The first time Jack met you, he was just passing through your town in the south. It'd been a bar fight, glass smashed against the side of his face. It'd taken him all five minutes when you'd stepped into ER room three to figure out three things about you. First, you were gorgeous and funny and everything he'd ever wanted in life. Two, you were intelligent and good at stitches. Three, you were being abused.

During his two days at your town, you'd captured his interest to the point he'd tracked down your dead beat boyfriend and made damn sure he would never lay a hand on another woman. He'd left before he could even really get to know you.

The second time was a little longer, and he'd managed to go on a very short date with you before he convinced himself he was no good for you and he was just hurting himself by imagining a life with you.

He'd never really been interested in a woman like he was with you before. Never had an urge to settle down in the quiet small town you lived in. Never thought about anyone like he had about you. Every chance he got, he stopped into that ER. If he could come to that town, he took every chance he could to.

"You're a dumbass." You gave him a hard look, opening a sterile suture pack. You were gorgeous, even exhausted at the end of your 12 hour shift.

He shrugged. It wasn't the worst he ever had, just a small cut on his massive bicep. He'd removed his shirt, even though that wasn't necessary. "I might need a ride to a motel." He muttered, glancing up at your beautiful, fiery eyes.

He wanted to ask you on a date. A real, actual date. He wanted to kiss you, hold you. After the lidocaine, your fingers on his arms, even through the latex, made him tingle. It was pathetic, really. How he hadn't even been able to look at other women since meeting you all those months ago. How he wanted to lean into your touch, even if it was currently stitching him up.

"And maybe some new clothes." He didn't take his eyes off you.