Chapter Text
Lana del Rey - White feather hawk tail deer hunter
I know you wish you had a man like him, it's such a bummer
⸙
Jack Abbot has a nice car. Sleek, black, entirely out of your price range— although that last part was to be expected. Someone usually doesn't sign an employment contract to be a night shift attending in the local ER without expecting some hefty compensation in return, you figure.
The car pulls up in front of where you're seated with a silence you hadn't really associated with a thing that size.
You untangle yourself from your cross-legged position with whatever grace the universe had decided to bestow you with on this fateful, sunny afternoon. Unfortunately, that amount seems to come down to not much. The University benches scattered around the campus provide little in terms of comfort, both in space offered and shape, and so you're sitting on a half-wall close to the parking zone, books strewn around you, and your laptop balancing rather precariously on one of your knees.
It's a better spot to sit in when you're about to be picked up by car, anyway.
You're squinting into the sun as you look up at the car, seeing the door open and the man sent to pick you up rise from within.
Part of you already regrets saying yes to this. When your dad first proposed you tagging along on his annual hunting trip, you jumped at the opportunity. Spending a week in an isolated cabin in the woods, seated by the fire as you had all the time and space you needed to finish writing your master's thesis, sounded nothing short of perfect.
Only one hitch in your plan. Your dad never took this trip alone. His best friend, who is currently rounding the front of his car and eyeing your ridiculous pile of books with a certain glee in his soft eyes, happens to be a much-too attractive ER doctor.
You'd only really met Jack once or twice before, a few times when you'd return home from your part-time job and found him speaking to your dad in the living room. Then, another time, during a particularly wild night when you’d had a spontaneous trip to the ER. He'd always been kind and annoyingly attractive, and you managed to avoid going into it any further than that.
"Jesus Christ, kid, are you planning on moving in?"
Truly, you did have a disproportionately large bag situated at your side. You squint up at him in a glare, stuffing your books into a tote bag rather haphazardly.
"Uni requires sacrifice. You've got an MD, you should remember that. Or did you still carve your notes on stone tablets back in your day?"
He sends you a look at the taunt about his age, bending down to recover one of the books splayed on the ground, a victim of your graceless hurrying. The movement unfortunately gives you a perfect view of his unfairly nice hands.
Instead of retorting to your playful jab with one of his own, he narrows his eyes as he reads the cover of the book he's picked up.
"A Market Definition Paradigm for Monopolization Cases?"
You snort, slamming your laptop shut with a bit more force than the poor old thing deserves, taking the book from him as he holds it out to you.
"Trust me, it's as horrible as it sounds. "
"Oh, I believe you."
You try not to dwell on the way he lifts your heavy bag in one smooth motion, walking back to his car to put it in the trunk along with his own. He smiles as he returns to you, seeing you finally standing and your mess somewhat contained in your tote bag.
Then he opens the car door for you. Leaning against the side of it as he gestures towards his car with a motion of his head.
"Come on, kid."
"Do you think you're gonna stop calling me that anytime soon? You're making me feel like I'm five years old."
He laughs, then, and the sound does something entirely uninvited to your heart. It is just annoying, the way age has settled into Jack Abbot with more grace than it allowed most. Deepening the smile lines around his eyes, making him look even more charming than he already was. Grey's whispering through his once-darker hair, sharpening his look rather than dulling it.
You duck inside the car, hoping to cut off the useless rambling in your head and the pressing urge to ponder whether his curls feel as soft as they look if you simply manage to avert your gaze.
You let your eyes wander over the sleek interior of the car. Spotless, smelling distinctly like a car recently cleaned. Through your various university friends, some of whom had the luck of owning a car somewhere between student loans and housing fees, it had been a while since you'd been in a car that wasn't older than you— and actually maintained, too.
You feel wholly out of place.
Bunching your hands together as you pick one of the side of your tote bag that's coming slightly loose, you lose yourself in a random train of thought, only slightly cut off by the door slamming shut as Jack situates himself at your side.
