big momma

Content warning throughout: hurt/comfort in last chapters, implied neurodivergent! reader (can be read by people with neurodivergence as it’s not major or a plot line :) , mentions of mental health issues, miscommunication (?), reader is an anxious mess, author trying to be funny & overuse of reaction pics 😣, jack lowk an ass for a bit, probably OOC (i tried my best but this is my first time doing any writing for the public!)

i tried not to use any ships! i know some people get put off fics bc they don’t like ships within it . There is also mentions of Mohabbot in earlier chapters FOR THE PLOT!!!

The chill of autumn already settles in the air, the sunset hiding behind the clouds the wind brought. Jack doesn’t really feel it. He feels instead like he can’t take a full breath, like everything in him is threaded with unyielding tension in the absence of your touch. He misses you, he never stops, it is his only constant. It also serves as a reminder of just how badly he screwed up.

Because it wasn’t a careless mistake, a rude word slipped out, an argument that snowballed into a fight. No, Jack was stupidly strategic about pushing you away. He set a goal — and he worked toward it with grit, with rigor mastered back when he was sprinting through the ruins that smelled like blood and rot. His military track record has proven him to be experienced enough. Only, this time it was a suicidal mission. It was a grim ending to something beautiful and soft — but never fragile.

Because you two built a relationship that was supposed to last. And you were solely responsible for that.

Jack can’t pinpoint the moment when it started — hell, he didn’t even remember the first day you met. His life was just a blur of hours packed into tense shifts, of months that barely differed from each other. And Jack moved through each day with no demands for more. His heart’s been broken — not just by injustices and deaths, but by the loss so grave it almost killed him. He pulled himself together piece by piece. He put in countless stitches. And he has kept his heart sewn shut. The tissue scarred and hardened through the years, but Jack’s been led by the belief he’d never want to open up to anyone again.

He didn’t care if someone had introduced you. At best, he shook your hand or gave a nod, his gaze distant and scarcely making contact. He had no favorites, he took no part in any conversations that weren’t about work. He spent his breaks alone — in call rooms or standing in the stairwell, his back pressed to the wall as he soaked up the silence. But somehow, in between the calls, the rush, the gowns covered in blood and gurneys screaking, he started noticing your presence. How you’d hand him the things he needed before he even asked — tools, scissors, dressings, a transducer in your palm for him to take. Your movements quick but careful, never in someone’s way but ready to step in. Small bows you left when tying bandages on kids. Your love for apples — tart green or juicy Honeycrisp, a few to share with the others, one always saved for him.

Jack didn’t even know there were cracks in his composure until your warmth began to trickle through.

You never put it into words as if you were afraid to spook him. But unexpectedly, Jack’s paperwork would be all done — the patients' history, examinations and outlined prescriptions. The lab results were taking way less time. The radiology no longer needed his reminders, as if someone was doing that for him. And on the rare occasions that you did speak up, your short advice was meant to nudge him in the right direction, that tired man who hardly could recall your name.

Jack does remember when the realization hit him. It was the night that brought a storm in spring: a mass accident involving seven cars, three passengers in critical condition, five — seriously injured. Jack had to stay an extra hour, which imperceptibly slipped into two. He’s struggled with a heavy headache for just as long. It got so bad, he barely could walk up to the nurse station, throat dry and vision blurring at the edges, heart thumping like he’s about to pass out. But someone placed two plastic cups of water in his line of sight. He gulped them down without even thinking. In half a minute, the pain receded, taking away his dizziness and thirst. Jack turned to see who brought the saving liquid, but you just threw away the cups and left. You didn’t say a word and didn’t ask for any gratitude. As if you’ve done it many times before, as if you looking out for him became a mere habit. And with the clarity that comes from being dragged back into consciousness, he managed to connect the dots until he saw a pattern, dozens of constellations formed out of your acts of kindness. Then Abbot found himself confused: why would you ever waste your time on him?

And then he started watching you as if he was stargazing.

Jack tried to rationalize his keenness: he only wanted to return the favor, it would be wrong to let your efforts go unnoticed. He made sure to greet you, gaze clinging to your face, a little bit more confident each time. A little more at ease. He wanted your opinion, he wasn’t shy about asking for your help. He paid attention to every little thing: the way you smile with your eyes first before your lips follow, the way you slightly tilt your head when listening to someone talk, the way you tend to disappear for a few minutes to rest your back against a wall somewhere in silence. Just like he does. He figured out the latter when he once rushed into the stairwell and found you there — eyes closed, hands in your pockets, a single strand of hair loose against your cheek. He almost reached out to tuck it behind your ear.

You looked at him. With that gaze that always softened when he was around. With that faint glee he has become adept at catching.

“Am I in your spot?”

Jack shook his head, his voice lowered to match the calm he stepped into. “Am I in yours?”

Then your mouth smiled too. “We can share it.”

With how accustomed Jack’s grown to his loneliness, it would seem like a challenge to let people in. But you made it so easy. Your care for him was never loud nor insistent, and he was drawn to feel it, a long-anticipated touch of sun against his frozen skin. He’d wait for you to have a meal together in the break room, your chairs moving closer over time, your voices hushed, not meant to leave the bubble you were in. You stirred up feelings in him that he had to rediscover — anticipation, eagerness, excitement. The softness of your touch, even if only fleeting: your hands brushed — over the operating table and the one you ate at, your shoulders touched when you were standing at the stairs, only the fabric of the clothes between you. And he began to wonder what it would feel like to remove it.

Jack didn’t fall in love with you, that’s too rushed of a verb. It felt like he kept walking toward love — with every turn and step he took to you, with every layer of defence that he kept shedding. And when he didn’t feel like moving, you’d meet him halfway.

He let his guard down completely under the roar of fireworks. Although that day didn’t exactly call for celebrations. At least, it never had for Jack.

The Fourth of July had always filled him with unease. He doesn’t hate it, he’s worked on managing his feelings through the years: he stopped flinching at the sounds of firecrackers, he doesn’t get alarmed at the sight of screaming crowds, and now the fireworks rarely remind him of the bomb explosions. He’d come to barbeques his friends invite him to, he’d have a beer or two, and help with grilling food and putting extra chairs in the backyard and picking up the trash after the guests go home. But he’s never the one to make uplifting toasts or joke about his military days, nor does he laugh at someone else’s stories. Instead, he pushes down the memories of his own fear and helplessness, of many people who didn’t make it out alive, some — on their own volition, because the rate of suicide among the veterans just keeps increasing. But that is not the topic you bring up over the buns and burgers. So Jack would sip on beer and give nods, silently wishing for it all to finally be over. It’s better when he is at work, the noise of celebrations cut off by the walls, the conversations held only include raw facts, and no small talks are needed.

