Archive of Our Own

“What are you talking about?” Jack asks as he skids to a halt behind Dana, his leg catching awkwardly on the floor. Her hair is piled high on top of her head and adorned with little crystal clips at the side in a way he’s never seen before.

She looks good.

Everyone does.

Everyone except the person he’s been waiting to see walk through the doors all night.

Dana jumps a bit and the champagne in her glass sloshes dangerously as she whips around. Her critical eyes land and he watches as she drags her gaze over him from head to toe. When their eyes meet again she lifts her eyebrows incredulously.

“Nice of ya to put an effort in this year—didn’t know you even knew where to rent a tux.” She snaps.

He straightens and puts his hands on his hips indignantly.

“I bought this with my own money—just so you know.” He explains as he rolls his eyes, though she has a point. He’s never quite managed to match the dress code for these kinds of things before, usually opting for the old gray suit in his closet rather than the black tie that’s suggested on the invitation.

“Well ya look good, try to stay out of trouble tonight handsome,” Dana laughs as she reaches out and straightens his bow tie.

He swats her mothering hand away and leans back.

“Did I hear you mention Mohan? Before?” He asks, quickly. He knows he had, he’d been standing a few feet away with Robby when he’d heard her name, followed by something mumbled—then,

Poor thing.

Dana eyes him again just as suspiciously, and Jack's palms are suddenly sweaty and too hot.

“Just that she didn’t get the ultrasound fellowship…” Dana sighs, and Jack’s shoulders sink a little.

How is that possible?

He recalls the glowing letter of recommendation he’d written her. It was so glowing, so honest and embarrassingly effusive, that he’d made her promise not to read it before she sent it off.

Maybe it was too much?

Still the way Dana looked so concerned—made his chest tight with worry. Losing the fellowship couldn’t be all of it? Could it?

He makes a poor excuse for a goodbye and before he knows it he’s scurrying through the room of his peers, investors and executives, all dressed to the nines for the semi-annual PTMC fundraising gala.

He emerges through the doors of the massive building that was built with the blood stained railroad money of the Carnegies all those decades ago, and into the cold night air.

Who has a gala in the middle of December? He thinks wryly as a chill whips through him and he digs in his pockets for his phone.

He taps Samira’s contact and his thumb hovers over the button to text her for a split second before he gives into impulse and presses call instead.

She doesn’t answer and it goes to voicemail, he doesn’t even listen to her whole receiving message before he hangs up and calls again.

“What?” She snaps into the phone on the other end of the line.

“Nice to talk to you too.” He bites back.

“Yeah well I’m not in the mood to talk, besides I’m already thirty minutes late for this stupid gala,” she rambles, her voice tense, like he’s only heard it in very volatile moments in the ED.

It makes something uneasy twist low in his stomach. And beneath that—something warmer, more dangerous that he tries not to examine too closely. He’s always admired that sharp edge in her, even when it’s aimed directly at him.

If that makes him kind of fucked up—so be it.

“So you’re still coming tonight?” He asks, his voice dropping low as he pictures her getting ready…maybe leaning close to the mirror and putting on a dark shade of lipstick

His pulse jumps at the thought of it and he immediately feels ridiculous.

“Yeah if I can get off the phone for one fucking second.” She grumbles.

“Woah—sorry, I’ll let you go.” He says with a deep chuckle in his voice even though he knows it will probably only irritate her further.

“Yeah well it’s not you I’m worried about, I just got off the phone with my mom, it—I’m sorry I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Oh—“ he says and lets out a hiss, he doesn’t know the extent of that situation, but from what he’s gathered over the past two months, Samira doesn’t exactly have a peaches and cream type relationship with her mother.

The fellowship rejection suddenly feels much lower on the list of things that might have her upset.

“So you’re still coming?” He asks quickly, and before he can even finish the question she’s set off again and barks,

“Yes, Jack, I said I’d be there.”

There’s a pause that’s a little too long and he swears he can hear her breathing ragged and uneven through the phone.

She sighs and continues, a hair softer this time—

“Yeah well I’ll be there in twenty if Uber doesn’t take forever.”

“Yeah—or, I could come get you. I have my bike.”

“I just spent two hours getting dressed. I'm not riding on your bike.” She says, sounding exasperated

Jack tries not to let it sting—but he feels it anyway, a small quiet deflation. She’s sat on the back of his bike before, pressed against him with her arms around his waist, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it—more than once.

“I’ll be there soon.” She says sharply then the line clicks dead.

He lets out a rough huff of laughter, more deflated than amused.

Even pissed off and irritable there’s something so captivating about her, even just her voice.

He runs his hand over his face and looks up at the imposing entrance of the natural history museum—the giant bronzes of the great scientific thinkers from centuries past gazing down at him.

He thinks maybe if he had even half as much sense as one of them he wouldn’t have the thought that pops into his head—

He looks up at them—Darwin, and Franklin, staring down over the city with all their cast in bronze certainty—and thinks stupidly that Samira would fit just fine up there with them.

If only everyone else could see it like he could.

If only they saw what he sees—the steady, analytical mind beneath all that fire, instead of just her slower, less frantic approach.

The thought makes something pull tight in his chest… something warm and restless—

He wants to get down on his knees and tell her until she finally believes it—that she’s one of the best doctors he’s ever worked with. That one fellowship doesn’t get to define her future. That there’s a place for her and her incredible empathy and encyclopedic knowledge even if she can’t see it right now.

Sometimes he blames Robby for the fact that she can’t.

And maybe that’s unfair, because Jack knows exactly how hard the man pushes the people he believes in most, but sometimes he thinks Samira walks away from those shifts feeling carved open instead of taught.

Jack shakes his head briefly and tries to lose the image of himself kneeling at Samira’s feet, but it doesn’t quite go away and he thinks he needs a drink… preferably before she gets to the gala.

Yeah, a stiff scotch will soften the blow of seeing her in whatever gown, designed specifically to drive him mad, she’s undoubtedly chosen for the evening.

He rushes back inside and finds the bar.

—

Samira slams the phone down on the table and scoffs at her reflection in the mirror. She looks a little flustered, and it's not that hearing Jack's voice shook her—though it didn’t help.

It’s that she’d just gotten off the phone with her mom. Her mom, who she hasn’t spoken to in about a year. And the reason she’d been calling…

Her stomach rolls nervously and she gets frustrated with herself for feeling so on edge.

The last two days have been nothing but a pendulous swing from one emotion to the next and hearing Jack had tipped her back from the latest nosedive.

He sounded almost…desperate when he’d asked if she’d be at the gala. And the strange thrill she felt at hearing it distracted her enough to actually get excited about the evening again—just a little bit.

He knew she’d be there. She’d told him at work last week.

