven.” 

“I’ll take that as ‘fine,’” he said dryly, grabbing a paper cup of water he’d filled for you and maneuvering the straw toward your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Can I go home now?” 

He nodded, his eyes still scanning your vitals, “Soon. Just gotta fill out your discharge paperwork and then shift’s over. I’ll drive you home.” 

“Drive me home? I’m wearing you down, old man,” you grinned sleepily up at him. 

He rolled his eyes, raising a hand to press the back of it to your forehead. “You feel okay? No headache? Dizziness? Nausea?” 

“Good as new,” you promised, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “Must be these magic hands.” 

He smiled at that, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles before letting go. 

“So,” you began as he signed off on your chart, “does being injured get me privileges?” 

He arched a brow. “What kind of privileges?” 

“Favors,” you said with a shrug. “Like you finally coming to the restaurant.”

Jack let out a low groan, head shaking. “It’s too early for this – you’re never gonna let that go, are you?” 

“Not till you say yes. And, as you know, I’m very persistent.” 

“Oh, I do know,” he said, then held his hand out. “Let me see your thumb.” 

You blinked. “Why?” 

Still, you offered it up. He examined it gently, brushing his fingers over the healing skin.

“When this heals completely, I’ll come to Francesca.” 

You beamed. “In that case, let’s speed up the process…” You wiggled your thumb closer to his face. “Never did try that technique of kissing it better, huh?” 

He gave you a look – but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb.

When he set it back down in your lap, your stomach fluttered.

“Now, can I take you home or are you going to make me do a blood oath first?” 

“You’ve been burying the lede, Abbot,” you teased, making your presence known as you walked across the hospital rooftop and joined him on the concrete ledge. Your shoes scraped lightly against the gravel as you sat, legs swinging just off the edge. 

He glanced over, brows furrowed in confusion. No one but Robby ever came up here. 

“Taylor told me where you were,” you informed. “How many conversations have we had – and you never mentioned this place? Or the crazy views it has?” 

The city was sprawled out below you, glittering the dark earth. A breeze tugged at your jacket, crisp with late night chill. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, checking his watch. 2:56am glowed dimly in the moonlight.

You shrugged, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

His concern was immediate, instinctual. “Is it the stitches? Are you feeling dehydrated?” He was already reaching for you, fingertips brushing your wrist as if searching for a pulse.

“No, Jack,” you laughed, pushing his hands away. “I’m fine. I just… woke up with a thought.” 

He stilled, waiting for you to explain what thought could’ve roused you out of bed in the middle of the night and forced you here.

You reached behind you and retrieved a familiar pink Francesca bag, the paper crinkling softly in your hands. In thick Sharpie ink, you’d scrawled his name with a lopsided heart beside it. His brows lifted in disbelief.

“No fucking way,” he murmured, greedy fingers snatching the food container out of the bag and tossing the lid aside like it might disappear if he wasn’t fast enough.

Inside sat the Afghani dish Jack had told you about that one day at the nurse’s station. The rich, spiced aroma was carried through the night air – saffron, cumin, caramelized carrots.

“It’s called qabili palau,” you offered, watching him tear a piece of naan, scoop up a mouthful, and take a bite. The moment the flavors hit his tongue, his eyes immediately rolled to the back of his head and he exhaled a quiet sound that was half-groan, half-moan.

“If you’re making those kinds of noises at my cooking, just imagine my skill in the bedroom,” you teased, flashing him a grin. 

That earned you a look – but not one you expected. Quiet, intense. His mouth twitched at the corner like he was trying not to smile, and then he went back for another bite. And another. You watched him eat in silence, the wind occasionally rustling his curls, and you couldn’t help but feel the intimacy of the moment, on this quiet rooftop, and this ridiculous hour.

He quietly finished the food, sharing it with you. And, when the food was gone, his eyes drifted out across the skyline. He looked… lighter somehow. And it reminded you why you loved being a chef – because food had the power to take people home, even when they were miles and years away.

You nudged him. “Oh – I almost forgot!” You excitedly held your hand up like a prize, thumb out. The skin had healed cleanly, leaving not even a scar behind. “All better.”

His eyes found yours, amusement dancing in them. “I’m pretty sure I said when it’s healed, not the exact moment it is.” 

You scooted closer to him, shoulders brushing, as you accused, “Oh, no. You’re not gonna get out of this.” 

He shook his head at you, like he had countless times before, but this time… this time the look in his eyes changed. Slowed. Softened. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, sitting here, choosing him.

His smile faded as he lifted a hand to your face, brushing a windblown strand of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to,” he said softly. 

And then he kissed you. 

It wasn’t rushed – not some messy, passionate crush. It was slow, intentional. The kind of kiss that people waited a long, long time for. His lips were warm, and soft, and they fit perfectly against yours. 

You melted into it, one hand curling around the front of his scrubs as the city disappeared beneath your closed eyelids. The hospital lights, the stars, the hum of distant traffic – it all faded until it was just the two of you. Just Jack.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far – just rested his forehead against yours, his breath brushing across your skin as he murmured, “You know, you scare the hell out of me. Make it hard to stay behind the lines I drew.” 

You smiled softly at that, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw. “Good. Means it’s real.” 

There was a beat of quiet. Then, he gently took your hand again, turning it over to inspect your healed thumb. You rested your head against his shoulder, grinning – you both knew exactly what this meant.

He sighed dramatically, mocking defeat. “What’s the dress code?” 

“No scrubs,” you teased.

“Button-up?”

“Only if it’s black. Very broody.” 

“Deal,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.

.

.

.

read part 2 here !!

break in the system

paring. jack abbot x wife/doctor!reader

warnings. age gap (jack late 40s, reader early 30s), hospital setting, descriptive child injury and recovery, no death, jack and reader are parents of a 6yo boy, no physical descriptors used for reader, reader has a sister, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. always in my dad!jack era, please feel free to send me idea like this I serious love them so much. please enjoy, this one is a nice hurt/comfort fic. as always please enjoy and any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 2400+

It was a rare, golden kind of morning. The kind you almost didn’t trust, because it was too smooth.

Jack had brewed coffee before either of you had to ask. You’d packed Mason’s favorite snacks while he sat sleepily at the kitchen island, rubbing his eyes and swinging his little feet under the stool. He was wearing his Spider-Man shirt today, matched with a pair of black shorts. His soft curls sticking up in every direction.

Your sister arrived just after sunrise, toting a canvas bag filled with activities and snacks and promising him a park trip and a stop for ice cream if he was good.

“You ready for a super fun day with Aunty?” she asked, ruffling Mason’s hair.

“Super tired is more like it,” Jack muttered around his coffee, but he kissed your cheek and then bent to kiss the top of Mason’s head too. “You be good, buddy.”

“I am good,” Mason answered, matter-of-fact.

You all laughed. It was one of those small, perfect family moments you didn’t think to savor until later.

At the hospital, the day passed in that rare, deceptively smooth rhythm. You took vitals, gave meds, reassessed post-op pain levels. Jack floated between trauma calls and consults, his voice calm and clinical when needed, still managing a wink when your paths crossed in the hallway. The familiarity of working alongside him was strangely comforting—a rhythm you’d both mastered through the years of shared chaos.

It was nearing noon when you finally took a breath. You leaned back in the break room, sipping lukewarm coffee, your phone resting silent on the table. You stared at the lock screen—Mason’s smiling face, missing front tooth, sunshine and freckles—without even realizing you were smiling at it.

Jack walked in and flopped down across from you, stretching his legs out with a groan. “Quiet today. I don’t trust it.”

“You never trust a quiet shift,” you replied with a soft laugh.

“Because quiet means it’s coming,” he said, tapping his temple like he could feel the shift in energy.

You shook your head, teasing, “Your trauma-sense tingling again?”

He was about to quip back when the trauma pager went off.

You both jumped—not dramatically, but instinctively, the way people do when muscle memory kicks in before thought.

Jack unclipped his pager and read aloud: "Level 1 peds trauma, ETA 2 minutes. Six-year-old male. Head trauma with LOC. Fall at park."

Your stomach dropped a full three inches. Jack went still beside you.

It wasn’t unusual. Kids came in hurt all the time.

But your brain was already moving ahead, shuffling information like puzzle pieces, trying to ignore how familiar it sounded.

Six-year-old. Male. Fall at the park. Level 1 trauma. Loss of consciousness.

It was just a coincidence.

Jack stood, voice a little tighter now. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You moved in practiced sync, already heading toward Trauma Bay 2, the air feeling a little thicker than it had ten minutes ago. You didn’t say it—not yet. Not even to each other.

You didn’t say anything.

Because you couldn’t. Not until you knew, and gut feelings didn’t count for the truth. 

And the moment the trauma doors slammed open and you saw the flash of a small Spider-Mant t-shirt beneath bloodied gauze and an oxygen mask—and suddenly your world tilted.

It was him.

The trauma bay erupted into controlled chaos the moment the gurney rolled through the doors.

You were at the foot of the bed, frozen for half a second before instinct kicked in. Jack was already moving forward, eyes locked on the little boy lying so still under the oxygen mask.

You didn’t even have to say his name.

The Spider-Man shirt. The Freckles. The curls matted with dried blood. It was Mason.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely audible, before your training took over like a switch flipping. But that voice—the parent voice—it never shut off. Not this time.

“Six-year-old male,” the medic rattled off, breathless but focused. “Fall from monkey bars, about six feet. Witnessed loss of consciousness, about two minutes. Regained briefly, then vomited twice. Unresponsive en route. GCS was 8, now trending to 6. Possible seizure activity reported by caregiver. No obvious long bone fractures. He was wearing a helmet for his bike earlier—removed at the park.”

You didn’t realize your hands were trembling until Jack grabbed your wrist gently. His voice was firm, steady—the voice of a trauma attending—but his eyes were glassy with panic barely held back.

“You can’t be in here,” he said lowly, eyes flicking toward the doors.

You shook your head. “I’m fine. I can help.”

“No—you’re his mom right now. Go.” His jaw tightened. “Please.”

The please hit you harder than anything else. You backed away, your legs feeling like they weren’t fully connected to your body anymore, your heart hammering as the rest of the team swarmed your baby.

Jack turned to the team. “Let’s move. What’s his pressure?”

“Ninety over fifty-six. Pulse 142.”

“Get a stat head CT. I want neuro and peds trauma paged now. Two large-bore IVs, hang NS bolus. Let’s get a collar on until we clear his c-spine.”

You backed into the wall of the trauma bay, peering through what felt like glass separating you from your husband and son. Your hands pressed flat against the cold surface as you watched your husband slip into a version of himself that didn’t exist at home. Dr. Abbot. Commanding. Composed. Making rapid decisions while your son—your Mason—lay still under fluorescent lights.

Your sister appeared moments later through the open door, eyes red, cheeks tear-streaked.

“I’m so sorry—he was fine, he was running—he always runs ahead—he just slipped—he hit the back of his head—he was okay for a minute but then—”

You pulled her into a tight hug, holding on for dear life. “It’s okay. You did the right thing. You got him here.”

Inside the bay, Jack’s voice cut through the buzz: “GCS is still six. Pupils reactive but sluggish. No external bleeding beyond scalp laceration. Let’s move now—CT and labs.”

As they wheeled Mason away, Jack followed, casting one last look back toward you through the window. His jaw was tight, but his eyes broke in that second.

You nodded once, already following down the hall toward radiology.

The hardest thing you’d ever done was not run in there and scoop your son into your arms.

But right now, Mason didn’t need his mom, he needed doctors. 

The CT suite was silent except for the rhythmic click and hum of the scanner. You stood just outside the control room glass, arms wrapped tight around yourself, watching Jack through the sterile glow.

He hadn’t left Mason’s side. Not for a second.

The techs were gentle, fast, and professional. Jack kept one hand near Mason’s foot the whole time, the other tucked against the side rail, whispering barely audible reassurances—things like, “You’re okay, buddy. Almost done. I’m right here.”

Even though Mason couldn’t hear him.

Even though your baby hadn’t opened his eyes once.

The scan ended. The attending radiologist had already been called down—an older, calm-voiced man you trusted completely. He pulled up the images, and when Jack joined him at the monitors, you followed, swallowing hard.

“There,” the radiologist pointed. “Linear parietal skull fracture, left side. No depression. He’s lucky.”

You exhaled shakily, but it wasn’t over.

“Contusion here,” he continued, circling the left temporal lobe. “Localized cerebral edema. No midline shift, no herniation. Small subgaleal hematoma along the occiput—probably from the initial impact. No signs of active intracranial bleeding.”

Jack nodded, arms crossed tightly over his sturdy chest, voice strained. “What about seizure risk?”

“Moderate. The contusion is sitting near cortical tissue. If he did seize en route, it’s not unexpected. You’ll want continuous EEG. We’ll monitor ICP closely for the next 48 hours. Neurosurgery should take a look, but this is non-operative for now.”

Your breath caught. Non-operative. You clung to the word like a rope in the dark.

“He’s stable enough to go up?” Jack asked.

“PICU? Absolutely. Intubate if his GCS drops again. Start seizure prophylaxis—Keppra, likely.” and with that it ended, short and sweet and not enough all at the same time. 

The elevator ride up to the PICU felt like moving through water. You were allowed to ride alongside the bed this time, one hand brushing Mason’s tiny fingers. 

They felt too cold. Too still.

His face looked smaller without his usual noise, his bursts of energy, the chatter. They’d cleaned most of the blood from his hair, but you could still see dried streaks clinging to his ear. His lips were parted slightly beneath the oxygen mask, his lashes damp against his cheeks.

In the PICU room, monitors beeped quietly, soft and steady. A nurse worked quickly and calmly—hooking up IV lines, starting the EEG leads, dimming the lights. Another brought in the seizure meds. Jack stood in the corner, arms limp at his sides now, adrenaline draining from his face.

The door closed.

And finally, the room went quiet.

You sat beside the bed and took Mason’s hand fully in yours. It was so small inside your palm. Always had been. But now it felt weightless, like something you couldn’t quite hold onto.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered.

Jack didn’t respond at first. Then he moved behind you, his hand finding your shoulder. His voice broke when he spoke.

“Yes, you can. Because he needs us to. He’s going to wake up. He is.”

You leaned into him, tears slipping silently down your face as you looked at your son—your entire world—wrapped in wires and machines, and not moving.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Neither did Jack.

Still you took turns sitting by the bed, staring at the monitors, willing the numbers to stay steady. Hoping for a flicker of movement. A twitch of fingers. A shift in those long eyelashes. And in the quiet, with Jack’s hand around yours and Mason’s resting between you both, you whispered promises neither of you had made out loud before:

We’re never working the same shift again. Not if it means risking this.

The room truly felt like a time capsule. Hours passed in a haze of fluorescent lights, rhythmic monitor beeps, the gentle hiss of oxygen.

It was day two.

Mason hadn’t opened his eyes.

His vitals were holding steady. The cerebral edema hadn’t worsened. The neurosurgeons were cautiously optimistic, calling his fracture “clean,” and the contusion “contained.” The EEG hadn’t shown any additional seizure activity overnight, and the Keppra seemed to be doing its job. His pupils were still sluggish, but reactive. He was breathing on his own. Everything was textbook.

But textbooks didn’t prepare you for how still a six-year-old could look when the light left his eyes.

You were in the chair again, your fingers curled gently around his. You’d barely moved all day, afraid that if you stepped away, you’d miss something. Jack was sitting on the couch now, head leaned back against the wall, one foot bouncing anxiously. He hadn’t left the both of you beyond grabbing the spare sets of clothes out of his truck. 

The lights were dimmed, the machines soft and steady. You rubbed slow, soothing circles across the back of Mason’s hand, whispering to him like he was just dozing after a long day.

“Hey, lovebug,” you said quietly. “It’s okay to wake up now. Daddy’s here. I’m here. You’re safe.”

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against his knuckles, careful of any swelling.

“I know your head hurts. I know you’re tired. But you’re okay. You’re safe.”

Jack stirred at the sound of your voice, rubbing a hand down his face. He moved beside you, placing a palm lightly on Mason’s ankle.

As if he heard you both.

Mason’s fingers twitched.

It was so small you almost thought you imagined it.

You straightened slowly, eyes locked on his face.

Then his eyelids fluttered.

“Mason?” you whispered.

Jack stood up so fast the chair he had moved too scraped against the floor.

Mason’s eyes opened—barely. Just enough to see the soft hazel underneath. He blinked slowly, unfocused, then squeezed them shut against the light.

“Hey, baby,” you said gently, leaning close again. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He let out a faint, croaky sound—half breath, half mumble.

Jack stepped forward, his voice catching. “Hey, bud. It’s Daddy. Can you squeeze Mommy’s hand for me?”

Another pause.

Then—your fingers were squeezed, weak but there. Real.

Tears slid down your cheeks as you pressed his hand to your face. “There you are,” you whispered.

Mason blinked again, this time managing to squint up at the two blurry figures hovering over him. His lips parted. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

“My head hurts.”

You choked on a sob, letting out a shaky laugh. “I bet it does, sweetheart. But you’re okay. You’re okay.”

Jack cleared his throat, crouching beside the bed now, brushing hair gently away from Mason’s forehead. “We’re gonna take really good care of you, buddy. You scared us.”

Mason looked at you, then at Jack, and then murmured, “Did I miss the ice cream?”

You both laughed—quiet, breathless, full of relief.

“No,” you said. “Aunty owes you extra scoops now.”

He gave a tiny smile, then drifted again, eyelids heavy, but this time… it was just sleep.

Not unconsciousness. Not seizure. Not silence.

Just rest.

The next day brought sunlight through the tall PICU windows, soft and golden, catching in the folds of Mason’s blanket. He was propped up slightly now, still sleepy and sore, but undeniably there. Awake. Talking a little more. Asking small, simple things like “What day is it?” and “Can I have ice cream now?”

You and Jack stayed close, moving slower now, the urgency replaced by the kind of stillness that only comes after a storm.

There were still scans ahead. Neuro checks. Days of rest already planned in advance. But for now, Mason’s vitals were steady. His headache was easing. The swelling in his brain was beginning to go down. And his eyes—when they looked at you—were full of that quiet spark again.

That afternoon, you sat beside him in the recliner, Mason tucked against your chest in hospital-issue pajamas, his IV carefully taped and his fingers curled around your shirt. Jack was across the room, dozing lightly on the couch, arms crossed, head tilted, exhaustion finally catching up with him.

Mason’s voice came soft against your collarbone.

“Mommy?”

You tilted your head down. “Yeah, baby?”

“Will you stay here when I sleep?”

You smiled, kissing the top of his head.

“Of course, baby. Daddy and I both will.”

And with his breathing deepening, his small body warm against yours, and Jack snoring softly in the corner, you finally let yourself close your eyes.

Not out of fear.

Because—for the first time in days—you knew everything was going to be okay.

mercvry-glow 2025

HAPPY LOWMAN MASTERLIST 2🌴

You can find all chapters of A LITTLE LOST below!

Disclaimer; I don't own any of the SOA characters nor the original storyline. All the rights go to Kurt Sutter and the other producers of the show. I do, however, own my original characters and the added storylines I come up with.

Warning⚠️; 18+ only! All stories will have mature content in it, which means that there will be detailed sexual content, violence, blood and gore, domestic violence, sensitive topics, mental health issues etc. If any of these topics will be mentioned or written out in detail, there will be an extra trigger warning in this particular chapter.

tag list; If you want to get tagged in each chapter, leave a comment! ☀️

INTRODUCTION CHAPTER

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTERE TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN / LAST CHAPTER

𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

summary: jack abbot really needs to stop overhearing conversations that he's not a part of.

author's note: here it is!! my first ever jack abbot fic ♡ thank you to everyone who has been reading the little paragraphs so far! hope you all like it!

word count: 9.7k

warnings/tags: virgin, fourth year med student reader and attending jack. age gap relationship. loss of virginity, oral sex, lots and lots of praise kink <3 normal hospital lingo and descriptions of procedures.

jack abbot knows better than to listen to the nurses gossiping. he does—because listening to them never leads to anything good. if he’s caught eavesdropping, he gets dragged in. loses money that was never meant to be spent on the bets—and seriously, the employees of this hospital have a gambling problem. 

other times he hears things he really wish he hadn’t heard. it’s just not relevant to him, he doesn’t want to know things about people that he’s not meant to know. maybe it’s a military thing, but he can’t really explain it. maybe jack is just used to keeping secrets and minding his own business. 

and the last thing that jack really doesn’t like about overhearing gossip is that sometimes, rarely and reserved only for special information, it gets trapped in his brain and becomes the only thing he thinks about for the rest of the shift. 

this is one of those times. 

he knows better—that’s what keeps coursing through his mind when he stands on the opposite side of the nurse’s station at central. keep his ears shut, eyes down, because the last time he was standing here unarmed, he learned about a pregnant technician upstairs and the married surgeon who was the father. information that he did not, does not, want to know. nor did he want to learn about the surgeon’s wife who was a nurse in the pediatric ward, or the technician’s boyfriend who is on a work trip in florida.

he thinks that was child’s play compared to this conversation. 

when jack glances up, he sees you on the other side of the desk, leaning forward on your elbows, smiling and laughing with the nurses. 

you’re a fourth year—he should let you smile and laugh while you can. you’re in that perfect, peaceful transition period between your audition rotations ending and finding out where you’re going for residency. it’s supposed to be an enjoyable time—there’s no exam prep waiting for you at home, no stressful surgery rotation coming up next week. 

jack didn’t know too much about you—you’d mostly been on the day shift for the duration of your rotation. that was normal, keeping all the students together when the majority of the doctors were there too. made it a little easier to manage.

you were a little different though. just a little. you’d specially asked to try out the night shift for the rest of the time you’d be at the hospital. it’s not the weirdest request they’d ever heard, but just unusual. fourth years cherish sleeping and spending time with family and boyfriends and organizing their life before being thrown head-first into intern year. 

(at least, that’s what jack thinks you’d cherish. the little he knows about you has been transferred from robby and a comment from the residents every now and then. all good things, and when he’d told you the night shift was your chance to prove all the good things he’d heard about you, you had beamed at him.

a smile so bright he had lost his train of thought and had to walk back to what he’d even said to begin with. he tries not to think about it when he sees you smiling like that to your patients or the nurses, like you are now. but it’s not the same one, he can tell. the one you smiled at him had been a little different, something in your eyes had lit up too, you had stood up straighter, like a current had made its way through you at the compliment. or something like that.)

and you had definitely been proving yourself. jack had learned maybe last week that you had applied emergency medicine. it made sense then, why you wanted to try out night shift, since first year interns eventually do night float. it was just practice for the future. which was great, and very exciting for you, but just not what he had expected. 

you were just so… happy. patient. you had seemed disappointed on your first day to learn that most of the emergency docs only wore black scrubs. you made up for it in other ways—a pink stethoscope, colored pens, a badge reel with a little cartoon on it. 

even looking at you now, fiddling with the pulley on your badge, listening intently to whatever the nurse was telling you, and then smiling in that reassuring way that he’s seen you do, you look like you shouldn’t be here. he briefly considers finding that surgeon’s wife, the pediatric nurse, to take you up there for a couple of hours. jack doesn’t think you would want to come back down, but, well, what does he know about you?

certainly not much. even if he had noticed the way you are with your patients—filled with an abundance of caring, a melodic tune to your voice, trying your hardest to comfort, repair, heal. he had seen you fetch cups of water and sandwiches yourself, not wanting to bother nurses. every sentence had a please and thank you attached. it didn’t take long for you to win over the patients. then the nurses. then the residents, and the attendings.

it seemed that your goal was to win over all the attendings. 

jack is still staring at you. but you’re so focused on your conversation with the nurse that you don’t even notice. and he has to stop before someone else notices, forcing himself to look down at the chart in front of him, trying to remember why he’d even come over here in the first place.

and that’s when he hears it. 

“-but i would have never guessed. you’re so pretty!” the nurse says, and he knows she is talking about you, because, well, who else would she be talking about? 

you are pretty, as unprofessional as the thought feels even entering his head. you’re very pretty, and the way you talk to everyone like they’re the most important person in the world to you only makes you prettier. 

jack almost clears his throat, before realizing that he is, in fact, eavesdropping. he can’t interrupt a conversation he’s not even a part of. and much to his chagrin, realizing that he is terrible at this, he tunes back into your conversation. 

“yeah, but it’s not about that,” you say, and you sound a little different. like you’re flushed. the words come out hesitantly, quietly. “it’s about... finding the right guy, right? i didn’t want to rush it and then regret it.” 

he hears the nurse laugh, and you laugh a little too, followed by a little groan. “i guess it is embarrassing,” you continue, before stopping, interrupted by the nurse. jack looks up briefly—you’ve got your head resting on your forearms, leaning down against the counter. he keeps looking until you bring it back up.

