HELLO??? Stop Hes Too Funny

~ Mafia!Stucky Mastlist⍟✪ 📚~

Hello lovely, I hope you’re having a great day. I thought it was about time I made a list dedicated to my favourite boys, so welcome to my Mafia!Stucky masterlit!I love to write in my spare time, and the fiction I create is for 18+ readers ONLY. Also, everything is character x fem!reader, and please, read the tags carefully before continuing.

Masterlists ♥ A03 ♥ Tags  ♥ Question? ♥ latest works ♥

you're mine (smut, angst, dark)

Steve loves showing off what’s his, you. What does eh do when he sees someone staring at what is his?

i need more (fluff, smut)

You’d been off all day and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Steve. He’d do anything to make you feel better so when you started begging him to help you have some release, he didn’t hold back.

ruined orgasm - kinktober (smut)

He had given you one rule: do not interrupt the meeting. So, of course you had to walk straight into the meeting that had all of America’s most noterious gangsters

steve's birthday wish (P.1) (fluff, smut, angst)

It was approaching Steve’s birthday and you had no idea what to get him. Bucky suggests just asking the Mafia boss what he would like, but would you regret your decision when you hear what Steve truly wants.

When Two Become Three (P.2) (fluff, smut)

It has been a few weeks since Steve sat back and watched your be pleasured by his best friend Bucky, and you couldn’t stop thinking about it. Especially, the part where Steve confessed his fantasy to have a threesome, but would you ever agree to it?

one more meeting (fluff, smut, angst, dark)

For all of the years that you had known Steve and Bucky, you had never seen them lose control of their anger. All of the murder and violence always being calculated, calm, and dangerous. But today, that all changed and for the first time in years, you were truly scared of the boys you loved.

repeat after me(fluff, smut, angst)

It wasn’t often that you had to attend a party with your boyfriends but today, you found yourself at one, filling you with anxiety and dread. How will the boys react when they find you close to a panic attack and starting to doubt their love for you?

how many?(fluff, smut)

Steve had finally found time to take you and Bucky on holiday. What he doesn’t tell you however is that today, he wanted to see just how many times he and Bucky could get you to orgasm.

i can’t lose you (fluff, smut, angst, dark)

Being the girlfriend of the Mafia leader and his second in command had its dangers but for years, you'd never had to experience this. Until now. How will the boys react when you're put in danger?

no touching (fluff, smut, angst)

You blatantly ignored their instructions and now you had to suffer the repercussions for your actions.

i don’t care (fluff, smut)  

'The reader having a menstrual cycle, this one just a little worse than others, and Steve and Bucky worrying and helping her through it.'

the one weakness (fluff, smut, angst) 

It wasn't often you were by yourself so when you quickly go to the coffee shop, what happens when the enemy is watching and waiting nearby.

overwhelming (fluff)

It had been your birthday a few days ago and both Steve and Bucky had made it their mission to give you the most lavish party followed by intense, long nighttime activities. However as you lay in bed on Monday morning, something just didn't feel quite right.

the fun game  (fluff, smut)

Steve and Bucky had forgotten about your date, leaving you waiting for two hours in the restaurant. How will they react when you decide to play your own little game as payback and, how far can you go before they finally snap?

harder, please  (fluff, smut, angst)

Your mind was clouded with lust and pleasure, as you begged repeatedly for more from Bucky but, what happens when you get hurt in the process?

protect and forget  (fluff, smut, angst) 

Life as the girlfriend of the Mafia boss and his second-in-command was not always smooth sailing, everything did not always go to plan. Two weeks before your birthday, a threat was made to your life. What happens when Steve and Bucky begin to push you away as they search for the threat?

All Eyes On You  (smut)  

“Do you know what we would have done if we had turned up to that restaurant and seen you all dolled up like that? We would have bent you over the table in front of everyone and shown them exactly who you belonged to". - Steve Rogers

you belong to me  (fluff, smut, angst)

These girls knew you were dating Steve and Bucky, so why is it that they thought it was ok to have their hands all over them?

dont fall asleep  (fluff, smut, angst)

It was supposed to be a normal day, but not in fate's eyes as you and Sam are hit by a drunk driver. How will Steve and Bucky react when they hear their girls been hurt?

rule number one.  (fluff, smut, angst)

It was Bucky's birthday but even a surprise party won't stop Steve and Bucky from punishing you for not looking after yourself.

Last Hope (CH. 1) (CH. 2)  (fluff, smut, angst, dark)

Before dating Steve and Bucky, your life felt like a steel cage that you couldn't escape from because of your family business. There was no happiness or hope but, what happens when the infamously heartless mafia leader, Steve Rogers, finds you alone?

our little bean  (fluff, angst)    

You stared unblinking at the Doctor who had just told you the news you couldn't quite comprehend. You were on birth control, so why is the test in his hands saying that you're pregnant?  Accidents happened but is this a happy one? (Yes it is).

the limit  (fluff, smut, angst)

Everyone has a limit, this includes Steve and Bucky. What happens in different situations where each of you felt compelled to use your safewords?

sick day (fluff)

Bucky had warned you that dancing in that rain without a coat would lead you to be ill, maybe you should have listened more to his warning.

accident’s happen (fluff, smut, angst) 

You were visiting a friend when you were accidentally hit in the face, leaving behind a cut across your cheekbone. How will Steve and Bucky react when they see their girl injured?

everyone is breakable  (fluff, smut, angst)

Steve and Bucky were invincible in your eyes. They'd never been injured or in a situation where you thought they weren't the ones in control. That is until one day Bucky doesn't return from meeting with a client.

winter soup  (fluff, smut, angst)

There was no better feeling than a bowl of hot soup when you're feeling unwell and, what's even better is when it's delivered to your door every day by your new guard. It tasted amazing and you could always trust everyone in the Mafia... right?

something new   (smut)

The mafia leader was known to be possessive and enjoy showing off his girl but what happens when he wants to do this by being intimate in front of his gang?

pegging - kinktober  (smut)

Steve had once instructed bucky how to pleasure you but what happens when you’re the one being given the instructions?

cockwarming - kinktober (smut)

You’re feeling needy and restless so Steve offers you something to suck on, much to Bucky’s amusement.

double penetration in one hole - kinktober  (smut)

You were adament to prove Steve wrong and do something you’ve never done before.

fear play - kinktober (smut, dark)

You woke up to darkness, your phone was missing and, all you could was silence echoing around the house but, you knew you weren’t alone.

role reversal - kinktober  (smut)

For once, you were the one shouting at the enemy, demanding that they leave your office. Steve and Bucky were in awe so you tried to keep up this confidence and burn off some energy with them.

Duke, Duchess and Knights  (fluff, angst)

You get so lost in the fantasy dream that when it turns into a nightmare, you're not sure what reality is when you wake up screaming.

Merry Christmas (fluff, smut)

It was a simple question: Have you been naughty or nice this year?

Safety Measures (Angst, Smut, Fluff)

It was the anniversary of Steve and Bucky saving you from your sadistic brother. Usually, it was a time of celebration for you, but this year, you couldn't help but feel paranoid and unsafe.

edge of glory (Angst, Smut, Fluff)

Defiance is something you are not accustomed to, but when the love of your life is in danger, there is no stopping you. Now, the repercussions of your actions have you contemplating the decisions that you've made.

Drabbles

The first to give their jacket when reader is cold

Mad & Sad moments

Saying the wrong thing

TikTok trend: no kissing

Who is more protective?

safe space in your new home

Halloween Costumes

Call Sign: Half Caff : Part One

(Alright I’m new to writing please don’t judge me. I HAD to start writing because of The Pitt. Mild spoilers if you haven’t finished the show)

TW: reader is attacked at the end. I had to make it dramatic sorry.

She’s putting almost all of her focus into refilling her coffee mug, she hardly notices him entering the small cafe. It isn’t until he plops his travel mug onto the counter before her that she looks up from staring at the precious coffee falling into her mug. She raises an eyebrow at him as she sets her mug down and holds her hand out for his.

“Evening Half Caff.” He smirks, using his call sign for her. Her short stature and reliance on caffeine had only caused him to double down on the nickname. When she had first protested it.

She only grunts as she fills his mug from the coffee pot sitting on the edge of the counter. She hands it off to him as she grabs a tray of various baked goods sitting on top of the espresso machine and he follows her as she moves to set them up at the folding table that’s dragged out for these meetings.

Every Thursday night the local coffee shop closes its doors to customers and opens it for the local Veteran’s Affair office. One a week, veterans of all ages and branches gather. Part of the night is devoted to mingling, friends old and new talking about their week. The second part of the night has a darker hue. Chairs are dragged to the middle of the shop and set up in a circle. It reminds y/n of an alcoholics anonymous meeting: everyone sharing the tragedies they’ve witnessed, the fellow comrades they’ve lost both overseas and at home, and the struggle of integrating back into civilian life after having been in some of the toughest conditions the world has to offer.

It’s how her and Jack met. Not that she’d ever seen combat or boot camp. Not in terms of military service at least. After struggling with her mental health, her therapist had recommended volunteer work, something routine and low stakes that wasn’t another job. She’d offered to donate her time to her local coffee shop, setting up and taking down for group activities twice a week. A book club on Tuesdays, and the veteran meetings on Thursdays. She’d often help set up and take down for special events the café held; like when the middle school’s theater club had asked to borrow the space for brainstorming set design.

Jack’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at her, noting her usual cheery appearance gone and replaced with sharp sarcasm and deflection.

“Not enough caffeine?” He asks her, noting her usual grace being replaced with something that resembles stomping.

“You’ve got another one tonight. Blue sweatshirt on your six.” She nods over to where a newcomer has caught one of the older vets in conversation.

“Oh no. That’ll be the third one this month.” Jack groans as he notices the cocky behavior of the kid who must only be twenty. His army buzz haircut still fresh. He leans against the wall next to the table. Trying to hide his smirk behind his cup as she continues to grumble while setting out more muffins and scones next to the containers of coffee.

They referred to these kind of people as “OMBs” or ‘one-month babies’. These individuals got the wrong idea of war from obsessing over army video games as young kids and teenagers. Often coming from heavy right leaning families, these individuals joined the numerous branches of armed service not to serve their country, but to fuel their ego. These meetings had been hosts to numerous individuals who were more upset that they hadn’t had the chance to shoot someone, than they were over the small stipend they received once back on US soil.

“How bad?” Jack said, turning to her as she braces her hands on the table. She winces and sighs.

“Three weeks on a German base as custodial. I think boot camp has been the hardest thing he’s been through.” She turns and crosses her arms, glaring at the back of the kid.

“So, nothing compared to the rest of these guys.” He smiles and raises his coffee mug as a familiar army buddy of his passes to grab a seat.

“Oh, my fucking god.” She hisses though gritted teeth. Jack winces as he watches the kid toss a muffin wrapper on the floor as he continues talking, the two vets he’s dragged into conversation raise their eyebrows and share a look.

“Damn, if I didn’t work, I’d take you to dinner tonight to make up for his bullshit.” She laughs at his joke. They’ve made this joke for months; often joking about getting dinner after the meetings despite Jack working the nightshift at the hospital just down the road. Y/n gives him a once over, secretly enjoying the way Jack’s black scrubs look, his white badge a stark contrast to the rest of his outfit.

“Hit him with the one two guilt trip.” She all but sneers, causing Jack to laugh into his mug. He holds it out and she refills it.

“That bad huh?” He turns to her with a smile, she smirks up at him.

“He called me ‘coffee girl’. If you don’t take it off, I’m ripping it off and throwing it at him after a fat knuckle sandwich.”

“Alright easy Half Caff, go read your book behind the register and I’ll see what I can do.” He bumps her with his shoulder as he shoots her a smile and makes his way to gather with everyone else in the middle of the dining area.

The meeting starts as they usually do. Jeremy, a navy veteran who did two tours, opens the conversation with his usual story. How he lost three of his friends overseas to violence, and one here in the states as they succumbed to their PTSD and trauma.

Jack shoots a look over to y/n behind the register as the new kid, Ben, immediately starts a rant about how more violence is needed. Jack starts to see red as Ben goes on about using violence to thwart foreign governments and the need for additional troops to bring down resistance to US soldiers. 

Jack leans forward in his chair, rubbing at his calf. He interrupts Ben, “What’s the worst thing you saw while over there in Germany?” He doesn’t look up to see Ben’s reaction as he rolls his pant leg up slowly.

When he’s met with silence he looks up and finds the new kid staring at his leg as Jack slowly removes his prosthetic. He massages the spot where his mid-calf and the prosthetic rub, an irritant he knows will never go away. The new kid only opens and closes his mouth like a fish.

“That bad huh?” Jeremy says, covering a small laugh with a cough as he catches on to what Jack is doing. Ben clears his throat and looks away as Jack replaces the prosthetic, offering the kid a small smile. Another vet launches into a story on his struggles reintegrating into civilian life, having only been back from Iraq for two weeks. 