But that day in particular went wrong from the beginning.

His air conditioner broke down while he was asleep, and his downstairs neighbours were in the middle of a break-up, by the sound of it — their yelling woke him up, his bed a mess of sweaty sheets, his right leg cramping. He cracked his favorite ceramic mug. The coffee tasted like cat’s piss. The fried eggs turned out burnt. Some asshole’s janky Chrysler blocked up the driveway, so Jack was forced to ditch his pickup truck in favor of the good old public transport. The bus came painted in red, white and blue, and maybe in that moment, he did hate that holiday. Then someone lit a firecracker at the bus stop, and his hand twitched. And Jack hated himself a little, too.

The ER was packed with people who evidently didn’t know how to use grills, knives, lawn mowers — and also their brains, as Abbot muttered when he saw a guy with fingers stuck in a sink’s drainer. He pushed through the first few hours on pure spite. Because it is the easiest emotion to wear as a cover. But it was getting harder to ignore the sounds vibrating through concrete, like something’s detonating, like the next patient would have shrapnel wounds and torn-off limbs. Ignore that his leg ached from him working flat out with no breaks, that he was getting startled way too often to blame it on fatigue.

So, his brain he was capable of using suggested he should take a breather, or the next thing going off would be his temper.

Around the sixth hour of his shift, Jack sneaked into one of the call rooms. Unnoticed, as he thought (or more so hoped). He didn’t bother turning on the light and sat down on the floor, hands balled up into fists over his kneecaps. The faint beams coming from the window danced across the walls. He slowly stretched his shoulders. He tried some breathing exercises. But there was that dull hum in his head, the tension coiling at his ribs as minutes ticked away.

The door opened, letting a streak of light cut through the darkness. Then he heard it closing. He knew that it was you just by the sound of your steps. You sat down next to him — back to the wall, your shoulder pressed to his. Jack felt your gaze on him: a caress, a kindness that he couldn’t help but yearn for.

“It can get pretty loud on a day like this,” you noted, with that same subtle understanding that you always offered. Instead of pity or incomprehension most people would’ve met him with; but not you.

He let out a deep sigh, the heaviness in his ribcage dissolving like a block of ice. The silence that you shared was never heavy.

“I’m used to the noise,” he mumbled. “I usually don’t even notice it. But it’s just... it gets too much too fast. Just on this one day a year.”

He clasped his hands tighter, with palpable frustration. It didn’t last. Because you put your forearm over his and traced his knuckles with your fingertips — and suddenly, Jack found it easier to breathe. Unsurely, he opened one of his palms. You covered it with yours, without hesitation. His pulse sped up, so treacherously fast, he feared you would feel its beating right under your wrist. If you did, you weren’t letting on. Instead, you whispered:

“Everyone needs a break sometimes. You are allowed to take one too, Jack.”

He turned to look at you. More colors soared into the night sky outside, and he watched as the flashing lights painted your face in shades of red and blue. The thought of kissing you has crossed his mind before, and this time, Jack was too tired to fight it. He leaned in — but stopped an inch short of your mouth, still thinking there was a chance you wouldn’t want it. Your fingers grazed the slope of his cheekbone — a touch that held no weight but carried an unswerving promise: you won’t do anything to hurt him. And then your thumb settled under his chin as you closed the distance.

The world around Jack went quiet.

He didn’t hear the echoes of the fireworks, the beeping of the monitors, even his own heartbeat. You kissed him, and it felt like finding something holy in the ruins, like watching light awake at dawn. Jack melted — and so did all his doubts and fears, and in that moment, nothing else existed but your lips. He pulled you closer, hands skimming from your waist to hips, his legs clumsily bumping into yours, which you both couldn’t care less about. What etched into his mind was not discomfort but your ragged sighs, your fingers at his nape, your tenderness that swelled into desire, like there were no clothes and shadows in between you.

You only pulled apart when you were breathless. And yet, to him the kiss felt like a lungful of air.

“You aren’t alone in this,” you said after a beat, your hands over his chest, close to his heart. To where you’ve already made your way.

“I know,” Jack replied quietly, arms tightly wrapped around you.

The possibility of happiness suddenly seemed so real that he allowed himself to want it. Allowed himself to think that he could have it.

And letting you into his life made Jack so happy, his chest sometimes would feel too small to fit his feelings.

He took joy in the learning process: how you would like your tea and coffee, what was your favorite color, what songs you listened to the most, what childhood memory you carried close to heart. And Jack reveled in the novelty of you. In how your hands — gentle and delicate, precise in every move — didn’t shy away from contact, a ghost of your warmth always somewhere at his elbow, shoulder, back. In how your touch felt, the softness of it lingered like a promise, and how your laugh sounded, equally as soft. The way your lips tasted when you were smiling. When you were moaning. When you were crying out his name. How perfect it felt every single time, whether it was just a spark of craving you’d satisfy in the ER supply closet, his hand over your mouth to hush you, his cock inside you making that a challenge. Or in the twilight of his bedroom, your skin bathed in the shades of sky and slick with sweat, time pouring away as he was thrusting into you, slow and relentless, hitting the spot that made you choke on air, his lips painting your neck with marks. And after, when you were both catching your breath, legs tangling under the covers, he’d always pull you into him. And Jack held you like you were his safest place. Like nothing else could feel so right. So good.

But then there were bad days, too. Not just the kind of bad that’s woven out of unfortunate coincidences that he had no control over, like changes in the weather or accidents with no survivors found. He’s seen enough of those. He’s lived through them. Because Abbot is wired to deal with unpredictable and messy, to get his hands bloody or use them to repair damage.

And yet, the worst would always be the days when Jack saw himself as wreckage.

In early years, it sounded like a mere uncertainty, an inner voice that sometimes made him wonder if he’s a little bit closed off. A little too hard-headed. Too principled when it’d be better to concede, too quiet when everyone around him loosens up. But then the army helped to polish his rough edges. It brought a change in him, a confidence that helped him move and work fast, and muster that unapologetic stare. And Jack was thriving under pressure. As much as he did thrive on being needed, wanted. Loved. Because after his tours ended, all the adrenaline worn off and clothes soiled with sand and gore, he still had something to look for, someone to wait for him at home.

