ʟᴜᴄʏ

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Jack grew up driving a stick shift. It was completely normal to him, so when he finally settled down in Pittsburgh and was able to use some of his money for fun, he decided to get a vehicle that reminded him of his youth. Something he remembered riding in with his grandmother on trips to the grocery store. Something classic, uncomplicated. 

When the listing for the truck came across his feed, he didn’t have much hope, simply curiosity. The kind of listing you click on out of curiosity more than anything. But after a week, he kept thinking about it, so, he messaged the seller and set up a time to see it in person. After seeing it in person, he saw the potential. The same kind of potential he had learned to see in other things, before he even realized he was doing it. 

The kind of potential he had seen in you, when you first met. Now, nearly a year and a half into your relationship, you still hadn’t had the chance to take Jack’s precious 1976 Ford F100. It was simple. A cream colored body with a forest green roof that still looked beautiful despite years of wear. Much like Jack himself. 

So, this summer, during the week both of you had taken off for a little vacation to the mountains, you finally asked him to teach you. 

“Jack, please,” You whined, “I know how to drive my car, how hard can it really be?” 

He glances up at you from the wordsearch in the newspaper he’s currently working on, “Sweetheart, you’re gonna hate it.” 

“It’s a car.” You counter. 

“No.” He laughs, sipping his coffee, “It’s a truck. With a manual transmission.” 

“Don’t you want your fun, sexy, youthful girlfriend to be even more attractive because she knows how to drive stick?” You tease.

But Jack hears the plea in your tone. The yearning to learn, part of it surprises him. He wasn’t aware that you actually had any desire to learn how to drive the truck. He always figured you were just along for the ride. 

He sets his mug down and scoots back, patting his lap. You’re immediately sitting down, hanging your legs over his and looking down at him as he plays with your hair. 

“You’re serious?” He whispers. 

You smile, scrunching your nose in that way Jack has never quite figured out how you do it, because it’s so incredibly you. 

“Yes I wanna learn,” You laugh. 

He looks at you in the eyes for a brief moment, “Well, okay then, let’s do this.” 

You squeal and put both hands on either side of his face as you pull him in for a kiss, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” 

Jack squeezes your thigh in response and you feel the smile on his lips as you kiss him. 

You stand up and grab the keys from the table, swaying your hips as you dangle them in the air, walking toward the front door of the rental cabin. 

Jack shakes his head with a grin, before standing up and following you. He keeps his distance for a moment before sneaking up behind you and putting both hands on your waist as he spins you around and pushes you against the door of the truck. 

You’re breathless as you look up at him, biting your lip with excitement. 

“You sure you trust me, soldier?” You smirk. 

He raises his eyebrows, “Depends on if you can follow my commands.” 

“Oh I think you and I both know how good I am at following your commands.” 

Jack looks up, the kind of look he gets when you say something to embarrass him in front of strangers. The dear-god-please-help-me kind of look. He leans down and kisses your jaw, while his other hand reaches behind you to grab the door handle and pull it open as he pulls away from you. 

“Ladies first.” 

You giddily hop into the driver’s seat. The familiar scent of leather wafting through the air. It’s strange being on this side of the bench, you’re so used to it being Jack over here. You normally never hear the end of it from him when you ultimately swing your legs up onto the bench and place them in his lap. He’ll go on and on about how dangerous it is, but ultimately give in as his free hand reaches down to gently massage your feet. 

You glance at the space between your assigned seats, the one that belongs to you, and the one that belongs to him. And you know, even after today, this seat will always be his. 

“Alright,” Jack starts as he gets settled in the passenger seat, “There’s three main things to think about when driving a manual.” 

You snort, “Okay dad.” 

Jack glares at you, but it holds no real weight, “I’m serious, this isn’t like your Camry, baby.” 

You smile and your shoulders soften, “Okay, okay, go on.” 

“Clutch. Gear. Gas. That’s it. The rest is just timing.” 

“So it’s exactly like my Camry.” You counter. 

He lifts both hands in mock surrender, “If you wanna try to drive it like your Camry, be my guest. It’s not gonna work though.” 

You try to turn the key to start the truck. Nothing. You frown, it didn’t even try to turn over. You turn the key again. Still nothing. You look at Jack, only to see him sitting there, arms crossed, with a satisfied smirk on his lips. 

“Clutch isn’t in.” He says, it comes out gentler than you expect. 

You feel the heat making its way to your cheeks. You take your right foot over to press the clutch down. 

“Woah woah woah, baby use your left foot.” He says. 

“My dad always taught me-” 

“You gotta use both feet for a manual.” Jack explains, “Left foot works the clutch, right foot works the gas and brakes.” 

You take a grounding breath and shake out the tension in your shoulders before trying again. Left foot pressing down the clutch, right foot pressing the brake like Jack instructs you. You turn the key and feel the engine roar to life. The familiar growl of the exhaust brings a smile to your face. Without thinking your left foot comes off the clutch and the entire truck jolts as the engine turns off again. 

“What happened?” You whine, already frustrated, hands clutching the wheel like the truck itself has personally betrayed you. 

“Truck’s in first gear, you let off the clutch without pressing on the gas.” Jack explains, cooly. 

“Why does there have to be so many steps?” You grumble before trying again. 

The truck successfully starts. This time you leave your feet planted to the floor, keeping the clutch and brake in place, too stubborn to mess up again.

You sigh in relief, “Ok. What next?” 

He smiles, “Now, you’re gonna take your right foot and slowly press on the gas as you ease off the clutch.” 

You gently press down one foot while lifting the other and feel the engine catch. The truck starts gently rolling forward. 

You turn to Jack wide eyed, “Oh my gosh! I did it!” 

“Good girl.” He smiles, a hint of pride making its way through. 

You look up at the long driveway ahead of you, the truck is only rolling at about 5 miles an hour, but it feels like a success. 

“Now,” Jack continues, “If you want to go faster, you’ll hold down the clutch again and shift gears. You’ll bring the gear shift all the way to the left and down.” 

You nod your head, biting your lip in concentration. Your left foot makes its move, your right hand tries to bring the gear shift over, and you forget to press on the gas as you let off the clutch. Another lurch brings the truck to a halt. You press down on the break and groan in frustration. 

“This is so hard.” You growl, “I literally work in the OR every day doing brain surgery. Brain surgery, Jack. And you’re telling me I can’t drive a stupid truck.” 

Jack purses his lips for a moment before responding, “First, don’t call her stupid. Second, you’re doing everything right, baby.” 

You stare at him, obviously unimpressed. 

He laughs quietly, “It’s just about the timing. It’s like…” 

“A dance.” You deadpan, having heard the phrase used in movies with situations much like your own. 

“You’re overthinking it, hon,” He tries again, “Think of it like the OR.” 