Jack glances back to the register where y/n offers a small smirk and mouths ‘thank you’ to him, he nods. He’s thankful for her, not many civilians understand the struggles of coming back, of facing the music. She’s dealt with OMBs almost as much as he has, something he struggles to accept. He often brings these individuals up to his therapist. How can someone who got so lucky in their overseas assignment get so angry they didn’t see the true horrors of war?

The meeting wraps up and he stands to stretch his back. He makes his way back to y/n for one last top off on his coffee mug. She fills his mug over the register and smiles.

“Be safe Lance Corporal.” She says with a smirk, he smiles. She often throws out whatever army rank she can remember when referring to him. Something he’s sure is payback for her Half Caff nickname. Something he considers her callsign.

“Always am Half Caff. See you next Thursday.” He secures the lid on his travel mug and raises it in thanks. He leaves the café and turns right, making his way towards the hospital to relieve the day shift workers.

She chuckles and shakes her head as he leaves. She begins to busy herself with clean up, gladly accepting help from Jeremy as she and the café owner, GiGi, start to put everything back into its rightful place.

Sometime later, the café is back to normal, chairs and tables back to their places, dishes washed, and coffee mugs stacked neatly and ready for the following morning rush.

“Can you grab the trash? I’ll take out the recycling in a bit before I lock up.” GiGi says, sweeping her hair out of her face as she jots down notes for the morning crew.

“On it!” Y/n calls as she grabs one of the bags and swings the other over her shoulder, backing into the back room to toss the garbage out into the dumpsters of the back alley. 

She’s too busy making a to-do list in her head to see it coming. She tosses one bag into the open dumpster from the top of the small staircase and is about to throw the other when she’s grabbed from behind and wrenched into the guardrails.

She groans as she’s thrown down the rest of the stairs, a well-aimed punch lands on her jaw, and she sees white as the pain burns through her body. She’s so out of it she barely feels the two kicks bash her ribs in, her breath becoming ragged.

She gasps on the ground, gravel digging into her side and cutting her face. Her vision swims as she sees the quickly receding footsteps as whoever attacked her runs off. She wheezes, her mouth gaping as she tries to call for help.

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Idk, y'all want part two?

Shut Up and Drive Taglist!

Drop a comment or reblog this post if you want to be tagged in future chapters of Shut Up and Drive!

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ Built for Battle, Never for Me ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

“And I will fuck you like nothing matters.”

summary : You loved Jack through four deployments and every version of the man he became, even when he stopped choosing you. Years later, fate shoves you back into his trauma bay, unconscious and bleeding, and everything you buried resurfaces.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! long-form emotional trauma, war and military themes, medical trauma, car accident (graphic details), infidelity (emotional & physical), explicit smut with intense emotional undertones, near-death experiences, emotionally unhealthy relationships, and grief over a still-living person

word count : 13,078 ( read on ao3 here if it's too large )

a/n : ok this is long! but bare with me! I got inspired by Nothing Matters by The Last Dinner Party and I couldn't stop writing. College finals are coming up soon so I thought I'd put this out there now before I am in the trenches but that doesn't mean you guys can't keep sending stuff to my inbox!

You were nineteen the first time Jack Abbot kissed you.

Outside a run-down bar just off base in the thick of Georgia summer—air humid enough to drink, heat clinging to your skin like regret. He had a fresh cut on his knuckle and a dog-eared med school textbook shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, like that wasn’t the most Jack thing in the world—equal parts violence and intellect, always straddling the line between bare-knuckle instinct and something nobler. Half fists, half fire, always on the verge of vanishing into a cause bigger than himself.

You were his long before the letters trailed behind his name. Before he learned to stitch flesh beneath floodlights and call it purpose. Before the trauma became clockwork, and the quiet between you started speaking louder than words ever could. You loved him through every incarnation—every rough draft of the man he was trying to become. Army medic. Burned-out med student. Warzone doctor with blood on his boots and textbooks in his duffel. The kind of man who took people apart just to understand how to hold them together.

He used to say he’d get out once it was over. Once the years were served, the boxes checked, the blood debt paid in full. He promised he’d come back—not just in body, but in whatever version of wholeness he still had left. Said he’d pick a city with good light, buy real furniture instead of folding chairs and duffel bags, learn how to sleep through the night like people who hadn’t taught themselves to live on adrenaline and loss.

You waited. Through four deployments. Through static-filled phone calls and letters that always said soon. Through nights spent tracing his name like it was a map back to yourself. You clung to that promise like it was gospel. And now—he was standing in your bedroom, rolling his shirts with the same clipped, clinical precision he used to pack a field kit. Each fold a quiet betrayal. Each movement a confirmation: he was leaving again. Not called. Choosing.

“I’m not being deployed,” he said, eyes fixed on the duffel bag instead of you. “I’m volunteering.”

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, nails digging into the fabric of your sleeves. “You’ve fulfilled your contract, Jack. You’re not obligated anymore. You’re a doctor now. You could stay. You could leave.”

“I know,” he said, quiet. Measured. Like he’d practiced saying it in his head a hundred times already.

“You were offered a civilian residency,” you pressed, your voice rising despite the lump building in your throat. “At one of the top trauma programs in D.C. You told me they fast-tracked you. That they wanted you.”

“I know.”

“And you turned it down.”

He exhaled through his nose. A long, deliberate breath. Then reached for another undershirt, folded it so neatly it looked like a ritual. “They need trauma-trained docs downrange. There’s a shortage.”

You laughed—a bitter, breathless sound. “There’s always a shortage. That’s not new.”

He paused. Briefly. His hand flattened over the shirt like he was smoothing something that wouldn’t stay still. “You don’t get it.”

“I do get it,” you snapped. “That’s the problem.”

He finally looked up at you then. Just for a second.

Eyes tired. Distant. Fractured in a way that made you want to punch him and hold him at the same time.

“You think this makes you necessary,” you whispered. “You think chaos gives you purpose. But it’s just the only place you feel alive.”

He turned toward you slowly, shirt still in hand. His hair was longer than regulation—he hadn’t shaved in days. His face looked older, worn down in that way no one else seemed to notice but you did. You knew every line. Every scar. Every inch of the man who swore he’d come back and choose something softer.

You.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered. “Tell me this isn’t just about being needed again. About being irreplaceable. About chasing adrenaline because you’re scared of standing still.”

Jack didn’t say anything else.

Not when your voice broke asking him to stay—not loud, not theatrical, not in the kind of way that could be dismissed as a moment of weakness or written off as heat-of-the-moment desperation. You’d asked him softly. Carefully. Like you were trying not to startle something fragile. Like if you stayed calm, maybe he’d finally hear you.

And not when you walked away from him, the space between you stretching like a fault line you both knew neither of you would cross again.

You’d seen him fight for the life of a stranger—bare hands pressed to a wound, blood soaking through his sleeves, voice low and steady through chaos. But he didn’t fight for this. For you.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

He packed in silence. You did laundry. Folded his socks like it mattered. You couldn’t decide if it felt more like mourning or muscle memory.

You didn’t touch him.

Not until night fell, and the house got too quiet, and the space beside you on the couch started to feel like a ghost of something you couldn’t bear to name.

The windows were open, and you could hear the city breathing outside—car tires on wet pavement, wind slinking through the alley, the distant hum of a life you could’ve had. One that didn’t smell like starch and gun oil and choices you never got to make.

Jack was in the kitchen, barefoot, methodically washing a single plate. You sat on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, half-wrapped in the blanket you kept by the radiator. There was a movie playing on the TV. Something you'd both seen a dozen times. He hadn’t looked at it once.

“Do you want tea?” he asked, not turning around.

You stared at his back. The curve of his spine under that navy blue t-shirt. The tension in his neck that never fully left.

“No.”

He nodded, like he expected that.

You wanted to scream. Or throw the mug he used every morning. Or just… shake him until he remembered that this—you—was what he was supposed to be fighting for now.

Instead, you stood up.

Walked into the kitchen.

Pressed your palms flat against the cool tile counter and watched him dry his hands like it was just another Tuesday. Like he hadn’t made a choice that ripped something fundamental out of you both.

“I don’t think I know how to do this anymore,” you said.

Jack turned, towel still in hand. “What?”

“This,” you gestured between you, “Us. I don’t know how to keep pretending we’re okay.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then leaned against the sink like the weight of that sentence physically knocked him off balance.

“I didn’t expect you to understand,” he said.

You laughed. It came out sharp. Ugly. “That’s the part that kills me, Jack. I do understand. I know exactly why you're going. I know what it does to you to sit still. I know you think you’re only good when you’re bleeding out in a tent with your hands in someone’s chest.”

He flinched.

“But I also know you didn’t even try to stay.”

“I did,” he snapped. “Every time I came back to you, I tried.”

“That’s not the same as choosing me.”

The silence that followed felt like the real goodbye.

You walked past him to the bedroom without a word. The hallway felt longer than usual, quieter too—like the walls were holding their breath. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

The bed still smelled like him. Like cedarwood aftershave and something darker—familiar, aching. You crawled beneath the sheets, dragging the comforter up to your chin like armor. Turned your face to the wall. Every muscle in your back coiled tight, waiting for a sound that didn’t come.

And for a long time, he didn’t follow.

But eventually, the floor creaked—soft, uncertain. A pause. Then the familiar sound of the door clicking shut, slow and final, like the closing of a chapter neither of you had the courage to write an ending for. The mattress shifted beneath his weight—slow, deliberate, like every inch he gave to gravity was a decision he hadn’t fully made until now. He settled behind you, quiet as breath. And for a moment, there was only stillness.

No touch. No words. Just the heat of him at your back, close enough to feel the ghost of something you’d almost forgotten.

Then, gently—like he thought you might flinch—his arm slid across your waist. His hand spread wide over your stomach, fingers splayed like he was trying to memorize the shape of your body through fabric and time and everything he’d left behind.

Like maybe, if he held you carefully enough, he could keep you from slipping through the cracks he’d carved into both of your lives. Like this was the only way he still knew how to say please don’t go.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he breathed into the nape of your neck, voice rough, frayed at the edges.

Your eyes burned. You swallowed the lump in your throat. His lips touched your skin—just below your ear, then lower. A kiss. Another. His mouth moved with unbearable softness, like he thought he might break you. Or maybe himself.

And when he kissed you like it was the last time, it wasn’t frantic or rushed. It was slow. The kind of kiss that undoes a person from the inside out.

His hand slid under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your ribs as if relearning your shape. You rolled to face him, breath catching when your noses bumped. And then he was kissing you again—deeper this time. Tongue coaxing, lips parted, breath shared. You gasped when he pressed his thigh between yours. He was already hard. And when he rocked into you, It wasn’t frantic—it was sacred. Like a ritual. Like a farewell carved into skin.

The lights stayed off, but not out of shame. It was self-preservation. Because if you saw his face, if you saw what was written in his eyes—whatever soft, shattering thing was there—it might ruin you. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something fragile—careful, slow, like he was afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. Each layer pulled away with quiet tension, each breath held between fingers and fabric.

His mouth followed close behind, brushing down your chest with aching precision. He kissed every scar like it told a story only he remembered. Mouthed at your skin like it tasted of something he hadn’t let himself crave in years. Like he was starving for the version of you that only existed when you were underneath him. 

Your fingers threaded through his hair. You arched. Moaned his name. He pushed into you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. Like this was the only place he still knew. His pace was languid at first, drawn out. But when your breath hitched and you clung to him tighter, he fucked you deeper. Slower. Harder. Like he was trying to carve himself into your bones. Your bodies moved like memory. Like grief. Like everything you never said finally found a rhythm in the dark. 

His thumb brushed your lower lip. You bit it. He groaned—low, guttural.

“Say it,” he rasped against your mouth.

“I love you,” you whispered, already crying. “God, I love you.”

And when you came, it wasn’t loud. It was broken. Soft. A tremor beneath his palm as he cradled your jaw. He followed seconds later, gasping your name like a benediction, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and shaking.

After, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just stayed curled around you, heartbeat thudding against your spine like punctuation.

Because sometimes the loudest heartbreak is the one you don’t say out loud.

The alarm never went off.

You’d both woken up before it—some silent agreement between your bodies that said don’t pretend this is normal. The room was still dark, heavy with the thick, gray stillness of early morning. That strange pocket of time that doesn’t feel like today yet, but is no longer yesterday.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows resting on his thighs, spine curled slightly forward like the weight of the choice he’d made was finally catching up to him. He was already dressed in the uniform in his head.

You stayed under the covers, arms wrapped around your own body, watching the muscles in his back tighten every time he exhaled.

You didn’t speak. 

What was there left to say?

He stood, moved through the room with quiet efficiency. Pulling his pants on. Shirt. Socks. He tied his boots slowly, like muscle memory. Like prayer. You wondered if his hands ever shook when he packed for war, or if this was just another morning to him. Another mission. Another place to be.