It got harder to silence his inner voice when he lost half a limb.

His wife stayed by his side, unruffled, being supportive in any way she could. And Jack told her it’s just another challenge he would pass, a temporary inconvenience he’d learn how to live with. It made him feel better when he could bring her peace. Even if he was losing his. Even when it hurt to sit, to stand, to move. Even when he spent his nights awake and waiting for the meds to work, stuck in between his stubbornness and pain that didn’t feel like just a phantom. But he didn’t allow himself to share it with her — what’s good about a man who cannot rein in his emotions? He was supposed to shield her from any misery and worries, and so he did.

Then she got sick.

And there was no shielding her from death. No way for him to stop the growth of the cancer cells that filled her blood and damaged healthy tissues until her body could no longer fight. Until she fell into a feverish unconsciousness she didn’t recover from. Throughout the long months of her suffering, Jack had to keep his own unseen, to stay strong for both of them. He’s got into the habit of suppressing his heartache, of storing up his feelings like pennies in a jar. He’s never learnt to share them — because she died, and suddenly there was no one he could share things with.

All he’d got left with was the dead weight of pain, the mass of metal stacked beneath his bones. It was so heavy that it almost drowned him, almost pulled down into the abysmal depths of grief. The only remedy that helped him stay adrift was work: the countless shifts that he’d take back to back, the short hours of sleep squeezed in between. And it took many weeks for him to feel like he had moved from the edge of the abyss. But his self-doubt wasn’t just lurking in the background anymore. By then, it was a deeply-rooted creedence: he is too much to deal with — an amputee, a widower, a loner; it would be wrong to let anyone into the ordeal his life was. He got his chance at love once, it felt good while it lasted. He’s got a job to keep him sane enough through his remaining years.

So Jack built a routine that wasn’t meant for two: he picked nights as his working hours, he bought a single bed, he had one black mug in his kitchen, one pillow and one toothbrush. Strictly one set of everything, like an attempt to prove his solitude. He genuinely never planned on breaking it.

Then you came. And soon Jack wanted nothing more than to make space for you. But he couldn’t invite you in only to show some chosen parts of him. And opening up meant that there was no hiding from the ugly truth. Since Jack thought that the reality of living with him wasn’t pretty. He almost felt bad for how smoothly things were going: the veiled secrecy of stolen glances and short minutes spent away from any prying eyes in the ER, the shared dinners in his old apartment, the eagerness of looking for a new place where you would live together. But when you found it, it seemed like all his traumas also got the invitation to move in.

A nightmare jolted Jack awake on the first day. It’s been a few years since he had one, and yet he recognized immediately that bone-chilling dread. He never figured out the reason they kept coming back — and he’s never had someone witness their aftermath: his heart pounding as he sat up, short of breath, disoriented for a moment, eyes wide in the dark. But you just rolled in bed and pulled him down into your embrace, lips following the contour of his jaw until it got less tense. And when you whispered that it’s gonna be okay, a reassurance instead of questions that he’d loathe, Jack did feel slightly better. Slightly less scared. He listened to the murmur of your voice and let it carry him into a peaceful slumber.

Except the nightmares didn’t go away. They soon became his guests — frequent, unwanted: not just because of all the memories they stirred in him, but also for stirring you awake. And yet, he never saw you irritated for a second. You always held him close, and not once were you reluctant, bothered, or uncaring. Even after a full week of interrupted sleep, and after two, and after three. He got a few good days then, perhaps due to the late summer rain that poured for hours, lulling his anxiety to sleep.

Until Jack started waking up not from the frightening dreams but from the pain that was very much real. He’s heard about it — that stumps can hurt when the weather’s harsh, something to do with barometric pressure and the expansion of the muscles. Something he hasn’t experienced before. It was so bad from the get-go, he almost fell out of bed, then barely managed to get to the bathroom, teeth clenched so he’d make no noise. He should’ve thought about the pain meds in his bedroom dresser, but with how much his leg ached, he wasn’t thinking straight. You found him sitting on the cold tile floor; it took you one glance to figure out the issue. You tiptoed out and came back with his meds and water, then wiped his sweat-covered face with a wet towel. Jack felt drained — and even more embarrassed, so he refused to meet your eyes. You didn’t force him to. Instead, you quietly sat near, your fingers ably kneading his sore muscles.

Jack glanced at you, undoubtedly grateful. But still hesitant, still fearing your love for him may have an expiration date, and his weaknesses would only bring it closer. He forced out a chuckle.

“First the nightmares, now this. I am a lost cause.”

He looked like he didn’t find it funny. Like he actually believed what he was saying. A long pause would’ve confirmed his fears, but you replied with no delay.

“I think you are a work in progress. But so were a lot of things before they became art.”

Jack could’ve cried right then. Just from how sure you seemed, how all his flaws that felt debilitating and just as permanent as scars, were fading with your every word. Your hands cradled his face, a whisper pressed into the corner of his mouth: let’s get you to bed. And that day, he slept soundly.

Then you had to repeat the same routine for two weeks straight.

You didn’t voice any complaints, and maybe that everlasting surety of yours did seem a bit naive, but Jack wasn’t complaining either. You brought up therapy — just once, as carefully as if you tried to walk around the broken glass. He mumbled something that resembled half a promise. Half a lie. But he convinced himself that he’s been managing just fine on your support and your supply of kind words and consolations.

And yet, things still kept escalating. Just like they do if you refuse to patch up wounds and only put on bandages to hide them.

It was early September, the kitchen drizzled with the sunlight, the color of the melted butter Jack was covering the pan with — when his hands twitched. Subtle, fast. Could’ve been written off as nothing. But he froze because it didn’t feel like nothing. And when an hour later he was putting away the plates while you were in the shower, the tremor came back. And it felt like something bad.

He took a blood test the next day, all by himself — not even in the exam room, but in a bathroom stall, watching the crimson liquid flow, like he intended to get the diagnosis at a glance. He didn’t — and neither did the lab: no abnormalities detected, no lack in vitamin D, or B12, or folate. And weirdly enough, he felt completely fine in the ER, hands steady on the instruments and keyboard keys and during examinations. Then he carried the groceries and held the doors for you, and on your way home, one of his hands laid on the wheel, the other — on your thigh, unflinching. He almost let himself believe it was a one-time oddity, a stressful night and too much caffeine. He almost let himself forget. But that same day, as you snuggled together on the couch, Jack reached for the TV remote — and saw his hand shake. Very clearly.

