Chapter Text
The sound of a heavy door slamming shut woke you. Lifting your head from the pillow just enough to catch a glimpse of the time on your phone, your brain slowly started to come to life. In the distance, you heard the muffled sounds of a heavy bag falling to the floor followed by water running. Glancing over at the time again, your brain put two and two together.
8:15 am. Dr. Abbot’s home from work.
You had really only gotten to know your neighbor in passing moments, he helped carry some boxes inside when you moved in to the place about a year ago. You had them stacked high past your head when a gruff voice told you to stop. Immediately following, a pair of freckled hands pulled two boxes away from the tower of cardboard, clearing your field of vision.
“I can already tell you’re a ‘all the groceries in one trip’ kinda girl, but just…let me help before you hurt yourself,” he said with a soft smile that made his hazel eyes twinkle. The grey curls atop his head were wild and stuck to parts of his face and after giving him a very quick once over, you surmised he had just come from the gym.
“No, really, its ok. You don’t have to help.” You hitched the remaining boxes against your hip as you opened your front door. Ignoring your words, he brushed right past you through the threshold to set the boxes down on the floor inside. With a smug look on his face, he turned back around to you.
“A stack that high wasn’t going to fit through the door anyway. Now come on,” he reached for what was left in your arms, closing the distance between you two as you stood in place, mouth agape, for a beat too long. He moved around you with precision, like he’s navigated a tight crowd more than once. As you stood and watched, he moved what was left sitting in the hall into your new home, finally joining you in the hallway with more sweat starting to gather on his brow and his breath coming out in short huffs.
“That should be it. Uh, if you ever need anything, I’m your next door neighbor,” he points over his shoulder to the other end of the hall before he holds his hand out to you. “Dr. Abbot. Welcome to the neighborhood.” You take his hand and barely got a chance to reply before his phone rang. With an apology, he gives you a half-wave before heading down to his door.
Bashful you didn’t have any beer to repay him with, the common moving payment, you left a cold six pack of Iron City at his front door that night with “Thanks!” and your name written on a post-it you stuck to the top. He responded in turn by sending a pizza to your place the next evening. You remember stifling a laugh as the poor delivery guy deadpanned “happy housewarming” and handed you a cheese pizza.
But your relationship was built on micro-conversations like ships, passing in the night. After you had learned he was a doctor, he told you he was an attending, specifically working nights at the PTMC in the Emergency department. You learned this piecemeal by crossing paths each day for a solid week. Him coming home after a shift, you getting up first thing in the morning for a run, you'd talk during the few moments where you were locking your door and he was fishing in his pockets for his keys. The next week he asked about you, piece by piece each day. You worked for a consulting firm, one that had you flying across the country on a moment’s notice most weeks, while the others you worked from home putting out both literal and figurative corporate fires.
A ray of sunlight moved through the slats in your blinds, a long stripe of light played across your face and made you squint. “Okay, okay. I’m getting up,” you said to the empty room. The wood of your bed frame creaked as you sat up and shifted to place your feet on the floor. By the time you finally padded into your bathroom, you heard the shower on the other side of the wall shut off.
When you bought this place, the realtor stressed the “vintage Pittsburgh charm” of the unit as she showed it to you. It was a part of a former rail yard warehouse once used by the old steel factories. Long abandoned, it had been converted into luxury condos some time after the housing bubble burst.
“While the exposed steel beams and brick walls are original and solid,” she said, patting the red brick, “The inner walls the developer put in place to split this into apartments are…let’s say on the thin side. You get this gorgeous space, but you’ve gotta hope your neighbors are not total loud mouth jagoffs.”
The view of the Pittsburgh skyline out of the old skylights was enough to sell you on the place, so you prepared yourself for noise. Luckily, moving in and immediately learning Dr. Abbot worked nights at the hospital and “typically came home, took a shower, and went down for at least a two hour nap” you knew he’d not be a bother.
And he wasn’t. So in an unspoken agreement, you tried to spend the first few hours of your day as quiet as you could, knowing how precious sleep was to anyone with a crazy work schedule, let alone a doctor. You’d take your conference calls and meetings from the far side of your place, or the coffee shop nearby if you could get away. Then around noon, when you would hear his phone alarm through the wall, you’d start taking your calls on speakerphone, freeing your hands up to take notes or type up emails.