“no, it’s a good thing. especially in hospitals. keep your legs closed otherwise you’ll end up like that pregnant tech upstairs-”

“but that’s so horrible. his poor wife works here. and she has a boyfriend, how do you do that-” 

he keeps listening, his own face a little flushed. he both wants to and absolutely does not want to hear the rest of your conversation, but even through the fog, he thinks about how your only reaction to that bit of circulating gossip was how bad you feel for the wife. his heart beats a little faster.

“well don’t worry about that, you won’t have to deal with it as long as you stay a virgin-” you and the nurse laugh, and the phone starts ringing, and the charge nurse answers. 

she calls out, yelling for dr. abbot, and so lost in his thoughts—in your thoughts—he doesn’t even hear his own name being called for a couple of car accidents that were incoming. when he turns back to look, you’re already gone.

he needs to shake off whatever you’ve just done to him. his feet automatically take him to the trauma bay, gearing up for whatever is coming, but when he gets there, you’re standing there, waiting. a yellow gown already on you, gloves pulled. and in your hands, another gown and set of gloves—extra large, he can tell from the color. the ones that he wears. 

“dr. abbot,” you say, handing both items to him. “i heard from bridget, is it okay if i assist?” 

“yeah, sure, kid-” he thinks for a moment that he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. and how the hell is one tiny piece of gossip enough to have his head spinning like he’s some teenage boy? how does that work, when he’s never cared about workplace rumors or any of the other hundreds of medical students he’s worked with before? 

you beam up at him again, saying thank you. eager to prove your worth like always. you disappear behind him, and jack is confused for half a second before he feels your fingers on the skin of his neck—briefly, just another half of a second. you’re tying the gown for him.

how is that you’re this kind, this pretty, and you’ve never had someone to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else? that can’t be right. that can’t be fair. 

oh god.

jack wants to tie the back of yours, thinks that maybe twenty years ago he’d be a lot quicker on his feet to do what he wants with the information he’s just learned. but instead he hears the ambulance sirens pull up, and he sees the back of your head while you rush out to meet them, and he actually, for the first time in years, has to force his feet to move. 

you were so close behind him, he could smell it. not perfume, that would wear off quickly with how much they run around. it was your soap and your shampoo. clean and sweet and something like strawberries lingering in the air after you’ve taken off.

but he’s stood next to you before—how is it that this is the first time he’s noticed?

half way outside, you turn around, realizing jack’s not right behind you.

“dr. abbot?” you question, taking half a step towards him, the opposite direction. 

“yeah, coming,” jack answers and he follows you outside.

-

the mvc’s weren’t in the worst shape jack’s ever seen, but still bad enough that he needed to snap out of it. he doesn’t even want to think about how bad the rumor mill would be if word got out that he lost a patient because he couldn’t stop staring at the twenty-something medical student. (though it is hard to stop staring. how the hell did robby ever work with collins? how did he get anything done?) 

it’s not like jack is going to find out. you are strictly off limits. 

he tries to do what he always does—asks you questions. how many milligrams should you give the patient? what are the three things you should be the most worried about? the patient’s got a broken wrist from trying to brace for the impact but that’s the least of your worries, so how do you deal with it for now? 

the first one gets stable pretty quickly. the second one is where there’s more concern. he comes in, ellis saying something about the patient’s crashing and there’s a big piece of debris jammed in his chest. 

jack goes in there and he spares a glance at you. the intensity of the situation is enough to make you a little flushed, even though you’ve done an emergency rotation during third year and two auditions already this year. but it’s a good thing—you take every case as seriously as though it’s your first. worry about each patient like they’re your own family, like each step is your responsibility. 

he calls you over, asks you what medications you would give if you had to intubate. 

“uh, etomidate a-and rocuronium?” it comes out like a question, like you’re still a little uncertain, even though you’re right, like you don’t believe in yourself enough to say confidently.

he’ll have to change that. help you work on that. he can think of it now—maybe you would learn best if you had some kind of a reward system. you seem like the kind of girl who would benefit from that. maybe if he asked the questions from between your thighs and your reward was—

“dr. abbot?” the sound of your voice snaps him out of it.

“yeah. good. very good,” jack says, and he turns his head just slightly, just so he can see you beam again. “you heard the doctor. let’s get prepped for the intubation.” you move out of the way for ellis to come in, when he stops you. “no, you’re going to be doing it.” 

you pause, uncertain eyes staring up at your attending.

“a-are you sure? don’t you think you should-”

“i think you’re perfectly competent to intubate.” “you guys got this,” ellis says, taking her stethoscope around her neck and heading out. the nurse tells you that they’re all set up. you hear the blare of the heart monitor, another nurse reading off the vitals, all the way to the pulse-ox that’s too low. 

“i’ll be here the whole time,” jack says, and you really, really wish he hadn’t said that. he’s close to you, handing you the laryngoscope. 

in moments like these, you realize why you were always meant to do this. you pick up the scope, carefully lowering it into the mouth and the top of the patient’s throat.

“don’t make any sudden movements. you don’t want to break his teeth,” jack instructs, his voice a gentle guide. you do know how to intubate, you must have done it a hundred times on the dummy in the skills lab. but you’ll never get over how different it is when it’s a real patient, how scared you get even when you shouldn’t be, because the doctor should never be scared like that.

but then you hear dr. abbot’s voice again. quiet, maybe even quiet enough that the other people in the room can’t hear. 

“i-i don’t see the cords-”

“take a breath. use your hand to extend the neck, get it straighter.” you listen to his instructions, hands moving by themselves to comply. “try again.” you’re looking down, and the nurses are looking at the video, and jack is looking at you. “past the epiglottis.” you push the tube a little further. “past the larynx.” a little further. “and cords.” 

you take a breath like you’ve never taken one before. the capnometer turns yellow and you finish out the steps, the rest feeling like muscle memory before handing it over to the nurse. the patient’s going up to surgery, but you make it outside the trauma room taking deep breaths to ground yourself.

“you okay?” dr. abbot asks from somewhere behind you. 

you turn to see him taking off the gown and gloves, the ones you had handed him. maybe you’d never noticed it before, but he’s got freckles over his forearms. maybe he spent a lot of time in the sun as a kid. when you don’t reply, thoughts trapped in your head and words not forming, he speaks again.

“come here,” and he guides you to the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. his hand hovers over the small of your back as he leads you there.

you’re going crazy—there’s no way you could feel his body heat through your scrubs. and yet the sensation lingers. he faces you, and you look up, blinking quickly. you don’t think you’ve ever been close enough to dr. abbot to see the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or how the hair along his temples is more salt than pepper. his eyes bore into yours, and you stare up, forgetting the reason that you had even needed to speak to him. 

“are you sure you’re okay, kid?” he asks again, and you nod quickly.

“yes. yes, i’m sorry, dr. abbot.” you turn to look at the trauma room, looking at the nurses hovering over the patient you had just intubated. when you turn back to look at your attending, you realize he’s staring, just like how you were staring. 

“what are you apologizing for?”

“i-i forgot the steps. you-you had to talk me through it. i should have known,” you try to explain, though words and sentences become harder to form with each passing moment. 

“you’ve done how many of those, now? a handful? less than ten?” you nod. “you don’t have to be perfect here. you just have to try. and keep going, which you did.” you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “good job, doctor. you saved the patient.” 

“thank you dr. abbot.” you smile, beaming again, just not in the way you usually do. you’re still not that proud of yourself, jack can tell. 

the voice in the back of your head tells you that you should have been better, faster, more confident. you can’t imagine that ellis or shen or even your attending had been this hesitant as a medical student. 

“it’ll come with time, you know. no one’s perfect when they start out.” 

“did i say that out loud?” you question seriously, confusion spread all over your pretty features.

“no.” 

you’re so stupid—but maybe being so close to your serious, yet growing kinder by the millisecond attending was getting to you. the attending that you really want to impress, for reasons still unbeknownst to you. you want him to like you, to take you seriously, to think that you’d be a great candidate for their intern class starting in july. 

and then you lose your train of thought, staring at his eyes. it’s been too long, people are going to wonder where the two of you went.

but his eyes aren’t actually brown, like you thought. they’re hazel. 

“yeah,” he says, with a laugh. “they are.” 

your own eyes go wide like coins, and then you run straight to central to find a patient to preoccupy you from the embarrassment that is seeping out of you, leaving jack abbot laughing to himself in the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. 

the rest of your night shift is surprisingly uneventful. you had heard it was a bit calmer, but you didn’t expect such a drastic difference. but maybe it was just one of those nights. ellis wouldn’t let shen say the actual word, but you were all thinking it. it was kind of quiet tonight.

and normally, jack appreciates a quiet night. it’s like a little peace offering from god, akin to a slap on the back and a ‘thanks for your service’. he needs one every now and then, it’s the way only way to make sure for certain that he doesn’t end up on the roof a step closer than the last time.

though, staring at you from across the emergency room, watching you drink from your colorful water bottle and smile at shen and ellis, thanking them for their help while you work on notes, is certainly another way to make sure that jack abbot doesn’t think about that roof.

it’s only three in the morning though. there’s always time for the night to get worse. they’ve got four hours left, and he knows you’re off tomorrow.

well, he knows that he’s off. and then he took a peak at the schedule in one of his many free minutes tonight to see where you’ll be. he hopes the answer is at home, sleeping and eating and letting your body recover from the damage night shift does to your circadian rhythm. 

(he needs to cut it out. attendings have no business wondering what their bright eyed and bushy tailed fourth years are doing on their days off.)

but god if it doesn’t plague him—the fact that unlike what he thought, there’s no boyfriend waiting for you at home. no one to hear about your stressful day at work, the intubation that you did—perfectly, just with a little help from your overbearing attending, all the patients that you helped, and the great impression you made on the night shift. how he sees you answer every nurse carrying a question from patient with all your energy, even in the middle of the night. how you fill up a cup of ice chips for the patient waiting to go up to surgery, comforting them while knowing it’ll be sunlight outside when they’re finally taken up. 

and then he sees you sit down, taking a breath like you need to remind yourself to breathe sometimes. 

it’s just a little bit wrong. whatever he’s thinking, before he’s even thought it, it’s wrong. but how is it that you have all these things to be proud of, and no one at home to be proud of you? jack can sense it in the way that your smile grows every time you find out someone has something kind to say about you. every good job and well done is catalogued somewhere in your mind, and you wait ceaselessly for the next one, like an addiction. 

jack would spoil you, he thinks, for other people. for other men. he would praise you. he would tell you how perfect you are so many times that you wouldn’t be able to forget, that you would never doubt yourself again. that’s what you need waiting for you at home—the thing that can make it all better. 

and as wrong as it is, he knows he could do it for you. 

you look around the room and find hazel eyes staring right at you. your heart thuds in your chest. 

you smile at dr. abbot, and then look back down your notes. a minute later, you look up again, and he’s still looking. smiling. and now you can’t look away either. you had heard about the eye contact thing from other residents, it’s just a habit, they had said. you try not to flatter yourself that your attending is looking at you like he knows everything about you, including the things you don’t say out loud.

why does he have to be so nice to you? why does he have to laugh and smile even when you’re making an idiot of yourself? you should go up and apologize for that bit about the hazel eyes, though you think you might collapse into a puddle and melt into the ground if you have to bring it up again.

but you’re on for six more night shifts before the audition ends, and you ranked ptmc pretty high on your list—which may have been a mistake if you can’t stand in the presence of one of your attendings without turning into a flustered mess.

he hasn’t even done anything besides be nice to you. of course it’s that easy to unnerve you. you keep looking, watching the nurse who stopped to ask dr. abbot a question, how jack turns to talk to him, making eye contact that you were just at the receiving end of.

when the nurse walks away, jack turns back, looks right at you again. you can feel your face heat up like you just ran a mile. is this one of those things that’ll go away when you’re not a virgin anymore? that’s a heavy question for three-thirty in the morning.

here’s another one—how is every person in this hospital not in love with him?

you fluster and turn, breaking eye contact and keeping your head firmly staring at the computer screen. he laughs to himself again, walking off to check on a patient from earlier. the next time your eyes look up, they automatically go to the counter where jack was. you turn back and finish your notes.

“hey,” shen says, sliding into the empty seat next to you a while later. he opens the drawer under the desk, lifting up papers and pulling out a packet of goldfish from underneath. “forget what all these other people told you. your first rule is eat when you can.” you smile at that.

“noted. that’s a good hiding spot. inconspicuous.”

“that’s the goal. don’t tell the day shifters. it’ll be empty in an hour.” 

“i won’t. promise.”

“is your mvc still waiting for surgery?” 

“i think so, yeah,” you sit up a little straighter. you have this fear that you’ve done something wrong, that it’ll all be revealed in time.

“don’t worry, that’s normal this time of the night. i’d go check on him like once an hour and report to abbot. just because it’s-well, i’m not gonna say it.”

“right. got it. will do.” you get up, feet stumbling a little. it is pretty late. your watch says four-thirty, but you’re not tired. you’re just anxious.

you make your way to the patient’s room, the nurse filling you in on the updates in the last hour. there’s not many, thank god. you stare at the pulse-ox on the monitor for way too long, going over and checking to see that he is, in fact, still breathing. it’s silly. you know it is.

the nurse says she’ll be right back, and you look at the chart for another minute or so, trying to formulate the words you’re going to say to dr. abbot now so you don’t have to form them on the spot—god only knows how that might go.

you turn to head out, looking at the notes on the tablet in your hand, when you run into a brick wall.

“oh my god-” you almost drop the ipad, clutching onto it while it nearly tumbles out of your grip. jesus, how tired were you? walking into walls? but then the wall brings a hand to your shoulder, and that voice that’s been haunting your thoughts all night speaks.

and for what can only be the hundredth time that night, dr. abbot asks you if you’re okay.

you stare up at him. 

“you okay, kid?” 

“yes. i’m so sorry, dr. abbot. i was coming to find you.” 

“i figured. how’s your patient?”

“stable. waiting for surgery. i-i… nevermind.”

“you what?” he asks, gently taking the ipad from your hand and reading. he uses one hand to wipe his eyes, like he can take away the tiredness that way, and then runs a hand through his hair. you put your trembling fingers to your sides. he brings his eyes up from the screen to look at you. you really wish he wouldn’t.

“i was just making sure he was still breathing.” 

dr. abbot smiles at you. you smile back, but it’s half-hearted. your chest is thudding so loudly you can hear it in your ears. but his smile fades when he catches a glimpse of your shaking fingers.

“have you eaten today?”

“i had some coffee. and some water.” 

“the patient looks great. he’ll be fine. let’s get you something to eat.” 

you shut your eyes tightly, but your brain is so tired you don’t even know what you’re thinking. you’ll have to get better at this if you want to keep working here someday.

mindlessly, you follow dr. abbot. 

“between five and seven is the hardest part of the shift,” he says, opening up another drawer, different from shen’s. he hands you a protein bar. “and too much coffee is a bad thing. we don’t want your hands shaking if you need to put in a chest tube or thirty sutures at six am, do we?”

you shake your head, taking the protein bar from his hand. your fingers brush for all of two seconds. jack feels like he just touched a live wire.

“eat,” he says, and you listen. “you’re doing good, you know. it’s not supposed to be easy.”

“thank you,” you say, though your mouth is full. you lift your hand to cover, because even though it’s five am, you cannot embarrass yourself any further. “sorry about the hazel eyes thing.”

jack laughs and you smile. he has a really nice laugh, the kind that can make you calm down and forget what was bothering you all night. it really is a wonder that everyone here isn’t in love with him. you don’t even know how much longer you’ll be able to last.

“that’s okay. you’re tired.”

“everyone’s tired,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “i think i’m just going crazy.”

“yeah, why’s that?”

“because i can’t stop thinking about you.”

well. looks like that’s about how long you were able to last.

you put the protein bar down on the counter. hands trembling again, mouth dropped open.

“dr. abbot, i am so sorry-” the words come out in a shaky breath, but when you look at him, when he finally moves his gaze back to your eyes, like he’s been doing all night, you see that he’s not mad. he’s not even upset.

“that’s okay-”

“no, no that is so not okay,” you blubber, words and sentences becoming harder to find by the second. “i am so sorry. that is so unprofessional.”

“well, i-”

“b-but it’s not like it’s just my fault, you’re being so nice-” 

“it’s not anyone’s fault, kid, it doesn’t work like that-” “if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours,” you say, unsure of where you’re finding these words. “you keep staring at me. what am i supposed to do?”

“have you tried looking away?” he quips, and you laugh at that. jack thinks for a moment that it’s a really beautiful sound. he doesn’t get to hear it often enough. maybe he can change that.

“am i?” you ask, after a small silence. “going crazy?”

“no. you’re not,” he replies. 

“oh. that’s good, at least.”

the two of you stay like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder against the counter, your protein bar long forgotten. jack’s looking at you and you’re looking anywhere but him.

“dr. abbot?” you say, but before he can answer, there’s a phone going off. he hears it in the distance—mvc, truck driver, incoming, five minutes out. 

“come on,” he says, doing that thing again, guiding you but not really. even if anyone noticed through the haze of five am, he finds that he doesn’t really care right now. you wear the same flustered, confused, guilty expression until he ties the gown behind you this time, which makes you a smile.

a real one this time.

“what do you think about breakfast?” jack asks, snapping on his gloves and heading outside to meet the ambulance.

“i like breakfast,” you answer, not nearly as hesitantly as you thought you would.

“great. i’m of the belief you should always eat breakfast after night shift. there’s a place down the street.”

“do they have french toast?”

“i’m sure they do. you like sweet things?” and you can’t believe the conversation is still going, the paramedics are opening up the doors in front of you. you turn to jack, nodding to answer his question. “makes sense. alright, what’d we have?”

mouth still open, you follow him out to the bay. 

-

an hour later, both of the drivers from the accident are stable. you’re yawning at central, saying goodbye to the nurse you were chatting with earlier, and without even looking, you know jack is looking at you.

you’re too tired to be anxious. all you want is to go to breakfast with him and figure out what the hell happens after breakfast post night-shift with your attending who knows that you can’t stop thinking about him. 

he brings over a cup of coffee for you. you look up quizzically. 

“i thought you said no more coffee?”

“it’s decaf. but you need something to get you to breakfast, right?”

“shouldn’t i have a coffee at breakfast?”

“no, because then you won’t be able to sleep after.” the way he talks, you believe everything he says. you smile at him. someone from the other side of the room calls him over. 

“i’ll, uh, be right back.”

“dr. abbot?” you say, right before he leaves.

“yeah?” “thank you for the coffee.”

the last hour drags. particularly, six to six-thirty. the second half of the hour, the day crew rolls in slowly, one by one. the day shift counterparts take over patients and beds, get their debriefs. you follow around behind the residents, inform the other medical student about what you had done throughout the evening.

and around seven-fifteen, you pull on your jacket, grab your backpack, and wait for jack. you don’t know who else has left yet, who else might see you two together, but you don’t really care.

you walk to the breakfast place together, your eyes stuck anywhere but on your attending, and now it feels weird, because you can’t get his name to come out of your mouth. the idea of saying jack rather than dr. abbot feels inherently wrong.

the place he takes you to is quaint. it smells of espresso and bacon, and you smile brightly at the waitress when you order a latte, not decaf. 

“what did i tell you, huh?” jack asks, and you bring yourself to finally look back at the hazel eyes that started this whole thing.

“i never said i was sleeping after this.” 

in hindsight, the coffee was a great idea. the food would have made you sleepy, and you would have missed out going back home with jack. he lives in a nice brownstone, much nicer than your tiny apartment.

it also gave you just enough nerve to ask jack if he wanted to try your french toast. to hold his hand on the walk back. to lean against his chest while he opens the door. 

“i can still walk you home, y’know,” he says, but you shake your head, watching him get his keys out. 

“unless you want to meet my roommate, i don’t think that’s a good idea.” and inside jack abbot’s apartment is everything you had been imagining for the last twelve hours. shelves filled with records, big windows, a couch that looks tantalizingly comfortable. but you have ulterior motives today. 

you keep looking around, perusing through his records while he takes a seat on the couch. you inspect with a tilted head, warmth spreading through your chest and radiating out at his music taste. such an old man, you think briefly, looking back at him sitting on the couch in his civilian clothes. your old man.

you pick one out, the first album that’s familiar to you, and bring it over jack on the couch. you sit next to him, thighs touching, resting your head on his shoulder.

“are you gonna put on music?” he laughs, and you can feel his chest vibrate with the noise. this close, you can feel his heartbeat if you place your head just right. every word that he says, you can hear the rumble first. it’s so soothing, you’d fall asleep if you weren’t so wound up.

“how are you not tired?” he questions, and you look up at him.

“i had a latte, remember. you had coffee too. how are you still tired?” you go silent for a moment, trying and failing to conceal a laugh.

“don’t even say it,” jack says, and he’s laughing too.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you’re thinking it.”

“i’m not tired enough anymore to believe that you can actually read my thoughts.”

“i can’t read your thoughts.”

“that’s a lie-”

“no, promise. i can’t. i can just tell.”

“how is that possible?”

“you want me to teach you?” you prop yourself up, leaning against his forearm while you do it. his skin is warm, and somehow despite everything you two went through the last twelve hours, he still smells good.

“if you’re not too tired, old man.” jack shuts his eyes, groaning. you laugh again, biting your cheek, wondering what he’ll say when—

he opens his eyes.

“i was gonna go easy on you, kid. but you’re in for it now.” 

“yeah?”

“yeah.” 

“promise?”

jack makes another noise—something in between a groan and a sigh. and then before you can think about it again, he takes your face in between both hands and kisses you.

and you’ve been kissed before. not well, but you know what it’s supposed to be like. after a date once you think, a date that had been pretty mediocre. you felt a spark a hundred times stronger in the last couple hours with jack than any date you’ve been on in your life.

at least—you thought you knew what being kissed was supposed to be like. as it turns out, while kissing jack, you realize that you didn’t know shit.

the way he kisses you leaves your lungs void of any air. he doesn’t pull away, not once, and you don’t either. you don’t want him to pull away, you think you might die if he does. he moves his hands slightly, one on your cheek and the other on the back of your head, holding you in place, firmly, gently. and he kisses you like he wants you to forget what being kissed is like, as though you should have no memory besides this one. 

your hands rope themselves on his arms, hard muscles tense under your touch. you move them up and down, brain so empty after the night you’ve had that you don’t know how to signal to him that you want him to take his shirt off. so you pull on his short sleeves and feel his bicep strain against your palm until you give up. you’d rather go at his pace than make any decisions at all, and somehow, you know that jack abbot won’t let you make a single decision, not if you don’t want to. he’ll decide everything, he’ll know what’s right for you, just like he has all night.

your hands finally leave his arm and wander to his hair, fingers working their way through the salt and pepper that you’ve been admiring for so many hours. his curls are messy, and you’ve ruined them, you’re sure, but you can’t stop. 

you don’t know how long it’s been since either of you came up for air, but then you hear the record drop to the ground and you pull away quickly, turning your head to see where it went.

jack doesn’t stop kissing you. his mouth is hot and his touch is lava, moving to your cheek and your jaw and then down the column of your neck. 

the moans you’ve been singing into his mouth are now out in the air, noises sweet like honey coming back to his ears.

“y-your record, i-i dropped it,” you get the sentence out in gasps. jack has his mouth over the place where your carotid pulses. he sucks hard on the skin there and your eyes shut instantly, the record leaving your mind as quickly as it had come in. he makes his way back through your cheek, back to your mouth. 

and you could almost die at the sight—jack abbot, lips red and swollen, darkened eyes looking at you like he’s going to make you pay for that ‘old man’ comment, though you can hardly remember what you had even said.

this time you lean back in to kiss him again, and he lets you control the pace for all of thirty seconds. you kiss him until your lips hurt, until your tongue is tired—but then again, so is every part of your body. but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re so close to getting what it is that you want. 

you don’t actually know how you got to his bedroom. you would have been content on that couch, or on the rug on the floor. against the door or on the countertop in the kitchen, but you guess you’ll have time for all of those things one day. 

there’s black out curtains in jack’s bedroom. they’re not shut all the way, so you look around while he stands in front of you, pulling off his shirt in one motion. your eyes are big, heart thudding while you take it in. his room is simple, just like you had imagined. the sheets are soft under your skin and everything smells good, like linen and sandalwood. you bring your gaze back, bringing a hand up to touch his chest, like you need to make sure that he’s really in front of you. 

jack takes his hand and puts it on top of the one you’re touching him with, pinning it above your head while he hovers over you. you bring the other one up voluntarily, letting him clasp it down, while he leans in to kiss you again. you keep moaning, not sure of how loud you’re being and not entirely sure if you care anymore. 

and then he stops. pulls away from the kiss, unpins your hands. you whine in frustration, shut eyes opening quickly to meet his.

“you sure about this, hm?” he asks, bringing his lips to your jaw again. he hovers there too, not pressing down enough for it to be a real kiss. you can feel his stubble rubbing against you. 