Your eyebrows raised, confused, “Okay. Keep going.” 

“When you’re in the middle of a case and you’re assisting whoever else is up there, you have to anticipate their needs right?” 

You nod, still listening. 

“So you prepare for that. You continue doing what you need, while getting ready for what they need. And when they’re ready, the hand off is clean. Precise.” 

“So your precious truck is Dr. Walsh?” You say. 

Jack closes his eyes with a laugh, “You’re not just reacting to the truck,” He pushes, “You’re staying ahead of it.” 

You take a deep breath. Fingers feeling the leather stitching on the steering wheel. Letting your feet feel the pressure of the pedals. Body adjusting in the seat, ready. And Jack sees it, the fire behind your eyes. The same look he’s seen a million times before you head up to scrub in on a case. 

“There she is.” He murmurs. 

It sends a jolt of encouragement through you, and the next attempt couldn’t be called steady or confident by any means, but it’s successful. It’s a start. 

Jack doesn’t say anything until he assesses the situation and evaluates if you really need the help or not. The small drive around the campgrounds takes almost ten minutes. There are a few stalls here and there, but overall, you’re proud of the little confidence you’ve gained learning to drive an entirely new kind of transmission. 

When you finally get back to the cabin, you’re sweating. Not because of the heat, but because of the tension that finally releases from your shoulders after you put the truck in park. 

“Ready to drive us home tomorrow?” Jack asks, hopping out of the truck and coming over to your side, helping you down. 

For a moment you think he’s being serious. 

“Fuck no.” You laugh. 

He smiles. 

“That’s okay,” He says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “I don’t think I’d make a good passenger princess anyway.”

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.

“I actually agree with you for once,” the body beside you grumbles, effectively sending you into tachycardia.

“Fuck!” You shriek and leap out of the bed, the blankets tripping you up. The lack of balance from the hangover sends you crashing to the ground.

Your breathing starts to slow as the figure sits up. Thank god. It’s just Walsh. Not some rando who followed you back to your hotel room.

A new, more terrifying realization sends your stomach roiling. Why is Emery Walsh in bed with you?

Your heart rattles as you glance down to find yourself fully clothed… in your silk, thigh-length teddy. Your hand floats over your hipbone. To your relief, the waistband of underwear answers your next question.

Of about a thousand.

"What are…" you immediately scramble to your feet, the quick movement sending waves of nausea crashing over you. You gag, then palm the wall to your left. 

"Oh, god, you're not gonna throw up, are you?" Walsh sits against the headboard, looking on with disgust. As though she'd be horribly put out if you did. "That's a hell of a way to start the honeymoon." 

The what? 

Your eyes flick to your hand, more specifically, your finger. Catching the sunlight through the window in a horrifying glint, sits a gaudy gold band, embedded with a little black spade, accompanied by a little red heart. 

You have to keep hold of the wall as you stumble into the bathroom. You collapse into the fluffy white rug, and vomit into the toilet.

Emery's frown deepens as the sound of your retching echoes off the opalescent tiles of the bathroom. Her own head thrums in a rhythmic, unrelenting warsong, but thankfully her stomach was spared. She glances down at her own hand, adorned in a ring that is twin to your own. 

It'd be pretty terrible if she left you on the floor of the bathroom, puking your guts up, even if she wasn't (techincally) your wife. With a heavily inconvenienced sigh, she flips back the duvet and pads into the bathroom. 

Like everything in Las Vegas, this bathroom is obscenely over-the-top, with shiny marble countertops and opal subway tiles adorning all four walls. Your knees dig into the faux rabbit-fur rug, arms braced around the toilet seat, lacking the dignity to even sit up. 

"God, you sound awful," Emery slides unceremoniously down the sink, knees poised up to her chin once her ass hits the cold floor. 

"Beyond helpful, as always," your voice echoes into the basin, followed by a dry cough. You feel too sick to your stomach to panic about the goddamn Italian-mafia-paperweight on your ring finger. Your eyes find Walsh's over the rim of the toilet. "What the fuck happened last night?" 

"I think the front-page headline is pretty obvious," her voice tolls into your head as she presents her own left hand. 

"We got… married?" You grimace, leaning back from the toilet and tugging down the flusher. Walsh tears off a strip of toilet paper and hands it to you without a word. 

"There's a certificate somewhere out there," she gestures lazily to the suite as you pat the corners of your mouth. Her lips pressed into a flat line when she adds, "if you require documentation." 

You blink, flashes of last night coming back to you in quick, persistent gut-punches.

The medical conference being a total bust. Agreeing, apprehensively, to a drink with Walsh at the hotel bar. Finding it surprisingly enjoyable outside of the pressurized environment of a surgical residency. Googling clubs within walking distance. 

Her hands firmly gripping your hips as the bass-heavy music thumped through your entire body. 

Then… nothing. Blank pages flipping to the end of an unfinished book. How do those useless bits of information add up to matching rings and an apparent marriage certificate somewhere in this hotel room? 

Emery has to blink when she realizes you truly don't remember. 

God, she knew you were both fucked up, but being equal levels of smashed was what's been keeping her from feeling like a total piece of shit the past forty minutes she's been awake. How is it possible you could consume the same amount of drinks that she did, but be completely in the dark about the little trip you both took to the chapel just down the strip? 

"I-I'll get you a glass of water," she slowly rises to her feet, gripping the edge of the sink for a breath before her bare feet smack against the tile. Your trail her, eyeing the silken shorts slinking across her wiry frame. Mint green and lined with frilly, ditzy lace, they look naggingly familiar, until the realization smacks against you.

Those are your pajamas. Your drag your gaze to the sink to see your pink hairbrush exactly where you left it yesterday afternoon. This is your suite. 

A second round of vomiting sends you hunched back over the toilet. 

Emery ends up helping you stay upright while you brush your teeth, then hobble back atop the blankets. Finally, she brings you a glass of water before perching on the end of the mattress by your feet. 

She stares at the lavishly soft carpet beneath the bed frame, one bare, creamy leg crossed deliciously over the other. God, how had you not realized Walsh was so… sexy before? 

You'd certainly had the fleeting thought that she's pretty in the past. Uniquely so, with her dark brown waves and chocolate eyes to match, her endearing little mole just above her lip. She's very cute, especially in the rare moments when her mouth is actually shut. 

To say you don't exactly get along with Walsh at work is something of an understatement. 

You're too protective of your reputation to have a row with her, or anything remotely resembling unprofessionalism, but she certainly likes to push your buttons. 

In the six months you've been a surgical resident at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, she still hasn't quite found the thing to send you over the edge. You're annoyingly by-the-book, in the least abrasive way possible, which obviously grates against Emery like a bad rash. As someone who's unafraid to do the dirty work and be a bitch about it, it was incredibly unnerving for Emery to discover that the two weren't mutually exclusive. 