It was past 1 pm, and you were sure you had been pacing in circles for at least 40 minutes. “How far behind are we going to be with this?” You sighed as rounded you way through your kitchen again. Papers moved about on the other line before a male voice responded. “Without intervention, they’re going to be delayed until Q1 of 27. February in particular.”
Feet stopped carving the trench-like path from your circuit around the room. Lifting your gaze to the ceiling, you held the phone far enough away to mutter “shit” under your breath. A moment passes, and the voice on the other end calls out your name.
“I’m booking a flight out right now. Tomorrow afternoon I want every manager, director, and fucking desk jockey in the conference room with answers as to why they’re dragging ass on transitioning. And if they don’t have the answers I’m looking for, I will throw them to the shareholders like chum for goddamn sharks. And yes, you can tell them that because the board is paying me to fix this, I will do so with a fucking smile on my face.”
Ending the phone call before you could hear a response, your shoulders dropped and you released your tension with a loud “FUCK!” that echoed off the walls. Firing off a slack message to your admin to book last minute travel, you almost forgot to hit send when three knocks came from your front door. Crossing the open space, you turned the knob and opened the door just a crack to see your neighbor on the other side, leaning against your door frame. Swinging the door fully open you saw the full visual of Dr. Abbot, sleep still showing on his face. He looked down at you with slow blinks, the wrinkles between his brows more prominent, and a head of greying curls that were wild on one side, clearly the side of his head that rested against his pillows while he slept. He wore sweatpants and what at some point in time was considered a band tee shirt, but now it had been reduced to atoms of cotton barely held together by thread after decades of wear. A brief thought flashed through your head.
I bet that shirt would feel amazing against your skin.
“Should I find a good lawyer to clear me of any culpability for whatever you’re about to do?” His voice was still thick with sleep, raspy and deep. Embarrassment immediately washed over you as you slapped a hand to your forehead.
“Shit, Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry! I thought you were awake so I…let my stress out in the moment. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“No, you were totally right, I was awake. Just made lunch actually,” he paused to take a bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich he was holding just out of view. He chewed and swallowed, making a face as he swallowed again to unstick the white bread and peanut butter combo from the roof of his mouth before he spoke.
“You gonna be jet setting off again?”
You nodded as you motioned over your shoulder at the packed suitcase that sat at the ready next to your couch. “Yeah. That thing’s gotten more miles than my car the past three months.” In your hand, your phone pinged with notifications of your plane tickets, and you sighed again.
“Looks like I leave tonight.” You looked from your phone back up to the man standing in your doorway. “Dr. Abbot, I hate to put this on you, but I’ve got an express package getting delivered tomorrow hopefully by 10:30 am. You wouldn’t have to sign for it or anything, but do you think you can just grab it for me so it’s not sitting on my welcome mat for five days?”
He shrugs and nods. “Of course. You want me to let you know when I get it?”
“If you could, actually that’d be awesome! Just text me and then I can let my legal team know their stuff is in trusted hands.”
He fishes his phone from a pocket on his sweats, and half waves the brick in the air. “Might need your number to do that, sweetheart.”
With a roll of your eyes as you realize your mistake, you go to hold your phone against his, stopping at the last second. As you pull the phone in your hand away, he watches with confusion as you then present a different phone. “This is my personal phone,” you explain as you tap your phone to his. Your screens both ripple as your contact cards exchange.
He had no idea is phone could do that.
Admiring the technology in his hand, he nodded towards the phone you almost used. “A work phone and a personal phone?”
“Helps keep the lives separate.”
He gives a knowing nod. “Like how Bruce Wayne has the Bat Phone.”
“Billionaire Bruce Wayne is Batman?!”
You both laugh, you at never making the connection between your life and the caped crusader’s before. He laughed at your wit, already looking forward to trading more verbal barbs. You open your mouth to say something when the work phone in question rings in your hand. Apologetically, you look at him. “Duty calls, sorry.”
He gives a wave and shuts your door, loudly whispering “Commissioner Gordon needs you to save Gotham, Batgirl” as it clicks shut. It leaves you laughing as heat rises in your face with admiration. As you deal with the phone call to your work phone, now imagining yourself in a purple and yellow cowl, you look down at your personal phone, the screen still displaying the contact card you received.
Hmm. So his name is Jack.
