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Samira Mohan has never been much of a drinker.
To be fair, she still isn’t, even as she finishes up her second drink while retrieving her second from the bartender. But sometimes, circumstances rise up where nothing will help her deal with her convoluted feelings other than a cup of vodka soda, and some green tea shots. The blaring music does its best to drown out her thoughts, and despite the valiant effort, it doesn’t quite seem to do the trick. It all still lingers in the back of her mind, as it has been the past two days since her last night shift and the frustration has grown a staggering amount.
What had she done wrong? It’s the question that replays in her mind constantly, trying to pinpoint when, exactly, things started going to shit that night. The shift had started off like any other, with a pep in Samira’s step because while she, in general, prefers the day shift, she very much enjoys working with her boyfriend on the night shift.
She and Jack work together seamlessly, always have whenever they’re working on the same patient, particularly following the shift on the day of the Pittfest shooting. That didn’t change when they started seeing each other; if anything, it only solidified how good of a team they make, having developed their own shorthand, knowing what the other is going to do before they even do it. And, sure, maybe flirting with just their eyes over a patient may be in bad form, but it just happens . The second her brown eyes lock with his lighter ones, it awakens the butterflies in her stomach that have laid dormant for so long, she thought they were dead.
If anyone could have revived them, of course it was Jack Abbot.
And, really, things have been going well ever since that first night he drove her home from work after a haggard Fourth of July shift—though, that was a story for another time. After that, they began talking more and more; exchanging medical articles and journals they found interesting and thought the other would like, meeting for coffee when they both were off shift, growing more and more comfortable with each other with every meet, every word exchanged. So when he had asked her out to dinner with the confidence of a capable ED doctor despite his eyes showing some vulnerability that she would reject him and call him a creep or laugh in his face—scenarios that he would later tell her definitely played through his mind at that moment—the decision to say yes was an easy one for Samira.
She would only feel a little silly—a week and a half after their first date and two days after they first sleep together—when he informs her he’s been trying to get her to see his interest since Pittfest.
“In my defense, I haven’t dated anyone since before med school,” she had said, slightly embarrassed about her obliviousness but elated, nonetheless, at his interest.
His response was a dry smile, though fond mirth danced in his eyes. “I’ve been a widower for over ten years. But I guess I’ll give you a pass for finally noticing.”
Except she wished she had noticed sooner. Work took up all of Samira’s attention and free time that the mere idea of someone flirting with her, having an interest in her, seemed like a different plane of reality. She’s a little embarrassed that she hadn’t noticed sooner, but Jack had assured her the wait was worth it. The man was smooth when he wanted to be.
Things were good. She was happy —they both were. So what the hell happened that he’s been so standoffish since their last shift together?
He won’t talk to her, even though it’s not like they have had much of a chance to. The last couple of days, they’ve only seen each other on shift change, and it’s not exactly the best time to talk about the state of their relationship during hand-off.
The worst part? Jack won’t even meet her gaze during it.
Samira thinks about it now, in the middle of a sweaty, packed club with her third drink in hand, and the sudden burning in her eyes goes perfectly with the ache in her chest.
Had she done something wrong? The thought tightens a lump in her throat, a swell of nausea rising up. The alcohol running through her veins doesn’t help, either. Is he second guessing their relationship? They had a couple of things going against them: their age gap, which Samira doesn’t give a shit about, really, and more importantly, the power differential in terms of their jobs. He may not be who she reports to in their job hierarchy, but she’s in the last year of her residency and he’s a senior attending. Samira can only imagine the rumors that would fly around about them—about her .
The thought of it is intimidating, sure, but she and Jack decided to keep things under wraps for the time being. At least until she’s finished with her residency program.
So why does it feel like he wants to cut the cord already, before they even make it there?
Dread balls up in the pit of her stomach, making her pulse quicken in anxiety. The independent part of Samira hates that she’s letting anyone have this kind of hold over her and her emotions. It’s part of why she’s been single for so long. But, God, she likes Jack so much, and even that feels like an understatement. Except she figured that if she were to have a partner that is emotionally mature, then Jack Abbot would be the top contender.
So, again—what the fuck is going on?
“Dude, tell me you didn’t put that on your own tab.” Trinity appears out of nowhere in all black and leather, her makeup making her green eyes pop even under the flashing colorful lights of the club.
“Um,” Samira blinks, trying to push away any and all thoughts of Jack—which is impossible. “I did?”
Trinity groans, shaking her head. “ Why ? I’ve lost count of how many guys have been trying to buy you drinks.”
Samira’s skin flushes. She knows Trinity isn’t wrong. They’ve been at a few different bars now and at almost every one, some guy or another has come up to offer to buy Samira drink—which she promptly refuses, much to Trinity and her friends’ shock and displeasure. And while the other girls they’re with—friends of Trinity’s from med school and college that have pulled Samira into their fold after the first time Trinity invited her out with them a while ago—don’t know Samira well enough, Trinity watches her with a suspicious gaze every time Samira rejects a drink offer.
“It doesn’t feel right to have them buy me drinks when nothing’s going to come of it,” Samira says defensively over the music. Her words are true enough, but she’s not about to confess that she won’t accept drinks from men that aren’t Jack Abbot.
“So?” Trinity shrugs, giving her an are you serious? look. “It’s their money to waste, not yours.” Samira merely purses her lips, hoping to drop this conversation, and Trinity rolls her eyes. “Fine, let’s dance,” she says, grabbing Samira’s wrist and pulling her back into the fray of the dance floor.
If you had asked Samira on the day she first met Trinity that she would be out with her and her friends at random bars, drinking and dancing, Samira would have laughed in your face. And then check you for a concussion. Not only because she thought Trinity was too brash, too aggressive, but because Samira simply never had time to do frivolous activities like go out drinking—or making friends.
But a lot changed after Pittfest—and a lot of it for the better, too. Samira has put in the effort to be more social outside of work, picking up hobbies just for the fun of it, not spending every waking moment working and, best of all: Jack . She has let the weight of the world fall off her shoulders with his help, because he seemingly has the same issue, too. Working, working, working. Just to forget about the loneliness that plagued them both outside of the hospital walls.
They found comfort in each other. Companionship. Someone to spend their off days and nights with. It was working. It was good.
What happened?
That fucking question plagues her all night, keeping her from truly enjoying herself. It intensifies the ache in her chest and, frankly, it starts pissing her off, too. He’s a grown man—why isn’t he just talking to her? What’s the point of icing her out? Is he hoping that he’s so cold towards her that she turns away from him on her own? Does he not have the guts to break up with her face to face, if that’s the end goal here?
