Mars

Your parents had to work. That’s what you had told your teacher and all of the other parents when they asked why yours couldn’t attend. It wasn’t really a lie. Both of your parents did have to work that day. What you didn’t tell them is that you hadn’t even bothered to give your parents the newsletter your teacher had sent home about the spelling bee, because you already knew the chances of them actually showing up were slim to none.

They likely would have to work. And if by some miracle one of them didn’t have to work, they’d have some other prior obligation that would take precedence over a school party. One of your grandparents would need help getting to a doctor’s appointment, or one of your siblings would be sick. There would be car troubles, or one or both of your parents would have an appointment that they just couldn’t find a way out of.

As an adult, you now realize that their excuses were usually somewhat reasonable on the surface. But it wasn’t ever the excuses themselves that hurt, it was the absence that you learned to expect. Damn near every time.

It only got worse with age. When you were little, they would at least tell you that they were going to make an effort to show up to whatever party, ceremony, recital, game or graduation you had coming up. But as soon as you started to approach your teen years, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement: you kept expectations low, and they stopped bullshitting you.

They came to the bigger events - the ones that their coworkers and acquaintances would side-eye them for missing, like high school and college graduations. But even then, they did the bare minimum of showing up. There were no parties thrown in your name, no thoughtful gifts or handwritten cards signed with love and well wishes for your future.

The closest thing you ever got to a celebration was the Facebook post that your mother made when you graduated from Penn Nursing. But that was for her. Not for you. She had to let everyone know that she raised someone smart enough to graduate from one of the most prestigious nursing schools in the world.

She didn’t even bother to tag you in it. God forbid she gives you credit and takes the spotlight away from herself.

That was years ago, and the last time that you tried to include her (or anyone else in your family for that matter) in any life event that one would normally excitedly text or call their closest family members about.

Moving to Pittsburgh and getting your own apartment. Starting your first official “big girl” job at PTMC. Obtaining your SANE certification.

And, most recently, being nominated for your first Daisy award.

⋆｡°✩

“Hey,” Dana calls as she walks past where you’re staring up at the patient board, checking out exactly what you’ve walked into this morning. “Walk with me for a sec.”

She doesn’t wait for you to respond before she’s walking in the opposite direction, leaving you to follow.

And follow. And follow. Until you reach the empty break room.

“Listen,” you start, your thoughts spiraling with reasons she could be taking you somewhere private at the very beginning of the shift, “if this is about the anti-vax mom that didn’t want to let her toddler get a tetanus shot after stepping on a rusty nail yesterday, I already told you. I did not call her stupid. I asked her if she’s stup—”

“Relax,” Dana cuts in dryly. “We’ll deal with that later. This isn’t about that.” She pauses, just long enough for confusion to grow on your face. “This is about the little girl you gave blood to during the PittFest mass casualty.”

You blink in surprise, the eight year old’s face appearing clear as day in your mind . “Ellie? What about—?” Your heart sinks to your stomach. Your voice rises an octave in panic. “What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, thanks to you,” Dana assures. The momentary relief that washes over you when you hear that she’s alright is quickly replaced by the fear of something else - something that has been looming in the back of your mind since the day of the mass casualty.

“Look,” you sigh, lowering your voice slightly when Cassie steps in to put her lunchbox in the fridge. “I know what I did was against protocol, but she was going to die. We were out of O-Neg and we didn’t have time to wait for more to arrive. Her mother agreed, and Dr. Abbot gave me verbal consent to—”

“Jesus,” Dana interrupts, shaking her head. She’s smirking with a kind of glint in her eyes that isn’t out of the ordinary for Dana but you can’t begin to decipher right now. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions? I’m trying to tell you that Ellie’s family has nominated you for a Daisy Award.”

For a split-second, the room is filled with the kind of silence where a pin drop could be heard.

“Wait. I’m not in trouble?”

Dana scoffs. “Not unless you keep bullying anti-vaxxers.”

A Daisy Award. The last thing you expected when Dana pulled you into this room. Some nurses go their entire careers without ever receiving a Daisy, you never would have guessed that you would be nominated for one so early in yours.

It makes sense, you suppose. If breaking about a dozen different rules and protocols by donating your own blood to a dying child in the midst of a mass casualty incident didn’t get you nominated for the award, then you doubt anything ever would have.