It shouldn't be hot. He shouldn't be hot. But between your experiences of boys in your life having the greatest trouble finding the laundry hamper, and seeing Jack reverse out of the spot and turn out of the parking lot with an ease only gained with years of experience, your throat runs dry.
The engine rumbles softly beneath you. For a moment, a silence lingers as you quietly tap the address of your dad's hunting cabin into the car's GPS.
"Do you actually plan on working on your thesis up there?" he then asks, pulling you out of your thoughts before it can spiral too far.
"That is the plan."
"Right."
"Why does it sound like you don't believe me?"
He sends you a sideways glance that doesn't qualify as anything but teasing. "You look like you're about three seconds away from a nervous breakdown. Are you sure you're not tagging along to escape the constant pressures of academia?"
You turn in your seat to face him. Outside, the campus bleeds into highway, speeding up as you join the myriad of different colored cars trying to traverse the Pittsburgh highway system.
"Don't start using big words to me now, Jack. Being in a constant panic is the natural state of any university student."
He only hums in response.
You narrow your eyes. "Care to elaborate on that?"
He takes a beat, fingers flexing around the steering wheel, which you wish he wouldn't, because that just tears your attention away from the side of his face and down his unfairly nice arms.
"I work in emergency medicine. I've seen actual psychological distress."
You mock gasp. "Oh, wow. Low blow."
The edge of your tote bag unravels slightly as one of your pickings overdoes it, and you curse slightly under your breath. While talking to Jack Abbot comes scarily easy, there's something intimate about sitting in his car with him, and you're desperate for a distraction. Somehow, something in you prevents you from fishing your phone out of your pocket and engaging in the mindless scrolling your mind has unfortunately become addicted to.
You don't really want him to think of you as some screen-addicted teenager who can't hold a conversation for more than five minutes.
He notices you're quiet, not responding to his teasing the way he half-expected you would from the few times you'd actually joined him and your dad for a bit. He doesn't comment on it instantly, letting the easy silence marinate between you while you're working on whatever thoughts are distracting you.
Then he breaks it again. Giving in to the urge to pry into what's turning you into a contemplative, quiet bundle in an oversized sweater in his passenger seat.
"You okay there, kid?"
You scoff out a laugh. "You're really set on that one, huh?"
"You are aware that I'm twice your age, right?"
"Oh, I am very aware that you're prehistoric, yes."
"Keep talking, and I'll leave you at the nearest gas station."
That elicits a real laugh from you. "My dad would kill you."
He glances over at you, even though your attention is focused on the way the highway has made room for tree-lined roads, city skyscrapers turning into suburban housing— then spacing out further and further as the drive turns to quieter roads.
"Probably."
He says it quietly, and with just enough spacing between your words and his to make it sound more layered than it should.
As the roads quiet down, Jack relaxes a little more. Though his driving is mostly fine with his prosthetic, it's not the most comfortable, especially not when traversing busy highways.
That, and he's not very set on crashing his car with his best friend's daughter seated at his side. The car-play indicates another two hours stretching ahead.
The silence fills with stories of his wildest night shift cases, and he pauses for your laughter to die down as he recounts a Fourth of July case where an American flag lodged itself into a man's chest. You enjoy the way he talks as he remembers the scene he's conveying, the hints of a smile pulling at his features when he reaches a particularly amusing part.
You find your gaze latching onto him when he's deep into an anecdote. His hand rests loosely at the bottom of the steering wheel, his watch catching the glare of the sun with every slight shift.
You barely manage to tear your eyes away before it becomes awkward, already heavily regretting ever saying yes to this idea.
You’re on the road for what feels like years. In reality, it only really stretches for two hours when Jack switches lanes towards the next exit. For a moment, you wonder whether he’s making good on his promise to leave you at the nearest gas station, and part of you wonders whether it would be funny to joke about that.
But one glance at his side profile shuts you up, a wave of awkwardness crashing over you that you’re wholly unfamiliar with. Why did you care so much about whether he’d like some silly joke? Why did you feel so tongue-tied around him?