The thought makes it difficult to breathe, her chest tightening to the point of pain. Has their new relationship already reached its end? She can’t even finish her drink, afraid her fucked up feelings mixing with the alcohol is going to make her throw up. Her skin feels too warm, the bar too congested, and she knows that she needs a moment to pull herself together. And definitely get away from Trinity in case the burning sensation in her eyes evolves fully into tears.
“I’m gonna get some air!” she shouts over to Trinity where they all are in the middle of the crowd.
Her friend blinks, puzzled. “Do you want me to come with you?” she asks in concern, already pulling away from her friend who she was dancing with.
But Samira quickly shakes her head. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll be right outside.”
Trinity doesn’t look too convinced and Samira tries for what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “Fine,” Trinity relents, shoulders dropping. “But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming after you.”
Samira nods. Ten minutes should be plenty of time to pull herself back together. She’s done so in less time, anyway.
Pushing her way through the crowd, Samira breathes a sigh of relief when she sees the door, tossing her still full cup in a nearby trashcan before stepping outside. She inhales deeply at the fresh air that doesn’t stink of sweat and alcohol, moving over to the right side as the left has a bit of a line for people who want to enter the club. Vaguely, Samira wonders if she’ll be able to get in. But then she remembers the bouncer is a friend of one of Trinity’s friends, so it shouldn’t be an issue, really.
Samira doesn’t care either way as she moves away from the door and leans against the brick wall, hands behind her and head tilting back. She peers up at the dark sky, not a cloud in sight as stars twinkle in and out of existence. The music of the bar is muffled, clearer every time the door opens, along with the murmur of chatter of whoever is out on the sidewalk.
People walk to and from, hitting their next destination as there are plenty of bars around this area. It’s a Friday night, after all. Samira lets her eyes slip shut, trying to even out her breathing as the cool air hits her skin. The cropped denim jacket doesn’t do much to keep her warm, but her skin already feels hot from her anxiety over Jack and the thought of their relationship crumbling before it even has a chance of standing.
Samira’s fingers itch with the need to reach into her purse and pull out her phone. To text him. To get him to respond. But he’s working tonight, she knows and, besides, this is definitely not the kind of conversation she wants to have through texts.
If he’s going to break up with her, he needs to do it to her face.
The thought makes her stomach churn, makes it harder to breathe. She misses him so terribly that it fucking consumes her, and when has she ever been like this? Being on her own and independent had been easier. It had been lonely, sure, but at least she wasn’t depending on anyone else for her happiness other than herself. She could break her own heart, but it wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as giving her heart to Jack and having him crush it in his fist. And for her to not even know why. . .
A commotion makes her eyes snap open, head turning to the right where she hears shouting emerge. She sees some guys outside of the bar right next door, and she straightens up off the wall in alarm when she realizes they’re throwing their fists at one another, yelling ringing out from them and the people around.
She blinks a couple of times, trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. One of the bouncers from the bar rushes out to separate them, but from what Samira can see, the two guys locked into the fight are pretty big—and they’re throwing some forceful punches. She flinches when she sees one guy’s fist connect with the other guy’s side, who wheezes deeply in response and she can tell his ribs are definitely broken with that hit.
She finds herself calculating which ones, exactly, when she realizes a little belatedly that the force and movements of their brawl have moved them closer to where she is, their shouts growing louder as people gather around to watch or find an opening to break them up.
No one is fast enough, especially not Samira.
The two men are just a few feet away when one of them gets shoved—hard—and he’s unable to gain his balance when he collides with Samira. The world spins and her eyes squeeze shut from the nausea, a startled scream ripping through her when her body feels the guy’s solid form against her side, sending her sprawling to the ground.
Her hands don’t do much to break her fall other than scrape against the pavement, feeling the jolt of the force vibrate up her arms as she tries to catch her breath, the other guy still half on top of her. But he’s up within a moment and instead of asking if the woman he just fucking trampled is okay, he’s back to attacking the other guy. Assholes .
But others have rushed to her and her face heats with embarrassment even as her head swims with shock over what just happened. She winces as she rises, her hip throbbing with a dull ache since she landed on it as she hears Trinity call out, “Samira!” Followed by her tone turning aggressive as she adds, “Get the fuck out of my way!”
Trinity drops down in front of her, green eyes wide with concern. “Holy shit, are you okay?” she asks, her eyes rapidly looking over her.
Dimly, Samira hears the fight being broken up in the distance, finally, but her focus is on her hands as she turns them over, wincing at the redness and scrapes on the heels of her palms. “I’m okay,” she says, still a little dazed as she begins to get up despite Trinity’s protests. “I just need—” Samira puts her weight on her right foot—and then collapses back down at the sharp pain that throbs through her ankle, Trinity just barely catching her. “ Fuck !”
Trinity is immediately on it, gingerly unzipping the side of Samira’s ankle boot and slowly slipping it off as Samira hisses out a breath. She hopes and prays it’s not broken, which she absently doesn’t think it is, but it hurts like a bitch. Embarrassingly, her chin wobbles when Trinity gently slides off her sock and Samira sucks in a breath at the angry purple and red tints the skin of her ankle has taken—which, also, is almost twice its normal size.
“Crap,” Samira hisses again as Trinity prods at her foot with careful hands.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” Trinity says clinically, though despite her pounding heart thanks to a new kind of pain introducing itself tonight, Samira can hear the worry in her friend’s voice. “But you still need to get an X-ray.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Samira tries to brush it off. “I can just go home and wrap it up. It’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
Trinity gapes at her. “We need to be certain it’s not broken, Samira,” she insists, already digging out her phone from her back pocket.
Samira’s eyes widen. “You’re not calling 9-1-1, are you?” she asks quickly, mildly mortified. She tries not to move, her ankle throbbing. She needs disinfectant on her hands, too. The idea of being in an ambulance because of these silly things is mortifying.
“No,” Trinity says with a roll of her eyes, though her gaze is on her phone. “I’m calling an Uber. We’re taking you to the hospital.”
Samira wants to protest but two minutes later, she’s being loaded into the back of an Uber with Trinity and one of the bouncer’s help, with Trinity sliding in after her. Trinity puts Samira’s foot on her lap, keeping it elevated, and Samira bites her lower lip as she turns her gaze out to the window, watching the city lights blur by. The whole night has been a shit show and her nerves feel fried, so she definitely doesn’t have the energy to steel herself from inevitably seeing Jack tonight because Trinity wasn’t about to let her go to any hospital other than PTMC.
Besides, if Samira protested on that front too much, then her friend would definitely grow more suspicious than she already is, thanks to Samira’s mood tonight. But, fuck, it was bad enough dealing with an aching heart. Samira doesn’t need a busted ankle on top of that. If it’s a sprain, which she’s fairly certain it is, she’ll need to be off her feet for a while, meaning she won’t even have work to serve as a distraction. Robby may let her come in just to do some charting, but no way will he let her be on her feet and potentially aggravate the injury by seeing patients.