He knew she already had a dress too, because he’d made a joke about hoping it wasn't too revealing when he’d walked in on her showing Victoria a picture of it on her phone.

Samira stands back and takes in her full reflection one last time.

She doesn’t think the dress is too revealing—though it is form fitting, the heavy black fabric clinging to her body until it flares dramatically at her knee. She’d picked black offhandedly at first, but now she thinks it’s fitting—

For her final work event at PTMC—

For a funeral.

She huffs again and storms out of her bedroom, grabbing her phone and the opera length coat she’d found at a vintage store years ago and never had the chance to wear—the Uber is only four minutes away when she opens the app and she counts it as a good sign.

The car arrives and Samira rolls her eyes when she sees that it’s a Tesla, she picks her way across the uneven sidewalk and gets in anyway.

In the car—be there in 10.

She sends to the group chat with Mel and Victoria.

She gets a response almost immediately from Victoria—

Mel isn’t here yet either. So, thanks to the both of you for leaving me here alone with Ogilvie glaring at me from across the room.

Dr. Langdon is also mysteriously not here…

I wonder if one of you might know why………..?

Samira snorts quietly at her phone, she knows exactly where Dr. Langdon is and why Mel isn’t there yet.

She tucks the phone away and looks out the window, but the brief amusement fades quickly as another thought creeps in—one she’s been trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Leaving meant more than just another hospital.

It meant not seeing Jack every day.

The realization settles heavy and unpleasant in her chest.

She’d only recently started letting herself enjoy the life she’d built at PTMC outside of residency—the friendships, the routines, the strange little family that somehow formed around the chaos of the ED. It had been the only silver lining after the rejection from the Ultrasound Fellowship in New Jersey.

Then she’d gotten the call that afternoon.

First shock. Then relief so sharp it almost made her dizzy. Then panic.

Panic about telling Robby.

And even worse—telling Jack.

Her attendings. Both of them. The one she’d once thought hung the moon, and the one she’d been dancing around for years now.

Her relationship with Robby had once been built on uncomplicated respect, but it had never quite recovered from his outburst on the Fourth. And Jack… Jack had become something much more difficult to define.

Their relationship had always been flirtatious in a way she’d pretended not to notice, but after the Fourth something shifted between them. They’d crossed quietly into something closer to friendship—though the current underneath it never felt entirely friendly.

Close enough that she’d been to his house

Close enough that she’d ridden on the back of his motorcycle more than once…

As the car turns into the Natural History Museum parking lot, Samira decides firmly that she’s not going to tell him tonight.

Not Jack.

Not Robby either.

Not about the palliative care fellowship at Northwestern. Not about the transfer offer to finish her residency there. Not while everything between her and Jack still feels so unfinished and dangerously undefined.

No—not tonight.

—

Jack downs the first scotch then a second in quick succession and wonders if he has time to sneak a third before anyone calls him out—or before Samira arrives. But he moves to order another and he feels the buzz hit him all at once and decides he should have his wits about him for when she shows up.

He’s never seen her in anything other than scrubs or whatever she throws on after work, he’s not sure he’s ever even seen her with makeup on—and whatever she looks like tonight is bound to test the promise he’d made to himself the first time he realized there might be something more between them than the easy, professional flirtation they’d been circling since her days as an R2.

It had only been a few months ago—though he remembers it like yesterday. Samira had asked to come over, to pick his brain about fellowships on his day off and though he hadn’t needed to, he’d offered to pick her up.

When he’d shown up on his motorcycle, she’d laughed—clear and bright—and thrown her arms around him as she climbed on behind him. Later, after their talk on his patio she’d lingered a little too long to call the meeting strictly work related.

That was when things had shifted.

When he realized there might actually be something there—something beyond the odd comment or raised eyebrow about his dating life, or her lack of one—and he’d sworn he’d never make the first move.

Not because he didn’t want to—God, he still does—but because he’d never forgive himself if whatever might happen between them put her career or success at PTMC in jeopardy. She had enough on her plate. She didn’t need the added distraction of a forbidden workplace romance

He wonders, briefly, if she’d even call it that.

The crowd surges around the bar and he hears the microphone at the stage crackle before Gloria’s voice booms over the loudspeakers.

It’s the usual welcomes and thank-yous and mentions of generous donors as always and he barely listens as he swings his legs off the barstool—grateful for the distinction as he slips back towards the entrance hall of the museum.

The liquor has taken the edge off his worry about Simira’s fellowship and quietly replaced it with something else entirely.

The need to be the first one to see her.

He hopes he hasn’t missed her.

He threads his way through the crowd and slips out of the ballroom and the noise fades behind him. He pauses at the top of the grand staircase and looks down towards the front doors—

Just as they swing open.

The promise he’d made to himself flies out of his mind—forgotten and useless as his gaze lands on her.

How he ever thought he could hold himself back, for something as abstract as caution or timing, becomes impossible to understand.

Her long tan arms lift as she hands her coat to the attendant—

And then she turns.

Her eyes catch his and he loses what remains of his train of thought.

Her heart-shaped face glows in the low light—her eyes darkened with smoky black and her lips painted red. Not a garish red—but a burgundy so dark that it reminds him, fleetingly, of arterial blood.

“Samira—“ he says, his voice lower than he expects, and almost unfamiliar as she climbs the steps towards him.

Her gaze flicks over him, quick but thorough—and when her eyes meet his again he catches it, that small, unmistakable spark of approval.

“Hi Jack” she murmurs.

He doesn’t think—he reaches for her hand, lifts it, and presses his lips to her knuckles.

“You’re a vision.” He says softly when she doesn’t pull away, her skin cool against his mouth in sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of the scotch.

“You clean up pretty nice yourself—“ she sighs.

He smiles at her, releasing her wrist gently so that it falls back against the deep velvet of her dress and she’s left looking at him, something unreadable in her expression.

“You missed the first speeches,” he says, glancing back toward the ballroom before letting his eyes drift over her again, taking in the finer details now that she’s so close. “should be time for a dance before the next round—“

“Can a girl get a drink first? It’s been a day.” She says before he can pull her off to the dance floor and he softens as he remembers her tone when she’d picked up his call earlier.

Something was bothering her.

He saw it now that he looked closer, behind the makeup and her usual beauty, there was something else. Worry or sadness… he wasn’t sure but her deep brown eyes didn’t quite light up the way they normally did when he tested the boundaries of their friendship.

Normally he’d be met with a quick wink or an equally intense quip—

“What’s your poison?” He asks, quickly.

“Gin martini” she answers without missing a beat as she steps past him and back towards the cacophony of yacht rock and raised voices, and he’s helpless but to follow in her wake.

As he trails behind her, just close enough to remain polite, he catches a whiff of her perfume, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever smelled before. Woody and warm with a hit of white flowers.

