Chapter Text
Your alarm jostles you from a peaceful sleep, the incessant beeping reluctantly rousing you. You rub your eye and sink back in to the plush mattress of your new home.
The cool morning air rustles the curtains dangling from the window, a sliver of sunlight peeking through. You stretch your body, a squeak escaping your lips as your joints creak back to life.
You roll out of bed, padding to the kitchen for your first cup of coffee. Dana keeps telling you that starting caffeine moments after you wake up isn't healthy. You don't care.
You're surprised by the strong set of broad shoulders taking up space in the kitchen. Your roommate, Jack, home from work and preparing what would be his dinner. There's a latte on the kitchen island, and you instantly perk up.
A squeal escapes your lips as you clap your hands in satisfaction, moseying up to the counter.
"Hi Jackie," you greet him, resting your elbows against the marble granite.
You unwrap the straw, plunging it through the lid of the plastic cup, greedily bringing it to your lips.
Cinnamon and sugar explode on your tongue, while the caffeine hitting your system. Perfection.
You close your eyes in appreciation, taking one more sip before turning your gaze back to him.
You freeze when you see his eyes on you, heavy and laden, almost dark. Your heart drops at his slack jaw, his slightly parted lips. You stand up straight, sliding the cup back and forth on the counter, trying to fight off the butterflies in your stomach, the heat rising to your cheeks.
"Thank you for this," you mutter around the straw, taking another sip as you slink around the kitchen, his large back to you.
You take advantage of the moment, manicured nails finding his thick bicep, squeezing lightly. Just to show your thanks, of course.
"Pretty confident it wasn't mine, huh sweet thing?" He asks, craning his neck to find you behind him.
You inadvertently squeeze your plush thighs together at the pet name, and wonder if he knows what he's doing. To be fair, you know exactly what you're doing, but that's neither here nor there.
"Please, I've seen what you bring to the night shift," you start, rolling your eyes. "You don't even take milk with your coffee."
"God forbid I don't need a bucket of sugar to wake me up in the morning," he teases, continuing to make his food.
You flip him off, walking back through the hallway to your bathroom. You set the coffee down on the counter before starting your regular routine- first is skin care; face wash, serum, moisturizer.
Your conversation with Jack hangs heavy in your mind as you massage your lotion into your cheeks, heart nearly leaping with the force of each beat.
As you spread toothpaste on your brush, you ponder the new reality of your new living situation.
It's only been seven weeks since your colleague, Jack, invited you to take the empty room at his place. He'd overheard you one morning during a shift hand off, complaining to Dana about your four roommates.
You're not sure what had come over him, seeing as you didn't even really know him that much. You worked with him briefly, mainly during shift handoffs and sometimes during emergency situations, but those scenes don't typically lend well to a meet cute.
It'd been a huge surprise, and you resisted the offer for days. He spent almost a week trying to convince you, laying out the pros and cons like a research student eager for a grade.
In all actuality, it really wouldn't have taken much persuasion no matter what- your living situation was truly in the gutter before this once in a lifetime offer came along.
It's why you're still not used to the space you have in Jack's house (which he's insisted many times is yours as much as his). You twist your hair up in a claw clip as you take in the sheer size of the bathroom- your own bathroom, double the size of the bedroom at your old place.
You're slurping up the rest of your sickeningly sweet latte by the time you've donned your scrubs, sauntering back into the kitchen where Jack now sits, twirling pasta around his fork.
He pauses at the sight of you, and you can't help but slow down your steps, feeling on fire under his gaze. You saunter over to the trash can, lifting the lid with your foot and slowly lowering your now empty cup into it.
"Y'know, that much caffeine really can't be good for you, kid," he remarks, taking a bite. "Not to mention the sugar."
His eyes never leave yours, and your cheeks heat under the pressure of his gaze.
"You sound like Dana," you remark, putting on another pot to brew before you leave.
He chuckles, shaking his head in astonishment as he takes another bite.
"Can't complain too much, though. 'S probably why you're so sweet," he mutters, and your heart drops.
You flirtatiously toss a handful of hair over your shoulder, kicking your foot up as you take his compliment.
"Sweet? Really? Me?" You ask, twirling a strand of hair around your finger, eyes wide and lips pouty.
