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Jack Abbot flirts like it’s second nature.
Easy. Casual. Slipped into conversation like it doesn’t cost him anything.
A brush of humor here. A low, amused “careful, doc, you keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you like me.”
It’s harmless.
It’s always harmless.
Because Samira Mohan never takes the bait.
She rolls her eyes. Tells him to sit still. Hands firm, voice steady, entirely unimpressed.
Which is—
Safe.
Predictable.
Manageable.
Until—
“Careful,” he murmurs, easy as ever, watching her a little too closely as he leans back against the counter. “You keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you like me.”
It’s automatic.
Rehearsed.
Safe.
Samira doesn’t look away this time.
Doesn’t roll her eyes.
If anything, her gaze sharpens—flicking over his face, slow and deliberate, like she’s actually considering it.
Jack notices.
Of course he does.
He opens his mouth, ready to keep it going, to smooth it over with another joke—
“Maybe I do,” she says.
Just like that.
Quiet. Even. Not a hint of teasing to soften it.
Jack—
stops.
Like someone hit pause.
Samira tilts her head slightly, watching him now, something faintly amused curling at the edges of her mouth.
“And?” she adds, softer. “What then?”
He stares at her.
Actually stares.
Because that—
that was not part of the script.
There’s a beat where he could recover.
Should recover.
Say something smooth. Something clever. Something him.
Instead—
nothing.
His brain, usually three steps ahead, just… blanks.
Samira waits.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Her brow lifts, just slightly.
“…that’s it?” she asks.
Jack exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck, something almost sheepish creeping in despite himself.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Samira blinks. “…sorry?”
“Yeah.” He gestures vaguely between them, like that explains anything. “I never thought I’d get this far.”
A beat.
Samira just looks at him.
“…you never thought—”
“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, cutting in before she can finish.
And there it is.
Honest.
Unfiltered.
Ridiculously out of character.
Samira stares at him for a long second.
Then, without warning, she reaches out, grabs the front of his shirt, and pulls him down just enough—
Not a kiss.
Not quite.
Just close enough that their noses almost brush.
Jack freezes.
“I flirt back once,” she murmurs, voice low, “and you forget how to function?”
He swallows hard. “Apparently.”
Her lips twitch.
“Pathetic.”
“Yeah.”
But he doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t even try.
If anything, his hand comes up slowly—hesitant now, which is new—hovering at her waist like he’s asking without words.
She doesn’t stop him.
So his fingers settle there, tentative at first, then firmer when she doesn’t move away.
“You’re serious?” he asks quietly, searching her face like he’s still half-convinced this is a setup.
Her gaze flicks to his lips for half a second.
That’s all the permission he needs.
This time, when he leans in—
he doesn’t stop.
The kiss is slower than his flirting ever is. Less practiced. Like he’s figuring it out in real time instead of relying on instinct. There’s a brief hesitation right at the start—like he’s giving her one last chance to pull away.
She doesn’t.
Her hand tightens in his shirt instead, grounding him.
That’s it.
That’s all it takes for something in him to shift.
His grip at her waist firms, pulling her just a fraction closer as the kiss deepens—not rushed, not overwhelming, just… certain now. Like he’s caught up to the moment and decided he’s not letting it slip.
When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch.
Forehead almost touching hers, breath uneven in a way he’d never admit out loud.
Samira watches him, far too calm for someone who just broke him that easily.
“…see?” she murmurs. “Not that hard.”
Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says softly.
A beat.
“Gonna need a minute to recover from that, though.”
Her lips curve.
“Take your time.”
His hand doesn’t leave her waist.