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Samira is used to liars.
Patients lie all of the time. A lot aren’t honest from the get-go, hiding a symptom or vices that could have led to whatever landed them in the emergency room that day. It’s up to her to ease the truth out of them with kind eyes and a trusting smile.
Robby lies, too. He does it because he is as private as he is stubborn. He does it because he doesn’t want his subordinates to view him as weak, unfit to be their leader. He does it because it is too human, and everyday they see humanity at its worst. He lies because he wants to protect others, but he’s a liar, nonetheless. Albeit, perhaps a morally sound one.
Samira Mohan is a liar, too. She is in love with Jack Abbot, and that is a silent truth, never given life even in the sanctity of her home. It is a lie by omission, but one she carries with her everyday.
At first, she thinks that is a lie within itself. Thinks that, perhaps, she got it wrong. Maybe her heart is playing tricks on her mind. She has never been in love before—how could she possibly be sure that she is right now?
She struggles with it. Lies to herself everyday and pretends it’s not something to dwell on, that there are far more important things that require her focus. She doesn’t have time for love. Wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway. It’s better, safer, not to consider fantasies that won’t do her any good. She hasn’t gotten to where she is by daydreaming about out-of-reach ideals.
Maybe Samira is confused. Maybe she is conflating admiration and respect for love. The way Jack moves around the ER with confidence and ease in every step, how he treats all of his coworkers with the utmost respect, his unwavering practice of letting Samira take the reins on traumas and seemingly never-ending belief in her abilities. . . It could all just be simple, innocent admiration. Maybe she is thinking too much into it, trying to find something where there is nothing but two coworkers who hold each other in high regard.
But, of course, Samira can never leave anything well enough alone.
Because if this is just respect, then should it not feel the same as how she feels around Robby? Her teacher, whom she looks up to, whose standards she tries to live up to, though sometimes she feels like she never does. She wants to be the doctor Robby thinks she can be. But—
She thinks she is already the doctor Jack knows her to be. The doctor she has always aspired to be.
No, it isn’t just respect. It’s deeper, purer, lovelier. Samira aches to understand it.
There are instances, of course, where she thinks she does. Where the fog clears and the contentment in her heart makes sense and can only be attributed to one man. Moments that, maybe, wouldn’t mean much to anyone else. Moments that seem to be bathed in grandeur, mesmerizing Samira every time. Moments like—
Donovan’s has a pleasant din of low conversation and music. Samira sits among coworkers and strangers alike, a tequila soda between her hands on the table. The condensation is cool against her fingers and palms as she listens to Dennis and Trinity discussing some movies. Or, well, Samira tries to listen, except her gaze keeps slipping beyond their shoulders to where Jack and Robby are playing darts towards the back of the bar.
All Samira sees is Jack’s profile when he goes his turn, unable to tear her gaze away from the half smile he wears, curved lips moving in whatever conversation he’s having with Robby as he aims the dart before letting it fly. Her gaze slips, going from his face to his flexed arm, the short sleeve of his shirt hugging his bicep. Samira sucks in a sharp breath that she’s almost certain he hears because just as Jack pulls off his darts from the board and turns to pick up his beer, his gaze locks with hers from across the room.
While Robby goes his turn, Jack stands where he is and raises his beer bottle slightly in cheers. The simple, friendly act skitters Samira’s pulse, but she manages to flash a smile in return, her cheeks warming when the widening of his smile disappears behind the beer bottle. He’s too far away for Samira to catch sight of his dimples.
“Who are you smiling at?” Trinity asks, but before Samira can answer, Trinity—and Dennis—are turning around.
Jack, to Samira’s relief, is back in conversation with Robby, his broad back enough to force Samira to take a long sip of her drink, but Trinity is quick to catch on because there’s a knowing “Ohh,” that escapes her as she turns back around. “Didn’t know you liked them older.”
Dennis faces her again, but his eyebrows furrow as he leans towards Trinity. “What’s happening?”
Trinity’s grin isn’t mean, but more so teasing, a little too delighted. “Looks like Dr. Mohan has a thing for Dr. Abbot.”
Samira ignores the heat in her cheeks, back straight as she picks up her glass again and primly says, “That’s too middle school even for you, Trinity,” before taking a sip.
“So what?” Trinity doesn’t cringe as Dennis looks between them, quietly interested. “Are you just gonna make googly eyes at him from afar, or actually do something about it?”
Trust Trinity to be encouraging when it comes to something like this. Still, Samira balks at her, even as her pulse races. “Absolutely not. He’s an attending and I’m a resident.”
It’s a lame reason as much as it is a true one. “Never stopped Robby and Collins,” Dennis pipes up. Off Samira’s surprised and Trinity’s amused expressions, he shrugs, eyes widening in mild panic. “Nurses talk.” He has gotten close with Kim and Donnie.