Samira squeezes her eyes shut, still facing the window, as she sucks in a sharp breath. The injury definitely sobered her up a bit, but it only further heightens the messy emotions she’s been fighting a losing battle against all night. Pain, anger, fear, anxiety all muddle up together until she’s no longer sure if they stem from her relationship with Jack or with her ankle.
Either way, she’s going to be facing them both soon.
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” Trinity says after hearing Samira inhale sharply. She opens her eyes and turns to her friend, who gives her a reassuring nod. “It’ll be okay.”
Samira is grateful for her. Trinity didn’t hesitate in jumping into the car with her, shooting a message off to her other friends about what happened. Samira had felt some warmth when Trinity told her the other girls wish her a speedy recovery, and Samira feels a slight twinge of guilt for letting Trinity believe that the tears shining in her eyes are for a stupid sprained ankle and not the man they’re no doubt about to see.
Trinity leans forward a bit, careful not to jostle Samira’s ankle, and says to the Uber driver, “I’ll tip you extra if you pull up in front of the ER entrance.”
Samira startles, just as she sees the Uber driver’s alarmed gaze from the rearview mirror. “Uh—”
“Trinity, that’s not necessary,” Samira tries, but her friend shoots her an annoyed look.
“You’re not gonna waste hours sitting in Chairs, Samira.” Trinity turns back to the driver. “Look, it’s fine. We’re doctors at PTMC. I’ll make sure you won’t get in any trouble. All you gotta do is pull up and leave once we’re out, alright?”
Despite Samira’s protests, the driver nods and her heart pounds when he pulls up in front of the ED entrance. Trinity is quick to move, jumping out of the car and hearing the confused questions of the night shift security guard, but Trinity quickly explains to him what happened as she appears at Samira’s open passenger side door and helps her out. Samira does her best to keep her right foot up, leaning most of her weight on Trinity, who has an arm around Samira’s waist while Samira’s arm is around Trinity’s shoulders as she hobbles through the ER doors.
“What the hell?” Samira glances up to see Ellis rushing over, forehead scrunched in bewilderment as she looks between them. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” Samira assures just as Trinity speaks over her, “Probable sprained ankle. Will need an X-ray to confirm.”
From the desk, Nurse Bridget’s is already putting her name in the damn system. Samira’s name pops up on the board as Bridget calls out, “Trauma 2 is open.”
Samira’s eyes widen as she shakes her head, even if she’s powerless when Trinity all but carries her over. “I don’t need a trauma room! Just take me to one of the other rooms.” She throws Bridget a desperate look since her protests fall on deaf ears in terms of Ellis and Trinity.
Fortunately, Bridget takes pity on her. “Alright, take her to South 15.”
Samira breathes a sigh of relief as they lead her there and Ellis calls for the portable X-ray that was apparently being used in one of the trauma rooms while Samira is placed in the bed, her leg gingerly brought up to stretch in front of her, careful of her scraped hands and the hip that throbs dully. “Seriously, you guys. Just give me some ice and wrap it up and I’ll be on—”
“X-ray’s here,” the tech announces as he wheels the machine in and Samira has no chance but to fall back against the propped up bed and let them do their thing.
Minutes later, with an ice pack now helping with the swelling, they’re all looking at the scans—which Samira demands to see, as well. As they all expected it’s a mild sprain, though one that will probably take a week or so to recover. “See? I told you it’s nothing to worry about,” Samira rushes out, suddenly eager to get out of here. She hasn’t seen him yet and if she’s lucky, she can be out of here before she does. Despite her earlier desire to have a conversation with him, Samira feels too emotionally fried to even face him right now. She can’t. Not yet, at least. “Please, let’s just wrap this and—”
“What the hell is going on here?”
Her eyes squeeze shut, her pounding a wild beat in her chest. So close .
His voice, sharp with a razor edge, still washes over her soothingly as Samira forces her eyes to open and catches sight of him standing in the doorway of the room. Jack’s eyes are locked on Samira’s and she sees, despite the stoic expression he tries to wear, the storm that wages in his dark eyes. His body is wrung tight, posture rigid with shoulders squared and hands clenching at his sides, vascular forearms on display. His eyes dip to her swollen ankle with the ice pack on it, his lips pursing as tension brackets his mouth when his eyes flick back up to meet hers.
Samira only vaguely hears Ellis tell him about her sprained ankle and the scrapes on her hands, her ears ringing at his presence as he slowly steps further into the room. It’s only them, Trinity, and Ellis in the room but it suddenly feels too small, too suffocating now that he’s here. The man has the tendency to effortlessly take up all of the space of a room, his larger than life presence dwarfing everyone else’s. Even now, Samira is wholly, ridiculously attracted to him, even as her brain reminds her that she’s angry with him. Upset. Hurt.
Tonight, however, Jack’s gaze hasn’t once moved from Samira’s. She’s pinned in place on the bed with his eyes on hers as he says, “Thank you, Dr. Ellis. I can take it from here.”
From the corner of her eye, Samira notices Ellis and Trinity exchange mildly bewildered looks. “I got this, boss,” Ellis assures him, the bandages for Samira’s ankle and ointment for her hand already in Ellis’s hands, even as Jack plucks a pair of blue gloves and snaps them on.
Never once looking away from Samira.
Her pulse is galloping as he approaches her bed. “There’s a code STEMI coming in,” he says, finally tearing his gaze from Samira to look at Ellis. “Shen’s going to run it. Help him out.”
“Alright then,” Ellis says, handing Jack the items before nodding at Samira. “Feel better, Mohan. Keep off the leg!” she adds before heading out of the room.
Samira looks back at Jack as he drags the stool over to her bedside. She really doesn’t need a trauma room for this, but he doesn’t seem eager to move her. If anything, his movements are precise and careful, rigid almost, as he settles on the stool.
She can’t look away from him, the tension tightening in the room, except when movement catches the corner of her eye and she remembers they’re not alone. “You don’t have to stay, Trinity,” she tells her friend with a gentle smile. Truthfully, Samira doesn’t want her friend to leave, but the tension in the air between her and Jack is too taut. Trinity is a sharp observer, she’ll pick up on something in no time. And despite her feelings, Samira knows she and Jack need the privacy.
Trinity bristles, arms crossed. “Are you sure? I can stay.”
Samira shakes her head. Jack sits at her side, not yet moving to wrap her foot. Waiting. “I’m sure. Thanks for getting me here, I really appreciate it. But you’ve done enough. I’ll be okay.”
“Will you get home okay?”
Samira opens her mouth, but she’s not the one who answers.
“I’ll make sure she does.”