Down the hall, Jack Abbot was taking another bite from his sandwich as he changed the name on your contact card to “Batgirl.” It had a nice ring to it.
————-
The following morning you awoke in a city you couldn’t remember the name of until you checked the weather on your phone. Austin. It was going to be much warmer here than back in Pittsburgh, luckily the suits you had pre-packed into your suitcase were light enough fabric you weren’t going to sweat your way through the material just by walking down the street. The elevator doors opened out to the hotel lobby and your admin Brian met you there, the two of you marching across the floor to the drop off outside where a black car was already waiting. Your heels clicked against the floor while his dress shoes squeaked as he tried to keep pace. Entering the car, Brian started rattling off notes from his phone as the vehicle drove off.
“Just like you asked, I’ve made sure the whole district team is on site today. I’ve got an all-hands scheduled from 9am to 10:30am, giving you an hour to speak and thirty minutes for follow up and Q&A. After that I have one-on-ones with both leadership and front-line employees scheduled for you, and I took the liberty to have them all chosen at random.”
You liked Brian, he made your job easier, but the reality was you had all of this already on your work phone. You didn’t need it said aloud. He was just simply filling the air, never looking up from the screen in front of him as he spoke. Prattling on, his words faded into a low drone as your mind wandered, a silent buzz on the other phone in your pocket stealing all of your attention away.
Dr. Jack Abbot, 8:11am: Just got home. No sign of your package yet. Keeping my eyes peeled. 👀🫡
Amusement pulled at the corners of your mouth. Who taught this old man about emojis? You responded with a thumbs up as the car came to a stop outside a tall office building.
The hours crept by, with you finally getting a break in meetings around 3pm. Pushing the rolling chair away from the long conference table you sat at, your whole body seemed to crack back into place as you stood. You had sent Brian off on a mission to check on some systems, so he had been gone for the last two hours. You kicked off your heels and did a lap around the conference room you had taken over, typing away at your work phone. Emails sent off, numbers and data given to those who asked, it was all the same typical bullshit you dealt with during these visits.
Then your phone buzzed again. Your personal one.
Dr. Jack Abbot, 4:04pm: Sorry, been a weird one today! Package acquired! 🚨📦🙌
He sends a selfie with him holding the envelope. A proud grin is across his face, and you notice he’s dressed in his black scrubs.
Dr. Jack Abbot, 4:06pm: Gotta head into work early, so I’m leaving your stuff under the careful watch of an old military buddy of mine. His name’s Lifeline.
He sends another photo, this time of your package sitting on his kitchen counter, with a GI Joe medic action figure posed next to it. The toy is clad in a red and white jumpsuit, with the word RESCUE printed on the uniform and a first aid kit in hand. The action figure shows some wear, the paint job faded exactly where a child’s hands would have held it upright while playing. It genuinely makes you laugh, the thought of your older next door neighbor still holding onto the toys he had as a kid. It was…endearing. Charming. Warm even. A stark contrast to the dark industrial look to his kitchen, all grey slate countertops and forest green cabinetry with brass hardware. Or, at least, what you could see from the photo he sent.
Batgirl, 4:10pm: He’s a real American hero. Please thank him for his service for me. 🦅🫡🇺🇸
Hours later, long after you’ve made it back to the hotel, he responds by hearting your message.
And the more you think about it, the more you get this odd fluttery feeling in your stomach.
———————
The rest of your week had been a veritable nightmare, but one that you at least expected. You left behind a series of sheepish men in suits, now obedient to your orders, and a series of happy front-line workers, finally feeling appreciated for the work they’ve done.
As your car heads towards the airport, you open your personal phone to check the weather in Pittsburgh while Brian chatters on the phone next to you. Checking the WPXI homepage, you’re met with BREAKING NEWS and a live feed covering an active shooter event at a music festival down at the Point. Leaning your elbows forward onto your knees, you start reading the article, scanning the copy for casualties and refreshing the page for updates. Every hospital in the area has been slammed, and the emergency rooms have been closed to just the victims of the shooting.
It hangs over you all the way through the airport to your gate, and as you look up at a TV in the terminal, the horrific event has now made the news across the country. In silence, you look away to watch the last glimpse of the sun as it sets and night falls. Finally boarded on the plane home, you type out a text before you set your phone to airplane mode.
