Work Text:
The steel framing was wrong.
Samira Mohan stepped over a coiled extension cord, heels clicking across dusty concrete, and narrowed her eyes at the crooked line of vertical beams slicing into the morning light.
"That’s not what we agreed on."
Jack didn’t look up. "Good morning to you too."
She tugged off her sunglasses and squinted. Her coat was black, tailored, and already catching drywall dust like it offended her. Underneath: high-waisted charcoal slacks, crisp white shirt, gold watch, no patience.
“I sent the revision set Monday. Reinforcement pattern changed. You’re short one anchor point on the corner column.”
Jack finally turned. Graying hair under a sweat-darkened cap, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, pencil behind his ear. There was dried concrete on his knuckles and a look on his face like she’d just told him how to pour a fucking sidewalk.
“Prints I got were stamped Thursday. If there’s new plans, they didn’t go through my inbox.”
“They were attached to the email with the soil retest and the change order.”
“You think I read your entire inbox?”
“I think if you’re putting up structural steel, you should be able to read.”
That got a pause. Then: a slow drag of his eyes across her frame, from earrings to boots, unimpressed and obvious.
“You always come dressed like you’re going to court?”
Samira smiled, tight and professional. “You always pour concrete like it’s a personal favor?”
They stood ten feet apart in the middle of a half-gutted future reading room. Scaffolding creaked overhead. Somewhere, a radio played Bon Jovi like it was still 1987. Jack’s crew stayed politely out of earshot.
She tilted her head, tapping the heel of one boot against the floor. “Look. I’m not here to fight with your ego. I’m here because the grant funding requires the structural updates my firm signed off on, and if you want to get paid, you need to build what’s on the goddamn drawings.”
Jack stared for a long beat. His jaw flexed once, like he was chewing down the first three things he wanted to say.
Then he nodded. “I’ll get the guys to redo it.”
Samira blinked. “Seriously?”
“No. But I will check your plans after I finish this coffee.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it could’ve triggered a hard hat warning. “I swear to God.”
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Not unless you want Him to answer.”
She was halfway down the side corridor, checking wall framing against her tablet, when she heard boots behind her.
Samira didn’t turn. “If you’re here to argue about load-bearing language, save it for the next contractor meeting.”
Jack’s voice came low. Closer. “No. I’m here because you walk this jobsite like you own it, and my guys are starting to get confused.”
She turned. Slowly. Her back hit the plywood brace behind her with a soft thud, tablet still in hand. He stopped two feet away. Big, broad, and unbothered.
“Good,” she said. “Maybe they’ll start building it right.”
Jack braced one hand against the frame beside her head. Not touching. But just enough to block her in.
“You talk like you’ve done this before.”
“I have. Five times. Commercial and civic. Want the portfolio?”
“I’ve seen your portfolio. Fancy lines. Lots of glass. Very… conceptual.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Samira tilted her head. “I forgot I was supposed to submit to the Church of Cinder Blocks and Beige Paint.”
His jaw twitched.
“I don’t give a shit about glass,” Jack said, voice quiet now. “But I don’t like being spoken to like I’m an idiot. You want something built right? You work with me. Not over me.”
The air between them was warm. Tight. Her perfume; something subtle, clean, like bergamot and skin, drifted up faintly with the dust.
“And maybe,” he added, “you could lose the attitude for five minutes.”
She smiled, sharp as a boxcutter. “And maybe you could admit I know what the fuck I’m doing.”
That hung for a beat too long.
Neither of them moved.
Then he leaned in, just enough that she could feel his breath at her jaw.
“I’m starting to think you talk like that because you want someone to shut you up.”
Samira’s hand slid across his chest, palm flat against the front of his t-shirt. Not pushing. Just feeling. His heart was steady. Like a threat.
“And what, you think that someone’s you?”
Jack shrugged. “Could be.”
Her fingers tightened in his shirt. He pressed in. She didn’t flinch.
Then she said, “You touch me on a jobsite again and I will have your entire subcontracting team blacklisted by 8 a.m.”
Jack grinned. “There she is.”
He stepped back. She adjusted her coat like it hadn’t happened.
“Fix the framing,” she said. “And buy better coffee.”
The trailer was empty except for them.
Samira stood with her arms crossed, back to the wall, coat half off and shirt slightly wrinkled. She looked like she hadn’t blinked since she stepped in.
Jack shut the door behind him without asking.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” she said. “Your framing or your attitude.”
Jack didn’t flinch. Just leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossed. “You come here just to run your mouth, or are you actually going to fix something?”
“I fix plenty. You just keep fucking it up after I leave.”