It felt like weakness for you to be a stickler for procedure and well-liked among the surgical team. You diagnose and advocate and accomplish without ego, and you're good at it.

You weasled your way into the surgeon's club in less than a month's time, earning the respect of Shamsi and Garcia alike. Even Park the Shark's taken something of a liking to you. 

Everyone in surgery's a hardhead. You included, but in different ways than everybody else. You stick your neck out for your patients without garnering a reputation for being 'abrasive' or 'callous', words that have come up in more than one of Emery's performance reviews. 

In the medical world, especially as a female surgeon, not exuding either of those qualities is as rare as a fucking double rainbow. 

So when Gloria said you'd be joining Emery at the conference in Vegas, the conference she'd been waiting for since before you even got your goddamn ID badge photo taken, yeah, she was a little prickly about it. 

A long silence hangs between you now, layered atop a buzzing, confused feeling that you can't quite name. 

Finally you brave a short sip of the tepid water. As you set the glass down on the bedside table, you search for Walsh's eye. 

"You remember what happened, then?" You ask, the most timid Emery thinks she's ever heard you. 

She nods, tracing her fingers along the lace hem of the pajama shorts. "It's like a puzzle without the corner pieces. Mostly there," she explains without looking up. "I take it you don't remember?"

Your lips purse in the side of your mouth. "It's like I have a couple of corner pieces, and nothing else," you proffer, your voice an uncertain rasp. "I remember the bar downstairs, then dancing." 

As you vocalize, a handful of more unexpected details come gushing out. Word vomit, this time, instead of actual vomit. 

"We danced a lot, actually," your eyes pinpoint on a crease in the duvet, fixating on it. "There were quite a few drinks, and… maybe… karaoke?" You find one corner of Walsh's mouth twitching up. "And then we started daring each other to do a bunch of stupid stuff… and then we passed the chapel in the Uber on the way back here and…" 

You shake your head and blow out a long, exasperated breath. "You licked salt off of my stomach," the verbal realization spews out before you can think better of it. 

Emery's annoyingly endeared when she looks up at you and finds your entire face has turned red. 

"You ate a whole lime wedge," she fires back, smirking. "Peel and all." 

Your jaw drops in feigned indignation. "You did the worm on a dirty club floor," you retaliate. "Unsuccessfully." 

"You told me you think Garcia's perfume smells like an old lady's closet."

"You told me you once had a sex dream about Brendon!" You point a finger. 

"Yeah, well, you dared me to marry you," Emery crosses her arms over her chest with a finality that sends your extended arm flopping back down to your lap.

"I did not," your voice wobbles. Your gaze flicks to the ring on your finger, then to the one on hers. 

"You sure did," Emery turns to face you, the mattress creaking as she tucks her foot under her rear. The little mint-colored shorts ride up the ivory plane of her thigh. The competitive edge dancing in her chestnut eyes has melted into an unsettlingly flat frankness, one you're certainly used to in the O.R, but not here. Not when you could draw back the gossamer curtains and find a replica of the Eiffel Tower. 

"You said you were surprised I'd be willing to dance with someone like you," Emery explains, a distinct lack of emotion in her intonation. "You said you thought I'd only be into imposing energies like my own."

You grimace. "I didn't mean—"

"Sure you did," Emery scoffs, waving away your attempt at an apology. "Everybody's filter gets thrown out when they're drunk." 

"I'm sorry," you murmur, picking at a loose thread on the duvet. 

"Oh, I wasn't done," she tuts, and your eyes snap to her. "You also said you didn't think I'd be into you, and I told you I was." Her expression dissolves into something softer, and somehow even more unreadable. Is that… fondness on her face? 

"I told you I was," Emery repeats, then says your name in a low hush. The minty taste in your mouth from the toothpaste dissolves into sand. "And then you pointed to the chapel as we passed it and said 'prove it'." 

"And then you kissed me," you find yourself saying, your chest starting to rise and fall a little more rapidly. 

"And then I kissed you," Emery confirms with a nonchalant nod that irrefutably contradicts the weight of the words leaving her lips. 

Her lips. You remember now. 

They were so soft, and they tasted like passion fruit margarita with a hint of vanilla bean chapstick. You asked the Uber driver to drop you off at the chapel instead, where Emery spent a long time pressing you against the cheap, white siding of its exterior, her hands roaming your hips and up your back. You sucked on her bottom lip and slid your tongue into her mouth, palming her nipple through the thin, violet top she'd worn beneath her blazer at the conference. 

You're still not sure, exactly, how that translated into actually entering the chapel and signing the paperwork, but as the pounding in your heart travels below your belly, but you're also not sure you totally care. 

"Do you still feel sick?" Emery asks, braving a hand up to clasp around your shin. 

You shake your head at her, caught in the gravitational pull of her eyes. 

She unfolds her leg, sliding it across the duvet, crawling over you. Her knees settle on either side of your hips. She brushes her elegantly long finger along the line of your jaw. 

Her weight hovers over your lap, threatening to sink onto you. The fluttery, liquid feeling drops beneath your stomach, thrumming between your legs all of a sudden. 

Wanting, wanting, wanting. 

"Last night," your voice crackles like a lit wick when you speak again. "Did we have…?" 

"We didn't have sex, no," Emery's voice vibrates along the column of her throat. Her touch is feather-light along your jawline, then she pinches your earlobe between her thumb and forefinger. "Lots of kissing, and then you insisted I borrow your pajamas. Even though my suite is on the other side of this wall," she smiles at this. It's a soft, feminine thing, unexpectedly shooting lightning straight down to your core. 

"And then we just laid here for a while," Emery continues. Finally, she lowers her ass to your lap, your hands bulleting for her hips like she might spring up at any second. "And you told me—"

"That I'd been thinking about you since the day we met," you cut in, your breath catching in your throat. It comes back to your mind in slurred words, lined with the invoked scent of salt and tequila. "That I thought you could be really difficult sometimes, but I knew under all of that was another woman clawing to prove herself in a field she's not expected to succeed in. That I admired you, and I thought you were beautiful." 

"Radiant, I think, is the exact word you used," Emery snorts, her hips twitching in a roll against yours. You whimper, soft and honeyed, into her ear. "You also said you didn't think I looked inward to my softer side very often," she whispers against your neck. "And that you'd like to be the person to show me how that's possible." 

"Sounds like I was really working an angle on you," you say sarcastically. 

"Baby, we were already married by then," Emery presses a slow-motion kiss to your neck. The tackiness of her lips lingers along your skin, her hot breath giving you goosebumps. "You didn't need to work any kind of angle." 