His jaw is slack as he watches you, fork suspended in midair. He brings it slowly to his lips, forcefully wrapping them around the utensil. You shudder.
"I don't know how you sleep at night," he remarks, swallowing the food.
"Like a baby, old man," you reply, a saccharine smile stretching your lips.
"You," he states, pointing his fork at you, "are trouble."
"Tell me about it, stud," you bat your lashes, quoting the last movie you picked to watch together.
You and Abbot don't have sanctioned movie nights per se, but you've both been known to come together on the couch, on one of the few nights a week your paths cross.
The first time it happened, he was in the middle of The Cowboys. You'd wandered in the living room, having snuck out into the kitchen for your nightly fix of peanut butter after a long shift. Your mouth had fallen slack around the spoon as you were swept into the story, saddling up next to Jack for the rest of the movie.
It'd happened again the next week, where he'd insisted you picked, then the week after that, and the week after that. Last time, he'd been subjected to one of the 'worst movies of my childhood', according to him.
His disdain helps you now, too, as you continue to put on a little show for him- throwing an imaginary cigarette out, twisting the ball of your foot back and forth to 'put it out'.
You then point towards him, shaking your shoulders to encourage a song and dance from him, as well. You don't miss the red tint that clouds the apples of his cheeks as he averts his gaze down to his plate.
"If you think you're going to get me to sing Travolta, you're out of your mind, girlie," he mutters, voice low but firm.
You try to tamp down the butterflies swarming in your belly, again at the name. You turn your back to hide your goofy smile and pretend to be busy, rummaging in the kitchen for all your necessary second coffee needs.
Your plan backfires, though, as Jack chooses this moment to finally decides he's done with his meal, his broad shoulders popping the Jack-less bubble you've tried to pump up around you.
You turn quickly, trying to put your cream and sugar back in their destined spots- but a big, sturdy chest stops you.
"Oomph!" You squeal as you hit Jack's sickeningly large frame, craning your neck to look up at him.
Your cheeks burn at the eye contact, and he refuses to be the one to look away first.
"Oops!" You squeal, darting around him. "Sorry, Jack, I'm just in a rush," you maneuver around him, unable to take the burning gaze of his hazel eyes any longer.
"'S okay, kid, you gotta get going," he says, resting his back against the kitchen counter.
You balance on one leg, jumping to get one sneaker on, then the other. Upon landing on two feet, you blow out air from your puffed cheeks. You freeze again, his unrelenting stare burning a laser hole right through your middle.
Your heart pounds against your chest, a throbbing that's mirrored between your legs. You brush small flyaways out of your face, trying hard to ignore the heat emanating from your cheeks.
Jack's eyes never leave your frame, scanning up and down in a way that weakens your knees. He's been like this for a while now, with the staring and the nicknames and the movie nights. It's enough to feel like quicksand, sinking you deeper and deeper into Jack Abbot's clutches.
You're not sure if he wants you there, though, seeing as he's never asked you out. You can't really blame him, you're just his roommate that he sees at work every so often. But then why does he-
"Oh!" He says, startling you from your thoughts. "It's Friday, here," he fishes in his pocket, pinching a black card in his two forefingers. "For your nails. Get somethin' pretty."
That. Why does he do that.
"Thanks Jackie," you bat your lashes at him, taking maybe one step too close to retrieve the card from his fingers. "You really gonna trust me with this thing? Might take it down to the mall after, give it a real workout."
"I'd love that," he says, low, warm, and entirely serious. "You deserve it. You work hard."
His words unzip a shiver down your spine, and you have to take a step back to hold yourself back. Any more time spent that close to him, you'll be peeling everything off of him, down to the prosthetic.
"Thanks!" You chirp, turning on your heel to fight your urges. "You have anything planned for the day?" You ask, gathering up your bag, water bottle, and coffee.
He shakes his head no, hands planted firmly in his pockets. This time, he's avoiding you, eyes drifting down the long, dark hallway. You make a show of walking over there, craning your neck down the vast corridor.
You whip your head back toward him, and he's still not looking at you. You prop a hand on your hip, brow quirked.
"Whatcha looking for down there?" You ask, wiggling your brows.
"Something not so achingly beautiful," he responds. His tone is light, but the words weigh heavy on your heart, and the air goes cold.
