Archive of Our Own

The middle of August in Pittsburgh wasn’t for the faint of heart. It most certainly wasn’t the time to be carrying boxes from a U-haul into a three story townhouse. Samira had been working all summer at the VA ED and moving was not part of her plans. After her rotation at the Presby ED, she was certain she wanted to go into emergency medicine. With the help of one of her professors, she had laid out a plan to get as much first-hand experience as possible over the rest of the year. She had been balancing school with her research, so when the summer started, despite what most people thought, she was glad to get a small break from studying and actually be of help at the VA. She was even lucky to have found a great mentor in Dr. Al-Hashimi, who had taken an interest in her research. So Samira wasn’t happy that she’d have to use one of her days off on this whole moving debacle.

Samira had been living with her roommates, Trinity and Mel, since she was a first-year med student. Despite their different personalities, they had become close friends after the first few months together. Initially, Samira hadn’t wanted to live with other med students - she thought she was neurotic enough on her own and didn’t need that energy amplified at home - but when she saw a post in the University of Pittsburgh Grad Students Facebook group, we promise we’re not that kind of med student, we just need a third roommate to be able to afford this place, she decided it was worth at least meeting the girls for coffee.

Trinity identified as a lesbian who doesn’t do relationships, liked to lift in her free time, and had already decided she was going into surgery. Mel was softer, loved fantasy books, and was looking to live with roommates to save money so she could afford her sister’s care facility. When they met at the coffee shop, Samira with her matcha, Trinity with a cold brew, and Mel with a vanilla iced latte, Samira had realized that, beyond med school, they didn’t have much in common. They were a strange group. But Samira hadn’t had the time to build those kinds of friendships during undergrad, and she found herself longing for the sort of connection you can only make when you’re twenty-three and still hoping the world might make space for you. 

Over the years, they had their fair share of encounters, the kind you can only have when you live with someone. One of them would be exhausted and then someone would make the wrong noise at the wrong time. One of them would have a hard exam coming up, and there would be a dish in the sink that had been there for too long. But the issues never escalated beyond some angry stares and slightly raised voices, and Samira appreciated having company when she came home from class, sharing the couch while they all studied in silence.

Samira loved the townhome where they lived. It had two floors, a decently sized kitchen, if the appliances weren’t too old, and the most amazing back porch. During the summer, Trinity liked to show off her grilling skills, and they would all stand next to her because neither of them trusted she wouldn’t set the whole thing on fire. The house came with some furniture that had been passed down from all the tenants before them, and they would sit under the shade and enjoy the food Trinity made. 

The days when it all became too much too soon - when the weight of student loans would creep onto her shoulders, when the certainty that her dad wouldn’t be on the other side of the stage to see who she had become settled in - Samira would stand outside and let herself feel the quiet of the world. In the winter, she would sit with a mug full of hot chocolate and watch the snow fall, usually until Mel would ask her to please come back inside because it was too cold. The back porch had become her safe place in the world.

Which is why Samira couldn’t believe their landlord had sold the house to a management company that hiked up rent so much they had no choice but to look for a new place. 

One Saturday morning in April, the three of them sat down together, picked a mix of townhomes and apartments, and split up the tours to fit their schedules. A few weeks later, when Trinity and Mel came back to find an exhausted Samira after a day full of classes and a meeting with her research advisor, they had tried to show her the videos and pictures of this great place, still close to campus and near the bus stop so Mel can go see Becca. Samira had waved her hands and considered saying yes right then without taking a single look. Her head hurt, she was hungry, and all she wanted was to take a shower and go to bed. There was no room in her brain for any more decisions that day, and she didn’t like the reminder that she would have to leave the one place she felt had become a sort of home to her, as pathetic as that sounded. 

The next morning, sipping the awful coffee from the internal medicine floor where she was doing her rotation, Samira looked through the pictures and decided that this new place would be fine. It didn’t have a back porch, but the front porch was big enough for a small table and some chairs. The townhouse was bigger than their current place, three floors with two bathrooms, which Samira hoped would help ease some of the most pressing issues they’d had. They all liked to shower at night to wash the hospital off them, which early on became an issue with just one bathroom.

The kitchen was a bit more modern, finally no more white fridge, and even had what probably was a fake granite island. The living room was small, but it would still fit their couch and a shelf or two to keep their books. Mel and Trinity had claimed the bedrooms on the second floor, leaving Samira with the room all the way on the third floor. She didn’t mind the stairs. If she was honest, she was actually grateful to have a spot where she could hide. The bedroom was just big enough for a bed and a desk, but it had a bay window that let in plenty of natural light and an okay sized closet. She tried to convince herself that she’d be able to make this new place her home too.

Without overthinking it anymore, she texted Trinity and Mel to ask if they could sign the lease that day.

Samira knew that if she had explained to Dr. Al-Hashimi the whole I can’t afford to live at my place anymore, so I have to move right before the busiest year of my life situation, she’d probably have gotten the day off to move at the same time as Trinity and Mel. That would have allowed her to split the cost of a truck and get extra sets of hands to make the move easier. But Samira didn’t want to ask for the day off. So here she was, on a Thursday night, pulling up in a U-Haul van she was more afraid to drive than she’d admit, staring into the furniture that had to be carried all the way to the third floor.

Trinity and Mel had taken care of moving everything from the common areas, with Trinity’s friends from her lifting club handling the heavy work. Samira promised she would cook a big meal for all of them once they were settled as a thank you. 

She didn’t own that much; her clothes, packed in a mix of trash bags and a suitcase, a few boxes with decorations and art, and her books. She had been able to get most of the stuff up into her room in the past hour. But she also had an Ikea desk she’d gotten off Facebook Marketplace years ago, a queen-sized mattress, and a bed frame. She had considered selling everything that was too big and buying it again, but she really couldn’t justify it. So after she had carried all the boxes up to the third floor, with her white UPenn shirt soaked in sweat, her biker shorts clinging to her more than she’d like, and her curls sticking to her face, she found herself staring into what was left and seriously reconsidered the idea of selling all her furniture.

“I don’t think anyone has proven telekinesis to actually be a thing yet.” 

Samira almost hit her back against the door of the van before abruptly turning around to see where the voice was coming from. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Jack Abbot, I live next door. I met your roommates earlier this week. They mentioned someone else was still moving in. I was just going to go inside, but I saw you when I left for the gym 2 hours ago and…” He said as he gestured with his hands towards the back of the van. She can almost feel the pity on his voice.

Samira hadn’t had much time to date during college. She hadn’t really thought dating was worth any of her already limited free time. She’d become close with a guy named Lucas from California in her biochemistry study group, and one night she decided he was a perfectly nice guy to lose her virginity to and move on with her life. So she asked him out on a date, which took him by surprise, but he accepted. He chose a ramen spot, paid for their food, and then took her back to his off-campus apartment. He was nice and gentle, constantly asking if every touch was okay. 

Samira didn’t mind it, and while she wasn’t able to come, she sort of understood why people went to great lengths just to have sex. It felt nice to be touched. It felt even nicer to feel wanted. When Lucas asked her out on a second date and she declined, she could see the hurt in his eyes. She explained that while she’d had a lovely time, she wasn’t looking to focus on anything other than school at the moment, and she hoped they could still be friends. 

While her knowledge of men was limited, she knew they rarely took rejection well. But Lucas had, and they had stayed friends through the rest of undergrad. Eventually, he went to med school back in California, and every once in a while she’d swipe up on his Instagram stories just to see how he was doing, and he’d do the same.