You exhale slowly, your brain still buffering. You’ve yet to take two sips of your coffee, so this is a lot for seven o’clock in the morning.

“Wow,” you breathe, your face suddenly warm. “I…don’t even know what to say.”

“No one ever does when they’re receiving their first Daisy,” Dana shrugs with a proud smile. “I just wanted to give you a heads up before Robby gets in and makes a whole production out of it.”

Your stomach instantly sinks to the floor. You had been so taken off guard by the news that you’re receiving a Daisy Award that you had completely forgotten what receiving a Daisy Award normally entails.

A pinning ceremony. A speech from the chief or director. All of your coworkers. Everyone in the room, staring right at you. Clapping. Pictures. Congratulations, and congratulations, and more congratulations.

“Oh, no.” You shake your head. “No, that isn’t necessary. He doesn’t need to do all of that.”

Dana folds her arms, unimpressed. “All of that is the standard procedure for a Daisy Award, kiddo.”

“Really, it’s fine,” you insist, trying to conceal the panic from your voice. “Everyone is busy enough as it is without stopping what they’re doing for me. Robby can just give me the pin and certificate and whatever else when he has time in between patients. I don’t need…” You gesture vaguely, “…a whole thing.”

She stares at you for a moment, head tilted and lips pursed like she’s trying to psychoanalyze you. “You sure?” She finally asks. “This is a big deal, you know. It’s okay to let people celebrate you for a few minutes.”

You drop her gaze. “I just…don’t want an audience. I’m good. Really.”

The look on her face says that she wants to protest, but the look on yours must convince her otherwise. “Alright,” she concedes. “Whatever you want. I’ll let Robby know before he drags half the department into the conference room.”

You exhale in relief, managing a small but grateful smile. “Thanks, Dana.”

She wraps an arm around shoulders on your way out of the break room. “Congrats, kid. We’re lucky to have ya.”

You just smile at her and nod, because those words sound like a foreign language that you’re still in the process of learning and aren’t quite comfortable speaking yourself yet.

Cassie catches up to you just moments later, on your way back to the nurse’s station. You had noticed her slip into the break room while you and Dana were talking, and judging by the smirk on her face, she definitely overheard the gist of the conversation.

“Hey, Daisy Girl,” Cassie hums under her breath as she catches up to you, lightly bumping her shoulder against yours. “Congratulations.”

You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth threaten to betray you. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely calling you that,” she grins. “You deserve it, you know.”

You shrug, choosing to look up at the patient board to avoid her stare that is entirely too motherly. “I don’t know. It feels weird to be given an award for donating blood. People donate at blood drives all the time and get nothing in return.”

“I suppose,” she sighs. “People don’t always donate blood while actively performing CPR on the recipient, though. In the middle of an unprecedented mass casualty—”

“Okay, okay,” you shush her, looking around to make sure she isn’t drawing anyone’s attention. Princess and Perlah stand a few feet away, talking amongst themselves, and Jack sits at his desk, working on his charting from the night shift he’s finishing up.

As far as you can tell, he isn’t paying any mind to the two of you, but the last thing you want is to draw any unnecessary attention - especially from the doctor who is perfectly within earshot. Your cheeks blaze at the thought. “You’ve made your point. Keep your voice down.”

She shakes with silent laughter, a knowing look in her eyes. She lowers her voice. “So, what are you gonna do to celebrate?”

“Nothing,” you mumble. “I just told Dana that I don’t want a pinning ceremony or anything.”

“Yeah, I heard that,” Cassie snorts. “I mean what are you going to do to celebrate yourself.” She raises her brows. “An overpriced coffee? A pedicure? A new pair of those tennis shoes that you’re always hyping up? Take-out from your favorite restaurant? All of the above?”

You sigh, knowing that she won’t relent until you give in. “I have to buy groceries after I get off work tonight. Maybe I’ll get myself some flowers or something at Trader Joe’s.”

She smiles, accepting that’s the best she’s going to get from you. “Good. Start there.”

Dana calls her name and she walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since you stepped through the hospital doors this morning.