He pulls into the gas station smoothly, and he must’ve somehow felt the intent of joking about his threat hanging in the air between the two of you, because he glances over at you quickly.
“Don’t panic, I’m just getting gas.”
“I wasn’t panicking. I’ve been nothing but kind to you since you threatened my life.”
He laughs and shakes his head slightly. The gas station looks nothing short of abandoned— a common misconception of those located as rurally as this one, and your eye lingers a moment on the flickering neon sign promising fresh beverages and the lowest gas prices in the country, guaranteed!
“Are you coming with me, or are you staying here?” Jack asks as the car shuts off, his gaze falling on you inquisitively.
You try not to dwell on the phrasing of ‘coming with me’ as you nod semi-casually. “What are the chances I’ll get a candy bar out of this?”
“Incredibly slim.”
You have to resist the urge to punch his shoulder, knowing the physical contact it entails would surely be enough to send you into a spiral you won’t return from.
You pout for good measure, but follow after him despite it when he exits the car and unscrews the gas cap. Every single movement executed with an ease that sends a ripple traveling down your spine. He slots the nozzle into the tank, the machinery buzzing to life as gas heaves over into the car.
You distract yourself by drawing a lackadaisical line into the gravel with the toe of your shoe. Behind Jack, the numbers rack up as the tank fills, and that’s when you’re struck with an idea.
“I can pay for it.”
Jack looks up at you like you just proposed an armed assault on the Pentagon. “What?”
You nod your head towards the pump. “The gas. I can pay for it, you know, since you’re driving me all the way up here.”
Jack shuts off the nozzle and hangs it back up on the rack, screwing the gas cap back on and rounding the front of the car.
“No.”
“Come on.”
He looks at you as he nears, leaning in slightly to emphasize his words. “Absolutely not. You’ve seen the gas prices lately, I assume?”
You open your mouth to respond, but the attempt is cut off as Jack turns and enters the gas station, giving you no choice but to trot after him. He’s right, of course, as a student working part-time in your local café, you don’t exactly make big bucks (yet). Still, taking favors from people without at least offering to do something in return goes against your upbringing.
The temperature drops considerably as you enter the building, the air conditioning working as much overtime as the bored teller at the register. You send them a small, polite smile before heading over to the candy-bar section. You’re not allowed to pay for gas, but that won’t stop you from getting your snack. That you can afford.
You pick one out, then head over to the refrigerated drinks, pondering for a minute to decide on whether you’re feeling more like an iced tea or anything fizzy, when a hand reaches past you.
Your heart stutters. You’re entirely too aware of how close he is to you, smelling slightly of laundry detergent and soap and something else you can’t quite place.
Jack notices, too, because he stills ever so slightly before retrieving the water from the shelf and stepping back.
His eye falls on the two candy bars you are currently skillfully grasping between your fingers— a testimony to all the times you should have brought a bag but didn’t, resulting in keys, your phone, and your wallet all stuck between your fingers instead.
“Before you start analyzing my sugar intake, one of these is for you,” you explain without waiting for him to ask.
“Aren’t you a sweetheart.”
The slight deadpan way in his words takes out most of the magic from the affectionate nickname, and yet it causes warmth to spread in your lower abdomen all the same.
It’s almost like he knows the effect he has on you. His eyes betray the hint of a smile as he looks at you for a moment longer before heading towards the register.
The warmth of his proximity lingers on the back of your mind all the way back to the car. Realizing, begrudgingly, that you didn’t mind him being so close to you in the slightest. Knowing full well that whatever weird feeling you had towards the man in the driver's seat had to be squashed and killed the moment you turned onto the cabin’s driveway.
You barely suppress a shiver running down your spine just by imagining your dad having to find out about his daughter having a stupid crush on his best friend.
As the roads turn to forest paths, you start to recognize the bends and turns leading to the cabin. You'd spent a considerable amount of vacations up between these trees, the memories tugging warmly at your subconscious as Jack skillfully maneuvers the path ahead.
As the car grinds to a halt, a part of you hesitates to get out of the car. The atmosphere had turned so comfortable in your drive here, and having this alone time with Jack without having to worry about anything being weird was nicer than you'd anticipated.