Despite keeping up her habit of not dating during med school, Samira wasn’t dumb. She’d found herself staring a little too long at some of Trinity’s friends with their big muscles, or laughing a little too hard at the jokes the barista at the campus coffee shop made. Samira knew she was very attracted to men, but she had no real desire to act on it beyond what her imagination could provide when she was restless and couldn’t fall asleep.

She hadn’t even needed to turn around to know that the man speaking to her was hot. Like, really hot. The sun had finally gone down, leaving only the streetlights, which were bright enough to let Samira take a full look at Jack. He was wearing black sneakers and black sweatpants, and what had once probably been considered a graphic tee but now looked like the kind of shirt you’d only use to sleep in. He wasn’t short, but he wasn’t tall either. His eyes were relaxed, and his beard wasn’t too grown. 

She wouldn’t call him old, but she figured he’d have to be at least in his forties, something she might’ve not noticed if it weren’t for the gray in his hair, pushed back and shiny from the sweat. He was holding a green Gatorade plastic bottle, and she could see the veins on his forearms. 

“I was hoping it might just… ascend. On its own,” she said with a dry chuckle and a shy smile. “I’m Samira Mohan. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they’ve invented furniture that does that yet.” He responded with a big smile and some hesitation. “Want some help? I know I just creeped out on you, but I do promise I just live next door and would rather avoid you being out here all night with half of your stuff in the open. This neighborhood is as safe as it gets in the city… but it is still in the city” Jack continued with a small frown in his face and taking a sip of his water.

“I - you really don’t have to. I don’t want to take time off your night”. 

“Okay,” he said, “what’s your plan to get all of this inside?”

Samira has known Jack for a total of maybe three minutes, but she can hear the amusement in his voice. He also has a certain look in his eyes, like a teacher who’s waiting for a student to get to the right answer. A part of her thinks he might actually be enjoying this. Samira doesn’t really like to ask for help. If she had, she probably wouldn’t be here in the first place. Maybe if she tells him she’s actually about to sell all of her furniture and embark on a minimalistic journey, he’ll just laugh and leave. 

Samira looks at him, then at the van, and then back at him again. 

“I’ll take the help,” she says, climbing into the van and grabbing the edge of her mattress covered in plastic, “but I’d like the record to state that I did actually try.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Samira,” he replies with a smile, setting his water bottle down on the sidewalk.

She doesn’t have time to think about how the sound of her name coming from his lips makes her feel before she feels the other end of the mattress lift. 

By the time they’re done, it’s been almost an hour, and her room feels very small, full with boxes and furniture that still need to be moved around. As they head back down the stairs, Samira thanks him and promises to drop off some cookies once she figures out where all the baking trays are. Making her way up the porch steps, Trinity notices Jack, and in a second that lasts a little too long, lifts an eyebrow at Samira before speaking.

“Oh, hey. I see you met Jack. I was going to tell you, but I’ve been running on caffeine and stress all week. I really can’t wait for the summer.”

Before Samira can respond, Jack cuts in.

“Yeah, I was just helping Samira with some of her stuff,” he says. “I’m going to go now, but you know where to find me if there’s anything you need help with. I’m friends with the landlord and would gladly kick her ass if you’re having any trouble.”

With that, he steps off the porch and disappears back into his house.

Samira hadn’t been paying much attention earlier, trying to balance lifting furniture, not tripping on the sidewalk, and occasionally letting her eyes linger on Jack’s biceps. Now, she can clearly see that his house is literally next door, separated only by a narrow alleyway.

“I wish I'd bet Mel those $15 that you’d find him hot”, Trinity says as they head back inside from the porch. 

“What? No, that’s not -” Samira starts, but Trinity cuts her off as she drops her backpack onto the floor between boxes and collapses on the couch. 

“Dude, you are all flustered, and I’ve never seen you stare at someone like that.” Trinity says, pulling out her phone and opening DoorDash. “It’s fine. He’s a hot older guy. I am pretty sure you’re allowed to stare a little.”

“I’m flustered because I’ve been carrying shit up and down these stairs for hours,” Samira says, sitting beside her. “I - I mean, yeah he’s hot, but he’s old, and for all I know he has a wife and kids waiting for him at home. He was probably just being nice and didn’t want to have to call an ambulance after my desk collapsed on me or something.”

“Yeah, no kids and no wife,” Trinity replies. “Mel had, like, a whole conversation with him the other day. Anyway, what do you want for dinner? I have no idea where the pots and pans are, but I’m starving.” 

Jack Abbott had been living in his rowhome for over ten years. After losing his wife, he hadn’t been able to step foot in the house they’d shared outside of Pittsburgh. He paid a lot of money to a service that packed up all of his things, paid even more money to put all of Amy’s belongings into a storage unit, and then bought the place that was for sale next door to his best friend’s house.

Emery Walsh had really made a case for him to the previous owner, and if she’d thrown in the veteran widower card, then sue her. She was going to keep an eye on Jack for as long as he needed it. And he had needed it.

A few years later, Walsh married a fellow surgeon, and instead of selling the house she’d inherited from an aunt, she decided to keep it and rent it out to med students for as cheap as possible. Something about paying it forward, or some dumb shit like that, she said. What that meant was that every few years, a new group of students would move in, and Jack would be forced to play nice all over again. 

He didn’t advertise that he was a doctor. He didn’t need some stressed-out kid knocking on his door, but eventually they’d see him in scrubs and put two and two together. He’d like to think that he was always polite, and on more than one occasion, he’d fill in as the handyman, stopping by to fix a leaking faucet or running toilet. Jack’s way of paying Emery back for all the help she’d thrown his way, or some dumb shit like that, he said.

When the last group moved out, a part of him was almost sad. The three guys had moved in two years earlier, and he’d grown used to the loud music on weekends and the occasional yelling whenever the Steelers were playing. They were always nice and often asked if he wanted a beer when they were hanging out front. Jack had declined the first few times, assuming they were just being nice or would only want to talk about med school. Eventually, after a particularly rough week at work, he decided to accept the invite. At worst, he’d get a beer out of it.

To his surprise, they turned out to be perfectly normal. So when he ran into one of them in April and learned they’d all matched into their specialties, outside of Pittsburgh, he was genuinely happy for them. Even if it meant he’d probably never see them again - and that he’d have to go through the whole process of welcoming new neighbors in a few months.

When Emery told him she was renting the house to three women this time, he was a bit hesitant. Being best friends with a lesbian and working in PTMC’s emergency department had shaped him into what his family would mockingly call quite the feminist. However, he couldn’t help the thought that he might start getting one too many calls from Walsh about something needing repair in the house, something that would probably turn out to be very simple and easily solved with a YouTube video. 

And boy, was he fucking wrong.

In the three months since his neighbors had moved in, Jack hadn’t received a single call. He’d expected at least some issue to come up during the first month, usually after everyone had settled in and started to notice things like a loose doorknob or slow-draining shower.

When he asked Walsh what’s up with your new self-sufficient tenants, in what he hoped came across as a casual check-in, she explained that apparently one of them couldn’t stand waiting for things to be fixed. So she fixed it herself and then sent Walsh the bill.

Jack had laughed and taken a sip of his beer, ready to let the topic drop, until Walsh asked him when he’d started taking such an interest in his neighbors with an amused tone.

The truth was, he really didn’t care more than he had to. It was nice if he got along with them. It was even nicer once they knew he worked the night shift and would only bother him for actual emergencies, like the hot water not working. So naturally, when the new group moved in, he made sure to politely introduce himself then and go on about his life. 