Of all the days that you’ve worked here, PittFest is by far one of the most traumatic. But it’s also the day that Ellie’s life was saved. The day that a mother didn’t have to watch her little girl bleed to death on an operating table. And that’s thanks to you.

You, and Jack Abbot backing you up.

⋆｡°✩

“She’s lost too much blood. We need O-Neg stat!” Whitaker’s voice calls through all of the chaos surrounding you. He looks over his shoulder towards Dana. “What’s the ETA on the donor blood?”

She checks her radio, her face paling. “Still twenty minutes out.”

You stare at the monitors - at Ellie’s stats that are rapidly plummeting - and then at Ellie, motionless on the table, her skin growing grayer by the second. “She doesn’t have twenty minutes,” you murmur to Whitaker, too low for Ellie’s mom to hear you. “She’s not going to make it that long. There’s no way.”

Whitaker looks around for an available attending or senior resident while you look to Ellie’s mother. “Ms. Martin, do you know Ellie’s blood type?”

“B-Positive,” she manages through a sob. “She’s - she’s B-Positive.”

You’re moving before the thought fully forms. Darting around the room, yanking open drawers, frantically searching for an empty blood bag, tubing, a sterile needle, everything that you could possibly need—

“Uh—” Whitaker freezes as you slam the supplies onto a rolling tray. “What are you doing?”

“She’s B-Positive. I’m B-Positive.”

“We can’t - we can’t just give a patient unscreened blood,” he sputters, his voice as panicked as the expression on his face. “There’s too many risks—”

“The risk right now is her dying if she doesn’t get blood immediately.” The words come out louder than you intend, earning another sob from Ms. Martin, and the attention of Dr. Abbot.

“Fill me in.”

He isn’t talking to anyone in particular. His focus is on the little girl laying on the gurney in front of him, taking in her current state - the gunshot wound in her abdomen and the increasingly concerning stats displayed on the screens beside her.

You open your mouth to answer, but Whitaker beats you to it. “Ellie needs blood. She wants to donate hers. I told her we can’t—”

“Please,” Ellie’s mother cries from behind him. “Please let her. I can’t lose her. Please, do whatever you can, whatever you need to do. Anything.”

You haven’t worked with Dr. Abbot very much. He’s covered a few day shifts here and there since you started at PTMC, and you’ve worked a couple night shifts when needed, but for the most part, you don’t see him outside of shift change in the mornings.

But you’ve heard a lot about him. And in the years that you’ve worked here, you’ve never heard a negative word.

In fact, just earlier today, you overheard a conversation between Robby and Dr. Collins. You hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, it just happened - clear as day, you heard the words from Robby’s own lips: So, what are you saying? That Abbot low-balled his measurements to help a teen get the abortion that she wants?

If that’s true - and you’re willing to bet that it is - then that tells you everything you need to know about the kind of doctor that Jack Abbot is.

The kind that not every patient is fortunate enough to have on their side. The kind who always has his patient’s health, safety, and best interest in mind - even if it breaks protocol, even if it goes against the standard of care, even if it later comes back to bite him in the ass.

If it were any other attending or senior resident standing here right now, you might shrink. You might think that arguing your case is a lost cause. Because Whitaker isn’t wrong - there are risks with transfusing unscreened blood. It isn’t standard protocol, and most doctors would probably shut it down.

But something in your gut tells you that Jack Abbot isn’t most doctors.

“Ellie is B-Positive like me.” You turn to Jack, looking up at him, earnest and pleading. “I donate blood every six months. I’m clean. I don’t do drugs, I don’t smoke. The the donor blood is still twenty minutes out. She needs this now.”

Jack stares at you for one tense, loaded moment. You wouldn’t be able to read his expression even if you had the free time to stand here and try to figure it out. Then, he gives you a tight-lipped, curt nod before looking to Ellie's mom for consent.

The following fifteen minutes feel like something out of a fever dream.

One minute Perlah is inserting a needle into your femoral vein so that you can still have use of both of your arms and the next, Whitaker is yelling that Ellie is crashing and you’re starting compressions while blood is still being siphoned from the lower half of your body.

Jack all but pulls you off of her to take over so that Perlah can withdraw the needle from your leg. Warm blood trickles down your thigh before she has a chance to press gauze hard against the site but you barely register anything except the sound of Jack’s voice speaking low to Ellie, telling her to hold on.