Batgirl, 7:32pm: Caught the news here. I’m back late tonight, so seriously no rush. I can grab my stuff once you’re back home and rested.
Batgirl, 7:47pm: Just hope you’re staying safe. ❤️🩹
Jack walks into his place after 8am, dropping his keys on the counter as the door shuts behind him. He sinks onto the couch and immediately removes his prosthetic, rubbing idly at the tender flesh as he stares out at nothing in the distance. Finally getting the chance, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and reads your message as he heads into his bedroom, crutch in his other hand to keep him steady. Moving into the bathroom, he pauses as his thumb hovers over the keyboard to respond. Through the wall, he can hear your faint snoring. A quick smile at the thought of you face down in your bed, in a sleep so deep you’re drooling onto the pillow. For a brief second, he thinks if he would sleep just as deeply while wrapped up in your arms.
It’s gone in a flash and he sets his phone face down matter-of-factly as he turns on the shower head.
———————
You wake up to no alarm on a Saturday, rolling over in bed and stretching out like a starfish before sitting up and reaching for your phone on the bedside table.
It’s almost 11am and you never got a response from Jack. As you pad into your kitchen, you’re still staring down at the text thread. Based on the time stamp of the read receipt, he didn’t read what you sent until after you had fallen asleep, so you figured that was enough to soothe the worry that sat deep in the pit of your stomach. Instead, you chose to occupy your mind with a hot cup of tea and plan out the rest of your lazy Saturday. Setting the kettle on the burner on your stove, you set the heat to high and let the water boil while you put on some comfy clothes. A pair of sweatpants that were two sizes too big and haphazardly cut into short-shorts, and an old sweatshirt from a college boyfriend long forgotten that had been permanently stretched out after years of wear. It hung loose in the sleeves and off one shoulder. A pair of fuzzy socks to combat the cold cement floors completed the ensemble just as the kettle started to wail. Sliding back into the kitchen on sock feet, you took the kettle off the burner as quickly as you could, hoping it didn’t wake up Jack next door.
The boiling water was poured into a large mug covered with faded cartoon characters, a tea bag inside bloomed steam smelling like mint and warm spices. You let the bag steep for the recommended two minutes and raised the mug to take a sip when your phone did that familiar staccato ring.
An incoming facetime call from Dr. Jack Abbot. You answered after the third ring, your screen now presenting his face in a little too close of a close-up, highlighting his lopsided smile and crinkled brow.
“So, Batgirl, did you put a stop to that awful, awful Harvey Dent?”
“For now at least. He may come back with that pesky Riddler.” You both chuckled at each other, an easy silence falling between you two as you held the phone up in one hand and took a sip from your mug with the other. “How—um, how are you doing? With,” you gesture with your phone hand, so you wander in and out of frame as you search for the word, “everything?”
“I’ll be ok,” he finally says in a low tone after he works his jaw to choose his words carefully, “That’s what 90 minutes of therapy each week is for. Sometimes twice a week.” He moves to sit up and you realize he’s been laying on his couch.
“I hope you at least got some sleep? In an actual bed?”
“Uuuhhh,” he glances down to look at a watch that isn’t there, then back at the phone screen, eyes squinting to read the time at the top, “I got about an hour and a half before I went back in, and then another two when I got home this morning. So I’m all set.” He punctuates his last sentence with an exaggerated yawn.
You hate that it triggers your own yawn that you fight against. He smirks as he watches your mouth move from side to side, finally the camera points up to the ceiling and he can hear the inhale of air as you yawn.
As you come back into frame you notice how Jack’s looking at you like he just woke up next to you. It makes heat creep into your cheeks and you clear your throat to reset your thoughts.
“So could I stop by to—“
“Yes, of course, your package! I’ll bring it over in just a min—“ He looks down at the screen and sees you already walking through your door and down the hall. “See you in a sec,” you say as you end the call. Curiosity fueled your urgency; he’s seen inside your home the many times he’s darkened your doorway, but to you, Jack was still a big mystery and you were dying to get a glimpse inside his place.