Both Samira and Trinity’s gazes snap to Jack, that expressionless look still on his face despite the chill in his dark eyes. Her heart thumps in her chest—her ears, her head—as she looks at him, his eyes meeting hers, and her throat dries at the clear intent that’s in them. He will take her home. The thought of it makes her stomach tighten and it only confuses her more. What’s with all the damn mixed messages?
Her teeth grit in annoyance even as she nods at Trinity. “I’m good.”
Her friend fortunately nods, tells her to let her know if she needs anything, and then exits the room, the door shutting behind her as she goes. Through the small window of the door, Samira sees the EMTs rolling in the STEMI. Shen, Ellis, and some nurses are already on him as he’s wheeled to the other trauma room and when she senses—feels, really—Jack shift beside her, she finally slides her gaze back to him.
He’s rolled his stool by the foot of the bed where her ankle is and Samira sees the way his jaw clenches as he takes off the ice pack and observes the swollen ankle, purplish red in color. “Fun night?” he asks, tone dry as he reaches out and gingerly touches her ankle. Samira hisses a breath through her teeth, even the softest of touches making the ankle throb in pain, and Jack pulls his hands back. He pauses, the muscle in his jaw feathering. “Sorry.”
She doesn’t want an apology for that. “Yeah, loads of fun,” she counters, her tone as dry as his, though even to her ears, she can make out the damn tremble in it. Her nerves feel raw and open and vulnerable and it suddenly feels too much as he begins to wrap her ankle in the beige bandage, his touch gentle through the gloves.
He is being so careful, so cautious. Samira knows he would be the same way with any other patient—just as she knows that wrapping up someone’s sprained ankle is way below his pay grade. This is a resident’s—or, actually, a med student’s—job. He should be on that STEMI. Instead, he sits in here with her, wrapping up her ankle with all of the care in the world, even as he sits there, aloof and clinical.
“What happened?” Jack asks gruffly. He’s back to not looking at her. Her chest tightens.
She debates not telling him, but Samira is exhausted from the silence. If he wants to talk to her about this, then she will. Maybe it will lead to a much more important conversation that she dreads but knows is necessary. She doesn’t want to live in the dark anymore. She’s already done that long enough.
“I was outside of the bar when these two guys broke into the fight next door. It happened so fast—” Her throat works as his fingers gently brush along the sole of her foot and she has to keep her hands from clenching into fists where they sit on her lap. Kim had washed them and now she just needs the ointment and gauze. But Jack’s touch, even through the gloves, sends sparks of electricity through her veins. He continues wrapping her ankle, not too tight, always in tune with any wince she lets escape despite trying not to. “I didn’t get out of the way fast enough and one of them just sort of collided into me. And, well, here I am.”
Jack shakes his head slightly, the grey of his hair glinting under the harsh lights as he finishes with the wrap. When he’s done, he rolls the stool closer to her and Samira sucks in a quiet breath, knowing he needs to take care of her hands next. He reaches for the ointment and Samira blurts, “I can do it myself.”
Jack pauses, gaze flicking to meet hers. Silence befalls them, disrupted only by the muffled bustle of the rest of the emergency room beyond the closed door, and Samira’s chest continues to tighten with every passing second. The two of them sit there, staring at each other, and Samira easily picks up on the calculating look in his brown eyes, flicking between hers like he’s in search of something.
She doesn’t bristle under his gaze despite her racing pulse, faintly catching a whiff of his usual, familiar woodsy scent under the harsh antiseptic of the hospital. Her skin buzzes for his—for his touch without being obscured by the gloves, for him to finally let her in— again .
Jack’s expression shifts, his gaze softening and, God, it hurts as he says quietly, “Let me help you, Samira.”
It finally breaks the wall she sloppily, hurriedly built up in the Uber ride over.
“You want to help?” she asks, her voice quiet with the slight tremble that still threads through it. She sees his chin lift, like he’s bracing himself for what he knows is coming, and Samira shakes her head as her forehead creases. “How about you help me understand what the hell has been going on with you these last couple of days?”
Jack’s Adam’s apple bobs, broad shoulders rigid and squared as he sits on the stool, hands resting on his lap. She waits, impatiently, until he says, “You want to have this conversation here?”
It pisses her off, uncharacteristically. Her throat locks up and the heat that spreads through her is borne of anger, staring at him incredulously as her pulse throbs. Is he serious? “Well, I wish we didn’t have to have this conversation at all, but apparently I’ve upset you somehow and I’d appreciate it if you told me like an adult instead of shutting me out,” Samira responds tightly, quickly. It’s difficult to keep her voice level, but she does it as she glares at him. It’s easier to be angry than hurt, even if the ache in her chest has grown. “Seriously, Jack. What’s going on? Do you—”
She chokes on the words, stomach churning with dread and fear and anxiety and she wants all of it to stop . Why have things taken such a turn? Why are these next words out of her mouth ones she ever needed to utter?
“Do you want to break up?” she forces out the words through an impossibly tight throat, heart throbbing violently against her ribs. And she tries—she tries so hard to stay steady, to channel that old Samira who has always been alone, who never depended on or needed anyone because it was easier, safer. It was what she was used to.
But Jack came into her life and showed her what it’s like to have someone. A lover, a partner, a friend. The way he looked at her, touched her, kissed her—every act, every conversation showed how much he wanted her. He made her dizzy with how he could never seem to keep his eyes off of her. It was overwhelming in the best way, and now Samira has whiplash from the change.
Now, he watches her intently and she swears she sees some of that stoic mask break. She sees the man who has made her so happy this last month; the man who makes her laugh, makes her feel seen, reminds her of how incredible she is when she sometimes forgets. She sees that man and it makes all of this more painful.
“If I was a better man, I would break up with you.” Those words spoken in his gruff voice pierce Samira’s chest like a knife, the air rushing out of her lungs as her head spins. Confusion wraps around her, staring at him in bewilderment, in hurt. But Jack merely lifts his chin, looks her in the eye and says, “You deserve better than what I can give.”
Samira freezes, the air stilling in her lungs as she stares at him, desperately trying to find out what the hell he means. But all she sees is a subtle helplessness in those dark eyes as he looks right back, the tension still bracketing his mouth and Samira shakes her head, her voice breathless as she asks, “What does that even mean?”
His gloves stretch when he clenches his fingers into a fist, taking a breath. A beat passes before he finally rasps, “You won’t be happy with me.”
An indignant fire shoots through her veins at his words, hackles rising as her back straightens as she stares at him in disbelief. He cannot be serious. She’d shoot up on her feet out of pure incredulity if her foot wasn’t fucked, but she settles on shaking her head, resisting the urge to fist her hands. “Are you joking?” Sitting up, she fights the urge to move closer to him, not wanting to jostle her stupid ankle. “Jack, tell me you’re not serious,” she desperately says with a helpless, nervous sort of laugh.
