By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.

Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.

Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.

The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.

You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.

The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.

“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.

“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.

You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.

You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.

“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”

A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.

The machine beeped.

Approved.

You froze.

Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.

“Bag?” the cashier asked.

“No,” Jack said.

You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He finally looked at you.

Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.

“What?” he said.

You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“That’s my lunch.”

“Looked like it.”

“You paid for it.”

“Sharp today.”

You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”

That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.

“Eat the sandwich,” he said.

“I was going to.”

“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”

You opened your mouth.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

You closed it again.

Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.

“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”

Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”

“I don’t faint,” Santos said.

“You got lightheaded during central line training.”

“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”

Jack looked at her.

Santos looked back.

The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.

“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”

Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”

Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”

Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”

Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”

Your face was still hot.

The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.

Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.

“I can pay you back,” you said.

Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.

“Don’t.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“That’s not how money works.”

“It is when I decide I don’t care.”

You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You should’ve let it go.

You really should’ve.

But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.

“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”

Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.

Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”

He walked away before you could answer.

You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.

Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.

“Oh, that was not nothing.”

“It was lunch,” you said.

Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”

You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.

Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”

Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”

“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”

You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.

It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.

But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.

He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.

Jack was worse.

Jack was practical.

He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.

Robby noticed before you did.

Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.

It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.

“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.

You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”

Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.

“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”

“He bought me lunch once.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And coffee.”

“Sure.”

“And maybe pasta.”

Robby’s eyebrows rose.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”

“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”

That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.

Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.

Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.

“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”

You swallowed. “I know that too.”

Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.

“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”

“There’s nothing to notice.”

“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”

You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.

Across the department, Jack glanced up.

For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

That was becoming the problem.

Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.

You wished he’d be less good at it.

You wished you liked it less.

The car thing happened on a Thursday.

You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.

Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.

Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.

The expensive one.

A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.

You shut the engine off immediately.

“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”

The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.

You tried again.

The sound came back worse.

A knock hit your window.

You screamed.

Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.

You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”

“No,” he said. “Just me.”

“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”

“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”

“It’s fine.”

Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.

“That’s not a fine sound.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“It shouldn’t do that ever.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”

“You’re not driving it until then.”

A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

Your stomach dipped.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Something else.

Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“Pop the hood.”

There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.

You popped the hood.

The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.

It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.

He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.

“Do not drive this,” he said.

You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Jack.”

He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”

You did not.

You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.

“I can call someone,” you said.

“Who?”

The question was simple. Too simple.

That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.

You looked away first.

Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want you fixing everything.”

“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”

You didn’t move.

Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.

“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”

That was how he won.

Not with softness. Not with a speech.

Heat.

You grabbed your bag and got out.

Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.

He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.

You noticed.

You hated that you noticed.

Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”

“Your leg?”

“I said yeah.”

“Right. Sorry.”

His jaw worked.

Then, quieter, “Long day.”

That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.

At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”

You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”

“I’ll call someone.”

“No.”

“You don’t know who yet.”

“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”

The light turned green.

Jack drove.

You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”

“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”

“Jack.”

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you know a guy.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re not that old.”

That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.

“No?”

“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.

“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.

The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.

Not brave.

Not independent.

Just exhausting.

He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.

You didn’t reach for the door handle.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jack nodded once.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”

“No.”

You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop noticing.”

“No.”

Your eyes opened.

Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.

Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.

That made it worse.

You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”

The joke landed differently in the dark.

You felt it. So did he.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.

“You should go inside,” he said.

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.

You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.

“Night, Jack.”

His hand tightened once around the phone.

“Lock your door.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”

His eyes lifted.

There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.

“Don’t start,” he said.

You got out before your face could betray you.

The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.

Jack didn't tell you this.

The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.

Handled.

Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.

You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.

Squared it away.

You were going to kill him.

Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.

You had to wait.

That made you angrier.

By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.

Jack stopped.

Robby, behind him, stopped too.

Dana looked up from the desk.

Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.

Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”

“Oh, no, definitely here.”

Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.

“Coward,” Dana muttered.

“Experienced,” Robby corrected.

Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”

“You paid the mechanic.”

“Yeah.”

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”

“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”

“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.

“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”

Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”

Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”

Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”

You barely heard them.

Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.

“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it done.”

You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”

“Usually.”

“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”

Jack’s gaze held yours.

“Doing what?”

The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.

“You know what,” you said.

For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.

Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.

“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.

Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.

He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.

“Friday,” he said under his breath.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Pick up your car Friday.”

Then he was gone.

Santos waited exactly three seconds.

“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”

Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”

Santos deflated. “Damn it.”

You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.

By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.

Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.

Your old ones were unsafe.

That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.

The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.

At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.

PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.

You hadn’t planned to go.

Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”

You’d said yes before checking your closet.

That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.

Your phone buzzed.

Jack:

Car still running?

You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.

You:

yes, dad

Jack:

Don’t.

You smiled despite yourself.

You:

thank you, by the way for the shoes too even though you’re insane

Jack:

You going tomorrow?

You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.

You:

maybe

Jack:

That means yes.

You should’ve stopped there.

Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:

You:

it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident

The reply took longer than usual.

