“Take two steps to your left,” Robby instructed.

You fixed him with an exasperated pout. Your stupid, no-good, annoying-as-hell big brother had decided, against all reason, that you needed a full concussion check, even though you’d only lightly smacked your head on the doorframe. It hadn’t even hurt.

Honestly, with your baby-kitten-level pain tolerance, the whole neighborhood would’ve heard about it if you’d actually hurt yourself in any serious way.

Nonetheless, you knew better than to argue with the brute, so you obediently took two steps to your left.

And really, it was just a matter of terrible timing. Your foot caught on the corner of the rug (yes, the same rug you’d been meaning to glue down for weeks, but hadn’t, because life) and you stumbled. Then stumbled some more, momentum pitching you forward, arms windmilling in a frankly useless attempt to save yourself.

It was a fruitless effort, and your forehead cracked straight into the edge of the stone surround framing the open fireplace in your brother’s living room.

“Ah, fuck!” Robby swore, lunging forward. He caught you before you could fully collapse, his hands clamping around your arms as you immediately burst into loud, indignant wailing.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow—” you keened, clutching at him as your vision fizzed and blurred.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Robby muttered, hauling you upright. “You alright? Where does it—hey, look at me.”

Your big brother in every sense of the word, including age (he was nudging into his mid-fifties, while you’d only just turned twenty-three)—held you steady, one hand firm under your elbow, the other tipping your chin up.

You gazed at him.

Most people assumed that Robby was your dad. You let them, because it was less awkward than having to explain that you’d been a Jewish miracle baby, and also because it was objectively hilarious, and you could never pass up a chance to call him old.

“Eyes on me,” he said, sharper now.

You blinked at him. Slowly. Maybe a little unevenly. You were wincing a bit against the bright light. Why did he have the big light on? You hated the big light. Lamp light was so much calmer.

“There you go,” he murmured, though the line between his brows didn’t ease. “How many fingers?”

He held up three. Or maybe four. They blurred a little in front of your face.

You squinted. “…Four?” you offered weakly.

Robby exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a suppressed groan. “Brilliant. Fantastic. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

You were seeing stars; actual, honest-to-God stars bursting across your vision. And as much as you loved stargazing in the summer, lying on warm grass and pointing out constellations, it was November, and you were very much indoors.

Which meant that was definitely not a good thing.

“…okay,” you said after a moment, your voice small and wavering. You were pretty sure you were still crying. “Robby… my head hurts. A little,” you confessed.

“A little?” Robby echoed, incredulous. “Yeah, I bet it does. Ah, fuck. You’re bleeding,” he said, his grip tightening as he leaned in for a better look. He shook his head. “Right. We’re going to the Pitt. I’ll get Jack to take a look at you; pretty sure you’re going to need stitches.”

Your stomach lurched.

Then lurched again.

And then you threw up, in spectacular fashion, all over the rug. The same rug that had betrayed you. The same rug that, tragically, had never lived long enough to be glued down.

Robby made a noise somewhere between disgust and concern. “Brilliant. That’s just fantastic.”

“Sorry,” you croaked miserably, swaying where you stood. “’M sorry, Robby.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, already steering you toward the door. One hand stayed firm at your back, the other gripping your arm like a lifeline. “Just try and stay upright, yeah? One foot in front of the other.”

“Mm-hm,” you mumbled, though the floor felt suspiciously unreliable beneath you.

You made it exactly one step before your foot clipped the edge of the wall and your balance tipped dangerously sideways. Robby swore under his breath and caught you before you could go down again, hauling you upright with a sharp, steadying tug.

“Right. Nope. Not trusting you with stairs,” he muttered.

The next thing you knew, he was half-carrying you; your weight slung awkwardly against his side as he guided, dragged, and generally manhandled you toward the door.

“Sorry,” you whispered again, snuffling through a fresh wave of tears as your head throbbed.

“I said don’t apologize,” he shot back.

“But I am sorry!” you wailed. “I should’ve glued down the rug weeks ago, and I should’ve been more careful not to hit my head in the first place, and I should’ve made a nicer dinner, because you’re a doctor and you work so hard and I’m just a silly girl with no idea what to do with my life, and I spent all day sewing beads onto my new skirt instead of cleaning like I promised, and—“

“Hey. Hey, stop.” Robby’s voice cut through the spiral, sharp but not unkind. He stopped walking altogether, turning you to face him, hands firm on your shoulders to keep you upright. “None of that. Not one bit of that is relevant right now, do you understand me?”