You regress back to the state you were in last night. All of a sudden, all logic's tossed out the thirty-story window. You're no longer surgeons at a trauma center in Pittsburgh, vying for the limited amount of respect your colleagues —including each other— have to give. You're just two women, all softened lines and rounded edges, dropping into some kind of slow, languid dance. 

"Fuck, Emery," you murmur as her fingertips glide along the thin straps of your teddy. Desire pools between your legs, throbbing in a needy, desperate, stuttering heartbeat. "I can't believe we got fucking married." 

"Crazy fucking decision on both our parts, to be fair," Emery kisses slowly along your neck, up your jaw, then once, twice on the corners of your lips. "But I think we can figure out what to do about it later, don't you?" 

You hum, chasing her as she pulls her head back. Finally, for the first time sober, and in the light of day, your lips meet hers. They slot together, and you both trade pleasurable moans back and forth. It's as good of a confession as any. 

Everything after that is reactive. 

When you squeeze her hips, she palms your breasts. When she grinds into you, you sigh into her open mouth. 

Newton's Third Law of Motion, you think, but don't say aloud for fear of squashing the moment.

Counterthoughts poke their little heads in and out, saying oh god, we shouldn't be doing this, and if we're going to do it, it should only be once and we should be really clear about it right now and holy shit, I'm fucking married to Emery Walsh.

You're not proud to admit it, but you ignore all of them, and continue to sloppily, lazily kiss and touch your wife. 

Your wife. 

A uncontrollable, incredulous laugh bubbles up in your chest and shoots out of you. 

Emery peels back in an instant, her hands abandoning your breasts to cap your shoulders. Your nipples perk at the sudden exposure to the cool air. "What?" She side-eyes you. 

"Nothing," you press your fingers into the small of her back soothingly. Your expression and your tone slowly start to sober. "I'm sorry. This is just fucking insane. I think we need to at least acknowledge that." 

She rubs your shoulders. "Yeah, it's fucking insane," Emery agrees with a nod. 

Your cursed need to have a goddamn plan trumps any sort of aching at the apex of your thighs. Fuck, you warn yourself.Don't say it. Don't say it, don't say it! 

"What are we gonna do about this, exactly?" 

“You have a tattoo,” she noted standing behind you, paying close attention to how you examined the boy in front of you.

You nodded like you weren't trying to listen close down your stethoscope as you asked the boy to breathe in, listening at his back. “I do.”

“That's... really cool,” she said.

You smiled, small. “Thank you.”

Javadi watched your wrist move and arm flex as you put the stethoscope back around your neck, holding onto it either end. She'd called you down for a pedes case but was finding herself distracted by the beauty of the ink on you.

There were hard strokes of black and lighter ones, all drawn around in swirls that came together to make a sun. She thought it looked like the sun from tangled- one of her favourite movies. But you were a grown woman. Maybe you liked the movie as much as she did.

Javadi shook off the idea as you stood, telling the parents what you found. A small crackle in his breathing but as he'd been down with a flu and fever it might not mean anything terrible. Kept for observation and some blood work was ordered before the two of you were slipping away.

“What does it mean?” asked Victoria, hot on your heels as you walked to the nurses station. “The-the sun, I mean? Not crackles in the chest, I-I know that.”

You chuckled, tapping in to chart. Although you worked floors above on the pedes ward, your vintage disney top under the lab coat representing that, you were down enough on emergency and trauma cases to be a familiar and welcome face.

“Oh, you know,” you said, balancing your elbow on the table and checking on the ink. Your lips quirked at looking at it. “Just a little sun, for brightness and stuff.”

Javadi thought it was fitting. You were a sunshine person, hopeful and kind, like a ray of light in the depths of hell she called the ED. She supposed it came with the job, having to be the hope for the sick children.

Everyone down the Pitt could afford to be miserable, with a good enough excuse in working in the emergency department. You were with kids, helping them and their parents through anything minor to the worst days of their lives.

“Kinda, look to the light, kinda thing?” Victoria asked.

You slowly glanced up at her, finding a new perspective. “Yeah. I like that take.”

“Well, well, well,” said a hoarse voice coming closer to the two of you.

Beyond Javadi you looked past her.

Jack Abbot casually strolled over, hands behind his back, arms pulled in tight muscles and freckles in his dark scrubs. “You know, you're down here so often anyone would think you're after a Pedes attending job.”

You rose a brow, challenging him. “Are you offering?”

“Oh yeah, anything to keep sunshine down here.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, leaving Javadi to look between the two of you. She hadn’t realised the two of you knew each other so well.

Sure, you were the first everyone went to for a pedes case but how often was that?

“Sunshine! That’s funny,” said Javadi, standing between the two of you

Jack rose a brow. “It is?”

“Yeah- yeah,” she said with a clear of her throat. “Cause’- she has a sunshine tattoo.”

Jacks lips quirked up to a smirk. “Really?”

You leaned over the counter, chin resting in the palm of your hand. “Yeah. Got it some time ago.”

“Is it somewhere PG-13?” He asked.

“Well to know that you’d have to buy me a drink first.”

“I plan to.”

The two of you shared a smirk.

Suddenly, Victoria thought she was stuck in the middle of something.

It was Whitaker who discovered it next.

He was working with Abbot and Shen on a patient in trauma one, still waiting for the feeling in his feet to return to him after a twelve hour shift. But he wanted to see this patient through first, even if he could have left now the night crawlers had swept in.

He was shooting an x-ray for the guy in a car crash, checking his ribs after being found pressed up against his steering wheel.

Somewhere else you were stitching up his young daughter.

“The car came from nowhere,” fretted the patient, wincing with every breath. “I swear- I swear!”

“Don’t you worry, sir, we’re gonna get you sorted,” assured Jack, peeling off his jacket and replacing it with a vest.

“Is my- is my daughter okay?”

“She just needed a couple stitches,” said Denis.

Jack stretched up, moving the x-ray machine over the patient. “Don’t worry, your daughter is in the best hands. They lumped you with the second best, I’m afraid.”

The patient gave a huff of a laugh that evidently hurt more than anything.

“Okay… shooting!”

Everyone without a vest backed away.

It was at that moment as Jack hovered shooting the x-ray that Whitaker got his first glance at some ink peeking out from his wrist. His watch hid most of what Denis could make out as a tattoo but he thought it strange that Robby should have his own tattoo also typically hidden behind his watch.

Robby and Jack always called themselves brothers, from their years of friendship and shared experiences in the Pitt.

He just hadn’t realised they were that close.

The x ray was quickly done and the machine pushed away as everyone focused on stabilising the man.

A couple broken ribs, a severely bruised chest.

An OR was free to check on any internal bleeding, get the chest sorted.

The doors pushed open and you walked in, a maybe eight years old propped on your hip, little arms hugging around your neck.