Jack:

Show me.

You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.

You:

the dress?

Jack:

What else would I mean?

Your face went hot.

You:

don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Jack:

You have tomorrow off?

You stared.

Then stared harder.

You:

why

Jack:

Answer the question.

There were several smart things you could’ve said.

You said none of them.

You:

yes

Jack:

I’ll pick you up at 10.

Your stomach flipped.

You:

jack

Jack:

10:30 if you’re going to argue.

You:

you don’t even know what i was going to say

Jack:

I’m learning patterns.

You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.

The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.

Of course he did.

He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.

“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.

“You haven’t gone in yet.”

“That’s why I still have hope.”

He gave you a look.

You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was too easy.”

“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”

You stared at him.

He headed for the shop.

“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.

“It’s exactly a loophole.”

Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.

You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.

Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.

He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.

That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.

The saleswoman brought options.

You rejected the first three.

Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.

“No,” he said through the door.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw the sleeve.”

“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”

“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”

You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.

Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.

His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.

“No,” he repeated.

The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”

You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”

The fifth dress was the problem.

You knew it before you opened the curtain.

The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.

Confidence, maybe.

Or danger.

“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.

“You’re bossy.”

“Yes.”

“You admit that way too easily.”

“I’m old.”

You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.

This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.

That was the bad idea.

You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.

For a moment, he said nothing.

The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.

His jaw shifted.

Your fingers tightened around the curtain.

“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.

Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.

“No,” he said.

Your face fell before you could stop it.

Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”

The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.

“It fits.”

It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.

You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.

“It’s probably expensive.”

“Probably.”

“Jack.”

“You like it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”

He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.

“I can do what I want.”

“You sound like a nightmare.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.

The thought went through you too sharply.

You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”

Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”

There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.

Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”

Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.

So you made it worse on purpose.

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.

“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”

You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.

The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.

Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.

Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.

“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”

“That’s never a good opener.”

“You look hot.”

“Santos.”

“What? I said don’t make it weird.”

Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”

Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”

You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”

“Because I’m invested.”

“You need a hobby.”

“I have one. It’s being right.”

You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”

“You too?”

“Me too what?”

“Nothing.”

Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”

“There’s not a thing.”

“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.

Dana smirked and walked away.

Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.

It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.

Robby said something to him at the entrance.

Jack answered without smiling.

Then his eyes found you.

Everything else blurred.

Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.

He walked over slowly.

“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.

“Hi.”

You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”

“I was going to say that.”

“You can still say it.”

“No.”

“Too generous?”

“Too easy.”

His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

You stared. “What is that?”

“Receipt.”

“For the dress?”

“For the car.”

Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”

“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”

You looked down.

Paid.

Your throat tightened.

“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.

“I still owe you.”

“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”

You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.

Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.

“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”

“That makes it worse.”

“I agree.”

Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”

Jack gave him a look.

Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”

Jack didn’t move immediately.

His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.

“Don’t disappear,” he said.

Your pulse kicked.

“I’m working.”

“After.”

Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.

You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.

For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.

Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.

You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.

And Jack kept finding you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.

At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”

He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”

“I was.”

“Bad idea.”

“Because violence is wrong?”

“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”

You laughed into your glass.

Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.

You saw him catch it.

That was the dangerous part.

Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.

You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.

“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”

Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”

The man’s eyes shifted to you.

You felt it like cold water.

“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”

Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.

“This is—” Jack began.

The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”

His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.

Your fingers tightened around the place cards.

Jack went still.

The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”

“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”

The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.

“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.

Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”

The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.

The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”

“I’m not interested in what you meant.”

Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.

“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”

The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.

“No offense intended.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught.

People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.

You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.

You set the place cards down.

“I need some air,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”

But you were already moving.

You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.

You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.

You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.

Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”

You turned on him. “Made it worse.”

“They made it worse.”

“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”

His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.

“They don’t know what you are.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And what am I?”

The question came out too vulnerable to take back.

Jack didn’t answer right away.

Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.

He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.

You hated that you wanted him to say it.

You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.

Instead, he said, “Not that.”

A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

“Great.”

Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.

You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

“You bought the dress,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You fixed my car.”

“Yes.”

“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”

Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.

“What do you think people are going to call that?”

“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you call it.”

The words took the air out of the terrace.

You looked at him.

Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.

Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.

All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.

Now Jack was standing there asking.

Tell me what you call it.

Your mouth felt dry.

“I call it confusing,” you said.

His expression shifted.

You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.

You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”

His voice dropped. “Like what?”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”

The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.

Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”

The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.

His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.

“But I’ve thought about it.”

The terrace went silent.

Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.

You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.

“What was I going to say?”

His eyes lifted.

“That we shouldn’t.”

The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.

You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.

Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”

His eyes sharpened.

You took one more step.

“But it’s not what I want.”

For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.

Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.

“Say that again,” he said.

The words nearly undid you.

You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.

“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “No?”

“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”

The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic at first.

That would’ve been easier.

It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

That was what broke it.

Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.

You grabbed his jacket.

He made a low sound, almost a warning.

You pulled him closer anyway.

The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.

His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”

“I know.”