“i’m sure,” you whisper back, eyes shutting again. jack’s hands roam down, wandering over your waistband.

“there’s no going back,” he says, just as quietly as you had.

“jack, please—” and for the first time that morning, you hear dr. abbot break.

“oh fuck. say my name again, angel,” and you comply, repeating the syllable once, and then twice. it tastes weird on your tongue—like you’d get in trouble for saying it.

the thought makes you laugh. you keep giggling, unable to stop. you hear jack breathe into your neck, laughing with you.

“what’s so funny, hm?” he brings himself back over you, noses almost touching. you look straight into hazel eyes, bringing your hand to his cheek, running your fingers over the short hairs there.

“a couple hours ago i was calling you doctor abbot. now i’m in your bed.”

“you want me to stop, baby? i can. we can just go to sleep,” and you shake your head quickly. 

“no, please don’t stop.”

“well, since you asked so politely.” he starts again, kisses up and down your neck, hands pulling off your bottoms. his fingers tease over the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms so he can pull that off too. his eyes rake over your entire body and unlike what you’d imagined, you don’t feel the need to hide. you don’t want to cover yourself up, or feel embarrassed, or anything else. you want jack abbot to keep looking at you like he’s looking now, like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. you can’t believe it either.

and somehow, this is even funnier. now you’re naked in front of your attending, the very one who has been making your heart race since you met him during your third year rotation. you laugh again, before clasping a hand over your mouth.

“i think you might be a little too tired for this,” he says, and you regret your laughter right now.

“no, no, i want this. i’ve been waiting so long for this,” the last part comes out as a whisper. you tilt your head up, pressing in for another kiss. jack’s hands—hot like every other part of him—roam the bare skin of your hips and waist, all the way up to your ribcage and then back down. 

“yeah? how long?” he asks. his kisses go lower now, down your neck, onto your collarbone. he goes down to the smooth skin above your breasts, between them. everywhere except where you need him. you can feel the anticipation thrumming under your skin. “i asked you a question.” he pulls away, waiting for his answer.

“s-since i met you.” 

“i think it’s been longer than that, hasn’t it?” 

you look at him confused, but then the bastard actually smirks at you. and suddenly you’re back to ten o’clock last night, when the nurse was telling you to keep you legs closed—sorry, couldn’t help myself—and you saw someone in the corner of your eye but you didn’t want to be rude and look away, but when you left for the incoming trauma, you had seen—

“you dick-” you yell, sitting up in jack’s soft sheets. “you heard that whole conversation?” jack’s laughing and you start laughing too, taking one of his pillows and smacking it across his chest. 

“not-” you get him with the pillow again and he grabs it, wrestling it out of your hands. you realize how much stronger he is than you for a split second in that moment. “not the entire thing. just the important bits.”

“well at least now i don’t have to figure out how to tell you,” you reply sheepishly, feeling particularly vulnerable. you bring your knees in to your chest, watching jack in front of you with big eyes. “do you feel weird about it?”

“weird about what, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, placing one of his warm hands on your knee and rubbing the skin there.

“the virgin thing. do you not-”

“hey,” he says, and with so much caring behind his voice that you feel whatever’s left—if there even was any—of your resolve break. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can shower and go to sleep. i can take you home. whatever you want. and we can pick up where we left off when you’re ready.” 

“yeah?” you ask. 

“yeah.” 

you move back towards him, shutting your eyes and leaning in for another kiss. this time you crawl into his lap, feeling his hands roaming all over your body again. you can feel him under you—rock hard, pulsing, incredibly hot even through his pants. your hips move on their own while your hands fiddle with the tie before he takes over, undoing it for you. you hear jack groaning in your ear, and you’re positive that you’re wet enough to leave a wet mark on him. the noise is so exhilarating to you that you have to stop yourself from doing whatever it takes to get more out of him.

jack keeps one huge hand on your back, keeping you steady while he kisses you. you lock your arms around his neck, not letting go incase he tries to pull away. he flips you over in one motion—you on your back, and him hovering over you.

you don’t like this nearly as much—you want it back, the insanely rough pleasure of grinding yourself down on him. you whine again, but he murmurs one word in your ear over and over again—patience.

you’ve waited this long. you think you can be patient a little while longer.

jack goes back to whatever was on his long list of things he wants to do to you. he starts with pinning your hands down, locking you in place so you don’t flail around too much. he starts at your chest, his hot mouth working down to your nipple. he takes one in his mouth and you arch up off the bed, making saccharine noises that no one besides him has ever gotten to hear. that no one besides him will ever get to hear. 

“jack, jack,” you say his name over and over again, like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t. your body reacts just like he thought you would, only taking what you’re giving, waiting patiently for more. 

“you’re being so good, sweetheart,” and he thinks the words alone are enough to make you come. he switches over to your other nipple, and he hears you curse, the swear ripping from your mouth.

and he hasn’t even touched your cunt yet. but he knows already that he’s going to drag this out, that he’s going to make sure you can never forget it. that he’ll spent the rest of his life trying to top this moment, give you something to compare to forever.

hot kisses down your stomach while your chest heaves. he watches from his position between your thighs, hands reaching out to play with your tits while he finally does what he’s been thinking about since that trauma yesterday night. 

he moves your hands for you, putting them to work, making you tease your nipples while he spreads open your legs further. 

he stares up again, watching you comply with his instructions wordlessly, being such a good girl without even needing to be told. he needs to tell you, but he doesn’t want you to come until you’re coming on his tongue.

without waiting, jack licks the length of your pussy and makes your entire body tense up, back rising off the bed again. he uses one hand on your stomach to keep you pinned down, to make sure you keep taking whatever he gives you. he can’t talk like this, but he’ll talk you through it when he makes you come all over his dick. 

that’s what he’s thinking about while he starts to stretch you out. one finger, then two. your cunt is soaking wet, leaking down and making a mess of your thighs and his sheets and his face. he teases your clit more than he should, but how can he not? when you thrash so hard that you’d fall if he wasn’t holding you down? when you have no choice but to take it, to lay back and feel jack’s tongue on the most sensitive part of your body, the part that no one but him has ever gotten to touch? 

two fingers become three, stretching you out for him while he sucks on your clit hard, finally giving you what you’ve been begging for. 

one of your hands makes its way down to his hair, pulling on it while the other stays on your breast—you want to have both in jack’s hair but you can’t just ignore what he told you to do. 

you don’t know what the punishment would be, even though you’re sure you’d enjoy it. but that’s going to be saved for another day.

right now, you were so close to cumming, so close that you could feel yourself hurtling over the edge, and then you pull on jack’s hair harder than you meant to and he moans around you.

it’s something entirely different—the vibration from his mouth and the fact that he’s moaning while he does this to you, and whatever the combination is, you feel it split you apart. the electric current that you felt earlier when you brushed hands with jack is nothing compared to this, lightening coursing through every part of your body, head to toe, inside and out. the white hot tension in your stomach snapping makes you cry out against jack’s pillows, toes curling while he keeps going all the way through it. you can hear him, and it only makes you cum harder, encouraging you, telling you how good you’re doing, how good you’ve been all this time. the only thing you can hear after it stops is your own heart inside your ribcage, bursting like it’s going to come out.

you let go of jack’s hair, bringing your exhausted hand to his shoulder instead. he comes up to where you are, meeting your eyes and leaning in for a kiss that leaves you breathless and thoughtless all over again. 

“thank you, jack,” you whisper, too tired to say it any louder. jack laughs against your skin.

“you tired, sweetheart?” the answer is yes and no at the time, but you shake your head. you move closer to him, bringing your hand to his boxers, palming him. you can tell he’s big—big in the way that’s going to hurt, big in the way that his fingers can’t compare. big like you’re going to have trouble walking tomorrow.

“please, jack?” you say, and honest to god, how is he supposed to say no to that? even in your post-orgasmic state, tired as you can be, every muscle probably screaming at you to let you sleep, you’re so sweet in your request, so polite. just like always. he can’t say no to you even if he wanted to.

jack positions himself on top of you. this is it—what you’ve been waiting for. the result of one harmless conversation half a day ago. 

jack brings your knees to your chest, and you loop your arms around them, holding yourself in place. his arms cage you in, and you look up, meeting hazel eyes. and even though you should probably be nervous, you’re not, not at all. because you know jack will take care of you. 

he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, making your eyes shut.

“you ready, kid?” the nickname makes your heart flutter. you open your eyes, nodding again. “take a deep breath for me,” jack says, and you comply. and when he pushes inside of you, you swear everything in your body stops working for a second. 

every thought leaves your head, every muscle goes lax. your eyes rolls back, mouth dropping open. there is nothing left to think about, nothing to feel except jack abbot inside of you. 

“breathe for me,” he instructs, and you have to remind yourself to listen to him, that he knows what you need in this moment. jack abbot knows everything about you—even the things you don’t know.

you hear him—groaning and whispering things that you’re sure would make you pass out if you were in a state of mind that could understand him, but you’re not. so you wait for his kiss, take another breath, and feel him push inside of you all the way.

“jack,” you cry out, toes curling and head spinning. “jack, jack, jack-”

“i know, i know,” he says, and gives you another kiss. “you’re doing—fuck, you’re doing perfect.” he pulls out and thrusts back in, and the stretch is enough to make you cry out again. he’s going slowly for you but you don’t know how to tell him that you need more, that you might die if you don’t get more. but then again, you don’t have to tell him anything. 

he picks up the pace, eyes stuck to where he’s filling you up. he can’t stop watching, seeing inch after inch disappear inside you, like you were made for him, because fuck, you were. your hands claw at his back and you pull on his neck to kiss you again, and when he does, you moan into his mouth. but he can’t just let you take it like this, he needs to tell you, all the things he’s been wanting to say.

he pulls away from your mouth and you make another noise, upset. he smooths down your hair and kisses your forehead, working down to your temple and then your cheek and to your ear. 

“you’re being so good for me,” those six words that you love hearing so much make your entire body tighten up, including your cunt. you pulse around him as he pauses for a minute, taking in how you react to it. you moan against his skin, crying out when he resumes. 

“so perfect for me. you’re taking me so well, baby. like you were made for it.” another moan, more crying. but he knows—knows there’s something else still.

you had once thought your first time might be gentle, candles and flowers. you don’t think you would trade jack abbot and his bedroom and his half-pulled black out curtains for anything in this world.

he keeps fucking you, brutally and deliberately, each thrust telling you something different. you squeal out his name like it’s the only word you know. but it’s when he starts speaking again, when you clench down against him, pulsing so tightly, that he knows he’s figured it out.

“good girl,” jack says, and you have to press your mouth against his arm to stop from screaming out loud. “you’re doing so good, so perfect. my good girl, aren’t you?” 

“j-jack, jack, jack, i’m gonna-” 

“come on, angel. come for me. i want you to come around me. can you do that for me?” you can’t answer, though it’s on the tip of your tongue, and then it happens again—the lightening, white hot, running through you. even stronger than the first one—it rips through you. jack’s in your ear  and you can understand him this time—good girl. so perfect. you did amazing. 

you don’t think you can feel your legs. your eyes want to flutter shut but you still feel the aftershocks each time jack thrusts inside of you—and when you open your eyes to stare up at him, you lean up, silently asking for a kiss. 

he complies, pressing his lips against you. you don’t let go, keeping it going, until you whisper against his lips. 

“thank you doctor abbot,” and that seems to be the last straw for him. you wish you could engrain it into your brain forever, how jack sounds when he cums. you’ve been listening to him all morning but this, this was different. a real moan, wrangled from the back of his throat, from his chest. as good as he’s made you feel, now you get to help him, your cunt clenching around him while he finishes. you press back for another kiss, and jack deepens it, until he pulls out.

you suddenly feel so empty.

he collapses next to you, ushering you onto his sweaty skin. you’re sure that you’re drenched too, and you can feel the back of your head where hairs have stuck to your neck. 

you find jack’s hand, holding onto it like letting go might make all of this disappear. he presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers rubbing the skin of the dorsum of your hand.

“you okay?” he asks again, and you nod against his chest. glancing up for a moment, you catch hazel eyes looking at you already.

“are you okay?” he gives you another kiss to your forehead.

“you need to get some sleep.” 

“i’m not tired,” you lie.

“yes you are. why do you keep thinking you can lie to me?” he asks, still staring into your eyes. you want to look away but you don’t think you can. you lay down against him, so you don’t have to look away.

“i’m not lying.” you take a pause, take a breath. “do i still have to call you dr. abbot at work tomorrow?” jack laughs. you can feel the vibration on his chest. it makes you smile.

“close your eyes, kid. i promise we’ll talk about everything in the morning.”

“jack?” 

“yes?”

“you wanna go again?”

♡

As Above, So Below I Chapter 1- I'll Tell You Everything is Copacetic

Synopsis: Two attendings, one new psychologist working both the day and night shifts on a rotation. You could have sworn you heard both of them call “dibs,” and you’re more than willing to entertain the both of them.  Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Fem!Reader and Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader Word count: 2.1K Warnings: Talk of mental illness and other psychological things, violence, dark humor, and some smut along the way  :) A/N: I couldn’t decide between Robby and Abbot, so I present you with BOTH. Tag list is open, Part 2 coming soon

As Above, So Below. "Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius, et quod inferius est sicut quod est superius." -- That which is above is like to that which is below, and that which is below is like to that which is above.

It based on the notion of Hermeticism; the idea that God was a magician.

The religious and philosophical idea that the universe is broken into the Macrocosm (the universe), and the microcosm (the individual).

That which is above, corresponds to that which is below in order to accomplish the miracle of one thing. In simplest terms—whatever happens in the spiritual world, also happens in the physical world, and vice versa.

Your spiritual and physical world existed on two equal and opposite sides; day shift and night shift.

Two very different shifts.

Two very different paces, senses of humor, and inside jokes 

Two very different attending doctors.

And you were vying for the attention of both of them. 

Part 1: I'll Tell You Everything is Copacetic

The promotion from the career you had grown comfortable, came unexpectedly and as the result of a physical altercation with a patient. You, the staff psychologist at a maximum-security prison, had come face-to-face with a makeshift weapon during a routine therapy session. The irony, which had not been lost on you, had been that your patient had been so worried that he’d never get out of prison, he had no insight into the fact that stabbing someone in the back with a sharpened toothbrush, would surely end in those exact consequences. He was one of your favorite patients. It was a real “Et tu, Brute” type of moment, both figuratively and literally. 

The thing they don't tell you about being stabbed in prison, is that the threat needs to be cleared before life-saving measures can be started. There you were, on the ground, bleeding from a stab wound that barely missed your spinal cord, waiting for EMS to arrive, while you almost choked to death on the pepper spray canister that had been deployed by security as they watched on in horror. The other thing they don't tell you about being stabbed in prison, is how motherfucking painful it is and how that trauma will likely linger long after the pain. 

Leaving that job wasn’t a suggestion as much as it was a directive. You were medically cleared after 12 weeks, but the optics of the entire situation made it difficult for management to move forward without shouldering most of blame. The split was mostly amicable; they wouldn’t have to feel any guilt about a weapon making its way all the way to your therapy session, and you’d never have to wear khaki cargo pants and a "stab vest" again that clearly was just for show. 

You applied for the job of Chief Psychologist at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center as soon as it popped up on your archaic Linkedin profile, and got the job the following week. The long-waited return to your hometown and all of the skeleton's in your childhood home's closet. The emergency room didn’t exactly sound like a soothing retreat for the recently stabbed, but it did promise the perfect distraction – 12-hour shifts, vacillating between days and nights, and no time to think about all of the things that had happened up to this. And, as a cherry on top, you’d be the first in this position, a long-awaited overhaul of PTMC only relying on psychiatry and social work for their mental health needs. To have someone on-site, in the emergency room, was PTMC's big wet dream; and you were happy to give them that happy ending.

---

Your shift starts at 7am and you take the long way to work to clear your head. The city you once called home has hardly changed, but the feeling of being back was heavier than you expected.

Your phone dings, a familiar face and name.

Dana: Hey kid, come find me at the nurse's station when you get here. you're gonna fit right in

Your physical therapist told you to take it slow, and walking was about as much as you could handle still 12 weeks post-injury. The pain shot down your back from your shoulder blade to your hip, a lingering limp still evident. The scar was "gnarly" according to your best friend, but you had been too afraid to look. PTMC sat at the top of the delightfully named "cardiac hill" -- One of the steepest hills in the city, home to several of the best hospitals in Pittsburgh and the University of Pittsburgh campus. According to local legend, more heart attacks happened here than any other place in Pittsburgh.

Your injury forced you to relocate with the distance in mind, but you weren't exactly thrilled to be sharing the sidewalk with undergraduate college students and their roller backpacks who barely look up from their phone. You were, however, thrilled to see one of the seven wonders of the world on your way to work-- Dunkin'.

America does run on Dunkin', and you know why? Because it's trash, and so is society. You don't walk into a calm environment of espresso machine and jazz music, surrounded by independent filmmakers discussing their film adaptations of David Foster Wallace like you would at a hipster coffee shop. Dunkin' welcomes you with bloodied open arms into a warzone. An absolutely unhinged battlefield, people screaming, the excitement of giving your order to someone who absolutely could not give a fuck. You let Dunkin' tell you what you need, and not for lack of trying. You give the order but they rarely listen. Today you walk out with a large iced mocha, with whipped cream, after ordering a large vanilla latte with oat milk. The universe just feels right, a little off its axis and sickenly sweet.

You walk through the double doors to the ER sliding in between two gurneys on their way to the ambulance bay and make your way to the nurses station, Dana waiting with open arms

"It has been far too long, my girl," Dana hugs you tightly, "and boy am I glad you are okay, and you are here. Your mom told me what happened, how you holding up"

"Almost recovered. You should see the other guy" you reply, "and you look great."

"Thanks kid," Dana smiles, her eyes shift to someone behind you "Oh captain, my captain."

"A patient?" You hear his voice before you see him, and when you turn around, it's hard to look away. He's all tall, dark, and handsome, a real father-figure vibe towering over you. Cargo pants, black scrub top, a fancy watch, a faded hoodie. This must be the place, and this guy definitely fucks. He must have clocked you the moment you walked in--looking like a lost puppy with a limp and a cup full of coffee. Of course he thinks you're a patient.

"My daughter's best friend, and your new psychologist," She corrects him, "This is Dr. Robby."

"Sorry, I saw you come in and were limping, just wanted to make sure you were okay," He nods, confirming that he did, in fact, notice you as soon as you walked in

"The limp is more of a talking point than a medical emergency, but I wouldn't say no to someone taking a look at it. I almost got laid out by an undergrad with a roller backpack on my way here." You smile, outstretching a hand, "I'm Y/N Wheeler, the new head of the psych department."

"Michael Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Robby," He shakes your hand, noticing the tattoo stretching from your wrist to your elbow and under the sleeve of your shirt. He instinctively tilts your arm to examine the ink, a thumb rubbing over your wrist softly, without even noticing he's doing it. Ooooph. You clear your throat and his eyes meet yours, face turning a deep shade of red.

"Don't worry, it definitely goes all the way to my shoulder. If you're good, I'll show it to you." You quip, maintaining eye contact until he looks away,  "and yes, the nose ring is real too."  

“Wheeler! I see you've met Robby" John Shen takes a step next to Robby, a matching Dunkin' cup in hand. He raises his glass to yours, knocking the two together, "Cheers, bitch. Never thought I'd see the day you moved back to Pittsburgh. Welcome to the thunderdome.”

Shen looks at Robby, “She's straight from the feds. You didn't see her on the news--”

You interrupt before he can divulge any gruesome details of the trauma to your new colleague, “He means that I was a psychologist at the federal detention center not that I was in prison. Although always keep your cards close to your chest."

"Sorry, You two know each other as well?" He raises his eyebrows as the dynamic playing out in front of him, "Jesus Pittsburgh really is small world."

"We met in grad school. Gave him therapy the whole way through residency” You reply, "taught him everything he knows about screaming internally while keeping a straight face." 

"Ah" Robby nods, "That really does explain his shockingly chill demeanor." 

“Oh great, you're all here." Gloria interrupts the conversation, coming up behind you in a pastel purple pantsuit. Over teams she seemed less, up tight. In person, she's all business in the front and even more business the back, "Our newest chief psychologist. We now have our own consult, and she's overseeing the entire department."

"Figured I could help the ol’ pill pushers up in psychiatry. And plus, these patients seem like a breeze compared to prison." You make a joke, trying to assess the humor of the group. Shen gets it, and laughs. Robby gets it, wants to laugh, but stuffs his hand in his pockets. Gloria doesn't get it at all. 

"She’ll be spending her time between day and night shifts, the full 12 hours, so use her as an appropriate resource," she continues.

"You save 'em and I’ll keep them from jumping off the roof" You say quietly, nudging Robby with your elbow, a smile spreading across his face as Gloria turns around and heads off to whatever upper-management office she spawned from. 

"So where did you go to school?" Robby asks, hoping your answer reveals something about your age.

"I went to Pitt for undergrad and then Drexel for graduate school. Did my internship, post-doc, and forensic fellowship with the feds" You nod, "we had an infirmary unit, which closely resembled a hospital, but more security forward than anything. I'm board certified in forensics, but my internship focused mostly on neuropsychology." 

"Don't take this the wrong way, but fuck am I glad they hired someone like you." He responds, rubbing a hand over his neck,"Hell, some of us could probably use an evaluation."

"I'm excited to be here, but I'm definitely going to have to learn the sense of humors around here. I'm pretty fucked up from the prison, i don't have a great filter, but i work hard and I care about my patients." 

He stops walking and turns to face you, "you'll fit in great. So why did you leave the feds?"

"Honestly, I was tired of getting pissed on." The way you say it, so matter-of-factly, with the ability to maintain a serious expression causes Robby to snort. It catches him off guard, a genuine laugh erupting from his throat. He looks at you like he's not quite sure what to make of you yet, but his gaze lingers, a smirk on his face.

"Speaking of getting pissed on" another attending comes up behind you, shorter than Robby, but equally as handsome in a way that screams he's got his own trauma, “Kraken is in two if you’re into that sort of thing." 

"Dr. Abbot" Dr. Robby shoots him a look like he's trying to corral his kid. These two know each other. Maybe not biblically, but you know they've definitely cried in front of each other. Something you wouldn't be opposed to seeing.

"Who is the kraken? And do I look like I’m into that sort of thing?" He wasn't expecting you to shoot the same level of bullshit back to him,even as a shit-eating grin appears on his face.

"Never met a nose ring that wasn’t," He shrugs

"A little early for kink shaming, Jack, "Shen interjects, unable to help himself.

"Can't wait to see what my tattoos suggest" you raise an eyebrow

"Sorry, Do you two know each other too?" You can't tell if Robby's annoyed with him or the conversation, but Abbot ignores him.

"Military?"

"Feds."

He nods his head in approval, narrowing his eyes like he's trying to figure out if you're worth his time, "You on nights?"

"Next week. Running a support group on how to dive off the roof and land on your feet at 1am." You don't miss a beat.

"Right up my alley" Abbot responds, "you're going to be trouble."

You catch the look between Robby and Abbot, something unspoken. For a second, you could have sworn they were calling dibs.

Father Figure

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Parents’ Weekend looks a little different this year with Joel showing up in the place of your father.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Dad[dy] kink. Age gap. Oral (m!receiving). Premature ejaculation (Joel cums in his pants while he’s kissing you AS REAL LOVERS DO). Drinking and drug use. Gratuitous dad rock references.

Note: We all saw that video. This was begging to be written.

Another note: For a more immersive read of the pregame, listen to my freshman year Kegs & Eggs playlist (yes, it sucks).

Word count: 19.0k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Freud would’ve had a field day with this shit.

Really, there was no sane explanation for the obsession that seized you and your friends come Parents’ Weekend every year. But there it went. Again. Like clockwork, all the forty- to fifty-something fathers arrived for their first meal on campus. Like the cock-starved coed she was, your roommate bumped your shoulder as you walked and nodded to the first set of families approaching the dining hall. Out of the pack, you spotted four grey heads.

“Would, would, would, and would,” Aly observed, almost clinically. Her strides were long and resolved in their path

“That one could get it.” Her brother shrugged on your other side. He tipped his chin up, then added: “Look.”

And look you did. The batch of men, women, and all their college-aged children struck you as little more fun to ogle than your average wall of paint waiting to dry. Though the moms and dads were, admittedly, the kind of attractive you rarely saw outside an L.L. Bean magazine—as were all the rest of the kempt and polished crowd that populated your school—you were hungry as fuck. You’d agreed to join your roommate’s family for the kickoff banquet of the weekend, and you needed food. On top of that, you’d sworn off middle-aged men forever.

Aly and her brother didn’t know that, though, so you played the game and trudged ahead. When a handsome blue-eyed man born in 1970-something stood back and held the door open for your trio going in, you had to fight back a smirk at the look Aly gave him after thanking him.