He’d first been taken aback by Trinity, who looked at him with such distrust that made Jack feel like maybe he should have just ignored them altogether. Then he met Mel, who had asked if he lived next door with his wife. He’d gotten used to that question, and most of the time he would simply say he didn’t have a wife and move on, which wasn’t exactly a lie. But something in Mel’s eyes had made him want to be honest, so he explained that his wife had passed away roughly ten years ago, and that he’d moved here around then. Unlike most people, Mel hadn’t grown awkward. She’d just said she was sorry and then promptly moved on to ask about trash pickup days. 

They apologized for taking over the street and sidewalk, and Jack told them he understood - moving was annoying. When they mentioned their other roommate would be arriving later that week, he really didn’t give it a second thought.

If he had known that the other roommate would turn out to be the most beautiful woman he’d seen since he met his wife, he might have stored that information somewhere more carefully, and done everything in his power to avoid crossing paths with her.

Jack was forty-two years old, missing half a leg, and had more therapy sessions behind him than Samira had decades on this earth. He had caught a glimpse of her on his way to the gym and was expecting her to be done by the time he got back. He was covering a day shift the next morning, which would throw his schedule off, so he’d been hoping to exhaust himself and pass out early. When he saw her still standing in front of the U-haul, radiating the energy of someone who was on the verge of setting everything on fire, he felt it was his duty to at least offer some help. 

When she turned around, he immediately regretted it. 

Her cheeks were slightly pink, her brown skin glowing under the streetlights, her dark curls threatening to escape her hair clip. She had a smile so bright it felt like looking directly into the sun. He wasn’t going to take the offer back. He was a gentleman, and if he had to guess, she was a broke med student who couldn’t afford to pay for help with a move.

But at some point, after they were done carrying her desk up the stairs, she lifted her arms above her head to stretch, and he caught himself staring into the strip of exposed skin on her lower back. His eyes dipped lower, lingering on the curve of her ass, hugged by those tight workout shorts that women seemed to live in these days. 

He was a widower, not a priest.

He’d had his fair share of sex in the ten years since his wife died, after the miraculous day his therapy sessions paid off and he’d finally felt ready again. There had been one-night stands. A few steady partners. Years with plenty of sex, and years with none. What he’d never had was the sudden, overwhelming urge to lick every inch of the skin of a woman at least fifteen years younger than him.

He didn’t think there was enough soap in his shower to scrub away how dirty he felt.

He wasn’t this kind of man. In fact, he hated that kind of man - the ones who only went after younger women and pretended they were doing them a favor with their so-called sophisticated presence.

No. Jack was not that kind of man.

He resolved, right there and then, to stay so out of Samira’s way that she might eventually forget he even existed.

It had worked out fine for the first week. What was supposed to be a five-day stretch turned into six shifts in a row after Shen got knocked out playing flag football and was possibly concussed. Jack’s immediate reaction had been, isn’t the whole point of flag football that you don’t get hurt? And what the fuck were you doing playing flag football?

Shen had explained that he’d agreed as a favor to a friend who needed one more player for the playoffs - and they’d won, so keep your shit talking to yourself, Abbot. Jack had scoffed over the phone, told him to take it easy, and reminded him that he owed him one.

It ended up being fine. By the time the mornings rolled around, Jack was so exhausted he was afraid he’d fall asleep in the car before making it to his bed. The city of Pittsburgh seemed hell-bent on making bad choices, and each shift made him progressively more tired. He was operating on autopilot. 

When Robby asked if he wanted to grab a beer Saturday night, Jack said yes, but told him to come over. He was too tired to put on real clothes or go anywhere. Robby showed up with a twelve-pack of Jack’s favorite IPA, and they put the Pirates game on in the background.

It wasn’t until his third beer that the thought of Samira wandered into his mind.

It started innocently, just a flash of her smile. The sound of her voice when she’d admitted, once they were done moving all her furniture, that she never went into anything without a plan, but she’d barely had time to plan this move with her schedule. So he let the thoughts linger for a bit while Robby ranted about the Pirates’ terrible offseason moves.

By his fourth beer, the flash of her smile had shaped into her lips, and her voice morphed into what he’d thought she’d sound like if he pinned her legs down and licked every inch of her pussy until she was begging him to stop. 

A frustrated groan escaped him, luckily timed with the Pirates blowing yet another opportunity with the bases loaded. He didn’t understand what had gotten into him. This time, he wasn’t even trying to wash away the shame, he deserved it. 

His thoughts were cut short by the doorbell ringing.

“You expecting someone?” Robby asked, leaning back on the sofa, looking out towards the door.

“When am I ever expecting someone that’s not you or Walsh?” Jack said as he stood up.

When he opened the door, he realized the universe must’ve also thought he deserved to feel shame, and possibly pain, because on the other side, Samira was smiling up at him.

“I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to drop these off for you,” she said, handing him out a small tray. “As a thank you for helping me last week. They don’t have any nuts in them, just in case you’re allergic or something.”

“You didn’t have to, but thank you. And no, no peanut allergies over here. It would be pretty inconvenient with all the PB&Js I have for lunch.”

She let out a small laugh. “Good to know.”

He glanced down at the cookies. They were simple, round, lightly golden, with a thin dusting of sugar on top.

“They’re cardamom,” she added quickly, like she felt the need to explain. “My mom used to make them when I was growing up. I figured chocolate chip was a bit too predictable.”

Jack looked back up at her. “Cardamom?”

“Yeah. It’s a spice. It’s kind of warm. A little floral.” She shrugged. “They’re not super sweet. I don’t really like overly sweet desserts. Anyway, have a good night Jack.” 

“You too, Samira.”

As she turned and walked away, Jack knew he couldn’t just blatantly stare at her ass - she had baked these cookies for him, for fuck’s sake - but she was wearing some kind of jean shorts that hugged her ass so perfectly he was starting to think he’d actually lost his mind.

As he stepped back inside, he tried to rationalize it. Maybe this was some kind of delayed adolescence in his forties mixed with a life crisis. He’d recently come off his antidepressants, something he considered a big step, and maybe his libido had returned with a vengeance. But he was a doctor and he knew it didn’t really work like that. In fact, some people felt the effects lingered long after weaning off the pills. 

So he couldn’t blame anyone but his own perverted brain.

When he walked back into the living room holding the tray of cookies, he didn’t even get a word out before Robby opened his mouth. 

“Since when do your neighbors drop off baked goods?” 

“A new group moved in last week, just helped one of them move. Nothing much” Jack said, setting the tray on the coffee table and grabbing his beer, hoping that Robby would let it go. But he’d known Robby for more than a decade. He did not let things go. 

“Nothing much? I don’t think you’d be blushing like a fucking nun in a sex shop if it wasn’t nothing much.”

“First of all, that’s not even an expression. Second, I’m not blushing. It’s fucking hot out, and you know I’ve got Irish blood in me. There’s literally nothing else going on here.” 

“Sure. So you weren’t just there standing in your doorway staring at your neighbor’s ass as she walked away? Because that’s kind of what it looked like from here.” 

“What the fuck -”

“Hey, you said you weren’t expecting anyone. I got worried so I just wanted to check. How old even is she?”

“I don’t know. She’s in med school. Probably twenty-something. It doesn’t matter. I am not going to do anything, because you know I am not that kind of guy. I just need to get laid and it will be fine.” 

“Should’ve gone to a bar. Could’ve avoided all of this you know”, Robby said, taking a sip of his beer. “Now I can’t tell if I am judging you or I’m impressed.”

“Impressed by what? Robby, I shit you not, nothing’s happening. I can’t be the forty-year-old guy trying to fuck his younger neighbor.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Didn’t think you even had it in you to have those thoughts. Raised Catholic and shit. Y’all are so repressed.”

Jack opened up the tray and handed him a cookie. “Whatever. Have a fucking cookie.”

And with that, he decided that his thoughts would stop right there.