He finally turned to face you. “You want coffee?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You shook your head. You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

He paused in the doorway, like he might say something—something honest, something final. Instead, he just looked at you like you were already slipping into memory.

The kitchen was still warm from the radiator kicking on. Jack moved like a ghost through it—mug in one hand, half a slice of dry toast in the other. You sat across from him at the table, knees pulled into your chest, wearing one of his old t-shirts that didn’t smell like him anymore. The silence was different now. Not tense. Just done. He set his keys on the table between you.

“I left a spare,” he said.

You nodded. “I know.”

He took a sip of coffee, made a face. “You never taught me how to make it right.”

“You never listened.”

His lips twitched—almost a smile. It died quickly. You looked down at your hands. Picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Will you write?” you asked, quietly. Not a plea. Just curiosity. Just something to fill the silence.

“If I can.”

And somehow that hurt more.

When the cab pulled up outside, neither of you moved right away. Jack stared at the wall. You stared at him. 

He finally stood. Grabbed his bag. Slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He didn’t look like a man leaving for war. He looked like a man trying to convince himself he had no other choice.

At the door, he paused again.

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. “You’re everything I ever wanted, you know that?”

You stood too fast. “Then why wasn’t this enough?”

He flinched. And still, he came back to you. Hands cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize it.

“I love you,” he said.

You swallowed. Hard. “Then stay.”

His hands dropped. 

“I can’t.”

You didn’t cry when he left.

You just stood in the hallway until the cab disappeared down the street, teeth sunk into your lip so hard it bled. And then you locked the door behind you. Not because you didn’t want him to come back.

But because you didn’t want to hope anymore that he would.

PRESENT DAY : THE PITT - FRIDAY 7:02 PM

Jack always said he didn’t believe in premonitions. That was Robby’s department—gut feelings, emotional instinct, the kind of sixth sense that made him pause mid-shift and mutter things like “I don’t like this quiet.” Jack? He was structure. Systems. Trauma patterns on a 10-year data set. He didn’t believe in ghosts, omens, or the superstition of stillness.

But tonight?

Tonight felt wrong.

The kind of wrong that doesn’t announce itself. It just settles—low and quiet, like a second pulse beneath your skin. Everything was too clean. Too calm. The trauma board was a blank canvas. One transfer to psych. One uncomplicated withdrawal on fluids. A dislocated shoulder in 6 who kept trying to flirt with the nurses despite being dosed with enough ketorolac to sedate a linebacker.

That was it. Four hours. Not a single incoming. Not even a fender-bender.

Jack stood in front of the board with his arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw was clenched, shoulders stiff, body still in that way that wasn’t restful—just waiting. Like something in him was already bracing for impact.

The ER didn’t breathe like this. Not on a Friday night in Pittsburgh. Not unless something was holding its breath.

He rolled his shoulder, cracked his neck once, then twice. His leg ached—not the prosthetic. The other one. The real one. The one that always overcompensated when he was tense. The one that still carried the habits of a body he didn’t fully live in anymore. He tried to shake it off. He couldn’t. He wasn’t tired.

But he felt unmoored.

7:39 PM

The station was too loud in all the wrong ways.

Dana was telling someone—probably Perlah—about her granddaughter’s birthday party tomorrow. There was going to be a Disney princess. Real cake. Real glitter. Jack nodded when she looked at him but didn’t absorb any of it. His hands were hovering over the computer keys, but he wasn’t charting. He was watching the vitals monitor above Bay 2 blink like a metronome. Too steady. Too normal.

His stomach clenched. Something inside him stirred. Restless. Sharp. He didn’t even hear Ellis approach until her shadow slid into his peripheral.

“You’re doing it again,” she said.

Jack blinked. “Doing what?”

“That thing. The haunted soldier stare.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Didn’t realize I had a brand.”

“You do.” She leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You get real still when it’s too quiet in here. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Jack tilted his head slightly. “I’m always waiting for the other shoe.”

“No,” she said. “Not like this.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. They both knew what kind of quiet this was.

7:55 PM

The weather was turning.

He could hear it—how the rain hit the loading dock, how the wind pushed harder against the back doors. He’d seen it out the break room window earlier. Clouds like bruises. Thunder low, miles off, not angry yet—just gathering. Pittsburgh always got weird storms in the spring—cold one day, burning the next. The kind of shifts that made people do dumb things. Drive fast. Get careless. Forget their own bodies could break.

His hand flexed unconsciously against the edge of the counter. He didn’t know who he was preparing for—just that someone was coming. 

8:00 PM

Robby’s shift was ending. He always left a little late—hovered by the lockers, checking one last note, scribbling initials where none were needed. Jack didn’t look up when he approached, but he heard the familiar shuffle, the sound of a hoodie zipper pulled halfway.

“You sure you don’t wanna switch shifts tomorrow?” Robby asked, thumb scrolling absently across his phone screen, like he was trying to sound casual—but you could hear the edge of something in it. Fatigue. Or maybe just wariness.

Jack glanced over, one brow arched, already sensing the setup. “What, you finally land that hot date with the med student who keeps calling you sir, looks like she still gets carded for cough syrup and thinks you’re someone’s dad?”

Robby didn’t look up from his phone. “Close. She thinks you’re the dad. Like… someone’s brooding, emotionally unavailable single father who only comes to parent-teacher conferences to say he’s doing his best.”

Jack blinked. “I’m forty-nine. You’re fifty-three.”

“She thinks you’ve lived harder.”

Jack snorted. “She say that?”

“She said—and I quote—‘He’s got that energy. Like he’s seen things. Lost someone he doesn’t talk about. Probably drinks his coffee black and owns, like, one picture frame.’”

Jack gave a slow nod, face unreadable. “Well. She’s not wrong.”

Robby side-eyed him. “You do have ghost-of-a-wife vibes.”

Jack’s smirk twitched into something more wry. “Not a widower.”

“Could’ve fooled her. She said if she had daddy issues, you’d be her first mistake.”

Jack let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“I told her you’re just forty-nine. Prematurely haunted.”

Jack smiled. Barely. “You’re such a good friend.”

Robby slipped his phone into his pocket. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell her about the ring. She thinks you’re tragic. Women love that.”

Jack muttered, “Tragic isn’t a flex.”

Robby shrugged. “It is when you’re tall and say very little.”

Jack rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “Still not switching.”

Robby groaned. “Come on. Whitaker is due for a meltdown, and if I have to supervise him through one more central line attempt, I’m walking into traffic. He tried to open the kit with his elbow last week. Said sterile gloves were ‘limiting his dexterity.’ I said, ‘That’s the point.’ He told me I was oppressing his innovation.”

Jack stifled a laugh. “I’m starting to like him.”

“He’s your favorite. Admit it.”

“You’re my favorite,” Jack said, deadpan.

“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

Jack’s grin tugged wider. “It’s been a long year.”

They stood in silence for a moment—one of those rare ones where the ER wasn’t screeching for attention. Just a quiet hum of machines and distant footsteps. Then Robby shifted, leaned a little heavier against the wall.

“You good?” he asked, voice low. Not pushy. Just there.

Jack didn’t look at him right away. Just stared at the trauma board. Too long. Long enough that it said more than words would’ve.

Then—“Fine,” Jack said. A beat. “Just tired.”

Robby didn’t press. Just nodded, like he believed it, even if he didn’t.

“Get some rest,” Jack added, almost an afterthought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You always do,” Robby said.

And then he left, hoodie half-zipped, coffee in hand, just like always.

But Jack didn’t move for a while.

Not until the ER stopped pretending to be quiet.

8:34 PM

The call hits like a starter’s pistol.

“Inbound MVA. Solo driver. High velocity. No seatbelt. Unresponsive. GCS three. ETA three minutes.”

The kind of call that should feel routine.

Jack’s already in motion—snapping on gloves, barking out orders, snapping the trauma team to attention. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t feel. He just moves. It’s what he’s best at. What they built him for.

He doesn’t know why his heart is hammering harder than usual.

Why the air feels sharp in his lungs. Why he’s clenching his jaw so hard his molars ache.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

“Perlah, trauma cart’s prepped?”

“Yeah.”

“Mateo, I want blood drawn the second she’s in. Jesse—intubation tray. Let’s be ready.”

No one questions him. Not when he’s in this mode—low voice, high tension. Controlled but wired like something just beneath his skin is ready to snap. He pulls the door to Bay 2 open, nods to the team waiting inside. His hands go to his hips, gloves already on, brain flipping through protocol.

And then he hears it—the wheels. Gurney. Fast.

Voices echoing through the corridor.

Paramedic yelling vitals over the noise.

“Unidentified female. Found unresponsive at the scene of an MVA—single vehicle, no ID on her. Significant blood loss, hypotensive on arrival. BP tanked en route—we lost her once. Got her back, but she’s still unstable.”

The doors bang open. They wheel her in. Jack steps forward. His eyes fall to the body. Blood-soaked. Covered in debris. Face battered. Left cheek swelling fast. Gash at the temple. Lip split. Clothes shredded. Eyes closed.

He freezes. Everything stops. Because he knows that mouth. That jawline. That scar behind the ear. That body. The last time he saw it, it was beneath his hands. The last time he kissed her, she was whispering his name in the dark. And now she’s here.

Unconscious. Barely breathing. Covered in her own blood. And nobody knows who she is but him.

“Jack?” Perlah says, uncertain. “You good?”

He doesn’t respond. He’s already at the side of the gurney, brushing the medic aside, sliding in like muscle memory.

“Get me vitals now,” he says, voice too low.

“She’s crashing again—”

“I said get me fucking vitals.”

Everyone jolts. He doesn’t care. He’s pulling the oxygen mask over your face. Hands hovering, trembling.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “What happened to you?”

Your eyes flutter, barely. He watches your chest rise once. Then falter.

Then—Flatline.

You looked like a stranger. But the kind of stranger who used to be home. Where had you gone after he left?

Why didn’t you come back?

Why hadn’t he tried harder to find you?

He never knew. He told himself you were fine. That you didn’t want to be found. That maybe you'd met someone else, maybe moved out of state, maybe started the life he was supposed to give you.

And now you were here. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Not a "maybe someday."

Here.

And dying.

8:36 PM

The monitor flatlines. Sharp. Steady. Shrill.

And Jack—he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t call out. He just moves. The team reacts first—shock, noise, adrenaline. Perlah’s already calling it out. Mateo goes for epi. Jesse reaches for the crash cart, his hands a little too fast, knocking a tray off the edge.

It clatters to the floor. Jack doesn’t flinch.

He steps forward. Takes position. Drops to the right side of your chest like it’s instinct—because it is. His hands hover for half a beat.

Then press down.

Compression one.

Compression two.

Compression three.

Thirty in all. His mouth is tight. His eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your body beneath his hands. He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t let them see him.

He just works.

Like he’s still on deployment.

Like you’re just another body.

Like you’re not the person who made him believe in softness again.

Jack doesn’t move from your side.

Doesn’t say a thing when the first shock doesn’t bring you back. Doesn’t speak when the second one stalls again. He just keeps pressing. Keeps watching. Keeps holding on with the one thing left he can control.

His hands.

You twitch under his palms on the third shock.

The line stutters. Then catches. Jack exhales once. But he still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t check the room. Doesn’t acknowledge the tears running down his face. Just rests both hands on the edge of the gurney and leans forward, breathing shallow, like if he stands up fully, something inside him will fall apart for good.

“Get her to CT,” he says quietly.

Perlah hesitates. “Jack—”

He shakes his head. “I’ll walk with her.”

“Jack…”

“I said I’ll go.”

And then he does.

Silent. Soaking in your blood. Following the gurney like he followed field stretchers across combat zones. No one asks questions. Because everyone sees it now.

8:52 PM 

The corridor outside CT was colder than the rest of the hospital. Some architectural flaw. Or maybe just Jack’s body going numb. You were being wheeled in now—hooked to monitors, lips cracked and flaking at the edges from blood loss.

You hadn’t moved since the trauma bay. They got your heart back. But your eyes hadn’t opened. Not even once.

Jack walked beside the gurney in silence. One hand gripping the edge rail. Gloved fingers stained dark. His scrub top was still soaked from chest compressions. His pulse hadn’t slowed since the flatline. He didn’t speak to the transport tech. Didn’t acknowledge the nurse. Didn’t register anything except the curve of your arm under the blanket and the smear of blood at your temple no one had cleaned yet.

Outside the scan room, they paused to prep.

“Two minutes,” someone said.

Jack barely nodded. The tech turned away. And for the first time since they wheeled you in—Jack looked at you.

Eyes sweeping over your face like he was seeing it again for the first time. Like he didn’t recognize this version of you—not broken, not bloodied, not dying—but fragile. His hand moved before he could stop it. He reached down. Brushed your hair back from your forehead, fingers trembling. 

He leaned in, close enough that only the machines could hear him. Voice raw. Shaky.

“Stay with me.” He swallowed. Hard. “I’ll lie to everyone else. I’ll keep pretending I can live without you. But you and me? We both know I’m full of shit.”

