Archive of Our Own ^beta

Samira planned for Mr. Diaz to be in Six East, not a shirtless Jack Abbot.

Her heart stutters, stomach swooping, when she sees who the broad back she's met with just past the curtain belongs to.

"Oh," she says faintly. "Sorry."

Abbot, black shirt in hand, looks at her. "It's okay," he says, easygoing and unaffected, which really isn't fair.

Samira has made peace with the fact that she's halfway in love with her sometimes-boss. These days, in retrospect, she can't quite pinpoint when it happened, only that it did.

But she knows exactly how it happened.

She's always found Abbot impressive. Right from the start, there was something captivating about him. He's not the usual gruff exterior, soft inside kind of man she expected when she was met with both a picture of him staring down the camera, eyes dark and intense, and the genuine admiration of his coworkers.

Because Jack Abbot is soft on the outside, too. Not with the words he chooses so much as the fact that he chooses them. When Samira was only just an intern, they had a kid in the break room for a few hours. More of a teenager really—fourteen or fifteen maybe. No one got through to her except for Abbot, who parked himself on the couch, close but not next to her, and started rambling about his sister's cats. When that topic was depleted, he moved on to telling her about his favorite bands when he was in high school, and so it went.

The kid's mother died. But at least a familiar face broke the news to her three hours later, when all of the woman's chances had been spent.

Abbot's kind of weird, too. Not straight-laced, structured, or anything like that. He's flexible, unyielding only when he needs to be, creative with his medicine.

Samira has never seen someone improvise as quickly and smartly as Abbot. His ideas are blunt but elegant in their efficiency.

Pittfest was a prime example of that. It wasn't when she fell in love with him, but it was when she realized that Abbot trusted her. Stood in that trauma room, a catheter manipulated by her in a man's heart, Abbot telling her to do it, to pull it—that was the moment she came face-to-face with the truth that Abbot really sees her. That he truly trusts her.

Not in the way he has to trust all interns and residents because PTMC is a training hospital, but in a true, genuine way that goes beyond professional duty. He thinks she has what it takes to not only survive the ED but also thrive in it.

It was then that she started sharing her thoughts on medical discoveries, journals, and cases with him. Sat on that bench next to him, the park quiet and lonely around them now that the others had gone home, beer in hand, she asked him what his favorite case study in the world was.

He laughed, eyes crinkling, and told her that he would need to think about it. "Give me your phone number," he said.

Samira remembers how warm she got, how happy. She rattled off her number and he accepted it with a nod and a sip of his beer, tapping the side of his head when she looked at him, confused.

"I'm good with numbers," he said.

She believed him, and he proved it when there was a message from him waiting for her the morning after Pittfest. Jack Abbot here it said, and then there was a link that led Samira to Management of Massive Grain Aspiration, which turned out to be a pretty interesting read beyond being the retelling of an incredible but very blunt rescue.

It fit Abbot's way of working down to a T, and Samira could almost picture the breakdown the surgeons would have if Abbot suggested something like this during a trauma.

She texted back, thanking him for the link, and offering her own positive opinion of the case.

Samira thought that would be that, but when her phone vibrated a few hours later, there was another message from him.

We aren't done here, it read.

What do you mean? Samira answered.

Your turn, now. Share with the class, was Abbot's next message yet another few hours later. He wanted to know about her own favorite case study.

Samira did as told, and somehow they were never quite done here, in their ever-growing text thread, their increasing number of conversations in the break room, the hallway of the residents' lockers, the hub.

He became a constant in her life, the road in her brain from every possible case, article, or patient to Jack Abbot turning ever more well-paved and well-traveled. Sometimes he was the only person she talked to during her occasional 48 off.

That's when it shifted, when she stopped merely wanting his opinion and his insight on medical topics, and instead started to want it on everything.

She started wanting to know what songs he couldn't stop listening to, what movies he'd watched too many times to count. What his favorite smell was and what it reminded him of. How he organized his closet, what kind of products he had in his bathroom mirror, whether he used a wheelchair at home or not.

It happened so incrementally, but so quickly, so violently that by the time she noticed, she was already in it up to her neck.

Today, just as she did yesterday and will do tomorrow, she wants him to tell her everything he can bear to share, wishes for him to want her to see him in return.

While she doesn't need to share her own memories, her dreams, and stories with him, because he's already seen right into her heart, sees what she's made up of every time they step into a trauma together, she thinks it would be… nice, perhaps, to be asked.

The bag in her hand crinkles, tearing her away from her embarrassing wish for domesticity with and knowing of Jack Abbot.

She's worried about Mr. Diaz, knows intimately what happens to diabetics who ration; be it test strips, insulin, or both.

"So Uber it to his house," Abbot suggests.

Samira nearly scoffs, looks up at him. "Is the hospital gonna pay for that?"

Abbot picks up the swab, opens the plastic packaging. "I'll pay for it," he says, voice low, concentrated, and Samira is suddenly miles away, imagining raspy words husked into her skin.

She swallows, doesn't know what to say.

Abbot tries to reach the wound on his back, his arm propped up on the other.

He has a horrible farmer's tan and Samira wants to see it fade away as winter approaches, wants to see it reappear in spring. She wants to know if his legs are unevenly tanned, too, or if they're as pale as his shoulders.

Watching him struggle, the doctor in her takes over, and she gets up, snapping on a pair of gloves.

"What are you doing?"

"What you clearly can't," Samira says.

Abbot huffs but lets her take care of his graze. And she can live with this, you know? She's okay with being something like friends at work. They get along well, and they work a trauma room with incredible fluency. It's enough. Because it has to be.

She's not surprised he hasn't opened a chart.

"Our little secret," Samira says, aching to share more than one little secret with him.

She remembers the open door when Myrna wheels in just as she's finishing up, smoothing gauze onto the warm skin of Abbot's back.

"Now that's a sight for sore eyes," Myrna cackles.

"Myrna!" Samira exclaims. "I didn't know you were here."

The old woman scoffs. "I wasn't planning on it." She tugs at the cuffs that are each fixed to one of her hands on both sides of her wheelchair, as if to show why she's unhappy with her current situation. "Happy Fourth, Dr. Abbot," she adds.

Abbot sighs, but it's an almost fond sound. "Happy Fourth to you too, Myrna."

Then he turns his head, looks back and up at Samira. "Hand me my shirt?" he asks.

"Sure," Samira says, discarding her gloves.

"Awww, no," Myrna complains, wheeling closer. "Can't we keep our good doctor here half naked for a bit longer?"

With Abbot's dry laugh in the background, Samira says, like one might tell a child to share their toys, "If Dr. Abbot wants to put his shirt back on, then we are going to let him do that."

Samira turns around, looking for Abbot's discarded shirt, professionally ignoring Myrna's muttering.

She doesn't quite know how it happens, but there's a crash, a gruff noise of surprise that must be Abbot's, and when she turns around, Myrna has somehow freed one of her hands and hooked the cuff around Abbot's right hand.

"Myrna, what is this?" Abbot says, slowly getting annoyed now, rattling the cuff.

Samira wonders how Abbot is with cuffs, if there are bad memories staining the gleaming metal around his freckled wrist.

"Can't put your shirt back on now, can you?" Myrna croons.

Abbot rolls his eyes. Samira feels somewhat lost, standing next to them, awkwardly fingering the black fabric in her hands.

"I got work to do," Abbot tells her. "And so does Dr. Mohan."

"Dr. Mohan here appreciates an uninterrupted view of those arms just as much as I—"

"Hey!" Abbot interrupts, sharp for the first time.

Samira's heart stutters, and she abruptly feels sick. She doesn't want to know why he interrupted. Doesn't want to be made aware of just how far-fetched her little fantasies are, how unlikely Abbot is to ever look at her and wonder. About her dreams, the softness of her inner thighs, how her hair curls if she showers at night.

"Can you get Ahmad?" Abbot sighs.

"Nooooo!" Myrna complains in her raspy voice. "Not him, he's such a party pooper."

"Of course," Samira tells Abbot without acknowledging Myrna's words. She steps around the bed and Abbot, passing Myrna's wheelchair.

The old woman's hand suddenly clamps around Samira's wrist with surprising strength and then there's the metallic rattling of a cuff closing. "What—" she tries, tugged back by the sudden weight around her hand.

"Are you shitting me?" Abbot asks, looking from where his right hand is cuffed to Samira's left.

Myrna cackles, slapping her own thigh with her now free hand. "Now you can get dear Ahmad," she allows graciously.