“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.

“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”

Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

His eyes held yours.

“My car.”

The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.

Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.

Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.

Jack ignored all of them.

You loved and hated him for it.

The elevator ride down was worse.

Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.

In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.

Jack unlocked the car.

You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.

He saw the hesitation immediately.

Of course he did.

“You can change your mind,” he said.

The words loosened something in you.

Not because you wanted to.

Because he meant it.

You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He nodded once.

Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”

His face shifted.

“Do I what?”

“Know what I want.”

The garage seemed to hold its breath.

Jack opened the back door.

“Get in,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Just low enough to go through you like a match.

You got in.

The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.

Then the opposite door opened.

He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.

“You still think this is about money?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You shook your head.

“Words.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“What’s it about?”

You could’ve said care.

You could’ve said want.

You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.

Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”

Jack’s eyes flashed.

Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.

"Jack—"

"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"

You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."

He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.

"Look at me."

You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”

Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.

"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."

You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.

"Jack—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.

"Get on top of me."

It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.

He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"

He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.

"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."

You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."

He didn't.

His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"

He pushed inside you.

The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"

He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.

Then you moved.

Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."

You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.

"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"

"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.

"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."

You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."

He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."

You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.

"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."

"Jack—I'm close—"

"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"

"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."

He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.

Then he laughed.

A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.

"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"

"Stupid," you supplied.

"Reckless."

"A really bad idea."

His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."

You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.

"We should probably—" you started.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.

"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.

"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."

He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.

You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.

He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”

That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”

“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”

“He sounds unbearable.”

“He is.”

The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”

Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.

“Jack,” you said softly.

He waited.

You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”

For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.

“You get breakfast.”

“That’s it?”

“And your car.”

“Already got that.”

“And the shoes.”

“Also already got those.”

“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”

The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.

But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.

He was looking at you like something worth keeping.

He stifles a laugh as you forgo a greeting and start with, "Dr. Shen, I hear congratulations are in order." Your hands are clasped tight as you lean in beside him on the counter, but your expression is as it always is: neutral, a settled brow line and clear eyes catching the Pitt lights. "Attending Physician Dr. Shen, I should clarify."

"Attending Physician Spider, I thank you," he replies, "if we're going by our official titles."

"That's Attending Physician Dr. Spider," you correct. "Or, I mean, I still have a real name."

As if swatting a fly away: "Yeah, but no one calls you that." Biting on his coffee straw, he looks up at the board. "Any advice for the new guy?"

"Advice?" you echo. "It took two months for it to really sink in, and a year until I really felt normal about it all, if that's the right word for it. When the paperwork started piling up, I realized that it's not that different."

"Well, next year I'd like to request a check-up and see if that's a common diagnosis." John grins around his straw. Your expression flickers before settling into amusement. "Make it a routine thing, make sure I'm doing this whole 'attending' thing right."

"If you get to your desk and there's three stacks of papers needing to be signed," you intone smoothly, "you must be."

"I don't think we get private offices."

"Oh? Robby and Abbot share one. They must have some room they can empty out for you."

"You think?"

You shrug. "Maybe." Then, you add on, "By the way, a car versus pole arrived right before you came in. Not going too fast, airbags deployed. Bruising on the chest, closed radial fracture, no acute head injury. Ordered a CT to rule out anything that might've caused dizziness or confusion. He was awake and alert, but keep an eye out for decompensation for me, will you?"

"Did you let Abbot know?"

"I did, but I wanted to let the other attending on shift know," you remind him. "Just in case."

John is quick to mask his surprise. "One less patient for me to round on. God, you're so good to me and I'll do anything you want."

"Just don't be lazy on your first day of being an attending."

"Oh, I'd never dream of it. Hey, you gonna be around for the night?"

"Yeah." You cup the back of your neck and massage it thoroughly. Under your brow, you stare up at the board. As always, the air around you warps and undulates like a heartbeat—each pulse making something twinge as you shrug helplessly. "No one else would work July 4th weekend."

"Short end of the stick, then."

"No, I volunteered," you admit. "I'm not in a very patriotic mood." This, at his levelled gaze. "You know me."

"I'm still of the mind that you need friends," he drawls. "More friends, I mean. 'Cause that's what we are."

"Oh? I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, between dastardly saves and water cooler talk. Oh, and by the way, you're terribly in love with me." Your eyes crease in a smile, and John feels a relief pool in the bottom of his gut. "You know, I think we're friends. Like you could talk to me, because you can. If something's bothering you."

At last, a small, placid smile finds its way onto your face. "We are friends," you tell him quietly. "I'm not friends with people who aren't exceptional at their jobs."

"Then why're you so tight with Abbot?"

"Do you want to toe that line on your first day?"

Another heave of his shoulders. "You know me," he parrots. "I like to toe the line."

You draw away, and with it comes that tone you always take on whenever you decide to drop into his world. Finely trimmed in warmth and warning is your grin as you retreat to the elevator. "Be good, Shen."

"Y'know," he ventures, "technically, you can't boss me around anymore."