He paused. “You’ve always known.”

Footsteps echoed around the corner. Jack straightened instantly. Like none of it happened. Like he wasn’t bleeding in real time. The tech came back. “We’re ready.”

Jack nodded. Watched the doors open. Watched them wheel you away. Didn’t follow. Just stood in the hallway, alone, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

10:34 PM

Your blood was still on his forearms. Dried at the edge of his glove cuff. There was a fleck of it on the collar of his scrub top, just beneath his badge. He should go change. But he couldn’t move. The last time he saw you, you were standing in the doorway of your apartment with your arms crossed over your chest and your mouth set in that way you did when you were about to say something that would ruin him.

Then stay.

He hadn’t.

And now here you were, barely breathing.

God. He wanted to scream. But he didn’t. He never did.

Footsteps approached from the left—light, careful.

It was Dana.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the wall beside him with a soft exhale and handed him a plastic water bottle.

He took it with a nod, twisted the cap, but didn’t drink.

“She’s stable,” Dana said quietly. “Neuro’s scrubbing in. Walsh is watching the bleed. They're hopeful it hasn’t shifted.”

Jack stared straight ahead. “She’s got a collapsed lung.”

“She’s alive.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

He could hear Dana shift beside him. “You knew her?”

Jack swallowed. His throat burned. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“I didn’t know,” Dana said, gently. “I mean, I knew there was someone before you came back to Pittsburgh. I just never thought...”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Jack,” she said, softer now. “You shouldn’t be the one on this case.”

“I’m already on it.”

“I know, but—”

“She didn’t have anyone else.”

That landed like a punch to the ribs. No emergency contact. No parents listed. No spouse. No one flagged to call. Just the last ID scanned from your phone—his name still buried somewhere in your old records, from years ago. Probably forgotten. Probably never updated. But still there. Still his.

Dana reached out, laid a hand on his wrist. “Do you want me to sit with her until she wakes up?”

He shook his head.

“I should be there.”

“Jack—”

“I should’ve been there the first time,” he snapped. Then his voice broke low, quieter, strained: “So I’m gonna sit. And I’m gonna wait. And when she wakes up, I’m gonna tell her I’m sorry.”

Dana didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just nodded. And walked away.

1:06 AM

Jack sat in the corner of the dimmed recovery room.

You were propped up slightly on the bed now, a tube down your throat, IV lines in both arms. Bandages wrapped around your ribs, temple, thigh. The monitor beeped with painful consistency. It was the only sound in the room.

He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. He just sat there. Watching you like if he looked away, you’d vanish again. He leaned back eventually, scrubbed both hands down his face.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You really never changed your emergency contact?”

You didn’t get married. You didn’t leave the state.You just… slipped out of his life and never came back.

And he let you. He let you walk away because he thought you needed distance. Because he thought he’d ruined it. Because he didn’t know what to do with love when it wasn’t covered in blood and desperation. He let you go. And now you were here. 

“Please wake up,” he whispered. “Just… just wake up. Yell at me. Punch me. I don’t care. Just—”

His voice cracked. He bit it back.

“You were right,” he said, so soft it barely made it out. “I should’ve stayed.”

You swim toward the surface like something’s pulling you back under. It’s slow. Syrupy. The kind of consciousness that makes pain feel abstract—like you’ve forgotten which parts of your body belong to you. There’s pressure behind your eyes. A dull roar in your ears. Cold at your fingertips.

Then—sound. Beeping. Monitors. A cart wheeling past. Someone saying Vitals stable, pressure’s holding. A laugh in the hallway. Fluorescents. Fabric rustling. And—

A chair creaking.

You know that sound.

You’d recognize that silence anywhere. You open your eyes, slowly, blinking against the light. Vision blurred. Chest tight. There’s a rawness in your throat like you’ve been screaming underwater. Everything hurts, but one thing registers clear:

Jack.

Jack Abbot is sitting beside you.

He’s hunched forward in a chair too small for him, arms braced on his knees like he’s ready to stand, like he can’t stand. There’s a hospital badge clipped to his scrub pocket. His jaw is tight. There’s something smudged on his cheekbone—blood? You don’t know. His hair is shorter than you remember, greyer.

But it’s him. And for a second—just one—you forget the last seven years ever happened.

You forget the apartment. The silence. The day he walked out with his duffel and didn’t look back. Because right now, he’s here. Breathing. Watching you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse.

You try to swallow. You can’t.

“Don’t—” he sits up, suddenly, gently. “Don’t try to talk yet. You were intubated. Rollover crash—” He falters. “Jesus. You’re okay. You’re here.”

You blink, hard. Your eyes sting. Everything is out of focus except him. He leans forward a little more, his hands resting just beside yours on the bed.

“I thought you were dead,” he says. “Or married. Or halfway across the world. I thought—” He stops. His throat works around the words. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

You close your eyes for a second. It’s too much. His voice. His face. The sound of you’re okay coming from the person who once made it hurt the most. You shift your gaze—try to ground yourself in something solid.

And that’s when you see it.

His hand.

Resting casually near yours.

Ring finger tilted toward the light.

Gold band. 

Simple.

Permanent.

You freeze.

It’s like your lungs forget what to do.

You look at the ring. Then at him. Then at the ring again.

He follows your gaze.

And flinches.

“Fuck,” Jack says under his breath, immediately leaning back like distance might make it easier. Like you didn’t just see it.

He drags a hand through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, looks anywhere but at you.

“She’s not—” He pauses. “It’s not what you think.”

You’re barely able to croak a whisper. Your voice scrapes like gravel: “You’re married?”

His head snaps up.

“No.” Beat. “Not yet.”

Yet. That word is worse than a bullet. You stare at him. And what you see floors you.

Guilt.

Exhaustion.

Something that might be grief. But not regret. He’s not here asking for forgiveness. He’s here because you almost died. Because for a minute, he thought he’d never get the chance to say goodbye right. But he didn’t come back for you.

He moved on.

And you didn’t even get to see it happen. You turn your face away. It takes everything you have not to sob, not to scream, not to rip the IV out of your arm just to feel something other than this. Jack leans forward again, like he might try to fix it.

Like he still could.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I didn’t know I’d ever see you again.”

“I didn’t know you’d stop waiting,” you rasp.

And that’s it. That’s the one that lands. He goes very still.

“I waited,” he says, softly. “Longer than I should’ve. I kept the spare key. I left the porch light on. Every time someone knocked on the door, I thought—maybe. Maybe it’s you.”

Your eyes well up. He shakes his head. Looks away. “But you never called. Never sent anything. And eventually... I thought you didn’t want to be found.”

“I didn’t,” you whisper. “Because I didn’t want to know you’d already replaced me.”

The silence after that is unbearable. And then: the soft knock of a nurse at the door.

Dana. 

She peeks in, eyes flicking between the two of you, and reads the room instantly.

“We’re moving her to step-down in fifteen,” she says gently. “Just wanted to give you a heads up.” Jack nods. Doesn’t look at her. Dana lingers for a beat, then quietly slips out. You don’t speak. Neither does he. He just stands there for another long moment. Like he wants to stay. But knows he shouldn’t. Finally, he exhales—low, shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Not for leaving. Not for loving someone else. Just for the wreckage of it all. And then he walks out. Leaving you in that bed. 

Bleeding in places no scan can find.

9:12 AM

The room was smaller than the trauma bay. Cleaner. Quieter.

The lights were soft, filtered through high, narrow windows that let in just enough Pittsburgh morning to remind you the world kept moving, even when yours had slammed into a guardrail at seventy-three miles an hour.

You were propped at a slight angle—enough to breathe without straining the sutures in your side. Your ribs still ached with every inhale. Your left arm was in a sling. There was dried blood in your hairline no one had washed out yet. But you were alive. They told you that three times already.

Alive. Stable. Awake.

As if saying it aloud could undo the fact that Jack Abbot is engaged. You stared at the wall like it might give you answers. He hadn't come back. You didn’t ask for him. And still—every time a nurse came in, every time the door clicked open, every shuffle of shoes in the hallway—you hoped. 

You hated yourself for it.

You hadn’t cried yet.

That surprised you. You thought waking up and seeing him again—for the first time in years, after everything—would snap something loose in your chest. But it didn’t. It just… sat there. Heavy. Silent. Like grief that didn’t know where to go.

There was a soft knock on the frame.

You turned your head slowly, your throat too raw to ask who it was.

It wasn’t Jack.

It was a man you didn’t recognize. Late forties, maybe fifties. Navy hoodie. Clipboard. Glasses slipped low on his nose. He looked tired—but held together in the kind of way that made it clear he'd been the glue for other people more than once.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch.” he said gently. You just blinked at him.

“I’m... one of the attendings. I was off when they brought you in, but I heard.”

He didn’t step closer right away. Then—“Mind if I sit?”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t say no. He pulled the chair from the corner. Sat down slow, like he wasn’t sure how fragile the air was between you. He didn’t check your vitals. Didn’t chart.

Just sat.

Present. In that quiet, steady way that makes you feel like maybe you don’t have to hold all the weight alone.

“Hell of a night,” he said after a while. “You had everyone rattled.”

You didn’t reply. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. He rubbed a hand down the side of his jaw.

“Jack hasn’t looked like that in a long time.”

That made you flinch. Your head turned, slow and deliberate.

You stared at him. “He talk about me?” 

Robby gave a small smile. Not pitying. Not smug. Just... true. “No. Not really.”

You looked away. 

“But he didn’t have to,” he added.

You froze.

“I’ve seen him leave mid-conversation to answer texts that never came. Watched him walk out into the ambulance bay on his nights off—like he was waiting for someone who never showed. Never stayed the night anywhere but home. Always looked at the hallway like something might appear if he stared hard enough.”

Your throat burned.

“He never said your name,” Robby continued, voice low but certain. “But there’s a box under his bed. A spare key on his ring—been there for years, never used, never taken off. And that old mug in the back of his locker? The one that doesn’t match anything? You start to notice the things people hold onto when they’re trying not to forget.”

You blinked hard. “There’s a box?”

Robby nodded, slow. “Yeah. Tucked under the bed like he didn’t mean to keep it but never got around to throwing it out. Letters—some unopened, some worn through like he read them a hundred times. A photo of you, old and creased, like he carried it once and forgot how to let it go. Hospital badge. Bracelet from some field clinic. Even a napkin with your handwriting on it—faded, but folded like it meant something.”

You closed your eyes. That was worse than any of the bruises.

“He compartmentalizes,” Robby said. “It’s how he stays functional. It’s what he’s good at.”

You whispered it, barely audible: “It was survival.”

“Sure. Until it isn’t.”

Another silence settled between you. Comfortable, in a way.

Then—“He’s engaged,” you said, your voice flat.

Robby didn’t blink. “Yeah. I know.”

“Is she…?”

“She’s good,” he said. “Smart. Teaches third grade in Squirrel Hill. Not from medicine. I think that’s why it worked.”

You nodded slowly.

“Does she know about me?”

Robby looked down. Didn’t answer. You nodded again. That was enough. 

He stood eventually.

Straightened the front of his hoodie. Rested the clipboard against his side like he’d forgotten why he even brought it.

“He’ll come back,” he said. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.”

You didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window. Your voice was quiet.

“I don’t want him to.”

Robby gave you one last look.

One that said: Yeah. You do.

Then he turned and left.

And this time, when the door clicked shut—you cried.

DAY FOUR– 11:41 PM

The hospital was quiet. Quieter than it had been in days.

You’d finally started walking the length of your room again, IV pole rolling beside you like a loyal dog. The sling was irritating. Your ribs still hurt when you coughed. The staples in your scalp itched every time the air conditioner kicked on.

But you were alive. They said you could go home soon. Problem was—you didn’t know where home was anymore. The hallway light outside your room flickered once. You’d been drifting near sleep, curled on your side in the too-small hospital bed, one leg drawn up, wires tugging gently against your skin.

Before you could brace, the door opened. And there he was.

Jack didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, shadowed in the doorway, scrub top wrinkled like he’d fallen asleep in it, hair slightly damp like he’d washed his face too many times and still didn’t feel clean. You sat up slowly, heart punching through your chest.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t look like the man who used to make you coffee barefoot in the kitchen, or fold your laundry without being asked, or trace the inside of your wrist when he thought you were asleep.

He looked like a stranger who remembered your body too well.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he said quietly, finally. You didn’t respond.

Jack stepped inside. Closed the door gently behind him.

The room felt too small.

Your throat ached.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he continued, voice low. “Didn’t know if you’d want to see me. After... everything.”

You sat up straighter. “I didn’t.”

That hit.

But he nodded. Took it. Absorbed it like punishment he thought he deserved.

Still, he didn’t leave. He stood at the foot of your bed like he wasn’t sure he was allowed any closer.

“Why are you here, Jack?”

He looked at you. Eyes full of everything he hadn’t said since he walked out years ago.