Suddenly, the room around you begins to go fuzzy. The people, the monitors, everything shifts and your ears start to ring, making the voices that you’re desperately trying to pay attention to sound like you’re listening through water.

“Sit. Now,” Perlah orders, already guiding you to the closest empty stool while keeping pressure on your leg. The adrenaline that has been coursing through you for the last ten minutes begins to crash all at once, leaving your limbs feeling jellied and useless.

It takes every ounce of focus to register that Ellie has stabilized and the transfusion is now in progress. The pit of nausea in your stomach lessens the tiniest bit as Jack steps back, letting Whitaker and Cassie take over.

He turns to you now. You’re slumped in the stool, sweating, with your pants still positioned awkwardly at mid-thigh as you hold the gauze in place while you wait for Perlah to return with a bandage.

“I’m fine,” you mumble automatically, but the words sound breathless and slurred. “I’ve just gotta wait for Perlah to secure a bandage around this and then I’ll get back up—”

“No way,” he breathes, crouching down to get a better look at you. “You’re benched for twenty. You need fluids, and—”

“But—”

“No buts.” His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for objections. “You just lost a lot of blood in a very short amount of time. We need you out there, okay? I can’t have you passing out on me.”

The intensity of his stare is enough to make the room spin all over again. So much that all you can do is nod.

“What you just did took a lot of guts,” he says, voice low. “And it took heart. You saved a life today. Ellie’s mom won’t ever forget that. And I know I won’t, either.”

⋆｡°✩

At approximately 10:15 in the morning, you’re flushing an egregious amount of wax out of a ten year old’s ear when you see Lupe walk past the room with a colossal bouquet of flowers.

Daisies, specifically.

It causes you to momentarily lose focus and accidentally spray the kid in the face.

Daisies. A giant bouquet of daisies, on the day that you’ve received your first Daisy Award. It would be quite the coincidence if they were for someone other than you, now wouldn’t it?

But who knows. Maybe they’re not for you. Victoria has gone on a few dates with that one guy she’s been telling you about at this point. Maybe daisies are her favorite flowers. Maybe it’s someone’s anniversary and their husband sent them flowers, and they just happen to be daisies. Maybe they are for a sick patient. It is a hospital, after all.

All you know is that you don’t have anyone who would send you flowers. Dana, maybe, if you hadn’t already expressed your wishes to be as lowkey as possible with receiving your Daisy Award.

Word had still gotten around the ED, and there was no shortage of congratulations. Perlah and Princess, Whitaker and Santos, Victoria and Samira. You didn’t mind the sweet sentiments, truly. You appreciated all of them, even if the special attention is unfamiliar.

But flowers? Would someone really send you flowers?

Your question is answered by the look on everyone’s face as you walk towards the nurse’s station.

Dana, Perlah, Princess, Victoria and Santos are all huddled around the extravagant bouquet of daisies, baby’s breath and various greenery. You freeze when they all turn their attention to you, smirks and toothy grins confirming your suspicion before any of them can say a word.

“Don’t worry,” Santos snorts, holding out a small envelope. “We didn’t read the card.”

“We decided it would be much more fun to watch you open it,” Princess adds.

“And because it would be rude,” Dana says with a pointed glare.

You exhale before reluctantly taking the envelope from Santos. Your name is written across the front. Without saying a word, you open the tiny envelope and pull out the card stock note.

(And, because no one has ever done anything like send you flowers to your place of employment, your hands shake an embarrassing amount).

Your eyes skim over the words written on the note. And then you read them again. And again, and one more time for good measure.

You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldn’t have to.

You flip the card over, expecting a signature, but it’s completely blank.

You can feel five pairs of eyes staring holes into you, just waiting for an answer to the question that you have no more of an answer to than they do.

“There’s no name, you noseys,” you sigh. “It isn’t signed.”

“What?” Princess gasps. “They’re anonymous? This bouquet had to cost more than my car insurance, and they aren’t even going to take credit?”

“You really don’t know who they’re from?” Victoria asks.

“Nope. I mean, it has to be someone here, because I haven’t told anyone outside of work, but….I don’t know who.” You shrug, glancing back down at the handwriting you don’t recognize. “Lupe didn’t say who brought them in?”