You spin on him, quick as a whip, tracking backwards down the hall. "When did you start biting back?"

"I'll never bite your hands. They're too expensive, and I haven't gotten my first attending paycheck yet," he promises solemnly, hand to his heart and fingers splayed as if you'll stitch each digit to his skin if you had the chance.

You don't laugh, or frown, or show any sign that you're angry, as you are wont to do. Your countenance softens, and then you jab your thumb into the button. Immediately, the sign above you lights up and the two heavy doors part.

"Don't let the R2s defer to Abbot when you stand in the room," you advise, stepping in, "Attending Physician Dr. Shen."

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2.

The sterile, cold air shifts with a gust of air that sweeps into the trauma room. A quick glance at the clock. Only barely past midnight.

Shen is craned over the woman on the gurney when you duck in and around the staff setting up stat monitors, your eyes dark and focused. You sidle in next to him, hand digging into your pocket to withdraw your penlight.

"Oh, I know you love me if you're here so fast," he sings as you take over the neurological exam.

"My gift for our new night shift attending. Dr. Shen—" lifting the woman's eyelids, you swing the light and watch the pupil dilate— "who've we got here?"

John shoots a finger gun over at the intern. "Phillips, go time."

"Anna Badriya, twenty-seven, GCS 12 en route. She called 911 before losing consciousness. Head ache, slurred speech, nausea for three hours."

You frown. "Do we know how long she's been complaining about the headache?"

"She said a few days?"

"We're setting up fluids, zofran, haloperidol," Shen cuts in cleanly. "No barf yet, but you know I hate to see aspiration." His hip bumps against yours as they rip open her front. "Alright, woah, stop. Looks like we've got someone fresh from cardiothoracic surgery. We need to pull up her EHR and be careful when we move her around."

Your gaze darts towards her chest. A surgery wound splits the patient's skin a part, and you clench your jaw, turning back to the woman. "Is it infected?"

"Nope. Looks clean. POCUS." With a generous slather of gel, Shen places the wand to the skin. "Bilateral lung sliding."

"Is it from a valve replacement? Like, could it have failed?" Phillips asks.

"Don't know yet… nope! Chest is clear. Upper quadrants are clear."

Lathered in sweat by pain, the woman lets out a soft moan as you press your hand to her forehead, using your thumb to draw back the other eyelid. "Anna? Anna, do you know where you are?" A soft moan comes out choked and out of the corner of your eye, you see gloved knuckles rub against the sternum.

"Responsive to pain," reports Phillips.

"Lower quadrants are good too. Spider?"

"Got a blown pupil. We need a head CT."

"She came in two weeks ago for an ascending aortic aneurysm. Discharged and lives at home with her mom." You whip your head over your shoulder at Olive standing by the computer. "Post-op DVT prophylaxis."

Straightening up, you step back and tuck your torch back into your breast pocket, ripping off your gloves with a rippling snap. "Alright, CT to OR."

"We'll need someone to call her mom."

"What is it?" asks Phillips.

Olive nods. "On it."

"A brain bleed caused by the blood thinners. Generally pretty rare," you explain, "but probable now." The harsh clang of the metal punctuates your words as the gurney rails lock into place. The ER staff become a procession, ushering the patient to the elevator and you cup your neck, lolling it under your palm and hearing the bones click. "We'll have her spick and span before you can say 'infundibulum.'"

"Still think mammillary bodies is weirder when we're talking about brains," Shen retorts, his fingers ghosting your elbow as you walk past him to follow. Side by side, they push their way out of the trauma room. The intern scurries ahead to help push the gurney.

Shen inclines his head towards yours. "Why do they call it that, by the way? Is it cause they look like a bunch of tiny nipples?"

"You just like boobs." You wrinkle your nose at him

With a huge, impish grin: "What guy doesn't like boobs?"

From where he leans on the counter by the arm, swiping mindlessly on the iPad to keep the screen active, Abbot interrupts whatever retort you had building up. "Hey, you need an extra set of hands?"

Shen pauses, fingers wrapping around the ends of his stethoscope. You continue onward, sending Jack a lazy wave, and as easy as breathing you say for him, "Relax, old man. Shen's got it handled."

You slip into the elevator just as the doors slide shut.

Turning on his heel, John walks a pace around the hub before pulling up Anna's chart on the computer, sitting down with a restrained groan. He stretches his arms high and back behind his head before flinging himself into the keyboard. Better to get started on his charting while he's ahead.

Yet as he settles his hands above the keyboard, he pauses for a moment. Then, he looks up at Abbot. The man doesn't even look phased as he works. John folds his arms on the desk, and says airily, "Don't know if you believe all that she's said."

"What? The part where she called me old, or where she said you had it handled?"

"Well, you're only, what—pushing seventy?"

"Alright."

"No, I mean, the other part."

Abbot doesn't bother even looking up from the iPad. Vaguely, he answers, "She's an excellent judge of character for everyone except herself."

"Which means to say she's good at holding people at a distance," John surmises under his breath, but he averts his gaze when Abbot sends him a well-meaning but hard warning glance. He tries to think of what little he can glean from you—your hobbies, what you like or dislike, even how old you are—and doesn't like at what he comes up with.

