Rei

The second event was a funeral.

Which somehow felt very on brand for both of you.

“You know,” Jack Abbott said as he adjusted his tie outside the funeral home, “most people usually stop after the wedding package.”

You glanced at him. “You offering loyalty rewards now?”

“Depends. You planning to keep renting me?”

Heat crawled up your neck.

Jack noticed immediately.

That infuriating almost-smile appeared again.

God, you hated when he did that.

Except you really, really didn’t.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered.

“I’ve had interns throw scalpels at me this week. Let me have one thing.”

You snorted.

Then his expression softened slightly as he looked toward the funeral home entrance.

“You okay?”

The question surprised you.

Most people asked automatically.

Jack asked like he genuinely wanted the answer.

You nodded slowly. “It’s my aunt’s husband. She’s… not doing great.”

Jack simply offered his arm again.

No teasing this time.

Just steady.

Reliable.

You took it.

—

By the end of the service, your aunt was clinging to Jack like he’d been part of the family for years.

“Such a lovely husband,” she whispered tearfully.

You nearly choked.

Jack, somehow perfectly composed, rubbed her shoulder gently.

“We take care of each other.”

Your stomach flipped.

He said it so naturally.

Like he meant it.

Like it was already true.

And that—

that was dangerous.

—

The problem with fake dating someone you actually liked was that eventually the lines blurred.

At first it stayed contained to events.

Weddings.

Family dinners.

One aggressively uncomfortable high school reunion where Jack scared your former classmates simply by existing.

But then it became smaller things.

Coffee after shifts.

Shared takeout in the staff lounge at 3 a.m.

Sitting together during the rare quiet moments in the ER.

You learned things about him accidentally.

He hated cantaloupe.

Loved terrible action movies.

Still wore his wedding ring on a chain under his scrub top.

Sometimes zoned out during storms.

Always noticed when you skipped meals.

And the more you learned, the worse it got.

Because underneath the intimidating attending physician was a man held together by sheer stubbornness and caffeine.

A man who carried grief like an old injury.

Quiet.

Permanent.

—

“You’re smiling at your phone.”

You looked up from the medication room to find Cassie McKay staring knowingly.

“I’m literally not.”

“You literally are.”

“I hate you.”

Cassie leaned against the doorway dramatically. “So. How’s fake marriage?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Mhm.”

“He’s just—”

“What?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because the answer was complicated.

Jack was careful with you.

Not cold.

Never cold.

But careful.

Like he kept reaching toward something before forcing himself to pull back.

Like he’d forget himself for half a second—

a hand lingering at your waist too long.

Eyes dropping to your mouth.

That soft look he got when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

—and then suddenly remember he wasn’t allowed to want this.

“You like him,” Cassie said gently.

Your silence answered enough.

“Oh,” she whispered. “You really like him.”

You stared at the floor.

“He doesn’t.”

Cassie gave you a look.

“That man looks at you like you personally invented oxygen.”

—

Three weeks later, Jack stopped accepting your requests.

At first you assumed he was busy.

Then he declined another event.

Then another.

Your messages became shorter.

His replies became professional.

At work he avoided being alone with you entirely.

No more coffees.

No more late-night conversations.

No more lingering smiles in trauma bays.

It hurt more than it should have.

“What the hell did you do?” Cassie demanded after noticing your mood spiral.

“I don’t know.”

But deep down, you did.

Things had become real.

And Jack Abbott was running.

—

You finally cornered John Shen near radiology two nights later.

“Why is Jack acting weird?”

Shen immediately looked like a man who regretted entering the building.

“Oh no.”

“Oh no what?”

He sighed heavily.

“You know he does this, right?”

“Does what?”

“Self-destructs whenever he gets emotionally attached to someone.”

Your chest tightened.

Shen scrubbed a hand over his face.

“After his wife died, he got worse. He starts caring about someone and suddenly he’s volunteering for every dangerous thing possible.”

“Dangerous thing?”

“He picked up SWAT medic shifts again.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Shen looked genuinely annoyed now.