He zeroed in on finding the solution as if his life depended on it. Or at the very least, his job. He knew he wouldn’t be able to operate with tremor, it would destroy the only thing he’s ever been good at. But every shift ended with him being equal parts relieved and mystified because his fingers didn’t flinch or shake at work. And yet, they did when he was folding laundry. When he was chopping vegetables or reorganizing kitchen shelves or helping you hang the print-out of a painting that you liked — a swirl of bright blue waves with sunbeams shimmering on water like specks of glitter. You were too thrilled to notice that he fumbled with a double-sided tape. He felt bad for not being able to share your excitement. He felt stupid for not knowing what was wrong, why in the comfort of his home his muscles were contracting — involuntarily, abruptly, for no reason at all.

And soon his mind was contaminated not by the fear but by the feeling of how flawed he was. And it was getting harder to suppress the tremors, to act like his control was not wearing thin. One evening, on your day off, he was making popcorn, and you were sitting on the kitchen counter, all smiley and waggling your feet and wearing his grey t-shirt that looked so good on you, he got distracted and reached into one of the cabinets without looking — but his hand shook so violently that he dropped the bowl. It shattered: both the ceramic dish and his self-control, his face expression first horrified, then dejected, hopeless.

You paused mid-sentence, eyes caught on him. Then they moved to the floor. “You break dishes, and I break test tubes. We are a great match.”

It took Jack a few seconds to snap out of his despondency. “When did you break test tubes?”

“Last Wednesday, at the end of the shift. Slammed a whole tray of them into a wall,” you crouched down to pick up the pieces, and he immediately joined. “You should’ve seen Robby’s face. He facepalmed himself so hard, he knocked down his glasses.”

Jack couldn’t force a smile in return. And he didn’t trust his hands not to shake again, so you did most of the work, seemingly unbothered. But once you cleaned the mess, you walked to him and took his hands in yours. And Jack knew that his secret got out in the open. You massaged small circles over his joints and palms as you examined them, then your gaze went up at him.

“Does that happen at work too?”

“No, never,” Jack whispered, his eyes downcast.

“Does it hurt? Any ache or numbness?”

He shook his head, and you didn’t cast doubt on his honesty.

“Might be something psychogenic,” you mused, with no pressure but with a veiled, unvoiced suggestion: he should make an appointment with a therapist. You put your hands over his shoulders and leaned closer, your nose brushing his. “Maybe it’s your subconscious hinting that you should hurry up with your next vacation.”

That did earn you a glance and then a kiss, soft like an apology, a thank you, a desire to amend his ways. And he really intended to. His imagination rushed to paint a dreamy picture: you two on some mildly crowded beach, your skin sprinkled with drops of salty water, his hands confident and resting on your hips, sun glinting off the waves, sand golden.

Unfortunately, that image never came to life.

The downfall began with something small. Stupid. Something he should’ve never paid any mind to.

A man was brought in in the middle of the night — late forties, with a gaping wound on his forehead: he went to check the noises in the yard and slipped on his front porch. He had a seizure in the ambulance. His vitals weren’t good. His wife came with him, tired and timid, and she told Jack that he had trouble sleeping and refused to take his meds. That last year he had his left leg amputated, way above the knee. He got discharged from the army a month later. Jack listened closely and didn’t bat an eye. Gave her assurances that sounded sincere. But when she left the room, and he looked at the table, he didn’t see a patient anymore — now he was looking at an amputee, a vet. Someone who could’ve easily been him. And someone he most definitely couldn’t fail.

He didn’t — he spent an hour in that razor-focused state, his consciousness reduced to giving orders and getting his gloves stained, with everything else blurry in the background. You knew that when Jack was like that, it meant something important, something personal. So you just gave him space and let him move at his own pace; you had no trouble keeping up. He touched your elbow on his way out with an unspoken gratitude.

Jack took a ride up to the ICU where they placed the man, then had a short talk with his wife — she kept wiping away the tears, and he didn’t want to make it harder on her than it already was. As he was heading for the elevators, he saw two nurses, their faces unfamiliar but voices loud enough for him to catch.

“Poor thing. Won’t ever have a normal life while she is with him.”

“You’re being a little harsh.”

“More like realistic. Men like that come with a crap ton of baggage, she’s basically a babysitter before she is his wife. And they don’t even have kids yet.”

“He probably just needs a better prescription.”

“So he’d stop wandering around in the dark, sure. But then she’ll have to deal with his other 99 problems.”

“Jesus, you are so sour today. Maybe he doesn’t have that many.”

“Even if it’s half as much, she’ll spend years trying to fix him. And there’s no guarantee she’ll ever succeed. So yeah, I’d recommend her to find a better match.”

Jack should’ve interfered. He should’ve scolded them for being unprofessional and disrespectful. But he just stood there and waited for the elevator door to open. On his way down, their words echoed in his head: baggage, babysitter, should find a better match. Before he knew it, they dug into him like splinters. He walked out and saw you in the hall, chatting with Jesse on your break. And Abbot looked at you like you were separated by insuperable distance, like he was just a sinking ship trying to catch the last glimpse of the sun above. He didn’t want to drag you down with him.

It hurt to think he was holding you back. And Jack is not the one for public self-abasement, so he’d wear a stoic face expression and pretend he’s fine. But once his insecurities took root, they only grew, spreading through him like vines. Like poison.

Jack had no wish to go in for half measures. He could never be cruel, he wouldn’t even think about being rude. But he was effortlessly good at being cold. He made it seem like he didn’t pay attention — forgetting what you asked, what plans you made, using the same excuse of feeling too worn-out. He wore a feigned indifference each time you tried to find out what was wrong. He pulled away from you — from your touches and tenderness that he secretly craved like plants crave water. And deep inside, it felt like he was pulling out his teeth, nails, flesh from bones, a truly agonizing torture. Sometimes he’d lie in bed and watch you sleep, his fingers itching to reach out. Jack would instead just lean further away. And on the bad days, he’d reach for the painkillers he stocked up on, because he wanted you to break out of the habit to comfort him. But caring about Jack became your second nature, so you couldn’t give up on him so easily.

So he had to resort to drastic measures.