By the time they reach the bar Jack is need of that third scotch just for something to do with his hands so he doesn’t reach for her—it would be so easy, he thinks as he orders their drinks, to stretch his arm a few inches and trace his fingertips over her lower back where her dress dips.

“Thank you—“ he says to the bartender then turns to pass her the martini, and Samira’s slender fingers linger on his as she takes the fine stemmed glass.

The ultrasound fellowship.

He remembers in a flash, the entire reason he’d called her in a panic, worried she might not show up tonight.

“I heard you had bad news—“ he murmurs as he lifts his drink to his lips and eyes her over the rim.

Her eyes go wide and she chokes a little on her own first sip.

—

There’s no way he knows, Samira thinks as she struggles to keep her martini in her mouth.

She hasn’t told anyone but her mother about the opportunity at Northwestern—a pit forms in her stomach.

“You okay?” Jack asks as he leans forward and puts a reassuring hand on her elbow, but she flinches away, suddenly overwhelmed by his touch. Not like before when she’d been so distracted by the shape of him in that perfectly tailored tuxedo—when she’d let him kiss her hand like a scene straight out of her favorite movie…

But now as the reality of her day comes crashing back with all the uncertainty of what moving cities and losing friendships entailed, she knows he isn’t Jack Dawson—and she certainly wasn’t Rose DeWitt Bukater.

“Oh thank God you’re here”

The high pitched voice of Victoria is immediately recognizable from the din of voices and music and she turns away from Jack on a dime.

Victoria immediately grabs onto her, hands clutching into her biceps as she pulls her close, and for the second time in less than a minute she nearly spills her drink.

“Jesus—“ she hisses, and twists uncomfortably in her heels trying to right herself. But she can’t quite gain back the composure she’d felt upon entering the party, not with every possible reason for Jack to know her news filtering through her mind.

Had someone from Northwestern contacted him as her attending? Or worse—had they reached out to Robby? She couldn’t stand the thought of him telling Jack the news himself. Something in her gut told her she had to be the one to do it—she had to see his reaction for herself even if it might hurt.

Hurt him or her she isn’t sure.

She realizes that Victoria is saying something - second too late—

“—still not here, and surprise, surprise, Doctor Blue Eyes is still AWOL. I’d really appreciate it if you told me what was going on with all that by the way, I know you kno—“

“Victoria—stop, just—one second.” Samira lets out in one breath and immediately struggles to get another in.

The other girl looks up at her with wide eyes and loosens her grip, which she is grateful for as she slowly recovers from the whiplash of emotion and the fuzzy corners of the room return into focus.

Finally she steps back and looks Victoria up and down.

“Nice dress.” She tries to sound casual, friendly. But she worries it just sounds stilted and forced.

But it corrects course adequately because the other girl immediately starts regaling her with the saga of trying to find the perfect shade of Lailac that didn’t read too spring and Samira takes the opportunity to gulp down the remainder of her martini—

By the time it’s empty she looks up and sees the missing duo approaching over Victoria’s shoulder.

“Don’t look now but Doctors Blue Eyes and King are here—and holding hands—“ she’d meant it as a distraction but when her eyes fall on Mel King holding Frank Langdon’s hand her voice trails off, all thoughts of the fellowship or Jack suddenly fall to the background.

She watches as they cut through the crowd towards them and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen a smile so bright on her friend’s face.

“There you two are! I was starting to think you’d kidnapped her or something.” Victoria shrieks and Mel lets out a loose laugh as she falls back against Langdon’s chest like she’d done it all her life.

Well she can’t tell Mel she’s leaving now, and ruin her obviously perfect evening.

What if she finds out from someone else—like Jack had?

The thought pokes at the back of her mind uncomfortably and she turns back to Jack, she needs to find out what he knows and who he’s learned it from—

In his seat is an old man in an equally old forest green tux, and beside him on the bar is a half drunk scotch.

Samira spins around back to her friends and makes a half excuse as to why she has to go, the two girls protest but she’s already walking through them towards the dance floor.

She pauses however as her shoulder brushes Mel’s and leans in close, just quick enough to whisper in her ear.

“You look really pretty tonight, Frank’s a lucky guy—“

She doesn’t wait around to hear her response but she does catch a nervous laugh from Langdon as she disappears into the crowd again.

—

The noise of the party gives way to muffled music and his own footsteps on the marble floor as he wanders further and further away from the ball room into the exhibits of the museum.

He’d put down the fourth barely touched scotch and extricated himself while Samira had been distracted with whatever Dr. Javadi had come up blabbering about, not because he thought she didn’t want him around but because even a blind man could tell something was off with her. She had felt frayed around the edges all night—he could hear it, even over the phone.

And after she flinched away from him and nearly asphyxiated on her drink he thought the least he could do was stop hovering over her like some smitten resident.

He didn’t need to complicate her already fraught night.

If she’d lost the fellowship and that was all that was bothering her—he’d write her a million more letters of recommendation, until they found the right place for her.

The smaller fossil display room opens around him and he comes to a halt as the looming skeleton of a T-Rex in the dark room comes into view.

It’s quite a sight, he thinks, a marvel really—The thing standing in front of him belonged to another age entirely— battle-scarred, all instinct and bone.

Jack knew the feeling.

Some nights he thought being hopelessly in love with a woman too young and too brilliant for him might as well qualify him as prehistoric too.

He’s danced around it long enough now to admit that’s what it is that he feels for Samira, and although he’s promised to never admit it first, he knows what he feels—and it stabs a little hot poker into his chest every time rediscovers it.

Jack sways a little as he looks up at the teeth of the creature, uneven on his leg and made worse from the booze, he has to close his eyes to steady himself—no sooner than he digs the heels of his hands into his orbital sockets does the sound of footsteps reach his ears.

He drops his hands to his sides and looks over his shoulder towards the high heeled clacking

Samira brushes into the room with a kind of agitated grace that he’s never seen before.

On one hand she glides along the floor, her dress hovering just a few centimeters over the green and white stone, and he thinks she looks like a dancer—on the other, her fists are clenched at her sides and the spark of danger he’s always admired in her is evident in her eyes.

His heart races while his mind tries to decipher exactly what she’s thinking—whatever it is can’t be good, by the way her brows are set low over her dark eyes. Whatever it is—he’ll do what he can to fix it.

“I was going to tell you.”

The words fall from her lips before she reaches him and he turns towards her fully, bracing as if for impact. It takes too long for him to register them at all and she holds her hands out in an impatient gesture as she comes to a stop less than a foot away.

The rejection.

Right. She’d kept it from him for a reason, but Dana had known. He wonders if the charge nurse had been there when she got the damning email, or if she’d told her of her own volition because of that borderline motherly bond they seemed to share—if so, what did it mean that she hadn’t told him—the one who’d written her the glowing recommendation.