Trinity was so fucking dead. Samira would make sure of that, even if she had to use her own hands.

Samira wasn’t going to be able to make it to Trinity’s day-drinking birthday bash next weekend, she was attending a conference in Chicago. Against her best judgement, she had accepted the invitation to go out on Halloween, of all nights, under the condition that she wouldn’t be dressing up. In celebration, Trinity had raised her fist into the air like she was some sort of singer closing out a show.

Samira had put on a black dress that was shorter than anything she’d normally wear, borrowed from Trinity’s closet, with black tights underneath to avoid being cold. She’d ditched the heels because she wasn’t sure if this elevated house party was actually going to end up at a club, and she wasn’t looking to stand in them all night.

Unfortunately for her, it had ended up at a club. And Samira had ended up having one drink more than she should have because when Trinity convinced her they could go back to this girl’s house, crash there, and then Uber back early in the morning with plenty of time for her to get ready for her shift at the VA, Samira had agreed like it was the best plan in the world.

Now, at 6 in the morning, she realized that Trinity’s actual plan was to sleep with this girl, and she had no intention whatsoever of getting up early with her.

Samira’s weekly alarm had gone off at 6:00 a.m., and with groggy eyes and a dry mouth, every single thought had come rushing back. What her alarm wasn’t aware of was that she was not in her apartment and that she’d have to pray she wasn’t too far. She grabbed her stuff in record time, got in an Uber and made it all the way to her front door by 6.20 a.m. before realizing she didn’t have her keys.

Even worse, Mel wasn’t home. She’d stayed overnight with Becca, and now Samira truly didn’t know what to do. 

She wasn’t a crier, but her headache kept getting worse, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t checked that she had everything before leaving. She’d been so desperate to get home and get ready on time for her shift that she’d just bolted out.  

With a loud groan, almost a scream, and tears threatening to burst out, she slammed her palm against the door and just stood there. Logically, she knew she’d figure something out. But things were going so wrong that at this point that a minute to wallow in anger wouldn’t make a difference.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Just like the first time she’d heard his voice, Samira jumped and turned toward the house next door. Standing outside with a mug was Jack, in a pair of pajama pants and a hoodie, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. I did not mean to wake you up - shit, I’m sorry. I’m just locked out and I don’t know where my keys are, and I’m going to have to Uber back to get Trinity’s set, and by the time I make it back it’s going to be so fucking late and my head hurts and it’s actually really cold-”

As he opened his mouth to cut her off, she realized she probably looks like she’s coming back from doing God knows what, and that she probably sounds like she’s going into a full-blown breakdown.

“Samira, I’m going to need you to take a deep breath and stop for a second, okay? Can you do that for me?” 

“Yes,” she responds, and somehow, she believes it. 

“Where do you need to go?”

“I need to go to the VA ER over at Allequippa St. My shift starts at 7 a.m., and I really don’t want to be late. I really don’t want to disappoint Dr. Al-Hashimi.” 

If she goes to the root of her most real concern at the moment, she is not lying. She can handle almost anything else at this point - even the fact that the guy she’d been thinking about for months, who seemed to actively make an effort to avoid her ever since that first week, is looking at her in her current state. She’ll live, deep with embarrassment, but she’ll live.

But she does not want to disappoint her mentor, who has been giving her chances no one else has. 

“Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi?”

“Yes, her. How do you kno-” Samira is cut off by Jack, who takes a breath himself before speaking again, with the same steady tone.

“I used to volunteer at the VA. This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to come in, you’re going to take a shower, I’m going to find some clothes, and then I’m going to drive you there. I remember there used to be a scrubs vending machine, so you’ll take a pair of my dirty scrubs, toss them in, and grab a clean set for the day.” He pauses. “There’s not a lot of time to do that dance where you pretend you don’t need help, because trust me, sweetheart, you need help.” 

Samira doesn’t fully process that he called her sweetheart, nor does she try to fight any of it back as she makes her way next door and follows him inside. If she were here under different circumstances, she’d probably take her time. Pay attention to what kind of books he has on the shelves in his living room. Notice the blankets folded over the arms of the couch. She might even think something about how the place feels lived-in.

But she doesn't have that luxury. 

Instead, she’s moving through his house, shoes coming off somewhere near the door. He tells her to use his bathroom, the one past his bedroom on the first floor, because the guest one upstairs hasn’t been cleaned in a while and doesn’t have any products in it. She finds the clean towel and spare toothbrush in the cabinet just like he said.

Samira is grateful that he owns actual shampoo and conditioner and not a two-in-one. She tries very hard not to think about the fact that she’s going to smell like him all day. She really doesn’t need to know that his hair smells like green apple, clean and sharp, or that his toothpaste is very minty. She doesn’t need to catalog these things about the man who’s been stuck in her head for months, the same man who, until now, had seemed to be doing everything in his power to be out of her way. 

She had thought that maybe he was simply ignoring all of them. She didn’t blame him -  what kind of forty-year-old was trying to be around girls half his age in his spare time? It would be incredibly creepy, despite how hot he was. But she’d been hoping for at least the normal type of neighborly niceties - a hi, how are you when they ran into each other taking out the trash, or even a yeah, it’s finally getting cold, huh when he was coming back from work and Samira was outside with a mug of chai and a blanket, trying to read whatever journal she could get her hands on before her busy days started.

But all she had received from him in the past three months was nothing. If she had any money to spare, she'd bet that she had actively seen him duck his head to avoid even looking at her. Which would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that he did not seem to be taking the same approach with Trinity and Mel.

Every snippet of information Samira knew about Jack Abbot came from her roommates. She knew he had a prosthetic, she had seen it, but it wasn’t until Mel told her that he had been a medic in the military that she realized he was a veteran. She knew he was a widower, Trinity had told her over pizza their first night as they unpacked boxes. She knew he used to lift seriously before it started bothering his right leg and hips too much, so now he stuck to normal weight training and cardio. She knew he was an attending emergency physician at PTMC - that she had Googled herself.

She felt like a freak knowing all this about a man who seemed intent on not letting her know anything about him. Which would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about him in a way she had never thought about anyone before.

Last night, in a drunken blurt, she had told Trinity as much. And in another drunken blurt, Trinity had told her that it was probably just a crush, there was nothing wrong with that, dude, do you know the amount of older women I’ve crushed on? there’s not enough time in the night for me to go over it. you’ll be fine. And then she handed her another drink.

But Samira wasn’t fine, because she couldn’t figure out what she could have possibly done to make this man so upset at her that he wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence. As she wraps the towel around herself, she thinks that he might just sell his house after this and truly make sure she never sees him again.

When she opens the door, she finds a chair placed outside with sweatpants, a white T-shirt, a gray hoodie with big blue letters spelling CALIFORNIA, a pair of long socks and underwear. Black trunks. 

She thinks that maybe him avoiding her won’t be an issue anymore because there is, unfortunately, no way she will ever be able to look him in the face again anyway after this. 

As she gets dressed, she considers if she can come up with a reason as to why they should break their lease and move to the other side of Pittsburgh. Somewhere far, with regular looking neighbors. They could even get an even cheaper place and buy a car with the money saved. It would work just fine for everyone. 

The rational part of her brain tells her there’s no time to entertain any ideas of moving. She makes sure the towel is hanging on the hook by the door, leaves the toothbrush by the sink, and puts on the hoodie before taking one last look at her curls in the mirror and heading downstairs. 

Jack had really hoped for his night to be quiet. He had managed to get Shen to cover his shift after the flag football incident, despite his whines of that was so long ago, bro. Normally, he would’ve let it go, but Jack had been more angsty than usual, and he was not looking to spend his night with drunk people who should’ve known better than to climb onto table bars, who then would complain about their costumes being ruined the moment they were sober enough.