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Abbot," you deadpan, walking back towards the door.
"Well," you say, turning back to him one more time. "You're off tonight, right?" He nods in confirmation. "Maybe I can show you what I get from the mall."
Your heart beats as you try to read his eyes- stoic, firm, and planted on the floor.
"Maybe," he says.
You don't know how to take this response, so you walk out the door.
Jack is the only thing on your mind as you go through the motions of your shift. Charting, prepping crash carts, drawing blood, repeat. Your last interaction plays on a loop in your mind, leaving your normally fluttery tummy achingly empty.
You're planted firmly at the nurse's station, a blank document staring back at you. The cursor blinks, making a mockery of your lack of effort. You press your forehead into your palms, massaging lightly.
"Ugh!" You groan out, bringing your eyes back up to the screen.
You jump when there's someone waiting in your peripheral, heart slowing once you realize it's Trinity. Her brow is quirked, lips pursed, and she's ready to call you on your shit.
"Heyyy," you drag out, a pathetic smile on your lips as you struggle to get at least a little charting done.
"Hi," she quips. "What's your problem today?"
"Damn, right to the punch, huh?" You huff out a sad chuckle, pressing your fingers into your temples once more.
"Yeahhh," she drags out, pressing her lips together. "Sorry girl. How's it going living with Doctor Daddy? He's not being a weirdo, is he?"
Your heart warms at her concern, and at the nickname a little, but you shake your head no.
"He's great," you huff, pushing sweaty strands of hair off your forehead. "More than great, actually."
This is intriguing to her, and she rests her forearms against the desk space.
"Really?" She asks, her brow quirked. "Have you guys-" she closes her index finger on her thumb, making a show of inserting another finger in and out.
"Jesus Christ, Trinity, no!" You whisper, shoving her lewd hands out of the way, cheeks positively on fire. "That might be the problem, though."
"Really? How is it a problem to not be sleeping with your roommate?" She asks, and your heart picks up.
"Well, he does things. Says things. I don't know what he means by them," you confess to her. "Like, for the past couple weeks, he gives me his credit card to get my nails done. He calls me pet names, too- sweetheart, pretty girl…that's weird, right?"
"I mean, are you complaining that a rich, hot doctor is just throwing money at you and thinks you're sweet and pretty? Hell, I'm lesbian and I'd take it," she says, and you're thankful for the comedic relief she brings.
"I'm definitely not complaining…" you mutter under your breath. "I just…don't know what it means, y'know?"
"Yeah, I can see that. Do you guys hang out?" She asks.
"Sometimes, when we have the time. But I tried to be more overt this morning and he kind of shot me down," your mouth twists downward at this, a sinking feeling in the pit of your gut threatening to take over your whole body,
"What?" She asks, leaning in closer at this revelation.
"Well, he has tonight off, right?" You start, and she nods in confirmation. "I asked him if he'd wanna hang out, maybe see what I get from the mall later-"
"On his dime of course," she interrupts, and you nod.
"Of course, but all he said was 'maybe' in this noncommittal tone, I have no idea what to think," you bury your face in your hands once more.
"I have an idea…" Trinity starts, and you whip your head up. "It's kind of toxic, though."
You smile. It's sinister and sultry.
"Lay it on me."
To say your night has taken a turn would be an understatement. Nails and shopping were done with Trinity at your side, as she helped you score the date you're now going on tonight.
You hang up the dress you bought- a buttery yellow mini with a corset top and a flowy skirt- you can't wait to wear it.
You pucker your lips in the mirror, sliding shimmery gloss over them before rubbing them together. Scrunching your hair in the mirror, you poke and prod at any perceivable imperfection before finding your shoes, and slinking your dress over your head.
Your head is tilted, ear almost at your shoulder as you struggle to clasp your earring. Your heels clack down the hall as you make your way into the living area, stopping in your tracks when you see Jack on the couch.
"You weren't here when I got home," is the first thing that comes out of your mouth, your eyes falling shut at the absurdity of it.
"No…" he says, almost like a question. "Is it bad that I'm back?"
Your cheeks are on fire, your stomach roiling as you take him in. His shirt's off, low hanging sweatpants leaving nothing for your imagination. His chest is so thick and broad, it makes you dizzy.