“Because apparently being chief attending here wasn’t enough stress.”

Anger sparked hot and immediate beneath your ribs.

“He’s doing what?”

“He thinks if he keeps moving fast enough he doesn’t have to deal with his feelings.”

You stared at him.

Then immediately turned and headed for the parking garage.

“Uh,” Shen called after you, “good luck?”

—

Rain hammered the concrete levels of the garage.

You spotted Jack instantly beside his motorcycle.

Of course he had a motorcycle.

Of course.

He looked up sharply as you approached.

For half a second, something vulnerable crossed his face.

Then the walls slammed back into place.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

You stopped in front of him, furious.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Jack looked away. “No, I’m not.”

“Bullshit.”

His jaw tightened.

“You hired me for events. The arrangement ended.”

The coldness in his voice hurt.

Which only made you angrier.

“So that’s it?”

“What exactly do you want me to say?”

“The truth!”

Rain echoed loudly around you.

Jack laughed once.

Short.

Humorless.

“You want honesty?” he snapped. “Fine.”

He stepped closer.

Close enough that your pulse immediately betrayed you.

“I like you too much.”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Jack dragged a hand through wet hair, visibly furious with himself now.

“You’re smart and kind and somehow still look at me like I’m worth something after watching me lose my temper for months.”

Your throat tightened.

“And that,” he said roughly, “is a terrible idea for both of us.”

“Because your wife died?”

His face shut down instantly.

You immediately regretted saying it.

But Jack just looked tired now.

“So you do understand.”

“You think loving someone means you lose them.”

His silence was answer enough.

Rainwater dripped from his jacket.

You stepped closer anyway.

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

His voice dropped dangerously soft.

“You have no idea what it’s like.”

“No,” you shot back, “but I know what it’s like watching someone push everyone away before they can leave first.”

That finally got through.

You saw it in his face.

The crack.

The exhaustion.

The grief.

And underneath all of it—

fear.

Jack looked at you like he was standing at the edge of something catastrophic.

“You should stay away from me,” he whispered.

Instead, you grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

For one stunned second he didn’t move.

Then Jack made a rough sound against your mouth and pulled you in hard enough to steal your breath.

The kiss was desperate.

Weeks of tension finally snapping.

Rain soaked through your clothes.

His hands shook against your waist.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing hard, Jack rested his forehead against yours.

“We are unbelievably bad at this,” he muttered.

You laughed breathlessly.

“Yeah.”

His eyes searched yours carefully.

Terrified still.

But hopeful now too.

“Official date?” he asked quietly.

You smiled.

The group chat was unbearable.

Mia:Reminder!!! RSVP deadline tonight! Plus one names needed by midnight <3

You stared at your phone from the nurses’ station while the emergency department around you dissolved into its usual controlled chaos.

A trauma was rolling in.

Someone in psych was screaming.

One of the interns looked seconds away from vomiting.

And somehow your cousin’s wedding still felt more stressful.

“You look homicidal.”

You glanced up to find Cassie McKay leaning against the counter with a coffee in hand, already in navy scrubs despite being two hours early for shift.

“I need a date,” you muttered.

Cassie blinked. “For sex or appearances?”

“Wedding.”

“Oh.” She sipped her coffee. “That’s easier.”

You snorted.

“No, seriously.” She unlocked her phone and shoved it toward you. “There’s an app.”

You stared at the screen.

Date4U.

“What is this?”

“You can hire people to be your fake partner for events. Weddings, reunions, funerals, work galas. Rich lonely people use it constantly.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You’re telling me I can rent a husband?”

Cassie grinned. “Temporary emotional support man.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Then your cousin texted again.

Mia:And no random Tinder weirdos please.

Your eye twitched.

“…Fine.”

—

You downloaded the app during your break.

Most of the profiles were horrifying.

One guy posed shirtless holding a fish.

Another described himself as an “alpha male entrepreneur.”

Immediate no.

Then you stopped scrolling.