You shake your head ever so slightly. Stupid. There's nothing going on, and Jack wouldn't be anything but civil towards his best friend's daughter. It's you who's making it weird, now.
But he turns his head to look at you after the engine dies down, an easy smile on his features as a beat passes the two of you— and for a moment, the delusional part of you shyly wonders whether he feels the same slight hesitation as you do.
"Do you need help carrying your library inside?" he then asks, eyes dipping down at the overflowing bag settled at your feet somewhere during the car ride.
You pretend to laugh while shooting him a glare, reaching down to cradle the bag protectively into your arms. Exiting the car swiftly before you can dwell on just how much you like the way his voice drops when he speaks so softly to you.
The air out here feels cleaner than in Pittsburgh. Lighter, somehow, and a little cooler as the wind blows through your hair. Pine and damp earth fill your senses, the lingering scent of smoke and something entirely nature entering your lungs and settling your raised pulse.
A pulse you hadn't even realized was hammering against your veins incessantly until you'd stepped out of that godforsaken car. You blow out a long breath, trying to shake the jitters spreading over your skin like goosebumps.
Just a week. A week of peace and quiet— your dad and his friend would spend most days trekking through the forest, anyway. Leaving you to enjoy the solitude of the cabin and the lack of responsibilities for anything other than your academic achievements.
"Took you guys long enough!" comes a familiar voice.
You smile as you turn to find your dad walking out the door of the cabin, reaching up to return his crushing bear hug. Oompfing a little as he all but squeezes the air out of you.
It had been a while since you'd seen your dad. One exam always turned into two, and between those, you always had an assignment or three to convince you your time would be better spent stuck in a book than visiting your family. You always regretted it too late.
“You look tired," your dad says, frowning as he pulls back.
You roll your eyes. "Oh, come on. Not you too."
Jack laughs as he opens the trunk to his car and heaves your bag out first. Slipping a quick 'told you so' your way before disappearing through the front door. You just narrow your eyes at him in response.
The inside of the cabin feels like a warm, familiar blanket. Scratches mark the doorpost where you'd bumped into them— first with a dangerous three-wheeled monstrosity when you were just old enough to walk, then with whatever branch you managed to scavenge on your trips through the forest as you got older.
Your spacial awareness improved somewhat with age, your mishaps with furniture and doors and anything sturdy now only resulting in bruises on your end instead of property damage.
Then your eyes fall on the pictures.
Lining the walls, reflecting memories back at you with more clarity than your mind assigns to them on its own. It never fails to make you stop in your tracks to linger at the smiling, happy faces of your parents, younger and brighter, unmarked with the terrors stowed upon them with the passing years.
Pausing, like always, on the smiling face of your mom. Holding you as she beams into the lens, a warm beach in the background, and sand absolutely everywhere. It’s a bittersweet memory. The way grace and beauty lined her face was a remembrance of how she was before the illness took hold.
Before she was little more than a shell of what she used to be.
You swallow thickly and look away, continuing your trek towards your bedroom with a heavy silence following in your wake.
Outside, your dad helps Jack unload the car.
“I hope she didn’t give you too much grief on the drive here.”
Jack eyes him. “Not more than you would.”
Your dad laughs, closing the trunk as he slings the last bag over his shoulder. “Yeah. I fear it’s genetic.”
The air’s charged with something. Jack can tell. He’s known your father for many years now, and just like when he caught on to your quietness in the car, he catches on now. After all, the two of you are quite alike in the way you like to ponder your emotions for a long time before finally deciding to spit it out.
Unlike you, it’s your dad who speaks first.
“I, uh, I need to ask you something,” he says, looking warily at the front door as if to check whether you’re moments away from stepping out.
Jack’s movements falter ever so slightly. For a horrible, stretching second, he wonders whether your dad has somehow caught on to the way he’s been looking at you a tad too much to be casual these past few hours.