But there’s no trace of humor in his face, no smile lines or deepening crows feet by his eyes. He looks horribly somber, the weight of his words so clearly pushing him down and Samira wants to lift it right off. He shouldn’t be holding onto it in the first place.
“I’m fifteen years older than you, Samira. We can’t even be public with our relationship until you become an attending.”
Her heart pounds at his reasonings—reasonings that she was sure were nonissues because they didn’t care about the age thing and the part about their positions wasn’t something they could change, therefore why fight it? So why the hell is he bringing them up like they’re the be all, end all of their relationship? Sure, those are some obvious challenges in their relationship but, fuck, haven’t they already discussed this?
Before she can question it, he shakes his head, gaze cutting away and her chest clenches when she sees the way they gleam. Shining. . . With unshed tears. Samira’s heart stutters at the sight of it, her breath shaking as she realizes that while she’s been confused and hurt these last few days, he’s been in just as much pain. It’s agony, seeing him like this, but God, this could have all been avoided.
“We already talked about this,” Samira says numbly, knowing damn well she doesn’t have to remind him. “So why are you bringing this up again? What changed?”
Jack sighs, throat working, still not looking at her. “Samira—”
Samira reaches out, careful of her palm, and uses her fingers to grasp his scruffy chin. She turns his head back, facial hair tickling her skin as she forces his gaze back on her. The pain swims in his dark eyes and Samira is desperate to know why it’s there in the first place. “What. Changed?”
She feels his jaw work against her fingers still grasping his chin. She knows she should let go in case someone comes in or just happens to glance in. But she hasn’t touched him in days and the feel of his skin is wonderful against hers, despite the circumstances.
Jack looks at her and she sees the conflict swirling in them, in a state of war with himself on whether he should say what he needs to. Samira doesn’t stray her gaze, silently begs him to be honest with her because when had that become an issue for them?
He looks tired, like this has been weighing down on him and Samira wishes he would share the burden. Samira’s gaze flicks between his eyes and despite the tension, she whispers, “Please, Jack.”
Be honest with me. Please.
“I know that the firefighter who came in the other night gave you his number.”
Samira startles, her hand falling away from him as her mind momentarily blanks. But she very quickly recalls what he’s referring to, and her eyebrows furrow together in confusion.
The last shift she and Jack had worked together, there had been a firefighter who was brought in after his house had fought a house fire. He needed to be checked for smoke inhalation as he had been in the house longer than necessary, and Samira had been the one to check him out, run his tests, make sure there was no damage to his lungs. And, sure, he had been handsome and charming and, yes, he had slipped Samira his number before he was discharged. But the second he was out the door, Samira had tossed the paper in the garbage, seeing as she had no use for it nor was she interested.
She didn’t realize that Jack even knew about it. It’s not like she hid it from him for some malicious reason; Samira just knew it would bother him and given that she has no interest in anyone else, she didn’t see a reason to tell him about it. Maybe she miscalculated? She hasn’t been in a relationship in a long time so it’s like she’s learning how to be in one all over again for the first time. Maybe she missed something?
“I don’t. . .” Samira shakes her head, frowning. Some of her anger melts away as the bewilderment grows. “I—Are you upset that I didn’t tell you about it? Because it didn’t mean anything to me, Jack. I swear—”
“I know,” he interrupts quietly, gruffly. His hand lands on her knee comfortingly and she can feel his touch searing into her skin through the denim of her jeans. Oh, she missed him. She craves his touch, greedy for it, even as her throat works as she notes his troubled gaze. “But it could ,” he continues and Samira is even more confused, gaping at him.
Jack huffs out a breath, lips tipping up briefly in a sardonic smile as he shakes his head. “You could be with someone like him, Samira. Someone younger, someone with a lot less emotional baggage than me.” His eyes meet hers, a little wild and full of an ache that Samira thinks goes bone deep. It makes her throat burn. “I’ve got fifteen years on you, three working feet between the two of us, and I come with a lifetime’s worth of PTSD I’m still trying to figure out. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. What the hell are you doing, sticking to someone like me?”
She feels her disbelief rise with every word he says, lips parting as she stares at him incredulously, trying to wrap her head around this. Samira knows that all of this is a sort of trauma response for Jack. As god-like as he is in the ED, behind the sardonic smiles and dry humor is a man who has been through a lot of shit in his life—there’s no doubt about that. But Samira had thought she had made it clear to him that she wants to be with him. Who doesn’t have baggage that they carry around? She has her own shit, to be sure. But Jack doesn’t shy away from it. So why the hell does he expect her to run away from his?
“Someone like you?” she repeats quietly, eyes narrowing slightly. “You mean someone intelligent? Someone who makes me laugh? Someone who makes me feel like I can do anything because I’m capable of it?” She moves her head, forcing him to look her in the eye. His jaw works as Samira swallows. “Someone who makes me feel less alone? Who sees me? The first person I allowed myself to let in because if it was going to be anyone, it was going to be him ?” She shakes her head, eyebrows pulled together, fingers itching to reach out to him once more. “You have already given me all of that, Jack. What more could I possibly want?”
He shakes his head, fingers curling into fists and lips pursing. “It’s not as simple as—”
“Yes, yes it is,” Samira interrupts with a nod. “The age thing, our jobs—I either don’t care about it or we can figure it out later. I know we will. And I just want you to—I want you , Jack.” His eyes flare at that, as if hearing those three words reawaken something in him. Good, if it means he’ll stop being such an idiot. She keeps her gaze fixed on his as she asks, “Do you want me?”
His voice is rough as he answers, “You know I do.”
Her pulse skips, skin heating as the tension in the room shifts a bit. “Do you like me?”
Jack’s throat bobs, his eyes flickering down to her lips for a split second before meeting her eyes again. Her cheeks flush as his voice, still low and raspy, says, “ Like is too simple of a word, Samira. You know that.”
Her heart feels heavy. “Do I?” she asks, feeling some newfound confidence slip into her. After the dizzying emotions of the night, this is something she welcomes. “You spent the last couple of days ignoring me because you saw some guy give me his number—which I threw out immediately, by the way. And instead of talking to me, you let your feelings fester and started pushing me away like a teenage boy who can’t properly regulate his emotions.”
Her words are too sharp. She knows it when he winces—imperceptible to the naked eye, but Samira has become very attuned to Jack Abbot. She catches it in the subtle way he pulls back, shadows appearing in his eyes. Samira hates hurting him and from the guilt that washes across his face, pulls down his lips and tenses his jaw, she knows that he hates hurting her, too. She softens her voice when she speaks next. “I just needed you to talk to me, Jack. I don’t need you deciding what’s best for me without so much as a conversation. I deserve more than that— you taught me that.”