“I needed to see you,” he said, and it was so goddamn quiet you almost missed it. “I needed to know you were still real.”

Your heart cracked in two.

“Real,” you repeated. “You mean like alive? Or like not something you shoved in a box under your bed?”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed. “You think any of this is fair?”

Jack stepped closer.

“I didn’t plan to love you the way I did.”

“You didn’t plan to leave, either. But you did that too.”

“I was trying to save something of myself.”

“And I was collateral damage?”

He flinched. Looked down. “You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know how to come back and be yours forever when all I’d ever been was temporary.” Silence crashed into the space between you. And then, barely above a whisper:

“Does she know you still dream about me?”

That made him look up. Like you’d punched the wind out of him. Like you’d reached into his chest and found the place that still belonged to you. He stepped closer. One more inch and he’d be at your bedside.

“You have every reason not to forgive me,” he said quietly. “But the truth is—I’ve never felt for anyone what I felt for you.”

You looked up at him, voice raw: “Then why are you marrying her?”

Jack’s mouth opened. But nothing came out. You looked away.

Eyes burning.

Lips trembling.

“I don’t want your apologies,” you said. “I want the version of you that stayed.”

He stepped back, like that was the final blow.

But you weren’t done.

“I loved you so hard it wrecked me,” you whispered. “And all I ever asked was that you love me loud enough to stay. But you didn’t. And now you want to stand in this room and act like I’m some kind of unfinished chapter—like you get to come back and cry at the ending?”

Jack breathed in like it hurt. Like the air wasn’t going in right.

“I came back,” he said. “I came back because I couldn’t breathe without knowing you were okay.”

“And now you know.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy, jaw tight.

“So go home to her.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t do what you asked.

He just stood there—bleeding in the quiet—while you looked away.

DAY SEVEN– 5:12 PM

You left the hospital with a dull ache behind your ribs and a discharge summary you didn’t bother reading. They told you to stay another three days. Said your pain control wasn’t stable. Said you needed another neuro eval.

You said you’d call.

You wouldn’t.

You packed what little you had in silence—folded the hospital gown, signed the paperwork with hands that still trembled. No one stopped you. You walked out the front doors like a ghost slipping through traffic.

Alive.

Untethered.

Unhealed.

But gone.

YOUR APARTMENT– 8:44 PM

It wasn’t much. A studio above a laundromat on Butler Street. One couch. One coffee mug. A bed you didn’t make. You sat cross-legged on top of the blanket in your hospital sweats, ribs bandaged tight beneath your shirt, hair still blood-matted near the scalp.

You hadn’t turned on the lights.

You hadn’t eaten.

You were staring at the wall when the knock came.

Three short taps.

Then his voice.

“It's me.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Then the second knock.

“Please. Just open the door.”

You stood. Slowly. Every joint screamed. When you opened it, there he was. Still in black scrubs. Still tired. Still wearing that ring.

“You left,” he said, breath fogging in the cold.

You leaned against the frame. “I wasn’t going to wait around for someone who already left me once.”

“I deserved that.”

“You deserve worse.”

He nodded. Took it like a man used to pain. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated.

Then stepped aside.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there—awkward, towering, hands in his pockets, taking in the chipped paint, the stack of unopened mail, the folded blanket at the edge of the bed.

“This place is...”

“Mine.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Silence.

You walked back to the bed, sat down slowly. He stood across from you like you were a patient and he didn’t know what was broken.

“What do you want, Jack?”

His jaw flexed. “I want to be in your life again.”

You blinked. Laughed once, sharp and short. “Right. And what does that look like? You with her, and me playing backup singer?”

“No.” His voice was quiet. “Just... just a friend.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped forward. “I know I don’t deserve more than that. I know I hurt you. And I know this—this thing between us—it's not what it was. But I still care. And if all I can be is a number in your phone again, then let me.”

You looked down.

Your hands were shaking.

You didn’t want this. You wanted him. All of him.

But you knew how this would end.

You’d sit across from him in cafés, pretending not to look at his left hand.

You’d laugh at his stories, knowing his warmth would go home to someone else.

You’d let him in—inch by inch—until there was nothing left of you that hadn’t shaped itself to him again.

And still.

Still—“Okay,” you said.

Jack looked at you.

Like he couldn’t believe it.

“Friends,” you added.

He nodded slowly. “Friends.”

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him any longer, you'd say something that would shatter you both.

Because this was the next best thing.

And you knew, even as you said it, even as you offered him your heart wrapped in barbed wire—It was going to break you.

DAY TEN – 6:48 PM Steeped & Co. Café – Two blocks from The Pitt

You told yourself this wasn’t a date.

It was coffee. It was public. It was neutral ground.

But the way your hands wouldn’t stop shaking made it feel like you were twenty again, waiting for him to show up at the Greyhound station with his army bag and half a smile.

He walked in ten minutes late. He ordered his drink without looking at the menu. He always knew what he wanted—except when it came to you.

“You’re limping less,” he said, settling across from you like you hadn’t been strangers for the last seven years. You lifted your tea, still too hot to drink. “You’re still observant.”

He smiled—small. Quiet. The kind that used to make you forgive him too fast. The first fifteen minutes were surface-level. Traffic. ER chaos. This new intern, Santos, doing something reckless. Robby calling him “Doctor Doom” under his breath.

It should’ve been easy.

But the space between you felt alive.

Charged.

Unforgivable.

He leaned forward at one point, arms on the table, and you caught the flick of his hand—

The ring.

You looked away. Pretended not to care.

“You’re doing okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, lying. “Mostly.”

He reached across the table then—just for a second—like he might touch your hand. He didn’t. Your breath caught anyway. And neither of you spoke for a while.

DAY TWELVE – 2:03 PM Your apartment

You couldn’t sleep. Again.

The pain meds made your body heavy, but your head was always screaming. You’d been lying in bed for hours, fully dressed, lights off, scrolling old texts with one hand while your other rubbed slow, nervous circles into the bandages around your ribs.

There was a text from him.

"You okay?"

You stared at it for a full minute before responding.

"No."

You expected silence.

Instead: a knock.

You didn’t even ask how he got there so fast. You opened the door and he stepped in like he hadn’t been waiting in his car, like he hadn’t been hoping you’d need him just enough.

He looked exhausted.

You stepped back. Let him in.

He sat on the edge of the couch. Hands folded. Knees apart. Staring at the wall like it might break the tension.

“I can’t sleep anymore,” you whispered. “I keep... hearing it. The crash. The metal. The quiet after.”

Jack swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You both went quiet again. It always came in waves with him—things left unsaid that took up more space than the words ever could. Eventually, he leaned back against the couch cushion, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I think about you all the time,” he said, voice low, wrecked.

You didn’t move.

“You’re in the room when I’m doing intake. When I’m changing gloves. When I get in the car and my left hand hits the wheel and I see the ring and I wonder why it’s not you.”

Your breath hitched.

“But I made a choice,” he said. “And I can’t undo it without hurting someone who’s never hurt me.”

You finally turned toward him. “Then why are you here?”

He looked at you, eyes dark and honest. “Because the second you came back, I couldn’t breathe.”

You kissed him.

You don’t remember who moved first. If you leaned forward, or if he cupped your face like he used to. But suddenly, you were kissing him. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was devastated.

His mouth was salt and memory and apology.

Your hands curled in his shirt. He was whispering your name against your lips like it still belonged to him.

You pulled away first.

“Go home,” you said, voice cracking.

“Don’t do this—”

“Go home to her, Jack.”

And he did.

He always did.

DAY THIRTEEN – 7:32 PM

You don’t eat.

You don’t leave your apartment.

You scrub the counter three times and throw out your tea mug because it smells like him.

You sit on the bathroom floor and press a towel to your ribs until the pain brings you back into your body.

You start a text seven times.

You never send it.

DAY SEVENTEEN — 11:46 PM

The takeout was cold. Neither of you had touched it.

Jack’s gaze hadn’t left you all night.

Low. Unreadable. He hadn’t smiled once.

“You never stopped loving me,” you said suddenly. Quiet. Dangerous. “Did you?”

His jaw flexed. You pressed harder.

“Say it.”

“I never stopped,” he rasped.

That was all it took.

You surged forward.

His hands found your face. Your hips. Your hair. He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath since the last time. Teeth and tongue and broken sounds in the back of his throat.

Your back hit the wall hard.

“Fuck—” he muttered, grabbing your thigh, hitching it up. His fingers pressed into your skin like he didn’t care if he left marks. “I can’t believe you still taste like this.”

You gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his chest. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He had your clothes off before you could breathe. His mouth moved down—your throat, your collarbone, between your breasts, tongue hot and slow like he was punishing you for every year he spent wondering if you hated him.

“You still wear my t-shirt to bed?” he whispered against your breasts voice thick. “You still get wet thinking about me?”

You whimpered. “Jack—”

His name came out like a sin.

He dropped to his knees.

“Let me hear it,” he said, dragging his mouth between your thighs, voice already breathless. “Tell me you still want me.”

Your head dropped back.

“I never stopped.”

And then his mouth was on you—filthy and brutal.

Tongue everywhere, fingers stroking you open while his other hand gripped your thigh like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment.

You were already shaking when he growled, “You still taste like mine.”

You cried out—high and wrecked—and he kept going.

Faster.

Sloppier.

Like he wanted to ruin every memory of anyone else who might’ve touched you.

He made you come with your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips grinding helplessly against his face, your thighs quivering around his jaw while you moaned his name like you couldn’t stop.

He stood.

His clothes were off in seconds. Nothing left between you but raw air and your shared history. His cock was thick, flushed, angry against his stomach—dripping with need, twitching every time you breathed.

You stared at it.

At him.

At the ring still on his finger.

He saw your eyes.

Slipped it off.

Tossed it across the room without a word.

Then slammed you against the wall again and slid inside.

No teasing.

No waiting.

Just deep.

You gasped—too full, too fast—and he buried his face in your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I shouldn’t—fuck—I shouldn’t be doing this.”

But he didn’t stop.

He thrust so deep your eyes rolled back.

It was everything at once.

Your name on his lips like an apology. His hands on your waist like he’d never let go again. Your nails digging into his back like maybe you could keep him this time. He fucked you like he’d never get the chance again. Like he was angry you still had this effect on him. Like he was still in love with you and didn’t know how to carry it anymore.

He spat on his fingers and rubbed your clit until you were screaming his name.

“Louder,” he snapped, fucking into you hard. “Let the neighbors hear who makes you come.”

You came again.

And again.

Shaking. Crying. Overstimulated.

“Open your eyes,” he panted. “Look at me.”

You did.

He was close.

You could feel it in the way he lost rhythm, the way his grip got desperate, the way he whimpered your name like he was begging.

“Inside,” you whispered, legs wrapped around him. “Don’t pull out.”

He froze.

Then nodded, forehead dropping to yours.

“I love you,” he breathed.

And then he came—deep, full, shaking inside you with a broken moan so raw it felt holy.

After, you lay together on the floor. Sweat-slicked. Bruised. Silent.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because you both knew—

This changed everything.

And nothing.

DAY EIGHTEEN — 7:34 AM

Sunlight creeps in through the slats of your blinds, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor, your shoulder, his back.

Jack’s asleep in your bed. He’s on his side, one arm flung across your stomach like instinct, like a claim. His hand rests just above your hip—fingers twitching every now and then, like some part of him knows this moment isn’t real. Or at least, not allowed. Your body aches in places that feel worshipped. 

You don’t feel guilty.

Yet.

You stare at the ceiling. You haven’t spoken in hours.

Not since he whispered “I love you” while he was still inside you.

Not since he collapsed onto your chest like it might save him.

Not since he kissed your shoulder and didn’t say goodbye.

You shift slowly beneath the sheets. His hand tightens. 

Like he knows.

Like he knows.

You stay still. You don’t want to be the one to move first. Because if you move, the night ends. If you move, the spell breaks. And Jack Abbot goes back to being someone else's.

Eventually, he stirs.

His breath shifts against your collarbone.

Then—

“Morning.”

His voice is low. Sleep-rough. Familiar.

It hurts worse than silence. You force a soft hum, not trusting your throat to form words.

He lifts his head a little.

Looks at you. Hair mussed. Eyes unreadable. Bare skin still flushed from where he touched you hours ago. You expect regret. But all you see is heartbreak.

“Shouldn’t have stayed,” he says softly.

You close your eyes.

“I know.”

He sits up slowly. Sheets falling around his waist.

You follow the line of his back with your gaze. Every scar. Every knot in his spine. The curve of his shoulder blades you used to trace with your fingers when you were twenty-something and stupid enough to think love was enough.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“I told her I was working overnight.”

You feel your breath catch.

“She called me at midnight,” he adds. “I didn’t answer.”

You sit up too. Tug the blanket around your chest like modesty matters now.

“Is this the part where you tell me it was a mistake?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Then—“No,” he says. “It’s the part where I tell you I don’t know how to go home.”

You both sit there for a long time.

Naked.