Samira feels like she should apologize for something. A sorry almost makes its way past her lips because she doesn't have time for this and neither does Abbot. They have patients to get back to.

"What is going on in here?" Ahmad's voice comes from the door, probably summoned by Myrna's cackling.

Abbot raises his hand and Samira's rises with it. Confused for a beat, she instinctively tries to pull it back down, not getting very far. She trails her eyes from her cuff up to the other, sees its metal dimple the freckled skin of Abbot's wrist. Right, cuffed together.

He has a very broad wrist, Samira notices. Maybe all of him is meant to be broad. Wide and stable. Not something she should necessarily be thinking about.

"Myrna is in a mood," Abbot tells Ahmad.

Another figure appears at the door, and then Dana is calling into the room, glasses low on her nose, an incredulous, exasperated look on her face. "What the hell are yinz doing?" she asks. "I know for a fact that everyone here has a job to get back to—" She turns to Myrna, "—except for you, who should be cuffed to a pole out in the ambulance bay for all I care."

Myrna grumbles but doesn't come up with anything to say in her defense.

Abbot sighs. "We can't exactly go back to work like this," he says, raising his arm another inch in explanation.

Dana's eyebrows jump up, incredulous. She's quiet for a beat, then says, "I genuinely don't know what to say."

Neither does Samira. Or Abbot, it seems.

"That's not a compliment," Dana adds. "And why the hell are you half-naked?" she hisses to Abbot.

"Bullet grazed my vest," he explains, pointing to his shoulder.

"You got shot—"

"—At!" Abbot cuts in. "Shot at. Not shot. I'm fine."

Some of the tension leaves Dana's frame at the words, but the furrow between her brows remains.

"Serves you right," she scolds. "Maybe you wouldn't get shot if you didn't jump in front of every gun in the vicinity."

"I don't jump in front of—"

"Did the military teach you nothing?" Dana asks, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose, glasses askew. "Don't answer that."

Abbot's mouth stays closed.

"Ahmad, can you get them uncuffed so everyone can get back to work? Take Myrna with you. I don't care where, just take her with you."

Ahmad is silent for a beat too long. Samira turns her head to look at him. He's standing behind her and Abbot, looking at the cuff.

"What is it?" she asks.

"I can't open this," Ahmad admits.

"Why the hell not?" Dana bites out, drowning out Abbot's tired "Tell me you're joking."

Ahmad takes Abbot's cuff in hand and turns it to show her the lock. "It's warped to hell and back. I can't even get my pin in here."

Dana whirls around to Myrna. "What did you do, Missy?"

"Nothing! I swear!" Myrna exclaims. "And don't call me Missy; I'm the older one here."

"You don't say," Dana shoots back. "God, this ED is a fucking circus. Why am I back here?"

Abbot grins crookedly. "Because you love us."

Dana scoffs but doesn't deny the accusation. "Ahmad," she says.

"Yes?"

"Cuff her again and get her out of here." Dana gestures to Myrna. "And this time do it better. I don't want to see her for at least the next two hours."

Ahmad does as told, only lingering long enough to undo Myrna's remaining cuff and cuff her hands back together behind her back this time.

"I'm getting Robby," Dana decides. "This is above my paygrade. You two—" she points at them, "—don't go anywhere."

"We won't," Samira promises just as Abbot asks where exactly they would even go.

Dana isn't gone long enough for things to get awkward, thank God. The look on Robby's face when he sees them there, Abbot sitting on the bed, Samira sitting next to him, hands suspended mid-air between them.

"Oohhh, this is incredible," Robby says, shaking his head, looking up at the ceiling. Probably in the hope of some sort of divine intervention.

"Could we get someone here to uncuff us?" Samira asks, chewing on her bottom lip. "Maybe a janitor or something? I need to—my patients… " she trails off.

"Yeah, yes, of course. I'll inform Gloria," Robby says, and dashes out of the room.

There's a pained expression on Abbot's face. Samira isn't sure why exactly, though she comes up with multiple valid reasons for it.

It's still there when Robby returns, no Dr. Underwood in tow but a resignedly annoyed look on his face.

"The PTMC janitor does not have the equipment needed to perform the separation of two handcuffed employees," he informs them, quotation marks omitted but very much audible.

"You don't have bolt cutters?" Abbot huffs. "What kind of business are you running here?"

"I know, I know," Robby says, letting an almost-laugh slip.

"Did you accurately impress upon our dear employer how important we are to this department?" Abbot asks, gesturing between Samira and himself. "Did you—"

"Gloria," Robby interrupts. "Did what she could." It's rare for him to acknowledge any of Dr. Underwood's positive actions and traits. Samira thinks the last time she witnessed it was during Pittfest, when Robby thanked her for getting their ORs up and running before he even had the opportunity to tell her to.

Abbot scoffs, and Samira gets the impression that he wants to roll his eyes.

Robby draws a hand over his tired face, then folds both hands over his nape. "Jack, I really don't have time for this. I'm sorry. I can have Dana call the fire department but other than that…"

Abbot makes an unimpressed noise. "Is this about Al-Hashimi?"

Robby's gaze snaps to Abbot.

Samira doesn't think she should be witnessing this, but there's nowhere for her to go. She can't even put her fingers in her ears without tugging around Abbot's hand, too.

She wants to go back to her patients or do something productive at least. Isn't there a backlog of CTs or something for her to look at, labs to check?

"It is not, no," Robby says primly. "Thank you for asking."

"Ah," Abbot nods. "So, it's about your man pain tour."

Samira has to bite back what would have been a snort.

"Look, brother," Robby says, pressing his hands together. "I need everything to be wrapped up here so I don't carry this fucking hell with me through half the states. Okay?"

"Understood," Abbot concedes. "And hey, silver linings; at least the fire department is close by."

In that moment Dana reappears, tucking her phone into her pocket. "Called the PBF. They're swamped, but they'll get here asap."

Robby nods. "Good," he says. "Okay, you two are going to camp out in the family room until the fire department gets here, and we are all going to pray that they do it fast."

"What? No!" Samira protests. "I have patients to get back to. I can't just—"

"So do I," Abbot says.

"Sorry," Robby cuts in. "What exactly are you two missing?"

When no one says anything, he lets out a sigh. "I can't have a doctor, who is handcuffed to a shirtless man, treating patients."

"Hey, I'm a doctor, too," Abbot chimes in.

"And also shirtless," Robby points out.

Samira opens her mouth, tries to dig up some sort of sensible defense, but comes up short.

"We aren't discussing this," Robby says in that vaguely patronizing tone of his. "At best our already questionable reputation takes another hit we can't afford, and at worst one or both of you end up with a sexual harassment charge. You are going to camp out in the family room, and you are not going to leave it until the fire department turns up."

He doesn't tack on an Is that understood? but Samira can hear it perfectly well. She acquiesces with a nod and Abbot follows her example with a sigh.

"Okay, great," Robby says. He turns around towards the door where, from what Samira can make out, at least three people are standing, gawking at them. "Back to work!"

Whitaker offers to get them a blanket for Abbot to wrap himself up in so he doesn't have to cross the floor shirtless.

Abbot waves the idea off. "Let's not overreact," he says. "I've been shirtless before, and God knows everyone in this ED has seen enough naked men to not freak out about it."

Samira privately doesn't think his hypothesis is going to work out for him. Yes, the nurses, doctors, and other staff have certainly seen their fair share of naked male bodies, but none of them have been the senior night shift attending's naked chest and back.

She can feel her cheeks grow warm as her thoughts immediately snag on what they'd see, what they'd think, what they would imagine.

They do it without a blanket in the end.

What would Samira even have said? Hey, yeah, sorry, could you actually cover up, please? For me? For some unknown reason that is probably related to my being halfway in love with you, it makes me uncomfortable to think about walking past all of our coworkers handcuffed to your shirtless self.

Definitely not.

So, they go armed only with Whitaker, who has seemingly turned into an escort of sorts and is leading them bravely across the floor, and Dana, who keeps most people too busy to gawk.

It's still awful.

If Samira's complexion wasn't quite as dark, everyone would see how hot her cheeks have gotten.

It's humiliating for some reason, in some way. Samira can't exactly pinpoint why, but there's nausea crawling up her throat, her skin tingling with the feeling of being seen. Too seen; pinned by everyone, who manages to get in a look or two.

Imagine if they knew what you really want, something whispers, and bright humiliation follows the thought. It slides through her, then turns around and circles right back through her again and again.