His gaze snaps up to hers at that, and Samira meets it head on. She didn’t speak a word of a lie. Even before she and Jack officially started dating, he’s been a vocal advocate for Samira and the way she gets treated by others. He’s made it clear he won’t stand for the Slow-Mo jokes and he always listens to her when she’s explaining why she ran so many tests for a patient, why she takes her time with them for detailed history. In the areas where Robby chastises her for taking too long, Jack has always praised her for being so thorough. And then when the time comes for some batshit, unorthodox method of treating a patient, she’s the first person he calls.
He trusts her. He so blatantly, obviously, finds her capable. And it’s a breath of fresh fucking air to have someone so solidly on her side. Samira is so grateful for him—had been since before they got together. So she needs him to bring some of that energy into this relationship, too.
Jack’s throat works, eyes bright under the harsh hospital lights, and his voice hoarse with a thin quiver as he confesses, “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re missing out on anything by being with me.”
Samira is fairly certain she feels her chest collapse at his words, so heavy and laced with a kind of aching fear that robs her of her breath. She sees in his eyes, then, what all of this is about.
He’s afraid she’ll find someone better than him, and that it’s only a matter of time before she realizes that and leaves him. And he will be alone. Again.
The thought makes her eyes sting, her lower lip quiver even as she presses her lips together. She wants to touch him and, fuck it, her right hand is a little less scraped, so she reaches out and her fingers lightly hook around his gloved ones in his lap, bringing his hand up so they’re resting on the bed. Jack lifts his gaze slowly to meet hers and her heart squeezes at the look in his eyes, so wounded and afraid and vulnerable, and she is sure she is the only one who has seen Jack Abbot like this. Real and open. She treasures it—and him.
Her throat is so tight, aching, as she whispers in reply, “What about what I’ll be missing if we’re not together?”
Being this unguarded with someone—Samira isn’t used to it. Not until Jack. Sure, she gets to know her patients and connects with them, empathizes with them, but it’s so different with Jack. It’s so much more. She has let him see parts of herself she has hidden from everyone else, always thinking no one would be interested, never having the time herself to build that kind of bond with anyone to show them those parts. The messy, raw, real parts that you’re always afraid to show someone else because you think they’ll take one look and run for the hills.
But not with Jack. Never with Jack.
In the months they were growing closer, and then when they started dating, they showed each other parts of themselves they otherwise kept locked away—and they accepted them wholeheartedly. Cherished them, even. She feels so safe with Jack, physically and emotionally. Sometimes, Samira couldn’t believe her luck that after being single for so long, she found someone who treats her the way Jack does; like the darkness in her isn’t something to be afraid of. It can be nurtured, cared for, healed. He was doing that for her, and she liked to think she was doing the same for him, too.
Jack’s gaze jerks up to meet hers, eyes widening ever so slightly, like he didn’t expect to throw that back at him. She squeezes his fingers, wanting to hold his hand even if hers isn’t bandaged up yet. Samira shakes her head at him. “You can’t make me so. . . So deliriously happy this last month and then take it away from me because you’ve got some crazy idea that you’re not enough for me. You don’t get to make that decision for me.”
He hears it in her voice then, she knows. The pain and heartache that she has been carrying for days because of him, and Samira sees the break in his mask. The agony that washes over him over being the reason for her hurt. His face falls, eyes softening with brutal realization as he slowly shakes his head, almost as if he’s in denial. Her heart clenches. “I’m—I didn’t mean to hurt you, Samira,” he rasps, fingers tightening around hers as he slides closer to the bed, as much as he can. “I was being a coward, I know that. And I’m so fucking sorry for it. I should’ve just talked to you instead of worrying you and, fuck, hurting you.”
Jack shakes his head, ripping off his gloves and she misses his touch as he runs his fingers through his hair. He looks almost sick with himself, gaze breaking away from her as he shakes his head again, eyes downcast and blinking quickly. Like he can’t bring himself to look at her after all of this.
Jack squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenching before he finally says, “I’m so sorry, Samira. I fucked up and I don’t—”
“If you say you don’t deserve me one more time, I’m going to scream,” Samira rushes out quickly. “It’s insulting to both of us. You’re a good man, Jack, and I like to think I have good standards—which you succeed, by the way. So, I say this with all of my adoration for you—shut the hell up.”
He finally lets his gaze slide back to her, their eyes locking for one beat, then two, before Jack slowly releases a breath. She sees the tension leave his shoulders and she’s grateful for it, watching him nod, more to himself. “Okay,” he says quietly, gaze dropping to the bed as he pushes back and pulls out another pair of gloves. “Let me fix this.”
He rolls back over and reaches for her hands but Samira vaguely wonders if by this he also means them—their relationship. Jack’s touch is gentle and light as he puts the ointment on her cleaned scrapes, which aren’t too bad, and wraps them up with gauze as well. As he works, Samira watches him, his head bent slightly as he gives all of his focus on treating her. Her heart climbs to her throat as she watches him, the concentration that sets on his brow and purses his lips, and she realizes that she feels a sense of relief.
The regret and guilt was palpable from him and she’s so happy, so relieved he told her what was weighing down on him. So as she watches him wrap her hand, she tells him, “I forgive you,” because she does.
He messed up, they both know it. But he owned up to it. Sure, it took her pulling it out of him, but he told her the truth, and Samira appreciates it. Their relationship is still new and they keep learning new things about each other. There will be ups and downs, but none as painful as this one, Samira hopes.
She sees the way her words wash over him, the slight pause in his actions as he lifts his gaze enough to look at her. The relief in his dark eyes is stark, even if the guilt lingers. “I wouldn’t blame you if you made me work for it,” he tells her quietly.
The corner of her mouth curves up in a smile. “I could. But I don’t want to play any games, Jack. I know you don’t, either. I just want you.” She looks him in the eye. I know you want me, too .
His jaw clenches, throat working as the tension from before melts into something sweeter, wanting. When he finishes wrapping up her hands, she knows he probably has to go back out to the ED soon, but Samira finds herself saying, “Curtain.”
Jack knows exactly what she means, getting up to draw the curtain around, covering the bed from the view of the door as he slowly makes his way back to where she sits on the bed. Samira shifts back a bit, making room for him to sit on the edge of the bed, and he sinks down, careful of her foot, and when his gloveless hand comes up to cup her cheek, Samira’s eyes flutter at the touch she has been craving. She leans into his palm, a breath shuddering out of her at the warmth of his hand as her heart falls into a steady rhythm, finally, for what feels like the first time tonight.
The gravel in his voice is rough as he says, “I really am sorry, Mira.”
She opens her eyes, seeing the shame in his, and her heart aches. “I know you are, Jack. It’s okay.”
He shakes his head, tension bracketing his mouth even as his thumb rubs soothingly at her cheek. “It’s not. I caused you unnecessary pain. I shouldn’t have shut down like that. It was fucking immature of me and—”
“And you live and you learn,” she interrupts softly, her hand coming up to gently wrap her fingers around his wrist. Her mouth curves up into a reassuring smile.