He mercilessly cut down the time you spent together: Jack begged Robby to switch to day shifts, then told you it was temporary. Which was a lie. Which did manage to dim down your enthusiasm, but somehow, you still held on to hope: you made time for your shared breaks, for checking up on him when your shifts overlapped. For cooking meals for him. For kissing him goodbye. For everything he thought he wasn’t worthy of, and yet, you were still giving it to him so freely. Frustration piling up in Jack was only directed at him — but it was you he snapped at. Two weeks in, three nightmares in a row, four patients in a critical condition in broad daylight. One died. You waited outside the trauma room, but didn’t even get a chance to speak — he breezed past you, and his words sounded like a bite:

“I don’t need you to babysit me.”

That came out way rougher than intended. It was horribly hard not to turn around and run back to you barely five seconds after. He forced himself not to.

Jack tried to justify it by that god-awful saying — about letting go of someone you love. It didn’t sound profound in his head. It sounded fucking stupid. But what worked wonders was a reminder that you deserved stability, and he was just a ticking bomb. He wouldn’t want you to get hit by shrapnel.

He also didn’t want you to waste any more time. So Jack made the decision to cut ties. To cut off the rope that had you tied to all the baggage he indeed was carrying.

He waited for your day off to have the conversation so you wouldn’t get upset before your shift. He came from work already sullen, distant, not even looking at you when you came into the hall to greet him. Right there and then, he told you that things between you weren’t working out anymore. That he needed a break. He barely tried to make it sound believable, and maybe that was the real cruelty: you always putting so much effort into everything, and him seemingly not caring enough.

You couldn’t even manage a reply at first, you looked shell-shocked. Your voice came out pained:

“So none of this ever mattered to you?”

He literally bit his tongue to stop himself from saying that, of course, it did. Jack had to hide the truth behind more lies: he said it was distracting him from work, it got too serious, too complicated. He said it with a voice so flat, he might’ve as well stabbed you. And it was hurting him in equal measure. But he acted like he had a PhD in faking.

“I will give you some time. To think about it. I’ll just go for a walk,” he added curtly.

If he stayed for a minute longer, he would get physically sick from all the venom his words carried.

He glanced at you before turning away. It is the memory that always hits him first, carved into his mind like an inscription on the tombstone of his making — it’s your gaze. Heartbroken, clouded with tears. But you clearly looked like you did finally believe every bad thing his insecurities were telling you.

It’s for the best, Jack told himself as he walked out and closed the door behind him. You will get over it, he kept repeating as he took the stairs, as he strolled down the empty streets. It was already dark and chilly outside, the drizzle shimmering under the many street lamps. For days he thought that freeing you of him would be the reasonable choice. But in the stillness and the hues of artificial lights, it actually felt wrong. And suddenly, regret started to weigh on him, wrapped up around his ankles like chains that clank with every step.

It took him roughly 20 minutes to change his mind. Another 5 to get back to his flat. It must’ve taken you around the same time to grab the things you spent hours unpacking and run into the night. Because he came in only to find you gone.

Jack took one look around, and instantly it left him gutted: you weren’t coming back.

He almost rushed out of the building the second time. He made a step toward the door. Then stopped. For all his shortcomings, Jack did know when it was better to back off. He’s taken an entire weekend off from work, but you were getting back to the ER a day early. So Jack decided he should let you be, let you take a long-awaited break from him.

He absentmindedly took off his shoes, only one thought pulsating in his head: your presence used to light up every room. Without you the place seemed dreary. Lonely. He pulled the closet doors open to find all of your hangers empty, and it made him wince. He was about to turn away when his eyes snagged on it — a blue plaid shirt. He’s got a similar one, and you would often mix them up: he didn’t mind when you wore his, while yours was just left hanging. Jack trailed his fingers over the cotton and held one of the sleeves up to his nose: it smelled like you — apples and fabric softener, something so fresh and warm and making his heart ache. And then Jack wondered what else might’ve been forgotten in a hurry.

He instantly followed his hunch like he was on a treasure hunt. For pieces that would end up haunting him.

The first one was hidden by a pile of plates in the dishwasher — your mug, with Andy Warhol’s bridge print and a small chip on the rim. Next were your pens that he’s kept borrowing and leaving on his desk. An almost empty bottle of your shower gel. Your woolen scarf stashed on the upper shelf. The painting — but its lower corner was crunched and torn a little, as if you tried to rip it off the wall. Jack smoothed it out the best he could, then carefully taped the picture back together. And even though he knew that mending your relationship would be way harder, he was unwilling to abandon hope.

The days couldn’t run fast enough for Jack. He knew your roommate still had your previous apartment, so that’s where you probably were crashing. Or so he told himself, at least, so that his worry would subside a little. His hours were crammed with so many almosts — he almost texted, almost called, almost came up with an apology that was supposed to make up for the pain he caused you. But Jack believed he would have time to do that later, when you meet again. At work.

On Monday, he went back on nights and strided into the ER an hour earlier. He brimmed with nervousness but kept his posture straight and his hopes high. Jack barely made it to the locker room before Robby barged in. And he didn’t go for their usual handshake. Instead, he handed Jack a rolled-up sheet of paper.

“Hey, I was wondering if you could explain this.”

Jack took it, and his gaze fell on the lines of cursive. And then his heart dropped.

He realized in hindsight that it was a logical turn of events. He should’ve seen it coming. But as he stared at the paper in his hands, he couldn’t even read past the first sentence.

The first sentence stated it was a resignation letter.

Yours.

“When did she—” that question sounded so surreal, Jack couldn’t finish it.

“Yesterday,” more wrinkles crossed Robby’s forehead. “It was your day off, so I didn’t want to bother you. She said she got another job offer about a week ago, and she chose to take it.”

Jack didn’t move as his eyes followed the handwritten lines. And every pain he’s ever felt before — ripping, dull, phantom — suddenly was nothing in comparison to this.

Robby turned worried. “The explanation that I’m getting from your face is, frankly, concerning. You two were...?”

Jack nodded, staring numbly at your signature. Then he forced out: “Yeah. We were.”

Robby let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know why the fuck I am even surprised. Evans suspected it months ago,” he pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly torn between displeasure and distress. Then he nudged the glasses back in place and glanced at Jack again. His face looked pale and tense, as if set into a brittle mask. As if another word would make him crack like porcelain. “Should I pull you off the shift?”

The silence stretched out for an uncomfortable number of seconds.

“Don’t be absurd,” Jack finally replied; although it took some effort.