Jack did not understand why that would matter if Halloween had already happened, but apparently Halloween was now being celebrated an entire weekend - if not the weekend before, too. It had gotten out of control, and he wanted none of it. 

Jack had stayed true to his promise and had been, for lack of a better word, avoiding Samira. It’s not like he saw her more than any of his other neighbors, but if he did, he’d pretend there was literally anything else going on and walk the other way or straight inside. He knew it was rude. He also knew that he interacted - not much, but still - with the other roommates.

He had seen Trinity wear the shirt of a local lifting gym he used to attend and had struck up a conversation about his own past lifting, which he’d recently given up for something easier on his body. He had seen Mel leave dressed up for some sort of event, which he later learned was a Renaissance Fair hosted outside the city. It was one of the last hot days of September, so he’d told her to have fun and remember to hydrate, to which she had smiled and explained she was ready with hydration packets just in case.

But Samira, he had not talked to Samira since she had dropped off the delicious cardamon cookies. 

He would see her when he came back from his shifts, sometimes in regular clothes, most of the time in scrubs, usually coming out the door and carrying enough bags to survive a camping trip in the middle of nowhere. He was convinced that if he as much said hello to her, she would be able to see right through him and into his depraved mind.

It wasn’t her fault that all of a sudden his brain had decided he’d start feeling things he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. It wasn’t her fault that his body had decided the only way he’d be able to have an orgasm was by picturing her pink lips. It wasn’t her fault that he had found himself more acquainted with his hand than he had been in years, foggy images of what she’d look like riding him, her hands around his neck.

She didn’t deserve that. And he didn’t deserve to see her.

If he couldn’t control his thoughts, then he didn’t deserve to see her beauty. He found that punishment enough. He convinced himself that if he managed to at least cum once without thinking of her, he’d allow himself to say hi the next time he saw her.

He had been very unsuccessful.

The funny thing was that the universe didn’t seem to care that Jack was trying to be a good guy and let this girl be. Because if it did, he would not have found her outside her house, screaming at her door, looking like she had just gotten out of someone else’s bed.

Perhaps the universe knew exactly what his thoughts were and wanted to remind him that she was probably coming home from sleeping with the most age-appropriate man the city of Pittsburgh had to offer.

All of the peace and quiet he had cultivated during his night off, watching movies, stretching, reading, disappeared the instant she turned around and he saw the tears in her eyes.

He pushed back any thoughts about where she was coming from, about what kind of man would let her get home like that - and that maybe he wasn’t Pittsburgh’s most appropriate option if he had not at least gotten her back home safely. Instead, he focused on the panic of his voice and how he could help. 

He could see the relief in her eyes once he explained to her his plan and that she would be a few minutes late to work, at worst. 

While she was in the shower, he started making coffee in his French press and dialed Baran from his phone. She was surprised to hear from him, especially on a Saturday so early, but he explained that he happened to be neighbors with Samira - yeah, Walsh is still renting out the house to med students - and that they were having issues with the hot water, so she was running late while she used his shower.

If Baran thought any more of it, he couldn’t tell. She appreciated the phone call and told him to let Samira know they’d manage until she got there. He hung up and said he’d be in touch, which didn’t feel like a complete lie.

Once the coffee was ready, he poured most of it into a tumbler, making sure to leave room for milk. 

When she made her way downstairs, he briefly explained his conversation with Dr. Al-Hashimi, how her hot water wasn’t working, and handed her the coffee. Samira’s eyebrows almost lifted, until she realized that he had covered for her. She took the coffee and thanked him while he searched for his car keys.

According to Waze, it would take them 20 minutes to get to the VA, which Jack thought were 20 minutes too long of being in an enclosed place with Samira, who smelled like his soap and was wearing his clothes. He tried so hard to not think about what she’d look like in the mornings, coming out of the shower with just his shirt on, jumping into bed to wrap her legs around him, laying there for hours with nothing else to do but to fool around. He’d make her pancakes, his mom’s recipe, and take her to the farmers market, get her as many flowers as she’d want, ask her how school was going and which speciality was she hoping to go into. He’d take her back to his place and kiss her on his kitchen counter while he cooked lunch for them. 

He tried not to think about it so hard that he was clenching his jaw, which he only realized once his back teeth started to protest. He let out a sigh he thought was inaudible. But it must not have been, because Samira had started doing the whole apology/thank/rambling thing again.

“I really am sorry I woke you up,” she said, looking straight at the road. The city was quieter than usual.

“No, that’s okay. I actually work nights, and I had the night off, so I was just getting ready for bed. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh God. That’s almost even worse. I just, like, don’t even go out or drink like that, and Trinity really wanted to go over to this girl’s place, but she also didn’t want me to Uber back home alone, so I really thought she’d wake up with me. And, like, I get it - I mean, she’s been trying to get with this girl for weeks. Well, I don’t really get it that much. I’ve only hooked up with a guy once, but, like, I feel like there has to be some sort of girl code or something and -” 

“Samira, I promise it is fine. You owe me no explanations. I was young once too.” Jack interrupted her.

And while he had been young once too, he had been completely whipped by his wife, so he really didn’t know what she was going through. But not only did it feel like the right thing to say, he felt it would make her stop talking. If he had to hear any more about how she apparently was not out and about having sex, about how she had only hooked up with someone once, he’d probably break his jaw. 

He tried to focus on the road, but everything was unsettling. The unexpected rush of relief after hearing she had only fallen asleep on some girl's couch last night, the realization she was more inexperienced than he’d imagined, the twist he felt in his stomach at the idea of some faceless idiot being the only one to touch her. 

If he let his brain wander any further, if he let himself picture her stranding her friends just to be moaning under him, breathless, he was going to grip the wheel so hard he’d cut off his own circulation. 

“Okay, sorry. I don’t make a habit of rambling like that - you just seem to have the habit of finding me at my worst.”

“Mhm, I’d hardly consider it at your worst,” he said, eyes fixed on the car ahead, as he turned on the radio to whatever station was playing, hoping it would fill the silence in the car. 

They eventually made it to the VA around 7:20 a.m., and she thanked him one more time before he turned the car around to head back home. Jack made it there in fifteen minutes, desperate to get out of a car that smelled like her, that smelled like him, that smelled like them. Desperate to pass out into a sleep he already knew would be haunted by the images he worked so hard to ignore.

By the time Trinity had spam-texted Samira a string of sorry, i am so sorry dude, i understand if you’re mad so sorry - followed by fifteen more texts - Samira was appropriately caffeinated and halfway through her shift, which had been as good as it could be. She took a deep breath, shot back a quick it’s fine, talk tn, busy at work, and dove back in.

When she made it home a little past 7.30 p.m., both Trinity and Mel were hanging out on the couch. Before Samira could even get her shoes off, Trinity was sprinting toward her to apologize again and offer the pasta she had just cooked. Whatever annoyance Samira had felt that morning had been washed away by the exhaustion of her day. If her options were to stay upset and shift the entire mood of the house or accept the apology and hang out with her roommates on the couch, she knew which one she was choosing.

That’s how Samira found herself retelling Mel and Trinity how she had made it into work. She shouldn't have been surprised when the first question out of Trinity’s mouth was if she was still wearing his underwear. 

“I literally just walked through the door so yes. Like he ignores me - and I know he does because he's at least a bit friendly with both of you - but today has been the most words we’ve exchanged since that first week. Do you think he just knows I have a crush on him? It is so stupid. And it is not like I need him to like me, but it would suck less if he were at least more amenable. Like, what did I even do to him?” Samira nearly groans, frustrated, as she digs into the bowl of pasta Mel hands her.