The profile photo was familiar.

Too familiar.

Your stomach dropped.

Jack A.

Age: 48

Occupation: Physician

Specialties: “Good in high-stress environments. Excellent conversationalist. Will convincingly survive difficult family dinners.”

You stared at the screen.

No.

No way.

You clicked the profile.

Additional Information:

• Widower

• Former military medic

• Trauma specialist

• Available for weddings, memorials, corporate events

• “Can dance badly but enthusiastically.”

Your jaw slowly fell open.

“Holy shit.”

“Find someone?” Cassie asked casually.

You turned the screen toward her.

The second she saw the profile photo, she choked on her coffee.

“Oh my God.”

There he was.

Jack Abbott.

Senior attending.

Head nightshift physician.

The most intimidating man in PTMC.

The man who once reduced a resident to tears with a single disappointed look.

The same man currently stitching a chest wound three bays down.

Cassie looked delighted.

“You have to hire him.”

“I absolutely cannot hire my boss as a fake husband.”

“Coward.”

“He’ll know it’s me!”

“Not if you use the anonymous request feature.”

You looked back at the profile.

Jack’s bio continued:

Recently told I need less adrenaline-based hobbies.

Your eyebrows rose.

That sounded exactly like him.

A terrifyingly competent ER physician who somehow also did SWAT medic work, mountain climbing, motorcycle racing, and God knew what else.

“You know what,” Cassie said thoughtfully, “this actually tracks.”

“How?”

“He’s emotionally unavailable but weirdly protective. That app is basically exposure therapy.”

You barked out a laugh.

Then, against every better judgment you possessed—

—you hit request.

—

Jack Abbott accepted thirty minutes later.

You nearly flatlined.

Jack A.: Looking forward to the event. Send details.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

You typed:

This is slightly mortifying but we work together.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally:

Ah.

You buried your face in your hands.

A new message arrived.

Well. This should be interesting.

—

The wedding was in a vineyard two hours outside Pittsburgh.

Jack arrived exactly on time in a charcoal suit that should’ve been illegal.

You nearly forgot your own name when he stepped out of the car.

He looked unfairly good clean-shaven.

Older.

Broad-shouldered.

Calm in that dangerous way he always was at work.

His eyes flicked over you once before softening almost imperceptibly.

“You clean up nicely, nurse.”

Your stomach betrayed you completely.

“You’re one to talk, doctor.”

A corner of his mouth twitched.

Then he offered his arm.

Professional.

Polite.

Safe.

“Ready?”

You took it anyway.

The warmth of his hand through your sleeve felt catastrophic.

—

By the middle of the reception, your family adored him.

Your grandmother literally kissed his cheek.

Your cousin called him “husband material.”

And Jack—

God.

Jack played the role too well.

He kept a hand at your back while navigating crowds.

Remembered details from stories you’d told at work months ago.

Pulled out your chair.

Danced with you badly but enthusiastically exactly like his profile promised.

“You did this before?” you asked while swaying under fairy lights.

“Couple times.”

“You rent yourself out for emotional labor regularly?”

His laugh was low and rough.

“Apparently.”

“You know this is insane, right?”

“Says the woman who hired her attending physician.”

You groaned into his shoulder.

He laughed again.

The sound vibrated against your skin.

And for one dangerous moment—

it didn’t feel fake at all.

—

When he drove you home later that night, neither of you moved to get out immediately.

Rain tapped softly against the windshield.

“You were good with them,” you said quietly.

Jack looked ahead at the dark street.

“I used to do this stuff a lot.”

“Weddings?”

“Family.”

Something in his voice shifted.

Not cold.

Just… tired.

You remembered the widower label on his profile.

You swallowed carefully.

“I’m sorry.”

His jaw tightened briefly.

Then he looked at you.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m breakable.”

You held his gaze.

“You aren’t?”

A long silence.

Then, unexpectedly gentle:

“Not as much as people think.”

Your heartbeat stumbled.

Jack looked away first.

“Goodnight, nurse.”