Imagine if they knew that she thinks of their shoes lined up next to each other in the hallway; imagine if they all knew she yearns to find out what the night shift attending's laundry detergent smells like; imagine if everyone knew, if they could all see, that she wants to fall asleep holding Jack Abbot's hand. Her wishes strike her as transgressive in their domesticity.

She lowers her head, doesn't let her gaze catch on anything other than the occasional crumb or splatter of blood on the floor. Abbot is a tangible weight around her wrist, not quite pulling her forward, not quite not pulling her either.

Whitaker closes the door behind them and it sounds like a lock sliding into place.

"Could've closed that myself," Abbot mutters. He flicks the light switch, bathing the room in warm, bright light. Samira is abruptly reminded that he's still shirtless. She doesn't let her eyes rest on his pale chest for longer than a second, tearing it away only for it to snag on the cuff between them.

The rattle of metal rings loud in the mostly silent room when Samira experimentally shakes her hand. She sees Abbot twitch out of the corner of her eyes, and when her eyes trail up to his face, she finds that he's already looking at her. His cheeks are pink and he's rocking ever so slightly on his feet.

For the first time, he seems kind of awkward—shaken even, and Samira doesn't really know what to do with that. She trips up again, then, and finds herself admiring the curve of his deltoid for just a second. She wants to shake her head, dislodge the thoughts that threaten to bubble up, to become concrete and undeniable.

She knows she likes him, knows she wants him. But that's based on admiration, on respect and appreciation not only for what he does for her but also for the other residents and the patients in his care. She doesn't want to lust after him without his knowledge. That just feels dirty.

"Wanna sit down?" Comes Abbot's raspy voice.

Samira's brows draw together before she realizes why he's asking. There's no sitting for just one of them. They'll have to do it together and they're going to have to sit close to each other.

"Sure," Samira says, swallowing. She would prefer to go back to her patients. She gets why she can't, but still.

Maybe she'll be able to convince Whitaker to bring her some of her patient's labs, the x-ray of that elderly man's hip she hasn't gotten a chance to look at.

Samira sits down carefully, making sure she and Abbot don't brush up against each other. She can smell him, though, and there's warmth emanating from him she shouldn't be able to feel but does. He's looking at her, and, fuck, this is awkward enough already without her obviously evading his gaze, so she looks back at him, lets her eyes settle on the bridge of his nose, the freckles that grow darker the closer to his hairline her eyes wander. She knows just how much more freckled his shoulders are and the knowledge is not something Samira should have access to.

"Do you want to talk about that case I—" Abbot begins, apparently settling into their circumstances.

But the door opens before he can finish his question. It's Mel this time and Samira is glad to see her.

"Hi," she says. It looks like she tries to wave at them, then realizes she can't due to the plastic cups she's carrying. "I am here to make sure you are hydrated," she explains. "Doctor—Frank—Langdon, that is, suggested it."

Samira's brows rise a bit and she can see Abbot's lips twitch. He's noticed it, too, then: the charged air between Mel and Langdon.

"I would rather be dehydrated and not cuffed to Dr. Mohan here," Abbot says. "But thank you. We appreciate it."

Samira nods, ignores how her mind tries to snag on the fact that Abbot said we and that he'd rather be dehydrated than cuffed to her. That's a normal thing to want, very normal actually, and Samira is not about to be hurt by something so very normal.

"Thanks, Mel," she says gently, taking the cup of water with her right hand, glad it's the dominant one Myrna spared.

Mel nods, happy, then points back to the ED over her shoulder. "I have to go back to—yup."

"We'll be fine," Samira assures her. She wants to shoo her away with a smile, then remembers the weight hanging from her wrist. Abbot must easily weigh 160 lbs judging from the amount of muscle mass—Nope, no. Not something she's going to think about. Because this isn't how it's supposed to go. Not that it's necessarily supposed to go at all, but say it did go—she would have wanted it to be of Abbot's own accord. Would have wanted to know how well-defined his pecs are not because he got shot and then kept from putting his shirt back on, but because he wanted her to see.

The door falls closed again.

Abbot sighs, drinks his water in three big gulps that Samira traces through the soft skin of his throat, then puts his cup down on the table that grieving families lay their tissues on and sighs again.

Samira takes a sip of water and ponders the question of if this is what high school girls feel like at their first party; clumsy, a random drink in hand, desperate to seem relaxed and cool, too close to a cute guy.

She wonders and flushes, observing how her own thoughts have drifted off to the physical form her favorite coworker inhabits again. But who can blame her, considering said coworker is sitting right next to her, very close and very shirtless?

She didn't think she would ever know the pattern Jack Abbot's chest hair grows in, but here she is.

She won't ever forget it because Samira, famously, does not do things halfway. Figures that the first time she has feelings for someone strong enough to allow them to exist side by side with her ambition, they would be as persistent, as impossible to get rid of as her other, slightly older dream of being what she is these days.

As her favorite singer does, maybe the only one she can really point to and say, Yes, I like everything she creates, Samira has a shelf of longing. Abbot stands on it, its sole occupant, and Samira can see how the future will unspool in that regard, how he will rest up there forever.

"Did you follow up with Eduardo?" Abbot asks.

Eduardo, as Samira has learned, is his ICU nurse of trust. She has no idea how he always manages to bring the traumas he worked on into Eduardo's care, but he does. Somehow.

"I did," Samira confirms.

"Good, good." Abbot nods.

He looks to the ceiling, to the door, the far corner of the room, like he's searching for something.

"Let me turn the tables on you," he says then.

"Oh?" Samira asks, interested.

"You asked me about my favorite case or study or whatever," he says.

Samira nods. "I did."

"Tell me about your absolute least favorite," Abbot prompts, smiling at her.

"Methodologically or in terms of content?"

Abbot considers this for a moment. "Let's go methodologically."

A smirk overtakes Samira's face. "Oh, I have a list," she says, excited.

Abbot grins back at her. "I'm not surprised in the least."

An hour later Abbot clears his throat, tilts forward with a sigh to rest his arms on his thighs, gaze directed to the floor between his feet. Samira's eyes follow him for just a second too long and she sees how his stomach folds. Soft, pale flesh. A vulnerable spot, something old and out of time says. A piece of Abbot that should be guarded.

"Ahh, shit," he comments.

Samira twitches. "What?"

Abbot grunts and heaves his right foot onto the table. His shoelace has come undone. There's metal peeking out from between his sock and cargo pants; no skin-colored plastic to be seen.

"Hey," Samira hisses. "Don't put your shoes on the furniture."

"I'm disabled," Abbot says. "I'm allowed."

"You're allowed to explain why there's a dirty footprint on the table in the family room, too," Samira volleys.

Abbot huffs, an offended sound, entirely defeated by the amused slant to his lips. "What exactly do you think I get up to? I'm not Crocodile Dundee. I'm civilized."

"Your truck begs to differ." The snark comes easily.

Abbot laughs. He's fumbling around with the laces, but his left hand is clearly clumsier than his right. "You like my truck," he says, throwing her a sideways glance.

Samira trips up then, loses the upper hand. "How do you know that?" she asks, gaze caught on a burst of freckles on his side delt that sit so close they're almost touching.

Abbot smirks at her. "You don't need me to explain to you what just happened, do you?"

Samira groans, dropping back against the couch. There's a tug at her wrist and Abbot falls back next to her.

"Ouch," he comments with all the drama he usually only brings to his grand entrances to the ED. "We're still very much attached at the wrist, Dr. Mohan. Don't drag me around."

She wants to tell him to call her Samira. He does sometimes. Hearing her name fall from his lips never fails to make her heart stutter, stomach swooping.

"Sorry," she says instead.

"My shoelace is still undone," Abbot comments, ignoring her apology. He's looking at the offending foot, wiggling the carbon limb as best he can. He leans forward again. "Don't pull me back this time."

"I won't," Samira assures him.

He lets out a positive noise, a thank you, Samira thinks, and goes back to clumsily tugging at his laces, right hand resting limply next to him, clearly not wanting to drag her around.

He's not really getting anywhere. Every semblance of a knot he manages falls apart a second later, which he acknowledges with a huff.

Samira leans forward, stepping in for the second time today to do something for Abbot he can't do himself. He looks at her and follows her movement, making sure the cuff doesn't tug at her wrist. It's very sweet.

"Let me," Samira says, nudging his hands away.

"Hey, I can do that myself," Abbot protests. He bats half-heartedly at her hands. His fingers are warm and familiar; she's been looking at them for years, for one reason or another, has been feeling them on hers, too, guiding and encouraging.

Samira lightly slaps his left hand away. He brings in his right, tugs her left forward, and then they're locked in a handfight, slapping and batting at the other's hands, fingers.