“Sorry, kid,” Dana answers. “The florist dropped them off. All she told Lupe is that they’re for you. We know as much as you do.” She smirks, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Whoever sent them must be really fond of ya.”

And have money to blow, you think to yourself.

To your relief, they all disperse and go back to doing their jobs, leaving you with the vase of dozens of daisies and an unsigned card. You stare at the words as if you can will them to change and reveal the identity of the sender.

You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldn’t have to.

Suddenly, your earlier conversation with Cassie echoes in your mind. In an attempt to appease her, you had told her that you might buy yourself some flowers when you go grocery shopping later today. You had no true intention of actually doing that, so you forgot the promise by the time you saw your first patient of the day.

You find her hunched over an iPad reading x-ray results.

You stand beside her, your elbows braced on the counter. “I take you didn’t believe me when I said I was going to buy myself flowers?”

She freezes, cutting her eyes to you. “What are you talking about?”

You can’t tell if she’s fucking with you or not. You stare at her for a long moment to see if she’s going to break composure. “The shit ton of daisies at the nurse’s station? The card? You can buy yourself flowers but you shouldn’t have to? Ringing any bells?”

Cassie straightens, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the nurse’s station, realization and amusement blooming across her face. She lowers her voice a smidge. “You think those are from me?”

“Who the hell else would they be from?”

She laughs. “Your guess is as good as mine, but they aren’t from me. I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”

You groan, raking your hands down your face in frustration. If they aren’t from Cassie, then you really don’t fucking know.

“I assume there’s no card?”

“There is,” you sigh, pulling the card from the breast pocket of your scrubs. You lay it down on the counter. “It’s not signed. Lupe said the florist dropped them off at check in.”

Cassie stares at the words, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Was the florist a man by chance?”

“Uh - no. I don’t think so. Why?”

She snorts a laugh, turning her attention back to the clipboard in front of her. “Because that’s definitely man-writing.”

Man-writing. Man…handwriting. The words replay over and over again in your mind for the next few hours.

Cassie’s right. The handwriting does appear to be on the more masculine side. It isn’t illegible by any means - you can make out each word. But it’s somewhat scrawled and untidy in a way that reminds you of a stereotypical doctor’s scribble.

The thought occurs to you as you’re wheeling a patient to radiology. Man-writing. Doctor’s scribble.

Jack. Jack had been sitting at his desk this morning, just feet away as Cassie had so lovingly lectured you about treating yourself for receiving your first Daisy. She hadn’t been talking too loudly, and Jack had given no indication that he had been listening to your conversation, but it isn’t impossible. He could have overheard, even unintentionally.

But that’s crazy, right?

Jack wouldn’t send you such an extravagant bouquet of flowers. Would he? For that to even cross your mind as a possibility is simply wishful thinking.

Jack, who makes your brain short-circuit in ways that are entirely, utterly irrational every time he greets you in the mornings. Jack, whose mere occasional and fleeting presence makes you realize that it’s for the better that you typically work opposite shifts because you are unable to think straight when he’s near. Jack, who you’ve had a big, fat, embarrassing crush on ever since he looked you in the eye and told you that he would never forget what you did for Ellie.

For a while, you were in complete denial that the way you feel about him is indeed a crush.

At first, you chalked it up to something in between appreciation and admiration. Appreciation because he’d given you the go ahead to donate your blood to Ellie when Whitaker had tried to stop you, and admiration because he’s one of the best doctors that you’ve ever known.

Then, you even tried to blame the feelings on daddy issues, for lack of a better term, because that was easier than being honest with yourself about your feelings. An older man supporting you and vocalizing that he’s impressed with you? It makes perfect sense that would have a lasting emotional effect, seeing as your own father has the emotional range of a teaspoon.

But months have passed since the PittFest MCI and no amount of attempted rationalization or therapy has stopped your heart from racing a little faster anytime you’re in the same room as him.

⋆｡°✩

Approximately sixteen hours into your double shift, you’re remembering exactly why you hardly ever volunteer for double shifts.

The day had been a series of unfortunate events since the moment you opened your eyes - nearly twenty minutes later than you were supposed to. You had forgotten to plug your phone into the charger and it died during the night, so your alarm didn’t go off. You were in such a rush to make it to work on time that you left your lunch box sitting on your kitchen counter.