Jack pockets his phone and looks towards the door. He’s still seated on his couch with his crutches next to him, his prosthetic sitting abandoned on the other side of the condo. He looks over his shoulder in it’s direction, but his head snaps back around when he hears you knocking “Shave and a Haircut” against his door. He rises to stand with a grunt, joints aching as he does. He crosses the room to the door with the crutch accenting his steps with a mechanical click click click. The knob turns and the door opens, introducing you to the expanse of his place. A quick observational look tells you his floor plan is the exact same as yours, just mirrored. So while your kitchen is on the right, his is to the left. Your bedrooms and bathrooms share a wall.
Just like the photo he sent, its all very…masculine in decor. Dark wood tones, greens, browns, and maroons play against the raw industrial features. The couch is a low, deep leather sectional that sits just over Jack’s right shoulder, with a wrought iron coffee table and matching tv stand, atop of which a large flat screen is currently playing The Weather Channel on mute.
“Uh. Please. Come in,” he says as he takes a step to the side so you can walk in. He shuts the door behind you and walks past to that slate countertop that makes up his kitchen island. Its only when he walks past that you notice the crutch, and with the basketball shorts he’s wearing you see his residual limb. It disappears with the rest of his lower half as he moves to stand on the other side of his kitchen island between the sink and the range. He motions for you to sit at the island and he’s already pouring you both cups of coffee. You quickly sip from the mug before he can ask if you need cream or sugar, and he sips from his own mug as he slides the express envelope across the counter towards you.
“Lifeline kept a good eye on it, no sleeping on the job or anything. Which is kind of impressive because those old action figures were never great about standing up on their own.”
You laugh into the mug as you look down at the envelope, knowing full well it’s contents will be another problem to deal with on Monday. Jack watches you for a moment before straightening up.
“Have you had breakfast yet?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Brunch, then. Whatever. Have you eaten? I can make you some eggs.”
The prospect of a home cooked meal by someone other than yourself does try and anchor you where you’re sat, but you can see the bags under his eyes and give a shake of your head as you stand. He needs to get some sleep.
“Thanks, but I’ve got some stuff I need to take care of while I’m here for the next few days. But I’ll take a rain check for the next time you feel like scrambling some yolks.”
He leads you to the door and before you cross the threshold you turn back to him and look down at the envelope in your hands.
“Thanks for grabbing this, by the way, Dr. Abbot. I totally owe you one. If you ever need anything, let me know. Seriously.”
“Of course. And, it’s Jack. You can call me Jack.”
“Jack.” You repeat it softly, the word feeling almost foreign and forbidden to say, even with his permission now. “Get some rest, Jack.” Brain on autopilot, you give him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek before you leave. You offer another smile before turning and heading back down the hall, fuzzy socks padding away. Jack lingers in the threshold, watching your long legs stride the distance and it scrambles something in his brain. The need to know what those legs feel like wrapped around him consumed his entire being for several seconds before an actual yawn escapes his mouth this time. Sleep it off, Abbot, you tired horny old man. Sleep it off. He shuts the door and walks back towards his bedroom with another yawn.
Back in your kitchen, it hits you like a freight train what you just did. Sure, a kiss on the cheek is ostensibly nothing, but you felt the scratch of his stubble against your lips and you haven’t stopped feeling it. You recover your abandoned mug of tea, deciding to still sip it in cold shame as you sit at your own kitchen island. Staring at the sink you imagine Jack staring across at you, making idle conversation as he furiously whisks eggs in a bowl just for you. You’re hearing what he’s saying, but not listening, you’re solely focused on how the muscles in his freckled forearms flex with each flick of his wrist. And as he pours the bowl (and a dash of milk) into a hot pan, he handles it like a professional chef, constantly moving the eggs around as to not overcook or burn them. Veins ripple where his forearm meets his bicep as he jerks the pan and the eggs flip over with ease.
He’s making you breakfast. It has to be perfect.
An angry rumble from your stomach brings you back to reality. You pluck a banana from the bunch sitting in front of you and dejectedly eat it as you head back into your room to unpack.
—————
One night weeks later you crawl through your front door like a zombie, travel issues leaving you with no choice but to catch the last red eye flight home. Bags, backpack, jacket all left on the floor as you trudge to your bedroom. A quick shower was going to have to suffice, you didn’t have the mental capacity to wash your hair but needed to get the funk of airports off your skin. The trip had been frustrating from beginning to end, being on one coast in meetings while on the other coast people were emailing you with constant questions.