He couldn’t really help it. You had a way about you that was so incredibly magnetic it simply drew him in. Your ability to hit back any teasing comment he threw your way with such strength and quickness intrigued him to no end, and when you stood shyly in the gravel, offering to pay for his gas so earnestly it nearly made him reach over and pull you into him, he knew he was fucked.
He just hoped it wasn’t showing on his face this much for your dad to comment on it less than 15 minutes after pulling up.
“It’s about her,” your dad continues, gesturing with his head towards the cabin, and that does nothing to ease Jack’s nerves. “She’s just been so off since, you know… you know. I feel like I lost my little girl that day, and ever since she went off to school, it’s like I never really got her back.”
Jack stays quiet, letting his friend ramble. Your dad takes it as a sign to continue.
“My other one, she’s still at home. We… We talk, sometimes. I kind of know what’s going on in her head. But this one? Not a clue. I guess I just wanna know if you noticed anything about her.”
Jack rubs the back of his neck, blowing out a long breath as he recalls the drive up.
“Well, I don’t really know her that well. I mean, she seems tired? But in a way that most students are, I guess? The med students we have at the hospital look the same, but I suppose that’s to be expected with the shifts they run. I don’t know, man.”
He’s rambling a bit. He knows that. Truth is, he truly didn’t really think there was anything off about you other than a thesis hanging above your head, which he figures anyone would be stressed about.
It’s not like he doesn’t know why your dad is asking– your mom’s passing was a harsh blow for the whole family, and he’s been a steady presence for your dad in particular in trying to navigate the years after.
Even though Jack has finished talking, your dad doesn’t respond.
“How many years has it been now?” Jack asks. He knows it, roughly. But he’s just trying to fill the silence.
“Pfff,” your dad puffs as he recalls. “She was 20, so it must be coming up on 4 years now.”
“4 years,” Jack repeats, mostly to himself. Wondering where the time went. Wondering when you transformed from a shy 20-year-old quietly introducing yourself to him in the doorway to the smiling, smart 24-year-old you are today.
“Anyways,” your dad snaps out of it. “Could you keep an eye on her for me this week? Let me know if you notice anything off about her, or if I’m just losing my mind.”
Jack smiles. “I don’t need to pay attention to anything to know that you’re losing your mind.”
Your father laughs, slapping Jack’s back amicably as they return to the task at hand.
⸙
The evening grows darker faster here than in the city. The treeline obscuring the sun as it sinks beneath the foliage, rays filtering through the branches persistently.
You’ve managed to gather yourself a little bit before dinner. Whatever hesitancy you still had about your dad’s way too attractive best friend joining you in such close quarters for this amount of time was quickly eradicated by the smell of food drifting in from the kitchen.
It shouldn’t have surprised you to see Jack standing in the kitchen, preparing said food. Your dad’s culinary capabilities had never amounted to much, and somehow that didn’t improve over the past few years.
“Need any help over here?”
Jack seems surprised to see you show up at his side, and for a moment you wonder whether you’d unintentionally snuck up on him. The surprise on his features quickly morphs into a small smile.
“That’s fine, it’s almost done. I think your dad was trying to figure out a wine to pair with it.”
Horror strikes your senses, and your face shows. “Oh my god. I must intervene.”
Jack laughs. “Go. Intervene. For all our sakes.”
It has all the dramatics of a poorly written action movie, and yet you can’t stop the smile from forming on your face as you trot down the wine cellar with haste. Though keeping your mother’s wine collection was something your dad managed, pairing anything with food was nothing short of a natural disaster.
“Dad, no,” you scold before you can even round the corner.
Your dad looks up with, ironically, all the mannerisms of a deer in headlights.
“Damn it, did he tell on me? I wanted to surprise you.”
You walk up to him and take the bottle gently from his hands. “Dying tonight from being wine-poisoned would definitely surprise me.”
“Ha-ha,” your dad mocks, but his smile betrays his fondness for his daughter. “I’ll concede to your superior wine-matching capabilities.”
You incline your head dramatically before turning your attention to the wines. It’s not really anything you’ve learned, per se. More so that you loved waddling after your mom when you we’re big enough to get down the stairs without dying, and she loved talking to you about all the different wines down there and the science of pairing.