Then you realized your gas tank was damn near empty, so you had to stop for gas, and then you got stuck in traffic. So, you ended up being fifteen minutes late for work, anyway.

It didn’t even dawn on you that you had left your lunch box at home until earlier this afternoon, when you managed to find five minutes in between patients to try to scarf down a few bites of the leftover lasagna you had packed. You opened the break room fridge to find only the same old McDonald’s bag that has been sitting on the top shelf for the last month, a Tupperware of something that looks like a biohazard, and a camo lunchbox that definitely is not yours.

Therefore, it was cafeteria corn dogs for lunch. Now, it’s nearly midnight and your options are limited to vending machine snacks.

You end up settling on a bag of pistachios and a Slim Jim.

You’re eating the last few nuts when Jack walks into the break room.

He’s only a few hours into his shift and he already looks exhausted. Still as handsome as ever, but exhausted. You briefly wonder when his last full day off was, between being here at night and working with the swat team during the day.

He acknowledges you with a small nod and a tired smile before opening the fridge and pulling out the only lunch box inside.

“Please tell me that’s not your dinner.”

You glance up as you’re dumping the remaining pistachios into the palm of your hand. He’s watching you from over the fridge door, his eyes darting between you and the empty Slim Jim wrapper on the table. The back of your neck suddenly burns hot.

You huff a tired laugh. “I woke up late this morning. I was in a rush and forgot my lunch box. Then I got talked into working a double when Mateo called out, so…” You shrug. “I’m making do.”

He stares at you, a look that says “you’re joking, right?” on his face as he unzips the lunch box without looking away from you. Then, he closes the fridge door and walks to the table, standing opposite of where you sit. He reaches in the sack, pulling out a sandwich in a ziploc bag.

“Take this,” he says, sliding it across the table.

You shake your head immediately. “No, I’m okay. Really. I’ll survive until morning.” You lean forward, pushing the sandwich back across the table. “Thank you, though.”

You expect him to protest, but instead, he reaches back into the lunch box and pulls out something wrapped in wax paper.

“Do you like chocolate croissants?”

You snort a laugh. “I mean, yeah…but I’m fine. I don’t want to take your food from you—”

“I packed two,” he says, pulling out another croissant, now holding one in each hand. “Take one. If you don’t, I will eat both of them, and I do not need to eat both of them.”

You hesitate for a second longer, your stubbornness putting up a losing fight against the fact that you are, in fact, still starving.

“If you insist,” you sigh, reaching for it. He smiles, obviously satisfied with the small win.

“You won’t regret it. Best chocolate croissant you’ll ever have.”

You unwrap it, revealing the flaky croissant with chocolate oozing out of the layers. “Did you make them yourself?” You ask, bringing the pastry to your lips.

“God no.” He takes a seat in the empty chair across from you. “They’re from a bakery not too far from here. Madeleine’s. They’ve been one of my favorite places for years.”

You’re only halfway paying attention to what he’s saying because it tastes so fucking good. Your eyes close to savor the flavor, humming in approval.

“See? Told you.”

You nod, mouth still too full to verbally agree. He stretches his legs out under the table and watches you chew, his face relaxing in a way that makes you think your ongoing streak of bad luck today has finally come to an end.

⋆｡°✩

“Your secret admirer strikes again.”

Cassie’s voice makes you look up from your current task of restocking a crash cart. Your face must give away the surprise you feel at seeing the small brown paperboard box in her hands, because she looks thoroughly amused, unable to stop herself from giggling at you as she walks towards you.

“What the hell,” you sigh under your breath, taking a step closer to inspect the box. There’s a sticker on the lid that says Madeleine Bakery & Bistro. You instantly recognize the name to be a popular bakery here in Pittsburgh.

“Having any luck figuring out who it is?”

“Not really,” you grumble as you lift the lid. “I mean, I have a suspicion, but there’s no way—”

You freeze mid sentence.

“What?” Cassie asks, confused by your abrupt pause. “What is it?”

“Holy shit.”

Inside the box lies a half dozen chocolate croissants.