“Anyway—” Trinity scoffs out a laugh as she turns her attention back to Samira. “I say if you’ve got a thing for Abbot, then you should go for it. You need to let off some steam.”
Samira traps the tip of her tongue between her teeth, biting down on it until it stings. Words threaten to leap out, but she cages them behind her teeth. She wants to correct Trinity; to say she has a thing for Jack seems grossly understated, like it’s simply a physical attraction when it’s something more, deeper, raw in its honesty. She wants him with a dizzying kind of desperation, frighteningly new to her. She wants him because she loves him, carries the weight of it in her chest, his name a prayer on her lips spoken when she is alone in the dark quiet of her room.
If it was just physical, perhaps it would be easier. But she knows him too well, likes everything she learns about him, and he treats her with a kindness and warmth that have made it impossible not to fall in love with him. She has been in trouble for months now—tonight is nothing new. It’s a truth that had scared her at first as it slowly sank in, had her replaying every interaction with him, recalling every word he spoke to her. Lied to herself that it wasn’t love, and when she accepted, started lying to herself that it could be ignored.
You need to let off some steam. Samira does not touch that part of Trinity’s statement. Not yet, at least. Not until she’s back in her bedroom with the curtains drawn, her hand between her legs, Jack’s name on her lips and his face in her head.
How many has it been, now, where she allows herself to indulge in these heated fantasies? And then later, when she has to work the same shift as Jack, who is oblivious to being the center of her dreams, her musings, her wishes.
“Yo—where’d you go?”
Samira blinks out of her thoughts at Trinity’s voice and the snapping of fingers in front of her face. “Sorry,” she says, inhaling deeply. “I think I’m gonna head out, actually.”
Dennis’s eyebrows raise in concern. “You okay?”
Samira nods, smiling in assurance. “Yeah, just tired.”
Trinity sits up. “You want a ride?”
“No, you guys stay,” Samira responds as she hikes the strap of her bag up on her shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”
She doesn’t look towards the back of the bar, and instead strides straight to the front door. It’s a pleasant night, summer only slowly creeping in, but stars glimmer above and only a few clouds float along. It’s a nice night to walk to the bus stop a few blocks down, letting the air cool down the bare skin of her arms, neck, and face.
Except she doesn’t get very far. Except the universe likes to play with her. Except Jack Abbot’s black Land Cruiser is pulling up along the sidewalk right next to her.
“Let me give you a ride,” Jack says through the rolled down passenger side window.
She’s not imagining him this time. Not as the light of the street lamp bleeds through the windshield and bathes him in a golden glow, combined with the subtle but paler lights of the dashboard. He leans towards the window to look directly at her, eyebrows raised in silent prompting.
Her heart thunders. Foolishly, Samira says, “Oh, no, it’s alright. The bus isn’t far from here,” while gesturing down the road.
Jack is bemused. “How about you humor an old man? It’s late and I’m not crazy about going home knowing I could’ve given you a lift home.”
He says it with that half smile, the kind that makes his eyes dance, and it would be silly to deny herself this, as innocent as it is. Especially when he grins in triumph when Samira nods to get into the car, the sight of his dimples under white stubble making her stomach flip as she settles into the seat.
“Thank you,” Samira says as Jack starts driving again. It’s so easy with him, even if her head spins, so she can’t help but add, “And old man? Really?”
The grin he flashes her is troubling, with mirth dancing in his eyes. “Just calling it like I see it. You working tomorrow?
The seamless switch in conversation doesn’t startle her. Samira is used to jumping from one conversation to the next with Jack. He keeps her on her toes; it’s thrilling, especially because she can keep up.
“No, I’m off for forty-eight,” she answers. She plans on catching up on sleep and getting some chores done that she has been neglecting.
“Any fun plans?”
She huffs out a laugh. “Sleep, grocery shopping, and laundry.”
“Your sleep schedule’s been alright?”
Samira hums, even if the thought of talking to him, of all people, about her sleeping habits makes her cheeks heat up. Has no idea he is becoming a fixture in her nighttime routine. “Yeah, it’s good. I get a decent amount of hours.”
Jack glances at her with a raised eyebrow. “What’s decent? I hope it’s over six.” Samira presses her lips together, returning a guilty smile, which Jack responds to with a sigh and a shake of his head. “Samira—”
She cuts him off with a laugh. “I know you’re not talking to me about bad sleeping habits.”
His smile is wry. “Do as I teach, not as I do.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out as flirtatiously as it does. But his name falls like a caress, the air hitching in her throat when his eyes slide over to her.