“You could have—“ he starts but his voice catches and he starts again, “I mean there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Jack watches as she slumps, her bare shoulders sloping and giving her the illusion of being much smaller than she is—and the need to reach for her becomes overwhelming, if because of her obvious shift in mood or her insanely long neck and her deep red pout, he’s not sure. Hell—it might even just be the scotch flowing through his frontal cortex—but he gives in and his hand lands on her shoulder, high enough that his thumb reaches her clavicle.

She’s soft—and hot to the touch.

They stay like that for a moment that feels elongated—their breath mingling as she shifts forward—until the bottom of her dress brushes over the patent leather of his shoes.

She still doesn’t say anything but he notices how her eyes dart across his face, the way they do when she’s assessing a patient—

“This doesn’t change anything—Samira—“ he whispers when she doesn’t say anything.

Still she just blinks at him, but he feels her move before he sees it, and her hand is suddenly at his wrist.

She takes a deep steadying breath and her fingers curl into his sleeve like she’s trying to ground herself against him.

He thinks she’d have better luck clutching the brass railing around the dinosaur skeleton, since he’s nowhere near stable on his one good leg—not with her so close or the scotch still coating his mouth—but he doesn’t want her to pull away just yet.

Her jaw works nervously and her eyes lift to his face before she finally opens her mouth.

—

Samira’s hand is sweaty when it lands in the cool fabric of his sleeve, but he doesn’t pull away, even when his hand turns and his fingers slot into hers, he remains exactly where he is and it gives her second for his words to sink in.

This doesn’t change anything.

But of course it does.

Maybe not for him—she thinks with a stab of something prickly to her chest. He sees residents leave PTMC all the time, he’s probably taught a thousand doctors and watched them go during his tenure.

That thought makes everything worse for a moment before she feels his thumb swipe over the back of her hand.

“I didn’t think this would hit me so hard—or—“ she starts to say when the moment feels like it’s stretched in silence for too long, and Jack leans in a little closer concentrating on her mouth.

His gaze distracts her and her voice trails off—

“There’s always something better on the other side of these kinds of things.” He murmurs encouragingly, though she hears a waver in his voice that’s unusual for him.

“Yeah but—I just got used to this place—you all, learning from you—“ she catches herself, “and Robby.”

He’s so close that she can smell his cologne now and oddly it draws her in more and she notices his brows dip curiously—she rushes to get the next bit out before she does something stupid.

“I thought maybe I could make it work—see things through here—stay at PTMC. I finally have a life—friends.”

Her voice falters again as a sharp sensation hits her in the back of the throat. The one that always means tears are imminent.

Samira moves to pull away, not ready for Jack Abbot to see her cry, but his fingers dig into her shoulder and his hand tightens around hers—anchoring her in place.

When she looks back into his eyes she sees confusion etched across his features. Confusion that doesn’t quite make sense.

“What are you talking about?” His voice is slow and measured—like he’s trying to reframe their conversation and failing to do so, she thinks she might be doing the same.

What is he talking about?

“Unless you plan on transferring to Northwestern to continue my education—“ she starts to say as irritation flares hot inside her. But he shakes his head and finally releases her.

“Northwestern?” He asks, holding up his hands in confusion—before she can think not to, she reaches out for him again, her fingers sliding between the lapels of his tuxedo and his chest, he feels incredibly solid despite the rapidly dawning and destabilizing realization that falls around her.

She looks up into his eyes that are suddenly sharp with the same realization but she’s not sure what his point of confusion is—did someone tell him or not?

“You didn’t know?” She breathes, her throat tight.

“About Northwestern? No. Are—are you leaving?” He asks earnestly as his hands find her hips, and the tension in his fingers belays something deeper than just confusion. She thinks it might be panic.

“Y—yes,” she stammers, the ghost of his previous touch on her shoulder still burning hot. If he hadn’t known she was leaving what did it mean that he reached for her? That he’d held her hand like she was about to slip away.

“Not yet though, right? You still—“ his voice goes soft at the end and then disappears entirely—like it’s been lost on the evening breeze.

She just gapes at him—unsure.

—

You still have six months.

Maybe longer if Robby could see your potential—

Maybe forever.

Jack's mind spins uselessly like a tire stuck in the mud.

“No—it has to be now, I—the offer isn’t just for a fellowship, Jack.” She murmurs and the way her voice snags on his name makes him refocus on her, what she’s saying, the shape of her mouth.

He steps a little closer and the feeling returns to his hands as his brain starts working again, her dress is the softest thing he’s ever felt, and her body beneath it—

Concentrate—he tells himself, but can’t stop from digging his thumbs into her hips a little.

“I’m transferring residencies—Doctor Patterson wants me to do another eight months under his supervision before I start the palliative care fellowship there—“

He shakes his head and interrupts her before she can dump anything else on him,

“So this—this isn’t about New Jersey?”

She blinks.

“What?”

“Dana told me you lost the ultrasound fellowship.” He stammers, head still bobbing like he’s not really sure what he’s saying as he watches her face for any sign of recognition.

She just stares, and then—within the space between one breath and the next her eyes widen, and she lets out a heaving sigh that is half nervous laugh.

“No—God, Jack, no this isn’t about that…” her hands slide down his lapels and she watches the movement until her palms press flat against his chest.

He notices something in her eyes—something dawning on her and then she looks up again.

He can see the realization settling over her in real time as she drifts closer again, her fingertips pressing more firmly into his chest like she’s grounding herself there.

The fellowship suddenly feels very far away. So does Northwestern. Doctor Patterson. All of it.

Because none of that was why she’d followed him out here—or why he’d reached for her.

He’d reached for her because it was Samira standing in front of him upset and unraveling at the edges, and every instinct in him had demanded he do something about it.

And she’d come after him because she wanted him to know—to tell him herself.

The thought lands somewhere deep in his chest and stays there.

Now she’s close enough that he can feel the warmth of her breath again, and there’s a small confused smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like she’s only just arrived at the same impossible conclusion.

“I’m really happy for you—“ he murmurs, though something twists painfully around the words and makes them come out rougher than he intended. Because isn’t this just what he always wanted for her?

To find a place that would see her properly? Somewhere that would value her impossible empathy and frighteningly brilliant mind she tries so hard to downplay.

But his words ring untrue even to his own ears and the room suddenly feels like it’s caving in around them.

“You’re not mad?” She whispers, her voice barely more than a low hum.

Mad?

No, he thinks dimly, terrified maybe. A little unsteady at the idea of her disappearing to another city, another hospital, another life that wouldn’t have room for him in it. But not mad. Never that.