Which is to say, nothing.

"So, when's her birthday?" Abbot tells him, and he frowns. "How do you know that?"

"Ladies are attracted to a little experience." Shen pulls a face. Abbot snorts. "I mean, maybe she digs guys pushing seventy."

His boss pushes off the counter and walks over to the South wing. John's jaw drops, and Lena reaches over to manually hinge it shut.

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3.

John Shen isn't superstitious. He doesn't believe in saying the Q-word or the S-word or any word bringing bad luck, no matter how hard Ellis slugs him in the shoulder for it. Full moon madness isn't real. And he definitely doesn't think deaths come in threes. Good things, maybe, but not death.

Mostly, he believes good things should happen to good people.

"Dr. Shen?"

"That's me." He looks up, chin lifting from the cup of his hand to see a woman standing there. A surgical nurse, by the scrubs, stands there with shoulders pulled back as she stretches her arms. Her ID tag glints when her chest arches up towards the lights. CONNIE JOAN HUNTER. Crazy, he thinks idly, to have a name comprised entirely of first names. "Can I help you?"

"Spider sent me down. Said you would want to know that Ms. Badriya is well and in recovery."

"Oh." He stands, suddenly feeling very impolite sitting when someone is talking to him. In the back of his mind, he hears his mother chiding him. "Well, thank you. You didn't have to come all this way."

"She insisted," the nurse says with a shrug. She doesn't look at all bothered. "She told us that it was your first day as an attending, so you get to hear about all the wins you don't normally hear. Congratulations."

"Wow, is it a party up in neurosurg or something?"

"Always is." The nurse taps the counter with her fingers rhythmically before moving to glide off towards the stairs. She barely drags her hands away before coming back to stand in front of Shen. "Hey, are you close with Spider?"

"Decent friends," he says, pausing awkwardly between sitting and standing. "Have been for a while."

"Like outside of work," she clarifies.

"Those questions are directed to Dr. Abbot," he says. "Why?"

"We already asked him. We want to celebrate." She adds it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and his confused look is stupid. He straightens up again. "But we don't know what she'd like to do or get. If you have an idea, let any one of us know. We have, like, a group chat and everything, and we asked Abbot but he told us to ask Dr. Robby, and no one really wants to talk to Dr. Robby, so we're still in the middle of trying to convince Abbot to be a liaison." He frowns. Connie Joan Hunter slumps. "It's a whole thing."

John's still trying to wrap his head around the first half as he asks, "Celebrate? Did I miss a memo in the company emails or something?"

"You didn't hear?" At this, Conne Joan grows a little concerned. "Spider got her pick of fellowships next year. Neurotrauma at U-Dub, or UPMC, or Toronto. It's where she went for med school," she adds, although Shen somehow knows that. Fellow Canadian, and all that. "They're holding a spot."

"Can they do that?"

"Well," Connie Joan says, "I think they make exceptions for her."

She continues to prattle on about adding John to the group chat so that they can come up with some sort of celebration together. He opines that you wouldn't like a big party—even a simple gift would do—and ignores the strange, sinking sensation that floods him. An overwhelming wave of sadness, almost, if he gives it too much credence.

He clenches his jaw tight and tries to temper his thoughts on why you wouldn't tell him with other things, like genuinely, what gifts you'd like. How you'd react to a surprise party.

How much you hate it, how much you'd try to shimmy your way free from the room. Sure, you'll thank them all with a smile, but you'd try not to shrink in on yourself, attempt to sweep the entire thing under the rug with enough white lies to drown yourself in. Let's not make a big deal out of it. It's not like I'm dying. I'm really not worth all this. It's just U-dub. It's just U of T. It's just UPMC, and it's just neurosurgery. Anyone could do it—

A pager beeps. Connie Joan curses under her breath. She scurries out of the Pitt with a, "I'll text you!" and it's loud enough that Abbot frowns as he rounds the corner back from South.

"Were you hitting on her?" Appalled.

As petulant as a child who's lying but Shen really isn't lying: "No."

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4.

Somewhere between the lapse of hellish exhaustion and the second wind at 5 AM, Shen treks up to crit care with a half a sandwich, a banana, and goal in mind. That is to say, to find you and figure out what this whole fellowship business is about. He prides himself on knowing the general comings and goings. He also wants to know if he's about to lose one of his friends to U-Dub of all places.

He'd rather you go back to your alma mater of Temerty, across the border if you didn't want to stay in Pittsburgh. At least he'd stop by the Falls to visit. He himself graduated just up the St. Lawrence from McGill, so it's not like it would be too far if he ever decided to swing up there. Support a friend. Toronto winters aren't so different.

He'd rather you just tell him straight that you're leaving instead of playing along with routine yearly check-ups and all that bullshit.

A young man sits at the nurse's station when John gets there. Hair limp and oily under the pale light, he leans back into the most unergonomic, cheap, shit black office chair the hospital could scrounge up, and stares up at the screens mounted on the pillar. One for scheduling, another for stats.