Then, your phone buzzes, and you remember who you're supposed to be meeting in less than an hour. You turn your phone around, a message lighting up your phone.
"On my way :) see you soon!" it reads, and your heart sinks.
Trinity did tell you this plan was toxic. Maybe you should have thought it through a bit more before it was too late.
"Where are you goin' dressed like that, sweet thing?" He asks, the normal warmth dripping from his voice suddenly gone, the tap shut off.
"I have a date," you mention as nonchalantly as possible, scrunching your hair different ways in the mirror, pretending like you can't feel his eyes watching your every move. "Is that okay?" You add petulantly.
An incredulous chuckle wrestles out of his throat, and you finally work up the nerve to face him- only to find he's no longer looking at you.
"Perfectly fine, kid. Jus' make sure you know what you're doin'," he tips his beer bottle to his lips, taking a long swig before swallowing a bit harder than necessary.
"Are you implying that I don't know how men work?" You place your hand on your hip again. "Have you seen me? I've never had much trouble."
You're being bratty, you know it, but you can't seem to mind. You don't think he does either, if the blush creeping up his neck is any indicator.
"Nope, just remindin' ya, sweetheart," he mutters, and your heart sinks.
"Is that all?" You deadpan, stomping your foot in a way that jumps his brow.
You want to push him further, poke and prod at him until he's pushing you up against the mirror, forcing you to watch him tear you apa-
"That's all. Stop being a brat. It'll turn off your date," he bites, and your heart races.
"Maybe you'd like that," you quip, tossing your hair over your shoulder and stomping out.
The date is an absolute dud, and you feel like shit as you make your way up the narrow walkway. You slink your key into the slot, jiggling it until you stumble in, already untying the halter strap of your dress.
You gasp at the body waiting for you in the living room, still unsure why he still manages to surprise you. Your heart gallops in your chest as he watches you, hands clutched at your chest, holding your slinky dress in place.
"Jack," you breathe out, chest heaving up and down under your hands.
"Hi, sweet girl," he mutters, sitting up from his sprawled out position on the couch. "Everything go alright?"
Tears prick behind your eyes, and you shake your head.
"No," you croak. "Of course not."
He's quick to his feet, striding across the living room in long but quick steps, craning his neck down so he can get a better look at you. His large palm cups your jaw, thick fingers sinking in to pull your teary gaze up to his concerned one.
"What happened?" He asks, a doctoral tone taking over his usually sarcastic, languid voice. "Are you hurt?"
His eyes are frantic, though the rest of him is still. They're darting everywhere from your glossy eyes, your pouty lips, to your neck and your collar bone.
You allow yourself a brief moment of reprieve, relaxing ever so slightly in his arms, letting their security envelop you like a blanket. Your shimmery eyelids are heavy with affection, warm all over as he maneuvers you, his woody cologne filling your senses.
He lets go of your jaw, tutting something about showing 'no signs of distress'. This throws a cold bucket of water over the whole situation, and you remember how you got here in the first place.
You wring yourself free from his grasp, readjusting your untied dress further up your chest. Cheeks fiery, stomach boiling, eyes trained on the floor, you try to quell the buzzing desire that rings between you.
"Jack-" you breathe, eyes rolling at his blank expression. "What are we doing? What is this?" Your voice is nothing but a raspy whisper, afraid anything louder will scare him off.
"What do you mean?" He asks, a caricature of nonchalance, hands shoved in his pockets.
"I mean," you start, frustration tampering with your volume ever so slightly. "You ask me to move in on a whim, you pay for my nails, we have movie nights. But you won't ask me out. What the hell is up with that?"
He scoffs at that last question, his own eyes rolling.
"We shouldn't have this conversation," he says, going to sit back down on the couch.
"Um, nice try, grandpa," you stomp after him, a death grip on his bicep, turning him back to you. He looks a little scared when you whip him around and it boosts your ego just a little.
"Fill me in. Because I asked if you wanted to hang out this morning, and you were weird about it. Then, I went on a date instead and you were weird about that. So what gives? Is it me? Is it the living situation? I told you it's too rash, you didn't list-"
You're cut off with a swift and deep kiss to your lips, all five senses suddenly on Jack Abbot overdrive. His hands cup your face with fervor, his brows knit with the same kind of ferocity.
