Chapter Text
Jack Abbot is a creature of habit. Structure and routine are infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough.
He likes to stay busy; working nights at PTMC, helping out as a field medic for SWAT, going for a run every other morning, and squeezing in the gym four to five times a week. And every Sunday morning, when it reaches 10 a.m. and the city lazily turns in motion, Jack sits out on his balcony with a mug of coffee and tunes into a half hour episode of his favorite show.
The single mom in apartment seventeen.
Large windows that offer a clear view of the inside of your apartment; a mirror layout to his, like all complexes in Vanguard Plaza, but furnished in the most eclectic and chaotic way. The building wraps in a U-shape, your balcony doors propped open, and just like every Sunday, music pours through your kitchen and drifts across the barely thirty-foot space to Jack’s balcony.
The first Sunday that Jack noticed the presence of new neighbors, you were blaring nothing but Tame Impala. Week two was Fleetwood Mac. Week three was a mix of Lynyrd Skynyrd and Adele. Week four was filled with anything and everything country, and last week consisted of Paolo Nutini.
This morning, it’s Nelly Furtado’s entire discography.
Like every Sunday, Jack sits and listens. Echoes of loud giggles and shouts of singing from two sets of healthy lungs. Watches from a distance; ungraceful twirls, obnoxiously playful dancing, until a small body is standing on the counter and dancing too.
The girls in apartment seventeen have wiggled beneath his ribcage and into a secret crevice of his heart. The place that warms every time he hears the laughter, every time he watches the most wholesome mommy-daughter time.
He doesn’t know your name, nor your daughters. But he knows you love music, that it’s bled into your child in the most copy and paste way. She dances like you, uses wooden spoons for microphones, chopsticks for drum sticks, and her imagination for an electric guitar.
It makes Jack’s heart swell and sting at the same time.
His wife didn’t want children, a decision that he always told himself he was okay with. They were both slight workaholics, both too selfish to give up the idea of financial freedom. She didn’t think she’d be a good mom, no matter how much Jack disagreed. And then she died.
Left Jack with nothing but fading memories and a big house that felt too suffocating until he sold it five years ago. He keeps her photo in his wallet, a frame on his nightstand, his wedding band around his finger. Six months married and then she was gone. They didn’t even make it on their honeymoon.
Perhaps that’s why he relishes these Sunday mornings. He knew he’d never have that life with his wife, he knows he most probably won’t ever…but it’s a secret desire he wishes for. So he tucks it deep away, close to his chest, close to his wife.
The bitter coffee doesn’t chase the ache away. It still festers beneath his ribs, an itch that he can’t rid himself from. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just allows you to grow around it.
Jack allows himself five more minutes in the captivity of apartment seventeen before retreating back inside in search of sleep.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
“Phoebe, Grandma's on the phone!”
You hear the tornado of flat feet smacking against the floor before you even finish your sentence. Your mom laughs on the screen, a screech of excitement tearing through the three-year-olds throat as she barrels onto the couch and snatches the phone from your grasp.
“Hi, Diva.” She beams wide, panting for breath and attempting to swat the sweaty hair from her face. “Are you coming to my house to play today?”
You bark out a laugh at that, her unashamed favoritism when it came to your mom.
“Not today, pickle. Grandma is on vacation with Grandpa, remember?”
Phoebe huffs and nods. “Can you bring me back a fridge magnet?” She asks instead, a question both you and your mom saw coming.
Your eyes dart over to the refrigerator. Covered in magnets and drawings and post cards… you’ll have to do some reorganising if she wants to fit another one on there.
“Absolutely, I’ll even bring you back some new shoes.”
Your eyes roll fondly when Phoebe’s lights up, an excited squeal falling from her lips as she nods her head vigorously. You press a kiss to her head before leaving her on the couch, pulling the phone closer to her face to speak.
Their conversation is a muffled background noise as you start to clean up the mess of her toys, the thirty-something articles of clothing strewn across the floor from her fashion show this afternoon. Plastic princess heels, a tiara, fairy wings…you’re sure she has a pirate’s outfit somewhere in the mess, too.
Your eyes flick to the time flashing on the microwave. 16:30.
Your shoulders drop, heart sinking. Thirty minutes late, you can try to hold out hope. But when it gets to the hour mark, you know it’s yet another no-show. Another night of tears with Pheebs and fast thinking on your part to distract her.
You learnt your lessons months ago. You know better than to tell her when she’s supposed to be seeing him. It only sets her up for disappointment and resentment. Let her come to the decision about him when she’s old enough to understand. Not when she’s three, upset and feeling like he doesn’t want to spend time with her.
You’ll shelter her from the truth of him for as long as you possibly can.
Throwing her outfits into her dress-up box in the corner of the lounge, you turn to your daughter with a heavy heart and the brightest smile you can muster.