Spooning yogurt robotically into his mouth, he just watches. John would think he's a statue, if not for the steady lifting and sinking of his chest. The few others are writing or typing away, and it's quiet. All around him are other staff, sweeping in and out of rooms for their hourly neuro checks, the shout of a particularly cantankerous patient complaining loudly about his sleep being disturbed, and John's shoulders rise, tense just a bit, eyes darting.

"Sorry." The nurse swivels, spoon pulled over his bottom lip. The ID has been tossed onto the desk as John leans over on his knuckles. Carter. "Is Spider around?"

"Could try her office. It's on the neurology floor, though. Not here."

"She got pulled into surgery," another one intones, not even bothering to turn around from where she leans onto the desk by her elbows. The nurse pushes her face into her hands, dragging the skin up and down as if wiping away a memory. "Jordan wanted the lesions out and the tumour biopsied as soon as possible and she said she could squeeze it in tonight by… I don't know, magic?"

"What the fuck?" the male nurse mumbles, then remembers Shen. "Sorry, man. Guess she's in surgery. Might be a while."

"Everything okay?"

"She's poking around in our friend's head. Like, nursing school and shit." With a daggered look over his shoulder: "He told me he was doing it tomorrow."

The woman holds her hands out in the air, shrugging. "Don't shoot the messenger."

The nurse, back to John: "You see how it is."

"Yeah. It gonna take another two or three hours, I'm guessing?"

Carter nods apologetically. "Do you need a consult? She's got some R1s tonight. They'll page her directly."

Everyone here is so nice, he thinks distantly. He sweeps his gaze around him. Then he realizes that there must be endless compassion or endless apathy to work in a place that dealt so cleanly with life and death and the meaning between the two.

John doesn't want to say it's any harder than the Pitt, but he remembers when he did a neurology rotation during his intern year. He shadowed a stroke team for weeks, watching as they brought back pieces of a person's identity—their speech, or the capacity to understand it, parts of the body that would jolt and twitch, and then go still.

"Maybe there's a small mercy here," Dr. Mehta once said to him, lacking his usual sense of joy and joke that he had gotten used to. He must've caught John's expression when a patient arrived too late for treatment, and died right in front of them. He remembers feeling sick. It wasn't the first person who died in front of him, but probably the first one where the doctors stepped back, and let the patient pass peacefully. "Not just to our patient, but to his doctors who don't have to weigh at what point the quality of life justifies living."

"No," he remembers to say presently. "Just tell her if she's free to page me. I wanted to talk to her about… Lance Burns. Car accident guy from earlier." He forks over his extension and the banana as thanks, and a little recognition flickers over the nurse's face.

"We'll have a room for him ready eventually," the nurse says apologetically, taking the food offering. He pauses. "Wait, you're the new EM attending."

"That's the story."

"Sweet. Congrats."

"Yeah, thank me when I keep sending up the guys that won't shut up," John teases, clutching onto his sandwich tighter. "Say, do you have a bathroom I could use?"

By the time he comes out and walks back to the nurse's station to retrieve his sandwich that he left for safekeeping and sanitary reasons, a few new figures roam the hub. One in particular is peering over Carter's shoulder. Your arms are planted on your hips, scrub cap still on your head as you dictate orders to the residents behind you.

"And make sure she doesn't try to roll out of bed again. Check the output every hour. I don't want to explain to her son why her EVD got dislodged or some other nonsensical thing," you mutter, fingers pulling down your cheek. The two residents nod and scatter, and you redirect your attention to Carter. "Next scan, please. See, right there. I knew it. He needs new scans. The lesions are way more invasive than these showed." You slide your hand to cup your neck, and roll it out. "I'll have to consult with Dr. Cheung and Dr. Conley. The good news is the biopsy results will be in by the end of the week, the bad news is I can't give you definitive answers." Your face twitches. "I'm sorry I can't do more right now."

"It's not your fault," Carter says, eyes empty as he clicks repeatedly. His voice is tight, and the other nurse from earlier has a hand tight on his shoulder, knuckles blanch, fingers rigid and digging. It looks painful. Carter doesn't even flinch.

"You can be there for him," you suggest quietly, pulling off your scrub cap. "Tired advice, but it's hard to be a patient." At his approach, you look up, exhausted, but still forcing yourself to blink and peer at him with as much energy as you can. "Shen?"

"Hey."

"Is something wrong? Lance; did he decompensate?"

"I just wanted to ask you about something." A meaningful look. You nod sharply down the hall, excusing yourself with your exhaustion. He follows after you and hands over the sandwich. "Just in case," he adds as you lead him through the twist and turns of the floor. You gesture to an on-call room after a quick peek inside to assure no one was already in there before slipping in.

John locks the door behind him, turning around just as you sink onto the bed, rest your elbows on your knees, and pry open the plastic encasing the sandwich. He pulls the chair from the desk and seats himself, arms lined along the worn armrests.