Jack’s lips tilted up at once. “Second visit in one day, upstairs must be boring.”

“Well we do like to call this place the circus,” you teased. “This is Mr Peters daughter, she wanted to check in on her daddy.”

Jack tugged off his gloves and Whitaker watched as he approached you and the little girl. “Your daddy is doing fine, he’s strong. I reckon just as strong as you. He’s gonna go upstairs for a closer look but you can go with him, if you like?”

The girl hid her head closer into your shoulder, mumbling something that Whitaker could just about make out.

“Will you come up with me?” She’d asked you.

You bounced her gently. “Course. Upstairs is where all the fun is anyway.”

Jack hummed. “Hm. She has the best candy too.”

Whitaker watched the young girls eyes light up.

As a team from surgery came to drag the father away you followed behind with the daughter in arms, Abbot and Whitaker following out and taking a moment to watch the crowd dissapear.

“Did good in there, Whitaker,” said Abbot, the both of them tearing off their gowns and gloves.

“Thanks,” he said. The both of them went separate ways. Oddly enough, Jack was following in the steps of the team that took up the man and his daughter.

Doctor Robby wondered over, sliding into his seat. If even one of his day shift was left, so was he. It was his own morale code to not go till everyone on day had, Denis was learning.

“Hey,” greeted Denis. “You know I had no idea you and Abbot had matching tattoos.”

“Huh, yeah...” said Robby of absent-mind as he watched the computer. It took him a second to register what he was saying and look up. “Wait, what did you say?”

Suddenly Whitaker felt like he'd said the wrong thing, seeing his attending look over his glasses at him. Maybe nobody was supposed to know? Maybe it was super personal? Or it was a stupid drunk choice they were both trying to forget and he'd just brought it up.

“Oh god, I didn't, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-”

Robby scratched at his beard. “Jack and I do not have matching tattoos.”

“Oh.”

“What made you think that?” he asked. “Did someone... say something?” there was something akin to mischief in his eyes, alight.

“No! No! I just- I saw something that looked like a tattoo under where he keeps his watch, and I know you have one there too. Or- well- don't know but I've- I've seen-”

“Yeah, yeah I've got one there,” said Robby, looking back to the computer bored. “So does Jack. His is a moon. Mine's something to do with my grandmother.”

“A moon? Oh.”

Somewhere beyond Whitaker, past his shoulders, Victoria passed by, catching the conversation.

A moon on one. A sun on another. Interesting.

Samira was only looking for her patient when she found a shirtless Jack Abbot hiding behind the curtain with you standing behind him.

Both your heads shot up when the whirl of the curtain pulled back.

“Oh. I'm sorry,” said Samira. She was only momentarily shocked at Jack shirtless, SWAT gear discarded in the corner and the typical pedes case worker standing behind him, working on a bad obviously over eighteen.

Jack tried to shrug his shoulders but came away wincing. “S'alright.”

“Have you guys seen my patient?” she asked, going on to describe him.

“No, sorry. This room was empty,” you said, rolling a q-tip along Jack's shoulder blade. “Anything you need help with?”

Samira deflated, taking a seat on the chair in the corner of the room. She was feeling sorry for the patient she couldn't get to in time she didn't realise the look you and Jack shared, one of mutual agreement of apprehension.

“What happened to you?” Samira asked.

“He got shot,” you said.

“You were shot?”

Jack made a 'pfft' noise at the two of you. “Shot at. It was nothing. Hardly a graze.”

You scoffed, reaching over for some bandage and applying it to the wound. “I'll be the judge of that.”

“You my doctor now?” asked Jack.

You bit back a smirk. “Someone has to be.”

Samira had worked with Abbot a handful of times, you maybe more on cases with children that required delicate matters. She never realised the two of you were close enough to tease. Close enough that you would be the first person he runs to for help.

Curious, Samira walked around Jack, standing on the other side of his bed as you showed her the wound.

“Oh. Ouch.”

“See?” you said with a raise of your brows.

Jack's freckled arms crossed over his chest in protest.

“You have a chart?” asked Mohan.

“No,” you said. “We're keeping this off the chart.”

Samira nodded, lips quirking. We?

“Don't need the paperwork from the hospital,” said Jack. “Got big plans tonight, can't have paperwork getting in the way.”

“Big plans?” asked Mohan.

Jack hummed in affirmation.

With your careful bandages around his shoulder he stood and reached for his shirt on the side.

It wasn't just a quick glimpse Samira got of where another tattoo lied. It was a long look as Jack made work at pulling over his navy shirt overhead. At the ache in his shoulder you helped pull it over him and he didn't object, he let you help him like it was natural.

But just under his armpit, on the side of his chest there was a clear stroke of black ink in the curves and strikes of a letter. Just one simple there, no bigger than a finger nail next to his heart.

“All good to go solider,” you said, rubbing his un-injured shoulder.

“Thank you, Doc.”

You smirked. “Don't go straining yourself this evening.”

Jack chuckled, low in his throat. “I make no promises.”

It was only when watching the two of you leave that the hole in her heart for her own devoid love life sung with something other that sorrow. With hope and joy. It was only when she noticed Jack's hand linger on the small of your back as he leaned into say something to you that she realised the slope of the letter at his chest matched the very first letter of your name.

A week later and slowly Samira was forgetting the whole thing. Not forgetting the patient that had ran out on her but forgetting the state she found Jack in, forgetting how you helped him and the letter etched into his skin.

She hadn't told anyone either, because what business of others was it.

It wasn't even hers.

Maybe Jack knew someone in the army had the same initial as you. Maybe it was his mothers name. It didn't have to be yours. It was only seeing him shirtless, seeing you with him that had her thinking of you, she was sure.

But a week later she was brought back to that room.

“Woah- what happened to you?” Robby chuckled as you walked through the ED, a mixture of bodily fluids over your scrubs.

“Emergency c-section, twins,” you said. “I had no time for a gown.”

Robby's smile creased as you squelched closer. Your blue scrubs, typically a baby blue, was dyed darker due to blood, amniotic fluids and what he guessed might have been urine. “They didn't call OB?”

“OB was busy, apparently.”

“Apparently?” he asked, tablet in hand as he followed next to you as you walked to the scrub bin. You walked, arms slightly raised to not let them drop. Robby walked close but not close enough to touch the mess of you.

“Someone in OB has it out me.”

“Evil ex?”

“Yeah, one of yours,” you teased.

“Ouch.”

“I'm cranky.”

“I can tell.”

Santos and Samira were on a case together but stopped when they got a look at you. “Woah, what happened? A pile up?”

“Don't ask,” you grumbled.

From behind you Robby mouthed 'twins' and both knew not to say anymore.

“You know we have gowns for such messy procedures,” said Trinity.