You hiccuped, still crying, vision swimming.

“Good,” he muttered, as if that was progress. “Eyes on me.”

You tried. It was… difficult to keep them all the way open.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “Course I can,” you mumbled thickly. “Not that dumb.”

“Your name,” he repeated, patient but unyielding.

You sighed, then winced immediately at the way your head punished you for it. “I know my name,” you complained.

“Fantastic. Prove it.”

You squinted at him, deeply offended, before mumbling your name under your breath.

“There we go,” he said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Right, come on. We might be able to miss the three a.m. rush.”

“Hm,” you mumbled, leaning heavily into him as he guided you forward. “Is Jack gonna be mad at me?” you asked, worry slurring slightly at the edges.

Robby snorted. “Jack’s not gonna be mad at you.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you pointed out weakly.

“Last time was your fault,” he said, opening the truck door and carefully guiding you inside. “Skateboarding was a stupid idea.”

“I was pretty good,” you protested.

“Yeah, until you fell, hit your head and broke your wrist in three places,” he replied, buckling you in with firm, efficient hands. “Sit still.”

You let your head fall back against the seat, eyes fluttering as the world kept trying to tilt sideways without asking permission.

“…sorry,” you whispered again, almost on instinct.

Robby paused with one hand on the doorframe.

Then he exhaled through his nose, soft this time. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

He shut the door, and the truck dipped slightly as he climbed in on the other side.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said, starting the drive. “You just need to stay awake.”

Your eyelids drooped. “…trying,” you mumbled.

“Good,” he said. “Keep doing that.”

—

The first time you actually met Jack Abbot was on the night following your twentieth birthday.

You’d gone out to a club with the small group of friends from high school you’d managed to keep, under strict instructions to be home by two a.m. latest. Or would it be the earliest, since it would be morning?

Either way, you hadn’t been paying much attention to the clock until you stumbled out of the club and realised it was already five minutes past your curfew.

Tears were already tracking down your cheeks before you’d even reached the pavement. You slid down the brick wall, sniffing hard, and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them like they could hold you together.

All you wanted was to snap your fingers and wake up in your bed and forget about this entire night.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Michael is calling.

You stared at the contact name as it flashed on your screen, a fresh wave of guilt tightening in your throat. You’d already managed to turn your birthday into a disaster, and now you’d broken the promise you’d made your big brother.

A hiccup slipped out before you could stop it.

You hesitated, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen as the call kept ringing, the guilt growing heavier with every second.

Then you answered.

“Where—”

“Could you come get me, Robby?” you cut in immediately, voice wobbling. “I haven’t had a very good time.” You sniffled, utterly pathetic and completely beyond caring. You’d apologise properly tomorrow; for the broken curfew, for making him worry, for everything.

Right then, you just wanted your big brother.

On the other end of the line, Robby exhaled. “I’m already on my way,” he said.

You could hear it then, the low rumble of his truck in the background if you listened closely enough. Relief loosened your tension.

“Are you using your phone while driving, Robby?” you asked, head lolling slightly as you tried, and failed, to sound stern.

“Course not,” he scoffed. “Got you on speaker. Jack’s holding the phone.”

“Oh,” you said. “Hi, Jack.”

A laugh crackled through the line, warm, easy, a little rough around the edges, and it made your eyelids feel heavier immediately. You’d heard plenty about Jack Abbot over the years through Robby, but you’d only recently moved to this side of the city to live with your brother while you figured out what you were doing with your life.

You were weirdly excited to actually meet him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said, his voice almost crooning. “Not having a very good birthday?”

You shook your head before remembering he couldn’t see you. “Nuh,” you mumbled instead. “Been shit.”

“Language,” Robby said.

Jack let out another laugh, “Ah, let the girl swear, brother. She’s obviously upset.” He paused. “You want to tell me his name, honey? I’ll fuck him up real good.”