“Have you considered that he may like you? You know, there’s actually studies that found that men consistently overestimate women’s sexual interest in general but when they actually like someone they tend to under-communicate and withdraw to avoid rejection. A self-protective thing”.

Samira blinks at her. 

“Also, attachment theory would suggest that if he's the avoidant type, increased attraction could trigger all his distancing behaviors. Especially if there’s a perceived barrier.” She gestures vaguely with her fork. “Which makes sense. You’re young. He's older.”

Mel continues. “There’s also data showing that people who’ve experienced significant loss are more likely to suppress romantic interest to maintain emotional stability. So statistically speaking, him avoiding you is not precise evidence of disinterest. It could actually mean he has some interest.”

Samira can feel her brain clinging into the words like a lifeline. 

“I’m not saying that’s definitively what’s happening,” Mel adds carefully. “But I also don’t think there’s a lot of support for your hypothesis that you personally offended him.” 

Trinity points her fork at Samira. “Boom. Peer-reviewed delusion.”

Mel nods. “I can send you the citations.”

Samira snorts into her water. “Sure, let’s go with all of that for a second. What do I do? Just slip a note under his door asking do you like me, yes or no, mark with an X? I really can’t explain how uncomfortable he looked this morning.”

“Well you have his clothes. Just wash them and use it as an excuse to drop by. Seduce him or something.” Trinity chimes in, as if this is the most logical solution in the world. 

“Just make eye contact and give him back the clothes” Trinity adds. “It is a pretty chill interaction. You don’t have to throw yourself at him. If he’s not interested, he’ll definitely let you know, and then you can just walk back here - dignity almost intact- and the two of you can continue to actively avoid each other.”

“You literally just said I should seduce him”. Samira narrows her eyes and stands up to get more pasta from the kitchen.

“I said or something. You’re hot Samira. You don’t have to do much. Show up, hand him the clothes, and maybe say thank you but like…without that rambling you do when you're nervous.” 

Samira groans, sitting back on the couch with her refilled bowl. 

Fuck it, she thinks. Maybe she’ll seduce him. 

…. Or something. 

Turns out all the Cosmopolitan magazines she used to read while hiding in the library as a teenager had been lying. They talked about confidence and owning it, and Samira still didn’t know what any of that meant in practical terms. First of all, she wasn’t entirely sure what seducing a guy - well, a man - actually consisted of, despite Trinity’s insistence that her beauty alone would do it.

Samira wasn’t blind. She knew she was attractive, and she’d had plenty of men - and women - hit on her before. But she had never really been interested, so she’d never explored flirting beyond politely turning them down. Now she was regretting it. She could’ve at least gotten some experience out of it. 

So she threw the clothes into the dryer, waited for the shower to heat up, and scrolled Reddit for advice - literally any advice. Which, so far, had led her to a thread on what do men actually like in bed. The information wasn’t exactly new to her, but it also wasn’t something she could casually ask Mel or Trinity about.

While she usually reserved Saturday nights for her full shower routine, hair mask, exfoliating, shaving, she knew the odds of Jack being free two weekends in a row were low. She took a gamble and was hoping he wouldn’t be working tonight. It was a Thursday night and all she had to do was catch a flight to Chicago the next day, so it was her best chance if things did not go well. She would have a few days to forget all about it. 

Once the bathroom was full with steam, she stepped in and committed to getting ready. If she was going to potentially embarrass herself, she would at least do it looking good. 

Her hair mask was thick between her fingers as she worked her fingers till the ends of her curls, twisting her hair up into a loose clip while it soaked in. She exfoliated with her sugar scrub, hoping to remove all the dead skin she could already feel from the cold weather. Once she was done shaving, carefully to not leave any cuts, she rinsed off and hopped off. 

She put on a pair of comfortable baggy jeans, a cropped top, and the Pirates hoodie she had gotten on sale after their season ended in September - no surprises there - and put on some perfume. 

Grabbing the clothes from the dryer, she tossed everything that needed folding into the hamper, and then rolled the socks and neatly folded the sweatpants, the shirt, and the hoodie. 

She wanted to wait until it was at least 8 p.m. If she went earlier and he was on his way to work, he’d probably dismiss her quickly. If he wasn’t home at all, then she’d just drop the clothes on his porch couch, get back home with her dignity intact, and spend the rest of the night browsing the many sites Trinity had sent her for vibrators. 

Jack shouldn't have been surprised to find Samira outside with his clothes. 

She was so fucking nice - she had baked him cookies after he was just being a decent human being. Even after his blatant attitude towards her, she was still so fucking nice to him. He’d expected she might just knock and drop them off, or maybe just hand them to him, say thanks and leave. 

What he had not expected was for her to ask if they could talk. 

So now Samira was, once again, inside his place, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Jack wasn’t sure what to say - or what to do. 

He walked them into the living room, dropped the folded clothes on the ottoman near the coffee table, and turned to face her. Maybe she wanted to apologize again for interrupting his night. Or just thank him. Fuck, maybe she was pissed his trash was overflowing because his shifts hadn’t lined up with pickup days.

“Why do you hate me?” Samira let out, in what was probably the most secure she had ever sounded around him. 

What? 

“What?”

“Yes, why do you hate me? I know we’re just neighbors and you owe me absolutely nothing. In fact, you’ve been a lot of help. But everyone around this fucking block seems to think of you as this great guy who’s so… neighborly… and whenever you run into me, I could swear I’ve seen you duck your head. I just want to know if I offended you somehow.”

“I don’t hate you Samira.” 

“That would carry a lot more weight if you could say it while looking at my face, Jack”. 

He’s at a crossroads. 

He could lie, maybe come up with something. Yes Samira, you’ve offended me. I forgive you. Now go on. He’s a smart guy, he could probably come up with a perfectly good lie. 

But he’s looking straight into her brown eyes and his TV, which had something on Netflix that was filling the room with background noise, had stopped at some point, and he could smell the vanilla off her hair because she standing quite close. 

Maybe he’ll tell the truth and she’ll run for the hills. He’ll be freed from the weight he’s been carrying around, and she’ll stop showing up to his house smelling like honey. 

“I don’t hate you, Samira. That’s really the whole issue here. If you just knew what my thoughts were like, you’d be glad I avoided you. Fuck, you’d probably never want to see me again. And I’d understand.” 

For all her usual rambling, he’s the one who sounds out of breath this time.

“What could possibly be so bad that you can’t even be bothered to at least say hi to me, but you have all the time in the world to exchange workout routines with my roommate?” 

She isn’t screaming, but her voice is rising and she is closer than she was before, standing just a few steps in front of him.

“Samira, stop. I really can’t do this. Please.” He sounds broken, voice above a plea, eyes closed. 

Before he can continue - unsure of what words would even come out of him - he feels her hand on his chin. 

“What if you don’t do it?” Her voice is low, the anger from before replaced by confidence.

“What? What are you talking about?” He’s confused. His brain is short circuiting. Her hand is still on his chin, her fingers soft against his three-day stubble. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” she says. “Whatever is worrying you, no one can say anything if I am the one doing it.” 

And she’s looking at him in a way no one has looked at him in a while. He doesn’t think anyone has been this soft with him since his wife passed away. 

He’s waiting for a sign - any sign. For lightning to strike. For his house to catch on fire. For his heart to stop. He’s waiting for any sign from the universe, or God, or whoever decided to play this sick joke on him. 

But there’s no sign.

And Samira gently pushes him onto the couch, climbs on top of him, and cups his face with both of her hands. He doesn’t know what he feels first; her soft lips, minty and glossy; her tongue, slipping into his mouth; her teeth, slowly catching his lower lip; or the sound that escapes him when she rolls her hips, slowly and deliberately into his growing erection. 