He huffed. “I’ve worked with plenty of architects. None of them needed to be this dramatic about every goddamn anchor bolt.”
“And none of them had to babysit your crew through basic code compliance.”
That got him to move. Slowly. Deliberately. His boots echoed over the trailer floor as he stepped closer, stopping just short of her space.
"You always this loud when you’re wrong?”
“I’m never wrong.” She didn’t step back. “You just don’t like being told what to do by someone younger. And prettier.”
He laughed, low and mean. “You think I give a fuck what you look like?”
She smirked, jaw tight. “No. I think you pretend not to.”
A beat. Then his hand landed hard on the wall next to her head. Not touching her. Just close enough to make her breathe differently.
“I think,” he said, low and steady, “you just like hearing yourself talk. Must be exhausting.”
She didn’t blink. Just shoved him, hard, with both hands to the chest.
He stumbled a step back. Then grinned. “That all you got?”
“You want more?”
She grabbed his shirt. Yanked. Kissed him like it was a punishment.
It was rough. Filthy. Loud.
They barely got the table cleared before she was hoisting herself up onto it, slacks shoved down just far enough, hands in his hair, dragging his mouth down her neck with a gasp.
Jack cursed into her skin. His jeans were undone, his hand already between her thighs, and she was soaked.
“Fuck,” he muttered, fingers slick. “You’re unreal.”
“Shut up and do something, ” she snapped.
He did.
She shoved a condom into his hand without looking. “Don’t get any ideas, Abbot.”
He rolled it on fast, no argument. She didn’t play with risk. Not with him, not with anyone.
She came hard, back arching, boots banging against the table legs. She bit down on his shoulder to stay quiet and still ended up cursing his name.
“Better?” he muttered, panting, forehead pressed to her sternum.
She shoved him again, this time just because. “You’re still not off the hook for the beam spacing.”
He kissed her again. Slower. Just once.
Then pulled back. “Next time, bring better specs.”
She hopped off the table, pulling her shirt straight. “Next time, keep your mouth shut unless it’s useful.”
Jack buckled his belt. “Next time, lock the door.”
She smirked. “Scared someone might catch you getting fucked by the girl you can’t stand?”
Jack grabbed her wrist. Pulled her in close. “Who says I can’t stand you?”
She blinked. Just once.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she whispered.
He let go.
“You leaving?” he asked.
She opened the trailer door without answering. Paused in the doorway.
Then: “Same time tomorrow?”
Jack didn’t look at her. Just said, “Yeah.”
And she was gone.
Samira showed up ten minutes early.
Which was exactly how Jack knew she was avoiding him.
She was in dark sunglasses, sleek slacks, a slate-gray turtleneck tucked into a blazer with sharp shoulders. Hair tied back in a clean, low knot. Fully composed. Not a strand out of place.
Except for the faint mark at her jaw.
Which Jack had put there.
She hadn’t covered it. Which maybe meant nothing. Maybe meant everything.
He didn’t ask.
She walked the site like usual. Fast, focused, tablet in hand, but never once looked in his direction.
Jack kept his eyes on the stairwell frame, running tape and mumbling about rebar density. He wasn’t avoiding her. He just had shit to do. Which happened to be on the opposite side of the site from where she was.
Mostly.
Until she stepped into the break area.
He glanced up from the cooler. Just for a second.
Samira blinked. Then looked past him like he was insulation foam.
“Morning,” one of the junior crew guys said, offering her the last cup of coffee in the carafe. “Want it?”
Samira took it, murmured a thanks, and sipped. Her lips curled immediately. “Jesus. What the fuck is this?”
Jack spoke before he could stop himself. “Same shit you liked last night.”
The whole site seemed to pause.
Samira didn’t flinch. Just sipped again, slow. “Mm. No. Last night had some actual bite to it.”
“Must’ve been your perfume,” he muttered.
One of the crew guys coughed. Someone else bailed with a muttered “gonna go check the drywall.”
Samira leaned against the counter. Cool as ever. “Anyway. I need revised beam spacing and a new timeline by lunch. No surprises this time.”
Jack stepped closer. Just one step. She didn't move.
“You gonna micromanage every inch?”
“If I don’t, someone starts eyeballing clearances like it’s horseshoes.”
Their eyes locked. For half a breath too long.
Then she pushed off the counter, nodded to the coffee, and said, “Seriously. Fix that.”
And walked out.
Ten minutes later, Jack was back by the framing, eyes narrowed, measuring tape steady. His forearm ached a little. Probably from bracing her against the table last night. He rolled his shoulder and got back to work.