Wordless.

Surrounded by the echo of what you used to be.

You finally speak.

“Do you love her?”

Silence.

“I respect her,” he says. “She’s good. Steady. Nothing’s ever hard with her.”

You swallow. “That’s not an answer.”

Jack turns to you then. Eyes tired. Voice raw.

“I’ve never stopped loving you.”

It lands in your chest like a sucker punch.

Because you know. You always knew. But now you’ve heard it again. And it doesn’t fix a goddamn thing.

“I can’t do this again,” you whisper.

Jack nods. “I know.”

“But I’ll keep doing it anyway,” you add. “If you let me.”

His jaw tightens. His throat works around something thick.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

You both know he has to.

And he does.

He dresses slowly.

Doesn’t kiss you.

Doesn’t say goodbye.

He finds his ring.

Puts it back on.

And walks out.

The door closes.

And you break.

Because this—this is the cost of almost.

8:52 AM

You don’t move for twenty-three minutes after the door shuts.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just exist.

Your chest rises and falls beneath the blanket. That same spot where he laid his head a few hours ago still feels heavy. You think if you touch it, it’ll still be warm.

You don’t.

You don’t want to prove yourself wrong. Your body aches everywhere. The kind of ache that isn’t just from the crash, or the stitches, or the way he held your hips so tightly you’re going to bruise. It’s the kind of ache you can’t ice. It’s the kind that lingers in your lungs.

Eventually, you sit up.

Your legs feel unsteady beneath you. Your knees shake as you gather the clothes scattered across the floor. His shirt—the one you wore while he kissed your throat and said “I love you” into your skin—gets tossed in the hamper like it doesn’t still smell like him. Your hand lingers on it.

You shove it deeper.

Harder.

Like burying it will stop the memory from clawing up your throat.

You make coffee you won’t drink.

You wash your face three times and still look like someone who got left behind.

You open your phone.

One new text.

“Did you eat?”

You don’t respond. Because what do you say to a man who left you raw and split open just to slide a ring back on someone else’s finger? You try to leave the apartment that afternoon. 

You make it as far as the sidewalk.

Then you turn around and vomit into the bushes.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie awake with your fingers curled into your sheets, shaking.

Your thighs ache.

Your mouth is dry.

You dream of him once—his hand pressed to your sternum like a prayer, whispering “don’t let go.”

When you wake, your chest is wet with tears and you don’t remember crying.

DAY TWENTY TWO— 4:17 PM Your apartment

It starts slow.

A dull ache in your upper abdomen. Like a pulled muscle or bad cramp. You ignore it. You’ve been ignoring everything. Pain means you’re healing, right?

But by 4:41 p.m., you’re on the floor of your bathroom, knees to your chest, drenched in sweat. You’re cold. Shaking. The pain is blooming now—hot and deep and wrong. You try to stand. Your vision goes white. Then you’re on your back, blinking at the ceiling.

And everything goes quiet.

THE PITT – 5:28 PM

You’re unconscious when the EMTs wheel you in. Vitals unstable. BP crashing. Internal bleeding suspected. It takes Jack ten seconds to recognize you.

One to feel like he’s going to throw up.

“Mid-thirties female. No trauma this week, but old injuries. Seatbelt bruise still present. Suspected splenic rupture, possible bleed out. BP’s eighty over forty and falling.”

Jack is already moving.

He steps into the trauma bay like a man walking into fire.

It’s you.

God. It’s you again.

Worse this time.

“Her name is [Y/N],” he says tightly, voice rough. “We need OR on standby. Now.”

6:01 PM

You’re barely conscious as they prep you for CT. Jack is beside you, masked, gloved, sterile. But his voice trembles when he says your name. You blink up at him.

Barely there.

“Hurts,” you rasp.

He leans close, ignoring protocol.

“I know. I’ve got you. Stay with me, okay?”

6:27 PM

The scan confirms it.

Grade IV splenic rupture. Bleeding into the abdomen.

You’re going into surgery.

Fast.

You grab his hand before they wheel you out. Your grip is weak. But desperate.

You look at him—“I don’t want to die thinking I meant nothing.”

His face breaks. And then they take you away.

Jack doesn’t move.

Just stands there in blood-streaked gloves, shaking.

Because this time, he might actually lose you.

And he doesn’t know if he’ll survive that twice.

9:12 PM Post-op recovery, ICU step-down

You come back slowly. The drugs are heavy. Your throat is dry. Your ribs feel tighter than before. There’s a new weight in your abdomen, dull and throbbing. You try to lift your hand and fail. Your IV pole beeps at you like it's annoyed.

Then there’s a shadow.

Jack.

You try to say his name.

It comes out as a rasp. He jerks his head up like he’s been underwater.

He looks like hell. Eyes bloodshot. Hands shaking. He’s still in scrubs—stained, wrinkled, exhausted.

“Hey,” he breathes, standing fast. His hand wraps gently around yours. You let it. You don’t have the strength to fight.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers.

You blink at him.

There are tears in your eyes. You don’t know if they’re yours or his.

“What…?” you rasp.

“Your spleen ruptured,” he says quietly. “You were bleeding internally. We almost lost you in the trauma bay. Again.”

You blink slowly.

“You looked empty,” he says, voice cracking. “Still. Your eyes were open, but you weren’t there. And I thought—fuck, I thought—”

He stops. You squeeze his fingers.

It’s all you can do.

There’s a long pause.

Heavy.

Then—“She called.”

You don’t ask who.

You don’t have to.

Jack stares at the floor.

“I told her I couldn’t talk. That I was... handling a case. That I’d call her after.”

You close your eyes.

You want to sleep.

You want to scream.

“She’s starting to ask questions,” he adds softly.

You open your eyes again. “Then lie better.”

He flinches.

“I’m not proud of this,” he says.

You look at him like he just told you the sky was blue. “Then leave.”

“I can’t.”

“You did last time.”

Jack leans forward, his forehead almost touching the edge of your mattress. His voice is low. Cracked. “I can’t lose you again.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then you ask, so small he barely hears it:

“If I’d died... would you have told her?”

His head lifts. Your eyes meet. And he doesn’t answer.

Because you already know the truth.

He stands, slowly, scraping the chair back like the sound might stall his momentum. “I should let you sleep,” he adds.

“Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “Not yet.”

He freezes. Then nods.

He moves back to the chair, but instead of sitting, he leans over the bed and presses his lips to your forehead—gently, like he’s scared it’ll hurt. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish again. You don’t close your eyes. You don’t let yourself fall into it.

Because kisses are easy.

Staying is not.

DAY TWENTY FOUR — 9:56 AM Dana wheels you to discharge. Your hands are clenched tight around the armrests, fingers stiff. Jack’s nowhere in sight. Good. You can’t decide if you want to see him—or hit him.

“You got someone picking you up?” Dana asks, handing off the chart.

You nod. “Uber.”

She doesn’t push. Just places a hand on your shoulder as you stand—slow, steady.

“Be gentle with yourself,” she says. “You survived twice.”

DAY THIRTY ONE – 8:07 PM

The knock comes just after sunset.

You’re barefoot. Still in the clothes you wore to your follow-up appointment—a hoodie two sizes too big, a bandage under your ribs that still stings every time you twist too fast. There’s a cup of tea on the counter you haven’t touched. The air in the apartment is thick with something you can’t name. Something worse than dread.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door.

Then—again.

Three soft raps.

Like he’s asking permission. Like he already knows he shouldn’t be here. You walk over slowly, pulse loud in your ears. Your fingers hesitate at the lock.

“Don’t,” you whisper to yourself. You open the door anyway.

Jack stands there. Gray hoodie. Dark jeans. He’s holding a plastic grocery bag, like this is something casual, like he’s a neighbor stopping by, not the man who left you in pieces across two hospital beds.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” he says, quiet. “But I think I should’ve been here a long time ago.”

You don’t speak. You step aside.

He walks in like he doesn’t expect to stay. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t sit. Just stands there, holding that grocery bag like it might shield him from what he’s about to say.

“I told her,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “Last night. Everything. The hospital. That night. The truth.”

Your jaw tenses. “And what, she just… let you walk away?”

He sets the bag on your kitchen counter. It’s shaking slightly in his grip. “No. She cried. Screamed. Told me to get out”

You feel yourself pulling away from him, emotionally, physically—like your body’s trying to protect you before your heart caves in again. “Jesus, Jack.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back with your half-truths and trauma and expect me to just be here.”

“I didn’t come expecting anything.”

You whirl back to him, raw. “Then why did you come?”

His voice doesn’t rise. But it cuts. “Because you almost died. Again. Because I’ve spent the last week realizing that no one else has ever felt like home.”

You shake your head. “That doesn’t change the fact that you left me when I needed you. That I begged you to choose peace. And you chose chaos. Every goddamn time.”

He closes the distance slowly, but not too close. Not yet.

“You think I don’t live with that?” His voice drops. 

You falter, tears threatening. “Then why didn’t you try harder?”

“I thought you’d moved on.”

“I tried,” you say, voice cracking. “I tried so hard to move on, to let someone else in, to build something new with hands that were still learning how to stop reaching for you. But every man I met—it was like eating soup with a fork. I’d sit across from them, smiling, nodding, pretending I wasn’t starving, pretending I didn’t notice the emptiness. They didn’t know me. Not really. Not the version of me that stayed up folding your shirts, tracking your deployment cities like constellations, holding the weight of a future you kept promising but never chose. Not the me that kept the lights on when you disappeared into silence. Not the me that made excuses for your absence until it started sounding like prayer.”

Jack’s face shifts—subtle at first, then like a crack running straight through the foundation. His jaw tightens. His mouth opens. Closes. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges, as if the admission itself costs him something he doesn’t have to spare.

“I didn’t think I deserved to come back,” he says. “Not after the way I left. Not after how long I stayed gone. Not after all the ways I chose silence over showing up.”

You stare at him, breath shallow, chest tight.

“Maybe you didn’t,” you say quietly, not to hurt him—but because it’s true. And it hangs there between you, heavy and undeniable.

The silence that follows is thick. Stretching. Bruising.

Then, just when you think he might finally say something that unravels everything all over again, he gestures to the bag he’s still clutching like it might anchor him to the floor.

“I brought soup,” he says, voice low and awkward. “And real tea—the kind you like. Not the grocery store crap. And, um… a roll of gauze. The soft kind. I remembered you said the hospital ones made you break out, and I thought…”

He trails off, unsure, like he’s realizing mid-sentence how pitiful it all sounds when laid bare.

You blink, hard. Trying to keep the tears in their lane.

“You brought first aid and soup?”

He nods, half a breath catching in his throat. “Yeah. I didn’t know what else you’d let me give you.”

There’s a beat.

A heartbeat.

Then it hits you.

That’s what undoes you—not the apology, not the fact that he told her, not even the way he’s looking at you like he’s seeing a ghost he never believed he’d get to touch again. It’s the soup. It’s the gauze. It’s the goddamn tea. It’s the way Jack Abbot always came bearing supplies when he didn’t know how to offer himself.

You sink down onto the couch too fast, knees buckling like your body can’t hold the weight of all the things you’ve swallowed just to stay upright this week.

Elbows on your thighs. Face in your hands.

Your voice breaks as it comes out:

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

It’s not rhetorical. It’s not flippant.

It’s shattered. Exhausted. Full of every version of love that’s ever let you down. And he knows it.

And for a long, breathless moment—you don’t move.

Jack walks over. Kneels down. His hands hover, not touching, just there.

You look at him, eyes full of every scar he left you with. “You said you'd come back once. You didn’t.”

“I came back late,” he says. “But I’m here now. And I’m staying.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t promise me that unless you mean it.”

“I do.”

You shake your head, hard, like you’re trying to physically dislodge the ache from your chest. 

“I’m still mad,” you say, voice cracking.

Jack doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to defend himself. He just nods, slow and solemn, like he’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. “You’re allowed to be,” he says quietly. “I’ll still be here.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t trust you,” you whisper, and it tastes like blood in your mouth—like betrayal and memory and all the nights you cried yourself to sleep because he was halfway across the world and you still loved him anyway.

“I know,” he says. “Then let me earn it.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your whole body is trembling—not with rage, but with grief. With the ache of wanting something so badly and being terrified you’ll never survive getting it again.

Jack moves slowly. Doesn’t close the space between you entirely, just enough. Enough that his hand—rough and familiar—reaches out and rests on your knee. His palm is warm. Grounding. Careful.

Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense. But you don’t pull away.

You couldn’t if you tried.

His voice drops even lower, like if he speaks any louder, the whole thing will break apart.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he says.

He pauses. Swallows hard. His eyes glisten in the low light.

“I put the ring in a drawer. Told her the truth. That I’m in love with someone else. That I’ve always been.”

You look up, sharply. “You told her that?”

He nods. Doesn’t blink. “She said she already knew. That she’d known for a long time.”

Your chest tightens again, this time from something different. Not anger. Not pain. Something that hurts in its truth.