“I’m not mad—“ he whispers back, and before he can think, he lifts his hand from her waist to her cheek, brushing the back of his fingers along the sharp plane of her face. “I just thought we’d have more time.”

The confession slips out easier than it should and he immediately braces for it to sound wrong—too revealing or too needy—but it doesn’t seem to.

Because Samira’s eyes soften, and after the briefest hesitation she tips her head gently into his palm.

“Time for what?” She asks, her voice a little steadier now as the heat of her skin melts through his hand and down his arm, immediate and chemical. He can’t resist her, can’t pull away now.

He wants to say, time for you to come to me, to make the move I’ve always wanted you to—but instead he just leans in, and the space between them vanishes inch by inch.

“Jack—“ she breathes against his lips just before he slots his mouth over hers and then she is melting into him. Every bit of her softening at once—like they’ve both spent months holding themselves rigid only to finally give in and fuse together under the heat of everything.

It all comes at once—the realization that she’s kissing him, the almost familiar way her lips feel against his own—the lingering questions and out of reach answers.

But he can’t concentrate on any of it, not with the way his hunger for her overpowers everything else.

Jack’s waited for her for so long—years, if he’s honest with himself—and all that want, all the need that’s built up inside him rushes out as he kisses her greedily and to his surprise, she doesn’t hesitate, she matches him in his intensity.

Her mouth splits open and her tongue is the first to dart out into his—like she’s tasting him. He can taste her, mint and gin—

Samira moans into his parted lips and he hooks his arm around her waist to pull her impossibly closer, completely in awe at her in every way.

Her hands slip from his chest so he can get even closer and then when they're pressed front to front, shoulder to hip—the sensation of her hands in his hair pulling him up short—the need for air is suddenly overwhelming.

He leans back reluctantly, their mouths tearing apart with a sound that only makes his blood rush through his body quicker—and gulps down several lungfuls of cold air.

Samira seems less winded than he feels but still she breathes hot and heavily against his jaw and when he pulls back just enough to catch her gaze—it’s questioning.

“Woulda done that a long time ago if I knew you were leaving—“ he manages to heave.

And she breaks—a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep and low, and it makes his heart clench when she smiles at him like that. He thinks for the most fleeting of seconds that maybe he is too old for her—maybe his heart should not be clenching or stuttering or stopping—surely it can’t be healthy.

She shakes her head and he watches as she trains her face back into a more neutral expression, though the smile lingers around her eyes.

“You only did it because I’m leaving?” She asks softly as her hands slip down to the back of his neck.

“No—“ he starts quickly, wanting to nip that misunderstanding in the bud as quickly as possible. “No I didn’t do it before because I’m your—your boss—I wanted you to do it, I needed to know you wanted it too—“

The explanation doesn’t seem as neat and tidy as it had in his mind.

She nods.

He thinks she understands.

He still doesn’t. Not entirely—

“You’re leaving though—“

She tilts her head at him.

“Yes.”

She’s leaving but here she is, still pressed into his chest like she belongs there—still breathing the same air.

“Don’t—“ he starts, testing her, he wants to witness her resolve—try her boundaries.

“What do you—“ she murmurs before he leans in and presses his lips to hers again,

“Stay—let me keep you—“ he says lightly between quick hot kisses, each time he pulls back he notices that she chases his lips with hers—it makes Jack’s cock twitch as he tightens his grip on her.

“I can’t—“ she whimpers, slipping her hands back into his hair. “I—already—accepted—“

He smiles against her lips and thinks smart girl, she knows what’s best for her—she knows how good she is, how much she’s needed and how her talents will go to use at Northwestern—even if it takes her away from him.

“Of course you did—“ he murmurs into her mouth before finally pulling back. “Samira—really, I’m so proud of you.”

She falters, and he sees it, the way her lips part and her brow creases.

“What?” He asks, mirroring the way she tilts her head.

“This is—just not how I thought this was going to go—“ she huffs and it causes the hair on his forehead to flutter—Jack smiles down at her, he agrees. He thought he’d get to see her in a tight dress—maybe sneak a few dances—this is infinitely better.

He slides his hands around to the small of her back and nods.

—

Samira shakes her head—not sure he’s understanding her but when his fingers brush the base of her spine it doesn't really matter.

“I’m going to tell Robby on Monday—“ she starts to explain, but Jack looks like he's far away, from the hospital, from her news, from anything besides her. She takes a moment to look at him, to see how his face is soft and his eyes are trained on her, it's different from how he usually looks at her—the worry, gone, replaced entirely with something hotter.

He's always been indescribably handsome to her, but now that she’s felt how soft his mouth his and how solid his chest is beneath her hands, the care, beyond desire, becomes crystal clear.

Samira leans into him pushing him back a step as she does and he almost stumbles, but catches himself just as her mouth crashes into his again. He doesn't let her go, he doesn’t break the kiss and she pours all the relief and heat she feels into it.

“C’mon.” She whispers against him when he tries to stop for a breath and his eyes go dark, the hazel of them almost black in the low light.

“What—?” He starts but she shuts him up with a quick kiss then tugs him away from beneath the shadow of the looming dinosaur, and his hands scrabble at her sides as he tries to keep her in place but she’s already maneuvered her hand into his without thinking and moving towards the back of the exhibit.

She knows—from her singular failed blind date that Yolanda had set her up on—that there's a room to the side of the main hall that’s dark and filled with dioramas of cavemen.

”Oh—creepy.” Jack mutters as they step through the door and the shadowy figures of the mannequins come into view. It is creepy, but she has to get his hands on her again, she has to show him that she wants this—he’d said he needed to know and she intends to tell him the best way she knows how to.

Jack makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat when she yanks his hand again, and pulls him against her as the cold glass of the exhibit presses against her bare back. It’s icy in comparison to her flushed skin and very, very welcome.

He doesn't grab her though, just lets her pull him close with his hands at his sides and his eyes trained on her.

“Jack…” she whispers, straining up in her high heels to try and reach his lips again, but he shifts out of her reach.

”You’re really okay with this?” He murmurs with a rumble in his chest that she can feel through their layers of clothing.

“With what?” She asks stupidly, and is rewarded with one of her favorite things in the world—that face he makes. The one where his left eyebrow raises incredulously and his lips purse, and maybe she hadnt noticed it before—but God, they’re so nice—she pulls on his coat,

“You’re making this really hard—“ she sighs when he doesn't budge, and he scoffs.

“You’re one to talk.”

He murmurs, even deeper this time as he angles his hips and presses into her and she can feel what he’s talking about, she can feel his arousal through his tailored tuxedo pants. Samira feels like she might melt out of her own skin.

“I’m good with it, more than good with it—please just, I need you—“ She whimpers in a way that doesn't sound anything like herself, it makes Jack nearly growl and finally he leans in, and covers her mouth with his again.