A wet giggle slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t want you to get in trouble,” you said, sniffling hard. Then your face crumpled again. “He’s stupid anyway. I caught him kissing one of the dancers. On my birthday.” Your voice broke on the last word. “He’s so… he’s so—”

“An asshole?” Jack supplied.

You made a strangled sound that was half sob, half agreement.

“Ah, kiddo,” Jack said, the humour fading out of his tone. “Don’t cry.” He said. “Michael,” he added, “tell her to stop crying.”

“She’s a crier,” Robby said in the background. “She’ll cry more if I tell her to stop.”

“S’true,” you agreed immediately. Then your face crumpled again. “I want a hug!” you announced, a bit too loudly.

A couple of people nearby glanced over.

Jack made a soft, amused sound through the phone. “That so?”

“I do,” you insisted, voice wobbling as you hugged your knees tighter. “I want a hug and I want my bed and I want to forget tonight ever happened.”

“We’re nearly there. Just stay where you are, yeah?” Robby instructed sternly. “No wandering off.”

“I won’t,” you said, offended on principle.

Jack’s voice came back in. “You got all your stuff with you, honey? Your purse, your coat?”

You nodded again before remembering the same problem as before. “Yeah,” you mumbled. “Got it all from the coat room before coming out.”

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s real good.”

Then Robby was speaking okay. “Alright kid,” he said. “You’re gonna see my ugly face in about, what, five minutes?”

“Ugh,” you said. “Did you shave again?”

“My face, my business,” he replied dryly.

Jack laughed.

You hugged your knees tighter, swaying slightly where you sat.

“I really want that hug,” you repeated.

“I know,” Robby said. “Three minutes away.”

And he was right. Three minutes later, a set of headlights cut through the end of the street, slowing as they found you slumped against the brick wall. The truck pulled in close, engine ticking as it settled.

The passenger door opened almost immediately.

“Alright,” The man, who you assumed was obviously Jack, called as he stepped out, phone still in hand. “Where are you?”

You lifted a shaky hand.

“Right there,” Robby’s voice came from inside the truck. He didn’t get out, just leaned slightly across the seat, watching through the open door.

Jack shut the distance in a few easy strides and crouched in front of you. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice dropping into something steady and calm. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

You tried to comply immediately, which mostly resulted in you swaying alarmingly and grabbing at his arm for balance.

“Whoa, easy,” Jack murmured, catching you without hesitation. One arm slid around your back, firm and controlled, the other steadying your elbow. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Up close, you registered that he smelt so good.

“Hi,” you said dumbly.

“Hi,” he echoed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Come on. Up you get.”

“I don’t like gravity,” you informed him, as you struggled to stay upright.

“Slow steps,” he said.

With careful coordination, Jack got you on your feet and half-guided, half-carried you toward the truck. You made it exactly two steps before your balance tried to abandon you again, and his grip tightened instinctively.

Inside the truck, Robby watched the whole thing with a tight grip on the steering wheel.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jack called over his shoulder. “I’m helping you out, brother!”

“Ain’t gotta be so fucking touchy,” Robby said.

“Swear jar,” you mumbled.

“Fuck off,” he said.

Jack opened the back passenger door, but before he could help you in, you suddenly stopped, swaying in place.

“Wait,” you said.

“What?” Jack asked cautiously.

You turned your head toward him with intense, teary focus. “I need my hug,” you told him.

Jack blinked once.

Then he sighed and pulled you into a hug. It was solid and warm and smelled faintly like clean laundry and something medicinal, and you immediately melted into it.

“Oh,” you mumbled into his shoulder. “Nice hug. Good hug.”

“Yeah? Good honey,” he said. “Have as many as you want.”

From the truck, Robby made a strangled sound. “Alright,” he called. “Enough! Into the truck. Both of you.”

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, checking your face with a quick, professional scan. “C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get you buckled in.”

And this time, when he guided you into the seat, you went without protest, still a little dazed, still swaying faintly as the world refused to settle properly.

Jack leaned in to buckle your seatbelt, efficient and careful, one hand steady at your shoulder so you didn’t tip sideways.

“You’re very handsome,” you whispered. His brows lifted. “Don’t,” you hiccuped, eyes wide and earnest. “Don’t tell Robby I said that. He’ll be so mad.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, warmth breaking through his calm expression. “Our little secret,” he whispered.

