“Hey,” Jack murmurs as he falls into step beside you, his voice low and urgent. He had been watching the entrance for your arrival, anticipation written in the tension of his posture. “We need to talk,” he adds quietly, reaching out to gently grasp your arm.

But you sidestep him without missing a beat, your attention focused elsewhere as you move purposefully toward Robby. “Not now, Jack. I need to ask Robby something,” you reply curtly, brushing past him.

He doesn’t let you get far. In one swift motion, Jack catches your arm, guiding you through the trauma center until you’re inside one of the empty exam rooms. He locks the door behind you, shuts off the lights, and pulls the curtain closed, all while keeping you pressed against the door. It’s overwhelming. The sudden closeness. The intensity in his eyes.

You’ve only been working at the trauma center for a little over a year, but during that time, Jack has been a constant presence. At first, he was just the seasoned doctor helping a new hire, offering tips, lending support. All perfectly professional.

But things shifted.

What started as helpful glances became lingering looks. Harmless proximity evolved into fleeting touches. Before long, quick encounters in the staff bathroom blurred into nights spent at his apartment, your shifts bleeding into mornings in his bed.

Still, it wasn’t official, whatever “it” was. You never defined it. No titles. No expectations. A quiet understanding between the two of you. Friends with benefits, if you had to name it. Though sometimes, it felt like more than that.

In the hush of the darkened room, Jack’s lips find the curve of your neck, his hands anchoring firmly at your hips as he draws you closer. His body moves instinctively, seeking contact, closing the distance between you.

“I missed you last night,” he murmurs against your skin as his hips buck up against yours, the frustration in his voice barely concealed. “Where’d you go?”