She’s leaving, she knows it, but this might be worth staying for—the way his tongue slips between her lips and his hands slide up her body to cradle her face as he presses her harder into the glass.

“You’re so fucking beautiful Samira,” Jack murmurs into her parted lips and it makes her stomach roll. She’s never been kissed like this, it's never felt quite so needed, like air, or water. She hears it in the way he says her name—feels it on her tongue.

There's no talking after that—nothing to be gained by any of the things she feels welling up inside her being made vocal. When he pulls back to look at her one last time she notes the way his lips are smeared with her lipstick, and it is both incredibly hot, and deeply amusing. He looks torn to pieces and she has barely even gotten her hands on him yet.

She reaches up and swipes her thumb over his bottom lip as her fingers curl into his cheek and he lets her angle his head to where she wants him, exposing his muscular neck as he tips his head to the side.

The skin of his throat tastes like sweat and a little like the alcohol in his cologne, the smell of which fills her as she inhales against him and he goes limp in her grasp as she sucks the spot below his ear—his hands move again until he’s bunching up her dress in his fists.

The cold air hits Samira's legs as he gets the bulk of the fabric over her knees and when she shudders, Jack lets out a low laugh into her hair.

“Tell me what to do.” He whispers—breaking the breathy silence of the dark room.

“Touch me.” She moans and he leans back to look at her again as he continues to slide her skirt up and his hands find her thighs.

—

No one has looked at him like she does—not since he was much, much younger, maybe not since his wife. A blush spreads up from the plunging neckline of her dress all the way to her jaw where it dissipates behind the layer of makeup that's starting to look a little worse for wear on her face.

It makes Jack think that she’s wanted this for maybe as long as he has, oh—he wishes he’d done this ages ago—they could have had so much more time. But now that he has her in his grasp, he can't be bothered to rush, even with the looming deadline of her departure, even with the thought that anyone could walk in on them at any second—he wants to take his time with her, touch her so that she knows.

Knows that he wants this, that he cares about her, that she’s just—so good.

He watches her face as he hauls her heavy dress over her knees when she tells him to touch her he presses forward, slotting his thigh between hers so that his body holds her dress out of the way and he can use one hand to touch her, the other to grip at her waist.

This would be so much easier anywhere else, in any other clothes, he muses to himself when Samira tips her head back and he stumbles into her until his mouth meets her jaw.

She makes a sound that he’s never heard before—a soft breathy moan that sounds almost like his name—and he takes it as his cue.

He hopes his prosthetic will hold because his good leg is supporting her and he cant bear the thought of stopping now, not when he finds her underwear with his fingertips.

They feel like lace, thin and textured.

“Samira—“ he murmurs when her hands thread into his hair, her long fingers tugging gently in his curls and his hand reflexively tightens on her waist coaxing another sound, more like a soft yelp from her lips.

He loosens his hold immediately but doesn’t stop his exploration of her body with his other hand.

”Keep going.” She urges gently, her words ghosting over his ear which she sucks between her lips in a way that feels miraculously hot. His pants are too tight and his cock is too hard now, he’s worried if she shifts against him the sensation will have him over the edge before she can even touch him.

“Stay still.” He warns softly into her skin and she does, except her hands as they continue to play in his hair, her long fingered hands that he’s stared at for years, and embarrassingly imagined at least a hundred times as he’s touched himself.

Jack pulls the damp cloth of her underwear to the side, and she jolts, a huff escaping her as her forehead lands on his shoulder.

He trails his fingers through the sparse hair over her entrance and marvels at how soft she is, soft in every way that it counts, and hard when she needs to be—she really is a wonder. And when he finds her clit with a practiced ease he’s immediately given the sound that will play in his head for years to come.

Her voice achingly sweet as she moans his name.

Jack tries to focus on what he’s doing, but the way she's reacting to his touch keeps throwing him off, every breath and shudder magnified by his intense desire for her.

His fingers stop and start again every time she shifts or breathes, and she feels like silk against his touch. He wants to taste her, feel that velvety skin on his lips and tongue, but he knows this isn’t the time, knows there's no way his knees can handle it—

She nudges him with her nose against his ear and he pulls back to see her face, there's a sheen of sweat across her forehead and her heavily lidded eyes look almost black in the dark—they go wide when his hand slips lower and his fingers slide into her—and then she’s kissing him again as she shakes.

He’s not sure how hes gone fifty years without knowing what her teeth feel like sinking into his bottom lip, or how she tenses around him as he starts to pump in and out of her.

She’s nearly there, he can tell by the way she quivers and her breath falters, and he returns his attention to her clit.

Samira’s head falls back and she lets out a sound that is almost a sob, as her chest heaves.

“Just like that Jack.” She moans, and he cant help it, anymore, he ruts against her as her body quivers, his erection caged between them, her hip hard against him.

“I’m—Samira—“ He babbles, needing release more than he ever has in his life.

Her hand slips down, through the fabric of her dress and his coat, until those gorgeous fingers wrap around him and she squeezes, rolling her palm over him through his pants.

“You’re so hard,” She whimpers, like its the discovery of the ages, like she’s been waiting to feel him—

He can't say anything, all ability to speak let alone think gone out the window and he concentrates on getting her off, or tries to.

Her grasp on him falters, and she stills.

—

Samira reaches her orgasm faster than she ever has before when she feels how hard and heavy his erection is in her hand, and with his dexterous fingers circling her clit like it’s his job—everything goes white—static fills her ears as pleasure crests over her.

Her body folds into him as he jerks into her hand, but wave after wave of her orgasm makes it impossible to react.

“Baby—“ He moans harshly and she can't process how reverent his voice is, because he’s still touching her, the wet sounds of it are all she can hear as she comes again. Faster this time and without the build up of before.

She’s fairly sure she’s cursing, Jack might be too—and then they slump against the glass, breathing heavily as his hand falls away from her overly sensitive core. He braces himself against the glass just enough to keep his weight from crushing her.

They stay like that for a while, maybe a minute, maybe thirty, just breathing the same air as Samira comes back into her body, and Jack catches his breath, she’s not positive but she thinks somewhere in the back of her mind that he came when she did—and it makes her skin prick with the heat of another wave of arousal.

Then he shifts, and a groan escapes his lips, its not harsh but she realizes that he’s still holding her up, and she remembers his leg—

“Fuck—are you alright?” She asks as the air in her lungs escapes and she tries to take some of the pressure off his thigh between her own.

He laughs darkly and shakes his head.

“Never better—“

A smile tugs at her own lips,

“and you?”

“Oh yeah—“ he huffs, straightening a little and wincing as he finds his balance.

Samira can’t help but to laugh at that, and when he steps away and her dress falls back down to cover her legs she just watches him, jaw slack.