“Alright, Diva. Go put your shoes on, let's go out for pizza.”
Phoebe doesn’t even offer your mom a goodbye. She throws the phone to the side of the couch and leaps to her feet, little legs scurrying toward her bedroom to no doubt retrieve the bright pink Crocs she’s recently become obsessed with.
You reach for your phone, sharing an exasperated laugh with your mom before she settles and tilts her head at you through the screen.
“What’s the excuse this time?” she asks.
You sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine. No calls or texts, just a no-show.”
Your mom’s lips form into a thin line, a look of disapproval that only ever seems to be reserved for him. “I take it Pheebs doesn't know?”
You shake your head, toeing your own shoes on as you wait for her. “No, I stopped telling her when she’s supposed to be seeing him months ago. Unnecessary upset, you know?”
Your mom hums, a contemplative look crossing her features. When she notices the disappointment in your eyes, she softens. “You are all that she needs, baby.” She reassures you. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing by her, and you are. But when she’s older, she’ll realize it for herself.”
Shoulders sagging and heart aching, you sigh again. “I know, it’s just not fair on her. Wish I could shield her from it forever, you know?”
“I know, but you are doing fantastic. Me and Dad are so proud of you.”
It’s a struggle to blink back the tears. In truth, you likely wouldn't have coped at all if it weren't for your parents. You were young when you fell pregnant, just shy of turning twenty-three. No real job, no real qualifications. Still living at home and accidentally knocked up by a douche of a boyfriend you were trying to figure out how to break up with.
But your parents…they were a rock for you. They supported whatever decision you wanted to make. They let you stay at home until you had the money to move out, took you to every appointment, helped you turn your dad’s office into a nursery without a hint of annoyance.
Your mom held your hand when you were rushed into hospital to deliver Phoebe, and she sang to you softly when you had to go in for emergency surgery.
Your parents were the ones to encourage you to go back to college. They were the ones to babysit while you worked for your degree, when you had last minute interviews and meetings. And they were the ones you thanked and celebrated with when you finally made it.
When your first book got published and made its way to a New York Times Bestseller within the first week of its release, they were the ones you celebrated with. It was their mortgage you paid off with your very first cheque.
It was only at that point that Tom decided he wanted to be in Phoebe’s life again. That he had apparently made a terrible mistake and wanted to be a ‘family’. You’d allowed him access to his daughter but denied him ever having any access to you.
“Get out of that brilliant head of yours.”
You blink as your mom’s voice drifts you back to the present and you smile, slightly wonky. “Have a cocktail for me and keep Dad away from the dirty martinis. I doubt half of Cabo wants to hear his Elvis impression.”
She barks out a laugh at that, blowing kisses to the phone and promising to call back tomorrow before hanging up.
“Mommy!?” Phoebe calls out to you from her bedroom.
“Coming!” You call back, feet slowly moving you down the hall toward her bedroom. Stopping short with a sigh when her next words echo from her room.
“I pooped my pants again.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Phoebe’s tummy is filled quite comfortably with a veggie pizza and three scoops of chocolate ice cream. A dinner of champions, in her humble opinion, and a day well spent with you.
Her legs bounce her along the marble floors of the complex entrance, a skip in her step which is slightly making you regret that third scoop of ice cream. A sugar rush right before bed is not something you have the energy for.
“Hold up for a moment, baby. Mommy needs to check the mailbox.”
Her sassy huff is the only response you get, but she listens. Trudges back to your side with less enthusiasm than before. You can hear her clicking her tongue and jumping on the spot when you unlock your designated box, rifling through some letters and the package you’ve been eager to receive.
The first print of your newest novel.
It’s not until you’re locking the box back up that you notice Phoebe isn’t to the left of you anymore. Instead, she’s to your far right with her hands behind her back and her small neck craned up to meet the gaze of a middle-aged man walking toward the main front doors.
“Hi, my name is Phoebe." Her small voice speaks at his legs and the man stops short at the sound of it.
His neck whips down to her, a small kiss of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before it morphs into a friendly smile. Jesus Christ.
He blinks at her. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Phoebe. I’m Jack.”
His voice is like slowly crystalizing honey. Soft and smooth yet a slightly raw register as he lowers his tone to address the toddler. You swallow as you watch, a little taken back by the sight of him.
Salt and pepper curls with a mostly salt stubble, slightly tanned skin and bulging biceps that threatened to tear through his––is that a scrub vest—
“Are you a doctor?” Phoebe asks the question aloud that you silently ask in your head.
Jack smiles, nods his head and reaches to pinch the ID badge clipped to the pocket of his pants. “I am.”
You realize yourself then, tucking the mail under an arm and moving to approach the two. Your hand comes to rest on Phoebe’s shoulder and Jack’s eyes lift up your body before settling on your face.