From the corner of the site, he heard someone mutter, “You think they hate each other or—?”
“Don’t,” came another voice. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”
Jack didn’t smile, but he didn’t correct them either.
The inspector was early.
Samira hated that.
She also hated that Jack looked completely unfazed about it, leaning against a stack of joint compound buckets like he wasn’t still tracking dust from the mezzanine framing check.
“Perimeter sheathing’s sealed?” the inspector asked, flipping through her clipboard.
“Every panel,” Jack said. “We used ZIP System. Flashing’s dry.”
The inspector made a pleased noise. Samira stood beside her, tablet in hand, fingers frozen on a punch list she hadn’t updated in twenty minutes.
“You’re running MEP rough-ins next week?” the inspector asked.
“Monday,” Jack said. “Unless Mohan here changes the ceiling profile again.”
Samira didn’t look at him. “Your duct guy routed like he’s never seen a soffit before.”
“Tell him that,” Jack said. “He cried when I asked for a new plenum cut.”
The inspector chuckled. Samira did not.
Because Jack, smug and dusty and still smug, was suddenly being efficient. Responsible. Wearing the hell out of that old work shirt with the sleeves pushed up and the pencil still tucked behind his ear. She watched him talk code compliance like it was foreplay, scratching at his jaw with one finger, leaving a streak of gypsum powder in his beard.
Her mouth went dry.
No.
This wasn’t happening.
Not on city time.
The inspection wrapped in under 40 minutes. No flags. No rework needed. The inspector shook Jack’s hand. Gave Samira a nod.
“This one’s running a tight ship,” she said. “Good pick.”
Samira blinked. “I didn’t pick him.”
Jack just smiled. That smug, one-dimple, war-criminal smile.
“She’s warming up,” he said. “Takes a few phases.”
Samira didn’t answer. She just turned and walked back to the trailer before she did something insane. Like thank him.
Samira slammed her tablet down and grabbed her phone like she wanted to throw it across the trailer.
TRINITY (11:37 AM)
how’s your little work husband today
SAMIRA (11:38 AM)
he’s not my anything
he’s a smug dust-covered asshole with one functioning knee and no respect for modern design
i hope he steps on a nail
TRINITY (11:38 AM)
jesus
what did he do now
SAMIRA (11:39 AM)
talked code compliance like he invented it
said “flashing’s dry” with that stupid voice i could hear the smirk
i hate him
TRINITY (11:39 AM)
mhm
and yet you are texting me about him again
SAMIRA (11:40 AM)
because i’m professionally obligated to vent before i commit a felony
TRINITY (11:40 AM)
right
has nothing to do with the fact that he’s tall and grumpy and fills out those shirts
SAMIRA (11:41 AM)
fuck you
TRINITY (11:41 AM)
just say you wanna kiss him or kill him or both
SAMIRA (11:41 AM)
i want him to suffer
preferably in a structural collapse
one that i design
but yeah ok maybe he looked kind of hot explaining subfloor joist spacing
so what
TRINITY (11:42 AM)
girl.
It was 7:14 p.m.
The site was dead quiet. Equipment packed, crew gone, the last echo of a circular saw long faded. The sky outside was soft and bruised, all purples and ash.
Samira stood in the trailer doorway, still in heels that clicked too sharply against the metal step, holding a manila folder she didn’t actually need. Her hair had fallen out of its twist, soft curls brushing her collarbone. Her face was neutral, unreadable.
Jack was on the desk. Chewing the cap of a pen, hunched over a rolled-out blueprint, sleeves shoved to his elbows. Dust on his forearm, scuff on one boot. Looked like he hadn’t left all day.
“You need something?” His voice was low. Lazy, even.
She held up the folder. “New elevations for the front vestibule. Wanted to make sure you got the CAD update.”
“I did.”
She stayed in the doorway. Didn’t move.
He stood up.
Crossed the trailer in three slow steps.
Took the folder from her hand. Didn’t bother opening it.
“You drove here just to give me that?”
Her voice didn’t waver. “No.”
Jack didn’t smirk, but it was close. He smelled like sawdust and concrete dust and the kind of sweat that clung after a long shift. He looked at her, and something behind his eyes shifted.
“You’re gonna kiss me again,” he said.
She didn’t blink. “No, I’m not.”
He reached past her and flipped the lock on the trailer door.
A quiet metallic click.
Samira exhaled through her nose. “Oh my god,” she muttered. She was furious and turned on and furious about being turned on.
Jack’s mouth was at her neck before she could finish the curse. Not soft. Not sweet. Just a scrape of stubble and warm breath as his hand flattened against her lower back, pulling her in.