“Oh, he wanted me bad,” she hissed once safely inside.

“Looks a bit like Rob Lowe,” you offered noncommittally.

“What about your dad? Is he gonna be here tonight?”

That last fragment of conversation had come from Aly’s brother, and the curiosity in it was sincere. Then he’d wiggled two dark brows your way and said he bet your dad was a silver fox like no other, and you’d had to roll your eyes before strolling into the wide open dining area. You were late; the food, evidently, was all already served.

“My dad’s at home with a broken femur, so…no,” you answered slowly. Starting to weave your way through a sea of round tables and following Aly’s lead as you did, “Probably not your type. Just old. Very embarrassing.”

You stuck your index in your mouth and pantomimed gagging, and the sophomore beside you just laughed.

“Yeah? Desperate, too?” he challenged.

“Pathetic, really,” you replied.

For a second, you felt a pang of guilt at the way you were describing your father. Surely he couldn’t deserve being characterized like that. Then you recalled how he’d boned your mom’s best friend while he was married, had never really made amends after the fact, and was still fucking said mistress’s brains out on the reg to this day.

You’d done plenty of wrong behind his back, to be sure, but that kind of took the cake for fucked up betrayals. He could stand for a little bit of ribbing every now and then.

Presently, Aly was paving the way straight toward a pair of bright and beaming faces at a table near the back.

“Our parents named us after a goddamn Grateful Dead song and the city they first saw the band in concert. Nobody does pathetic better than Scott and Michelle.” She waved her arm in a wide arc and grinned over there.

And you would’ve gladly countered that no, that actually makes them very fucking funny and cool, but the chance to do that was gone in a moment—the next had you approaching their table and meeting with big hugs.

Even for you, who had never seen these people before in your life, there was a warm welcome. You got long, suffocating embraces and cheery greetings of, ‘Oh, you must be Aly’s roommate!’ and ‘We’re sorry you got stuck with our shithead kid’ before you had a grin plastered on again and were being ushered to sit down.

You took note of the little placards opposite each chair, counted four, five, six of them altogether, with an empty spot beside your own, per usual, and you took your seat.

“Dallas, honey, I love you,” the woman across the table, Michelle, said with all the restraint she could conjure up, “I love you to pieces, but what the hell are you wearing?”

That steered the conversation in a decidedly light, playful direction from the start, with Aly’s brother defending his decision to be decked out in full school-sponsored athleisure tooth and nail. He’d been recruited to play lacrosse, so naturally, wearing the far-too-tight crimson lycra was all part of the deal. Aly insisted that he just wanted to show off the biceps he didn’t have, Scott hypothesized it was the crisp, wintry Boston air that had made his son dress like a total douche, and Dallas tried bringing the inquisition to a speedy end by lifting one middle finger up and flipping his napkin into his lap.

“Fuck you guys, I’m hungry,” he declared, emphatic. Fighting the urge to laugh along then grabbing a fork.

Just as fast as he’d picked it up to dig in, though, his mom was slapping the silver utensil out of his hand.

“Not yet,” she chided.

“Why? We’re all here,” Dallas groaned.

“Because,” his father returned, scrubbing at the stubble on his chin before casting a quick look around him, “We’re still waiting on one more to join us. See?”

With that, Scott nodded toward the card next to you, and immediately, your cheeks warmed. You shook your head, mouth working a little less fluidly than you would’ve liked as you piped up and told them—assured them all, rather:

“My dad’s not coming. He got a little, uh…hurt at work.”

And you were certain that would be the end of it. You’d just moved to grab a fork yourself, eyeing the plate full of food in front of you then, when another hand stopped you on the spot. It was Aly beside you, grip insistent as she gave your wrist a little shake, and in your periphery, you could see her tilt her head the opposite direction.

She was staring, silent—totally unlike herself.

Normally when something crossed her path nearby to make her twist her whole fucking neck to get a glimpse, it was followed by a dry remark. A comment, a compliment, or a lewd invitation to fuck me, please.

While the last of the three clearly wasn’t an option to use around her parents, you at least would’ve expected to hear something. When nothing came, you turned your head too, having just snagged a bite of roast beef on your fork and shoveled it in before looking that way.

You followed her gaze and nearly inhaled the food.

With a startled gasp and a ‘Christ!’, your eyes widened to find a man who wasn’t your father at all—just his best friend and your ex-fuckbuddy, Joel Miller, walking over.

It was a sight you weren’t prepared to see in a million years. What the everliving fuck this man was doing two thousand miles from Austin, Texas, on your college campus, striding into the very first meal of Parents’ Weekend, looking like that, was so far beyond your comprehension you couldn’t speak. You just stared and sucked in the sharpest, strangled breath, fought back a cough, and tried not to die swallowing a cube of meat.

From the way that man was approaching you now, asphyxiation might not be the worst, you thought idly.

Joel’s here.

Joel’s here, and he’s wearing slacks and a button-up.

Joel’s wearing business casual, and he’s walking over.

Who the fuck does this man even think he’s trying to—

“Sorry I’m late,” Joel cut in, smile bright and easy on his face. Then, stepping behind your chair, leaning down:

“Hey, sweetie. How are ya?”

He kissed the top of your head.

The tone sealed his fate completely.

Joel was pretending to be your father.

This wasn’t his brightest idea.

Call him sick, insane, selfish, besotted, or rotten straight down to his core, Joel Miller was no longer one to care. He had a goal in his head. Less than a week ago, you’d left him high and dry in Austin after having told him you loved him—in the middle of climax, but aloud, no less—and the month before that, you’d left him again. Back to college, where you could happily pretend he didn’t exist.

Tonight, he wasn’t letting that happen. This weekend, Parents’ Weekend, was of course reserved for families, but Joel knew your father wasn’t coming. He knew you wouldn’t be expecting your dad or anyone else to be there, and since you’d taken to the usual course of ignoring all his calls and texts, he felt he’d had no choice.

You couldn’t stay closed off like this forever.

Eventually, you’d both have to reckon with what this was and how to move forward, or the mess of the last month would never change. You would never believe he saw you any differently from a one-off hookup or a taboo outlet of pleasure. And if that was all you saw him as, so be it. But he had to get the truth of it out now, one way or another.

Even if he had to roleplay the father figure and play the most fucked up game of paternal charades known to man, he’d get the answers he needed this weekend.

You were good at games. Unfortunately, Joel was better.

He’d take this fake-out to the max and be the best faux father you’d never asked for. Maybe you’d hate him for it.

As he’d squeezed your shoulder and sat down beside you at the table, felt your gaze heavy and stunned on his, he also couldn’t help but hope you might still love him after.

“Scott Ingram. Pleasure to meet you.” The broad hand had been extended his way before he was even fully seated. The face across from him was kind. Intrigued. Tinged with a faint trace of curiosity, “So you’re dad?”

“Stepdad, yeah.” Joel had had to leave a bit more room for plausibility before he’d made his formal introduction.

Then he’d met Michelle. Aly. Dallas. The latter two more piqued with interest than the first, as though unsure of what they’d just been told, but willing to go on anyway.

“Old and pathetic my ass,” Dallas had murmured your way, low enough for Joel to know those words were meant for only you to hear. You stiffened in response.

“So glad you could make it up! Is your leg doing better?”

Aly had smiled warmly over at him, and Joel had only hesitated a second. Then he remembered his friend.

“Oh, my— yeah. Just…peachy. Yeah. All healed up.”

He didn’t flit a look to you; he could feel the searing imprint of your gaze and the way you hadn’t bothered to hide your frown when he’d referenced the leg he’d never broken. The way you could’ve pulverized the napkin in your lap to dust from how hard you were squeezing it in your fist—you didn’t like to admit it, but that was your nervous tic, and Joel knew it well. He propped his elbows on the table and didn’t miss the way a head turned his way from a neighboring group. Then another. He hated every starch white button-up he owned with a burning passion, but he couldn’t deny this one was eye-catching.

Not that it mattered, really, because the only glossy gaze he cared to snag was presently nailing him with daggers in its path. Still, it was a comfort to know he’d make a good-looking corpse if that look of yours ever did kill him

“Oh, my, my, oh hell YES—”

The sing-song trill of a baritone beside him roused him from his trance. He looked over and saw Scott grinning.

“—honey put on that pa-a-a-a-a-arty dress!”

It was Michelle that finished the line for him, while they both bobbed their heads along to the Tom Petty song blasting overhead. Evidently, dad rock would be alive and well all weekend. Joel wasn’t mad to see that happen.

“You a Tom Petty fan?” Scott jerked his chin up to him.

Before he could answer, though, Michelle interjected:

“I’d say he’s more of a Simon & Garfunkel guy.”

Whatever the hell that meant. Joel smiled.

“Mom, Dad. Please stop,” Aly moaned.

“Seriously.” Dallas’s mouth was full.

And, just as he fought to swallow the heaping glob of food he’d just crammed in, his dad snapped his fingers.

“No, I know it! You’re a Billy Joel man, Joel. No doubt.”

Joel blanched as white as the shirt on his back. You coughed. He hadn’t even noticed you’d chanced a bite of food beside him, but now you were sputtering—choking on a morsel of beef or mashed potatoes or something—and he didn’t think twice. He pivoted right to you and dropped a hand on your back in the space between your shoulder blades. He patted you twice, eyes a little wider.

“Hey, you OK?”

Fleeting memories of a night not too long ago flashed through his mind: driving town by town, state after state, blaring Billy Joel extra loud in his Bronco with you riding shotgun. It had been something special between you then. Now, your gaze was on him like you despised him.

“I’m fine,” you answered, tone clipped.

You shrugged his touch away. Joel blinked back to Scott.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he said, thoughts occupied by you all the while, but he reckoned it was something his neighbor had wanted to hear, because he saw a satisfied little smile cross his lips, ‘I told you, Michelle.’

“Everybody likes Billy Joel, dad.” Aly rolled her eyes.

And Joel would’ve liked to look your way again. Maybe dropped the fatherly moue for half a second and flashed an apologetic look shared just between you and him. But then the conversation shifted; the whole table began to eat, more pleasantries and questions about home life and backgrounds followed, and all the talk from there converged on where they were planning to go out after dinner—how they’d make the very most of Parents’ Weekend. You sat back and ate in silence, mostly. You wouldn’t meet his gaze for even a moment, and when you rose from your seat to get another drink, Joel felt himself stand too, as if out of habit. He hadn’t meant to.

It hadn’t been his intention to follow you out of the dining area, strides swift to try and keep up, but he did.

It hadn’t been his goal to corner you by the soda dispenser, either. Away from the eyes of everyone else, or at least in a private enough space not to be seen by too many people, Joel felt a little more at liberty to talk. He lowered his voice and drew even closer then to speak.

“Sweetheart—”

You’d filled a cup halfway with water. As soon as he’d said that word, ‘sweetheart,’ you turned and chucked its contents directly in his face. Liquid splashed up at him, and for a second, Joel had only to stand there with his eyes closed and his body completely frozen in place.

Water dripped in silence before he wiped at his chin.

At the same time, you were tossing your cup aside.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ call me that,” you growled.

Then, shortly: “What the fuck is your problem?!”

Honestly, he didn’t know. He opened his eyes.

And, just as he raised both hands in a semi-conciliatory kind of gesture, you scowled and backed away from him.

“You’re sick, Joel. Pretending to be my goddamn da—”

“I know. I know,” Joel winced as he spoke, wrinkles no doubt creasing even deeper along his face as he saw yours fall. You weren’t happy to see him in the slightest. “I know it’s fucked up. I just…needed to talk to you, hon.”

“About what?!”

He could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. He wanted to cup them in his hands, or else kiss the frown off your lips in a way that would be totally inappropriate for a stepdad to do, but already, he sensed his resolve was eroding. It didn’t matter, anyway, because you weren’t letting him get within an inch of you, based off your look.

“Darlin’,” Joel sighed, “There’s just so much—”

Of course, the next moment was punctured by a voice. His words were cut short; you were both forced to turn.

“It’s all settled now,” Aly declared with cheery conviction. She snagged a cup and started filling it up with Sprite, “Pregame at Dallas’. Seven Oaks after. Lucky’s after that. Maybe a brief intermission at The Alley, if you’re up for it. Afters at A.J.’s, probably. Depends what the vibe is like.”

Joel had barely processed half of what was said, and it still sounded like a lot from where he stood. He blinked.

Then Aly’s eyes fell to his collar, and she lifted a brow.

“You got a little…drinking problem there, Joel?”

He glanced down at the mess on his shirt and tried to smile with her. It was hard to fight the color jumping to his cheeks simultaneously. He scrambled for the words.

“Oh, uh—”

“Dad’s real smooth with it,” you cut in, suddenly, like the paternal moniker was nothing at all. You didn’t look back, “I’m fine drinking wherever. Your parents coming, too?”

Aly’s grin stretched even wider. It looked devious.

“They wouldn’t miss this bingefest for the world.”

At just the intonation of those words, Joel’s pulse sped up. He saw a knowing look pass between you and your roommate, and in a second, he sensed he was fucked.

He really shouldn’t be drinking tonight.

A hundred shots probably wouldn’t have been enough to kill it—this ringing in your head hurt like a motherfucker.

Joel wanted to talk.

Of course he wanted to talk.

Just on his terms, on his time, with your closest friends and their family members all assuming he was your dad.

Because that made a lot of fucking sense.

You’d meant to split from Joel the second you showed up. Dallas’ off-campus house was many things, but small and quiet were not among those descriptors, and you planned to use all of its space to your advantage tonight.

Simply put, the place was a glorified playground for college degenerates. Afforded the distinct honor of housing eight members of the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity in 2,700 square feet for over fifty years, the Craftsman home was no small wonder to anyone who saw it standing today: the house was shit. Dallas loved it.

You’d enjoyed it, too, for at least the first year or two of college. Then you’d wisened up to the antics of a few too many numb-skulled Pikes, got tired of listening to the same ten tracks being blasted in your ears every other weekend, and decided you’d just stick to the bar scene, where at least patrons were prohibited from standing on elevated surfaces and breaking bottles over their heads.

When Dallas rushed, and eventually joined the fold last year, you’d been hesitant to go back. Then, when he’d promptly decked the first guy who tried dragging you up onto a table with him, you figured you could safely visit again and not have to worry while your friend was there. The kid did a pretty good job of weeding out assholes.

“My lady.” He stood and bowed before presenting you with a fifth of Pink Whitney like it was the finest wine.

The bottle was half empty. You’d been passing it back and forth for the last hour in between rounds of pong.

“Been sayin’ shit like that ever since he saw Gladiator II.” His housemate Cory called from closeby. He flicked his wrist once and sank his shot in the second to last cup.

“You are not General Acacius, brother,” Cory’s teammate Pete chimed in. With a lucky throw of his own, he hit the final Red Solo cup and shook his head like it was nothing.

You were all on the third floor, away from the noise downstairs. While the so-called ‘pregame’ surged ahead on first, in the basement, and outdoors, you’d managed to find relative quiet among eight or nine friends and acquaintances, plus a guy railing lines off a frisbee in the corner. Nobody knew where the fuck he’d gotten it from.

“I like to pretend,” Dallas said with a shrug. Then, once you’d taken a swig of the pink drink and handed it back: “My parents play next. Gavin, put the coke away, please.”

Gavin sniffed the air at least four times like he had a cold. Then he tucked his credit card back in his wallet, put the wallet in his pocket, and knocked the frisbee on the floor.

‘Yessir’ was all you heard before he was leaning back contentedly. The girls Cory and Pete had just played seemed equally indifferent as they sauntered off—likely looking to get their hands on whatever the hell else the redhead had in his jeans and quick to forget about the game. Blow was way too easy to spread at these parties, and clearly, no one gave a shit about redemption round.

“Gavin.” Dallas’ tone was a warning.

At the same time, his housemate had just snagged an ID where it was left on the table and held it up to the light.

“Hang on, it looks like this guy, uh…” Cory squinted to read the text on an apparently too-old driver’s license. “Looks like he called dibs on next round…Joel Miller.”

Your grip tightened on the spot. You said nothing. Cory was just then starting to remark that this dude’s the spittin’ fuckin’ image of that one guy from Game of Thrones, Dallas, come look, when the door to the room swung open, and in walked the man of the hour himself.

Joel was joined by Scott, Michelle, and a horde of others.

Well, maybe five in total. They were all freshmen girls.

Giggling, grinning freshmen girls who were quite literally hanging off his body on either side, or else trailing behind him, admiring him like he was the single greatest thing.

Where were all their fathers? That was your fake dad.

Christ, that sounded bad, and you hadn’t even said it.

When Dallas offered you the bottle again, you declined. You were more than just buzzed. And Joel was drunk.

Apparently.

And was he—well shit, were they trying to strip him?

One of the bubbliest girls from the group was tugging on Joel’s shirt. Three buttons were already undone, and a smooth, tanned patch of flesh glistened through the ‘V’ in the fabric. He’d been working up a sweat downstairs.

A sea of black-and-grey hairs peeking out through the trough of cotton was the last thing you saw before you had to look away. It was too familiar. And there you saw some girl fresh out of high school, feeling him, teasing at the material while she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“You are so lying!” she slurred, voice pitchy and shrill.

What was worse, you couldn’t even fault the girl for it. That had been you just a few short years ago, hadn’t it?

Beside her, her friend snagged his sleeve: “Show ussss!”

Scott and Michelle had approached the table where Dallas was setting up the cups for the next round and you were trying not to stare. You reckoned you were failing pretty miserably at the task when the next thing Mrs. Ingram did was lean in closer to you and whisper.

“Real hot commodity with the girls, isn’t he?” It was soft.

She was right.

You forced your gaze to your feet, pretending to assess the wet and sticky mess underneath them. You hummed.

“Yup. Real ladies’ man,” you answered quietly. Strained.

“They’re convinced he’s got some ink hidden under his shirt. That’s a creative way to get a man topless if I’ve ever seen one.” Scott chuckled next to you, tone teasing.

Something twisted in your chest, though you couldn’t quite place what it was. It hardly felt like jealousy at all—but that was worse, somehow. Joel was your stepfather in every other mind but yours and his, and here he was, soaking in all this attention that you couldn’t give to him.

Maybe that was for the best.

Joel deserved a woman he didn’t have to love in secret.

“OK, who’s up—Joel or mom and dad?” Dallas asked.

“I’m out. Joel can take my place. And don’t we—”

Pete snapped his fingers, then pointed at Cory.

“We forgot to grab the other keg, didn’t we?”

“Fuck me.”

“Let’s go.”

They were gone in a second. That left Joel, Scott, Michelle, plus one open spot. Dallas set the last cup.

“Who’s gonna be Joel’s partn—”

“ME!”

That had to have come from three girls, at least. One on the couch and two more on either side of Joel, along with a slew of hopeful looks from others in his orbit.

They’d dispersed some, thankfully. Though not physically clinging to your pseudo-stepfather and begging him to peel off his shirt, they stayed close.

One of them giggled and nudged her friend: “Maya can!”

The girl who’d just been playing tug-of-war with the front of Joel’s button up waved her hand in mock indignation.

“I suck at pong. You go, Claire,” she crooned.

It was clear from the sideways glance the first girl had flashed that she wanted Joel to protest. Maybe insist that she play anyway, if you had to guess. It was all so confusing—what with how this group was flirting, and fighting, and insisting simultaneously that they couldn’t possibly play, even though they’d like to, but maybe…

Your skull started ringing again.

You were just about to turn to leave, when Dallas cut in:

“Sorry, ladies. Gonna be a Daddy-Daughter duo tonight.”

Then he gestured to you, beckoned to Joel, and grinned. Your stomach could’ve plunged to that floor you’d just been pretending to study. You quickly jerked your head.

Even Joel, for all his calm and unaffected dealings, the pretty damp mop of hair hanging in ringlets against the sides of his face, and the way he kept pretending not to be concerned by the flock of girls, had to pause a beat. You saw his throat work. Before you could try and decipher the look that was crawling up his face, you made the split-second decision to interject yourself.

“No, Dallas. I’m not playing again.”

You tried to avoid grinding your molars.

This time, the tone he heard wasn’t one of a thinly veiled acceptance—something begging to be disputed when it tried to decline the offer—but instead an emphatic ‘no.’

No way were you playing another game with this man.

Joel already had your head fucked ten ways to Sunday by being here at all, and now you had to pretend to be platonic, his goddamn beer pong partner, while a gaggle of freshmen girls sat frothing at the mouth for his dick?

Yeah, but no.

Hard fucking pass.

You didn’t care what it looked like. You shot Dallas a look, grabbed a stray Solo off the table, and made your way to the door, calling something over your shoulder about being too tired to play, and offering your spot to Maya.

That should make your old man happy enough.

It wasn’t like he could do anything here with you.

And then you left. Before you did, though, you passed Gavin and the mysterious white bag he was starting to fish out of his pants, and without thinking, you grabbed his hand. You didn’t like doing coke, had never seen the point in taking your level of intoxication that far out on an ordinary night, but, all things considered, this evening was anything but normal. You deserved some relief. If that couldn’t come in the form of Joel packing all his shit and leaving, then so be it. But you weren’t about to hang around and play the nice and polite stepdaughter when all you wanted to do was scratch your fucking eyes out.

A few lines wouldn’t be the worst way to start the night.

Joel wasn’t drunk.

He wasn’t tipsy, either.

And even if he had been, he wouldn’t have appreciated the way this hazel-eyed firecracker had nearly crushed his toes from how hard she’d jumped up and down at hearing you abdicate your position. Maya had shrieked, and Scott and Michelle hadn’t been able to fight back smiles, and trying not to wince too hard, Joel had politely excused himself. He’d claimed that he needed some air.

The oxygen he found down the hallway a few minutes later was stale as shit, but he couldn’t exactly complain.

He’d asked for this, after all: the thumping bass, shaking floors, passageways that reeked of weed and cheap perfume, and girls that refused to let go of his neck.

Well. He hadn’t asked for that last thing.

Thirty years ago, he might’ve found it cute—what Maya and Claire and every other glossy-gazed Phi Mu seemed to be offering with every bat of their lashes. Now, if the arms latched around his throat weren’t yours, the idea just made him sick. He cleared his throat and walked.

And before long, his feet had carried him to the end of the hallway. Where in the hell had you gotten off to?

Would you be back soon?

And why had you taken that kid with you?

Joel’s palms were sweaty by his sides. He didn’t like being kept in the dark—didn’t think traveling some 2,000 miles to be closer to you would still leave him wondering like a fucking idiot if he would see you again.

Then he reached for the nearest door. A bathroom.

The door was just cracked, allowing a sliver of light to shine through and a peek at a sea of tile flooring to greet him. Joel pushed on the knob without thinking to knock.

When he stepped inside, he had to stop.

It was too much to process and walk at once.

For the first time in his life, he felt shell-shocked.

You were on your knees in front of that red-haired fucker. Stabilizing one hand on a denim-clad leg in front of you, patting his thigh, having him murmur something back—probably words of encouragement for how nice your mouth felt around him—and then tilting your head up.

Joel could only see you from behind. His vision was red.

“What the fuck are you DOING?!” he bellowed out.

The two of you leapt apart, your head jerking back.

He wasn’t thinking. Joel blew straight past you and went for him, the little pencil-dicked Pike who’d just had his dick down his stepdaughter’s throat, presumably, and he grabbed him by the shirt. He shoved him hard against the bathtub on the wall, watched him flail a few steps, and then, before the kid could recover his balance, Joel shoved him again. He might’ve tripped further back and fallen into the tub, had the older man not reached for him again—and reared back to punch him square in the face.

That blow never landed.

In the next instant, a smaller body was forcing itself in between him and the kid, and the only other thing Joel could see through his own blinding rage were your two eyes—wide and panicked and horror-stricken, clearly.

“JOEL.”

Still not prepared to retreat, Joel reached out again.

Your hand knocked his down in a blink. Hard.

“J— Dad. Dad. Stop. Please don’t hit him.”

Suddenly, that tone was approaching a plea. You must’ve caught a glimpse of the rage pulsing through his veins and sensed it might’ve been too much for him to control—but of course, Joel knew better. He could always stop.

He stepped off and turned to you at once, teeth bared.

“How the fuck could you even—” he started again.

“I’m sorry, dad,” you broke in, words sounding like a sob, “It’s not his fault. Really. I— I didn’t mean for you to see.”

Sucking some other guy’s cock. Yeah, of course not.

Joel’s face flared with an anger unlike anything he’d felt in years, and if it weren’t for the skittish sack of shit stumbling away, and the warning that was starting to radiate off your skin, he would’ve liked to knock him out.

He might’ve, if the kid hadn’t run out of the room.

If you hadn’t turned slightly, he might’ve yelled again.

And then he saw it, from where you’d pivoted—the toilet.

Sitting on the smooth white porcelain lid in three thick stripes, the sight greeted him like a punch in the gut.