Your belly swims, warm with honey as he slides his lips against yours. Like before, you fall limp in his arms, letting yourself go fully this time. He has no problem propping you up against him, chests pressed together.
You take advantage of the newfound security of your clothing, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him deeper. Your right leg is kicked up, much like you'd done teasingly this morning. Jack got the last laugh here.
"Jackie," you moan out, little strings of spit connecting your mouth with his. "You just wanted me that bad?"
He smiles against your mouth, giving you another kiss, then another, and another.
"You still have it in you to be a brat, even when you can't stand on your own," he chuckles, shaking his head with incredulity.
"Wasn't it you who said I was trouble?" You ask, planting another saccharine kiss on his lips.
He can't help but kiss back, but you can feel the reluctance this time, him pulling your bodies away from each other. This inadvertently causes the top of your dress to fall, breasts now bare to the cold air of the living room.
His eyes immediately follow the line of your dress, jaw going slack at the sight. You also take him in, eyes drifting down to the hard length pressing up against his sweatpants.
"Fffuck, go to bed," he demands, plowing ten fingers through his hair. "Go."
That same familiar anger floods through you once more, and you cover yourself, stomping back to your room while tears fill your eyes. Once your door is closed slammed, you shimmy the rest of your dress off your hips, blindly grasping for your pajamas.
You slide the silk fabric over your skin, reveling in the comfort it provides. Your head tilts back, fingers coming up to your waterline to stop the flow.
A vicious mix of emotions swirl like a tornado inside of you- humiliation, shame, guilt, regret. You're swept in them, flailing aimlessly about the cyclone.
You pick the offending dress up from the floor, flinging it to your hamper and collapsing on your bed.
Your mind can't help but drift to its darkest parts, the rejection hitting deep. Did he not like your body? The thought persists, though you try to will it out.
You know you're not picture perfect, not like your roommate. You put a lot of effort into your appearance, and it's distracted many men in your life. It's all a sad attempt to mask the tummy pudge and thick hips you pretend aren't there, a desperate plea to seem prettier than you believe you are.
It only makes sense that once you were bare, he'd change his mind. Why wouldn't he? He's a rich, hot doctor, sitting all by himself in a huge house. Why would he pick you?
A quiet knock on the door tears you from your spiral, and you roll out of bed sadly. You pad towards the entryway, swinging the door open to reveal a horrifically guilt stricken Abbot, who's face only crumples further when he sees the tears that coat your face.
"Oh, sweet girl," he coos, trying to enter.
You put a hand out, stopping him.
"Excuse me?" You ask, hitting him with a pointed stare, even through the tears.
He caves immediately, his chin falling to his chest in a shameful exhale.
"I'm so sorry, what I said came out wrong," he starts, and you're not sure you believe him.
You cross your arms over your chest, jerking your chin up.
"Wrong?" You ask, he clarifies.
"I just- you're just so pretty," he says, and you quirk a brow, heart speeding up in your chest. "I wasn't going to be able to control myself for much longer. Your body, God, it's perfect. You had to go before I crossed a line you shouldn't."
"A line you shouldn't?" You breathe, his own words the only thing you can throw back at him, heart now in a full sprint against your ribcage.
"The nails, the names, the room," he says, gesturing behind you at your space. "It's my way of taking care of you."
These words are unexpected, and churn your heart like butter.
"But…why do you feel the need to take care of me, Jack?" You ask, brows knitted together in genuine confusion.
He chuckles sardonically at that, shaking his head and looking away. The soft hallway light illuminates the pink tinting his cheeks, and your own heat up at the sight.
He takes a minute to find a response to this, eyes searching up and down the hallway wall. You watch him during this, the air thickening between you with each passing second.
His breathing picks up, chest moving with it. Your body is on fire, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. His hazel eyes are an open flame, your skin a vat of gasoline.
"Because it's the only way I can have you," is how he chooses to respond.
Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach, your veins running cold at the confession.
"H-have me?" You repeat, his eyes sad.
"Goodnight," he whispers, stalking off to his own room.
You stand in the doorway and watch him go, jaw slack, hand pressed on your chest in shock.
It's the only way I can have you.
You slam the door behind you, flop onto your bed, and scream into your pillow. God, what have you gotten yourself into?