Two drinks on the plane would help take the edge off, you thought, but by the time the Uber dropped you off at home, everything work related still hung at the forefront of your mind like a blinding fog. You knew sleep would be an easy reset for yourself, but you also knew if you didn’t do something to stop thinking that sleep would never come.
And there was one thing that was a guarantee to make your head go blank.
Sliding from the shower to under your covers, you turned off your bedside lamp to cast the room in darkness. One hand ran across your face, easing your still furrowed brow. Your other hand rubbed at a knot in your neck before it made the slow descent down your body. It passed down your chest, touch feather light, knowing it was the quickest way to give you goosebumps. It continued its march, down your stomach, past your belly button, to softly cup your mound. The hand on your face moved to cup your breast, and in tandem one hand pinched the raised nipple there while the other dipped between your folds.
It was quick. Rushed. You just needed the quickest orgasm possible in order for a few hours of peaceful rest. It didn’t even need to be good. Furiously, your hands worked. The one between your legs had already found your clit and was rubbing tight circles around it, while the other oscillated between both nipples, pinching and flicking as you chased a sweet release.
Of course your mind wandered to the one thing that would get you across the finish line. That was Jack. Like variants of Ken dolls you've seen him in his scrubs, his streets, gym wear, pajamas, even his fatigues one time as he left to assist the Pittsburgh SWAT team. It wasn’t the time to unpack why, but a visual of Jack in a suit, tie pulled loose, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and suit jacket long abandoned always did it for you. He had mentioned once about bailing on some charity function to work instead, and the thought of him in formalwear stuck around in your mind since.
Your hips bucked off the bed involuntarily, a sharp sensation from your clit traveled all the way through your body like lightning that bordered on overstimulation. Panting softly to the empty room, you whispered a word like a mantra.
“Please, please, please, please.” Please, Jack. Over and over, only breaking the cadence to release a soft moan. Your fingers had found a steady pace, dipping down just enough to tease your entrance, pulling the slick fluid gathered there back up to trace erratic patterns across your sensitive bundle of nerves.
The orgasm hit you hard and without any warning. Choking back a loud moan, it still left your mouth through grit teeth as a groan that tore through your vocal cords. The hand that was teasing your breasts found the headboard behind you, smacking the upholstered board against your bedroom wall as you peaked. As quickly as you came, so came the comedown, and sleep took your weary bones within minutes.
But while you relaxed into your sheets, on the other side of the drywall, mere inches away, Jack Abbot was wide awake. Enjoying a day off at home, he’s been used to sleeping in sporadic shifts since his first deployment. A few hours asleep, wake up, eat or work out, shower, a few more hours asleep. Rinse and repeat until it was time to go to work. He heard your door swing open and shut and the clatter of your suitcase falling over. He was sitting in bed reading a medical journal as he heard you cross into your bedroom, and when the shower stopped minutes later his phone was in his hand, typing out a text to you.
But as the next several minutes between the shower and now passed, the message sat, typed but unsent, on the screen of the phone in his hand. He wasn’t looking down at it anymore. His eyes were cinched shut as millions of raunchy thoughts swarmed through his head, every ounce of focus turned to how painfully hard he was. If what he just heard was actually what he just heard, Jack knew he had to hear it again. And again. From under you. Above you. Behind you. In the shower. On his couch. In his truck—fuck.
He was already idly rubbing himself, but as the white noise in his head turned to vivid fantasy, he paused to spit into his hand. With fluid motions now, he released his cock from his boxers and slid his hand up and down his length. The tip of his cock was weeping precum, and his hand would swirl around the head every other upstroke to glide back down with liquid ease. The steady breathing that came with sleep he could now hear through the wall, and the visual came to life in his mind. You, laid bare for him, against a comforter like an angel reclining in a cloud. Bliss painting your features with a red blush that crept from your cheekbones down to those perfect breasts. You’d look up at him, barely awake, and whisper his name to coax him to join.
Jack.
He spilled onto his hand and stomach in an instant, mouth sealed shut. Strained moans exhaled out as his free hand flew to his mattress to hang on as the orgasm pushed him into free fall. His fingertips made brief contact with his phone screen as they gripped the sheets, sending out a mistake he wasn’t going to realize he made until morning.
Jack, 12:19am: Just heard you get home. Sounds like it must’ve been a hell of a rough day of travel. You worked hard, now get some rest, you earned it, sweetheart! ❤️