He’s bathed in red from the backlights of the car stopped in front of them at the traffic light. The air between them stirs, a little restless, tightening Samira’s chest with every passing second as her smile fades under Jack’s weighted stare. They’re locked in it together, neither saying anything, nor daring to disrupt the silence that pulses with intent that they don’t grasp. Not yet, at least.
Not when she sees him bathed in green from red and her voice is a silly whisper as she tells him, “Light’s green.”
A crack of a smile. She wants to trace her fingers along the crinkles by his eyes “I know,” is his murmured reply before he pulls his gaze away and starts driving again.
Samira forces her gaze straight ahead. Ignores the incessant flutter in her chest. Tells herself it was nothing, barely a moment for her to cling to.
It’s just another lie for herself.
*****
Samira’s little white lies come to a head at the celebration for Dana’s work anniversary. Thirty-five years on the job, so Robby and Jack rented out a rooftop bar for the occasion. Speeches were made by Robby and Dana, plus a small one from her husband, Benji, and the party ensued after all was said and done. Jack isn’t too big on giving speeches, so Saira wasn’t surprised that he didn’t grab for the microphone—though both Robby and Dana included him in their speeches. Samira watched him smile and raise his scotch glass to the shout-outs.
String lights crisscross above them and tiki torches are lit up around the perimeter of the rooftop. People occupy chairs and couches, drinks in their hands, as the bustle of conversation mixes with music and the echo of the city below.
Samira sits back on one of the couches, in between the armrest and Victoria, one leg crossed over her knee as she drinks a gin and tonic and struggles to keep her gaze from straying to where Jack stands.
Damn near impossible, unfortunately, as he stands in Samira’s direct line of sight. She has an unobstructed view of where he stands with Dana, Robby, Heather, and a woman Samira doesn’t recognize. A friend of Dana’s, most likely. The conclusion is accompanied by a tightness in Samira’s throat that she attempts to loosen when a sip of her drink as she watches the woman laugh, presumably at something Jack says with the way she touches his arm.
Now, it’s been a while since Samira put in the conscious effort to flirt with someone, but she recognizes it for what it is.
Her grip on the glass tightens, the bitter taste in the back of her throat having little to do with the alcohol she’s drinking. And when Jack smiles, subdued, into his next sip, the blood in her veins freezes into ice.
And then Jack looks right at her.
But Samira doesn't let him catch her. She’s quick, this time, and averts her gaze toward the conversation happening on the couch, feigning interest in whatever is being discussed by Donnie, Victoria, Trinity, and Princess. Samira feels it, though—the weight of Jack’s eyes. Presses her teeth together to keep herself from looking back, no matter how desperately she wants to. Denies herself the pleasure.
She only, laughably, lasts a few minutes. When Samira finally allows herself to look back, Jack is talking to Dana’s friend. Sure, Robby, Dana, and Heather are there, too, but the woman’s eyes are trained on Jack. like she’s mesmerized by whatever he’s saying. Samira cannot blame her, but—fuck.
The burning in her chest is unfamiliar, combined with a weight resting upon it that makes it difficult to breathe. Samira is an intelligent woman; she was her high school’s valedictorian and was always a top ten student in both college and medical school. So, despite its unfamiliarity, she somehow manages to recognize this sensation for what it is. Past the ringing in her ears and the ache in her jaw, she knows.
Jealousy.
It dries her throat and tightens it to prevent her from finding any relief. It drowns out the party and intensifies the tinnitus, forcing her to focus on the pounding of her heart. It makes her nose sting because what right could she possibly have to feel like this over a man who is just her friend? She may be in love with him, but he is not hers. Why has she set herself down this road of heartbreak?
The woman’s intentions are obvious in every smile, every innocent touch, and suddenly Samira can’t breathe. It’s foolish—pathetic, even—but she can’t stick around to see if Jack reciprocates.
She suddenly gets to her feet, knees shaking only a bit, catching the attention of everyone she sits with. She flashes them the realest fake smile she can manage. “Bathroom.”
She doesn’t linger to hear their reply, doesn’t linger to look towards Jack, and instead heads inside. Samira smoothes down the front of her pale yellow dress, tiny pink flowers printed all over, feeling eyes on her back until she heads down the stairs and crosses the hallway leading to the bathroom, the party growing distant behind her.
What are you doing?
Samira stops halfway down the hall, eyes slipping shut as she exhales deeply, trying to ground herself as she digs her toes into the bottom of her heels, fingers flexing at her sides. She doesn’t want to run away. She doesn’t want to feel the burden of jealousy that she has no right to have ownership of.
Get it together, Samira.