Abbot breaks first, a bark of a laugh slipping out, and then Samira can't hold it in anymore either, a grin spreading across her face as she giggles.

Abbot catches her free hand in his, holds her firmly but carefully. "Come on," he says. "We can share custody of this task. This is the teamwork everyone always mentions, and we want to make the dream work, don't we?"

Samira snorts, feeling light and bubbly. "Of course we do."

Abbot smiles at her, offers her a flash of his crooked incisors and the dimples in his cheeks.

They lace up his shoe together, and it's fucking ridiculous, but it's fun, too. She's having fun and she doesn't feel like she's contorting herself into all kinds of unnatural shapes just to prove she can hold simple, friendly conversations that aren't about medicine.

"Now take your shoe off the table," Samira tells Jack, and this time when she leans back against the couch she pulls him with her on purpose.

Abbot lets her with a little chuckle, dropping his free hand into his lap and the cuffed one next to his thigh. Their fingers brush up against each other for just a beat and Samira very carefully doesn't draw in a quick breath, very carefully ignores the goosebumps that chase each other down their neck and arms.

"What would you name a cat?" he asks as he relaxes into the couch cushions, a non-sequitur. He rolls his shoulder, like it's started aching.

She wonders absently if Abbot is cold, gaze involuntarily flying to his nipples. She shakes it off like a dog.

He's probably not cold anyway, considering how hard the AC is working and how warm his arm was when it brushed hers about twenty minutes ago.

"I already named a cat," Samira says.

Abbot's brows tick up. "I didn't know that."

"He died a few years ago," Samira tells him, a knot in her throat suddenly.

Abbot's expression softens from interest into something warm. Understanding, mostly, and pity. She doesn't hate it. "I'm sorry," he says. "That fucking sucks."

A bitter, surprised laugh leaves Samira's chest. Very blunt wording, but she has always appreciated Jack's efficiency. "Yeah," she says, nodding, thinking of Lil Wayne's kind face, his big cheeks, and the tipped ear he had when he came to her. "It really does."

"What was his name?" Abbot prompts. "If you don't mind—"

"I don't," Samira assures him. "Lil Wayne."

Abbot raises his brows. "Lil Wayne? Any relation to the rapper?"

Samira laughs, ignores how the sound is ever so slightly wet. "None that I know of, but there is that six degrees of separation theory—oh…" she trails off when she sees the look on Abbot's face. "You just mean the name, don't you?"

Abbot chuckles. "Yeah."

"My bad," Samira says, feeling flustered. "In that case, yeah. Relation present." Normally, she doesn't care about looking cool, relaxed, and unflappable instead of weird, but it's different with Abbot. "How do you know Lil Wayne?" she asks.

"Oh, I'm supposed to share all my secrets with you?" Abbot shoots back, grinning at her.

Yes, Samira wants to shout. Yes, yes, yes. "At least this one," she settles on.

"I like rap." Abbot shrugs, crossing his free arm over his chest. It pushes his pectorals together and Samira forces her gaze away, back to his face as her stomach swoops.

"Lil Uzi Vert, Future, Kendrick, of course—" Abbot starts rattling off.

Of course, Samira mouths, brows raised.

"—Metro Boomin, Fetty Wap, Salt-N-Pepa, Jeremih, Saweetie—"

"Okay, okay," Samira cuts in, laughing. "I get it."

"What kind of music do you listen to, then?" Abbot says. He ducks his chin, looks at her, goading and expectant. Samira has never felt more listened to than she does in Abbot's presence. She strongly suspects it's part of the reason why he's so well-liked in their department. The wish that comes to mind then, the wish that Abbot pays even more attention to her than he does to everyone else, is not new. But it's seemingly grown stronger, more destabilising.

She thankfully doesn't have to deal with her emotional swaying to answer this question. This one she knows by heart. "Florence and The Machine."

There's silence for a beat. Abbot keeps looking at her, then he raises his brows.

"What?" she asks.

"That's it?"

"Well—yeah," Samira says haltingly.

"Must be the cream of the crop then," Abbot says, lip twitching not like he's amused but like he's just genuinely enjoying their conversation. Samira has only very rarely held a conversation with Abbot she wasn't enjoying, but right now she isn't just having fun: she has also relaxed a bit. Has let the tension slide off her shoulders, the need to be out there, helping, working, at rest for a moment. Maybe she should feel guilty for that, but she can't quite manage the emotion in the face of Abbot's slow smile and bright eyes.

"I'll listen to her songs sometime," he continues. "Their songs? Her songs?"

"Their," Samira confirms.

"Because of the machine," Abbot nods sagely.

Samira snorts. "Yeah, the machine."

"What's your favorite?"

"Cosmic Love."

Abbot taps his temple, like he did back on that park bench. Samira understands.

"Why did you ask? About the cat name, I mean," Samira asks a few minutes later. Less hesitantly than she should, because this crosses the line of work most definitely, she adds, "Are you thinking of adopting one?"

Abbot looks caught, but not dismayed about it. "Maybe," he offers. "I—With my sleep schedule. I'm just wondering… How much company does a cat need?"

"Depends on the cat," Samira says, shrugging. Lil Wayne wasn't a big fan of his fellow felines. His adoption ad had explicitly stated that he didn't get along with other cats and would have to be the only cat in his hypothetical future home. "Lil Wayne did well alone, but to be fair, I, uhm, did spend most of my time off at home."

Nice use of past tense there, Samira, she thinks to herself.

"And he kind of hated other cats. I'm not sure how he dealt with his siblings," she jokes.

Abbot huffs a low laugh.

"He was pretty clingy when I was home, though. Always wanted to be in the same room as me." She has to smile at the bittersweet memory of her first cat, her only cat, and the first friend she'd found in more than a decade.

"I'm not home much," Abbot admits.

Samira snorts. "Yeah, I got that. What with the whole SWAT medic thing," she gestures to his camo print pants and where his bulletproof vest sat. There's absolutely nothing covering his torso now. Samira is incredibly aware of that fact. "Do you not like sleep or something?"

"No, I do." Abbot shakes his head, shrugs. "Sleep just doesn't really like me."

I can't imagine not liking you, Samira wants to say but wisely doesn't.

She hums, considers Abbot's answer.

"What?" he asks, head tilted at her in interest.

"Maybe a cat would help, is all," Samira says.

"You're gonna have to spell that one out for me. I'm not getting it."

"Cats and sleep are like—" She weaves her fingers together, then doesn't find a way to end her sentence. "Besties," she offers lamely.

Abbot snorts. "Right," he says. "So what, you think a cat sleeping in my bed all day might motivate me to give it a try?"

"Yeah," Samira says. "Or sleep itself might appreciate you having a being around that sleeps literally all the time."

Abbot nods slowly. He hums, "Okay, I see your point." He looks at her, absently bites his bottom lip in consideration. Samira has to look away.

She can't.

She has to.

She doesn't.

"Boogie?" Abbot says.

Samira feels light-headed. "What?"

"For the cat," Abbot elaborates. He must see the blank look on her face and interpret it as confusion because he adds, "Cat name. Boogie. Not that the cat will have a hoodie, but you get the idea."

Oh.

Samira nods. "That's cool," she says.

"Why, thank you," Abbot grins at her, then his brows knit together again. "I'm not sure I love it, though, so back to my original question. Gimme your idea."

"Name it 50 Cent," Samira decides.

"That's a good idea." Abbot nods. "Just gotta find a cat worth fifty cents now," he quips in her direction.

"There's a shelter a few blocks from my apartment. They cover the adoption fee sometimes. I'm sure you could give them fifty cents, though," she suggests.

Abbot laughs. "Alright, good plan. I'll hit you up to show me where when I'm ready for the responsibility."

Samira knows his words are meant as a joke, but she gets the impression that Abbot does actually mean it.

"Okay," Abbot says then, clapping his hands together. "Enough of that. Let's trade songs. I give you a song, you give me one. Good?"

"Uh, sure," Samira says, caught off guard by the quick change in topic.

"Just to warn you, there will be a lot of—"

"—Florence and her machine, yes," Abbot nods. "I don't mind. I'm sure the music is good if you like it."

And that means something to her. That he trusts her judgment not only on someone's heart attack but also on music.

"Alright," Samira says, happy.

"We on?" Abbot grins at her, teeth flashing between pink lips.

"We are on," she confirms.

They trade songs and talk about the few movies Samira has watched until Abbot decides he needs coffee.

"How are we gonna get into the break room?" Samira asks. "You are still very shirtless."