He wasn’t sure what it meant for an excruciating second. He stared. Then he processed what that substance was.

You’d been crouched over the toilet doing a line of coke.

He wanted to feel relief. For a moment, maybe, he did.

When your eyes narrowed on his and you shook your head in a scowl, it didn’t feel like he should be happy. Or ready to celebrate this latest discovery. Instead, realizing that you hadn’t been blowing a guy in this bathroom but were simply doing drugs in front of him, Joel felt bile jump up his throat. It was like a knot the size of his fist, and he wasn’t sure how to react, but he couldn’t stand that look on your face. You were just as angry as him.

“What the hell was that all about, Joel?!” you snapped.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut back in:

“Sorry, sorry—I mean ‘dad.’ You fucking asshole.”

“And this is why you up and left?” Joel hissed.

“I just—”

“Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

“I didn’t—”

“What that could’ve been laced with?”

He pointed to the cocaine on the lid of the toilet—apparently there hadn’t been enough space on the skinny porcelain sink to set up your lines—and at the same time, to Joel’s amazement, you sank to your knees.

“Well, I don’t know, dad, why don’t we test some out?”

And then you swiped a casual touch through a line and lifted your index to your mouth. With your other hand, you pulled at your bottom lip a little, and were evidently about to test your drugs the old fashioned way: by rubbing the powder against your gums to see if it made them numb. Joel swatted at your wrist before you did.

“Don’t,” he growled. Without even realizing it, he reached and grabbed your chin. His fingers engulfed half your face in an authoritative, upward-tilting grip. “Put that stuff anywhere near your mouth, and you will regret it.”

That didn’t seem to stir you, but your hand stayed put.

Joel stepped away just as quickly. He went to the door.

He shut it.

And when he returned, you hadn’t moved from where you’d been knelt. He was glad. Something quiet and dull throbbed between his ears, though he wasn’t recovered enough from the shock of the last few minutes to really investigate that. He just stood back over you, frowning.

His voice was lower when he spoke again:

“What am I gonna do with you, honey?”

It was a question as much for himself as it was for you, and your lips twitched at the end of it. You shrugged, and you sank back onto your heels, peering up as you did.

“You thought—” you started, soft.

“I thought you were in here blowin’ that little shit.”

Your smile split into a grin. Your eyes glistened.

“Is that so?”

Joel didn’t have the strength or the presence of mind to answer, so instead, he just nodded. His scowl deepened.

“You and me,” he resumed, having just exhaled a breath, “We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat later. Got that?”

And he meant it. Not just about drugs and other men and the dangers of accepting cocaine from strangers. He had more to tell you tonight than his overwrought mind was likely capable of sharing right now, but he’d say it.

Soon.

Eventually.

Once he got this bulge in his slacks sorted out.

With you, it was never a conscious decision, and it rarely ever occurred at times it was appropriate to happen. Like when your friends and their family and half of the Pike fraternity weren’t all milling about around this house. When he hadn’t almost decked a kid for giving you coke.

When you weren’t shuffling on your knees to greet the growing erection in his pants with a grin on your face.

“Will this ‘chat’ come before or after you fuck Maya?”

That was it.

Joel seized hold of your head again—this time, from the back. One palm rounded the base of your skull and yanked your face forward, mushing your nose and your lips against the fabric of his pants in an obscene sort of kiss. He made you rub your face against the hardened tent there, and he groaned when you whimpered. The reverberations of it traveled from his groin to his brain in two milliseconds flat and made him think insane things.

Like having your mouth right now.

Taking from you here what he thought he’d almost lost.

The sight of your head hovering anywhere near another man’s crotch made it crystal-clear to him, though he’d known it well before: he wanted you. He needed to have you. How you could even crack the joke about a shred of his attention being elsewhere had him tightening his hand in a fist in your hair. He didn’t care if it felt wrong.

“You know what girls like Maya can do for me?” he said.

He tilted your head back so your gaze could find his. He didn’t let you answer, but he let you stare for a second, and then he worked your pretty parted lips over the front of his slacks again. He let the taut grey fabric tease the cusp of that opening, tasting a bit, before drawing back.

“That’s right,” Joel went on as if you’d just responded, “Nothing. Absolutely fuckin’ nothing. Open your mouth.”

And you did. Wider. From the look of it, there was spit pooling inside, and your tongue hovered just within it when your lips met the front of his pants. You cupped your mouth around his clothed erection and kissed it.

Your eyes were locked on his as you did. The sight felt extra obscene—Joel couldn’t ignore the fact that he was dressed in near-formal attire, and you had on jeans and a tight cropped tank. He looked polished and professional; you were a beaming pretty thing making space between his legs to kneel. You felt like a dream with your lips over his swollen, aching cock; Joel felt old. Paternal, almost.

Was it wrong to think you needed to be taught a lesson?

Of course it was. He wasn’t your dad. He didn’t do that.

But when you smiled up at him with your lips still brushing his straining bulge, Joel couldn’t resist the smallest impulse to wonder—what if he showed you?

What if he let you know exactly what he wanted, how he needed it done, and that he only ever craved it from you? If he couldn’t say it outright in words, he could guide you.

Teach you.

Your tongue traced the seam of his zip, and he groaned.

“Damn near gave your old man a stroke, y’know that?”

“I know,” you said softly. Kindly, “I’m sorry, daddy.”

His cock throbbed at that last affectionate word.

His hands couldn’t help themselves: one stayed planted on the back of your head, and the other made its way to his belt. He undid his buckle, button, and zip in a blink.

“And what was that prick’s name?” Joel grumbled.

“Gavin.”

Your mind seemed two million miles away from any shit-brained fratboy at the moment as your gaze fixed itself on the length he was working out of his pants just then.

When it bobbed out and got within an inch of your rapt expression, your lips parted on instinct; you leaned in.

Swiftly, Joel’s hand on your head halted the movement.

“Gavin, huh,” he returned, tone treading on patronizing. He knew you were salivating for that little pearl on his tip. He gripped your hair hard. “This what you’d do for him?”

You whimpered.

“No, daddy. No, just— just you.”

Joel hummed his approval but didn’t let you move. He watched you eye the head of his cock like there was no single sight more appetizing in the world, and then he saw you lick your lips. You’d get positive reinforcement.

He would take things slow, and by the end of it all, he hoped to have made it clear that this was what he wanted: you, and only you. That he didn’t want you doing this with anyone else other than him. Here, now, or ever.

The last was a lot to say, so he fed you an inch instead.

He let his cock slide between your lips and stretch them.

You breathed something soft and sweet at the first intrusion of his tip; your mouth cushioned that inch, and his head was immediately enveloped in warmth. Your tongue darted out to greet him in a gentle lick. Joel groaned again, and his fingers constricted in your hair.

“That’s it, honey,” he told you, “Suck on daddy.”

His hips hadn’t meant to jump, but the pleasure from just the cusp of your mouth was too much for him not to flinch a little. He stabbed another couple inches in that pliant ‘o’ and felt you work your jaw open to take him whole. You looked so obedient. You were doing so good.

You bobbed your head gently, and his hand didn’t need to coax you at all. You were hungry, mouth sliding up and down his thick, throbbing dick and leaving trails of spit in its wake. You wanted to please him now; he could feel it.

You had no idea what you did to him. All he wanted now. It was like trying to explain a color in words, and all the man could do was just hold your head in place and watch you take him. When your back straightened and one palm braced itself up against his thigh, the other about to curl around the base of his length, he shook his head.

He brushed that hand away and made it rest on his other leg, so you were left with just your mouth around him.

You peered up, confused. Joel was, too.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to do, but he knew he had to lead the way. Make you see what he wanted you to by guiding your motions and filling your mouth the way he needed. He tried as much by shifting his left hand to meet the right at the back of your head. Gently, he pushed your face forward to suck more in.

“Breathe through your nose, baby. Wanna feel you.”

Feel you deeper, he should’ve said. Either way, it made for a slow and painstaking slide down your tongue—sensing you flatten it and inhale a shallow breath as he worked his way in—and at the stretch, you gagged a bit.

Joel eased up, just enough to let you flit your gaze to his.

“You wanna feel me, too, sweetheart?” he asked gently.

You nodded, mouth still full of cock. Your eyes glistened in a way that said you might’ve guessed there was more to it, but you weren’t exactly in a position to ask just what. You let the fingers of both his big hands splay against the back of your head, and your jaw slackened more. Your gaze stayed on his as his cock slid deeper.

In that, there was wordless, tranquil reprieve. The sight of his spit-soaked length stuffing your mouth, skin all shiny and wet, and the way he kept going further and further and further, until your soft pert nose grazed the hairs of his belly, made Joel’s member swell harder still. There was scarcely an inch in between your lips and his heft of stomach. Your eyes were still fixed on him, and as the seconds ticked by, there was moisture welling at the corners. Joel moved his hands to thumb at those tears.

“Good girl. You’re doin’ so good for daddy,” he praised.

And something stirred in the depths of his body when he felt you try to nod again, like you were thrilled to be giving him pleasure and wanted to show it in some way.

Joel could’ve stayed like that for hours if his dick would only have let him. As it was, though, he felt the stir in his stomach accompanied by something else—a familiar pinch, and a warning jolt of pleasure. He cursed quietly.

You’d just started. He’d barely got an inch down your—

“Fuck,” he cursed again, when he sensed you swallow around his dick. The head of himself was breaching somewhere deep within your throat, and he felt it.

This wasn’t what he’d planned. You’d taken him deep before—at your father’s birthday bash last month, actually—but then you’d been blowing him under a table. He couldn’t hold your gaze or watch your throat open around him, couldn’t see the minuscule wince in your eyes or try to brush that discomfited look aside with his thumbs in the way he could now. He felt it in the pit of his gut, though: he would burst if he didn’t slow down.

With that one grounding thought, Joel tried pulling out.

Your body below him responded in sharp protest.

‘Daddy, no’ seemed almost to jump off your tongue, though it was presently weighted down by his cock. Your nails worked deeper into the fabric of his pants, like the tight, possessive grip was all you could manage to let your intentions be known to him. Then the look flared in your irises, too. They were begging him to stay in place.

Joel obeyed. Though it was you on your knees for him, lips, tongue, and throat pulsing and sucking to give him the utmost pleasure, he felt pangs of powerlessness, too.

He couldn’t help it when your lips stretched more, when your mouth opened wider, and your throat took him in all the way. He was fucked. He let out a sharp, hoarse grunt to let you know as much, and he cursed out loud again.

And then, completely axing his every well-laid plan, Joel felt the first rope of cum unload from his throbbing tip. Then another. And another. And another hot flurry of pleasure cropped up from that place your mouth was presently attached to him, and this time, the wave was too much to be overcome. The whole thing flooded him.

Without a hope of beating out that primal instinct, Joel just cupped your face in his palms and let his climax fill your throat. He couldn’t think, and while you seemed a tad surprised at how early it came, you didn’t fight it, either. You simply sat back, peered up, and let him fuck your mouth in the gentlest, most desperate thrusts, mind likely eager to feel his spend paint your open throat.

You hardly had to swallow at all—hardly could swallow, with how deep he’d gone. His cum jetted in milky strings through your plush, wet channel, and Joel could feel it gliding down with just a moment’s hitch of resistance.

Impaled as you were, you gagged once, and he withdrew in the next instant. He didn’t wait for you to catch your breath or for his cum to get down inside you. He felt too much to be troubled now; he yanked you to your feet and drew you into him. He pushed you back against the sink.

Your legs latched around the backs of his, and your body was thrust against the mirror. It was tender, somehow. Joel didn’t fight to claim your lips or invade your mouth with stifling kisses; he just pressed you to the reflective glass and hedged you in under him. He kissed you gently.

In between movements against your body, he mumbled:

“I’m sick of missin’ you all the damn time, sweet pea.”

He wasn’t sure where it came from. It just came.

Much like he had, except the stringy ropes of cum that had spurted from his dick seemed far less of a mess than whatever the fuck was coming out of his mouth right now. He felt exposed as soon as he’d spoken it you.

Then he saw your lips twitch. You kissed him back.

Someplace within where your mouth slotted over his, you were able to get out a couple murmured words yourself.

“I wish you didn’t have to,” you returned in a whisper.

You snaked your arms around the back of his neck and kept kissing him, over and over again, like your body was just starting to melt, and the heat was making you dizzy.

Joel could relate. Every time you touched him, he felt it.

He gripped your legs where they were still curled around his sides, and he held you tighter to him. He pressed his torso to yours until he was half-sure he was hampering your breaths, and then he pulled back. Briefly. Panting.

When he opened his mouth to speak, you cut in for him:

“I wish you could…be here. I wish we didn’t have to…”

Hide.

Your mouth seemed to have your mind and your usual reservations beat by a mile. It was moving fast, like his. Before you could stop yourself, your thighs constricted around his hips, you pulled him in closer, and just as you were about to finish that last quick, splintered thought—

“We’re leeeeeeeeav—OH! Shit!”

Aly Ingram’s sing-song tone was shortly supplanted by a shriek. She’d thrown open the door, unannounced, and when she saw the two of you collapsed against the sink, Joel’s undone pants hanging precariously over his hips and your mouths scarcely two inches apart, she jolted.

Or jumped, really.

She almost leapt through her skin, it seemed, and before she could even begin to recover, she just slapped her hands over her eyes and stumbled back. She was drunk.

“I didn’t see that! I did not seeee—”

“Aly!” you half-hissed, half-groaned.

“I literally didn’t see shit. You’re all g—”

Before either you or Joel could utter another sound, or attempt to split apart, Aly let out a second shrill yelp. This time, it was because she’d just tripped over a trash can backing out. She’d only very narrowly regained her bearings, had grabbed hold of the doorknob and was dragging the door shut, when the girl all but sang again:

“Have fun, be safe! Don’t make babies!!”

Joel scarcely knew how to react to that.

As it turned out, your roommate was open-minded.

Ply her with four or five shots of tequila and a couple High Noons, and she’d probably believe the moon was made of cheese if you told her in a serious enough tone.

But your goal tonight hadn’t been to convince her of a lie—it was to get a big, ugly truth off your chest that you’d been hoping to keep under wraps this entire weekend.

Now, after getting caught with your fake stepfather’s jizz drying in your throat, you had had to come clean about this thing. It wasn’t a story you’d wanted to tell, but it was one that needed sharing given the circumstances.

Aly had laughed her ass off when you told her everything.

Blame it on the strobe lights, the thumping music, or the thick, fetid air of the bar you’d just arrived at, but Aly had laughed a lot. She’d squeezed her eyes shut and slapped the tabletop beside her, like that was the single most insane thing she’d ever heard, and why don’t you write her a How-To? She’d love some tips on boning old men.

“He’s not that old!” you’d protested over your beverage.

She’d bought the drink. She said news like this was cause for celebration, and you couldn’t deny that. Smiling as you spoke, you figured this was good.

In fact, you thought getting caught by your closest friend was one of the best things that could’ve happened, all things considered, because now you knew at least one person was supportive and in your corner regarding Joel. On top of that, you had someone to help cover your ass—if a touch or a look between you two was too suspect, she’d tell you. From the second your group had Ubered to the bar, she’d been keen to see you close…though not too close. Presently, she grinned and squeezed your leg.

“I think you two would make a damn cute couple.”

“Huh?” You had to shout over the music to be heard.

“A cute couple!”

“Come again?”

You were really trying your best, but the blare of Bon Jovi overhead was a bit too much. You leaned in closer to her.

“YOU AND JOEL WOULD MAKE A CUTE COUPLE!”

And, as if on cue, Joel and Aly’s father reappeared at the table, holding the drinks they’d left to buy. Thankfully, the volume in the room was near-deafening, and neither seemed to have heard a word of hers. Scott was nursing some bottom shelf whiskey concoction while Joel double-fisted two shitty beers beside him. You had to admit, the latter looked good from where you sat: one more button was popped on his icy white shirt and a smile was plastered on his face, eyes straying to you more often than they should. The moment after that, you were doubly grateful for the blast of ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ in this bar—the next thing you knew, Joel was dropping his head casually and murmuring in your ear,

“Aly sure likes to stare, doesn’t she?”

Followed shortly by:

“Wanna give her somethin’ to watch?”

He was clearly joking. Your cheeks warmed anyway. Then, when he started to lift his head, he left a quick, parting kiss to your temple that could’ve been construed as a paternal gesture. To anyone else but you, him, and Aly, it likely was. Your gaze slid from Joel’s face to his forearms, where the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. He smelled like pine, sweat, and Natty Light, and you were just about to tell him that somehow that combo worked for him, when Scott interposed, loud as hell.

“You ask her yet?!” he bellowed.

He knocked shoulders with Joel in a playful way, and the pair nearly stumbled sideways. Scott elbowed his ribs.

“He’s drunk as shit,” Dallas observed idly.

“Well, what’s he—” you began to say.

Before you’d even finished the question, your answer came in the form of Joel nodding, visibly pretty buzzed himself, as he waved his friend off with a shove and a laugh. Scott just grinned bigger as Bon Jovi gave way to Steely Dan over the speakers. Joel leaned back to you.

“Scott invited us to go skiing out in Jackson, Wyoming.”

“He loves planning trips drunk,” Michelle added.

“Like they’re best friends,” Dallas chuckled.

You ignored Aly’s half-concealed smirk on hearing that; you were too stuck on the look Joel was giving you. Like he was drunk, but dead serious—like he’d agreed to this.

Something set for a future date, however nebulous and far-fetched and stupid the idea may have been, made your insides stir a little all the same. You tried tamping it down with another sip of your drink, but you still shared a glance with Joel. He was watching you more intently.

“Is that something you’d wanna do, hon?” he asked.

You might’ve liked to warn him that he was drawing too close—that his breaths were too warm on your cheek and Aly was straightening in her chair, blinking harder—but anything even approaching a remonstrance was evidently never meant to leave your mouth, as the next second had you nudged off your barstool, taken by the hand, and dragged toward the bustling crowd at the center of the room. Scott had suggested dancing; his son had readily agreed and was now leading you out to the crowd himself. You snagged one fleeting look at Joel.

Mr. Ingram had been dying to get out there, apparently. Behind you, the man spun his wife the best he could through the jam-packed dance floor of students and parents bumping their way through the very best of the ‘70s and ‘80s. He took a few graceless turns himself; while Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen, and AC/DC reigned supreme over the wide open space, he pulled some mildly impressive moves. More importantly, though, he didn’t give a shit how he looked. This encouraged your group to let loose a little, too, and you somehow found yourself burrowing even further into the sea of people.

Your arms were compressed on either side of you. Your shoulders were bumped, and nudged, and given little more than a quarter of an inch for your chest to expand in the shallowest of breaths. Every pull of your lungs was an effort, and still, you couldn’t help but smile as you ran a quick look over the heads of everyone around. This was fun. Private, even. With dozens of nameless, faceless bodies gyrating in time with the music, you could blend right in. You could pretend that everything was normal.

Even with the press of a familiar form at your back, you could pretend it was just the crowd forcing him there—that Joel had just sauntered in behind you by accident.

It was risky, to be sure. The lights above flashed in bright white bursts, undulating with every pulse of the song being played, and it wasn’t too far from you that Aly and all the rest of them were strewn throughout the crowd.

But Joel hadn’t seemed to have noticed. Beneath the myriad limbs of the bargoers around you and him, he moved a hand to your waist. It hovered precariously for half a second, then tightened. It drew you closer to him.

You tried to push it away on instinct, heart jumping in your throat: what if Scott or Michelle or anyone else turned their heads at that moment and found him touching you there? What if the grasp their eyes caught wasn’t the wholesome, blameless kind that was meant to be shared between stepfather and stepdaughter? Who the hell was supposed to do the explaining to them then?

Clearly Joel wasn’t all that concerned about it; he slid his palm back up your side and gripped your hip hard after you’d nudged him off. He took a daring step forward, and you could feel him shake his head behind you. Smiling.

“And if I made a joke about father-daughter dances—”

“I would kill you with my two bare hands, Miller.”

Your backside glanced off his front. It wasn’t so much a deliberate move on your part but a byproduct of the rhythm. Some soft rock song was coming to an end, and your body rolled gently with his. The friction was minimal. This kind of proximity was easy to be explained away, if Dallas ever happened to look in your direction—

“Joel!”

Something hard pushed into your ass. You had to steel yourself quick, eyes darting furtively about to make sure no one had seen what you’d just felt between your legs. Then you tried wriggling away, off of him, and were rewarded with another hand on your side. It gripped the flesh just above your hipbone with a tender conviction.

Joel’s lips grazed your cheek briefly. His grip loosened.

“See what you do to me?” he murmured, and the fingers that he’d eased around your waist were turning you back.

Facing him now, away from your group. More bodies filled in between you and them, and the force of that influx pushed you closer to Joel. It shoved you together. It almost couldn’t be helped—that was what you kept telling yourself, anyway—when your frame melded to his, and his hands lowered to your hips, and one finger worked its way through your taut, denim belt loop in a manner completely unbecoming of a normal stepfather.

That callused finger held you firm to him with your jeans. It didn’t give an inch, and his eyes on yours did the same.

You were drifting further out. This didn’t matter as much. Anyone who saw you now would just have to guess that you were Joel’s, and Joel’s was yours—if only for now.

Your lips and his were gravitating closer then, too. You were just about to part yours to speak, when one soft, opening sequence broke out in the air, and you groaned.

No fucking way.

An all-too-familiar mid-tempo tune flooded the room and coursed in and out of your skull with a low, rhythmic tick.

It was eerie. Dreamy. Nearly haunting in the way it rang out right here, right now, with Joel’s hold on your sides tightening more and more with every passing second.

You hoped like hell he didn’t know this song, though you were half-certain this was a big hit from back in his day.

When Joel tipped his head back and fell right in step with the swaying cadence, you weren’t left guessing for long. Of course this slick bastard liked George Michael.

Of course he did.

What more of an appropriate song to be dancing to now, other than fucking ‘Father Figure’ of all the throwbacks?

Joel lifted both arms in a half-shimmy, half-slide and flashed a shit-eating grin down at you. It was smug.

‘For one moment, to be warm and naked at my side.’

Joel raised his brows with it, as if hearing the lyrics for the first time and being shocked. He wasn’t, clearly, as he rolled his shoulders in a stupid and seductive way, and dragged you closer to meet his body’s movements.

‘Sometimes I think that you’ll never understand me.’

Right. You would likely never understand Joel Miller.

‘But something tells me together we’d be happy.’

Well…as long as your father didn’t kill him first.

Emboldened by the pre-chorus beat and the ever-increasing swell of people around him, Joel snaked an arm around your waist. He let your body fall in line with his, rolling in gentle sorts of motions until he could find what kind suited you two the best, and he led the way.

When his head dipped to yours, you could feel it coming.

‘I will be your father figure. Put your tiny hand in mine.’

This time Joel was singing along, grin wide on his face. As if to mirror the lyrics, he took your hand and squeezed it. You might’ve rolled your eyes or pulled away when the man leaned down and slid his touch to your wrist. He kissed your palm. Then he kissed it again, sponging his lips to the skin in time with the rhythm of the song. It was both innocent and lewd. Wholesome and sensual.

Something trapped between perverted and polite, like Joel was testing the waters while trying not to make it seem that way at all. You kept moving in time together.

Joel’s other hand held you to him. His fingers flexed.

“You can’t…”

When his grip slid to your ass, you shook your head.

As much as you would’ve liked to indulge the urge that was currently flooding your system, the timing was off. The choice to give in now was wrong, and risky to make.

Your roommate and her family were no more than fifteen feet away. No matter how many strangers stood between you and them, Joel was toeing a dangerous line with his hand lowered to where it was. With his face only inches away and a sly grin spreading on his lips, it was clear he knew better than this. But he was eager to talk.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

Where that single term of endearment had once made you bristle, you now sensed it warming your insides.

You nodded but were quick to add: “Joel, we can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because…”

You found yourself trailing off again, just as you felt Joel’s erection grind into your front, somewhere close to the space between your legs. It rubbed right where you needed him. While another stream of airy, dreamlike notes floated out and a tenor’s voice crooned if you ever hunger, hunger for me, you peered up to find Joel deep in contemplation. He didn’t blink when you met his gaze.

Instead, he nudged you sideways. You inhaled a breath, and not long after that, you felt your back pressed to one of the lone barstools sitting at the outskirts of the room. You’d strayed far. And now, away from all the people that you’d come here with, you had two big hands sliding up the sides of your body. Cupping your face. Guiding your mouth to meet a warmer, more desperate set of lips than you’d ever been expecting to find. Joel’s kiss was rough.

It was open and aching—a wound not willing to be soothed by anything other than your tongue on his. Swiftly, he coaxed your jaw open and slid in. He licked in. He practically panted into your mouth, fingertips carving crescents in your cheeks from just how hard he was holding your face. He didn’t let up, and that hunger bled from his lips to yours. You felt a heady wave wash over your brain, and at the same time, your thighs tensed.