Hiding isn’t going to solve anything. She’s used to pushing down her feelings, keeping them just her problem and not anyone else’s. Keep her head down, focus on work, focus on furthering her career. What’s the point in lingering on feelings that she’s better off leaving untouched? Let fantasies remain fantasies; she’d be safer that way.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Samira’s eyes fly open, heart flying to her throat at the sound of the low, raspy voice as she spins around. The skirt of her dress flares around her knees at the act, skin heating at the sight of Jack standing just a few feet away.
He watches her carefully, standing in black slacks and a white button down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Samira doesn’t dare pause on the view of his exposed forearms, the veins and freckles that tease her relentlessly, both at and out of work.
The truth is locked in her throat, greedy to get out. “Talk about what?” Samira asks instead, trying not to cringe at the breathlessness that colors her voice.
She’s a little dazed—by her thoughts, by the way Jack stands there with one hand shoved into the front pocket of his pants, by the way he watches her with gentle concern and never ending warmth. A picture of nonchalance despite the weight in his eyes. His lips purse, bemused. “You ran out of there like your dress was on fire.” Now her face is on fire as he takes a few steps towards her. “Samira—”
Laughter and footsteps suddenly sound from the top of the stairs, as though people are about to come down. Jack glances over his shoulder and Samira, despite herself, waits. Lets him grasp her hand, allows herself to feel her heart skip a beat at the searing touch as he mutters, “Come here,” before tugging her along.
Samira’s eyes widen as Jack pulls them through the side door leading to the building’s exit stairwell. “Jack—”
The door falls shut behind them, echoing in the empty stairwell as Jack guides her towards the corner behind the door on the landing they end up on. “Sorry,” he says, letting go of her hand. Samira immediately misses the touch, her hand tingling from his skin. He runs the same hand down his mouth as his hazel eyes meet hers. The air charges, his gaze dropping to the hand he held in his as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Samira’s throat works, wondering if his skin buzzes the way hers does. “What’s going on?”
A breathless sort of laugh escapes Jack, raising his eyebrows incredulously at her. He drops his hand, gestures to her. “I’m waiting for you to tell me.”
She leans back against the wall, tucked into the corner. The low back of her dress presses into the cool cement, but the goosebumps across her skin have nothing to do with the wall and everything to do with the man in front of her. Her body seems to experience an amalgamation of sensations when it comes to Jack, ranging from two different ends of a spectrum and borne solely out of want and desire.
This man, who stares at her like he knows her. Who watches her like he’s holding his breath until she gives him permission to breathe. His eyes are fixed on her, watching her like he always does—intently, warmly, maybe even a little desperately. She could be imagining it.
“Okay, then let me help you,” Jack says off her silence, Adam’s apple bobbing as he takes a few steps towards her. Samira’s heart somersaults at the diminishing distance, but she can’t look away from his hazel eyes. “You ran out like you couldn’t get out of there fast enough. And right before that, you were glaring at me like I assigned you a month’s worth of norovirus cases.”
Samira purses her lips, stifling a laugh that threatens to bubble up at his directness—despite the mortified heat pooling in her cheeks at the same time.
Jesus Christ—was she glaring? And so obviously, too, that he noticed? What’s worse—assumed it was directed at him? Embarrassment lurches around in her stomach, wishing too late for subtlety as she tries to find her words, an excuse, anything to steer this conversation away from this topic.
But Jack makes her head spin, for better or worse, so all she’s able to say is, “I was not glaring at you.”
He’s visibly unconvinced. Only a couple feet’s worth of space is between them. There is a slight echo of his shoes tapping against the cement. “You were glaring,” Jack argues in that annoying way, like he knows her. And he does. His hand raises, two fingers gesturing to her face. “Your forehead was doing that thing—your eyebrows were furrowed and you had those crinkles between them. You were working your jaw hard enough to grind your teeth into dust.”
Samira openly gapes at him, stunned silent by his close observation. Each word quickens her heart beat, tightening her lungs and making it difficult to breathe. But—oh, she feels seen. He had been watching her so closely, yet she hadn’t even noticed, too lost in bitter thoughts.
Now, she’s speechless, but his words embolden her anyway, and before she can stop herself, before she can think twice, Samira repeats, “I was not glaring at you.”
Even with the emphasis, Jack sighs, “Samira,” like he’s disappointed, and heat irrationally surges through her veins. He knows her so well—shouldn’t he be able to catch onto what she’s pitifully trying to tell him?
The words burst out of her hotly. “I was glaring at—at her.” Not even knowing the woman’s name reflects the patheticness that claws at Samira’s chest. But the truth echoes in the empty stairwell, her skin burning, protesting against the show of vulnerability. The thought of Jack thinking she was upset with him, however, was not one she could let sit. It’s not his fault her emotions feel all over the place.