"You think so?" Abbot asks, chest shaking with laughter.

"I think Robby would fire us, yes."

Abbot waves her off. "Nah, he wouldn't. No matter how much he doesn't wanna admit it, he needs you."

It doesn't escape Samira's attention that he doesn't mention Robby needing him. If what she's heard about those two and their roof conversation is true, he definitely needs Abbot. She frankly has no idea how Abbot got the idea that Robby needs her, though.

She just makes a vague hum, lets his words go uncommented because what would she say to that? What could she say to that?

"Either way," Samira says. "I don't think we're going to make it to the break room."

"Yeah," Abbot sighs, conceding. Half a minute later, he says, "Okay, I have an idea."

"I'm all ears."

Abbot's idea ends up consisting of the two of them slightly nudging the door ajar and peeking through the crack out onto the floor, waiting until a heedless victim walks by.

Samira is balancing on her toes, looking over Abbot's head, trying not to let herself get distracted by his gray curls. His shampoo smells green and fresh. Clean, but alive. Aloe vera and something warmer.

Samira is torn out of her thoughts by Dana catching her gaze. She shakes her head but ignores whatever it looks like Samira and Abbot are getting up to in favor of badgering the new nurse through the halls and hallways of the ED.

Their victim turns out to be Santos.

"Santos," Abbot hisses.

Santos whirls around, startled. "What the fuck?" she hisses back. "Why are you still shirtless?"

Still, Samira notes. So she'd seen him before. Had probably seen her tending to him.

Abbot lets out a disinterested huff. "Long story, not interesting," he says. "Let's focus on the important part."

Santos raises her brows at Abbot, then at Samira, who merely offers a shrug. She doesn't know the specifics of the plan either, only its desired outcome.

"And what would that be?" Santos inquires, something curious flashing through the blankly aloof look on her face.

"Three, five, three, seven, six, zero," Abbot says.

"Did you have a stroke? Are you experiencing a stroke right now?" Santos asks.

Samira can just about hear Abbot's eye roll at that.

"Dr. Santos," he tries again. The addition of Doctor has Santos shutting up for the moment.

"Three, five, three, seven, six, zero—that's the combination to my locker."

It's clear just how badly Santos wants to interrupt and ask why Abbot is telling her that. But she wisely doesn't.

"Go to my locker, get my coffee machine—"

Santos' eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You have a coffee machine—you, what the—"

"—and the Nespresso—" Abbot continues, unperturbed.

"Nespresso?" Samira cuts in, incredulous. What the fuck else is Abbot storing in his locker?

"—and bring it here," Abbot ends his instructions.

Santos looks at him consideringly. "What's in it for me?"

"I already gave you your payment," Abbot says gruffly.

"Elaborate," Santos demands.

Abbot snorts, not intimidated.

"You know the combination to my locker and that there's not only a coffee machine in there but also Nespresso. What else would you need?"

Santos nods. "Fair point."

"So?" Abbot asks.

"Give me ten," Santos says.

"You have five," Abbot retorts and shuts the door.

"I'm not sure why I'm surprised," Samira offers.

Abbot lets out a wry chuckle. "I don't know either. You should know me better than that."

Normally, the use of should would make Samira's hackles rise, even when they shouldn't. But she knows Abbot doesn't mean it like that, knows he means it in a positive way. Is trying to call attention to the fact that she does know him a fair bit. So she lets the answering smile spread over her face uninhibited.

Barely seven minutes later, Santos returns with a coffee machine half shoved up her shirt and Nespresso capsules stuffed into her scrub pockets.

"You know we're not going to need all of those?" Samira points out as Santos empties her pockets onto the couch table.

Santos throws her a look and says, like it's obvious, "Yeah, but like—" She gestures to the assortment of capsules. "—I thought maybe you'd like some variety."

"Oh," Samira says, feeling foolish. "Sorry."

The man attached to her at the wrist nods at Santos.

"Thanks," Abbot says, gently prodding Samira toward Santos so he can get his hands on his coffee maker.

"Yeah, no problem," Santos says. She turns to leave, door already halfway open when she pauses to say, "By the way, this is fucking hilarious."

Samira watches the door fall closed behind Santos, then turns to Abbot. She goes to draw her hands over her face, horribly tired all of a sudden, but all she manages is jerking around Abbot's hand, her own wrist smarting immediately.

"Oy!" Abbot calls out. "Careful. I got precious cargo here."

Samira can't suppress a groan. "I just wanna go home," she blurts, fed up with everything.

Abbot falters and his expression softens. He turns around as much as he can while still cuffed to her and carefully sets his coffee machine down onto the couch.

"Want me to ask Dana to call the fire department again?" he asks, voice full of a compassion Samira recognizes. Because it's in her, too.

"Yeah," Samira manages. "That would be good, I think. Thank you."

"Of course," Abbot says, already halfway to the door, their arms stretched out between them.

Samira pulls him back, gently but insistently.

At his confused look, she nods to the coffee maker. "Brew your coffee first," she tells him. "I won't be responsible for esteemed night shift attending Dr. Abbot falling asleep on the job."

"We're not really on the job," Abbot remarks, then adds, "And you know you can call me Jack."

Samira did not know that. Or, well, she remembers him offering but had assumed that he only did to follow in the other attendings' footsteps. Had assumed it to be an empty gesture because she never actually heard anyone call him Jack. It was always Abbot, doctor omitted most of the time.

"Everyone calls you Abbot, though," Samira points out.

"Yeah, well, I didn't say everyone can call me Jack. I said you can call me Jack," Abbot says, a gentle smile dimpling his cheek.

"Oh," Samira says, caught off guard. She rests in that surprise for a beat before excitement starts flooding in. It should be embarrassing, questionable at least, that she likes being special this much. But she honestly doesn't care right now. That will come later, together with the overthinking, the worrying. For now, there's joy bubbling up inside her and something darker, sharper that is greedily clutching onto the fact that this, calling Abbot by his first name, is for her alone. "That means—thank you," she manages.

Abbot—Jack—is looking at her, teeth pressing into his bottom lip. "What does it mean?" he asks.

"A lot," is what Samira lands on after a beat of silence. It's too vulnerable, too much, but she shared it anyway, just like she shared her worries about Mr. Diaz, about the twins last week, the tired way one of the visiting med students trudged through the Pitt a few weeks ago.

Jack nods and turns back around to his secret coffee maker, changing course. For him or for her, Samira isn't entirely sure, but she's glad about it either way. Because she knows herself, and while regret about her vulnerability hasn't shown its face yet for some reason, she's already shown more than enough for it to haunt her later.

To be fair, Jack seeing parts of her that normally don't see the light of day might balance the playing field considering how much Jack has quite literally bared—pale skin, red blood drying brown, smatters of graying hair.

They end up sitting on the floor because the only outlet is at the bottom of the wall behind the couch. The coffee machine is awkwardly pushed under their hands so they can operate it together.

There's a learning curve there, but they do get better at it. Handing the capsule over, putting it in the right slot, stealing the shitty, disposable paper cups from the water fountain, and whatever else goes into what Jack considers a good cup of coffee.

He knocks back two espressos while Samira sips on her own reasonably caffeinated and equally reasonably sweetened coffee.

After his third cup, he starts talking about what kind of dog he would get if he was a dog person. Which he isn't. With anyone else, Samira would question why they're talking about hypothetical dog breeds they would own, but with Jack, she's content to just sit next to him and listen to his very informed and well-thought-out opinions on dog breeds. She does wonder how he knows this much about dogs but apparently not a lot about cats, then remembers him mentioning growing up with a dog.

He's closing in on thirty minutes of talking, occasionally asking about Samira's opinion on some breed, collar, or other, and seeming genuinely interested in her answers when there's a sharp series of knocks at the door.

It's Dana, somehow even more stressed than before, glasses shoved up into her hair. "Bad news, kids," she says without preamble, skillfully ignoring their sitting on the floor with a coffee machine snuggled in between them. "Fire department forgot about ya with all the—everything that's going on."

"You better be pulling my remaining leg," Jack says.

Samira laughs despite the despair. She cannot sit around here for another four-ish hours.

Dana levels him with a look, then turns to Samira, seemingly judging her to be a more acceptable conversation partner than Jack. "I'm not kidding. They did actually forget. Silver lining's that they really will come ASAP this time."

"And how long is that going to take?" Samira asks, ignoring Jack's annoyed scoff.

"Probably like five hours. Ain't gonna be soon," Dana answers, ripping the band-aid off. There's never really any beating around the bush with Dana.