Right away, your thoughts go back to that night in the break room only a month or so ago. The night you were sixteen hours into a double shift and making a meal out of vending machine snacks when Jack insisted that you take one of his chocolate croissants - the best chocolate croissant ever, as he had claimed.

The chocolate croissant from Madeleine’s.

You’re staring at the pastries, mouth agape, when you notice a folded note taped to the inside of the box. You grab the note and unfold it, ignoring Cassie's continuous questions until you’ve read the words written in the exact same handwriting as the note that came with the flowers you received.

Tradition says that Daisy recipients get cinnamon rolls. I don’t know if you like cinnamon rolls, so these felt like a safer bet - J

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on? What does it say?”

You exhale a laugh in disbelief and hold up the note to let her read it. Her eyes skim the words, her brows furrowing together. “Remember when I told you to lower your voice this morning? Who had been sitting just a few feet away from us?”

“J…” She murmurs, glancing back and forth between you and the note, the gears in her head turning as she pieces it together. Then, realization comes over her face - visible shock that mirrors your own.

“Jack?”

⋆｡°✩

Jack.

You were right. You couldn’t fully believe it even as you were staring down at a box filled with chocolate croissants.

No, you didn’t fully believe it until you read the note inside the box and saw that it was signed with a singular initial. J.

There’s no denying it now. The daisies and the chocolate croissants were both Jack’s doing, and there’s no combination of words in the English language to accurately describe exactly how that makes you feel. The only word that begins to come close is surreal.

Surreal because no one has ever sent you flowers. No one has ever sent you baked goods. Let alone both on the same fucking day, and to your job. No one has ever gone out of their way to celebrate you so intentionally. The level of thoughtfulness is completely foreign.

So foreign, in fact, that you aren’t even sure how to approach him about it.

Of course you’re going to say thank you. But should you call him? Text him? Wait until you see him in person again? He doesn’t work tonight, so you won’t see him at shift change, and then you’re off work for the next several days. You won’t see him again until the beginning of next week at the earliest, and that feels like an awkward amount of time to wait to say thank you.

Thanks to a work group chat that Robby made forever ago so everyone could have easy access to coworker’s phone numbers if anyone ever found themselves needing to get in touch with someone, you already have Jack’s number.

But you’ve never texted him outside of messages exchanged in the group chat on rare occasion, so when you type a message in a private message thread, you read it at least twenty times before actually pressing send.

Hi. I hope it’s okay I got your number from the work group chat. I didn’t want to wait until next week to tell you thank you…so thank you. For the flowers and the croissants. You really didn’t have to do that, but it means a lot.

And then, like a fucking idiot, you send a second text clarifying that it’s you, as if he wouldn’t be able to deduce that using context clues and common sense.

The message gets marked as read within a matter of seconds. Jesus, does this man ever sleep?

He types. And types. And then the dots at the bottom of your screen disappear. And then reappear, and he types some more. It’s silly and childish, but your heart is racing as you wait for a response to come through. You’re about to give up for the time being - you’ve been sitting in the bathroom for so long that you’re surprised no one has come looking for you yet - when a new message finally appears in the thread.

Of course it’s okay. You don’t have to thank me, but you’re welcome. Next time you’re planning to buy yourself flowers, just give me some advance notice.

Before you can even start to process that, a second text comes through.

How committed are you to your plans to go grocery shopping after work tonight?

Your phone falls out of your hands and clatters against the bathroom floor.

“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, scrambling to pick it up.

Don’t seem too eager. Don’t seem too eager. Don’t seem too eager. Be cool.

Well, my fridge is pretty bare bones right now, so I’m only committed to those plans if I want to eat dinner tonight.

The bathroom door creaks open then, drawing your gaze away from your phone screen as you press send. Dana’s voice calls your name. “You good in here? Or did you fall in?”

“Yeah!” You squeak. “I’m here. I’ll be right there. Sorry, I’m uh…little backed up.”

Dana is silent for an awkward, loaded second. Long enough for you to physically recoil at your choice of words. Really? Constipation? That’s your excuse?

“Alright,” she huffs, a noise somewhere between amusement and annoyance. You can so clearly picture the expression on her face at this moment. “Sorry I asked.”

The door shuts a moment later. When you glance back down, your heart palpitates at the realization that Jack replied. Simple and straight to the point.