He goes on. And this part—this part wrecks him.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmurs. “She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to love someone who only ever gave her the version of himself that was pretending to be healed.”

You don’t interrupt. You just watch him come undone. Gently. Quietly.

“She was kind,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Good. Steady. The kind of person who makes things simple. Who doesn’t expect too much, or ask questions when you go quiet. And even with all of that—even with the life we were building—I couldn’t stop waiting for the sound of your voice.”

You blink hard, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

“I’d check my phone,” he continues. “At night. In the morning. In the middle of conversations. I’d look out the window like maybe you’d just… show up. Like the universe owed me one more shot. One more chance to fix the thing I broke when I walked away from the one person who ever made me feel like home.”

You can’t stop crying now. Quiet tears. The kind that come when there’s nothing left to scream.

“I hated you,” you whisper. “I hated you for a long time.”

He nods, eyes on yours. “So did I.”

And somehow, that’s what softens you.

Because you can’t hate him through this. You can’t pretend this version of him isn’t bleeding too.

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he says, “Not all at once. Just… let me sit with you. Let me hold space. Let me remind you who I was—who I could be—if you let me stay this time.”

And god help you—some fragile, tired, still-broken part of you wants to believe him.

“If I say yes... if I let you in again...”

He waits. Doesn’t breathe.

“You don’t get to leave next time,” you whisper. “Not without looking me in the eye.”

Jack nods.

“I won’t.”

You reach for his hand. Lace your fingers together.And for the first time since everything shattered—You let yourself believe he might stay.

𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑃𝑡．1

𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑦 𝑆ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑏𝑦 𝑥 𝐴𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑒 𝑆𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑛’𝑠

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦；𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑦 𝑆ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝑇𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑦 𝑆ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑏𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑎 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑠ℎ 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑙 𝑖𝑛 𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛. 𝑠ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑛. 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟. 𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑙. 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑑𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑡. 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑎 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟. 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑝𝑢𝑡 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦.

When she was young all Dorothy wanted to do was to make her farther proud of her. When he came home from war. It was like the little girl had turned in to a complete stranger. She would draw him pictures only to later find them in the bin. She tried everything. She always did well in school but none of it was never enough for him.

So soon enough the young girl stood trying. She didn’t even speak with her so called farther. Dorothy couldn’t remember a time when the two of them had a conversation. She would watch the way John was with his children. How he would swing Katie around and cuddle her. She often imagined that her dad would do that to her.

But that day never came. And now here she was. in an all girls boarding school. She only had a few months of school left. She hated the place. It was filled with nuns. And there was one strange perverted priest. But Dorothy managed to keep out of trouble. Her quietness kept her away from most of the cruel punishments.

She did have to admit. That the place was incredibly lonely. She had no friends. And she didn’t receive any mail on Fridays like the rest of the girls. And Fridays were the days that Dorothy would spend on her own in her bedroom crying. She just wanted someone to write to her. Ask her if she was ok. Ask her how she was doing.

She just longed for one little letter. And then she received one. But it was far from the one she expected. It was an investment to her farther’s wedding. No are you ok? No. How are you? Just a shot in invitation. ‘𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑑𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑇𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑆ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝐵𝑢𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑛𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑆𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟’ that was in four days. And all Dorothy wanted to do was to shove the invitation down her farther’s throat.

But the young woman chose to be civilised and decided to attend. She had taken the train to Birmingham and she would probably call a taxi from the train stations public phone. She had worn one of her best dresses. And she had gotten her hair cut. Her hair was nearly down her back when she was fourteen and now she had it cut to her shoulders with pretty curls.

She had changed a lot in four years. She looked nothing like she did when she had first left for London. And her voice was very much different. Her words always sounded very smart. And she had a strong posh London accent. She no longer sounded as rough as she once did and Dorothy quite liked the change.

She wanted to leave every thing that reminded her of her last life. She watched out of the window as the taxi pulled up to the church. It was large. She saw some men standing out side smoking a cigarette. She had arrived ten minutes early. But it seemed as though she was not the only one which put her mind at ease lightly.

As Dorothy exited the car she handed the money over to the man bidding him a fair well. The young woman made her way over to the church noticing some of the men smoking their cigarettes outside staring at her. They were wearing cavalry uniforms which confused her. She remembered how much her family hated the cavalry.

A lot has changed. She gripped her small purse in her hands. As she walked through the doors of the church. The rows were full and Dorothy could see her farther stood at the front with her uncle. Dorothy walked quickly hoping that they did not notice her. And just her luck they did not. She took a seat next to a large man with a beard. He did seem to mind as she sat down.

She noticed Finn in the corner of her eye looking at her. The two of them were once close. Dorothy would often comfort Finn after he had had a nightmare or when he had been told of for being naughty and he was yelled at. The two of them were friends. Well that was what Dorothy thought until she went a month without a single letter from anyone.

Dorothy looked away from the boys eyes. She also noticed the man next to her starring at her. She felt a soft pink colour paint her cheeks. Dorothy had chosen to sit further away down the church as the family of the groom and bride were sat. She wasn't ready for any awkward confrontations yet.

She turned to look at the man she was seated next to. He was much taller than her self. His face had some scars on it. He seemed rather friendly in his body language. But he hadn't spoken to her. And Dorothy understood. She was a stranger and so was he to her. So she didn't bother to engage in to small talk.

The church looked beautiful and elegant. And her family all looked to be wearing expensive clothes which was very different to what they wore when Dorothy lived with them. She felt out of place. Her dress was cheep and she had bought it in a small boutique in town. She shrunk down in her chair. Now Embarrassed of the way she was dressed.

It felt like they were all going forward and they were just leaving her behind. And she was just like some kind of dead weight. A young man came around with the lyrics of the songs that they would sing in church. The man next to her didn’t accept the paper. But Dorothy smiled taking it from the young man’s hands.

Of course with four years of church every day. Dorothy practically new every word of the songs. But the young boy looked scared from talking to the man next to her. So she thought she should be kind. And it seemed to work. The young boy looked more relieved as he returned the kind smile to Dorothy. And carried on handing the slips of paper to the rest of the people.

As the church choir sang in the bleak midwinter. Everyone sat in silence. And soon Jeremiah Jesus came forward graces side looked disgusted with the fact that their was a man of colour who would marry grace and Tomas. But Jeremiah didn’t let that bother him as he walked forward taking his place at the stand.

And then the music began to play. Dorothy and the rest were all waiting for grace to come down the isle. She looked around at the rest of the family. None of them had noticed her here. And she couldn’t lie she felt really disappointed. She thought that at least one of them would have noticed her being at the bloody wedding.

And then grace came out from behind the door with her farther holding her hand as he was dressed in a cavalry uniform. A dark purple vail was placed over her face so nobody could see her face. All of the women on graces side of the family all fussed over about how lovely she looked. But the Shelby women didn’t look very happy. Dorothy wasn’t really bothered.

Tommy removed the vail off of his future wife’s face. They both smiled at one another. Before they both turned towards Jeremiah Jesus. Waiting for him to marry the couple. Dorothy heard the man at the side of her let out a unhappy grunt. Dorothy turned to look at him. He was also looking at her. Making the young woman blush as she turned back around.

“Dearly beloved, we are all gathered here today to join together in holy matrimony. Tomas Michael Shelby and Grace Helen Burgess. Do you Tomas Michael Shelby, Take Grace Helen Burgess to be your lawfully wedded wife ?” Jeremiah asked her father. And he turned to look at grace. “I do” he said proudly.

“Do You Grace Helen Burges. Solemnly swear to love, honour, and obey till death do you part. ?” Jeremiah now turned to grace and asked her. And she once again smiled and turned to her soon to be husband. “I do” she smiled saying it with the same pride as tommy did. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And the newly wedded couple brought one an other in for a kiss. Making everyone clap and cheer.

Everyone then made their way out of the church and outside. Dorothy was stood on her own. It was like nobody cared about her. She felt like a fool. As she stood with her purse in her hand. She just wished that she could go home. She watched as the two family’s gathered around for a photo. And heat Dorothy was not in it.

She watched as they all smiled together. Tommy and grace then climbed in to their carriage to drive to their home. She turned to see the man she was sat next to in the church standing besides her. “Who are you then.” His voice was rough and his frame was much larger than hers. But Dorothy sent him a soft sad smile.

“Dorothy but it’s not like anyone remembers” she said sadly looking at the man as she played with the purse in her hands. The man studied her. And he looked at her confused. He clearly didn’t understand her answer but he didn’t bother to question her which she was great full for.

“Ay been there. You need a lift.” He asked when he noticed she hadn’t come with anyone and women were not allowed to drive so she wouldn’t be able to get to Arrow house. Dorothy gave the man a genuine smile. No longer sad.

“If you really don’t mind.” Dorothy said. Her voice was soft. She was sweet. And there weren’t many people like that anymore and Alfie could tell that there was something wrong. And he didn’t want to engage In awkward small talk with his driver. When Alfie just wanted to blow his fucking brains out.

“Ay. Not at all” alfie said walking towards his car with Dorothy following behind him. Finn watched from the steps of the church. He knew he had to tell Tommy. He didn’t trust Alfie and he really didn’t trust Alfie around Dorothy. She didn’t know about the business that Tommy and Alfie had. So she was vulnerable.

Alfie opens the door for Dorothy and gave her his hand helping her inside the car. She sat down on the right side of the car. Tucking her purse in at her side. The driver gave Alfie a questioning look. But Alfie just nodded at him to drive.

“Who are you then. I’ve given you my name.” Dorothy smiled. At Alfie who nodded his head at her words. He was nervous that she would know who he was. And be scared of him. His name was well known. And many people already feared him.

“Alfie, Alfie Solomons” he told her leaning back in his seat in the car. His name sounded familiar. But Dorothy couldn’t exactly put her finger on it so she just left it. And shrugged it off and smiled at him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you mr Solomons, so what are you doing at my dads wedding?.” Dorothy asked. Not noticing the shocked look on Alfie’s face as the words came out of her mouth. But he tried to keep his cool.

“Me and tommy. We’re business partners. Didn’t know he had a a girl. Thought it was just the little one.” He said as he stared at Dorothy who’s expression suddenly changed. She looked sad. Really sad.

“Yeah, I was sent away. For school in London. I don’t even think he remembers me. I don’t think anyone does.” She said sadly looking down at her hands with a sigh. Now Alfie felt bad. And that was a rare thing. Alfie never felt sorry for people. Not even for himself.

“Maybe that’s a good thing ay. You don’t want to be with them. Bunch a bastards if ya ask me.” Alfie said his voice rough as he placed his top hat on his head. Dorothy giggled at his comment finding him funny as he cheered her up. Maybe this whole wedding wouldn’t be so bad.

“I suppose your right.” She laughed. Alfie watched as she did. The way the dimples on her cheeks became more visible and he got to see her beautiful hazel doe eyes. As the car pulled up to arrow house. Cars were all over the place and Alfie ordered his driver to pull up right at the door. And then to park the car once him and Dorothy were gone.

“Wait there” he told her with his thick London accent as he got out of the car. Dorothy did as he had said and remained in her seat. She was not sure as to why. But she did not bother to question him. Then her door opened and their Alfie stood with his hand out for Dorothy to hold so it was easy for her to exit the car.

The young woman smiled at him taking his hand in to hers. As she jumped down from the car. She thanked him as she strained her dress down. And Alfie’s hand left hers. So she used both of her hands to hold on to her bag. Her and Alfie walked in to the large home.

It was beautiful. This was far from what Dorothy remembered living in. She remembered a small home. With stained walls. And dirty floors. And this. This was amazing. She felt so left out. While she was still learning how to cook and clean. Everyone else was living life to the fullest.

But underneath her and Alfie. There was a meeting. And her name might just come up. Tommy took of his jacket with a cigarette hanging from his lips. As John and Arthur finally appeared on the stairs. Finn was eating whatever he could get his hands in and all of the other peaky boys made their way in to the room.

“Right boys, you’re all here. Today is my fucking wedding day.” Tommy was about to carry on with his speech before John interrupted him. “Yeah and you said. There’d be no bloody uniforms” John told his older brother angrily.

“Nevertheless… nevertheless, John…despite the bad blood, I’ll have none of it in my carpet. Now for graces sake, nothing will go wrong. Those bastards out there are her family. And if you fuckers do anything to embarrass her, your kin, your cousins, your horses, your fucking kids. You do anything…” Tommy said in an angry rage once again before he was once again rudely interrupted.

“Tom?” Isaiah said and tommy turned to look at him his face still angry. “What about snow?” He asked curiously. “Yeah their women are sports I’ll say that…” John laughed bringing Isaiah in to a head lock. Scratching his scalp making the younger boy laugh.

“No. No. No. no cocaine. No cocaine. No sport. No telling fortunes. No racing. No fucking sucking petrol out of their fucking cars. And, you Charlie, stop spinning yarns about me, eh? “ tommy told everyone of the men individually.