"Five hours?!" Jack exclaims, clearly frustrated. "How hard can it be to get a man with a bolt cutter here? Send the fucking intern for all I care."

"Hey!" Dana calls, voice firm. "I'm not their charge nurse. I'm only employed here, and, God help me, that's enough."

Jack draws his free hand over his face, a muffled sorry leaving his mouth.

"Thanks for updating us," Samira tells Dana, trying not to let her own annoyance get the best of her. She knows how swamped they are on the Fourth, can vividly imagine that it's just as bad for the fire department.

Dana lets out a huff and vanishes, door falling shut once more.

"Look," Jack says, after they stew in disbelief at their continued predicament for a minute or two. "I have a bolt cutter at home."

Of course, he does. It's pretty alluring, she has to admit. Not the bolt cutter, but the fact that he has one.

"You don't live very close," Samira says.

Jack nods. "No," he allows. "But closer than five hours."

"How long is the way?"

"Just about an hour by bus, half an hour by car."

Samira considers this. If they hurry, she could make it back before her shift officially ends. "You can't drive like this."

Jack snorts. "Yeah, no, but we can Uber. I'll pay."

If Samira had a nickel for every time Jack Abbot offered to pay for an Uber for her today, she would have two nickels, which isn't a lot but still feels like it's worth mentioning.

Samira accepts. Just like the first time he offered.

Somehow she doesn't feel bad about it. Somehow that feeling of inadequacy that's supposed to crawl up her spine right now doesn't appear.

They're standing in the ambulance bay, cuffs softly jingling between them as they wait for the car, and Samira turns to look at Jack, to really look at him. He's accepted a blanket this time around, wrapped up in soft baby blue fabric.

She looks at the fine hair on his arms, how pronounced his supraorbital ridge is, thinks of the frown that's on his lips whenever he lets his expression rest and the smile that transforms it when he spots her from across the room, and finds that there's peace in it.

The realization that this—this serenity—is what's holding her worries, her overthinking, her distaste of vulnerability at bay slides through her in a cold but neutral wave.

It opens the door to a high rise, that, should it go wrong, would send her plummeting for miles and miles.

But it also makes Samira feel… content.

It makes her feel like she can breathe, like Jack's presence pulls her back and offers her a few beats in time to rest. She looks at their cuffed hands, at his kind eyes, and very abruptly doesn't know what to do.

Because her being halfway in love with Abbot—with Jack—is only supposed to lead her to resignation. Not to clarity and peace. Not to rest.

She's familiar with resignation and she knows how to deal with it. Knows to swallow down the occasional bitter feeling that climbs up her throat.

This she isn't familiar with and it makes her feel clumsy, wrong-footed all of a sudden, until there's a tug on her wrist. Jack is pulling at the cuff. He lets his fingers ghost over the back of her hand and Samira stops wavering.

"You good?" Jack asks. His fingers are big and warm, skin dry from antiseptic.

Samira nods.

Jack pulls his hand away just as the Uber turns up, the driver looking confused about picking someone up in an ambulance bay. When he catches sight of Jack, his brows tick up towards his hairline, but he doesn't say anything, just parks and gets out of the car to open the door for them.

What follows should be the most awkward half hour of Samira's life.

She's sitting in the back seat of a car, handcuffed to a shirtless Jack Abbot, being driven to his house by a driver, who doesn't comment on their situation but instead sends them increasingly uncertain and confused glances through the rearview mirror.

Somehow it's not.

It just is.

Jack is back to asking her questions about cats and Samira is back to answering them. It's nice and the time passes quickly. She wonders if Jack catches how she looks at him. If he's been catching it all this time or if he's only just noticing because his presence nudged the cynicism, and with it the hesitance, out of Samira's affection for him.

The second they step into Jack's apartment and he pulls the door closed behind them, something intimate, something warm and soft, drapes itself over Samira's shoulders.

She looks at Jack, still wrapped up in his blanket, and, completely inappropriately, she really wants to be wrapped up in it, too.

He's toeing off his shoes, kicking them into place with his remaining foot, and Samira balances on one leg to raise her foot high enough to pry off her sneakers. She nudges them next to Jack's, their shoulders brushing again.

He shakes off his blanket and Samira averts her eyes.

She takes a deep breath, tries to ignore how fucking close she is to everything she can remember ever wanting right now. It's the coming home together, their shoes, jackets, clothes mingling, the fact that she knows what his apartment smells like, Jack shirtless and at ease with it, that hits her right in the solar plexus, right where it feels so good it almost hurts.

Her eyes flicker to him and this time she's weak; this time she allows herself to look.

Allows herself to sort, categorize everything that makes up Jack Abbot's naked torso. She files it away—the fact that he has hair in the middle of his chest, the color of his nipples, the trail his freckles take, and how pronounced a farmer's tan he's got—with everything else about him she clutches close. Everything that makes her respect him, everything that makes her admire him, and everything that makes her like him.

Samira is so close to him already, has been closer to him today than she's been to anyone outside of work for more than five years, and she still wants to be closer. She wants to snuggle right into his arms, wants to pick up the stupidly soft-looking baby blue blanket from the floor and roll herself up in it with Jack, wants to hitch her hips against his—

"The bolt cutter is in the garage," Jack begins.

Samira almost shakes her head on instinct. Not because she disagrees with whatever point he's trying to make, but because there's something hot and alive in her gut and she would rather bask in their forced proximity for a while longer. She'll feel guilty about that later, she's sure, considering Jack did not choose to be this close to her, but try as she might, sometimes impulse does get the best of her.

"Look," Jack continues, like he's negotiating. "I really need to get off the leg for a bit. Give me ten minutes, then we can go down."

Samira is nodding already. "Of course, do you want to—?" She turns, can just see into his living room where a massive, soft couch sits, almost welcoming.

"Yeah." He lets out a big breath, tension sliding off his frame. "It's a really good couch," he promises, offering her a tired smile.

Samira answers it with one of her own and trails Jack to his living room.

She takes in his apartment, lets her eyes carefully pass over the spaces Jack lives in. There are the reading glasses that rest on a messily highlighted stack of paper and the high chair at the kitchen counter he must have sat on while reading. Then a lonely mug in the kitchen sink catches her eye, a tea bag still in it. She recognizes the brand; peppermint, not her favorite to drink, but she likes the smell it leaves behind.

His couch table is stacked with books, a coaster, a glass of water, and other knick-knacks. It confirms Samira's hypothesis that Jack is not a tidy man but a clean one.

She blinks as Jack flicks on the lights, low and warm. Cozy.

She lets him guide her to the couch, soaking up the warmth that exists here. Around her and Jack as they speak and hum. Between them, whenever their gazes touch, whenever the fine hair on their arms brushes together almost imperceptibly.

Their thighs press together as Samira follows Jack's gentle pull—cuff or adoration, she can't say—down onto the couch.

Feet on the ground, Jack reaches over with his left hand. He tries to tug the fabric of his cargo pants up over his prosthetic, but can't do it with one hand.

"Let me." She didn't plan for it to come out as a whisper.

Jack does as asked.

Together, they manage to pull the cuff up.

He's not wearing a foot shell or any other skin-toned plastic to cover up the fact that he's missing his right foot and easily more than half of his lower leg. Samira absently wonders if he's always been as unashamed as he is now.

"Can you—" Jack starts.

Samira is already tracing his prosthetic, trying to find the release. She finds it and Jack levers off the leg with a groan.

He rests the prosthetic against the couch and kicks up what's left of his right leg, knocking into Samira's hips in the process.

"What a fucking day," Jack mutters. He rolls his head back, looks at the ceiling.

Samira stares at his nose, his mouth, his jaw, his Adam's apple. She laughs drily. "Preach." The word is unfamiliar on her tongue, but she's heard Jack use it.

"I'm sorry that this is how your day went," Jack says after a few minutes. He turns his head to her, a lazy, wide movement that makes their gazes snag on each other. It brings their faces closer together than they've ever been.

"I'm not," Samira admits in a whisper.

Jack studies her silently. There's something flickering over his face.

"We can get the bolt cutter now," he offers.

Samira shakes her head. There's reddish brown mixed in with his mostly gray stubble.

"You want to say something." Jack raises his brows at her. He looks like he's waiting for something, muscles tense, ready to jump.

"Not exactly." Samira's voice is breathy and quiet.

"Do something, then?" Jack tries.

Samira nods and knows that it should feel like she's risking something.

Jack stares at her, eyes roaming her face, dipping to the handcuffs between them, then up over her jaw, lips, nose back to her eyes.