You pulled away.

Your lips were bitten numb. Your cunt was throbbing.

While your pulse thundered through your ears like a fucking kickdrum, your grip loosened on the front of Joel’s shirt, and you started to turn yourself from him.

What you needed to do was leave. What you couldn’t stand was getting caught again, and risk it being someone who wouldn’t take to it as kindly as Aly had.

But even as you walked, you felt a pulsing in your skull.

Between your legs, the feeling was worse, like there was something thrumming a frantic beat in that precious and defenseless place that you knew was needing him most. You were weak. You swiped a hand over your mouth like that would do anything, and you kept walking, knowing how closely Joel would be following you all the way out.

On such a clear, frigid night, the air outside should’ve been a relief. Instead, your pulse hammered and swelled. Your cheeks burned. You could’ve ground your teeth so hard that you cracked enamel, and it still wouldn’t have been enough to bite back the words inside your throat.

You turned to Joel wanting to tell him no. The expression that met yours said he was expecting as much—and was preparing to object—when you swiftly cut him off again.

It should end there. Nothing good ever came of you shedding your inhibitions or clothes with Joel Miller.

He reached out; you winced. You shouldn’t say it.

“Let’s go home, Joel.”

You were running again.

You’d nearly knocked him to the floor the second he’d turned the key in the door of his dingy little motel room, lips frantic over his and hands making fists in his shirt. It was exactly what he’d been hoping to see—part of why he’d booked this place and made the drive that weekend, to have you cradled in his arms again—but as he crossed the threshold with you all over him, Joel grew unsettled.

He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but something told him that you were only here to escape an unsavory urge. Like he was a bad habit to be flooded from your system.

You seemed to say it with every motion of your hands: skating down his front, clawing at the buttons, busying themselves with quickly trying to rid him of the fabric while your eyes stayed trained anywhere but on his face. It stung. Normally Joel wasn’t the type to ruminate on the reasons why a girl might be tearing his clothes off, but tonight, with you, this wasn’t what he usually did.

The ache unfurling in his chest wasn’t the kind to be imparted by just anyone, he kept reminding himself.

Which was why he took hold of both your wrists. Tightly. Just as you were about to try and peel his shirt from his shoulders and expose the whole naked expanse of his chest, he stopped you. He swallowed as you groaned.

“Joel.”

“You didn’t want me kissin’ you at all back there.”

In the bar, outside the building, in the car ride over here. You’d scarcely let him hold you for half a minute before begging to be taken home, and now that you were inside this room, alone, now you wanted to be touched by him.

Joel tried not to feel stupid saying it aloud, but hell, he felt pretty fucking pathetic peering down at you then.

You shook your head. Took a small step back from him.

“Yeah. Trying not to get us caught again, remember?”

And when you backed off, you stayed off, if only to start unfastening the little straps of your top and kick your shoes off your feet. You made your way over to the king-sized bed at the center of the room and sat down. Joel took off his own shoes but didn’t follow, opting instead to rest his weight on the old TV stand across from you.

He planted his hands on the hardwood surface on either side of him, watched you shuffle to the edge of the bed, and had to steel himself when the next pieces of clothing came sliding off your body. You were lifting your shirt over your head, then dragging your jeans down your legs.

Before you were stripped bare, Joel cleared his throat.

“I said we were gonna have a little chat later, too.”

He sounded like a dad. This really had to stop.

Instead of following his lead, you only kicked your pants off at your feet and leaned back. Joel approached the bed, and you greeted him with a coquettish look, like you already knew where this was going. But you couldn’t.

Joel made sure that you wouldn’t when he cupped your chin in his hand and made you tilt your face up to him.

“Honey,” he started, stern, while you reached for his belt.

You’d almost succeeded in threading your fingers through the leather and tugging it loose when Joel’s grip drew tighter. He jerked your chin up in a pinch, ignoring the roll of your eyes, and for yet another beat, he felt that obscure urge to discipline you again. Like you needed it.

If he could just control himself and play things right…

“Listen, I’m not trying to be your father.”

Wait. No. That came out wrong.

Your eyes widened some.

“Oh, really, daddy?”

Well, shit.

Joel straightened where he stood and tried not to puff out his chest like an old father-type might do, but the effort was useless—everything the man said and did was like the fucking calling card of a patriarch. He scrubbed a hand over his face and pretended not to see you grin up at him, your gaze bright and fiery as the Fourth of July.

He could hold important conversations and still not try to jump your bones immediately. He could control himself. He could slap on a semi-austere look and just tell you.

“I love you, you know that, right?” he blurted out.

Your eyes widened again, this time in alarm.

“Christ, Joel.”

You were sliding back on the bed. Shaking your head and pursing your lips in a grimace like this wasn’t happening.

“We’re not doing this again,” you added in a grave voice.

Joel was already making his way up after you—again, like a fucking moron, he felt—crawling on hands and knees across the moth-eaten, coral-colored bedspread and trying not to panic and failing miserably, per usual.

“‘S’alright if you don’t wanna say it back, I just—”

“I didn’t mean to say it in the first place, Joel!”

But there was a strain in your words. Denial.

You were working in earnest not to expose that sliver of self that wanted him, too. Joel could feel it. He planted his knees on the mattress and met you closer to the headboard, where your breaths were coming in faster. You shook your head, but you also didn’t stop him when he drew in even closer and lowered his body to yours.

He was hovering, almost.

Just as he’d been poised above your soft, beaming face all those weeks back in some little podunk town—at Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge, where you’d been stuck together, only to fuck each other for the first time that night—he pressed a touch to your side. He rubbed his thumb just over your hipbone, where the panties you had on still clung to your skin, and he watched you tense up.

It was like before, only worse: now you knew his touch, and he knew yours, but there was a dread in your eyes.

As if you couldn’t stand to be under him, you slid back.

“Joel, please…don’t,” you murmured hoarsely.

“Don’t what?” His stomach dropped.

“Don’t ever say that again.”

That he loved you?

Joel never thought one string of words could hurt him so much, but there it was. While his heart unwound and his ego met with a swift and unceremonious death, he felt something like agitation twist inside him, too. Cruelly.

This was what he’d come this whole way to tell you.

The man could handle rejection; that wasn’t the problem. What bothered him now was how unflinchingly committed you seemed to misunderstand his intentions. Something surged in his chest again, and this time, it wasn’t all hurt—it was anger, too. Why you refused to accept that someone might love you was beyond him.

He didn’t reach for you again or crowd you further, but he raked a hand through his hair and heaved a hard sigh.

“Why won’t you believe me?” This time pleading.

“It’s not that I won’t—I just can’t, Joel. I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

You started to speak, but then that balloon of rage swelled bigger in his chest, and it wasn’t meant to be directed at you—it was only meant for himself, why wasn’t he enough—and he spit the words like venom.

“Haven’t I shown you that I mean it? That I— I— I care? I’m here. I came to see you. I’m telling you that I love you. How else am I supposed to show the woman I love that I care when you won’t let me in an inch, except when—”

“Except when you’re seven deep in me?” you scoffed.

It was bitter and derisive, and you slid farther back.

“For Christ’s sake,” Joel gritted through his teeth.

He didn’t even wait for you to interject, as he came back: “Is that all you think of me? Is that what I am to you?”

His voice was loud, and he hadn’t meant for it to be.

He was pushing off the bed, watching you sit back.

“I just think it’s real convenient,” you snapped again, “Betraying my trust by not telling me about dad’s affair, finding me in a weak moment, letting me believe you feel the same so you don’t have to deal with this…this…guilt.”

Joel couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You think I did all of this out of pity?”

“I think you’re trying to be a—”

“That I would lie about it?”

His heart rate was spiking. He felt his pulse thudding in his ears as he stalked around the footboard and scowled.

“Joel, I—”

“No.” He shook his head hard. He was sincerely trying not to fit the bill for ‘hot-headed, explosively angry father,’ but the efforts he made seemed all in vain. Joel could hardly talk now without raising his voice to a shout.

“I have—” he started, only to stop himself, swallowing.

His throat ached, and he almost choked on his words.

“I have been in love with you this whole fuckin’ time!”

His eyes burned. The sound came out angry, hoarse. Maybe he was; he just couldn’t contain it anymore. Silence filled the open space, and time distended.

He couldn’t stand the way you wouldn’t believe him, even now, as you straightened and shook your head.

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have.”

“You don’t mean—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean!”

He stared back and watched your gaze erupt in ire. Indignation. Lips drawing tight and teeth baring and hands gripping the bedspread beside you, as if enraged.

“I do. I can. You’re— you’re full of shit.”

Your words made him want to hurl something at a wall.

“Am I?!” he bellowed.

“Yes!” you spat.

“How can you say that?!”

And, without meaning to, Joel’s knee hit the side of the nightstand while he turned abruptly from you. The whole thing shook; the lamp nearly toppled, and the man immediately reached for it, then out to you. The gesture was a reflexive apology, but you responded by shoving his hands off. An angry sound racked through your body as you moved from him—“You—you don’t mean it, Joel.”

“I do. I mean it. Believe me, I do.”

That sound from his chest could’ve been half a sob.

He reached for you again, knees sinking with the springs of the mattress beneath him, and you shuffled further back. Your movements slowed. Suddenly, Joel’s stopped.

He couldn’t see it without a wince—your hands shaking. Your fingers tried making fists but failed, and in an effort to conceal the fear they held, you seized the comforter.

His throat ached, and that pain only soared in a second.

“You can’t…you can’t mean it if I’m just a secret to you.” Your tone was a rasp. The lips that spoke it were curled, revealing teeth still gritted. Eyes filling with more tears, “You can’t say you love me if…if you’re just gonna leave.”

By the end of it, your words were ground to a murmur. Your voice was hushed and slow and begging to be spared notice, as though every syllable hurt to say.

Your bottom lip was quivering too. He knew you were kicking yourself for it—could see the embarrassment etched into your gaze as you blinked back nothing, then one, then two, then a barrage of slow, hot tears—but no matter what you did to fight it off, your body trembled.

The whole thing was practically vibrating with hurt. Humiliation and anger had evidently joined the mix, and before he could even think to speak, you mumbled again:

“You’re gonna leave me, Joel.”

The hurt wouldn’t stop.

“You don’t love me.”

Your voice cracked to continue, pain clinched with a sob.

“You can’t.”

In the look that met his, he saw a wall of warring fears. It wasn’t all for him, either. There were wounds that were the work of years beneath the surface of your skin, ones entrenched in flesh since long before he’d ever known you or laid a finger on that part himself. It started young.

Your lashes battled to keep the tears at bay, but the floodgates had opened. Your secret was gone. There was no sense in feigning indifference when the truth was laid bare—that you didn’t deem yourself worthy of love, and likely never had. Regardless, you worked hard not to cry. You scrunched your nose, mashed your lips together, and stared anywhere but him, and the tears kept flowing. Gently, but without slowing, they streaked down in turn.

“No, sweet pea, I love you. I love you. I ain’t leavin’.”

It was all Joel could do to keep his own vision clear.

He already knew you wouldn’t believe him, but that didn’t stop him from saying the words all the same.

“I— I said it first,” he went on, words tumbling out.

You turned wet, sad eyes to him in utter silence, and that made him want to ramble on forever. As long as it took.

“At the fair, a month before you ever said it, I was trying to tell you I loved you then. You ran off before I could.”

That was the truth.

If Joel had any hope of regaining your trust, it would need to start there. And out of one truth came another.

“I already knew I loved you before that. I would’ve said it, except it just felt wrong, with all that…that stuff I knew.”

He meant knowing about his best friend, your father, and his little rekindled romance with his former mistress. It wasn’t right, keeping you in the dark about something like that, but he also hadn’t wanted to hurt you. There was more to the story that complicated things further, and frankly, Joel had been too swept up in the novelty of this thing you two had had to choose the smarter path.

That didn’t excuse what he did. Hell, it only hurt him worse seeing your eyes gloss over and stay fixed on his.

Knowing you’d trusted him not to hurt you—and he had.

If you didn’t accept what he told you now, he wouldn’t fault you for it. All he could do was slide off the bed and pull you to a perch on the edge, while he planted himself on the carpeted floor and kneeled in between your legs.

Cupping your tear-stained face in his hands, pleading:

“Baby.”

You blinked back at him but ventured nothing.

“Sweet pea, I am not keeping you a secret.”

A beat.

“I’m not leavin’. I want more—need more.”

And for some reason, that felt like a weightier admission than he’d even thought possible. He wasn’t good at this.

He wasn’t quite cut of a cloth to know just how to soothe you and make things right, but he did know that holding you felt right to him. So he did. He rubbed his thumbs in little circles over your warm, wet, puffy cheeks, and he pulled your face closer to his. He held your gaze and watched an internal war wage somewhere far behind your eyes as you tried to contend with this new feeling—that of being wanted and needed and loved as you were.

You sniffled between his two broad palms.

“I want you to stay,” you said softly.

Joel’s heart hammered at that.

He couldn’t hope to leave out the rest. He let go of your face then and felt an irresistible urge to go on, even if it was much too soon and he had meant to show you later. As stupid as the idea had been, he’d already made it, and there was no going back anyhow. He would tell you here.

He reached in his pocket for his wallet. He broke your gaze momentarily to take it out, flip it open, and then card his fingers through the bills a few aching moments before pulling it out—the thing he’d wanted to show you.

When he held it up, a set, he flitted a quick look to what he’d lifted between you and him, as if the sight might give him answers on what to say. Sadly, nothing came.

Joel was totally on his own in explaining what this was. Lucky for him, though, you didn’t seem keen to judge.

“They’re…they’re tickets,” he started. Stupid.

You raised a brow, trying to read, and he forged ahead. Just as the words first appeared to register in your mind, and the faintest look of shock took shape, he hurried out:

“Billy Joel’s got a show comin’ up in Austin this June. I…I thought— well, I hoped, I guess, that maybe we could…”

Spit it out, Miller.

Spit. It. Out.

He frowned.

“I’m no good at this. Sorry. I wanted us to go…together.”

And then…

“And I want your dad to know about us before then.”

There it is.

The last lynchpin in the man’s resolve was gone. He’d said it. There was no turning back from what he’d offered, or what it required, and now you knew he wanted things to be real and committed. Serious.

Terrifying.

Your eyes remained fixed on his. For a second, that look, and your whole upper half, appeared so still Joel thought you might’ve stopped breathing altogether. You blinked. Glancing down at the tickets in his hand and batting your lashes again, as if you weren’t quite sure how to answer.

Then, at last, he heard a sharp inhale—Or was it an exhale? He couldn’t tell—and before he could blink back or wonder so much as a thought, the breath was battered out of his own chest. You rushed him.

You’d moved so fast, hugged him so quick, Joel scarcely knew what was what until he felt your arms snake around his neck. You joined him on the filthy, soiled floor and dropped your knees on either side of his body in a kind of straddling hug. It was as swift as it was unexpected, and it took him a second to adjust. But no longer than that.

Joel was relieved to feel your warmth. Squeezing him. Choking him, almost. He didn’t think you’d ever held him that hard in his life, so he did all he could to soak it in.

It was only when he heard another sob that he paused.

“You…you want to?” Your voice was tiny against him.

“‘Course I do, darlin’,” Joel answered in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He cupped the back of your head to him and held you tighter, “Of course I do.”

Then, because the impulse struck again: “I love you.”

He didn’t need you to say it back; a look was enough. When you drew back and met his gaze, eyes still doused with tears but smiling faintly at him, Joel was content to see your acceptance. Allowing love in in some small way.

And when your lips succeeded that look, meeting his in a soft kiss, and your body shifted up toward the bed, he didn’t protest. He kissed you back. Joel didn’t have to have love spelled out in words for him to feel what you meant. You said it gently, but somehow with even more force than when you’d stumbled into this room together, touch beckoning him in as you laid back on the mattress.

Admittedly, every inch of this place was seedy. On such short notice Joel hadn’t had much of a pick among his choice of accommodations, and the shortage showed. Still, when you slid up that old, worn bed and stretched yourself in wordless welcome, he couldn’t have asked for more. He only wished that he could give you more, but for right now, at least, that was out of the question. He leaned in and found your lips like second nature, slotting between your thighs and kissing you harder. The concert tickets had shortly been cast aside on the night stand.

“I love you.”

It slipped out again, and Joel didn’t care. His tongue chanced past the seam of your lips and, once inside, explored every contour, ridge, and crevice it could find.

While he did, a touch palmed your breasts over your bra. Your skin was warm; gaze soft, the last he’d seen of it. The scent of you rose to greet him like a mist of some wild intoxicant: citrus, mint, a tinge of sweat, and a liter of your favorite fruity drink, if he’d had to guess. You flooded his senses. It wasn’t enough for him simply to hold flesh in his hands and explore your body with his lips and tongue; Joel wanted to consume something more, though he hardly had the words to articulate it.

You unclasped your bra just as his mouth slid down to your neck. There was a beat—your sharp intake of breath when his teeth met skin and marked it with the tenderest bite—and then your arms reached out. You discarded your bra and bared yourself to him, and when Joel tilted his head to take in the view, he had to groan your name.

There was no other logical route for him to go.

You’d just begun to wind your fingers through his hair when he slid down to greet that newly-exposed place.

“I love you,” he repeated against your skin before drawing one nipple between his lips. He kissed it.

Your grip grew tighter.

“Joel, please.”

His teeth had only reappeared a second to tug the pebbled flesh between them, tongue hungry and wet and laving gently across that hardened peak, when your legs wound around him too. You pulled his body into you.

Joel was helpless to the inducement. His torso fell more heavily to yours and his lips suckled with a vigor that betrayed sheer desperation. He felt it strain in his pants. When he moved from one breast to the other, he heard a wet pop, and the whimper when he re-attached himself was enough to make the bulge he felt swell even bigger. His tongue caressed in laving, measured motions along the curve, and he tried not to grow overly eager from it.

Don’t get too excited. You need time. Lots and lots of—

“Joel,” you exhaled on a particularly harsh press of his mouth. Your ribs heaved with it. “Come— come here.”

He was clambering back up in an instant. The ministrations of his lips that had practically engulfed your skin and smeared it with his saliva were swapped in a blink with them returning to your chin, jaw, and cheeks, planting kisses in between the words he murmured next.

“Yeah? Every—” To the side of your mouth. “Everything OK, sweet pea?” Feeling guilty but also simply needing to calm himself down. “Too fast?” Another to your cheek.

It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t gone too far, too soon before. In fact, it was a pretty regular occurrence with the sex you had. Joel just needed a reset—had to make sure this was alright, and that he could cool down if needed.

He felt a pinch in his groin but ignored it.

Suddenly, your gaze was on his again.

Fingers carded through the sweat-damp, striated tufts of black and silver hair at the sides of his head, and you leaned in closer until your nose and his were touching.

“Here,” you pressed him, low. Need crept into those words, and your grasp constricted. “Stay here, please.”

It was clear you were inviting him back to your lips, to kiss them, so Joel did just that. He bracketed his arms on either side of your head and let his mouth explore as it had before. Where he resumed at equal force, you met him with still more warmth and wanting and open fervor, tongue curling around his in some soft and wordless plea

Below the belt, Joel was throbbing. He didn’t need to reflect long at all to know what that meant. Then your lips parted wider, your ankles dug deeper in the backs of his calves, and your hips started grinding against him.

Dry humping.

Whining at the friction.

“Feels…feels so good, Joel,” you told him breathlessly.

“You like that?” His lower half mimicked the motions.

Need blossomed across your face as the ridge of his cock rubbed in just the right way through his slacks. Something harder than he meant—a thrust, like he was fucking you into the bed—shook your frame, as well as the mattress underneath it. Springs creaked. Metal groaned. Warmth spread, from the pit of his stomach to where your body met his. The movements kept going.

You were slick beneath him. You must have been. Your whines had heightened to punctured gasps and your hips were so desperate, rubbing your barely-clothed core to the front of his pants and brows pinching as if—

You were already expecting this to end.

You didn’t think that he would stay.

“Baby,” Joel panted again.

By now, desire consumed him, but the urge to smooth that tiny crease of worry was coursing just as powerfully. He swallowed, gripped the linens beside your head in one hand a little harder, and opened his mouth to speak.

Another flick of your hips. Another sigh. Another whine.

Another pinch somewhere deep within him, and a groan.

Suddenly, your hands were on his shoulders, sliding up and toward his neck. Your fingers clawed for his hair.

“Joel,” you panted back.

Joel had tried to slow the motions of his lower half to talk, but yours had only sped up to grind yourself against him. He could feel the heat bleeding from you now. Wetness formed and expanded in a patch through your pink cotton panties and likely stained his front, or would.

His cock was swollen stiff and throbbing. Precum pearled at the tip of him, no doubt, and with every jerk of your body, he could feel it smearing and aching to slip in.

He wanted to be inside you. His balls twitched, his stomach ached, and his senses were suffused with you, a white-hot desire to paint your mouth, your skin, or your insides with his cum nearly as strong. But he had to stop.

Then you kissed him.

Joel’s lips were still parted when your mouth found his, kissing him sweetly and without reserve. Your fingers that had threaded through his hair pulled taut. Hard.

Your center slid up the length of his fully clothed cock, and with one more press of your legs, Joel felt you.

He’d never wanted anything more in his life, and still, he fought to speak—to reassure you that he wasn’t leaving.

“Joel—”

“I know, I know. Baby, I—fuck.” His breath hitched in his throat when his bulge pulsated again. His head swam.

With what meager resolve the man still possessed, he ventured another kiss, then drew back. His eyes dropped and searched your expression, half-crazed, and just when the words were taking shape again, you parted your lips and brought them to his. You rolled your hips, balled your fingers into fists through his hair, and with your mouth and his a quarter-inch apart in puckered, pretty ‘O’s, panting with every thrust that shook the bed:

“I love you, Joel.”

It was a breath, and the taste had never felt sweeter.

One more jerk of his hips and you were drawing in once again, panting in his mouth as if to make sure he heard.

“I— I love you. I love you so much,” you murmured, low.

His cum unloaded in thick, hot ropes. He couldn’t stop it.

Joel Miller, at the age, maturity, and level of experience he could boast, had never cum virtually untouched and in his own fucking pants since…he couldn’t remember when. But he was. His spend pulsed out from the head of his cock in dizzying bursts, and his stomach clenched. He gripped the bedspread and let out a guttural groan while he soaked the front of his boxers from inside them.

His dick throbbed and leaked, and his breathing slowed. He mumbled something back, quietly—‘I love you, too.’

Then he pushed up and off of you, out of the bed.

Seconds stretched; he didn’t feel it. Stars burst behind his eyes with every step, and he staggered that path to the bathroom like his life or his pride might depend on it.

As a matter of fact, the damage was already done. He’d jizzed in his pants like an overeager teen getting his dick touched or sucked for the very first time. What was worse, you hadn’t been doing either when he came; you’d told him you loved him, and that was enough.

Enough to make him look like a goddamn idiot, Joel thought without blinking. He kicked the door shut behind him and reached for the zip of his pants.

Sticky. Wet. A whole fucking shitshow below the belt.

He ran the tap. He had his undone slacks and boxers pulled down past his hips, and he was facing the sink in seconds, assessing the extent of the damage. Then his face flushed red at the sight of the sticky, milky mess swarming his groin and he could’ve kicked himself. He settled for yanking a towel out from one of the cubbies beneath the counter and running it under the water. He daubed quick and without much precision, gaze darting to find dozens more clumps of his spend strewn about than he thought possible. He’d cum an absurd amount.

Before he chastised himself, though, he had to pause.

“Joel?”

Your voice was soft. Sometime since he’d unzipped and started scrubbing his crotch in vicious circles, you’d appeared at the door, head peeking around curiously.

You must not have been standing there for long, because you actually drew closer to join him. Feeling comfortable enough in roughly thirty square feet of space, you shut the door again and leaned your hip against the counter.

If Joel didn’t know you better, and he wasn’t already occupied with wiping cum off of his cock and balls, he might’ve searched your face for a smile. A smirk, maybe.

It wasn’t like teasing each other was suddenly off-limits now that Joel was brimming with embarrassment. Half your communication was giving the other shit for little mishaps and quirks, and he expected that his last accident in the bedroom would be no different.

He flinched when you reached out instead.

Hooking your fingers under the waistband of his pants and his plaid boxers, you shuffled in closer to him and let out a breath. You tugged once, twice—gently, so as not to further disrupt the mess or make him wince—and then coaxed the fabric down his legs, lower and lower.

When you peered up at him, Joel couldn’t find so much as a trace of amusement in your eyes or on your lips. You just nudged his slacks to the tiled floor and hummed.

“It’ll be easier if we wash it off in there.”

You nodded to the shower behind him.

