Chapter Text
She's lying on her belly, her cheek smushed against one of the fluffy throws he invested in when she started coming around more. Her one leg is bent at the knee, drawn up slightly, but the couch is wide enough to not risk it slipping off, the worn leather cushions creased and softened with time cradle her weight like a cloud. The other leg is stretched out, foot flat on its arch. Jack trails his eyes along the long length of her, from the tips of her toes, over the strong curve of her calve, the dip of her knee. Her thighs are parted slightly, her linen shorts are thin, the warmth of her skin visible through the deep yellow. The arch of her spine is deepened by the posture of her lounging, the loose curls of her hair, longer now than he's ever seen it, melt down her neck and back, the wispy end of one lock brushing the base of her spine. Her back is bare, and Jack notices the low hum of the fan at the side of the coffee table far slower than usual. But it is a lovely reprieve from the blistering heat outside. Half of triage were heatstroke cases.
He shuts the living room for behind him, the click impossibly soft. His footsteps follow, socked feet crossing the wooden floors in a couple of swift strides before he's standing over her. A smile twitches at his lips as he registers the way her lips are parted, the apple of her cheek already creased. She must have been napping for a while, he thinks, sparing his watch a glance.
She hasn't been sleeping well. Her new fellowship has been running her ragged. Mostly because she's eager, always eager, to not only prove herself, but to make the most of any opportunity she gets her hands on. With their alternate schedules it's not easy either, making time for one another. But Jack gave her a key, and made sure she knew to use it whenever. And here she is, using it.
Jack feels himself bite down on his lip without meaning to, jerking his head away for a moment, suddenly faint. He shakes his head slightly, his grin growing despite trying to tamp it down.
She's here. She chose to come here on her day off. Make herself tea, nap on his couch. It's embarrassing, feeling so taken with the simplicity of being chosen, but Jack is more starved for it than he realised.
He looks back down at her with a shuddery exhale, wiping his damp hands– it's hot today– on the bottom of his t-shirt. Trying to steady himself. He should wake her, he reasons. It's already noon and he doesn't want the little sleep she gets in the night to be at risk.
He wrestles with the part of himself that wants to sit in the armchair across the room and watch her sleep forever.
He slowly kneels, a small grunt leaving his lips at the effort of doing it quietly, not wanting to scare her awake. He's still smiling, giddy or something, as he lifts his arm, gently brushing the tips of his fingers over one of her shoulders. She doesn't rouse at the touch, so he takes a breath, inhaling the molten amber of her perfume drawing him in like some deep sea siren. His fingers begin to roam her back, tracing the lines of her shoulder blades and sweeping the curls matted to her neck away.
She lets out a little sigh, face rubbing into the pillow, arms tightening around it as he bares her damp neck to the cool air.
His hand slides down her back as he watches her face, and it's only when he feels nothing but her tacky skin that he realises she's entirely topless. The height warrants it, he thinks, letting his eyes admire the expanse of her back properly, his palm still slowly roaming her skin, thumb mindlessly finding all the moles he's pressed countless kisses to.
"Samira," he murmurs, voice a little scratchy, he realises. His palm settles in the dip of her spine, fingers curling around her ever so lightly as he attempts to rouse her.
She lets out a quiet, defiant hum, adjusting her head on the pillow but not opening her eyes. He knows her well enough now to know she is waking up, and that she likes to draw it out when she knows its him. Makes him work for it.
Jack smiles again, teeth finding the inside of his cheek quickly as he curls his fingers, blunt nails slowly starting to rake over her back– a move that is entirely deliberately.
Her breaths grow deeper as she arches deliciously under his touch, seemingly trying to make more of her back available to him as her leg hitches up higher on the couch, knee bumping his hip.
"Hmm, a little up," she mumbles, face now turned into the pillow completely as she muffles a yawn into it. He huffs out a breath but obliges, dragging his nails up and a little to the left, finding a spot she seems to always complain about reaching.
His eyes dip, for the briefest moment, when she adjusts her torso against a little, watching as she flattens down, her breasts rubbing into the couch. But then he– feels? Hears? Senses?– her head turning, and finally he's met with the pretty flush of her cheeks, her eyes still soft with sleep.
"Hey," he murmurs, his hand stilling against her back, bracing against her as he drops his head, pressing a light kiss to her forehead.