She pulls back just long enough to tug at his shirt. 

He half helps - because if he doesn't fully give in, then maybe there’s still time for him to be saved. 

But she’s dragging her teeth along his neck, leaving a trail of kisses on his clavicle, her hands sliding through the hair on his chest, and he realizes he doesn’t care. 

He’s not going to be saved. 

“Can I touch you?” She asks softly, her lips brushing the skin behind his ear while her hands drift lower, settling at the low of his stomach. 

“You’re touching me now, sweetheart.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. 

His hands have been gripping her waist this whole time. He thinks about how he could take her hoodie off. How he could fit her boobs in his palms. How easily he could turn them around and pin her beneath him and just take his time. But he doesn’t want to push. He doesn’t want to move and break whatever spell they’re under.

“No - that’s not what I meant.” 

And her hands, that had found the trail of hair leading to his pelvis, are now pulling his rock hard cock free. 

He lets out a hiss. Her hands are warm but his living room is cold - he had just gotten up and he doesn’t like to sleep with the heat on. She wraps both of her hands around him. Her gaze, which had been fixated on him, almost studying him, lifts back to his eyes. 

“Please let me touch you. I want to make you feel good.”

There will be no salvation for him. He hasn’t believed in God in a long time, not since he was a kid forced to attend Sunday mass. Not since he had seen more horrors than any person should in a lifetime. He’s certain there’s no heaven after death, only emptiness. Quiet. No, he hasn’t believed in God in a long time, and he is certainly not going to start now.

“Yeah, you can touch me”. 

And all the restraint he’s been practicing for months disappears. He can almost see it evaporate in the air.

His brain blanks the minute he feels her tongue up his shaft. He doesn’t know when, or how, but Samira is now kneeling on his rug between the couch and the coffee table, with her tongue tentatively running along his length. 

“Fuck Samira. No, you don’t have to”. He was expecting she’d go back to kiss him, touch him, grind her hips on him again, anything really. He was not expecting her to just drop to her knees for him. 

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to.” 

Her hands firmly wrap the base of his dick while she brings the head into her mouth. She continues like that one, two, three times. All the sounds that fill the room are a few passing cars outside, his strangled moans, and the sound of spit falling on his thighs. 

She retreats her mouth, using the wetness accumulated to stroke him.

“You’re just going to have to tell me if this feels alright. I haven’t done this before, I had to look it up”. He tries to find anything in her face - any hint of mischief, any hint of mockery - but there’s literally nothing. She just blurts it out, matter-of-factly, and then goes on to swallow as much of him as possible. 

He doesn't believe in heaven, but he’s starting to believe that maybe there’ll be a hell made just for him. 

“You’re doing so good sweetheart.” 

He can feel her moaning on him and oh God, isn’t that something. 

“Your lips look so pretty around me. Fuck, you’re taking me so well. I’m just going to put my hands around your hair to help okay? I don’t want you to choke on me”. 

And he pulls her out of his length, her eyes almost watery, strings of spit running down her chin. 

“But I want to choke on you. I want to feel you in my throat.” 

There's a hell made for him. He will not regret a thing. 

“You’re going to kill me. Fuck - I don’t want to hurt you. Just hit my thighs if it is too much, okay?”

With both hands curled around her soft black hair, he guides her as she tries to take more of him. He’s not too long, but he’s thick and he can see the way her lips and cheeks try to accommodate him. It doesn’t take him long to get there. He considers it a miracle he didn’t cum when her lips first touched him. He takes his hands off her so she can pull back. 

“Samira, I am so close. Please move.” 

But instead of moving, her right hand gently grabs his balls and the left one fist his length as she licks the tip one more time, swallowing every last drop. 

She’s so wet. She’s uncomfortably wet, feeling her underwear stick to her. She felt the wetness when he had kissed her back, but the current pool between her legs had only formed after he had told her how good she was doing. Whatever advice about not throwing herself at him had gone out the window the minute she realized he was begging, the minute she realized that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. 

She didn’t have a plan, because planning seemed to be the one thing she was incapable of around this him. But she thinks that if he kicks her out right now, she could keep the memory of his groans - the way she was able to undo him so easily - tucked safely in her brain forever. And that may be enough. 

But he’s not kicking her out. Instead, he’s made his way to the sectional part of his couch and is laying down, looking at her. 

“Samira, I am going to lay here and if you just happen to decide that my face is a perfectly fine place for you to sit, then it would be completely fine.” 

She doesn’t have the mental energy to process what’s troubling him so much. She has an idea or two, but she doesn’t need to dig deeper now. His eyes are burning holes through her skin and her hands can’t work fast enough to take her jeans off. 

“Are you wearing my underwear?” The confident voice he had found a bit ago is gone again. 

“Yeah,” she responds as she takes the black trunks off, tossing them on the floor with the rest of their clothes. For a moment she considers taking off her sweatshirt, but she’s kind of cold. 

“Please get here right now. Please”. He’s begging, and she doesn’t know how it is possible, but the need in his voice is even stronger than it was before. 

“I - what if you can’t breathe?” She’s not against this idea. She’s in fact, very excited about potentially riding his face, but she’s not really sure how that works outside of porn. Her research hadn’t gone that far. 

“Samira, I swear to fucking God if I am not feeling your legs around my face in the next 10 seconds, I’m going to die.” 

Who is she to deny the man who helped her move half her shit in the middle of the summer? 

So she gets on top of him, and as she grabs the couch cushions for balance, she feels his hands cupping her waist, pulling her down. 

“Oh, fuck.”

He is everywhere. His palms are spreading her ass cheeks, and his tongue is inside of her for what feels like an eternity, until he slides her down further and finds her clit. 

She can feel his nose pressing up against her pelvic bone, and she’s about to worry about his ability to breathe, but he’s found a rhythm in between sucking and circling and she’s almost sure he can feel him moan. She’s so close and she’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s licking every inch of her like his life depends on it. She looks down, only to find his gaze locked on her. She can’t see his mouth, but she can tell he’s grinning from just the crinkle around his eyes. Before she can form a thought, her orgasm is taking over. Not slowly, like when she touches herself, but like a violent wave. 

She climbs off and sits next to him, but his lips are on hers again. 

He catches the bottom of her sweatshirt, peeling it over head, tossing it aside to join the growing pile of clothes. He’s about to take her top off, when he realize she’s not wearing a bra. 

“What was your plan Samira? What was your plan if you had shown up here, with your bare cunt and my underwear on, and whatever this piece of fabric is that’s doing absolutely nothing to cover your nipples and I had turned you down. What was your fucking plan? Actually, I don’t even want to know. I don’t want to know. Just take this thing off.” 

She knows he’s a put-together man. She knows how calm he was last weekend when she was on the verge of a panic attack. She knows he’s used to making life-or-death decisions in seconds. She’s well aware. But there’s not a hint of that man right now, he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, she’s met with a guttural mix of grunts and half-pleading voice, murmuring, fuck, you’re so sweet, like fucking honey and bites along her neck, along her chest that will leave marks. 

“I - I was going to go back home and just touch myself - I.... was going to buy a vibrator.” She knows he’s not really looking for an answer but she feels like proving she did have a plan would buy her some resemblance of control again. 

She is wrong. 

“How were you going to touch yourself? Like this sweetheart?” Her eyes are closed, but she can tell his eyebrows are raised and there’s probably a smile on his face as his right index finger gently pushes inside of her. He doesn’t move and his thumb presses on her clit, just with enough pressure not to hurt. 