"What is it?" Your eyes warm in the gentle glow of the lamplight, and you look up from beneath your brow as you eat, cheeks full. You wipe at your lip, lowering your face at his expression, and your eyes widen, ducking your head even more into your hand when you realize he's still staring. Shen can't help the slight smile, the way his face heats as he turns his head away, pressing his jaw into the heel of his hand. "Sorry. I'm eating like a pig. I haven't eaten since… Sorry, what time is it?"

"Half past four."

"Probably since eight or nine," you confess. "Sorry."

"You just apologized three times in the last two sentences."

"Ah. Yeah. Habit." You eat slower. John watches out of the corner of his eye and wonders what that could mean. "Right. What happened to Lance?"

"Nothing."

"You're being weird." Your eyes are shadowed, a slight frown weighing down on your lips in concern. "Did something happen?"

John winces. "No. No, it's not that." He leans forward too, steepling his fingers. Their heads are inches apart. You cock aside, your brow wrinkling delicately. "We're… we're friends, right?"

"I think I recall saying that earlier tonight. Is the late night getting to you?" You clear your throat. "Shit, this sandwich is good."

"I think the late night's getting to you," he comments, and the tone holds more of an edge than he wants. He tempers it with a quick, "It's from the cart in the Pitt. Marginally better than the cafeteria."

You stare at him, gaze searching. Although you keep your tone light, it doesn't refract an inch in your face. "The cafeteria could kill people." Tone measured, every movement calculated. "I think it's what keeps us in business."

"Tell Gloria that."

"Hm." You chew the rest of the sandwich, dust your hands into the plastic container before setting it on the table, snapped shut. It's such a carelessly tidy sort of action that has John's throat going dry. He rubs his palms together. "So?"

"So what?"

"You clearly have something to say to me."

"No."

"Shen."

"I'm sure it was some baseless rumour, but you should know that your staff have loud mouths. Like... it could be a security breach, and if you were the president—" he whistles— "game over."

"Do you want me to have a talk with them?" The corner of your lips twist, displeased and a bolt of guilt strikes through John. He shakes his head violently, hands shooting out in front of him. Pitching forward at the hips, his feet shuffle and make his legs wider apart. You flinch.

"No! No, no, no, it's not like... bad or anything." He draws back, scratching at his brow. "It sounds bad in hindsight. No, what I mean to say is that I heard you were returning back to humble roots but instead of an R7 it's to fellowship. Should I be hurt that I wasn't in on the newsletter?"

Your shoulders fall, and your lips part, a soft breath coming out in the quietest of sighs before you utter, "I don't know. The only reason people know is because they keep eavesdropping."

He smiles wryly. "Do you think that maybe they eavesdrop because you don't tell anyone anything?"

"People need to mind their business. They spread all these rumours about fellowships, and I don't even know if I'm accepted into some of them. I don't want to get my hopes up in case they retract their offers and decide with a better candidate. Either way," you continue brusquely before John can cut you off, "don't be like me. Just enjoy the attending life. Maybe that's the advice I've got for you."

"Then why?"

"Competition. Interest. I was lucky to get a job without doing a fellowship. I need to be better to keep it. And it's either this or being a neuroscientist."

"So you're going to move to Canada."

"I don't know yet," you tell him smoothly.

"You're leaning to one over the other."

"I'm letting myself weigh the options. Measure twice. Cut once." Your eyes knife to him, under your brow, a butterfly's touch. Hair has slipped from your tight hairdo, ending like a swaying rope by your mouth. Over the past four years, he's seen your face—a passing ghost between doors and curtains, hidden behind a computer screen, translucent through a printed scan. Underneath Abbot's arm when you're too still and half the room thinks you're a cadaver and he's trying to shake some life into you. Over Olive's shoulder. In the break room, the line of your shoulders sloping downward as you press your forehead to the wall, and there it is again: that distinct puncture wound Shen gets between the ribs urging him to reach out, to tell you that he's sorry and that he's here—

It vanishes like smoke.

"The whole point of the brain is to adapt and survive," you tell him as you reach up and pull the elastic out of your hair. It tumbles all around your face, a wave of eucalyptus fragrancing the air as you rub at your scalp. Your words are a hand on his arm, squeezing him assuredly. "And to remember. In neuro, we gauge the humanity of a surgery by what will remain after."

He doesn't know why that sticks with him. You press a hand on his shoulder before you go, tell him you'll see him later.

John turns to watch you go, a lone shadow flooded by a pillar of light.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

5.

He doesn't see you again until his shift's over. Well, technically it ended fifty-seven minutes ago, but who was keeping count when he had charts to dictate and final discharges to go through?

You're talking to Langdon, which is a strange sight in itself, but the claws have been sheathed since March. Not gone completely, but the scratches glance off the skin rather than draw blood. You pass off an iPad, gesturing with your pinkie about levels and brain bleeds and shit he can't think of when he's tired off his ass from running everywhere.

But Langdon gets it. With every nod along to whatever medicine you're spewing, Shen wonders if the guy realizes he's staring more at the side of your face than at whatever you're talking about. He wouldn't be able to notice himself if he wasn't sitting at the hub right in front of the pair, double-checking to make sure his charts are fully uploaded.