Robby stood with arms crossed over his chest, looking at Jack with an appraising eye. He kept his thinking process to himself and just gave him a quick pat on the back. “Shen is with you today since we’re a little understaffed. So if at any point you need a break—”

“I won’t,” Jack cut him off. He tore his eyes away from your handwriting and gave the letter back to Robby. Jack shoved his backpack into the locker and shut the door with a loud bang. His palm stayed on the metal sheet as he calmed his breathing. Then Abbot cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me.”

He walked out of the room in hasty steps.

He didn’t slow down for the next 12 hours.

Because it felt like if he did, his guilt would burst out, like water through a dam. And everywhere he looked, it only made him painfully aware that you’d left. He hasn’t realized before how tightly you were woven into his life — and just how empty it would be without you. He did miss your assistance, yes — your confidence, your speed and skills; everyone else seemed sluggish by comparison. But none of it compared to how badly he missed you.

He missed the calmness that you brought, the way a single touch of yours would make his agitation fade, his hesitation disappear. He missed seeing you across the hall, he missed the moments when he’d catch your gaze, your smile, your laugh. Four hours in, he walked into the break room — and for a fleeting second, he thought he’d meet you there, just like he had for weeks. Instead, he stared blankly at the table and the seat you weren’t at; Jack had to leave before his feelings got a chance to choke him. His memory mercilessly threw other reminders at him: of you standing beside him in the trauma room, you walking by his side toward the nurse station, you pausing musingly next to the snack machine, you trying not to trot to beat him to the stairs. And every time he gave in and turned to look, you weren’t there.

Jack barely could finish up his shift, avoiding others' gazes and not registering any questions. He all but barged out on the roof, into the gloom of early autumn morning. The cold readily nibbled at his skin as he gulped air; it didn’t bring him much relief. He walked up to the railing, thinking: this used to be the place he would retreat to be alone. And yet, he was reminded of you and him at dawn, rays of the sun caught in your hair, his breath caught at the sight of you.

No matter where he went, he couldn’t run away from memories. And he was seeing you in each and every one of them.

Jack leaned against the rail and pressed his forehead to the metal. And when he heard the door creaking, he just snapped:

“Can I get a fucking break—”

It was Robby coming in.

He got two plastic cups, a can of Coke and two mini bottles of Jack Daniel’s, all in one hand; Jack’s hoodie in the other. He tossed him the piece of clothing.

“You surely can. Just try not to catch pneumonia while you’re at it.”

Jack did feel warmer with the hoodie on. He watched as Robby emptied one of the bottles into a cup.

“What’s this about?”

“We are gonna have a drink and a conversation,” and Robby’s face suggested it wasn’t up for a debate. He pulled a small bag of potato chips out of his pocket. “Eat some.”

Jack stared at the label: no additives but salt. Supposedly low in cholesterol and sodium. No wonder no one was buying these.

“They taste like cardboard,” he mumbled with his mouth already full. He hasn’t had a bite of food since he arrived. Robby just gave him a knowing look, then poured the soda into another cup.

Jack chuckled. “Aren’t you supposed to mix the two?”

“I am supposed to be sober at work. And only one of us needs alcohol to start talking.”

Abbot immediately lost his wit. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, I obviously planned on letting you suffer all alone,” Robby sniped. “But then I came back to work, and I got pulled aside four times in 10 minutes, since literally everybody seems to be wondering if you are okay. Because — and I quote — you kinda look like someone died.”

Jack crumpled the empty bag of chips. “Let me guess, Shen said that?”

“No, it was Ellis. Shen thinks you look ill. And that thought was kindly followed by the story of his grandfather, who died of pancreatic cancer. Which isn’t the best comparison, if you ask me,” then Robby shoved the whisky into his hand.

Jack looked at the dark liquid without much enthusiasm. But it could hardly make things any worse. So he drank half a cup in one gulp, grimacing at the taste and waiting for the burning liquor to be absorbed into his bloodstream. He didn’t know where to start at first, and how to put words into sentences that would sound coherent. He took a few more sips to help loosen his tongue. And Robby waited patiently — until Jack could dial down his reticence under the pressure of remembrance. Then all of it poured out of him: his ignorance, your care, your kindness, and your unwavering acceptance of his failings. The trust and tenderness that bloomed behind closed doors, the joint plans and the shared apartment. The moments he’s been nestling close to his heart.

The moments that didn’t stop him from pushing you away.

Out of whiskey and out of words, Jack dropped his face into his hand.

“Well, as the man who ruined two really great relationships, I must say,” Robby put down his untouched cup of Coke. “Welcome to the club.”

And usually, Jack would quip back. But all the quips were humorless against the truth.

“I fucked it up,” he admitted quietly. Denying it was pointless. As was believing that you would forgive him. “She will be better off without me.”

“Yes to the first part. Not sure about the second.”

Robby replied so swiftly, Jack couldn’t help his skepticism. “Were you even listening?”

“I was. Did I miss the part where she told you that she didn’t want you? That she needed a break?” Robby retorted. “Or was that all in your head?”

He wasn’t wrong. Robby has always aimed to find the underlying cause of problems, just like any great doctor would. But Jack didn’t seek acknowledgement of his wrongdoings — he was aware of them. And he was fairly convinced that he’s unfixable.

“You’d be great at relationship counselling,” Jack noted flatly and looked down at his empty cup. “Funny that we are both single.”

Robby took no offence, as if he was prepared for that exact reaction. “I’m not in a relationship because I don’t want to be. I’m fine with that. And I’m fine with changing my mind when the time comes,” he leaned to him a little so he could catch Jack’s gaze and add: “But it sounds like you love her.”

“And what good did it do?” Jack remarked bitterly and looked away.

Robby held back a sigh. He knew that trying to dissuade him would be like talking to a wall. A wall that only Jack himself was able to tear down. And no words and no reasons could ever help with that. But time should.

“Alright, no more free counselling for you,” Robby took away his cup, ignoring Jack’s attempt at glaring. “It’s clear you are in no mood for some friendly advice. But as your colleague, I do encourage you to figure out what’s up with that tremor.”

“What an invaluable input. I’ll look into it.”

“Also, I’m ordering you a taxi.”

“I’ll just walk—”

“Like hell you will,” and Robby’s firm hand on Jack’s shoulder felt like a full stop in that discussion.

Him coming down and leaving the ER and riding home — all that left a blank page in Abbot’s memory. His eyes kept closing, and it was a miracle he somehow found the keyhole. He almost fell asleep right in the hallway. But as he stood there in the grayly daylight that peeked in from the quiet rooms, Jack suddenly was riven by a feeling — so strong, it nearly knocked him off his feet:

he missed your voice.