“Sorry, she’s a bit of a social butterfly. She’ll chat your ear off all day if you let her.” It’s a slightly nervously laugh that bubbles from your throat and you’re completely unsure why.
You don’t get nervous. Not usually. But it’s also not every day that your daughter is introducing herself to a hot older man who happens to be a fucking doctor. More than that, and maybe it’s just his age, but it’s also not every day that you meet a man with such intense eye contact.
The moment his gaze meets yours, it doesn’t look away.
Jack laughs breathily, offering an open palm just above Phoebe’s head. “Nothing wrong with that. I’m Jack.”
His tone holds a flirty lilt—light and airy and far too comfortable for someone you’ve just met. Your palm meets his in a gentle greeting, skin rougher than yours, palm bigger than yours. You shake his hand with as much mirth as he does to yours.
“Y/N, this is my daughter, Phoebe.” You say softly, retrieving from his hold and resting your hand back on her shoulder again. “I think you’re the first normal neighbor we’ve met. We only moved in like six weeks ago.”
Jack’s smile widens just an inch as his hand moves to the strap on his backpack, his laugh something understanding, like you already have an inside joke. “Seventeen right?”
Your brows pinch slightly, head tilting. “Yeah… how—”
He points a finger to the ceiling. “I’m fourteen. Your balcony is opposite mine,” he turns his attention to Phoebe with a playful smile. “I’m pretty jealous of yours and mommy’s Sunday morning parties. They sound like a lot of fun.”
Color stains your cheeks but Phoebe grins at that. “We call it Sunday Funk Day. Music, chores, and pancakes for breakfast,” she counts them off on her chubby fingers, her tone slightly bordering authoritative, but Jack only seems more entertained.
“I didn’t realize we had the music on so loud… I’ll keep it down next time.” You apologize quickly. Another thing out of the norm for you. But you’ve been trying to teach Phoebe to be a bit more considerate of other people the older she gets.
Jack waves you off with a scoff. “No way, it’s nice to have a neighbor with good music taste. Not like apartment twelve.” He says the last part a bit quieter, like he too doesn’t want to influence your daughter with his less than kind opinions.
Your eyes widen, the sound of a scoffed laugh scratching the back of your throat. “Is that the crazy bird lady?” You mirror his pitch.
Jack’s lips part. “So that’s what that noise is. I’ve been calling her Chirpy in my head for the last six months.”
You laugh louder at that, stopping yourself just short of snorting. The way he speaks makes you feel strangely warm. His words and voice are relaxed, lazily drawled together with a slight accent that you can’t quite place.
Phoebe scrunches up her nose. “Mommy says people can listen to what they like, but I don’t like screaming music.” She shakes her head.
Jack has to stifle a laugh, expression mirroring yours as you close your eyes and take an exasperated but fond breath. “While I agree with your mommy, I have to say that I agree with you too, kid.”
An insistent buzzing echoes through the silence between you. You notice the brief movement of his hand cupping his pocket, realize that he’s being paged or called but too polite to check or excuse himself.
You squeeze gently on Phoebe’s shoulders. “Okay, we need to get you bathed and ready for bed and I think Jack needs to go to work.”
He offers a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes but doesn’t feel forced. His eyes flick between you and Phoebe, a soft look of fondness relaxing his features for a moment. “It was nice to finally put names and faces to the lovely singing voices I get to hear.”
You smile warmly, albeit a little bashfully, before guiding Phoebe to your side to hold her hand. Jack lets his gaze fall on you again, warmth in his smile as he offers a slight nod.
“Have a good night.” His voice is tender and soft, heavy with security and you don’t understand how it feels so foreign and familiar at the same time.
“You too,” you say softly, turning at the same time he does to go your respective ways.
Phoebe turns her full body to look at him, hand waving frantically in the air. “Bye Doctor Jack!” She shouts at him, despite there being only a ten-foot distance between them.
You turn just in time to see Jack do the same, a small wave of fingers over his shoulder as he shouts back softly, “Bye Phoebe.”
Then he’s gone out of the complex doors and you’re ushering Phoebe into the elevator, unaware of the small smile that curls at the corners of your mouth.
“I like Doctor Jack.” Phoebe hums, pressing the button she has learnt for your floor. You smile down at her as the doors close and the elevator begins to hum and shift.
“Yeah? What do you like about him?”
She shrugs a shoulder, uncommittingly and swipes hair from her face. “He has kind eyes.”
Blinking slowly at her, your heart seizes. You find yourself wondering how your daughter comes up with some of the things that she does, how attuned she is to the people around her and the way her judgement of character grows every day.
You barely know the man, yet you can’t help but agree.
“Yeah, baby. I guess he does.”