“I’m just trying to sell you to them. Tom.” Charlie told his nephew. Finn was wondering when he should tell Tommy about Dorothy and the fact that Alfie was trying to get close to her. He knew that Tommy wouldn’t be happy. But then again Tommy hadn’t seen the girl in four years and no one other than Finn recognised her anyway.

“But the main thing is, you bunch of fuckers, desire the provocation from the cavalry. No fighting, Oi! No fighting. No fucking fighting. No fighting. No fucking fighting.!” Tommy shouted at the men as he went and stood next to Arthur until a male maid bumped in to him. Tommy pushed the man to the floor. “Get the fuck off me!” And then Arthur through a glass at him.

“Tom. Dolly’s here. But she’s all different her hair it’s short and she’s well she’s wearing a dress.” Finn said out loud. All of the men turned ti look at him. Clearly shocked that Dorothy was here. Tommy looked the most shocked. He didn’t think she would really come. Especially after he had been a massive dick. He hadn’t written her a single letter. No one had. She spent four years off her life by herself. And now tommy was having to come to terms with all of his guilt.

Tommy didn’t say anything as he left the kitchen and back out to the party in the home. He searched around for a young woman matched the description of what Finn had told him dolly now looked like. But what he saw was not what he wanted.

His daughter sat with Alfie fucking Solomons

You Know Where You Are 1/3

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!Musician!Reader Angst/Established Relationship Part II | Part III

The Pitt Playlist located here The Pitt Masterlist

Synopsis: Dr. Robby's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day started before he even made it to PTMC. He was supposed to go to Pittfest to support his girlfriend's band with Jake, but decided to flake and give his ticket to Jake's girlfriend. You are less than thrilled with his lack of communication. Word Count: 965 Content Warning: Arguing; Reader is in her 30's A/N: This will be a three-parter.

“Why is an alarm going off?” You grumbled into Robby’s warm chest as the jingle from his phone repeated itself. Robby groaned as he reached over to the nightstand to turn it off. He was silent for a few beats, his other hand coming up to rub your back gently. “Mikey?”

“I’m goin’ in today.” He mumbled into the crown of your head. 

“You’re what?” Sitting up in a hurry, you pushed yourself off him, but kept your eyes pinpointed on his. Michael was looking anywhere else in the room but at you. “No. No, Mike! You said you weren’t going to do this.”

“I know.” He responded gently, his eyes breaking from yours. 

“You know.” Scoffing, you started to get off the bed, but was stopped by his hand gently grabbing your thigh, squeezing it in a way that told you he did not want this to get blown into an argument. Not today. “What about Jake? You can’t just ditch him.”

“Giving him my pass for his girlfriend. They’ll have a blast and apparently she’s a huge fan of you guys.” He tried to soften the blow. All it did was build the irritation that was growing inside of you. 

“And me?” Your question hung in the air.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Absolutely not.” Gently prying his hand off your leg, you stood and threw on some random clothes he had in the second drawer that housed various t-shirts, jeans and leggings that you’d left over time. “Genuinely don’t know what I was expecting.” You muttered under your breath as you pulled a t-shirt over your head.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He had the nerve to sound indignant.

“It means that I am a very reasonable person who rolls with the punches when it comes to you, but god forbid something on my end -pre planned well in advance, mind you- is important to me and it gets thrown by the wayside.”

“Today is-” You held up your hand to stop him. 

“-I know what today is.” Your voice took on a somber tone. “And I am so incredibly sorry that you have to carry this with you, Mike. I am. I love you and I support you wholeheartedly, but you obviously knew you were going to do this well before this morning and you chose not to tell me. A heads up is all that I’m asking for here.”

“Had I known missing this set was going to be a huge deal-”

“It’s not about the set!” Your voice rose. “I don’t care about the set, Mike! My life is set after set. I cared about spending time with you and Jake. The set is an hour out of my day. Both of us are stupidly busy people with demanding careers who don’t get to see a whole lot of each other outside of some quick takeout and going to bed -if we’re even in the same state!” It wasn’t meant to be a jab, but Robby felt it all the same. 

“You’ve never had a problem with me having to cancel for work.” His voice was starting to get an irritated tone to it, one that you knew he knew he was wrong, but was doubling down. 

“That’s not what this is!” You snapped, “I’m not mad because you get called in to work, Mike! You did this on purpose. They didn’t call you in, you are choosing to go in on a day that you already arranged to have off for no other reason than you won’t communicate!” He winced -you don’t communicate was repeated like a broken record through just about every failed relationship he had. “I don’t understand how you don’t see why I’m frustrated with this and, quite frankly, it’s pissing me off even more than I was to begin with because I can’t tell if you know what you’re doing or if this is just a defensive reflex!”

Grabbing your phone off the nightstand on your side, you sighed when you saw how early it actually was. Deciding that removing yourself from Mike’s townhouse was the best option so you could cool off without figuratively ripping his head from his body, you grabbed your purse off his dresser. 

“Where are you going?” Mike stood from the bed, pajama pants hanging low in his hips. There was clear panic in his eyes, but he couldn’t navigate himself out of the hole he had dug himself. 

“Back to my place.” You didn’t bother to untie your sneakers as you shoved your feet into them, pulling roughly until they popped on. 

“Come on,” He said your name softly, “-please just get back into bed-”

“Why?” You snapped, “You’re getting ready for work and I don’t have a reason to be here right now.” Mike winced, then inhaled deeply before nodding -not to agree with you, but to process the words that you just said to him. 

“You don’t need a reason to be here.” He was nearly begging. You bit your bottom lip to keep yourself from going off the deep end. 

“Fine, I don’t want to be here.” You ground out. And truthfully, you didn’t. Anger was a rarity coming from you -life happens- but this wasn’t “life happens”. This was “Robby happens” and when Robby happens...you shook your head. 

“You coming back here tonight?” He knew it was a long shot, but he asked anyway. 

“You know, Mike…” You shrugged, exasperated, arms swinging out from your sides, “-probably not.” Done with the conversation you left the bedroom, angry that this was how the day -a day that was supposed to be fun and a distraction from the shit Mike deals with- started in a fiery blaze. 

“Don’t-” Not bothering to hear his response as you fled through the townhouse, you let the door slam closed behind you. 

Part II

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Vigilante Shit // Bradley Bradshaw

A series Masterlist

Series Summary: Bradley Bradshaw broke your heart five years ago when he made it abundantly clear that he couldn’t support how selfishly dedicated you needed to be in order to chase your law degree. Five years on and you’re representing Bradley’s soon to be ex-wife…..and you’re just about willingly to do anything to ruin his life.

Series Warnings: Ex reader x Bradley Bradshaw. Revengeful, spiteful Reader. Hero Complex Jake Seresin x Reader. Rated R themes (smut) ANGST!

Prologue: {Karma} What’s funnier than finding out the love of your life is getting divorced? Representing the clearly disgruntled soon to be ex-wife.

Tags 🏷️ (Open)

Abbot x F!Reader!

Cw: angst, misunderstandings but happy ending! Age gap mentioned but not specific

While you and Abbot hadn’t exactly put a name on it, you had felt pretty secure in your place in his life.

Did it still hurt he wouldn’t put a name on it or meet the people in your life? Or let you meet his?

Yes — but you knew it was for a reason. He needed time, time to realize it was okay to move on after his late wife. The age-gap was also a small part on his hesitation but it seemed less and less noticeable with each passing day.

There was a drawer of your things at his, and his twelve days off were always with you. You knew him, inside and out after a year of, whatever this was. He needed time to be ready, and call it what it was; a relationship and you knew the wait would be worth it for a man like Abbot.

So when you see his phone light up when he was in the bathroom after dinner, you were surprised to see a text that knocked the wind out of you.

“I had a wonderful time yesterday Jack! I’m thinking that wine bar I told you about for our second date? ;)”

Date?? A date?? What.. you can’t help but think as your hands shake. You open the text and see a profile photo of a beautiful women. She was older, around his age for sure but elegant. She was the type of woman no one would bat an eye at if they were together.

You quicky tossed the phone down, unable to bring your self to read their texts.

So he was ready to date.. just not with you, you think as bile comes up your throat. You rush to gather your things as tears threaten to spill, unable to take being in his home any longer.

You hear him come out as your getting your to leave.

“Sweetheart? Where you going? What’s going on” Abbot can see your shoulders shaking, concerns downs him as he realizes your in tears.

“Love, slow down, what’s going on”

He reaches for you and you can’t help but flinch away, making him pause and step back.

“Sweethea..”

You cut him off, not wanting to hear anymore lies.

“Cindy seems pretty excited about your second date. Funny, didn’t realize you were single. You should probably respond”, you barely manage to get out, as you rush out.

“Y/n” you hear him calling for you but you refuse to listen.

You were so stupid. So so stupid to believe his lies.

——

Jack rests his head in his hands, unsure of what to do next. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he can’t help but think.

His life was complicated, after his wife died. He thought he died with her, even with therapy, Robby, and his friends. The nights and ER were his only comforts, until he met you.

You. Who made him want to see the day again. Made him want to try again and boy did that make him feel guilty. Even more so with how kind, understanding and sweet you were. Never caring about his leg, his hesitation, or age gap.

He didn’t cheat on you nor think he was single. Dana had wanted to meet for lunch, probably to tell him to put himself out there again and instead it was her friend, Cindy, who showed up.

He stayed to be kind and now he’s mentally kicking himself for doing it, for not telling the people in his life about you, his sweet girl.

She had gotten his number through Dana and Jack can only imagine what you were thinking and going through. He had put you through more than you deserved and now he had to fix this fast, before he lost you too.

——

Running back to your place might have been cowardly but you didn’t care. You had spent a year of your life with Jack Abbot and now it’s was all falling apart.

You curl up in your bed, unable to stop the tears as you feel like hours go by. No contact from Jack, no Abbot, which hurts you more. Tears roll down as you sniffle, when suddenly you feel a large hand on your body, making you still.

“Oh sweetheart please, please I’m sorry for breaking in but please. Let me explain, please baby” his voice sings to you, as he gently rubs your back to soothes you. Coaxing you up to look at his handsome face.

Your eyes red, teary and wet. Jacks heart squeezes as he gazes at you.

“What do you want.” You bite out, anger rushing through you.

“It’s not what you think” Jack says as he gently holds your hands in his, “please just listen to me”.

He explains everything, how Dana set it up thinking she was helping, how he stayed to be polite and regrets it, even more so as she got his number later. How he should have told you immediately and regrets his actions, how they’ve hurt you and him.

You stare at him, as he opens his heart to you. A part of you wants to forget and forgive but another, wants to know what this really means for you.

“What am I to you jack? I’m tired. I’m tired of being a secret and I don’t want to pressure you. So please, where do we go from here” you tearfully sniffle out.

Jack moves closer to you in the bed, and takes your face into his hand. His lips brush softly against yours, as he whispers “no more hiding, you’re mine and I love you”, before going in to deepen the kiss.

“I love you too”

——

“Wait a minute, did you break my door locks???”

well…yes.

---

Miscellaneous

*= NSFW/NSFW(ish)

Sons of Anarchy

Strip that Down - by @recklesslonelyblond ~ Chibs

Half-Ass - by @basickassandra ~ Tig

* Dirty Talk - by @underratedcharactersimagines ~ Preference

Crush - ^^^ ~ Chibs

Pregnant - ^^^ ~ Chibs

Your Daughter Calls Tig Dad For the First Time - by @samcroimagine ~ Tig (I know it’s 2 years old but I have a weakness)

Dating Tig - by @imagine-samcro ~ Tig (Again 2 years old but It’s too cute)

Little Avocado - by @wombatwrites ~ Happy

How He Kisses You - by @differentandrebel ~ Preference

NCIS

A Bath Shared is A Problem Solved - by @spaceemonkeyyxd ~ Gibbs

Game of Thrones

Tormund Imagine - by @thranduilsperkybutt ~ Tormund

Failed Proposal … Times Three - by @megsironthrone ~ Jaime

Star Trek

Jumping to Conclusions - by @writingwithadinosaur ~ Bones

Plan Z - by @mybullshitsensesaretingling ~ Spock

Sleeping Preference - by @lots-of-character-imagines

Trouble Sleeping - iguess-theyre-mymess ~ Jim

Knew I Loved You Then - by @kaitymccoy123 ~ Scotty

Criminal Minds

Risky Actions by @readyreadywriteywritey ~ Hotch

Training Day - by @reidbyers ~ JJ

* Shower Sex - by @of-badges-and-guns ~ Hotch

I Needed to Hear Your Voice - by @lucifersagents ~ Morgan

Supernatural

* Sinful Sunday Drabble - by @kittenofdoomage ~ Gadreel

* Sinful Sunday Drabble - ^^^ ~ Benny

My Lords and Ladies - ^^^ ~ Charlie

Drabble - by @girl-next-door-writes ~ Crowley

* Bliss - by @atari-writes ~ Benny

Other

* NSFW Alphabet - by @atari-writes ~ Grady Travis (Fury)

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