He runs his hands over his hair like it could possibly help the mess she’s created of it, and there’s absolutely no hiding the fact that he’s covered in her lipstick.

“You look—“ she is about to say, like a wreck, but then he catches her eye and his gaze sparkles dangerously, mischief playing at the corners of his mouth, and Samira reaches for him, unable to stop herself.

“Like I’ve just been ravaged?” He laughs when he curls around her, and her hands slot beneath his arms.

“Yeah, something like that—“ she laughs, nosing into his neck.

His grasp on her is tight, and all encompassing—she feels caged in but in a way that feels like it’s keeping her together—keeping her from feeling anything but the warm glow of his company—his—love.

She tips her head back and as she looks into his eyes, she’s certain that’s what it is.

“Jack—how am I supposed to leave now?” She asks without thinking.

He just laughs—a low rumbling lilt and shakes his head.

“When are you supposed to leave?”

“Friday should be my last day at work—if Robby will sign off on everything.” She mutters, cringing a little at the mention of her other attending’s name, it feels wrong to think of anyone else, let alone mention them by name in this room—the room that will always be theirs In her mind now.

“I’ll make sure he does—“ Jack whispers, nudging her ear with his lips.

She huffs warily, and bites back a little bitterly.

“How?”

Jack's hands drop from her shoulders to her ribs and his thumbs press into her reassuringly.

“I have my ways—and some intel he might not want getting back to HR.”

Samira leans back—her eyes wide again.

And they both break into laughter, hers a bit wary, his, warm and relaxed. She hopes he’s joking—

“You think we should get back?” she asks when he quiets and leans a little closer.

“Yeah—we're gonna be persona non-grata if we miss Dana’s big speech,” he mumbles, swiping at his mouth with his hand. “I gotta—uh do something about this first”

Samira watches with a smirk as he looks at the lipstick smeared across the back of his fingers.

“Yeah, you do that.” She adds softly, unable to stop her smirk from turning into a grin. She could watch him wipe lipstick off his face all day, and it makes her wonder what it is about him—besides the chiseled and chipped exterior—that endears him to her so thoroughly. “I’ll meet you back there—and I’m gonna need at least two dances to make sure I didnt just hallucinate this whole thing.” He adds with a quick wink—and that's what it is—

Jack Abbot and his quick wit and caring eyes—and now she knows—his talented mouth and fingers—it’s just him, everything about him.

A shiver races down her spine and tenses at the realization.

“Yeah—I’ll see you in there,” she says, her mouth moving too fast for her brain.

She tries to smooth her dress back into the places it sat before, but it doesnt want to cooperate so she pats at it harder, with a small frustrated huff.

“Hey.”

She looks up to find Jack watching her.

His look melts the tension—

“We don't have to dance, we can go back in there and pretend this never happened if it’s what you want.”

The chill in her spine fades immediately when the tone of his voice strikes her—he’s letting her choose—when he so evidently wants her to choose him.

“I’ll see you back out there Jack,”she whispers, closing the space between them again, and when she kisses him this time, its slow—so slow that she has time to map the shape of his lips, and when her hands slide to his face, she registers the texture of his skin and the way his stubble scratches her palms. She breaks the kiss, “And after your two dances I need you to take me home.”

His face splits into a grin that's even stupider and more giddy than she’s ever seen—and he nods as it morphs from silly to disbelieving, his eyebrows raising up his forehead.

Jack leans in and kisses her then—just as slowly.

“You got it,” he murmurs into his mouth before giving her a light push, back to the ballroom, back to the crowd of her coworkers and friends.

She’s not how she’s going to face any of them, knowing what’s to come.

—

Samira disappears back into the hall and Jack holds his breath until she’s completely out of view—

He doesn't trust himself not to call her back, or rush after her.

The second she’s gone he sucks in a ragged gulp of air and puts his hand on the wall to steady himself for a moment. He’d said he’d need a dance or two to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating—but as of yet—he still couldn't be sure he didn't fall down drunk and whack his head on a fossil. Because if he was laying unconscious somewhere he’s pretty sure that is exactly what his addled brain would dream up.

The marble slips past beneath his uneven and tired gait when he takes off down the hall a moment later in search of any indication for a men’s room. He needs to get himself cleaned up in more ways than one and he needs to do it quickly so he can get back to her.

Lipstick turns out to be harder to get off his skin than it was to get off her lips and onto him—but he manages with a crumbling wet paper towel and awful smelling hand soap to get most of it and tells himself that if anyone notices the spot of dark red on his collar, he’s going to pretend that he’s spontaneously started bleeding from the ear.

That way he’ll conveniently need to have Samira rush him to the hospital—or his house.

He limps out of the bathroom and back towards the sound of the party—the DJ seems to moved on from the Doobie Brothers to what Jack thinks might be Lady Gaga…

”Woah!” A broad figure steps into his path just as he’s about to round the corner into the ballroom.

He immediately recognizes Robby’s voice and silhouette in the dark recess of the doorway.

“Hey—uh—hey, man” Jack stammers as he grinds to a halt. He’s glad the only illumination that reaches them is the filtered blue of the up lights, because if anyone could read his expression and immediately guess what he’d been up to—it would be Michael Robinavitch.

“Where have you been? I wanted to interface you to Steph tonight—I think she already left.” Robby mutters.

Steph?

“Who?” Jack scoffs.

“That rep—the one who teaches yoga and and is working on her doctorate…?” He tries to jog jacks memory and it simply doesn’t ring a bell—he thinks maybe he couldn’t possibly remember a single thing about a woman besides Samira right now if he tried. Even beneath the cheap hand soap from the bathroom clinging to his skin he can still smell her woody perfume.

“Yeah—“ he says, nodding slowly—and Robby makes an exasperated sound. “Okay—great talk,” Jack concludes as if that’s all there is to the matter and hits Robby on the shoulder playfully as he brushes past him into the crowd, not waiting for a response.

He bee lines it for the bar in need of a mother drink.

Not scotch—he’s had enough of searing heat for the now

“Your coldest beer.” He calls over the crowd that seems to have gotten louder in his absence to the bartender, and when she brings him a frosty glass of light ale, he drinks half of it in three gulps.

Thankfully none of his coworkers are at the bar to witness it.

He swivels on his stool and scans the crowd to find them—he already knows most of them will probably be huddled into one place—their own little island of misfits—

He spots Dana’s white blond hair first, then the rest come into focus.

Whitaker, Langdon, King, Ellis, and behind them all, Mohan.

Jack waits a minute—just one or two before he grabs his drink from the bar and swerves his way across the room—managing better now that he’s had a drink and a moment to breathe.

She looks up as he approaches and even from a distance he can see Samaria’s gaze travel over him—and then darken.