Despite her messy emotions earlier tonight, she feels a lot calmer, a lot more understanding now that she sees why he had been acting the way he had. Does she wish he would’ve communicated with her earlier? Of course. But this relationship was new for both of them and they’ll make mistakes. It’s only natural. And Samira doesn’t want to hold onto stupid grudges—not when she sees how genuinely ashamed and guilty he feels. She can feel it deep in her bones, almost as if they were her own emotions.
“Just promise me—” Her hand slides up from his wrist to his own hand, lightly intertwining their fingers so his palm doesn’t press too hard against her own, bringing their joined hands on her lap as she meets his gaze. Jack watches her with that familiar, quietly intense look. The one that tells her all of his attention is solely on her. “Promise me if you start feeling like that again, you’ll talk to me. And that we’ll figure it out together.”
He nods, the cropped curls on top of his head bouncing slightly with the movement. “I promise,” he says vehemently and Samira swears the look in his eyes is one of a man who can’t believe she has forgiven him. Surprised and a little confused but hopeful nonetheless. “I swear, Samira. It won’t happen again.”
She smiles and a quiet breath escapes Jack at the appearance of it, gaze dipping to her mouth. “I know.”
Seven hours later, Samira is hobbling out of the ensuite bathroom of Jack’s bedroom when he walks into the room, dropping his go-bag by the dresser as his gaze immediately finds her. “You’re supposed to be resting,” he tells her, only mildly exasperated as he crosses his arms.
Samira’s gaze lingers on his exposed forearms as she continues over to the bed, awkwardly using one of the crutches he sent her home with—much to her annoyance. She tries not to let the gauze covered part of her palm grip the crutch too tightly. She’s definitely taking it off soon. “Would you have liked me to pee in your bed?” she asks dryly as she settles down on the mattress, leaning the crutch against the bedside table.
When she had been discharged from the hospital, Jack drove her back to his place. He had told the others he would be back after dropping her off and Samira was only mildly surprised that no one really blinked an eye at him announcing he was taking her home. She was too tired to think about it, really, and still is.
Instead of taking her to her apartment, Jack brought her to his house, where some of her clothes and toiletries already reside. She knew how badly he wanted to stay at home, but she told him she would just go to sleep and convinced him to finish out his shift. It would look too suspicious if he skipped out on the rest of his shift, no matter how badly she wanted him to stay.
But once she was in her sleep shorts and one of Jack’s shirts, soft from how often it was worn, and her head hit the pillow that smells like him, Samira knocked out. Now, the early morning sunlight streams through the blinds, the curtains open, and Jack is finally home from his shift.
“Guess not,” Jack responds to her rhetorical question and Samira rolls her eyes, even as her lips tug up. Things start to feel a little normal between them, much to her relief, as he unclasps his watch. “How long have you been up?”
“Just a few minutes,” she answers truthfully. “How was the rest of your shift?”
Jack throws her a wry smile. “Uneventful,” he says. “I’m going to take a quick shower and then I’ll make us breakfast, yeah?” Samira nods, biting her lower lip and watching as he pulls out some clothes from his dresser. He glances over at her on his bed and she gets the distinct feeling he wants to say something else, the way he hesitates for a moment, before he just flashes her a quick smile and disappears into the en-suite.
Her shoulders sink as she hears the shower running. She wonders if he’s going to stop feeling guilty any time soon. She wonders what she can do to help.
Samira had hoped them talking things through would have helped and that her forgiving him was the real thing. She can’t blame him for his insecurities cropping up. Did he handle them the best way? No, he didn’t. But he acknowledged that and Samira knows that Jack Abbot is a man who doesn’t make the same mistake twice. He learns from them and does better the next time, and she wishes he’d give himself the same grace that he gives her.
She changes out her gauze and tries to read her book while she waits for him, though barely turns a page by the time the shower stops and a few minutes later, the door opens and Jack steps out in dark sweatpants and a worn Pearl Jam shirt. His hair looks darker with the strands wet, his freckled skin slightly flushed as he tosses his scrubs in the hamper and meets her gaze. “Breakfast?”
Samira nods and begrudgingly reaches for the crutch. Jack watches her as she gets up, her mouth curling at the discomfort of the crutch against her underarm, keeping her foot up. He arches an eyebrow and starts, “You know I could just—”
“No,” Samira cuts in, shooting him an exasperated look. She knows what he was going to say; when they arrived last night, he had offered to carry her up the stairs, which she immediately shot down. Not because she didn’t think he could do it—she has seen and is intimately familiar with his arms, thank you very much—but because this injury is already so stupid and she’s trying to keep a lid on the embarrassment of it.
“Alright,” he chuckles, hands up in surrender before they leave the bedroom.
She does, however, require his help to go down the stairs. So he takes her crutch in his right hand while his left winds around her waist, holding her close as Samira’s right arm hooks around his shoulders. She’s hit with his scent, delicious and familiar, as his grip tightens and he helps her down the stairs slowly, one step at a time as she makes sure to keep her weight off her right foot.
They’re halfway down the carpeted steps when Jack remarks, “Between you and me, we’ve only got two working feet right now.”
Samira shakes her head, her lips splitting into a grin as she tries to suppress laughter. “If you make me laugh right now, we’re both gonna end up tripping.”
Jack’s shoulders shake with his own barely smothered laughter and she glances to see his own smile dancing on his lips and, God, the sight of it is better than she can say. His smile makes him look younger, less like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. She revels in the sight of it, their closeness, as they reach the bottom and he hands her the crutch back, making their way to the kitchen.
She settles on one of the stools at the counter, leaning the crutch against it as Jack makes his way around to begin gathering ingredients to cook. She has to say—he’s a better cook than her, which surprised them both, but Samira doesn’t particularly enjoy cooking. There are a few things she knows how to make, some rice and some desi dishes, but she’s rarely home long enough to really put much effort into learning something new in the kitchen. Maybe she can try, though.
Samira watches him move around the kitchen with the same confidence he does in the emergency department, pulling out eggs, cheese, and some vegetables from the fridge. But with his back to her, Samira can see the rigidness of his shoulders, the stiff way he carries himself, and her eyebrows pull together. Something is wrong, she knows. Unresolved and weighing down on him, and she can’t let it go on. Just as he cracks two eggs in a bowl and tosses the shells in the garbage, wiping his hands, she calls out, “Jack.”
He pauses, his head turning to the side so she can see his profile, and her heart thuds. He won’t look at her again—except now, Samira understands why. Her throat works as she picks at her nails, hands resting on the countertop. “You do know I meant it when I said I forgive you, right?” she asks gently, like she doesn’t want to spook him. “Because it feels like you’re walking on eggshells around me and I think it’s because you don’t really believe that I’ve forgiven you.”