She knows he’s probably watching her. She’s realized he likes watching her. But she can’t take it right now, so she keeps her eyes closed, bites her lip, and nods. 

“Mhm, isn’t it so much better like this? So fucking tight around my finger. I think you can take another one, right?” 

She nods again and this time she lets out the moans escape her throat. His fingers are thick, they’re stretching her out. For a moment she thinks about how his cock would feel inside of her. She doesn’t think she'd be able to take it, she had barely fit half his lenght inside her mouth. 

He’s working his fingers in and out of her, curling them every time to hit the exact spot she needs him to. She yanks off his dogtags to pull him back to her. Her hands dig into the back of his head and she kisses him in between her own whimpers. He slides his knee between her legs, keeping them open, and she is worried this position may be painful with his prosthetic. 

She breaks the kiss to ask, but he must be able to see the concern on her face because he’s reassuring her before she even gets the chance to speak. 

“I’m okay, don’t worry. Just be a good girl and come for me, can you do that? You did so well before. I know you can do it again.”

That's all it takes. His fingers inside of her, his thumb pressing her clit, his voice in her ear, the burn of his beard on her thighs, the burn of the rug on her knees. It’s all too much and she’s coming again, biting on his shoulder to muffle her scream. 

She’s catching her breath when she feels the weight on top of her disappear. Her brain starts working, telling her she needs to find her clothes and get back home and oh, fuck.

His hands are on her waist again and her body is being turned around until she’s laying on her stomach, his lips making their way down her back. He’s leaving gentle kisses she didn’t know he was capable of. 

Her body feels limp but his mouth is on her again and she really doesn’t think she can handle another orgasm. She doesn’t think she’s capable of another orgasm. She's never cum more than twice in a row. 

“Jack, please. I can’t anymore.” She sounds desperate, whiny, but he’s leaving soft kisses around her thighs, his hands massaging her butt, and it feels just so nice. 

“Are you sure baby? You’re just going to drip all over my couch and let it all go to waste? Please let me clean you up. I’ll be so gentle.” 

She can hear the mocking in his voice. He knows he’s going to get what he wants. She thinks she should be annoyed, embarrassed even, but how can she feel anything but him right now. She opens her eyes and turns her head just enough so that he can see her nod. 

She’s surprised he doesn’t respond, but that’s quickly wiped by the feeling of his tongue on her pussy again. True to his word, his tongue applies the faintest amount of pressure on her clit, his nose is pressed against her entrance. He takes all the time in the world - or maybe just a few minutes. She doesn’t know, she’s so far gone that by the time her orgasm hits, her body sinks into the couch and she can feel all her thoughts fading away.

She’s woken up by the discomfort of her right shoulder. She becomes alert the second she realizes she’s not in her room and is about to freak out until the memories flood back.

She’s still naked, but her thighs don’t feel sticky, and there’s a pillow under her head and two blankets on top of her. The room is much warmer than it was when she had first walked in. Her clothes are folded on the table across from her, and she grabs her sweatshirt. She’s trying to find her phone to see what time it is, when she hears him come in. 

“Have you seen my phone?”

She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to act. She assumes she probably needs to get dressed and leave, but she really needs her phone for that.

He’s wearing the same clothes he was before, but he's taken his prosthetic off, is using crutches, and has glasses on. 

“I left it charging by the TV. It’s almost 3 a.m.” 

“Thanks.”

She’s glad she at least put the hoodie on, because being naked in front of him before feels very different than being naked in front of him right now. 

“You don’t have to leave.”

He’s staring at her like this is self explanatory, but Samira’s brain has been rewired in so many ways tonight that she’s going to need him to repeat that just one more time. Her face must show it.

“You don’t have to leave. I know you’re just next door but it’s cold and it’s late. I didn’t want to move you earlier because you looked at peace. You can stay the night if you want to”.

“I - are you going to sleep? I thought you worked nights. I figured you’d try to stay awake.”

“Not always. I’ve learned to accept whatever sleep I can get, whenever I can get it.” 

“Okay, I’m just going to grab my phone to set up my alarm, if that’s okay.” 

“Yeah. Whatever you need. You also know where everything in my bathroom is”.

He's smiling now, his face soft, which makes her smile to, because she does know where everything in his bathroom is. She grabs her phone, finds her underwear - well his underwear, but she thinks it may be hers now - and follows him to the bedroom. 

She sets her alarm, leaves the phone on the side table, and quickly goes to the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth. 

When she gets back, he’s pulled down the sheets and is wearing only trunks, no shirt. She doesn’t want to sleep in her hoodie, she’ll probably end up hot and taking it off in her sleep, so instead she grabs the shirt he'd taken off, puts it on, and gets into his bed. 

She’s not sure what to expect, partly because she’s still half asleep, but also because she’s pretty sure everything she's read about casual sex doesn’t touch on the aspects of what happens after. She’s fairly certain the after is everyone going their separate ways. 

The sheets feel cold against her skin. She usually sleeps on her stomach, but as she’s making her way to turn over, she feels his arm wrap around her, pulling her back against his chest. 

“Goodnight Samira”. 

She tells people it happened over time.

She tells them about the pancakes he cooked for her their first morning together, when she was complaining about having to spend money at the airport on subpar food for the conference she was heading to. 

She tells them how he’d twist his schedule to find time to see her, even if it was just an hour or two before work. 

She tells them how he took her to his cabin in the Poconos in the winter, how neither of them skied or liked the snow that much. She omits the details of how they had spent the entire weekend lost in each other. How she had a hard time telling where her body ended and his began. 

Her fellow residents are jealous, how lucky she is to have an emergency department boyfriend who’s probably seen it all. 

Her mom doesn’t freak out as much as she thought she would. She admits a 42 years old widower isn't what she expected for daughter, but when Jack showed up with an annotated journal to her graduation instead of flowers, she knew that he was the man for her girl. 

She tells people that they met because her landlord had raised her rent. He jokes that it was because Samira thought she could handle moving a bed frame all on her own. 

She tells them she fell in love so gradually, it felt like coming home. 

He tells people he dove in headfirst and never looked back. He holds I love you for weeks, until he’s in the shower, and Samira is shampooing his hair after a really bad shift, and he doesn’t think he can keep that inside of him any longer. 

He stops picking up extra shifts. Everyone’s know something’s going on but no one is entirely sure until Shen drags it out of Walsh, and next thing he knows he’s getting high fived good for you man, about time. 

He knows she needs time, so when she says she’s renewing her lease with Trinity and Mel - who are both staying in Pittsburgh - he doesn’t mind. He knows she’ll spend most of her time at his place anyways. 

He buys a ring and keeps it hidden for months. She’s stressed out, she has a new attending that she’s not fond of, and all the rapport she’s spent building over the past year is gone. She’s rambling, spiraling, and there’s a half eaten bowl of rice on the kitchen counter. He lets her cry and scream until she falls asleep in his arms.

He hides it until she’s an R3. He plans a whole proposal he never gets to use because instead they’re coming back from a gala. She's in a velvet dress and she’s so smart, she has everyone at her hospital wrapped around her finger. They walk through the door, and he drops to his knees and he asks her if she’ll marry him - now, tomorrow, in a year, in two - he doesn’t care. 

They get married once she gets her attending position at Presby. The wedding is small, but everyone who needs to be there is there. Trinity’s tipsy and he’s learning now, a few years too late, how her advice led her to his arms. He thinks he may need to buy the girl a gift. 

They dance and he cries. Everyone congratulates them. His young nephew asks him for advice, he’s afraid to fall in love with this girl. What does love even feel like? 

He tells him that’s like jumping into the ocean.

You just do it, headfirst, and never look back.