—

Jack Abbot has worn many titles over the course of his life.

He’s been a son, a brother; older and younger depending on who needed him the most at the time.

A recruit, standing in lines where individuality is heavily frowned upon, where you learn quickly that obedience isn’t an option.

He was a student. He studied tirelessly. He became a combat surgeon, one of the best in his battalion. He earned a Purple Heart and lost his leg in the process.

He came home a veteran. Got a prosthetic leg and relearned how to walk all over again, one painful step at a time.

He kept practising medicine. Before long, he itched for something more; so he became a SWAT medic alongside his attending duties.

It’s a hard balance. Maybe that’s why he likes it. If life isn’t a challenge, then it doesn’t feel real enough to him.

Sometimes, when the night shift runs long, Jack catches his reflection in a monitor or a stainless-steel tray and thinks about all the people he has been.

Son. Brother. Friend. Recruit. Surgeon. Veteran. SWAT medic.

And then, inevitably, he thinks about you.

You, twenty-three, all bright edges and soft optimism. The way you talk too much when you’re nervous and compliment him when you’re drunk. The way you apologise when you shouldn’t; again and again.

Thinking about you makes him wish he could be something more.

Something he's not allowed to be.

He wants and wants and wants.

He thinks about your soft hair and breathy giggles, and the way your pink sweaters always seem just a little too big, slipping off one shoulder like they don’t quite know how to sit on you.

Your endless collection of lip gloss. The faint trace of vanilla that follows you around. The way you smile; open, easy, completely unguarded.

He wants you.

Not in the careless way he’s wanted things before; it’s not a temporary obsession.

He wants to keep you. To belong somewhere with you. To come home and find you there, in his space, in his house.

He wants to be yours in whatever way you would allow it.

It’s sick and twisted and entirely forbidden. You’re near enough thirty years younger than him and he wants you in a carnal way that would make your brother seethe.

Jesus. He needs to pull himself together.

The ambulance bay doors slam open.

Jack’s head snaps up.

“Hey!” Robby shouts.

Jack is already moving before his brain fully catches up, his boots hitting the floor in sharp, decisive strides.

You’re limp against Robby’s chest, head tipped at the wrong angle, blood streaked down your temple, your face pale in a way that makes him feel physically sick.

“Head injury,” Robby says, his voice tight. “She tripped, hit the fireplace. Vomited twice, once at home and once in the truck. She’s—”

“Jack?” You cut your brother off with a weary voice, your eyes fluttering open to stare wide-eyed at the doctor. Those beautiful eyes immediately fill with tears, and he doesn’t think before stepping forward into Robby’s space.

“Trauma bay two. Now,” Jack says, already reaching for you as the team converges.

His hands are steady when they take your weight.

Your fingers weakly curl around Jack’s sleeve.

“I’m right here,” he says, voice low but steady, like nothing about this is affecting him at all. “Pupils?” he snaps, louder now, eyes flicking up as someone shines a penlight.

“Reactive, but sluggish.”

“BP dropping slightly.”

“Line’s in.”

“Good. Run fluids. I’ll keep her talking.” Jack leans in again despite himself, close enough that his voice doesn’t have to carry over the noise. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Sorry about the needles, honey. I know you don’t like ’em, but we can’t have you throwing up again, can we? You’ll only make it worse.”

“Hurts,” you repeat, sniffling, your voice small and frayed.

“I know,” he says. “I bet it does.”

You turn your head, slow and heavy, until your gaze lands on your brother. Your bottom lip trembles, eyes wide and glassy in a way that has always worked on him.

Robby’s expression tightens, something protective and sharp flashing behind his eyes, but he steps in anyway. His hand comes up to your hair, brushing it back from your face with careful fingers, despite the blood. “Hey kid,” he mutters. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Can you tell me where you are?” Jack asks, smoothly shifting back into assessment, even as your fingers remain curled into his sleeve like an anchor.

You hesitate. “Pitt?” you surmise.

“Correct,” he smiles down at you.

You try to mirror the smile, but your eyes flicker again, drifting.

“No, hey—“ Jack’s hand comes up, brushing your cheek, grounding, insistent. “Eyes, sweetheart. Come on, what did I say? You gotta stay awake.”