Jack braces his arms against the counter, the muscles of his arms flexing. He shakes his head before dropping it back, staring at the ceiling before he gruffly responds, “It’s because I don’t forgive myself.” Samira sits up when he turns around, facing her, his back against the counter as he still grips it. Like he’s holding himself back from nearing her, and she hates that. She wants him right next to her, closer. His brown eyes are darkened, troubled, and she so desperately wants to soothe the pain that still lingers.
Jack’s eyebrows furrow together, blinking quickly before he shakes his head. “I hurt you, Samira. I was internalizing everything and instead of talking to you about what was going on, how I was feeling, I just—I pushed you away.” He scoffs, clearly annoyed by his own actions, and it softens Samira at the obvious trouble he’s still having with this. Possibly more than she was. “I kept you in the dark and believe me, I understand how fucked that is. You pulled me out of the dark. One look at you—” He gestures towards her sharply and she swears she sees a subtle tremble in his fingers. “And it felt like life was giving me a second chance. I told myself I wouldn’t fuck it up—except I did. I caused you pain in the process. How do I forgive myself for hurting someone who means more to me than anything else has in my sorry ass life?”
His words hang in the air between them. Samira’s heart pounds wildly in her chest, staring at him with slightly parted lips as she absorbs everything he spilled. In the short time they have been together, Samira quickly realized that she and Jack were two sides of the same coin: workaholics who felt too much, too deeply, and instead of facing those emotions, they drowned themselves in work.
Until they found each other. Until they pulled each other back up to the surface.
It’s a truth that has existed between them since before they started dating. The truth of finding someone who understands you on a bone deep level, and knowing that as they learn more and more about you, they won’t run away. That they see every part of you and accept you.
She and Jack have had their own insecurities in accepting that reality, but it’s undeniable. Maybe they both might need a reminder of it every now and then, when the damaged part of them is being too loud and needs to be silenced by the truth. And Samira is more than happy to give Jack that reminder now.
“You didn’t fuck up,” Samira tells him and when he scoffs in disbelief, she hardens her voice. “You didn’t—not irreparably. I’m still here, Jack,” she emphasizes, wishing she could just get up and go to him. Stupid fucking ankle. “You’re only human. You’re going to mess up, and so am I. We both have our baggage. But that’s—that’s the point of a relationship, right?” She gives him a gentle smile, a hopeful one as his gaze meets hers. “We work through the hard stuff together. We lean on each other. We make it work because it’s worth it.”
He blows out a breath, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’m an old man, Samira. I shouldn’t have acted like a fucking child.”
She throws him a glare, which he sees once he drops his hands. His lips purse at the sight of it. “You’re also a man who has gone through a lot of hard shit in his life.” She doesn’t take his PTSD lightly, being a veteran. She knows it’s a factor in all of this, but it’s not a burden. Not to her. “And this is your first relationship in years , Jack.” She sighs heavily, shaking her head. “Give yourself some grace.” Then, she gives him a small fond smile. “You can’t be great at everything. There’s a learning curve.” Samira holds a bandaged hand out at him, wiggling her fingers as she says, “Come here.”
Thankfully, Jack pushes himself off the counter and rounds the center island, and Samira spins in the stool to face him once he’s at her side. She tips her head up to look him in the eye as he towers over her seated figure, a good few inches separating them. Her arms wind around his waist, carefully interlacing at his back, and she feels his fingers brush along her bare thighs. “You had a couple of bad days,” she tells him. “They happen to everyone. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” When he opens his mouth to protest, she cuts him off. “Okay, yes, my feelings were hurt.” Jack’s jaw clenches and she sees that swirl of self-hatred in those eyes she adores, and she’s quick to try and get rid of it. “But I’m not going to hold it against you, not when I know what was going on in your head. This relationship is still new. We’re figuring things out, so there’s going to be some bumps along the road. We learn from our mistakes, right? There’s no reason to believe we won’t learn from this.”
Because, yes, this is a we . Jack may have made a mistake but Samira knows the baggage he carries, and vice versa. They would be naive to think that everything would be smooth sailing for them. Shit happens. People in relationships do or say things that may hurt their partner, but Samira knows what happened with them wasn’t out of malicious intent. It was just Jack’s insecurities rearing their ugly head, and they both got hurt because of it. Samira believes it’s nothing they can’t move on from because this relationship means more to her than to let some misunderstanding ruin things between them.
Jack’s throat works as he looks down at her, that intent gaze assessing and admiring as his hands raise and he cups her cheeks. She immediately relaxes under the touch, something that doesn't go unnoticed by him, as his thumbs swipe along her cheekbones. His expression softens, his voice a rasp as he says, “You’re a far better person than I am, Samira.”
She hums, fisting the soft material of his shirt at his back. “Well, I think you’re pretty amazing.” A gentle scoff of a laugh escapes Jack as he shakes his head, and she grins up at him. “And there’s nothing you can say or do to change my mind about that.”
His smile falters ever so slightly as he takes in a breath. “You give me too much credit.”
One of her hands slides up to rest at the back of his neck, eyes locking with his and she hopes he hears her when she replies, “And you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
Before he can come up with some sort of flimsy argument, Samira tugs him down and presses her lips to his, a kiss that Jack returns immediately. Samira melts into him, feeling his grip slide to her waist and tighten and Samira’s skin is on fire in response to his kiss. It feels like forever since she last kissed him, lips parting to let his tongue slip in as heat pools between her legs.
“Watch your foot,” he murmurs into the kiss before he effortlessly lifts her and turns so she’s sitting on the countertop, the marble cool beneath her exposed thighs. Jack carefully slots between her legs and Samira’s arm winds around his neck, keeping him close— needing him close—as her heart threatens to thunder away from her. Yes , God, she missed this. Missed him—missed them .
Forget breakfast— this is what she wants. The solidness of his body and softness of his lips and prickle of his stubble and his electrifying touch; Samira can so easily get drunk off of him. How can he not tell how much he means to her, too? He has so quickly and effortlessly become so intertwined in her life, that the idea of losing him is agonizing?
Samira gently cups his face, her fingers pressing against his jaw as she breaks the kiss, but doesn’t move too far. They breathe the same air which they both chase after as Samira whispers, “Promise me we’re okay, Jack.”
He nods, hooded eyes watching her, their noses slotted together. Neither of them wants to move away or put any more distance between them than what existed these last few days. “We’re okay, honey,” he says, his voice deep and rough and sending shivers down Samira’s spine, desire and something softer but no less fierce burning low in her belly. Their eyes lock. “I promise.”
She knows, without a shadow of a doubt, he means it.
Jack Abbot is a man of his word, after all.