You didn’t understand any of it from the get-go, but it was quality time. And it stuck.
As you’re busy reading the labels in the dim light, your brow furrowing in concentration, your dad leans back against the wall.
It takes a minute and a comparison of a few different wines, but you finally find the perfect one, holding it up to your dad in a moment of triumph.
He smiles, but it’s different than before.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” your dad pushes himself off the wall. “You just… you look exactly like your mom when you’re doing that.”
Your throat runs dry, and so you swallow thickly while looking away. A knot constricts within your chest, and it takes a beat for it to loosen enough for you to take a comfortable breath. You’ve decided you’re not crying, here. Not this week. Not in this place.
“Sorry,” your dad quickly apologizes, taking point as he heads towards the stairs. “Let’s go back up to dinner.”
You only hum in response.
Upstairs, you help your dad set the table and pour wine in the fancy glasses you used to save for special occasions. The food looks as delicious as it smells, and the wine pairs with it beautifully.
A slow song plays in the background, setting the mood for a quiet, cozy dinner in the forest. The sky outside has darkened fully, now, and even though the glass, the rhythmic song of crickets mingles with the music.
The conversation flows easily from jobs to music to weather. Something to fill the silence, nothing heavy enough to introduce it. When a lull does drop, you feel your father’s attention swivel to you.
“So,” he begins, and you already feel your shoulders drop and your fork tick against the plate as you lower your hand.
“Dad. No.”
“What? I haven’t even asked you anything yet.”
“Yeah, but we both know how that’s gonna go. You’re asking how it’s going, I give a half-assed answer, then you press for more information, and when I tell you, you’re gonna sit there and make fun of it.”
Your dad raises his hands in defeat, but you point your fork at him threateningly.
“Okay,” your dad concedes. “Promise I won’t make fun of it. Tell us how the thesis is going.”
Your gaze flicks from your dad to Jack, who’s leaning back in his chair slightly. Arms crossed in front of him, attention trained on you with a fixation that makes your cheeks heat slightly.
“Well,” you begin slowly. “I’m at a difficult point right now, I’m trying to figure out something really important to my final conclusion, and I can’t figure out how to phrase it.”
You look up tentatively to find your dad shaking his head.
“Come on, kid. You don’t have to dumb it down for us.”
A smile pricks behind your discomfort. “I’m only dumbing it down for you, Dad.”
“Okay,” your dad points his knife at you in a gesture, involving Jack in the conversation. “See the respect I get around here?”
Jack simply smiles in his wine glass.
You hate that you notice it, hating even more that once you start, you can’t stop noticing things. The wine is already taking a jackhammer to your inhibitions with an alarming force. Your eyelids growing slightly heavy, the world feeling a small stutter behind each time you turn your head.
And Jack Abbot is a very easy target to stare at.
The way his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. A slight tiredness lining his eyes from the long drive up. He’s quieter than he was in the car, too. Mostly observing you and your dad banter without trying too hard to involve himself in the conversation. Something within you wants to try and involve him, somehow. Even if just to hear his voice.
Then the conversation settles back into something more nerve-racking. Luckily, the subject of your academia is dropped.
When Jack starts talking about old anecdotes and stories from way back when, you notice your laughter flowing a little easier. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the fact that you enjoy imagining him as a younger man, thinking about how he looked when he was closer to your age.
Realizing with a bit of a halt that he really is that much older than you.
Oh well.
“Oh, yeah,” your dad turns to you halfway through a story. “Do you remember that time you broke your wrist because you jumped off the shed?”
Jack looks at you questioningly. You scramble for an explanation. “No. Listen. I’d just figured out that parachutes existed, and I thought a plastic bag would have the same effect.”
Jack barely holds back a smile. “You thought a plastic bag would function as a parachute when you jumped off the roof?”
You hold eye contact for a beat longer than necessary, shrugging slightly as you can’t seem to stop smiling. “I swear I floated a little bit.”