You flashed her a grimace. “You're funny, Santos, must get it from this guy,” you said, slapping Robby in the chest as you stood in front of the scrub bins. However, as an official upstairs pedes resident you didn't have authority for more scrubs. “Is Jack around?”

“No,” said Robby, tapping his own ID cared on the pad and getting you an order of scrubs.

“Thanks.”

Samira wondered, briefly why you asked for Jack when it was probably easier to find some woman for your size. Like herself, for instance.

But in seconds you were pulling off your scrub top, leaving you only in a bra. Your scrub pants were next but you had a thin pair of leggings underneath. No one batted an eyes, except maybe Robby who cleared his throat and turned away, hypothetically hiding you behind his back.

“Thanks again, Robby,” you said, gaining his new scrubs.

“No problem,” he said, leaning over to you. “But you can bring this up to Jack,” he added in a mummer that Mohan just caught.

As you reached up, pulling the scrub top over you Samira caught it again. It was a smaller trace, a think line but there with no doubt.

A simple J in black ink in almost the exact spot as Jack had one of his own.

“Is that-” Mohan didn't get the words out before your scrub top was pulled over, swallowing you from Robby's scrub.

Robby and you looked to her as you pulled on the pants. “What?”

They were all looking at her, expectantly.

“No, nothing, it was nothing.”

“Okay, then.”

But now there was a knowing in there. That she didn't believe in coincidences, not when they were etched into skin.

“You look lovely.” Jack crept up behind you, his voice falling upon your ears with his head quick over your shoulder. He was like hot breath on a glass, there and gone the next second.

You understood why. Knew it had been easier to keep it quiet when things were fresh, yet, things had moved on from new and simple a long time ago and neither of you made to say it. Did you get a banner? Make a public announcement? You had no idea how to do it.

Keeping it on the low was all you knew how to do.

And anyhow, it made things far more exciting.

“Thank you,” you said, passing him a quick smile.

Jack hummed, crowding next to you at the station, leaning an arm on the counter and looking you up and down. “You'd look even better in scrubs that were mine.”

Your eyes rolled. “They're Robby's-”

“Robby's-” he scoffed, shaking his head.

“I had a messy C-section and it was this or several bodily fluids.”

“I'd have rather bodily fluids,” he said.

You hummed. “You think that but then you see me and you'd think different.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You turned your attention onto him, knowing he wouldn't give it up till he had it all. It was something about Jack and un-divided attention, he thrived on it. Giving it to you, or taking it from you. He needed it like sustenance. “Think wet. Think baby fluids that should be in a body on me. Think blood. And probably puke on there somewhere too- I don't even know how.”

“And I bet you still looked beautiful,” he said.

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” you chuckled.

“I would.”

His hand crept up to your ribs, holding there. As if he was anaesthetic himself, his touch was soothing.

He held over where your initial of his name was, just as you did with him where yours was. It still felt fresh though the ink was imbedded into skin for almost a year now.

It was the soft knowledge of carrying each other closer than you already did. Working in the same building wasn't enough, falling asleep next to each and waking up next to each other wasn't enough but the soft initial of each others name might just have been.

Even if it weren't romantical (which it certainly was) the two of you had at least always respected each other in the work setting. It was a bond running deeper than blood, than respect, than love.

Something the people hadn't come up with a word for yet.

Robby passed by the two of them. “I thought you two were being discreet.”

“We are,” you said, you and Jack turning to face Robby as he took his space behind the nurses desk.

“He's all but holding your breast,” said Robby.

“Physical exam,” Jack shrugged. “And I thought I told you to stop making moves on my woman.”

Robby held up his hands in surrender. “I don't want any funny business in my scrubs,” he warned, s sharp look past his glasses at the two of you.

Jack quirked his lips, pretending his innocence. “We'll change into mine.”

You smacked his shoulder.

“Hey,” said Robby, leaning on the counter next to you as if you were all gossiping nurses and not different attendings in your own rights. “You know, Whitaker thinks we have matching tattoos,” he said, nodding to Jack.

You laughed, tilting your head down.

“Oh yeah, I have an R over my heart,” he teased.

Robby scoffed. “Yeah and I got a J on my-”

You looked pointed at them both. “Don't you have jobs to get to?”

Robby surrendered and headed off, making himself busy.

Upstairs would need you soon enough too, there was only so much time you could leave your pedes ward alone. Your hands were gentle on Jacks, squeezing lightly.

Meaning to let go, Jack squeezed and pulled you back.

“Jack? Woah- what- where are we going?”

His thumb worked up and down the back of your hand as he dragged you off. He found an empty room, checking the room before closing the door and pulling the curtains around.

“Jack!”

His hands found their ways up Robby's shirt on your body, pulling at the skin of your waist and drawing you in till he was kissing you, open-mouthed. It was as if he hadn't kissed you that morning, hadn't stole a make out in the car before heading in, hadn't text you in his spare five minutes that he wasn't thinking about you.

He grinned into the kiss, licking into your mouth.

As bad as it was, stealing a kiss in an empty exam room, your hands wound up to his hair, tugging at the strands. Your body curled into his as his hands moved from under your shirt to over, pulling at it.

“Take this off.”

Biting back a smirk you pulled it off you as Jack leant down to kiss at your neck. He bit and sucked, dedicating time to one mark that would be a tattoo on your neck.

Jack was obsessed with marking you, considering you tried you best to be secret.

This wasn't very secret.

“Jack,” you moaned, own hands clawing at his shirt.

He pulled back long enough to toss his off. “When we're done here... when I've made you come on my fingers,” he uttered next to your ear, breath hot. “You're gonna put my scrub top on, you understand?”

Your lips pursed and nodded.

Jack pulled back enough, lips ghosting yours. “Yeah, baby?”

“Yeah,” you whined.

“Yeah.”

His lips crashed into yours again with fire like need. Hie entire body moved over yours, hands steady on your hips to bring you in. You were stumbling around the room, trying to find a wall or bed.

“God,” Jack whined at your lips. “I could eat you.”

He kissed down your neck, over your chest and leant to press a kiss over his initial. He'd been there when you'd gotten it done, as you had when he got his. The two letters in each others hand writing.

Jack came back up and kissed you again before the door sprung open.

“Room three's open why's nobody-”

Jack jumped in front of you like jumping in front of a bullet for you, his arms fell on either side of you, caging you in behind him.

A woman was sat on a gurney, eyes wide at the two of you.

Dana was leading the charge, Mohan, Whitaker and Santos following and eyes falling wide, jaws agape at the sight of you.

Robby walked past, shaking his head and- taking one look at Jack- decided it wasn't a HR nightmare he could deal with.

“We were just...” said Jack, hesitating. “Doing a physical.”

Dana smirked. “I'll say.”

“Sorry, we'll just-” you apologised.