Behind him, Robby shifts.

And this time, the movement isn’t subtle.

Jack feels it before he sees it; the shift in the air. Robby’s gaze drops. Not to your face, not to the monitors, but to your hand.

Your hand, that is still curled tightly into Jack’s sleeve.

“CT’s ready,” Shen calls.

“Start moving,” Jack orders, gruff and impatient.

The gurney jolts into motion.

Robby falls into step alongside it, matching Jack stride for stride as they push through the swinging doors.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of wheels rattling over tile and your quiet mumbling; you’re singing, Jack thinks.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Robby mutters.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “Not the time,” he says evenly, eyes fixed ahead, one hand steady on the gurney rail while the other keeps you anchored in place. His jaw tightens, but his hands remain steady. “She needs a CT,” Jack continues, clinical, detached. “We can have whatever conversation you think we need to have after.”

“Oh, we’re going to have it,” Robby says. “Don’t worry about that.”

They round the corner.

The CT suite doors come into view.

Your fingers twitch weakly against Jack’s sleeve, still holding on.

Jack exhales slowly through his nose and prepares himself for a black eye and a broken nose.

—

You wake up slowly, and your bed feels all wrong. It’s too firm and flat and plain uncomfortable. And it doesn’t smell right; not like your pillow spray or laundry scent beads at all.

Robby calls your collection a pillow mountain. You like soft things, always have, and you’d taken full advantage of the fact that he let you hoard blankets and cushions to your hearts content.

You groan, shifting, already reaching instinctively toward where your phone should be on your nightstand—

A hand closes gently around your arm, stopping you.

“Easy,” Robby says.

Oh.

You blink, vision lagging a second behind reality, and take in the ceiling tiles.

You turn your head, slow and careful this time, and there he is; your brother, sitting close, watching you, one hand still wrapped gently around your arm.

Your arm. Which has a needle in it.

You gag immediately, recoiling on instinct.

“Hey—hey, don’t—” Robby leans in fast, voice low and steady as his other hand grabs a fold of the hospital sheet and pulls it up, covering the IV site before you can get a proper look. “Don’t look. Take a deep breath.”

You squeeze your eyes shut anyway. “You let them jab me,” you mumble miserably.

“I’m sorry," he says flatly, thumb brushing absently over your wrist.

You peek one eye open. “Is it still there?” you ask stupidly.

“Yes.” He says.

You make a distressed noise.

“Just don’t look at it. If you don’t look at it, it isn’t really there.”

“I don’t like that idea,” you frown at him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s the one we’re going with.”

You shift slightly, wincing as your head protests immediately, a dull, throbbing ache settling right behind your eyes. “Oh,” you breathe, voice small. “Ouch.”

Robby’s grip tightens just a fraction. “Yeah,” he says. “You gave us a bit of a scare.”

You frown, trying to piece things together through the fog. “I hit the fireplace,” you mumble.

“Yep.”

“I tripped on the rug,” you recall.

Stupid damn rug.

“You did.” Robby confirmed.

“…I threw up,” you remember, horrified.

“Twice,” he confirms.

You drag your free hand over your face. “I’m sorry.” You mumble.

“You’re concussed,” he informs you. “And you had to get a few stitches, but other than that, you’re okay.”

You lower your hand and squint at him. “Did Jack fix me?” you ask.

Your brother suddenly looks murderous, and you blink at him, concerned, but his expression smooths out. “Yeah,” he says evenly. “Jack took care of you.”

You relax a little at that, tension easing from your shoulders as much as it can. “Oh,” you murmur. “Okay. Good.”

—

“I could kill you right now, with my bare hands. God, I’m so fucking pissed at you,” Robby said.

Jack stood a few paces away on the roof, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie, shoulders set. “I wouldn’t stop you,” he replied. “Jesus. You think I feel good about it?” He laughed, self deprecating.

“You’re almost fifty, Jack,” Robby went on, pacing now, agitation bleeding back into every movement. “Fifty. You’ve lived a whole damn life already.”

“I know,” Jack said quietly.