He missed you talking to him — about everything and nothing, he missed the softness of your tone, simply the sound of it. He missed you so much that he had trouble breathing. So he took out his phone and dialed your number like it was his lifeline. It went straight to voicemail, which came as no surprise. But then he heard you — a short recorded message: “Hi, I’m sorry I can’t pick up the phone right now. I solemnly swear I will call you back.” And he could swear that you were smiling at the end, and he could picture it so vividly, it made his heart swell. He hung up when the message ended and managed one deep breath. Then he called you again. And he kept calling — as he walked mindlessly around the apartment, closing his eyes to picture you with him. At some point, when he opened them again, the painting caught his gaze. The patched-up corner wasn’t hard to notice — a little wrinkled, with glossy tape over the paper. And yet, it didn’t ruin the whole picture. The mark left just by one mistake didn’t take away from its significance and beauty.

And as Jack stared at it, for the first time in days he felt hope flicker through his mind: maybe there was still a chance for him to fix things. To get you back. But there was no denying that he should fix himself first. Which starts with therapy —

well, in reality, it started with a hangover.

Jack dozed off on the floor, and waking up didn’t feel nice for quite a few reasons. His head hurt, his back ached, his throat was dry. He slept for barely five hours. But then he glanced up at the painting right in front of him, and hope cut through the vines of sadness that he was entangled with. Jack knew he owed it to himself to try and find a way out of the mess he’s got himself into. He also owed that much to you.

So he began searching for a therapist that very afternoon. He looked through his old messages and pulled some previous recommendations, he went through countless cups of coffee while reading the reviews. He made appointments. A couple of them, just so he could find someone he’d like, since he suspected he would need a specialist for the long run. And he felt hopeful.

That feeling lasted for about a week.

Because, despite his best attempts, he couldn’t let go of his reluctance to open up. He sat through every session, in person and online, but he just never clicked with any of them. First was an ex-marine who was supposed to be the perfect choice; in twenty minutes, Jack felt like they were in a contest of who’d had it worse. It only pushed him to close off. Then came an old lady who politely asked if he could skip the gruesome details of his past because she found them upsetting. A 20-something kid who put on a navy t-shirt for their Zoom session “to show his mad respect”. A woman of his age who looked at him like she had never been this bored before.

And Jack inevitably ended up frustrated — at them or more so at himself.

That same frustration led him to the support group meeting for the vets. He’d come to those after he lost his leg; it helped a little to be surrounded by the people who could imagine what he felt. At least, it used to help. But as he sat there and listened to the others' stories, he found it harder to relate. And even harder to speak up, to share the guilt that he’s been carrying. When his turn came, Jack mumbled the first thing he could come up with: he’s got a tough job and it’s tiring. None of them pressed him further, nor saw through his rushed lies; except for that one guy who chaired the meeting. A few years younger, his limbs intact, a shiny golden ring around his finger — and yet, he must’ve sensed something.

Once their time was up and Jack went for the exit, the man hurriedly followed him outside.

“Hey, not to sound weird, I just wanna check up on you. Is it actually your job that’s bothering you? Sorry, you just have that look.”

Abbot side-eyed him. “What look?”

“Like you have nothing else left but work,” the man said earnestly.

Jack put his hands deeper in his pockets. “It’s not just work, it’s... Many things. I am a hard case.”

His curt explanation didn’t require a reply. The other man wasn’t discouraged. “I know a guy. And by guy I mean, he’s in his sixties. He really helped me a few years back”.

“As in, a therapist?” Jack glanced at him and got a nod. “I’ve tried plenty. Didn’t do anything for me.”

“Well, will it hurt to try some more?” the man asked with a sympathetic smile. He didn’t wait for Jack’s objections — instead, he ripped a piece off some paper flyer and scribbled down a phone number. Then handed it to Abbot. “He’s very chill. And also kinda funny. Give it a try.”

He walked off, and Jack was left alone to ponder. His road to redemption did seem pretty unsuccessful at that point. What was there to lose? So he did make the call, although with little hope. He almost dragged his feet on his way there. And it didn’t feel like rainbows coming through the clouds on their first appointment. But Jack also didn’t feel ignored or awkward or misunderstood. That was enough for him to come again — for his second, third, fourth sessions. That is how long it took for him to finally ease up.

To talk about you.

It happened on his fifth visit. Which turned out to be a memorable one: he has replayed it like a tape recording in his head many times since then. It starts with an unusual matter-of-fact: Jack found himself a therapist who’s nothing short of awesome.

He’s British, voice warm just like the tea he drinks (in frightening amounts), his pale blue eyes gleaming from behind the lenses of his glasses. He loves puzzles, and he makes sense of Abbot’s bottled-up emotions as if he’s solving a Rubik’s Cube.

“You are easy to talk to,” Jack blurts out mid-conversation, hands wrapped around his own cup of Earl Grey. He doesn’t like the smell of it, but the warmth is calming.

“I get that a lot,” the old man says, a smile grazing his lips. “I also find that people are more willing to open up if their previous refusal cost them dearly.”

The hint hangs in the air, not blunt enough to be offensive. But clear enough. And Abbot takes it as his chance to spill it out. He doesn’t hold back any details — as much as it is painful, it’s also comforting: remembering you. Not that he ever stopped.

He keeps talking for what feels like half an hour. His therapist listens carefully, not interrupting. And not looking surprised.

“So she made you feel loved, valued and cared for,” he doesn’t say it like a question because all these are facts.

And even though Jack nods, he knows: it’s not a finished thought. The ending’s meant to hit him. The old man delivers quite a punch:

“And in return, you made her feel unloved, unappreciated and unwanted.”

The hit lands heavier than Jack expected. It suddenly becomes so obvious: he should’ve opened up to you. He should’ve talked about his concerns, he should’ve trusted you to understand them. Instead, he hurt you, repeatedly and cruelly, and pushed you out of his life. Although you were the only one he wished to share it with.

So Jack exhales the question with defeat. “I should just let her go, shouldn’t I?”

“Doing nothing can be an option,” his therapist replies calmly. “Or you can try and do better.”

And he says it like it’s the simplest thing, like getting dressed or doing dishes. Jack sighs and rubs his forehead. It takes a minute for him to find the words — he wrenches the confession out of himself in a strained voice.