The two of you fumbled with scrub tops but Jack still found enough time in the mess to pass you his own scrub top and take Robby's himself. In sheepish moves the two of you moved by the group, catching only a couple words.

“Did you see those tattoo's?” said Samira.

“Each others inititals, right?”

“How longs this been going on for?”

The end of your shift couldn’t come soon enough. 

In the span of twelve hours, you’d been doused in bodily fluids twice, hit on by a creepy old drunk who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, passively dismissed by Robby after he deemed you “too slow” for a trauma (when in reality, the med student next to you was the one who wouldn’t hand you the damn tube), and had your lunch stolen when it clearly had your name written on it—four times might you add. 

To top the whole very bad day off, your husband hadn’t responded to the messages you had sent hours ago asking if he’d be back in time to pick you up because the forecast called for rain, and like all bad days had gone, your car basically gave up the ghost the moment you parked it in the employee lot. 

So, you were almost scrub-less, uncomfortable, embarrassed, and so starving you almost thought about paying an insane price for a small Uber-ed meal before you also realized that the app hadn’t saved your information and your card was currently sitting on the kitchen counter. 

Just what you needed. 

The groan, along with the rumbles of your stomach, caused many heads to turn. 

“Is there a stampede in here? Or is your stomach in the process of eating itself,” Dana asked, though her eyes didn’t leave the nurses’ board. 

Your head landed next to the keyboard with a loud thunk. “I think my stomach tried to eat itself a couple of hours ago before realizing that it was completely empty.”

“I saw you brought lunch. Where’d that go?” 

If glares could put someone six feet under, the one you were giving your computer should have imploded it. “Currently being digested in the stomach of a med student.” 

“Good Lord. You poor thing.” 

“Tell me about it. I’d been dreaming of those leftovers since last night!” 

Dana gave you a knowing look. “Did your husband cook it?” 

“Yep.” Your chair squeaked as you leaned back. “And I didn’t even get to enjoy it for the second time. He’s going to be pissed.” 

“Who’s going to be pissed?” Trinity asked, already leaning on the counter like getting closer to you would make the gossip flow over. “Cause if you’re talking about Dr. Robby, that ship sailed around 2:30.” 

You closed your eyes and ran a hand down your face. “Trust me; I already know he’s pissed off at the world. I’ve been on the receiving end of that way too much today.” 

She gave you a sympathetic wince. “I heard about that.” 

“Who hasn’t,” you muttered with a harsh snort. 

That was the other thing that had added to your humiliation. Robby hadn’t just quietly dismissed you or corrected you after the trauma, no, he rather loudly decided to spew his personal thoughts about your work ethic in front of not just your coworkers but also the patient’s family who were there for moral support. Blatant strangers had a front seat to watch your attending rip into you all while it hadn’t even been your fault. 

Just thinking about it brought another heated flush up your neck. 

“To answer your question, her husband’s the one who’s going to be pissed,” Dana filled her in while rewriting a name. “He’s very particular about who gets to eat his food.” 

Another groan rumbled your chest. “Med student didn’t even return the Tupperware. Now he’s going to be extra pissed at that.” 

For a small second, Trinity looked almost nervous. “Will you be okay?” 

Her concern made a small feeling of comfort and pride bloom in your chest. If there was one person you could count on other than your family and Dana, it was Trinity, never hesitating to step in if she even thought someone didn’t feel safe. You shot her a grateful smile. 

“Oh, I’ll be perfectly fine. He’ll be mad sure, but not at me. We’ll just pray that he won’t spot the student that did it.” 

“Amen to that,” Dana muttered. “He’s like your personal guard dog.” 

“Are we going to add that guy who tried to touch your ass earlier?” Trinity teased, and your eyes widened. 

“Definitely.” You nodded along. “Might as well add Robby to it too. My husband isn’t that fond of him already. I just wish he’d respond to my messages.” 

Dana gave you a knowing look. “He at work today?” 

“Yeah. There was a problem with one of the houses a few hours out, and he left before I was even out of bed. Said there was a contract breach, kissed me good morning, and drove off.” 

“That’s oddly sweet,” Trinity added. 

You couldn’t help the fond smile that grew on your face. “Even made my coffee for me. I found it with one of those little post-it notes stuck to it.” 

“Didn’t know he was into doing stuff like that,” Dana said with a small laugh. 

“You know how he is,” you replied. “The man’s love language is acts of service.” 

Trinity smiled. “What does he do for work?” 

Your fingers found the keyboard again while you answered. “He’s a relator and contractor. Usually, he works from home, but like today, he sometimes has to go out and inspect the houses or make sure the paperwork is in order.” 

“Sounds like you got yourself a stay-at-home husband.” 

You couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah. He actually really likes to do the house work. Plus, when I’m home, all I’m doing is sleeping.” Your eyes caught your wedding band. “He’s really good to me. Plus, he’s Jack’s—” 

“Ladies, if we have time to chat, we have time to work,” Robby’s voice interrupted the conversation, loud and on the very edge of condescending. “Especially you, Dr. Cody. Let’s focus on getting patients in and out instead of sitting around, yes?” 

You swallowed down an annoyed sigh, instead choosing to stand up without a word. Hating the way you felt under Robby’s glare almost made you want to put in a two-week notice and move departments. However, emergency medicine was your life; it was the sole reason you met the people who quickly became your family, the reason you met your husband. Your fingers quickly found your wedding band, specially made of the number of diamonds that symbolized how long you and your husband had been dating before he proposed. 

Grabbing another tablet quickly, you forced yourself to hold your head up high as you passed him. Robby wasn’t worth your fear or submission. Plus, it wasn’t like he never talked around; you’d caught him and the hospital’s case manager making small talk way too many times to count. The man was a hypocrite that couldn’t see past his own faults and projected them onto his employees.   

By the time you rounded the corner, and Robby had vacated the station, Trinity leaned in toward Dana a bit more. 

“Is there any way to contact her husband? She mentioned her car died, and it’s raining.” Trinity looked in the direction you had disappeared down. “If I were married and my boss talked to me like that, I’d want my partner to know.”  

Dana had already picked up her personal cell after Trinity’s first question. “Oh, I’ll make sure he knows.” 

_______________________

When you exited the patient’s room, you paused a few feet into the hallway, rubbed your eyes, and continued to stare at the nurses’ station. 

Dana being there with Trintiy and Dennis was nothing out of the ordinary. However, the added presence of Jack Abbot and your husband was. You hastily crossed the gap between you and the station, concern etching itself in your eyebrows and lips. 

“Andrew?” you called out. “What are you doing here?” 

At the sound of your voice, Andrew Cody turned his head so rapidly that it added another wave of worry that he might have pulled something. He stayed still, even when you stopped in front of him, as your hands gently ran up his arms and stopped at his face all while the small group watched on with small smiles (from Jack and Dana) and genuine curiosity (from Dennis and Trinity). 