She shoved him. Hard. Not enough to stop him. Just enough to make a point.
“I hate you.”
“You drove here in heels.”
“I didn’t—”
“You left your coat in the car.”
She opened her mouth, but he kissed her. Full, rough, like he knew she’d taste like frustration and didn’t care.
When she bit his bottom lip, he groaned into her mouth. She gripped his shirt like it insulted her. He walked her back until her hips bumped the desk, never breaking contact.
The back of her thighs hit the desk hard.
Samira cursed, but it came out like a gasp. Jack kissed her again, deeper this time, like he meant to taste every last bit of restraint she had left. His hands slid down her sides, fingers catching the edge of her blazer, yanking it open.
“Watch it,” she muttered, mouth pressed against his. “That’s custom.”
“You wore it to a jobsite.”
“You wore that smug fucking expression all day, but you don’t see me ripping it off your face.”
Jack didn’t laugh. He leaned in and ran his mouth down the line of her neck, biting just enough to make her flinch. One hand braced the small of her back, the other slid lower, past the hem of her shirt, calloused fingers dragging over her bare waist.
“Say it again,” he muttered.
“Say what?”
“That you hate me.”
Samira tipped her head back, hair spilling over her shoulder. “I do. I hate your dumb voice. I hate your stupid boots. I hate how your jaw clenches every time someone questions your site logistics. I hate your emails.”
“You read my emails?”
“Just to get pissed off.”
Jack kissed her like he didn’t care what else she had to say. One of his hands was on her thigh now, slipping under the slit of her slacks, fingertips rough, knuckles grazing heat. He smelled like sweat and concrete and whatever fucking cologne he used to pretend he wasn’t working sixteen hours a day.
She dragged her hands down his chest, gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it up over his head. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t slow down. His skin was warm, torso lean and broad, scarred in places she wanted to ask about but wouldn’t. Not tonight.
When she reached for his belt, he caught her wrist.
“You think you’re running this?”
“I’m on top.”
“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
Jack spun her around, bent her over the desk.
Prints crinkled beneath her palms.
“You are such a—” She didn’t finish the insult. His hand was already pushing past the waistband of her slacks, rough fingers dragging over soaked fabric.
“You come here to yell at me,” he said, mouth right at her ear, “and leave soaking wet every time.”
“Fuck you.”
“You will.”
They didn’t bother stripping all the way. Just enough. Clothes pushed aside, bruises blooming with every grab, every slap of skin. Jack worked like he did everything else. Focused, relentless, deliberate. His hips slammed into hers with rhythm, not grace. He grunted when she clenched around him, cursed when she hissed his name.
She bit the edge of her thumb to keep quiet.
He pulled it out of her mouth.
“Let me hear you.”
“Someone could—”
“No one’s here but me.”
He fucked her like she wasn’t the architect, like she wasn’t the one who set the plans. She clawed at the desk, papers sliding, breath shallow. His hand stayed firm at her hip, prosthetic leg braced behind him without hesitation, rhythm steady.
When she came, it ripped through her in silence first. Then she swore, low and wrecked, the sound swallowed by the weight of him.
He didn’t last long after that. She felt him curse, jaw tight against her shoulder, his whole body going still.
They didn’t move for a minute.
When he pulled out, she pushed herself up on trembling elbows. Fixed her hair. Her voice came rough.
“That’s not going to change anything.”
Jack leaned against the desk, grabbing for his shirt. “Didn’t ask it to.”
Samira tucked herself in, adjusting her blouse. She grabbed the crumpled elevations from the floor.
“You’re still wrong about the vestibule spacing,” she said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you’re still gonna come back tomorrow.”
It was the next day.
Midmorning. Loud. Busy. Dust in the air and too many boots stomping around Level 2.
Samira was walking the floor with a structural engineer, double-checking beam spacing on the mezzanine. Her hair was tied up high, pencil behind her ear, navy jumpsuit rolled to the elbows. She looked pissed. She was pissed.
Jack spotted her from across the site, clipboard in hand, barking something about steel delivery delays. She didn’t look at him. Not even once.
Which was exactly why he walked up anyway.
“You need to rerun clearance at the southeast exit,” she said before he could open his mouth. “ADA minimums were off by two inches.”
“I know,” he replied. “Already marked it.”
She blinked. “Really?”
Jack shrugged. “You were right.”
Samira narrowed her eyes, immediately suspicious.
He looked her over, his eyes skating across her face like it was part of the blueprint then nodded toward the mezzanine.
“You always catch the shit no one else sees.”
It wasn’t a compliment. Not exactly. But it landed like one.