And Samira was right—he does know her. She sees understanding dawning on his face in the way his neck tenses, his lips parting and gaze flaring. Her words feel too petulant, almost childish—except there’s no mistaking the sharpening of his hazel eyes, his gaze flickering over her face. As though he’s memorizing every minute feature that accompanies what she’s trying to tell him.
Her ears feel hot. Just do it, Samira. A rough breath escapes her, just a little shaky. Be brave, she tells herself. Worst comes to worse, she’ll stick to the day shift for the foreseeable future.
The thought alone makes her stomach churn. “You want the truth?” she asks, despite already knowing the answer.
Jack stares at her. “Have you ever lied to me?”
The laugh that escapes her surprised them both. There is nowhere else for her to look; no window in the stairwell to distract her from Jack’s expectant gaze. She opened this door—she needs to walk through it.
“I’ve been lying to you for months, even when I stopped lying to myself,” she admits, the words rushing out of her. But Jack catches on. Of course he does.
He watches her steadily, standing close but not close enough. She’s only able to smell a hint of his cologne, him. “About what?” His voice is a rasp that skitters across her skin.
Samira presses her lips together when she feels them trembling with the weight of the truth. Her fingers itch to fiddle with her dress, but instead she crosses her arms. JAck’s gaze flickers down briefly to the defensive stance.
“I’m not very good at this,” Samira confesses in a whisper.
Jack’s expression softens, one corner of his mouth curving up in a small but knowing smile. “Oh, I don’t know if I believe that,” he says, a musing, encouraging lilt in his voice. Jack watches her carefully as he takes another step closer. Samira feels herself relaxing at the distance growing smaller, swears she sees the corner of his mouth kick up higher. He’s merely two feet away. Her throat works, skin warming at the proximity. Jack’s voice is gentle as he ducks his head so their eyes meet. “Samira, hey.” That smile again, fluttering her heart. “It’s me.”
It’s meant to be encouraging, to remind her of their friendship, the bond that has grown between them, the comfort that made it so easy to fall in love with him.
It’s me. Yes, she’s well aware.
The air hitches in her throat. “I think I—”
Say it, say it, say it.
Softened eyes, a warm smile, dimples and crinkles she wants to run her fingers along and freckles she’d love to count. He’s her guy.
Say it, say it, say it.
Except he’s not.
I can’t.
“I think I need to go home.” Samira shoves the words out like they burn. Watches them land as Jack blinks and her chest tightens in disappointment and anger—towards herself—when he takes a step back. Blinks again like he’s trying to pull himself out of whatever haze she trapped him in. She had pulled him in and now she’s hanging him out to dry. She is still a liar.
Jack’s throat works, the air between them too tense to breathe in. She fails to ignore the disappointment pursing his lips, working his jaw. “Okay—”
Samira’s throat tightens as she pushes herself off the wall. “I have to go.”
She doesn’t give him a chance to stop her, not as her words echo off the walls as a brutal reminder.
Her lies accompany her home. They suffocate her in the back of the Uber, leaving a burning sensation in the back of her throat.
She had been so close. Was seconds away from being utterly honest to the one person who has made her feel seen the moment she met him. She is who she is with or without Jack Abbot, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to see life with him? Samira has had almost thirty years tolerating suffering living without him. She had been so close.
What if she screwed things up? What if he didn’t want her and all these big emotions that come with her? What if she’s too young, too inexperienced in the name of love?
These questions haunt her on the way home. Weigh her down as she trudges through the front door of her apartment, dumping her purse and keys on the table by the door, kicking off her heels in the process. Samira pauses, gaze despondently wandering around her quiet, empty apartment. Dana’s party is still happening and Samira had been fielding texts from her friends about her sudden departure. She cited a migraine, didn’t think twice about the lie.
Now, in the silence of her apartment, regret is a loud, beating drum in time with her pulse. What has she done? Why did she open her mouth? Why couldn’t she have stuffed it all down, leave her and Jack’s relationship as it is well enough alone? Why did she think it’d be a good idea to give in—
A sudden knocking on the door pulls her out of her spiraling thoughts. She gasps, startled, pushing away and turning to face the door. And then his voice.
“Samira? It’s me.” Samira’s lips part at the sound of Jack’s voice, heart jumping to her throat. “Could you—can you open the door, please?”
She stares, bewildered. What was he doing here?
Samira’s fingers tremble as she flips the lock and opens the door before she loses her nerve. Tendrils of her hair sway at the draft as the door flies open, and there he is. Same clothes, of course, but now with the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone, hair in disarray like he had been running his fingers through it. And he stands there, hands braced against the doorframe like he can’t keep himself upright without support, the breadth of his shoulders rising and falling with rough breaths.