“You’re supposed to be in Altoona right now. Did you get hurt?” you questioned when your eyes couldn’t find any visible injuries. 

He stayed silent while his hands quietly found yours, fingers threading between the gaps and holding you steady. 

“I’m fine,” he finally said, hazel eyes boring into yours. “Just missed you.” 

A relieved exhale escaped from your lips. “Thank goodness. I was worried there for a second.”  

His crooked teeth poked through a smile. “I could tell.” 

You softly pushed him before taking his hands again. “Shut up. You went hours without responding and just show up at the end of my shift. God forbid I’m concerned for my husband.” 

“See, man, I told you she’d do this,” Jack grumbled, patting Andrew slightly on the shoulder. 

“Um, not to interrupt, but did Dr. Cody marry someone who looks exactly like Dr. Abbot?” Dennis squeaked out a question, obviously trying not to step over a boundary. 

But like a sister, Trinity nudged him harshly with her elbow. “Use your brain, Huckleberry. It’s obvious they’re related somehow.” 

The two continued looking between the Pitt’s night shift attending and your husband who looked like Jack if he were ten years younger. 

“That’s what I was trying to tell you early, Trinity,” you said. “My husband is Jack’s cousin on their moms's side. Andrew, this is Dennis and Trinity.” 

Andrew didn’t reach out to give them a handshake, but the appreciated nod he gave them was somehow enough. “She talks about you two a lot.” 

Trinity looked smug by the news. “All good things I hope.” 

“Definitely,” he answered. “I can tell she likes working with you two.” 

“Which is more than he can say about Robby,” Dana muttered. 

The change in Andrew, just by mentioning Robby, was so visceral that Trinity and Dennis were both shocked. 

In the few moments, the two could see how soft this hunking-fridge-of-a-man was for you. They saw it in the way he was quick to hunch over slightly when you looked him over with worry. They noticed it in the way he held onto you when he reassured you that he was only there for her and not because he had gotten hurt. They noted the way his soft smile was only for you and not even for when his cousin jested with him. 

Dana’s words from earlier rang in Trinity’s mind as she watched Andrew’s muscles tense beneath his polo. 

He’s like your personal guard dog.

Andrew shifted his weight, shoulders now seemingly broader than they had been. “Did something happen today?” 

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “It was nothing. He’s just being Robby.” 

Surprisingly, Andrew’s eyes flitted over to Trinity like he knew she’d tell him exactly what he wanted to know. “What’d he do?” 

Trinity looked at you once, and when you looked toward the floor, she answered. “He blamed her for a med student’s slow pace. Practically yelled at and belittled her in front of the other doctors in the trauma room and the patient’s family.” 

Even Jack couldn’t hold back the wince splashing across his face at the news, mind already knowing that in five seconds, his cousin might be on a war path for his friend. However, all Andrew seemed to do was take in a deep breath and hold onto your hands like a tether. 

“All right,” he finally said, body still tense. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”

“Someone took her lunch,” Dana added, drawing your eyes from the floor to her, hues flooding with betrayal. 

Et tu, brute? 

“Dana,” you hissed. 

Andrew’s grip on your hands tightened. 

In an almost attempt to throw more gas onto an already raging fire, Trinity ended with, “And she had a patient try to grope her earlier this morning.” 

Andrew’s eyes closed slowly like he was bracing for a fit of rage to overtake his senses, his mind already racing with the fact that you probably hadn’t eaten, because when he stopped by the house to change, he saw your forgotten card. Add in you almost getting assaulted, and he was one wrongly pulled Jenga block from collapsing. 

You closed your eyes and braced for impact, already feeling the brunt of the day push down on you. They only fluttered open when Andrew didn’t move, his chest the only thing heaving in an out and in motion. Somehow, that didn’t ease the queasy feeling bubbling beneath your skin. And at that moment, Robby decided to round the corner. Like most men, you guessed that he hadn’t picked up on the tension cloud that was currently circling around the station and—more importantly—Andrew’s head. 

When Robby walked into his field of view, you swear you saw the lovely hazel of his eyes darken. It should have scared you how quickly Andrew could go from your sweet and doting husband to a very possessive animal, but instead, the change had you relaxing and relieved. If there was someone you could count on for anything no matter what, that person would always be Andrew. 

And maybe (finally) Robby sensed enough tension, because his body went stiff after he looked up from the tablet in his hands and met Andrew’s eyes. 

Trinity and Dennis really thought that your husband was going to stalk over there, throw a punch, menacingly bark curse words and insults at Robby (a man who had a few good inches to tower over Andrew), and walk back over like nothing happened. But when he stayed put, only giving a beady stare that never wavered, they realized that he didn’t even have to talk to Robby or punch him for his words to get across. 

They knew that Andrew was making Robby uncomfortable by the way Robby shifted, the way he broke eye contact first, and the way he left the station looking like a dog with a tail between its legs.  

Jack let out a low whistle. “Damn, that never gets old.” 

Dana smirked. “He ever use that on you?” 

“All the fucking time.” Jack scoffed. “Do you know how many family gatherings I spent trying to get away from those eyes.” 

“We have the same eyes, asshole,” Andrew grumbled. 

“But yours are scary as hell,” Jack shot back. “Might be a good time to say that my night shift needs another resident.” 

“Fuck no,” Trinity instantly said. “You can’t have her, or we’d be left with him.” 

Dennis nodded. “I’m in full agreement.” 

Jack looked over at you expectantly but visibly deflated at the apologetic look you were giving him. 

“Sorry, Jack, but I enjoy getting to spend my evenings at home.” You paused and smirked. “I know Samira’s been looking for a change of scenery if you want to ask her.” 

The small crowd couldn’t help but smile or chuckle at the now vivid flush across Jack’s face as he tried to sputter out an answer. 

“All right, get out of here kids before it looks like you’re staging a mutiny,” Dana said with a wave of her hands. 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Trinity responded with a salute of her own. 

Andrew grinned widely, finally showing the smile around more people than just you. “If we’re turning into pirates, Jack already has the missing-leg thing down.” 

“Hey!” 

You giggled loudly while Andrew wrapped an arm around your shoulders, bringing you into his side. Your hand gently rested against his chest as you hugged him back. He felt your body melt into his after he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. 

“Ready to go home?” he quietly muttered just loud enough for you to hear. “Dana already gave me your bag.” 

“Yeah,” you breathily sighed. “Let’s go before a trauma comes in, and I’m stuck in here until I wither away. 

Andrew hummed. “We can’t have that now, can we?” 

“Absolutely not. I still want to have leftovers at least one more time before I’m buried. And this time, I’m putting a padlock on the container.” 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”