“Nice of ya to join us—my speech is in ten—“ Dana says when he joins the small circle.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says, turning his head towards her but unable to take his eyes off Samira. “Sounds like just enough time for two dances—“

Samira’s lips quirk into a smile that he knows is just for him as she overhears.

“You know I don’t dance, hun,” Dana laughs and the song changes to something a little slower just as he catches he tears his gaze from Samira.

Dana is looking at him like he might actually be bleeding from somewhere.

“Guess I’ll have to find someone else to work my moves on.” He laughs before looking back to the girl with the mussed hair and wide brown eyes that never fail to pull him just a little closer. “What do you say Samira?”

She just nods and brushes past him, away from their coworkers and onto the opposite end of the dance floor—he scrambles to keep up, and when he gets within arm’s reach he snags her hand.

“You still look ravaged” she says when he spins her towards him and lands against his chest with a soft thud.

“You don’t look much better—still beautiful—but—“ his voice trails off when her hand slips around the back of his neck and she starts to sway.

“But what?” She whispers.

“But nothing—“ he murmurs, awestruck by the way she looks at him through her eyelashes.

“That’s what I thought—“ she laughs quietly.

And he nearly stumbles when her cheek lands on his shoulder—

“Is this okay?” Her hair tickles his lips as he turns into her to whisper in her ear.

She nods, but stays silent, and he drops her hands, only to find the curve of her waist—and they spin slowly to the languid tune.

—

Jack is no great dancer, but when she’s pressed into him and his fingers toy with the seams over her hips Samira loses herself in the sound of the music—she’s fairly sure it’s been more than two songs by the time the sound fades and the microphone sputters to life on the stage. She looks up and catches Jack’s eye as he lifts his head.

“Still think you’re hallucinating?” She asks, as the house lights come up and a spotlight illuminates the red curtain behind him.

“Maybe,” Jack sighs, glancing around, and loosening his grip on her—she thinks of how tight he'd held her in the diorama room—how he’d made her yelp with the pressure of it.

“We should stay for Dana’s speech,” Samira says—even though she wants nothing more than to run out of here—feel Jack—let him feel her. She realizes she’s staring at him again when he pinches her side gently and it startles her.

“You know, I don’t think Dana will notice if we slip out—“ he whispers, sidling up a little closer so his hand can flatten against her stomach.

Samira’s breath fails her at his tone—before he’d been reverent—but now there’s something to it that sounds sultry, like he already knows she wants him and it’s making him bolder.

“Jack,” she starts, leaning her shoulder into his chest—does it always feel like this to be wanted so badly? Because she thinks she could get used to the heat—the butterflies.

“C’mon” he whispers and he drops his head just low enough for his lips to brush the top of her ear.

Dana starts speaking from the stage and her words filter through Samira as Jack tugs her to the back of the ballroom.

“Gotta make a quick pit stop” he says and pulls her to a stop in front of Gloria. Samira looks around, eyes darting between the woman in the sapphire pantsuit and Dana on the stage between the bobbing heads of the crowd.

“People think generosity means money. But in hospitals generosity is time,” the charge nurse says and Samira takes a deep breath to steady herself as Jack murmurs with Gloria to her right.

“Patience, attention, giving your parts of yourself away at every shift—“

Samira looks over at her friends and coworkers huddled across the room—all of them just a little different from the day she met them. And all better for it.

“Ready?”

She whips her head around and finds Jack tucking his wallet back into his pocket with one hand and touching her hip gently with the other.

“God, yes—“ she murmurs, and turns to follow Jack out of the building. On the way out she catches Gloria looking quite pleased with herself, a folded check tucked in her clenched fingers.

“Okay Mr. I’ll Pay For It,” Samira mutters as they reach the stairs, and Jack throws her a rueful smirk over his shoulder before he gets both their coats from coat check and ushers her into the frigid night.

Jack skids to a halt in front of her and turns on a dime.

“I’ll be right back,”

He murmurs with a swift kiss to the side of her forehead and she reaches for him before he’s able to escape into the parking lot. Her fingers snag on his sleeve cuff but he doesn’t stop, just lets out a loose laugh and Samira is left standing on the sidewalk until she hears the engine of his motorcycle roar to life in the distance.

Jack is just like that—a presence—low and rumbling—and a little dangerous.

The deafening sound cuts out as he rolls to a stop in front of her and holds out a black helmet.

“But my hair!” She laughs as she takes it from him and his now gloved fingers run over her forearm as she lifts the offending thing.

“Put the damn helmet on, Northwestern won’t take you with a TBI—“ he says seriously, flipping up his visor and fixing her with a penetrating look.

It sinks through her skin and heats her from the inside out and she acquiesces—besides, she knows her curls aren’t bound to last long the second they arrive at their destination.

Jack kicks the clutch and the engine beneath them roars to life as Samira settles into the space behind him, her body fitting like a key in a lock against him as she maneuvers her skirt around her legs.

He leans back and shouts over his shoulder, over the thunder of the bike—

“I did hear that correctly right? You’re really leaving for Northwestern?”

Samira’s lips curl over her teeth and she slides her hands into the open space in the front of his coat so that she can feel his heat and the hard planes of his chest as a laugh escapes her.

She considers it for a moment.

She could stay.

Maybe Jack’s support and distracting fingers would make six more months at PTMC bearable. Maybe she could skate by on nights out with Mel and Victoria, and lazy afternoons wrapped around him on the back of his bike.

But suddenly she feels too big for that—too needed elsewhere.

Because she’s seen herself through his eyes now.

“Yes—“ she says, just loud enough for him to hear as she leans in, and he squeezes the throttle—“but not tonight!”

Samira feels him shake beneath her with laughter as they peel out onto the street, and the wind whips at her like knives, but she knows he’ll warm her up as soon enough. She presses closer into Jack’s back as they hurtle out of the city towards his house in the hills.

—

Robby rolls over in bed, his head a little tender and his feet still aching from being pinched by dress shoes all evening, when his phone lights up in the dim early morning light.

There’s a message from Jack. And a photo attachment.

When Mohan talks to you later today, just remember I have some very delightful memories of you and your favorite intern from when you were supposed to be house-sitting for me.

Robby’s stomach rolls.

He opens the attachment with growing dread and immediately regrets it.

A grainy screenshot from a security camera fills the screen—Jack’s back patio, steam rising from the hot tub, the unmistakable naked shape of Robby’s own back, and a pair of small familiar hands wrapped tight around his waist.

His face goes hot instantly.

“Oh, you absolute asshole—“ he groans, tossing the phone onto the mattress before falling back into bed with both hands over his face.

Whatever Jack wants, Jack gets.

And apparently what Jack Abbott wants is for Samira Mohan to get everything she deserves

-