"So, we hitting the diner?" he cut in cleanly when you pause in the midst of your conversation. You snap your jaw shut, pinning him with a look before muttering a dismissal to Langdon who hands back the iPad and disappears into the swirl of the Pitt without another word.

You turn to fully lean against the counter, setting down the iPad. "The diner?"

"Yeah."

"Don't really recall an invite."

"Well, consider this your invitation to the best congratulation dinnerfast in all of Pittsburgh. Who knows how much time I have left with you?"

"You mean how much you have to stick out before I'm out of your hair," you reply ruefully. "Besides, I have plans."

"What? A date?"

"No, of course not. Hey, give me your hand." Your fingers delicately steady his wrist as you slap something into his palm. "Come to the roof when you're done with your shift. Oh, and tell the DoorDash driver 2091 when he asks for the code."

He crumples up the twenty dollar bill in his hand, staring at it as if it were a baggie of paraphernalia. "What?"

"The DoorDash driver. That," you say, pointing at the money, "is his tip on top of the tip. Bring up the bags when he gets here."

"Why?"

The withering look you give him could've rotted a flower in the height of spring.

He's sure he's on the brink of asking another question you'd never call him stupid for when a nurse scrambles up to them, wide-eyed, flush-faced.

"Sorry!" she squeaks out, head swiveling from one doctor to the other. She seems to decide on you, fists clenched tight in front of her. "Ma'am, we need an attending in South 16 to oversee an intubation."

Without missing a beat: "Don't look at me. Talk to Shen."

The nurse firmly faces him with a determined nod. "Dr. Shen, we need you in South 16."

Shoving the money into his pocket, he shoots you a look. You smile innocently, and shrug your shoulders, head tilting towards the bed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way."

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1.

"Lemme know how much this was and I'll send back the money," John says around a mouthful of fries. You wave the notion away. They watch the sunrise as Piitsburgh begins to come to life under the growing sunlight reaching between the skyscrapers to brush along the filling roads and empty paved walkways.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. My treat, remember?" Whilst rifling through the bag: "Hey, don't forget your double-bacon."

"You got burgers too?" You withdraw your hand as he takes it from you, peering into the bag. Within indeed is a waxy bag of onion rings, and a neatly folded and huge lump that no doubt promised a greasy burger with crispy bacon and melted cheese. His stomach yawns and shudders at the idea of it and he pats himself through his shirt. "I knew I was your favourite."

"Right…"

The summer heat does not yet bog down their clothes, and you sit aside John, legs sprawled against the concrete as you saw a piece of waffle apart in the takeout container in your lap. The man himself stands, chin tilted to the wind the way a dog sticks his head out to feel the breeze. The night's exhaustion wears on him, but he knows if he sinks to the floor, it'll take you and a handful of nurses to haul him to his feet again.

He looks down at his packet of fries—near empty now—and his fingers crunch the paper. Just another thing you wouldn't be around to do in a year's time.

"How was your first day as an attending?"

Truthfully, he answers with a glance to where you sit by his feet, "Better with you in it."

You open your mouth to retort, but John doesn't hear it. A strange grief has wrapped around his heart in the hours since he's left the on-call room. It's a hard wire, tighter than it might've been if you had just left without warning. Like he's expecting to one day turn around and you won't be there.

"Sorry, I'm about to be real fuckin' annoying."

"Look, Shen—"

"Did UPMC say yes?" he interrupts. "Or are you just expecting a no?" Your lips press together, a small knot between your eyebrows and he jerks his stare away, a hard lump congealing in his throat. "Kill a guy for wondering if his friend's leaving the state."

Your eyes settle somewhere along the curve of his jaw. "Yes. I mean, no, they didn't say yes, and yes, I am expecting a no. I also don't know if staying here is the right choice. I've been here since my internship. Maybe a change of pace would be good. Maybe Pittsburgh saying no would be a sign."

"A sign for what?"

"A sign to move on." You throw a hand listless in the air in some vague expression. "If I don't have the medicine, I don't have much. I need to be somewhere where I at least have that."

John's heart drops. "They'd be ridiculous to reject you," he murmurs to the wind. You must hear him anyway, because the feeling of your arm disturbing the fabric of his scrub pants as you cut your food ceases. Forcing himself to speak louder, he looks over at the Pittsburgh skyline. "Especially since they know about your publications, case records, your work ethic. The fact that you already live here."

"My weaknesses."

"Your strength," he counters with an incredulous look down. "Your achievements. You. Spider, don't you know? Anyone would be lucky to have you." Your eyebrows rise at the heat in his tone and he turns back to his fries, fighting the tingling heat in his ears. "Besides, we'd miss you."

"We'd?" you echo, quirking an eyebrow at him. He nudges you with his foot, a grin flickering onto his face like a neon light, buzzing and bright. "You flatter me."

"Yeah, yeah, eat it up." You huff a laugh. After a moment of consideration, he remedies it. "I would miss you."

"…thanks, John."

He watches the sun your face into a bust of burnished copper when it tilts up to smile at him.