Samira is instantly alarmed, opening the door wider. “Are you alright?”
“Not quite, no,” is Jack’s immediate raspy reply, accepting the invitation and striding into her apartment. He doesn’t make it too far as he stops, turns to face her, and says, “We need to talk, don’t we?” while leaning down to take off his shoes. He knows the rules of her home. Doesn’t take his eyes off her as he unlaces his boots.
What’s happening? “You must be joking.” He followed her home? It thrills her, honestly, even if she is thoroughly bewildered.
Jack straightens, a flicker of uncertainty flashing across his face. His gaze goes to the door behind her and his expression melts into mild horror. “Sorry—fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Jack,” she cuts in, finding the courage that had failed her earlier once again as she shuts—and locks—the door behind her. Over her pounding heart, she asks, “What are you doing here?”
“I told you,” he says, a little calmer, more relaxed now that she shut the door. “We need to talk. You just—you left. And I understand it’s, well, it’s crazy of me to just show up here like this. But you looked like—”
This time, he cuts himself off, but Samira’s pulse keeps fluttering wildly, curiosity and hope itching at her skin. “I looked like what?”
Jack exhales sharply, gaze unwavering. “Like you were holding yourself back and that’s—” He’s breathless as he shakes his head. “That’s not you.”
Her throat bobs, working to swallow the lump lodged in there. Samira’s eyebrows flick up, voice slightly hoarse as she counters, “And you know me so well.”
Not a question, not really a statement, either. More so a challenge.
One he meets as his gaze flares and he takes a step closer. “I do,” Jack responds confidently. “So tell me, please. Tell me what’s been going on with you. And if you don’t want to, then—” He laughs humorlessly, gesturing towards the door. “Then tell me to leave and I won’t bother you again. I promise. But I just want you to talk to me, Samira. Something’s bothering you and I—I just want to help.”
Samira slowly shakes her head, which doesn’t help the way it spins. Her hands are behind her, trapped between her back and the door. His desperation reaches out to her, begs her, and she wants to respond so badly. Ignoring the tingle in her nose, she asks, “Why do you care?”
It comes out brokenly, like a whine. Like a tidal wave of emotions that suddenly threatens to drown her. She cannot breathe. He’s here, in her apartment, begging for her honesty, and she is so scared of being truthful but she is even more tired of keeping up this facade. She combats him with questions of her own, greedy for just a little bit more before she lays herself bare in a way she never has before.
“Don’t you know?” Jack asks, laughter in his voice that’s just this side of despondent. He looks at her with dozens of emotions flashing across his expressive eyes, lips curling up like he adores her. Samaria’s heart clenches with the realization—that he has always looked at her this way, but she never dared to venture farther than basic respect. Never allowed herself to hope for the possibility of reciprocation. “I think about you all the time. Every day, every night—it’s impossible for me to not think about you.”
The air Samira sucks in goes nowhere. The confession seeps in slowly, her pulse erratic as she hoarsely replies, “Sounds exhausting.”
A single shake of his head, eyes never leaving hers. “I can’t get enough of it.”
She clings to that show of honesty, eyes searching his. The silence stretches between them, thrumming with both anticipation and desperation. In this moment, it feels so easy to give in. So she does.
She does it by taking the last few steps towards him. She does it by her gaze flicking between his eyes, to his lips, and then back again. She does it by inhaling sharply, by grasping his stubbly jaw in both hands, by pulling him close enough to press her lips to his, by reveling in the look of shock and look of finally that flares across his face in the split second before.
Jack doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t hesitate. His response is instant. As electricity zips through Samira’s veins, Jack’s hands land on her hips, the touch searing through the thin material of her dress. Jack kisses her back like he has been waiting his entire life for this, slipping his tongue through her parted lips as he walks her a few steps backwards until her back is against the door, the wood cool against her exposed back and making her gasp into the kiss.
It’s better than she could have ever imagined, feeling the muscles of his jaw working under her touch, giving her free reign to tilt his head just so to deepen the kiss. Samira feels it everywhere, all at once, and as her tongue slides along Jack’s, her core clenches around nothing when he groans against her.
She’s dreamt of this for so long, the heat of his body dizzying as one of his hands slips behind her and settles on the middle of her bare back, the touch pushering her farther into him with an approving hum, tasting the scotch faintly lingering on his tongue.
Samira can’t believe this is happening. She’s not quite sure this is real—not until Jack sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and she feels the tug of it between her legs, only just then realizing her panties are a ruined mess, arousal slick along her inner thighs.
“You have no idea,” Jack mutters, his hand slipping up her spine and making her knees tremble. “You have no idea—” His fingers bury in the loose locks of her hair, gasping against her.