Joel turned slightly, as if considering or trying to get a glimpse of the freestanding shower with its wide-open, mildewed curtain seeming to beckon him in, then stopped. He turned back and chucked his towel.

“Alright,” he said while kicking his pants off at the ankles. Talking softly and not meeting your gaze, “That’s fine.”

He pivoted once more to peel his shirt off and make toward the shower by himself, and you surprised him, again, when you bypassed his much larger frame and hopped in first. You slid your panties off and tossed them into the pile of clothes by the sink, and you twisted the knob on the wall. You sidestepped the first stuttered sprays and drew the curtain back in wordless invitation.

Joel hovered, eyes scanning the cramped space.

“I don’t think we’re both gonna fit in here.”

Then, as though to emphasize his point:

“I can wash off by myself. It’s…fine.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so stilted, but that was just how he felt: stiff and awkward and raw with feelings of recent embarrassment. He tilted his head to the side.

Your head tipped right back, and you raised a brow.

“Just get in, Miller. Freezin’ my fuckin’ ass off.”

And there was a smile: the first one. Faint.

Not mocking, snide, or condescending. Just the kind to usher him in and drag the curtain behind his hulking body, wipe a slick, wet hand over your mouth and grin—‘You do know I’ve seen you naked before, right?’—and that set his mind at ease. He almost smiled himself.

“So you remember that I’m a grower, not a shower.”

Joel cupped his hands over his softening length in faux protective fashion, as if you hadn’t seen the thing dozens of times by now. When he sidled up and cornered you between the soap tray and the shower stream, he found the edges of his lips kicking up a little, unable to help it.

You’d seen him hard, soft, and everything in between—mostly hard when near you. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing that you were getting to experience him like this.

That made him lean in closer. Chance another joke.

“Looks like your old man’s stamina has taken a hit, too.”

Joel had meant it to sound playful. Suggestive, even. Instead, it came out dismal and gruff, like he was trying to overcompensate for something he was sorely lacking.

He might’ve wanted to kick himself again, were it not for the next move you pulled on him, which was enough to pluck his thoughts—and his breath—out of his body.

Without wasting a second to pretense or teasing, you simply brushed your hand down his front and touched him, gently. He was softer, smaller, and almost wholly spent from his last exertion; still, you reached and wrapped your fingers around his length with care.

Sparks ignited from the place where you trailed. Joel had to swallow a groan, oversensitive and fairly stunned, and his palm came to rest on the wall behind your head. His chin dipped toward his chest while his gaze dropped too.

He watched you stroke him once, rub your thumb along the tender skin, then bring your left hand to join the mix, carrying a bar of soap with it. You started from the base.

“Baby,” Joel rasped. The muscles of his stomach clenched while you drew circles to spread the soap.

“My old man,” you repeated affectionately.

It was artless and kind. Friendly and gentle. Most every other time he’d been touched where you had him, the hands had meant to arouse, and seek something else. Here, you were trying to help. Clean him sweetly and without concern for yourself while also drawing him in, like you always did. It made his chest hurt—and not in a way totally unconcerning for a man his age. Nonetheless, he leaned into that feeling and shifted his body to yours.

His head and your head were now doused with water, his hovering above so close that little droplets streaked from his chin down your slightly upturned face. Joel could feel you watching him. He flicked his own gaze back to meet yours, and as he did, your palm stroked him from root to tip. His hips jerked involuntarily; he swelled in your grip.

His cock stiffened but still remained far from fully erect. Joel swallowed, anchored his hand harder on the wall, and wished himself a decade or three younger, at least.

“You alright with this?” he muttered.

“With what?” you mumbled back.

Joel sucked in a breath just as your hand, and the soap, slid back down his length, and rubbed casually around it. You assumed a leisurely pace and scrubbed his tummy.

“My body ain’t what it was—”

“And it’s more than enough.”

Suddenly, your eyes weren’t just resting on his but pressing. Piercing. The circles working to clean his skin increased in pace and force, and you set the soap aside. You nudged him closer to the water, but all Joel felt was the urge to draw you with him. The shower stream pelted his chest, his belly, his freshly soaped lower half, and past the suds, a gradually hardening cock. Gradually.

You had him in your hand; you were rinsing him clean. Joel should’ve extended some murmured thanks, a calm and uncalculating touch coming to rest on one of your shoulders while you did him this innocent favor. Your lips twitched. His cock hardened. Then your back was flat on the shower wall, and Joel was hovering over your drenched and naked frame again, only his touch was descending to your hip instead. He held it firmly.

“You could have your pick of any guy—”

“Good thing I only want you.”

Your grip tightened too. Now that you’d scrubbed him clean, you seemed ready to let go in the next second, but old habits died hard. Joel leaned in to nose your cheek.

“That so?” His hand moved from your hip to what he knew would be a scorching heat between your thighs.

Two thick fingers glided through your folds and forced a whimper out of your throat. You were soaking wet, and not just from the shower’s spray. Joel rubbed that slick, delicate seam with all the self-control he could muster in the moment, and he kissed your cheek. Every inch he could feel of you was brimming with warmth and need.

You tilted your chin and caught his lips. You parted your legs and held his almost-fully erect length in your grasp.

“I— I mean it, Joel,” you answered him, surprisingly soft then. You kissed the sides of his mouth while you continued to stroke up and down. “I want you.”

Joel’s hips shifted involuntarily. As if moving of its own volition, his lower half stirred beneath your touch, and shortly, he had your legs spread wider and his body slotting in the gap between. His fingers pushed deeper.

And, just as his hand was all but cupping your mound and the wet heat of your cunt was pulsing against him, Joel slowed. He sucked in a breath and met your gaze.

“How do you want me, sweetheart?” he murmured.

In reply, you gripped his base and guided him closer. Flicked your thumb over the fat, leaking tip and sighed.

“Right…here.”

“Right here?”

Joel hadn’t meant to move you so quickly, but one blink and your hand was off him completely; your back was turned to him, and your ass was pressed flush with his groin. He had to hunch in the tight, wet, fog-infested enclosure with his chin jutting in over your shoulder and his palm splayed over your tummy. He spoke softly again:

“You want daddy in here, pretty girl?”

Your whine was all he needed to hear.

And perhaps it would’ve been wise to wait a beat or two. Work two fingers in and out of your aching cunt, drag his tongue through your folds, or else use his throbbing tip to ease you open for him. Before he could even think to make use of his hands, mouth, or head, though, you were reaching behind and taking him yourself. You pressed a palm to the wall and pushed up on the tips of your toes, and with impatience bleeding through your every movement, you slid back onto him. You did it quickly.

In the absence of adequate foreplay, entry wasn’t swift. Joel almost choked at the feeling of how tight you were around him—how rigid and warm and narrow you felt on that first slide. He planted a grounding hand next to your own out of sheer necessity. He held your hip in his other and swallowed a groan that seemed fit to nearly kill him.

“Sweetheart,” he panted against your neck, “Easy. Easy.”

You tried to nod your understanding but slid up just as fast. From a glimpse of your profile, Joel could make out some consternation fanning out. Your brows pinched.

The pretty, slick ‘o’ encircling his cock clenched again, and it was evident you were trying to force the motion back down against your body’s wishes. You whimpered a little and dropped your free hand between your legs.

Joel kissed your jaw. Your cheek. Your ear. Partly to remind you that he was fine to take things slow and partly to quiet his own hammering heart inside him.

It wasn’t working.

You were just so. fucking. tight.

“I— you gotta slow down, sweet pea,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Your walls pulsed again, and it nearly sent him spiraling. The second your ass met his hips and he was buried to the hilt, he stifled a groan into your neck.

“But I need you, daddy,” you whined, “Need you inside.”

Another grunt. Another moan. Another suffocating pulse.

“I’m gonna blow if we don’t slow down some, honey.”

It was mortifying, but it was the truth. Tonight, Joel just couldn’t seem to keep his cum confined to his balls like he normally could. Presently, they rested firm and heavy against the globes of your ass and were just then preparing to hit a rhythm as you rocked back and forth.

Your gaze flashed to his over your shoulder.

“That’s OK. You…you can— oh.”

Before you could finish that thought, your words were torn from your tongue and lost to a shuddering moan. His cock plunged deep within your soft and airtight channel, and your head lolled back a little more.

Out of habit, Joel pulled out and then plunged back in, feeling the wet clutch of you stretch around his cock.

“I can what, honey? What can daddy do?”

Lax as his voice made him sound, the man was coming apart at the seams; he had only to search your face for a fleeting, desperate moment, find you hungry as he was, and he thrusted even harder, absorbed the shockwaves of your pleasure while he fucked you up against the wall.

Gradually, the spatter of water on white glossy tile gave way to the sounds of your skin and his hitting again and again. Your face softened, and the once-taut walls eased to accommodate his girth. You squeezed Joel from base to tip, making the most obscene noises when he slid in and out, and from the look you gave him then, he could sense the need before it ever left your lips. He saw desire fill your pretty, glossy stare and felt compelled to sate it.

Again, it seemed you were begging him to stay.

Expression so pleading and sweet and soft.

“Daddy, I— I want you to cum inside me.”

Joel almost blew his load on the spot. His hips had to stutter in place—so taken aback by what you’d just said—but then you were bouncing back and forth again, neck craning to flash him the most winsome smile.

“Oh, honey…”

“Please.”

He’d finished in you before. It had been an accident. The night had ended with you and him hauling ass to the nearest CVS and hitting the Plan B like it owed you money. And now you were asking him to do it?

“I’m about to start my period. It’ll be fine.”

The half-starved look in your eyes said you’d been thinking about this for awhile. Maybe not with your rational brain, but certainly in earnest. Your smile said it.

Joel’s good sense was shot. He knew it was wrong. He was assured beyond a shadow of a doubt that if your dad ever learned he’d deliberately painted your insides white—or worse yet, knocked you up—his best friend would personally sever his dick and sauté it for lunch. Still, the urge to be joined with you in this brand new way was damn near debilitating. He couldn’t tell you no. So instead of doing what he should’ve done, he simply said:

“OK.”

For some reason, it felt wrong to finish in the shower. So he cut the water, toweled you both, and took you to bed. He slid under thin, sodden, wildly outdated motel sheets without letting his lips disconnect from yours once. He propped your legs around his hips and kissed you harder. He found a home within the furthest recesses of your body he could find, and his heart still throbbed for more. It was the best and worst agony, to be so delirious in the need for someone else, but each time you met him and accepted him in, his pleasure soared to new heights.

His cock dragged in and out of your heat in sloppy, shallow thrusts. He felt your wetness ease his passage and welcome him deeper, until the mouth of your cunt was stretched as taut against his base as it would go and your walls were pulsing with need. You squirmed underneath him. Your whines turned into whimpers, and the whimpers became ragged, hiccuping gasps as you clawed at his back and begged for more, more, more.

“‘M’so full. Feels so, so good, daddy,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” Joel said, and he glanced between your bodies to see you stretched and stuffed to the brim with cock. He groaned involuntarily. “I fit so nice, don’t I, baby?”

“You— you do, daddy. You do.”

“Can I fit a little more in?”

Your eyes widened.

As soon as realization dawned, you nodded your head and gripped him tighter. You hardly needed another stab of his hips, his thumb on your clit, or so much as a word spoken besides—at just the thought of being filled with his seed, your body seized in anticipation. It was you trembling, shuddering, clenching hard and reaching bliss before you even meant to get there, really. You were wholly overstimulated and clamoring for more, the pulses of your cunt milking his cock with all you had.

Joel scarcely had the presence of mind to get a syllable out, but he knew what he needed to say before his pleasure took hold. He smoothed a hand over your cheek, cupped it, and lowered his lips to yours, so only the cusp of his mouth and his stubble were grazing your open pout and the words he spoke were all yours to hear.

Sliding deeper. Meeting and holding your gaze with bare, uncontrived sincerity: “I’m yours, baby. I’m all yours.”

His balls tightened. He wanted to say more to set your mind at ease and assure you what you meant to him, but evidently, your bodies had other plans. In the next moment, he felt a familiar warmth spurt from his tip, and his hips jerked. His cock burrowed as deep within your wet, pliant walls as it could go, and he unloaded rope after rope of his cum. Joel let out a full-throated groan.

The wild hum of his pulse through his skull all but rendered him deaf to the sounds around him, but he knew he told you that he loved you; he knew you said it back. He felt you anchor your heels into the backs of his legs and accept him completely. You spent what felt like hours kissing, writhing, panting, and murmuring words of the warmest affection. In reality, this lasted seconds.

With you underneath him, in his arms, it didn’t matter.

“I love you, Joel,” you whispered again, smiling.

He grinned and kissed you, “I love you more.”

And he’d meant what he said: every inch of him was yours. Every moment you would let him have from that point forward, he’d spend showing you that he was there to stay. He didn’t care how long it would take to prove it.

For once, he didn’t care what your dad would have to say

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Chocolate Bars and Injuries [3]

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

AN: This is a fluff filler chapter but I do love this lil family so sue me. I want to post these more frequently but I can't write as fast as I used to lol. I need some angst ideas for these two and Robby ideas if any of you have any <3

TW: Parental death, usual medical inaccuracies. drunk driving. mentions of death by drunk driving. mentions of Jack's amputation.

Synopsis: Your's and Jack's relationship progress and you meet a few people at The Pitt properly.

TAG LIST: @darksparklesficrecs @flyinglama @lonelyloomis @antisocialfiore @impossibleblizzardstudentposts

PART ONE PART TWO

Jack’s presence in your life has brought immense happiness. The past few months were consumed by mourning your parents and learning to parent Caspian, leaving little time for self-reflection. However, Jack has transformed everything.

Now, you’re a few months into your relationship, and it’s a new experience for both of you. Things were going slow, Jack's schedule being the biggest reason but also he had never dated someone with a young child and you were trying to navigate it together. Jack cringes whenever you introduce yourselves as girlfriend or boyfriend, feeling too old for the term, preferring the term ‘partner.’ But you don’t mind; you love calling him your boyfriend.

The chime of the doorbell echoed throughout the house signifying Jack's arrival and you skipped over to open it, immediately smiling at the man on the other side

"You're spoiling him y'know" You say as you spy the toy store bag amongst the many Jack holds.

"You gonna tell me to stop?" Jack asks as he steps in the house, passing you the flowers he held. Jack waits until the flowers are firmly in your grasp before he pulls you into a kiss, deepening the kiss as he tries to figure out the flavour of your lip gloss.

"What is that, strawberry?" Jack's brows were furrowed as pulls away.

"Grape!" You grin, pecking him once more before you step away.

You sniff the flowers as you walk into the kitchen as Jack follows you automatically, the routine ingrained amongst all the others he held, "No, but what's your plan for when he grows old and out of Hot Wheels?"

Jack retrieves the vase from where it rests and fills it up with water as you trimmed the stems. This was another part of the routine that the two of you had formed, built- off of weeks of dates and flower gifting.

"I don't know... does the kid like fishing?"

"Fishing?" You laugh, "When was the last time you went fishing? Besides the kid is five, what he likes changes every week."

"I went a few years ago with Robby and Frank." Jack tells you, holding the vase out for you.

Your fingers rest over his on the vase as you peer up at him, "And how did that go?"

"Two days one night camped out in one tent next to a lake in the height of summer and all we managed to catch were fish only big enough to feed a starving feral cat" Jack grimaced," You can imagine how well it went."

You laugh at his expression before you turn back to finish up with the flowers, "Well maybe it's best we stay away from fishing but you know, he has been talking about going camping recently. I was thinking about doing it in the backyard."

"Now camping I know alot about. I can take him camping. I can do the whole nine yards... smores, campfire Stargazing and campfire stories"

Jack's hands grasp your hips, giving them a squeeze before he turns you around, an almost hesitant look on his face, "Or is that too much? I don't want to overstep."

"You're not overstepping. I think Cas will really enjoy that." You stretch your arms to wrap around Jack's neck, "Obviously me and Cas are a package deal, it's the both of us or none of us but... are you really sure you want to do this? If you want to get really serious with me, you get serious with Cas and I don't want my relationship with you to be separate from my life with Cas, you all have to tie in together."

"Hey" Jack pulls you into a gentle brief kiss, "I know that. I really like Cas and spending time with him. I also really like you and dating you, I know all of this and it doesn't change a thing."

You beam at him before you pull him into a deep kiss that lasts until your phone chimes reminding you that you had to collect him from his regular weekend Karate lessons.

"Just to let you know, Cas will be showing off all his Karate moves tonight." You say as you leave the house, heading to your car, Jack following behind you.

"I am a more than willing practice dummy. I have a few moves of my own that I learnt when I was serving..." Jack quips, squeezing his body into the passenger seat, "Why can't we take my truck?"

"First of all, you're not using any combat moves on a five year old and secondly, you don't have a car seat for him" You remind him. "C'mon doctor Abbot it's child safety 101."

Jack huffs a laugh but he makes a reminder on his phone for his next free day to do research on the best car seats for children Cas' age to have in his truck.

With Cas down for his afternoon nap, immensely helped by his Karate class, you decided to watch a film with Jack and so you delegated the task of finding a film to watch to Jack whilst you did snacks and drinks. So you were in the kitchen making popcorn while he explored your living room, staring at the many family portraits hanging around and looking through the immense music and film collection accumulated by your parents.

"You've got Heat, Top Gun, The Shining… I remember watching these when I was young. Plus the music collection over there... this is amazing." Jack said in amazement as he continued to flick through the collection.

You laugh at him as you place the drinks and popcorn down on the coffee table, soda for you, beer from one of the many bags he brought with him, for him.

"Yeah my parents collected them. There's more in the loft but they've got a massive collection spanning decades. They used to go to garage sales, flea markets—you name it." You smile as you think about your parents, "Those were my parent's favourites from their childhood so I guess that tracks, you're like the same age as them."

Jack's face goes through many emotions as he looks at you with wide eyes, "I didn't mean to bring them up."

"You mean you don't like being reminded that you're the same age as my parents?" You tease, "Don't worry I don't have daddy issues— well not like that."

 "I don't want to bring up something you're uncomfortable with." Jack says.

"It's not illegal. You can ask about them." You take a seat, Jack quickly joining you, "Don't get me wrong it's a sore subject but my therapist always likes to remind me that not everything is captured on camera or film and if we don't share our memories, we forget them and I have about twenty five years more of them than Cas has."

"Yeah, therapists are great at reminding you to take your head out of your ass." Jack mutters, remembering the reality checks his therapist gives him.

Jack hesitated for a moment before speaking again, asking, “How did they pass?”

You tuck yourself into Jack's side, bracing yourself to talk about something that you've only spoken about to your therapist," Drunk driver. Ran a red light and T-boned them."

"Shit..." Jack swore as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder and squeezed it, comforting you.

"Cas was in the car with them." Your words were quiet but Jack could hear the underlying grief, "My dad died at the scene, mom died in surgery. Cas was in PICU for a week. I was so close to losing my entire family that night."

There's a pause where you take a mouthful of your drink, creating a break, pacing yourself before you reveal a part of you that weighed heavily upon you everyday. 

"A part of me still expects them to walk through those doors and then everything will go back to how it was. A part of me still feels like a teenager, always looking towards their parents for guidance but I'm grown now. I'm scared about letting Cas down, about failing him. I became a guardian— a parent overnight and I feel so out of my depth." You sniffle, emotions beginning to creep up, "It's why I haven't gone through any of their stuff yet. It's why I'm still sleeping in my childhood bedroom and why I haven't had a single sip of alcohol since."

Jack wraps his arms around you as you sobbed into his chest, it was obvious this was heavily weighing on you. Sure you spoke with a therapist but you hadn't let yourself really vent and cry having put all of your energy towards Cas. You cry until you fall asleep in his arms and he nods off shortly after, movie long forgotten. He's awoken by Caspian an unknown amount of time later, the kid crawling underneath his other arm and shaking him as he calls out his name.

"What's up kid?" Jack asks, blinking off the nap brain he had.

Caspian holds up his empty water bottle, "Water please"

"Sure." Jack nods before he untangles himself from you, making sure you dont wake up before he picks Caspian up, easily settling the child on his hip.

Jack had gotten comfortable with Caspian over the last few months and Jack had never imagined himself bonding with a young child the way he had with Caspian but Jack loved the little set-up he had with you and Caspian. He had never married or had children, his past and preference towards working the night shift usually turning people off but he believed he had something special with you and by extension Caspian.

Jack sits Caspian on the kitchen island before he opens the fridge looking for the water jug when your croaky voice speaks up from the doorway.

"Just use the tap, it's filtered for drinking." You say as you approach Caspian, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Huh... bougie" Jack mutters as he fills the water bottle.

"I know right" You laugh,"I never had any of this stuff when I grew up or lived alone, so I'm indulging in the gadgets my parents splurged on."

"Have you thought about moving?" Jack asks.

"Yeah, sometimes" You answer as you putter around the kitchen making Caspian's snack plate,"It's complicated though. This house is great, it's paid off, it has plenty of space and it's in a good location with Cas' school and my job but this place is filled with the ghosts of my parents and a part of me wants a fresh start especially if I have my own children..."

"Don't read too much into that last part" You quickly say, realising what you had just said.

Jack waits until Caspian is distracted eating in the other room before he says,"... Do you want kids?"

You shrug, "Before all of this yeah but now... I'm not sure. Cas is my top priority now."

"You'll have to prioritise yourself too at some point."

You shrug once again, something that Jack has now come to realise was a way for you to not answer a question, it was a non answer before you diverted the conversation.

"What about you? Do you want kids?" You ask.

Jack keeps eye contact with you as he shrugs, watching the smile on your face as you realise he was mimicking you with sharp eyes, "I didn't think I would be a good father and according to Dana, I'm a bit of a dark and grumpy bastard that turns off most women."

"Not me though"

"Yeah not you"

"Wonder what that says about me"

"I don't" Jack crowds into your space, brushing his lips against yours, "I like you exactly as you are."

"You're such a charmer" You mumble before you tug him into a kiss.

"Alright kid, your sister told me you wanted to show off what you learnt in class today" Jack said as he kneeled down so he rested on one knee, groaning underneath his breath knowing that his body will regret it in the morning.

Caspian perked up, immediately jumping up from the couch to get into position in the middle of the living room rug.

You watched from your place in the kitchen, thankful for the open plan layout so that you can see everything as you cooked. Jack had tried to convince you to order in but you had to remind him that every date you have been on had consisted of dinner dates and you wanted to treat him to a home cooked meal, especially since this was the first time he's actually spent time at your house, having usually just stopping by to pick you up. 

"Ready?!" Caspian asks, ready to show off.

Jack nods, a small smile tugging on his lips. "Yep, c'mon!"

Caspian gives his own nod and he takes a couple of steps before he throws himself into Jack, the impact knocking him backwards onto his back, breath leaving him roughly. 

"Oof!"

"Cas!" You gasp, running over to them, trying your hardest not to laugh but oh man the scene was so funny. "That was not a karate move!"

You lean over Jack, fingers drifting over his head fearing that he may have cracked his head open, "You okay doc? You able to self-diagnose?"

Jack's eyes crinkle as he erupts into laughter, his whole body vibrating as he does so, "Help an old man up?"

Jack reaches an arm up and you swiftly grab it to help him up, missing the devious smirk on his lips as he tugs hard, pulling you on top of him with a muffled huff. There's a beat of silence before you burst into laughter as well, giggling at the absurdity of it all and not wanting to be left out, Caspian jumps on top of you, squashing you in between the both of them.

"This is ridiculous" You giggle, "I'm supposed to be cooking dinner, not doing whatever the hell this is."

"Stay, this is fun!" Caspian speaks, his words coming out mushed as he spoke into your back.

"This is very fun," You agree as you push yourself off of Jack, Caspian's weight not affecting you as you stood, "Unfortunately dinner will be burnt if I don't go back to the kitchen."

This time Jack doesn't drag you down when you grab his hand to pull him to his feet before you turn back to Caspian and tickle his belly, "And I know what monster you turn into when you don't eat so I shouldn't let it get burned should I?"

At Caspian's admitting nod, you return to the kitchen but not before you warn both of them that if they do any more 'karate' moves then neither of them are getting dessert.

It's nearing two am when you finally peel yourself away from Jack's side and the couch where you had been glued to for the past who-knows how many hours finally watching the films that Jack found earlier. Caspian was on the other end of the couch, curled up underneath a blanket after falling asleep midway through the first film and you couldn't be bothered to take him to bed so you left him there.

You let out a soft moan of pleasure as you stretched your tense muscles. Sleep was tugging at you and all you wanted was to crawl into bed.

"What do you want me to do?" Jack's words are murmured as he stands behind you, warm hands resting on your hips.

"Let me lock up and then you can take him upstairs"

Jack nods and gives your hips a squeeze watching as you leave to turn off the lights and lock the doors before you return to him.

Once Caspian is tucked in bed and snoozing away, you close his bedroom door, leaving it open just a smidge for when he wakes up in the morning and you pull Jack to the landing.

