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It’s barely five. The city outside’s still half-asleep — the early bus heaves past, someone’s dog barks twice, then quiet again. Samira’s room holds that stale warmth of waking in sheets that should’ve been changed weeks ago. She’s half-dressed, hair up in a ragged clip, prowling the foot of her bed with one sock in her fist and no pair in sight.
The floor is cold under her toes. The laundry pile is a liar — nothing but a tangle of black scrubs and a pair of sweatpants she’s owned since high school that she can’t remember last washing. She kicks a shoe aside, crouches to peer under the dresser, mutters something half-formed under her breath. Abbot’s voice floats up from the bed, dry with sleep he’s obviously not even trying to reclaim.
“Swear you’ve been at this for ten minutes.”
She shoots him a look — half a glare, half pleading. “One second.”
He shifts, mattress creaking, sheets pulling low over his hips. He’s shirtless — unfair — hair mussed, smirk already visible in the half-light. She kicks the laundry heap. It offers nothing.
“You know,” he says, dry, “some people fold those.”
“Don’t start.”
He reaches down the side of the mattress, fishing like he’s searching for change under a car seat. A muffled thunk. His hand comes back up: her sock, pinched between two fingers, toe gaping open with a hole big enough to see daylight through, if there were any.
“You looking for this?” He wiggles it. “Or is this another one entirely? Hard to tell with your filing system.”
She lunges for it — misses. He flicks it just out of reach, that crooked grin sharper now. “Do you wear this on shift?”
“Give it—”
“Real question. As your sometimes-attending, I’m just wondering about, uh, sterility standards.”
“It’s the only pair I can find, Jack. Give me my fucking sock.”
He tilts his head, eyes flicking down her bare thigh where her shirt’s riding up. His teeth catch on his lower lip, just once. She knows he’s clocking everything: the warmth blooming under her collarbone, the sharp inhale she’s too tired to disguise. He twirls the sock on one finger. “Steep ask.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m really lowballing myself here,” he drawls. “But I’ll trade you.”
“For a holey sock?”
“For a kiss,” he says, lips pulling sideways. “Seems fair.”
“Be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.” He lets it drop lower, halfway to her, then tugs it back. “One good kiss.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You knew that before you let me stay over.” His voice dips, that raspy edge that means he’s too awake now to play nice. “Come on. Fair trade.”
“Oh my god.” She’s half-laughing, half-exasperated. She reaches, but he hooks his hand around her wrist, pulls her in like gravity was always on his side. She braces her hand on his chest, warm skin under her palm, a heartbeat that doesn’t help her think straight. The sock drops somewhere — she doesn’t see where.
“You’re gonna make me late,” she mutters.
“I’m gonna make you come first.”
“Jack—”
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re not.”
He pulls her down and her mouth hits his, half-laugh, half-protest caught in his teeth. His hand fists in the back of her shirt, drags her in so close her hips slot over his thigh, cheap coil springs squealing under them both. She can feel him — that unmistakable press — before she even thinks about moving. Huffs a breath that might be annoyance if her fingers weren’t already sliding into his hair.
“Thought you were in a rush,” he murmurs, mouth hot at her neck, tongue grazing the pulse there. “Better get on with it, then.”
She wants to slap him. She wants to grind down on him until he loses that smug note. So she does, tilts her hips forward, feels him grunt into her shoulder. His hand slides under her, rough palm meeting the slick heat between her thighs. She bites down on his shoulder, not gentle. He just laughs, low and delighted.
“Don’t—” she starts, but he slides two fingers in, curls them just right. Her hips stutter. “Fuck. Jack—”
“Mm?” His lips find the underside of her jaw, working the words right out of her. “You were saying?”
“I’m— I’m gonna be—”
“Late,” he finishes for her, thumb circling slow but certain, that medical precision gone lazy, gone selfish. “Yeah. Worth it.”
She lets out a sound that would make her want to die if anyone else ever heard it. He shifts them, flips her under him, her knees spread open around his hips. The sock’s nowhere. He doesn’t care. She doesn’t either.
“Fifteen minutes,” he murmurs. “Maybe twenty.”
“You said you’re efficient.”
He kisses her shoulder, teeth nipping. “I lied.”
When Samira finally walks into shift — hair damp at the ends, two socks that don’t match, twenty minutes late — Dana barely looks up from her monitor. Just lifts an eyebrow, grin at the side of her mouth like she knows exactly what those twenty minutes cost and who she’d invoice for them if she could.