“What?” Samira asks, the word dissolving into a moan as he presses his hips into hers, hard against her thigh. Jesus.
Jack’s lips trail along her jaw and Samira leans her head back into his head, her own slipping down to his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart. “I convinced myself this would never happen,” Jack rasps, pressing kisses along the sharp line of her jaw. Her skin is on fire wherever he touches, yet shivers skate down her spine at the coarse scrape of his stubble—and his words. She lets him tilt her head to the side, gasping as he rains heated kisses down her neck.
“Convinced myself you were just a dream.”
“I’m right here,” Samira gasps as his other hand trails down until his fingers are bunching up the skirt of her dress.
“Yeah, yeah, you are,” Jack speaks into her collarbone, teeth lightly scraping along and making her grasp his bicep, nails digging into the muscle. He kisses the hollow of her throat, Samira’s head leaning back against the door. “You gonna let me have you?”
A breathless smile pulls up her lips, staring at the ceiling in wonder, in disbelief. “You already do.” A burst of honesty she doesn’t shy away from.
Jack moves further down, pressing kisses through her dress as he moves down her sternum. “Thank fuck,” he groans, never slowing down his descent. When Samira tips her chin down to look at him, he’s already got his eyes on her as he gets to his knees before her.
Samira’s breath trembles. “Jack—”
His hands push her dress up further, her hands on his shoulders as he flashes her a wicked grin, eyes full of salacious intent. “I’m gonna take care of you,” he promises and despite the tension, the charged air, his words carry the weight of the truth.
It’s why she lets him.
Her bed has never been warmer. Samira is tangled in familiar bedsheets and limbs not her own, the coarse hairs of Jack’s legs tickling hers. He doesn’t flinch when she presses the cold, bare sole of her foot against his left one, and his bicep makes for a comfortable pillow he doesn’t dare take away from her.
He smells like he always does, clean by laundry detergent and soap and a dash of cologne and something woodsy that’s just him—now with the added scent of sweat and sex that permeates the air of her bedroom. It’s as comforting as it is heady, the beat of her heart finally calm after the four orgasms Jack got out of her—effortlessly, by the way. Like from their first kiss alone, he was able to learn everything about her body, everything she would like, everything she would need to be putty in his hands and get happily drunk off his ministrations. He is good—no, he’s fucking excellent. Samira never thought sex could be like that—intense, passionate, fun. Never thought she would ever be so greedy to have someone’s cock inside of her, to come apart under and over them.
Or maybe it’s because it’s Jack—it’s Jack and she loves him, so of course this would be different; better, perfect, everything she didn’t know she was searching for until it was right in front of her. In her bed.
Jack’s fingers trail up and down her upper arm as Samira watches the steady rise and fall of his chest where her hand rests, his heartbeat thudding against her palm. Her curiosity has been fed, and then some, as she tracks the freckles that scatter down his neck, over his shoulders. Some of the ones across his chest are hidden under chest air, coppery brown fading into silver.
In the aftermath of it all, Samira’s mind starts running, working to turn over everything that happened from the moment she left Dana’s party. With Jack showing up after she failed to tell him what she thought, at the moment, she had been brave enough to say—
“I’m sorry I ran off like that,” she says now, breaking the silence with a low murmur of her voice. “It was. . . Cowardly of me. I should’ve just stayed and talked to you instead of running.”
She hears Jack scoff, tilts her head enough to see a smile curving at the corner of his mouth, hinting at a dimple. “I’m not going to hold that against you, Samira,” he responds. She feels his voice against her hand on his chest, the dull vibrations of his low voice reverberating through him.
Her throat works, guilt she can’t quite understand lurching in her belly. “Maybe you should.”
A quiet hum. “But I won’t.”
I convinced myself this would never happen.
Jack’s words from earlier come rushing back, stealing Samira’s breath. She thinks it over and wonders, with a quickening pulse, just how long he had been convincing himself out of something Samira had fantasized about too often.
Be brave.
“What did you mean?” she asks, lifting up on her elbow to look down at him. Her lungs squeeze as she drinks in the sight of him laying in her bed, like he belongs here. Messy hair from her fingers and lips pink from her kisses and a gaze hooded in satisfaction, satiation. His other arm is folded behind his head, bicep bulging with the position, and she’s overcome with the irrational, possibly insane need to sink her teeth into the muscle, have a taste. Her skin flushes. Focus, Samira. “How long—when did you—”
She can’t get the question out coherently, not just because his fingers now trail up and down her spin, but Jack seems to understand what she’s pitifully attempting to ask. A smile softens his face, warms his eyes as his other arm moves from behind his head, his hand coming up to tuck some strands of her dark hair behind her ear before he cups her cheek. Samira’s breathing quickens, her dark eyes fixed on his hazel.