Samira stared at him for a second too long.
Then: “What do you want?”
“Nothing.” He was already walking away. “Just saying.”
She turned back to the engineer. Completely silent.
“Everything okay?” the guy asked.
Samira didn’t answer. She just checked her tablet. Then clicked her pen so hard the clip snapped off.
Most of the crew was gone. The last cement truck pulled out twenty minutes ago. A fine layer of dust still clung to the air. The light through the trailer blinds was gold and soft, hitting just enough to make the interior look less like a job site and more like a memory.
Jack was inside, alone. Blueprint tube under one arm, a cup of gas station coffee steaming on the table. He was flipping through install notes when the trailer door creaked.
Samira stepped in. She didn’t knock.
“Got a second?”
Jack looked up, one eyebrow raised. “That depends.”
She held up a printed cross-section, folded clean. “You’re installing the lateral bracing two days early.”
“That a complaint?”
“No. Just wondering why.”
He took the sheet from her hand. Their fingers brushed. Her jaw tensed.
“You always this curious off the clock?”
“I don’t turn off.”
Jack gave a slow nod, walked back to the table, and set the drawing beside the blueprints. “Extra crew coming Thursday. Figured I’d get ahead of it.”
Samira didn’t move.
After a beat, she added, “It’s smart.”
He looked at her. Really looked at her. Not the stare from across a jobsite, not the smirk that meant he was about to say something that’d piss her off. Just... looked. Like he was trying to solve a math problem he suddenly didn’t hate.
“That sounded almost like a compliment,” he said.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
She moved closer. Jacket still on, eyes sharp. Jack could smell the soap she used. Clean, citrus, something faintly floral beneath the sweat and concrete.
“Why’d you actually say that earlier?” she asked. “About me catching things.”
He shrugged. “You do.”
“Since when do you admit it?”
Jack looked down at the table. Then up again, slower this time.
“Since I stopped pretending you annoy me more than you impress me.”
That shut her up.
Samira swallowed. Her coat was still on. Her fingers flexed where they rested on the edge of the table.
Jack leaned back against the desk. “You okay?”
She blinked once. “No.”
“Good,” he said, voice low. “I’m not either.”
Samira didn’t move.
Jack didn’t either.
The trailer was quiet except for the hum of the desk fan and some distant clang of scaffolding being taken down. Her eyes flicked to his hands. They were dirty, scraped, still holding the edge of the table like he needed something solid.
“You’re such an asshole,” she said, not even angry.
Jack huffed. “Not news.”
“No, but it’s like… a practiced skill. You get off on it.”
He grinned. “Not the only thing I get off on.”
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse jumped anyway. He saw it. Didn’t mention it.
“I like fighting with you,” she said suddenly. Too suddenly. “Like, actually like it. I think that’s fucked up.”
Jack scratched his jaw, slow. “It’s not.”
“It is. You’re—you’re like a human shovel. You dig your heels in and make everything worse.”
“And you love being right so bad you argue with drywall.”
She barked out a laugh. Short. Unintentional.
Then quieter: “Why is this easy?”
Jack stepped closer.
“Because we’re not pretending.”
Samira looked at him, eyes sharp but something in her chest loosening.
He didn’t touch her. Just stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, smell sawdust and coffee and sun-warmed cotton.
Her eyes dropped to his hands again.
“Okay, gross,” she muttered. “Don’t touch anything until you wash those.”
Jack blinked. “We’re literally in an active site.”
“Exactly. And it’s the end of the day. There’s no excuse.”
He opened his mouth like he was going to argue then sighed, walked to the sink in the corner, and started scrubbing with a grimy bar of soap that barely lathered.
“You missed your knuckles,” she called.
“I’ll survive,” he muttered.
She waited. Watched. Said nothing else until he returned, drying his hands on an old rag.
Then he said, softer now, “You had lunch?”
Samira blinked. “What?”
“You were on your feet for five hours straight. Didn’t see you eat.”
“I—”
He reached into the mini-fridge behind the desk. Pulled out a wrapped sandwich and a lukewarm bottle of iced tea. Set them on the table in front of her.
“Take it,” he said.
She stared at the food. Then at him.
“You’re not gonna say why you brought that, huh?”
Jack shrugged. “Didn’t bring it for you.”
“Then why’d you keep it cold?”
“I like my lies subtle.”
She didn’t thank him. Just unwrapped the sandwich, sat on the edge of the desk, and took a bite like it wasn’t her first meal all day.
He leaned against the wall across from her.
Samira chewed, swallowed, then said, voice low: “You’re still on thin ice.”
Jack smirked. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”