“You floated all the way to the ER,” your dad concludes, and you narrow your eyes at him.
You make the mistake of looking at Jack and catching his eye. Something mischievous brews behind them, and before you can try to coax out what he’s planning, he speaks.
“How many times have you been to the ER? Just that one time?”
Motherfucker.
You take a very, very slow sip of your wine to buy yourself another second.
“There have been other times.”
Your dad looks contemplative at your vague response, scouring his memory for other times he’d had to take you to the ER. When he finds nothing, he looks between the two of you questioningly.
“Wait, you’ve been in the ER more often?”
The silence is deafening. You purposefully stuff your face with the last bites of your food as you seriously consider disappearing into the woods. When Jack looks at you, you shake your head ever so slightly.
“Has she been to the ER?” your dad asks Jack. Now semi-worried, but still mostly confused.
“It wasn’t really that serious,” you attempt to initiate damage control.
“She was fine,” Jack says at almost the exact same time.
It’s about as unconvincing as it gets, and of course, your dad catches on. Saying your name threateningly as a way to pull the story out. You hesitantly meet his eye as you go to pour yourself another glass.
“I just had a night out freshman year. It was… fun.”
Jack coughs. “She was very drunk.”
You whip your head around to glare at him. Traitor. Somehow, your dad and his friend ganging up on you like this was not something you’d expected.
“I was fine,” you repeat his earlier words. Your dad narrows his eyes at you.
“...eventually,” you admit, and this time it isn’t the wine that causes blood to rush to your cheeks.
“She was a joy to have around, though,” Jack continues, with all the bravado of someone who knows something you’ve obviously forgotten.
Your heart stutters in your chest. You remember that night– or, well, the morning after that night, all too well. The night feels fragmented in your memory. Deep, thumping music in a house of someone you’d never met, laughter and drinking games filling up every corner. The convincing face of your friend as she told you taking another shot at that time was the best idea ever.
Then everything became static. Waking up with an IV in your arm, in an unfamiliar bed, with your dad’s friend, whom you’d only met a couple of times before, standing at the edge. Jack Abbot standing at your bed.
And Jack did remember. Vividly, if his expression is any indication.
Horror tears through you. Surely you didn’t say anything about how attractive you found him in your inebriated state, right? Surely you’d had enough common sense to prevent that situation, at least? Somehow, and horribly, you’re doubting it.
And your dad has already pried when you were lost in thought, and so Jack gears up to continue the story.
“Well, she came in loudly singing country roads throughout the department, waking up all my night shift residents, so that was a good thing.”
“You’re welcome,” you mutter into your glass, “good song.”
“...Then she told one of my residents that she looked like a woman who would, how did you say it?”
His eye settles cheekily on you. “‘Treat you right?’”
Your jaw goes slack as your dad bellows out a laugh. Holy shit. You recompose yourself quickly, realizing you might as well play this off.
“Yeah, well, I probably meant it.”
Jack shrugs. “You made her night with it, at least. She’s still gloating about it to this day.”
You eye him a moment longer than necessary, and then something mischievous sparks through you. You’re unable to hide the tease lacing through your voice as you respond lowly, tilting your head ever so slightly to the side.
“I should’ve asked for her number.”
Jack pins you with a stare you can’t quite place. You return the favor, a silent challenge crackling in the air between you.
“I can get it for you,” Jack then responds.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
Your dad clears his throat, tearing your attention away from Jack and back towards reality. He stands, quickly, taking your empty plates from in front of you. You laugh absentmindedly at a silly joke he cracks, helping him clear the table and washing up the dishes in the small kitchen.
When everything is cleaned and done, the last indicators of a dinner taking place at all vanished from the table, you excuse yourself to go to your room. Leaning against the door as you close it behind you.
The buzz in your head still making you slightly light-headed, and the memory of the way Jack Abbot looked at you stuck in your memory like a burn-mark. His hazel eyes pinning you down with an intensity you'd never felt from anyone before. The thought of it sent heat radiating down to your lower stomach.
How, the fuck, are you supposed to survive this week?
⸙