Samira leans in. Slowly, and she's glad for it a second later when Jack interrupts, left hand on her shoulder to keep her back, a carefully chosen neutral location.

"I—" He wets his lips, his eyes still roaming her face. He looks scared but sure. "I can't do casual—with you, I can't…" he trails off, seemingly not managing to come up with the words for whatever kind of casual entanglement he was thinking of.

Samira goes warm with fondness. As they were shuffling out of the Uber, shoulders, hips, hands knocking together, she thought he must know; surely he must have seen. But maybe she's not the only one with a blind spot. She offers Jack a gentle smile.

"The only two things I've ever truly wanted are emergency medicine… and you." She lets the words rest in the air between them for a beat. "Would you say I'm doing emergency medicine in a casual way?"

Jack looks hopeful suddenly. "No," he says warily. "I wouldn't say that."

"I want our shoes to be lined up next to each other in the hallway," Samira blurts out. "And—and I want to know what laundry detergent you use—"

"Murasaki—It's Dirty Labs Murasaki," Jack cuts in, overeager but voice raspy. "You could come by to test it out yourself."

Samira looks at him. "I'm already at your apartment," she points out. "I'm sitting on your couch."

Jack nods, ears pink. "Right," he says, clearing his throat. "Okay, so do you want me to show you—"

This time it's Samira who interrupts him, with a firm, "No." It feels a bit like being drunk. Like she overdosed on Jack Abbot; like hour three of being alone with him was the tipping point and there's no going back now, not because she can't but because she doesn't want to.

"Uh—"

"I want to kiss you," she tells him, heart beating a mile a minute.

"Non-casually?" Jack asks, a crooked, hopeful smile on his face that contrasts his even voice.

Samira nods. "Very much so."

Jack nods back, manages to make it encouraging somehow, and then he's the one leaning in.

For a moment it's nothing. For a moment it's just the dry press of their lips against each other.

Until Jack's stubble prickles as he presses closer, and then, abruptly, she feels it.

There's the smell of his shampoo she remembers from this afternoon, soft curls under her hand, heat in front of her, next to her, wrapping around her. The breadth of his shoulder when she lets her hand fall from his hair and how his eyes shine when they pull back to look, to assess.

He surges forward again and this time there's no in-between; this time he's all in. Not just his lips, but the intent behind them. Not just his tongue but his taste and how gentle the insistence of his kiss is.

Samira's hand finds his chest, slips, and ghosts over a nipple. Her breath catches, heat dropping rapidly down her gut, and then she can feel herself pulsing and she almost doesn't believe it, has never been in this situation before.

Arousal is a fire she tends to carefully, precisely, because it has the tendency to die out if not fed just the right amount, not too much, not too little.

But Jack doesn't care.

Not about how she'd yielded to resignation in the face of her affection for him, not about how slow people say she is, not about how defensive she is, and not about how bad at letting lust tug at her body she is.

He just pulls her in and kisses her and kisses her and kisses her.

The abrupt rattle of the cuff makes Samira jump. Jack huffs, lips as shiny as they are frowny, and tugs at her wrist.

"Fucking stupid fucking thing," he says, frustrated, panting. Samira laughs, finds that she doesn't really mind her predicament as long as she doesn't have to do it alone.

Jack looks at her, eyes on her smiling mouth, and almost tips her over with his next barrage of kisses, cuff immediately forgotten.

She giggles into his mouth, a sound she last made two months ago in her dark bedroom at 2 am when she saw a joke about tib-fib fractures while researching.

"I normally don't—" Jack pants. Samira stills to hear him out, drawing her hand out of his curls to set it somewhere else. Jack catches it and returns it to his head. Samira's heart skips and stutters. His hair is so soft and he keeps leaning into her hand ever so slightly.

"I normally don't put out on the first date," Jack manages, bending down to kiss the arch of her right cheekbone, up to her temple.

"No," Samira says, winding her wrist around the chain between their cuffs, "but this isn't a date." She pulls him down onto her, collapses backwards onto his couch. He doesn't struggle, goes down easy.

He laughs into the kiss and it just makes it messier. Wet and fucking dirty, and normally this isn't how Samira does things because she doesn't like flying blind. But this doesn't feel like flying blind; kissing Jack and grabbing fistfuls of his graying curls just to hear him groan on his admittedly excellent couch feels a lot like she's just opened her eyes for the first time in a decade.

"We already decided on not casual anyway," Jack groans into her mouth. "We can just lie. Say this was our fourth date."

"Uh-huh," Samira manages through the realization that she's dripping into her underwear.

"Fourth on the fourth, isn't that nice?" His voice is strained. He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth, then he pulls at the cuff again, letting out an angry noise when it stops him short of her hair.

They almost topple off the couch and Samira knows all about the risks of falling, especially where the elderly are concerned, which is a joke she's suddenly, utterly sure Jack would react to in mock outrage but would secretly love, but she barely cares.

"I am not falling off this couch with you," Jack throws a wrench into her plans, words coming fast. He reaches around with his free hand and Samira takes the opportunity to touch her flushed lips.

She wonders at the tingling in her lips and at how relaxed she feels, how carried, and her hand is halfway down her stomach, pointing even further south when another annoyed noise from Jack gets her attention.

"Can I tug you around? I—fuck this fucking cuff—"

"Feel so free," Samira answers, stuck for a second on the realization that she would have shoved her hand into her scrub pants right here and right now without feeling weird about it if Jack hadn't interrupted her hand's travels.

Jack, oblivious to her pondering, efficiently tugs her hand around and Samira realizes what he's doing only when his leg clicks back into place. Then he's getting up, a hand finding its way under her—his only free hand and Samira is already protesting, but then he just lifts her with that one arm, and she goes very hot and very cold all of a sudden and then very hot again.

"Are you kidding me?" It's mostly said into Jack's chest because he can't really turn her around without dropping her. Their cuffed hands hang down, away from them. She can feel his laugh and it makes her feel some kind of way, so she opens her mouth to lick right over the same nipple she accidentally touched before.

Jack stutters, curses.

"Don't drop me, I feel like I'm flying," Samira admits, twice as honest as she intended to be.

Jack goes quiet, arm tightening around her, and instead of worrying, Samira just does the first thing that comes to mind, which is sucking a hickey right onto Jack's pectoral. The muscle jumps under her lips, but Jack doesn't comment.

"We could go bungee jumping," he says instead.

"We could also jump off a cliff," Samira snarks. They're emergency medicine doctors—they should really know better.

Jack snorts. He sets her down onto his bed clumsily, and because there's really not much room to maneuver, he follows her immediately, draping his solid form over her body.

Samira shimmies up the bed, feeling for the headboard with her free hand, and Jack chases her up over the mattress.

He's close and heavy, and so fucking warm. Muscles that dimple under her fingers, solid and soft at the same time.

He kisses her and Samira strains her neck up towards him even though she doesn't have to because Jack is already bent over and down to her lips. There's a series of soft clinks and then Jack is weaving his thick fingers through hers, guiding their cuffed hands up next to her head. He holds onto her, holds himself up over her.

"Can I take your shirt off?" Trailing his fingertips over the seam of her scrub top, not dropping lower where it's tucked into her pants just yet.

Samira is already nodding when she sees the fatal flaw in Jack's plan, namely the handcuffs that keep her from taking off her shirt. "The cuff—"

"Yeah." Jack nods, reassures her and, nodding to the cuffs, he adds, "Won't keep me from seeing you." And his hand's journey under her shirt doesn't falter. He doesn't hesitate, just adapts, and rucks Samira's shirt up and up until he can push it over her sports bra.

She sees him open his mouth and starts nodding before the question has even left his lips. "You can—yes."

He tugs her bra down, hand efficient, easy as anything. Palms her left tit and whispers, "Gorgeous, fucking gorgeous."

Samira lets him, doesn't change the topic, doesn't feel awkward and wrong-footed, like she did last time a man told her she was beautiful. Doesn't even want him to shut up and move on, but he does, and then she's grateful for it because he bends down to suck the nipple he was drawing his thumb over into his mouth.

She gasps, does it again when he starts flicking his tongue over it, no teasing, just getting right to it. Her cunt pulses and she wants to push down her pants but gets sidetracked on the way there and instead pushes her hand into Jack's camo pants. The material is rough against the back of her hand but his boxers are soft under her palm. She grabs his ass, has the bizarre thought that she has to ask him about his workout regimen as she pulls his erection into her.

He curses, then says, "You can grab whatever you want, for the record."

Samira snorts and pulls her hand out of his pants.