“Do you?” Robby shot back. He pointed at him, frustrated, disbelieving. “She’s twenty-three years old. She’s still figuring herself out, what she wants, who she is, how the world works. And you—” he huffed out a sharp breath, shaking his head, “—fuck. You’re supposed to know better. Shit. And you’re my best friend,” Robby said. “Or you’re supposed to be. You’re the guy I trust to have my back. The guy I trust around my family.”

Jack’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t think I had to worry about you,” Robby said, quieter now, but no less intense. “Out of everyone, everyone, I never thought I’d have to look at you and wonder what the hell you’re thinking.”

“I’m not—” Jack started, then stopped himself. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar.

Robby laughed, short and humourless. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Wind dragged across the rooftop.

Robby stared at him. The anger didn’t disappear, but it seemed to shift. First anger, then calculation, then something almost like reluctant understanding. And then he dragged a hand down his face with a rough exhale. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this…”

Jack stood completely still.

“But I’m glad it’s you,” Robby said finally, the words gruff and reluctant. “At least I know you won’t—” he cut himself off, jaw tightening, then forced it out anyway, “—you won’t hurt her.”

“Never,” Jack said.

“She’ll be all in,” Robby said, after a long awkward stretch of silence. “That’s how she is. She doesn’t do things halfway.”

“I know,” Jack replied. He didn’t want to do anything halfway with you.

“And if she ends up hurt—” Robby’s voice dropped, dangerous again, “—I don’t care what you’ve done for me. I don’t care how long we’ve known each other.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Jack said. It felt like a vow.

With a sharp exhale, Robby looked away, out over the dark city instead of at Jack.

—

“Hi,” you whisper as Jack steps into your room.

The early morning light is just starting to creep in through the blinds, soft and pale, washing the harshness out of the hospital room. Somewhere out in the corridor, voices murmur. You’re pretty sure that it’s just the beginning of handover, the shift from night to day.

Your brother has disappeared on a mission to find coffee and your discharge paperwork—likely in that order.

Jack closes the door gently behind him, careful not to let it click too loudly, and keeps the lights low. “Hey, kiddo,” he murmurs back. “How’re you feeling?” he asks.

You shift slightly against the pillows. They feel wrong, still wrong, nothing like your pillow mountain, and wince. “Bad,” you mumble. “But better.”

A faint huff of amusement escapes him. He reaches out, almost without thinking, and adjusts the edge of your blanket where it’s slipped, the motion careful, absent-minded. “No more throwing yourself at fireplaces,” he says sternly.

“I didn’t,” you protest weakly. “It was… I just—”

“Tripped on the rug,” he supplies.

You let out a small, defeated sigh. “Stupid rug.”

“Robby’s due to start his shift soon,” Jack says after a moment. “I can take you home, but I doubt he’ll want you to be alone today.” He pauses, watching your face carefully. “You wanna go to your parents’ place? I don’t mind taking you.”

You blink at him. “Oh,” you say quietly. “Um… well…” Your gaze drops to the hospital sheet, fingers picking at the edge of it like it’s suddenly very interesting. “Well, the thing is,” you start, voice thinning a little, “I’m not really talking to my mom at the moment.”

He frowns at you.

“Robby doesn’t know, obviously, but we argued and she called me names and I just—” your throat tightens, and you swallow it down hard, “—I don’t want to go there.”

“Not your parents’ house, then,” he says gently.

You shake your head immediately. Too fast.

“No. No thank you,” you add, then force a breath that doesn’t quite steady you. “I’ll be fine on my own.” You glance up at him, and you hate it a little; how easily your face gives you away. How obvious it is that you’re not fine. That you’re tired, in pain, scared, and suddenly very aware of how much you do not want to be alone today.

Jack exhales through his nose, like he’s made a decision. “Robby’s right about one thing,” he says. Your eyes flick up. “You need someone with you today,” he continues. “Make sure you eat and drink and don’t get any secondary symptoms. You can come with me,” he says.

“…oh,” you manage. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure, baby.”

You feel your eyes water at the softness of the pet name, and he brushes his thumb under it to catch the tear.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

He sticks his thumb into his mouth to clean off your tear, and your eyes track the movement in awe.

“Gonna take you home,” he says, and you stare at him. “We’ll talk after you eat, okay? Got lots to talk about.” He says.

Your stomach suddenly feels warm. “I—we do?” You breathe.