I could take you to dinner instead, if that sounds better than grocery shopping and cooking for yourself after a twelve hour shift.

⋆｡°✩

You do let him take you to dinner, and it is far better than grocery shopping and cooking after a twelve hour shift.

You’d be lying if you were to say that you hadn’t been nervous. That your fingers didn’t shake as you replied saying yes, and as you gave him your address, and as you agreed upon a time for him to pick you up.

You’re out of practice as far as the dating game goes. When you first moved to Pittsburgh, you knew no one. You’ve made a few friends (okay, Cassie and a couple other coworkers), but for the most part, you’ve kept to yourself. Focused on your career, furthered your education by becoming a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, and spent your free time investing in your hobbies and interests.

There have been a few random dates here and there, but nothing worth remembering. Nothing that made you desire a second date. They either talked too much about themselves and didn’t seem interested in you as a person, or there simply wasn’t that telltale spark that one hopes to feel on a first date.

Basically the complete opposite of this date with Jack so far.

He picked you up - right on time. Opened the car door for you, and the door at the restaurant he decided on - one that happens to serve your favorite kind of food. You aren’t sure if that was a lucky guess on his part or if he’s overheard you talking about food that you enjoy at some point in the last few years and happened to remember, but either way, it gives you the kind of butterflies that you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

The fact that he looks even more handsome in clothes that aren’t scrubs certainly doesn’t hurt, either.

Jack sets his drink down, fingers tapping lightly against the table like he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. His mouth forms a nervous smile, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He hesitates for a split-second more before speaking. “I have a small confession to make.”

Your stomach flutters, suddenly as nervous as he appears to be. “What is it?” You ask softly.

“The day of PittFest…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly. “You inspired me.”

Your brows raise in surprise. Despite your actions during PittFest being the reason you received a Daisy Award - which lead to Jack sending you flowers, which then lead to the two of you being here right now - neither of you have actually mentioned that day until now.

“I’m O-Negative,” he continues simply. “I’ve donated before. Plenty of times. But that day, in the middle of all that chaos…you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t care about rules, or protocol, or repercussions. All you cared about was saving a life. And it inspired me to do the same.”

The admission takes you completely off guard. “It did?”

He nods. “After Ellie stabilized, I donated. Drew from my femoral vein while working on another patient. Just like you.”

For a moment, you can only stare at him, warmth settling into your bones at the revelation. “I didn’t know that,” you murmur.

He gives a small shrug. “I just thought that now would be a good time to tell you. You deserve that award. For acting selflessly and saving Ellie’s life, of course. But you also…made me a better doctor that day.”

Your throat tightens with emotion. You reach across the small table, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a gentle squeeze that you hope conveys just how much his words mean. “Thank you,” you whisper. You don’t pull your hand away. “I have a small confession of my own,” you add with a nervous laugh.

“Oh, yeah?” He places his other hand on top of yours, sandwiching yours between his own and rubbing lazy circles over your skin with the pad of his thumb. “What’s that?”

You take a deep breath before speaking. “I’m not really used to this. Being celebrated. By myself or by others.” You glance down at where your hands are joined because it’s easier than looking him in the eye while you try to find the right words. Words you’ve never really said out loud. “I usually just do what I need to do and move on. I don’t let myself dwell on it for long enough to wonder if anyone else is going to be proud of me. It’s easier that way. Saves me from a lot of disappointment.”

“I only told Cassie I would buy myself flowers because I knew she’d keep nagging me about it if I didn’t do something,” you admit with a humorless laugh. “I wasn’t really going to.”

Jack remains quiet, giving you time and space to say whatever you want to say. His grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly. Just enough to let you know that he’s absorbing every word.

“But then you sent flowers. And the croissants.” You look back up with a shy smile. “And it caught me off guard. In a good way. I didn’t realize just how much I needed someone to notice me. Until you did.”

He leans forward, the tea light candle in the center of the table making his hazel eyes twinkle. The way he looks at you, so intensely and so sincere, makes you feel seen in a way that is entirely unfamiliar but not at all unwelcome.

“I would very much like to keep showing you just how much I notice you. If you’ll let me.”

And for the first time maybe ever in your life, you think you’ll let yourself want that, too.

⋆｡°✩