"Welcome home," she murmurs back, craning her neck a little and tilting her chin up, bumping their noses together before he can retreat fully before finally pressing their lips together.
He leans into the kiss, his palm sliding up her back to curl around her nape, easing the strain of her neck as he ducks further down. It breaks slowly. She's still sleepy and he's beyond exhausted, rendering it deep and indulgent, wonderfully familiar.
"What time did you get here?" He asks when her head drops back onto the pillow, his fingers lightly massaging the base of her skull.
"9" she answers, one hand wiggling up to tuck under her cheek. He can't help but lean down and press another kiss to her skin, against the arch of her brow.
"Picked up lunch for when you got home. But the heat made me sleepy," she mumbles candidly, eyes still slow blinking but gaze steadfast.
He smiles, thumb rubbing her jaw before sweeping some hair from her neck again, letting a curl wrap around one of his fingers.
"Did you wanna nap some more?" He asks then. As much as he can contemplate what's best for her, her opinion on it does play a significant part.
She shakes her head at that, moving now, rolling slowly onto her side so she's facing him, propping her chin up on her hand. Jack, a man perpetually weakened in her presence, inhales sharply as she draws her knees up, her hand not holding her chin up brushing her hair back.
Jack can't draw. Can't paint. Always got penalised in Med school for his chicken scratch. But Samira, his Samira, curled up and half naked, thick hair in loose curls around her head, lightly rustling with every pass of the fan– Jesus Christ he could write sermons. Would learn to draw if only to further familiarise himself with every last inch of her.
She smiles, because she knows what she does to him, and for that he is grateful, because words seem to fail him regardless of his romantic delusions.
"Jack," she drawls, reaching her slender fingers out to tilt his chin, guiding their gazes back together. He succumbs to the touch, unable to deny the magnetism of her tone, of the ardent, vast brown of her eyes.
"Gonna need you to pinch me," he mumbles then, the words tumbling from his lips. Because not only is she impossibly beautiful and invitingly bare, but her spine is relaxed, her legs draped lazily and her tone is light. Maybe its the sleep still bleeding from her system, but Jack feels something primordial at seeing her so at ease, teasing him with single syllables, and knowing, truly knowing, that she can do, and have, and be whatever she wants. It's a privilege to bear witness to, moreso because she so rarely allows herself this.
She giggles, complying with ease and pinching his arm where the sleeve ends by his bicep. He hardly flinches, eyes still boring into her face, half tempted to count her eyelashes. Then her palm soothes over the spot before raking down his arm. Her fingers find his wrist, bringing his palm back to the dip of her waist.
"Should have waited," she remarks, fingers returning to his bicep now, shamelessly tracing his veins over his skin as his own hand curls around her waist, nails scraping at the back of her waistband, "so we could nap together. You look beat."
He grunts a little at that, shifting on his knees beside the couch. She really does keep him young.
"That you're way of telling me I need a shower?" He asks, tilting his head at her, watching as her tongue wets her bottom lip.
"No," she says deliberately, dragging her gaze from where he's not so subtly flexing under her touch, knowing she loves to dig her nails into his muscles, "it's my way of asking if you're too tired to get me off."
Jack chokes a little on his own saliva, but keeps himself impossibly still, fighting the urge to shake his head and bury his face in her chest like some rabid animal.
"It's okay if you are," she continues, breezy, her hand slowly dragging away from his arm before it finds her belly. His jaw aches as he watches her coast her hand up over her ribs before giving one of her sweet breasts a squeeze, "I can manage on my own."
Jack's head drops back slightly, taking half a second to pull himself the fuck together. He can hear her stifle another little giggle at that, and it's precious. Because again– she knows what she's doing to him, and he's never wanted anything more than to be at her mercy.
"Hm, Jack?" She draws him back to himself, and when his gaze returns to her he sees her palm languidly squeezing and rubbing from her belly back up to her breast. "You gonna take care of me?"
And the way she says it, more candid than before, not so saccharine but no less effective at making everything outside of this room feel impossibly far away– Jack nods.
"Yeah," he answers without another second to spare, his palm coming up to her nape, drawing her closer again. "Yes," he whispers, ducking his chin to capture her lips again, mouth hot against hers, "Always, sweetheart."