Jack lets out a whine of protest, but he shuts up when she hooks her hand into the waistband of his camos and boxers to push both layers down over his ass. The fabric catches on his cock and he lets out a hiss.

"Sorry, sorry," Samira laughs, breathless and tingling all over.

Jack hums a fond little noise, crow's feet pronounced as he smiles down at her. "All good," he promises, using his own hand to help her untangle him from the rest of his clothes. They don't get very far, but Jack just shakes his head when his pants get stuck mid-thigh and bends toward her again.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbles down her neck, softly scraping his teeth over her collarbone. "Can't go far anyway." He pointedly rattles the cuffs and Samira nods, conceding, chin knocking into the top of his head.

"I don't want you to go far anyway," Samira whispers into his hair.

Jack raises his head, eyes soft.

They kiss again, gentle until the tip of Jack's cock smears over Samira's lower belly. She nips at his bottom lip, then, arousal flaring up, shivers when his hips buck into her.

"Take off my pants, please." She's never said that before. Usually, taking off her clothes is an inconvenient and not fully welcome necessity for having sex. But she finds, as Jack does as she asked, gently pushing her pants down her legs with his warm hand, that she likes it. She can't fully say why; can't pinpoint if it's because she wants Jack to see her, to approve of her, or to undress her like he's allowed to decide that he wants her naked.

He looks down at her legs, the softness that clings to her thighs, her simple black panties, and smears his thumb over her hip bone. "I don't want to make it awkward," he says, his gaze finding her face, her eyes again. He's not frowning exactly, but he's also not grinning. "But thank you for—letting me… I'm not sure what I did to deserve this, but—"

"Jack," Samira interrupts him gently. She squeezes his cuffed hand with hers and frames his face with her free one. "I like you. And I like talking to you. It's—easy for me. Talking with you, being cuffed to you—" At this, he laughs, a bit unevenly but genuinely.

"Not much in my life is easy or simple. But the medicine is and you are. And this isn't about deserving, but for what it's worth, you do deserve." She doesn't explain what exactly he deserves, because it's not a question of yes and no; it's just how she said it, Jack deserves. And she's going to give it to him while taking whatever he gives her in return.

He stares at her for a moment, speechless, then blurts, "Jesus Christ, you're perfect." He leans into her hand for a beat, then kisses her again. She pushes her fingers into his curls and when they break apart for air, he lets himself drop to his forearm. His skin is warm against her own arm, their cuffed hands still held together. He lets his hand wander upwards and cups her breasts again, playing gently with her nipples.

More of his weight rests on her now, and their next kiss is a forceful one, hips pressed together, Jack's cock pushing into her stomach. Their teeth knock together and Jack lets out an, "Ow," and then Samira has to grin against his lips and whatever they're doing stops being a kiss altogether.

Jack chuckles, scattering kisses over her dimpled cheeks. "Can I take those off?" he asks, looking down at her panties.

"I'll do you one better," Samira whispers and pushes them down as far as she can, baring her cunt, before Jack can do so much as bring his hand to her waist.

Jack sucks in a sharp breath. "Fuck." He tries to push himself further up again, to look, maybe, but Samira keeps him close, her hand gripping one of his meaty shoulders. He huffs and changes course, wedging his free hand between their bodies, down and down until he can cup her pussy in his warm palm.

He pets at her, cursing, and rocks his cock into the crease between her cunt and thigh. His fingers slide over her clit and she twitches, so he does it again and then another three times before he teases two fingers into her, only to the first knuckle. "Can I—"

"Honestly, I just want your dick inside me," Samira admits, cutting him off, and she can't even find it in herself to be embarrassed.

Jack lets out a somewhat hysterical snort and Samira grins. "Thank fuck." He reaches out towards his bedside table for a condom, groaning in frustration at the limited range of motion he has. When he finally gets his hand on one, Samira has to help him rip it open.

"What was that about teamwork?"

"Makes dreams come true or something like that," Jack says with a laugh, rolling the latex over his dick. Samira snorts, then watches him draw his hips back as far as he can, shaking a bit from the strain.

He uses his hand to notch his cock at her entrance but pauses to say, "I think I might die."

Samira flicks him on the forehead and he pouts at her.

"Can't a man tell a woman how undoing she is?"

Samira files away how warm her chest goes at his words for examination at a later date, pushes her hips up, and tells him, "A man can do that after fucking said woman."

"Noted." Jack nods, and then, as easy as anything, he feeds his cock into her, hands planted next to her head, watching her expression for any flicker of doubt or pain.

There's none though, because, frankly, Samira has never been wetter before and Jack's dick has a very reasonable and pleasing size. She hums, eyes fluttering closed, rolling her shoulders when he pauses, fully inside her, pelvis pressed to hers.

He's still staring when she opens her eyes again, throat and chest pink.

"Can you come from penetration alone?" he asks as he carefully pulls out an inch and then drives his dick back into her. There's nothing beyond curiosity and a tinge of what might be the urge to please in his strained voice.

Samira shakes her head, feels how her heart pounds and how she clenches around him. "No, but if you grind your—like that, yes, keep doing that." She lets out a breathy noise that might have been a moan and Jack shudders at it, slotting his lips over hers again.

"I will, I will," he promises between kisses, rolling his hips down into hers.

Samira nods, shivers, lets her hand roam over Jack's cheek, down to his shoulder, down his back, knows that she's travelling over countless freckles and decides that she's going to undress him and sit on his lower back just so she can count the marks speckled all over his shoulders and neck.

Jack presses a last kiss to her lips, then licks down over the line of her jaw, his stubble scraping deliciously over her skin. He pants into her neck, squeezing her hands with his, and Samira realizes that she's going to come just like that.

She doesn't understand why, remembers that it's never been like this, but instead of questioning a good, thing she just tilts her hips, grinds them up, and comes on Jack's cock as he pushes in right to the hilt. She shudders through it, can almost feel how much wetter she gets.

"Jesus," Jack manages, teeth clenched, head turned to the side. "Fucking hell." He has stilled, bottomed out inside her, and is letting the waves of her orgasm make her clench around him.

"Agreed," Samira breathes, spine tingling. She feels good; warm and full. She snakes a hand down Jack's back to tap his ass. His gaze whips around to hers.

"Come on," she says with a confidence whose source she can't trace, pushing her hand into his curls. "Keep going."

Jack considers her, asks her if she can come more than once, and grins, eyes dark, when she confirms that she can. He starts moving again, then, and the sex stays slow and hot, air shared as their pressed-together skin begins to shine with sweat, because Jack really does take directions well. Not thrusting, but instead rolling and grinding his hips into her, still holding onto her hand, and Samira can feel how thick his fingers are. She'll get them inside her soon enough.

For now, she sends a silent thank you to Myrna and her fucking handcuffs because she's not sure it would have been like this, this close and intimate and easy, if they'd gotten here without being cuffed together.

She clutches Jack close, puts her hand on his ass again because it's a very nice ass and because Jack seems to like it, seems to perk up with every goading little word she says, every time she pulls him closer, or tells him to keep going and give her more of what he's doing. He hisses when she digs her fingers into his glutes. Samira smirks up at him and he kisses her for it, nudging his hand between her head and his pillows, cradling her.

Samira does come a second time but only after Jack does. After he muffles a groan in the bend of her neck, nuzzling into her skin and curls. He pulls out after a few beats and tilts sideways just a bit so he can press the fingers that were just in her hair to her clit. She lays her hand over his, shows him how, and Jack hums, fascinated, and gets her off a second time, watching her closely.

He keeps staring when Samira opens her eyes, searching out his face.

"Look," Jack says, voice rough.

Samira's brows furrow. "What?"

"I hate to do this again and this time we can really head down, but I do need at least ten minutes before I can get up."

Samira laughs, squeezing his cuffed hand. She forgot all about the bolt cutter. "You do look like you ran a marathon." His curls are sweaty and in complete disarray, and he's flushed all the way down to his chest.

"No, I don't," Jack objects. "My nipples aren't bleeding."

"Stop," Samira protests with a groan, flicking his chest. "Don't make me think of that."

Jack laughs, squeezes her hand.

"I do have nipple patches, though, if you ever decide to run a marathon." She lets her head roll to the side to look at his face.

"Nipple patches, huh," Jack says, perking up. "What, uhhh, do you use those for?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy," Samira retorts, only recognizing her misstep in retrospect.

"What—?" There's a perplexed look on Jack's face Samira can't help but laugh at.

"I'll explain it later. I need ten minutes, too."

Jack looks very satisfied with that. So easy, Samira thinks, feeling content.