You glance up at Jack , "You know you're staying the night right?"

Jack did not know that. 

Jack wasn't going to drive home, he had seen and treated too many people who were the victims of drunk driving but he was planning on taking a taxi home.

"I was going to call a taxi…" Jack admitted.

"Not anymore you're not," You roll your eyes before pausing and looking back at him, "You don't have any problems with sleeping in my parent's bedroom  do you?"

Jack eyes her, trying not to reveal his shock, "Your what?"

You grin, winking at him, "I'm just joking, we have a guest room."

Jack's shoulders untense, "Not funny."

"You can use some of my dads clothes to sleep in, unless you have spare ones in your little go-bag."

"Tactical rucksack" Jack corrects

"Right, right of course" You giggle, "I apologise."

You take him to the guest room, waving him in, "It hasn't been used in a while but it's clean and there's a bathroom next door. I'll be back with clothes and towels for you."

Jack quickly peels off his trousers once you've left, kicking them off as he sits on the bed and takes off his prosthetic, massaging his leg with practised ease, soothing the usual ache that lingered when he wore it all day.

He hadn’t mentioned his leg or what had happened, and it wasn’t entirely deliberate to keep it a secret. However, he was clueless about how to bring it up naturally. He knew you well enough to understand that you wouldn’t pressure him for answers or perceive him differently. Nevertheless, the lingering anxiety in his mind kept his thoughts racing with ‘what ifs’.

Jack was so engrossed in his thoughts that he missed the knock on the door. He only looked up when you let out a surprised yelp. He watched as your eyes trailed down his body, momentarily pausing at his crotch. The image of him in tight boxer briefs was seared into your mind before they continued down his body to his legs. As you realised what you were looking at, you knew you had intruded on a private moment, you quickly slammed your eyes shut, arms thrust in front of you holding the towel and clothes and squeaked out an apology.

Jack grabs the items out of your hand silently and you immediately scurry out of the room, apologising once more before you shut the door behind you.

"Well that takes care of that" Jack laughs incredulously. 

You threw yourself onto your bed with a groan, feeling embarrassed about your impulsive action. You should have knocked until you heard him speak, but instead, you barged right in and then fled like a child.

As you changed into your pajamas, you realised how little you truly knew about Jack. You knew he had served in the military and had friends at the hospital, but you hadn’t actually met any of them. Jack was a complex individual, and you hadn’t even scratched the surface of his layers.

A knock at the door startles you, and you take a deep breath, knowing that it could only be one person.

Jack stood on the other side of the door, hair still damp from his shower, his curls refreshed and smelling of the shampoo whilst he stood in a simple t-shirt and joggers.

"Hey," Jack's eyes flicker over you, searching for a sign of disgust or anything.

"I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to barge in on you," You instantly apologise, "Especially not when…"

Your words trail off, not knowing the right words to say.

"Can I come in?" Jack asks and you immediately nod, shuffling him towards your bed.

"I realised I hadn't told you anything about me, not really. So where do I start?" Jack sighs as he sits up against your headboard, "I'm an old man with a long list of stories."

"You're not old," You say as you easily climb in bed beside him. You couldn't help it, it was like your body craved being next to him, "You talk about whatever you want and I'll just listen."

And so Jack did, he told you about his life story, not all of it but you had definitely peeled back a few layers of the man. You hear about his enlistment and attending medical school and then he briefly talks about the incident that resulted in losing his foot, it still being a topic that he finds hard to discuss. Then he talks about coming to Pittsburgh and meeting Robby and why he likes to work the nightshift.

"Will I ever get to meet Robby or any of your other friends?" You ask once he's finished speaking.

Jack looks down at you with a half frown, half smile, voice teasing "You've already met Robby."

You roll your eyes, "No I didn't. I saw him at Tanner's party, that doesn't count."

"Huh, really…"

"What's stopping me from visiting during the day shift hmm?"

"I'll tell security to ban you, I'll hand your mugshot out as well."

You muffle your laughter into your palm, "I'll tell Frank to let me in, they'll trust him right, since he's a doctor"

"He's still a resident, I outrank him." Jack leans down to press a kiss to your lips. "Nice try though."

"You going to go back to the guest room?" You ask, curling up to Jack's side.

Jack's words are whispered, "Do you want me to?"

"No" You whisper back.

Jack pulls away causing you to groan in disappointment but you take the opportunity to slip underneath the duvet. Your eyes never left his form as he bent off to take his prosthesis off with ease that takes years of experience.

You curl back into Jack's side once he joins you underneath the duvet, melting into his warmth. Jack switches off the bedside light and your limbs twisting around each other as you relax into the bed. You want to thank Jack for opening up but you are quickly lulled into sleep, mind going blank as Jack wrapped his body around yours.

You eventually meet Jack’s hospital colleagues, but not on his terms.

Jack stayed at yours like he usually did on his day off but this time it was slightly different since his truck had been in the shop for a week. On Friday morning after he got off of shift he went home and did his usual routine and then you picked him up after work and took him to yours. He had Saturday off, spent it with you and Caspian, slept over, and then had lunch with you and Caspian on Sunday before you dropped him off for his Sunday evening shift. However, when he left the car, his wallet fell out of his pocket and dropped onto the seat, unnoticed by either of you.

You didn’t realise until the next morning on Monday when you pulled up at work after dropping Caspian at school. Since you wouldn’t see Jack until the end of the week, you decided to drop it off on your lunch break. So, you left him a message saying you’d leave it at the front desk of the hospital’s ED.

The waiting room was loud and crowded when you entered, filling with people bleeding, limping, coughing and sneezing as they waited for to be finally called back to be treated. You tapped your foot as you waited in line, Jack's wallet clenched tightly in your hand.

You flinch when a hand grabs your arm and you look back to see a doctor that looks vaguely familiar.

"Hey, I remember you," The woman says, casting a cursory look up and down your body, "Are you okay?"

You frown as you face the woman, still unable to place where you recognised her. "Yeah I'm fine…I'm sorry I don't know…"

"I'm Dr McKay. Cassie. I was at Tanner's birthday party with my son."

"Ah." You nod, finally remembering, "Yeah sorry I'm fine, I've just got Jack's- sorry, Dr Abbot's wallet. I was just leaving it here so he can pick it up on his next shift."

Dr McKay's expression changes as her brows rise on her head and her eyes widen as she slowly nods her head, "Why don't I take you through and you can just leave it at the charge station."

"Why can't I just leave it with you?" You question but you let her guide you through the doors through to the ED.

"You could but if I let this opportunity fall through I'll never be forgiven." Dr McKay tells you as you walk towards a hub of activity, presumably the charge station.

"Hey Dana, Robby!" Dr McKay calls out catching the attention of a blonde nurse and dark haired doctor. You recognise them from Tanner's birthday as well, which of course makes sense considering Frank's job.

You introduce yourself and Robby instantly recognises you and introduces himself and Dana.

"I'd hate to interrupt your work, I just planned to leave it at reception," You say as you flash the wallet, "I told him I'd leave it there anyway…"

A smirk grew on Dana's face once she caught sight of the familiar wallet and Robby's smile stretched so wide his cheeks bunched up. They were loving this and they couldn't wait until Jack clocked in for the evening shift.

"You are so not interrupting." Robby's words were interrupted by his laughter.

Your own smile dances on your lips when you realise why they were so giddy, "Don't be too mean to him."

"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity here," McKay interjects, "Abbot almost never slips."

You pass the wallet over to Robby who slips it into his pocket so that Jack will have to go up to him personally to get it back. 

"Is a grumpy Jack the best person to work with?" You ask with a laugh.

"It's why he works the night shift," Dana chimes in, "Usually less people than the day shift during the week."

"He was plenty nice to me" You shrug.

"That's because you're a pretty woman." McKay snickers, Dana nodding along.

"Ooh-kay. I have to get back to work but it was nice meeting you all, officially." You wave at them before you turn and leave, bumping into Frank but you only have enough time to simply say 'Hello' before you're disappearing through the doors.

Frank watches you go with a raised eyebrow before he turns back to the group at the charge station, "What's that all about?"

"Did you know she's with Abbot?" Dana asks.

Frank nods, not knowing what the big deal was, "Yeah for at least a couple of months or at least that's what Abby said."

"Huh…" Robby nods, "Interesting."

Jack grumbles as he leaves the frontdesk empty handed, heading towards the charge station hoping that his wallet was there instead, he just hoped the usual suspects were busy with patients. He deliberately arrived an hour earlier in hopes of collecting his wallet without being ambushed.

The charge station was empty and Jack quickly made his way over and began to search through the desk, pushing files and tablets aside as he searched for his wallet. He was midway through pushing a computer to the side when somebody clears their throat behind him, causing him to straighten slowly and turn around.

"Looking for something?" Robby asks, holding up the wallet in question.

Dana was next to him, failing miserably to conceal her smirk, "She's pretty. When were you planning on introducing her to us?"

Jack grumbled once again, stomping over and snatching the wallet from Robby and putting it in his bag.

"I wasn't."

"Not that it matters anyway," Robby laughs, before deciding to torment Jack even further, "We got enough info anyway."

"Langdon!" Jack immediately snaps his head over to the clueless doctor who looked up from his tablet with wide eyes, "What the hell is your problem?"

Langdon frowns in confusion, "What did I do?"

"Talking about shit that doesn't concern you." Jack snaps, "Whatever your wife tells you, you keep it to yourself."

Langdon continues to look at him wide eyed and confused, "What are you talking about?"

Finally Robby cuts in, sparing his resident from anymore abuse from the night shift attending.

"Frank didn't say anything, Jack. Stop bullying the poor man."

Jack turns Robby, "Were you just fucking with me?"

Robby laughs, "Yeah pretty much but she seemed nice."

Jack's tense shoulders relax slightly, "She is nice."

"Pretty too." Dana adds.

"Uh-huh." Jack doesn't try to entertain the conversation even further. They knew enough already.

"You have to let us meet her properly, you know!" Robby called out as Jack walked out of the ED, heading to the lift so he could have some peace on the rooftop before his shift started.

Jack simply threw a middle finger up behind him as he walked through the doors.

Our Little Girl

Summary: 2 months after the Uranium Mission, Jake and Bradley confessed their love for one another because 'the sexual tension is too much'. They dated for 1 year and got engaged on their 2-year anniversary of dating and on their 4 year they married. After their honeymoon they decided they wanted to add to the small little family, they talked about adoption but Jake's identical twin sister, Dakota, said that she would be the surrogate for them with Bradley being the donor. 9 months later you, Y/N Carole Bradshaw-Seresin, were born.

Warnings: fluff, angst, plane crash, car crash, wrist grabbing, bruising, blood, death of a loved one, pregnancy, inaccurate medical talk, swearing

Pairings: Maverick x Iceman, Carole Bradshaw x Nick Bradshaw, Jake Seresin x Bradley Bradshaw, Jake Seresin x Daughter!Reader, Bradley Bradshaw x Daughter!Reader, Bob Floyd x OC!Judy Floyd, Y/N Bradshaw-Seresin x OC!Mason Floyd

Masterlist

A/N: Can be read as stand-alone. Ages range.

This awesome banner is brought to you by: @callsigns-haze ! Thank you so much!

Welcome Our Sweet Girl

Meeting Everyone

Feeding Time Adventures

Welcome to Parenthood

First Family Vacation

Thunderstorms

Traveling Adventures

Mocking Pops

Daddy Don't Go

Pops is Hurt

Nightmares

Deployment Surprise

New House

Prank Wars

Goose and Maverick babysitting? What could go wrong?

Lake House

Grandpa Ice

First Swear Word

Halloween

Daycare Mishaps

Baking with Grandma Carole

Cookout

Family Game Night

First Huge Fight:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

First Boyfriend

First Breakup

In Love with My Bestfriend

Love's Awakening

"Wait. What?!"

Lake Trip and Secrets Revealed

Love's Unexpected Gift

The Gift of Love's Arrival

Career Path? Navy

Pilot or WSO?

Home for Christmas? Doubt It

Our Little Girl's Wedding

Aircraft Mishap

Alternate Universes

Welcome Our Sweet Girl

Silence (1)

Spencer Reid x SelectiveMute!Morgan!Reader

warnings; panic attack, parental death, bullying, murder, arson, general cm violence described

A/N; This is the start of a hopefully 5 ish part series possibly more, any reblogs comments and likes are very much appreciated <33

( Kinda proofread but I'm exhausted when posting so corrections are welcome)

SR Masterlist

Masterlist

Next

You - I’m coming up the elevator, your floor 6 right?  

Der Bear - Yeah, I’ll be right outside them don’t worry.  

You - KK Thnx :) 

You close your phone and put it back in your pocket, bouncing on your heels as you wait for the unreasonably slow elevator to take you up six floors. You're both excited and nervous, it's your first day at the BAU, something you never thought you would be able to do with your anxiety disorder. You were adopted at the age of seven but you had known the Morgans as a whole before that, your mother was friends with Derek's mother so you spent a lot of time there as a child. 

You were five when your parents died, you were being babysat by Derek while they were going on a date, you were to stay the night at the Morgans, go to kindergarten the next day and they would pick you up, but that night the house burnt down and they didn’t get out in time. The Morgans had adopted you as soon as they could, you had no other living family so they took you in, you were practically family to them already so it made sense to everyone. 

As you grew up it was realised you were a lot smarter than the average child, you were able to test into a private school who gave you a scholarship through elementary and middle school, it gave you a good setup to go through to their partnered high school. You had an agreement that if you consisted with your performance that you would go through to the high school with a full ride scholarship then most likely go to some form of an ivy league but one day in middle school you were learning about arsonists who intend to kill in criminology, not a normal subject but it was offered so you took it, and you were taught about your house fire. The house fire you thought was due to faulty sockets, Derek and Fran had told you that at the time. 

You were frozen, listening to the teacher talk about how your parents were a part of a string of murders where the houses were then burnt down to cover them up, they were not explicit on the details, you were all still in eighth grade, but it was enough to shake you. You got lucky in the fact it was the last period of the day so you could get out of there immediately after, you practically fell over your own feet trying to get out of the room, only half sure you remembered everything. 

As soon as you had gotten off the grounds you ran home, you knew Derek was the only one there as your mom was working and your sisters had moved out. You were thanking the gods he was home for the weekend. He had moved out some time ago but stopped by when he could now that it was just you and your mom. Despite your thirteen year age gap you were closer with Derek than you were your sisters, you had always spent the most time with him while he lived in the house and you both kept in regular communication once he moved out, unlike with your sisters. They were never mean to you, you just never formed as close of a bond. 

Once you do reach home you fall through the door, tears threatening to fall, both in anger and in bitter sadness. You were angry you were lied to and devastated that your parents were not just murdered but apparently tortured in their own home. You bolt straight to the living room knowing that's where Derek would probably be. 

“Hey hey hey, what's wrong sweets?” Derek asks as you appear around the doorway, chest heaving and tears now flooding your cheeks as sobs wrack through your body. “THEY WERE MURDERED DEREK, MY PARENTS, NOT JUST MURDERED, TORTURED THEN BURNT ALIVE AS THEY BLED OUT!” you yell at him, for the first time in your life you yell at him in anger, you had been angry at him before, typical sibling fights growing up but you had never shouted, it just wasn't in your nature. He looked confused, then guilty quickly followed by sympathy and sadness. “How, how did you find out?” he asked, he looked like he wanted to approach you but you glared at him in a way he hadn't seen before, you looked both scared and furious, he knew he didn't have much time to explain before you decide to not talk to him until you could trust him again. “Can you sit. I'll make hot cocoa and explain everything, promise.” He sees you relax slightly but you go the opposite way around the couch purposely to avoid him. 

To Derek's credit he did explain most of the details, he left some out and told you he did so, he knew you understood more than practically anyone your age, you were doing highschool courses in middle school but that didn't mean he wanted you to know the full details of how your parents were murdered, no matter how old or smart you were. You were a mess by the end of it, you were so angry but it wasn't directed at Derek or Fran anymore, just the man the BAU caught and had put away for life. 

That day had instilled a determination and an anxiety in your mind. You were determined to join the BAU one day, human behaviour was already a fascination of yours so it seemed like the right choice, it had been on your radar anyway, but you also began struggling mentally. You started struggling to speak in places that weren't home, it didn't matter who it was trying to talk to you, you just couldn't get the words out.

Where the school was filled with genius children a high percent of your grade was based on participation meaning when you stopped speaking, your grades started dropping, rapidly. You knew what was coming before it officially came. 

You got the letter. 

You have been rejected from Sweetwood High School for the upcoming academic year and have been denied scholarship from The Towers foundation. Due to policy you will not be able to reapply. We thank you for your application. 

And you cried. A lot. But no matter how much you tried you still couldn't get yourself to talk when you weren't at home. The school wasn't all that supportive, the counsellor just told you to talk and teachers just got frustrated with you, often yelling at you. Kids began bullying you for your lack of speaking. It just became a hellish place on earth. Then Derek moved to Virginia just after you graduated middle school. 

You managed to keep the not talking and the slipped grades to yourself, you even managed to keep the rejection from sweetwood from your mother. You had gotten acceptance from the local high school just down the road from your house given your middle schools C equalled out to their A* they were happy to have you.

You managed to keep up your act until you had Derek on your bed one evening, holding your report card, the letter of concern and rejection letter. You were expecting a lecture, maybe he would yell at you like you had those months ago. “I'm sorry, I don't know why this is happening.”  is all you said, sagging in defeat. “Come with me over to Virginia, kid. I've been getting phone calls practically off the hook and I didn't want to confront you but I think you need a change of place. I spoke to Mom already and as long as you still visit when I do she's okay with it.” So that's really why you hadn't been caught out, noted. “What's going on kid?” 

And now you were here, walking into your job at the FBI, with two doctorates with an in progress third, two master's degrees and three fast tracked bachelors degrees to boot, you had skipped high school physically but you had done high school courses in middle school and late elementary so you had the credits. You focused your first two Bachelors on having fun as they took you a year a piece so you had them at fifteen, One in psychology and the other in Mechanical engineering. Then you got serious and gained your bachelors in criminology, masters degrees in psychology and linguistics then completed your PHDs in Linguistics and Psychology and you were now around six months away from finishing your third PHD in Mathematics. You had plans to gain another degree, be it a masters or another PHD. But you were going to take a break to get settled into the BAU once you had finished your current work. 

“Hey sweetheart, you ready?” Derek asks, giving you his million watt smile as the lift doors open and you step out into the lobby. You nod signing to him. “Yeah but talkings just is not going to happen. Can you translate? The last thing I want is an actual translator on my first day.” Derek had learnt sign language to make life easier for you, and him really, no more writing down everything. “Sure thing sweetheart, Hotch has text to speech software set up on a designated laptop for you as well for when I'm not there as you’re go between or for meetings.” and you visibly relax at that. This place already seemed more welcoming to your lack of talking than anywhere else and you had barely started. “Cmon, let's go to Hotch's office, you have paperwork and introductions to do.'' He led you through the bullpen up to Hotch's office and poked his head in to tell him you were here where you were then told to come in. 

“y/n, good to see you again” He greets, reaching across the table to shake your hand. You nod giving him a smile in greeting. “We do have a case so the team is in the round table room down the hall now but I have to make a phone call so you have about ten minutes to make introductions. You can do the substantial paperwork when we get back just sign this form so I can give you your standard issue and Agent ID.” He explains, you appreciate him running through everything and sign the form on his desk, taking the gun and badge he hands you. You give him another nod and smile as you go to leave the room. “Oh and y/n? The team knows your selective mute, so they won't ask questions, I hope that was okay.” You nod, you're fine with people knowing your selective mute. You just hoped that once you were comfortable around the team you were going to be able to talk to them, atleast at the office.

You head down the corridor to the meeting room where the team were gathered, You had their names and faces committed to memory from pictures of the team Derek had around the house. You could have moved out years ago but Derek preferred you stayed with him, he had a great security system in a much better area than you could afford and it was closer to the Bureau and the university where you did research and professor work and it was a comfort to him knowing he could protect you easier where you lived with him. He also had you trained in guns and self defence so you could look after yourself and for his own piece of mind when you were alone at home or out and about once he started at the BAU.

Your anxiety ramps back up as you step into the room, all eyes turning too you as you walk through the doorway. You look towards Derek pleading with him to start introductions before it gets awkward. “This everyone is my baby sister y/n, she's a new agent with us.” He introduces you as you hover slightly towards him. Recognition spreads across the agent's faces, “Your Derek's sister? Oh my god you're so pretty!” A woman you recognise as Penelope squeals, rushing over to hug you. You hugged her back, Derek had warned you she was one for physical affection before you came. “It's so nice to meet you but I have to ask, what are we calling you given your both agent Morgans?” she asked as she pulled away. You smiled and began signing, not entirely sure Derek would be able to see your hands but he knew the answer so it didn't matter anyway. “I have two doctorates so Doctor Morgan or Doc works in the field, other than that you can use my first name.” Derek manages to translate for you despite the awkward angle. With the team nodding. You turn to face them where Emily, JJ Spencer and Rossi all introduce themselves, Spencer asking you in sign if you could talk about your PHDs later to which you nod excitedly, partly at being able to speak to another person about your PHD and having a second person on the team speak sign. It was then that Hotch came in to begin the briefing. 

“You ready? You can always start the next case you know right? No one expects you to hit the ground running, you know.” Derek checks in with you as you head out of the room. “Yeah I know but I'm here to solve cases not sit around Derek, I'll be fine, I have a bag in my car.” He gives you a nod as he diverts to his desk leaving you to carry on down to the parking lot before heading to the tarmac.

Once you get settled onto the jet Spencer joins you, opting to sit in front to make it easier for him to read your hands, you guessed he knew ASL but hadn't had much practise using it with other people. When Derek joined you on the jet he just nodded at you and sat in a chair not far away, knowing you were happy where you were, talking about the things you loved with someone who actually understood them for once in a way that wasn't awkward for either of you. A perfect match in his eyes.

Taglist; @reidstheyfriend

SHELBY SISTER/FAMILY FIC RECOMMENDATIONS!

these stories don’t have a pairing, they are just platonically with the Shelby sister fics. so don’t forget to give them likes and comments of all your praise because the author DESERVES it!

Nelly Shelby ➵ @lovelyalways

who’s watching ➵ @zodiyack

anna’s secret ➵ @moral-turpitudes

bragging rights ➵ @nineteenninety-six

summary ➵ Shelby sister would learn to say John's name first because is the easiest to pronounce and he would brag about it until his last day.

smoke ➵ @theshelbyclan

summary ➵ The youngest Shelby sister is grieving the loss of her brother John and she’s spiralling out of control in the process, but can’t talk about any of it (a lot of angst and drama)

mine ➵ @theshelbyclan

summary ➵ When she took a job at the night club, all the second Shelby sister wanted was to be in control of her own life. Unfortunately, her brothers don’t approve.

cursed ➵ @theshelbyclan

summary ➵ After Grace’s death, Tommy is still mourning his wife. And when he sees his baby sister wearing her old things, before he can stop himself, he snaps.

the black hand ➵ @theshelbyclan

summary ➵ After I lost my twin brother, John, a part of me died as well and I could never go back to how we Shelby’s were before

royalty ➵ @randomoutsiders

summary ➵ one where the boys are sick of treating you like you’re royalty.

no one left ➵ @toms-cherry-trees

summary ➵ Even when the world is black and the ground threatens to crack underneath his feet, Tommy always has someone to count with, has he?

funeral ➵ @zablife

summary ➵ After Tommy returns home from the war, he finds his youngest sister changed, the stress of the war years wearing on her. When he recognizes the symptoms of her loneliness and depression he tries to assure her everything will be alright.

the one you never knew ➵ @toms-cherry-trees

summary ➵ Thomas Shelby never looked to those beneath him. Not even his youngest sister, the one he never got round to. And time has come for payback

innocence taken ii ➵ @unknowntoyou2205

summary ➵ Thomas Shelby has been the sole carer for his baby sister since he returned from the war, meaning that he has always been overly protective of her. At age 16, she tries to be more independent without the help of her brothers but when she gets attacked one night, she ends up pregnant and when her brother finds out, he doesn't realize that it wasn't by choice, and regrets it when Polly tells him the bad news.

when was the last time you ate? ➵ @ukrainianmotherfucker

summary ➵ She just wanted to be noteced. And Thomas did.

portrait ➵ @geekwritersworld

summary ➵ The most dangerous family in Birmingham seems to be unfazed by everything thrown at them, except the loss of their youngest Shelby.

little artist ➵ @geekwritersworld

summary ➵ Hello, I could ask one in which the younger sister of the Shelbys, maybe she is 14/15 years old wants to be an artist and she has a lot of talent but the family does not know but the art teacher one day calls the Shelbys at school to talk about her sister and they discover her talent and that she received a letter from a private school in London to study on full scholarship. Thank you for your time