“A while,” he answers and Samira immediately expels a sharp breath, pursing her lips and he knows she’s not satisfied with that answer because his smile widens. Deepens his dimples, the crinkles by the corners of his eyes. “Time stopped mattering when I realized I was in love with you.”
It doesn’t hit her like a bucket of ice water, doesn’t stun her into silence. The way Jack had moved over her body, worshiped her, kissed her like she was the last pocket of fresh air—all of this, and everything leading up to tonight—told her how he felt about her. Samira would have realized it sooner if she hadn’t been so lost in the lies she had told herself, and in the truths she never dared admit out loud.
But the moment Jack Abbot kissed her—or, more truthfully, showed up at her apartment—Samira realized he loves her.
Hearing him say the words, however, is stunning all on its own.
Still, though, despite its lack of surprise, the confession still tightens Samira’s throat, burns in her eyes. The world beyond Jack has long since faded away as she watches him watch her, like he is cataloguing every little reaction. Can he see the sheen in her eyes? Can he see the tremble of her bottom lip? Will he hear it in her voice, thick with emotion she is finally, fully, allowing herself to feel?
Under her palm, his heart continues to thud, though a little quicker with anticipation, perhaps. A sharp breath, a split second of a laugh, escapes Samira before she tells him unsteadily, “I always thought I’d say it first.”
Because in all of her fantasies, she had dreamed about being brave enough to tell him her truth. She imagined a hundred different scenarios of telling Jack her feelings, a dozen different places she would let the truth fly. But she had never counted it on it happening in her bed—and she hadn’t counted on him beating her to the punch.
Understanding softens his eyes, his chest rising with a deep inhale as she feels his fingers against her scalp, his hand cupping the back of her head to keep her close, as though she would want to be anywhere else. Samira leans over him now, bare breasts pressed against him, and even with the heat of his body sinking into her skin, her nipples pebble at the ever present desire languidly coursing through her veins.
Jack smiles, then, wide and robbing Samira of her breath as he responds quietly, “I never thought I’d ever get the chance to say it.”
Inches separate her lips from his, tingling with the desire to kiss him again. But before she allows either of them to close the gap, Samira indulges in the butterflies fluttering around in her stomach and chest, drinking in his truth as she whispers, “Tell me again.”
Hazel eyes flicker between brown, his smile turning into something akin to awe as Samira feels his fingers tighten in her hair, just a little, just enough to bring her closer. With a tilt of his chin, his lips brush against hers as he tells her like it’s as easy as breathing for him, “I love you, Samira.”
He confesses it as if it’s just for her to hear—and in this moment, it is. But the way Jack kisses her tells her he has no intention of staying quiet about it. It’s a slow kiss, leisure in the way he tastes her, lips moving together languidly and exciting the butterflies in her stomach. The warmth under her skin is peaceful, it’s lovely, it’s right. Jack kisses her like he loves her and, oh, he does, doesn’t he?
“Jack, I—” Her hand slips from his chest to rest along his cheek, stubble prickling against her palm. She gasps as his teeth scrape along her bottom lip and she finally, finally, tells him, “I love you.”
His grin is so blinding, wide and boyishly happy that she can feel echoing in her chest. They are both grinning, the kiss barely a kiss, a peal of laughter escaping Samira when he rolls them so she’s on her back and he’s slotting between her legs, which she widens to accommodate the width of him. The press of him replaces the blanket as Samira loops her arms around his neck to pull him even closer, deepening the kiss.
“You love me, huh?” he murmurs against her, kissing the corner of her mouth, facial hair scraping against her chin and jaw.
“Yes,” Samira breathes into him, unabashed and honest.
“And that’s what you were going to tell me earlier, weren’t you?” Jack asks, leaning back enough to look down at her. Her cheeks are warm as he raises his eyebrow down at her knowingly. “At Dana’s party?”
Samira twists her lips to the side in embarrassment, fingers idly playing with the hair curling at the back of his neck as she turns her head away, staring towards the window as she says, “Why are you asking when you already know the answer?”
Jack chuckles lowly and Samira’s pout melts into a grin as he presses his lips to her cheek. “Wanted to see how many truths I can pull out of you tonight.”
Her heart thuds as she turns her head back to look up at him. “As many as you want,” she answers. “And I don’t mean just tonight.” Their gazes lock in that moment, sealing her words like a vow, and her next words come out as a whisper. “Thank you for being patient with me.”
Jack tilts his head, watching her carefully, eyes warm like his smile. “You were always going to be worth it, no matter the wait.”
She believes him, easily and undoubtedly. Samira is used to liars, after all. But Jack has never lied to her—not really, not when it mattered the most.