“Sometimes I think I don’t deserve her. She is too good for me.”

He waits for either lecturing or judgment in reply. But his therapist just asks:

“Have you tried being good for her?” he watches Jack attentively — and quickly adds, “I’m just saying, I never pegged you for a quitter.”

Jack lets the words sink in. Then looks at him and huffs a laugh. “Real fucking smooth, doc.”

“But that’s the truth, innit?” the old man shrugs.

And his assuredness does help to ease the burden of Jack’s past mistakes. The way he gets straight to the point and never runs out of ideas on how to fix things — Jack thinks that’s why he likes him. Then Abbot catches on to a much more cardinal realization:

you never treated him like he was broken.

You loved him like there wasn’t anything wrong with him at all.

He can’t believe he ruined that.

Jack had to do a lot of learning for his healing.

He painstakingly rewired his thought process: the symptoms that he’s deemed incurable were more so… a malfunction. Not terminal but treatable. The best treatment was patience. And he required plenty of it to deal with the consequences of him refusing help for months. Jack learned about psychogenic tremors, their underlying cause being his pent-up emotions. He tried tremor retrainment, he cut down on caffeine. He gave another chance to mirror therapy for night pains. He got on with meditation, although it did take some convincing (which sounded like “please, do yourself a favor, don’t be such a bugger,” — another pearl of wisdom from his therapist. It worked).

It wasn’t easy — not for the first month or the second or the third. But very slowly, day by day, it did get bearable. And then, somewhere between the seventh and the ninth month, Jack actually began to feel better. He didn’t need painkillers anymore, his dishware remained intact, his nightmares forgotten. He’d randomly chat with the interns and crack a joke or two, he stopped his visits to the stairs, he rarely went to the roof. It was an undeniable achievement that should’ve filled him with joy and pride.

But deep inside, up to his throat, Jack has been filled with longing. The thoughts of you would leave him sore, like rupture of blood vessels, like he was bruised all over. He couldn’t stop thinking. He never wanted to forget — the contours of your silhouette his eyes traced through the air, the spark of warmth that was your smile he dreamed of, the tenderness of you he missed. The taste of apples he kept buying since they reminded him of you. The scent still hidden in the fabric of your shirt: every inhale sparked up the coals of his feelings. But he couldn’t act on impulse, couldn’t barge back into your life while he was only half the man he wished to be.

So he crossed off the passing days and let the seasons pass as he continued working on himself. For you. And when his clandestine bruising hurt too much, he’d call you. To listen to the same voicemail, same 14 seconds and 19 words he’s learned by heart. He’s never left a message. And never truly cured his insomnia, his nights perpetually cold, your side of the bed painfully empty.

Jack waited for the change in him that he would feel with every fibre of his being. And for a chance to talk to you. Robby presented him with the latter.

The Fundraiser was Gloria’s idea, and Jack managed to avoid it for two years. She did try to talk him into coming (all donors love a sob story, and what’s sadder than an amputee?), but his few glares and dry tone discouraged her in record time. So Jack didn’t move an ear when Robby mentioned the event.

“I can look up the full list of guests,” Robby suggested, waiting for Jack to get the clue.

It took Abbot a moment. Then his pen froze over the paperwork, eyes darting up at Robby. “You think she might come?”

“We aren’t the only doctors fishing for investors,” he chuckled. “So it’s usually pretty packed. And Gloria loves playing a hostess. She’d drag in half the city if she could.”

Jack mulled over the suggestion. Apart from hopeful, he was also scared. Would you still care that he’s changed?

“It’s been almost a year,” Robby noted. “You found a therapist, you unfucked your life, you’re doing good. How long do you plan on waiting?”

Jack rubbed the back of his head. “I just keep thinking what I’d say. Never been great at speeches.”

“You can start with an apology,” Robby’s voice was low but sure. As was his gaze when he met Jack’s, silently waiting for the decision to be made. At last, Abbot gave him a short nod. It was too obvious for words: his wish to see you was way stronger than any other feelings.

Jack spent the whole day looking for a tie. Last time he wore one was at his wife’s funeral: the strip of fabric felt like a noose around his neck. Years later, when you went on a date, he tried it on — and it was so discomforting that he kept squirming in the driver’s seat. You took the tie off him on your way to the restaurant, no questions asked. Jack took your hand as he stopped at a red light, pressed his lips to your wrist. You leaned closer to kiss him. Your laugh spilled in his mouth when someone honked at you. And in the glow of the green light, sitting right next to him, you seemed so gloriously happy.

Jack thought about it as he was fumbling with that tie, in the apartment he was now alone in. What scared him the most was not knowing if you could let him in again. If you moved on already. He never cared about the socials, and you preferred to keep things private. Still, he checked your Facebook page — you only changed your place of work. No added photos of your boyfriend, no changes to your “not married” status. Which was a good sign. Which didn’t stop his hands from shaking each time he tried imagining what it would feel like to be in the same room with you again.

The hours leading up to the event passed in a blink. Jack’s nerves haven’t calmed one bit. Anxiety bubbled in him as he drove to the hospital, as he sat in his car, forcing his breaths to even out.

He still feels anxious as he walks to the entrance and finally comes in. It’s crowded, a mess of fabrics and the shine of jewels and the fizz of drinks, the chatter never-ending, half of the smiles fake. It’s almost nauseating; Jack loosens the tie a little. One of the servers darts to him.

“Sir, would you like some cham—”

“Do you have water?” Jack’s eyes impatiently move over the guests' faces.

The man pauses. “Um, just... water?”

The teeth of agitation graze his insides. Jack doesn’t let it show. “Just a glass of water with some ice, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right back,” the man scampers off into the crowd.

Jack promptly moves in the same direction. Some of his colleagues greet him, some of the strangers shoot him glances; he hardly cares about either. He’s searching for only one voice and face — yours. The server finds him in a few minutes; he pants a little as he gives Jack a lowball glass, only in place of whiskey, there’s a clear liquid and a bunch of ice. And Abbot notices how pale the man’s up close, some reddness splotched above his crisp white collar. Jack almost wants to ask if everything’s okay. Instead, he thanks him and keeps going. Someone is laughing, someone is obviously drunk; some posh guys who’ve never worked a day in their lives are asking mind-blowingly dumb questions. The background music is unnecessary, incessant; someone is writing checks and making toasts, Jack’s fingers go cold from the ice —

His gaze stumbles on the hair color first. The painfully familiar lines of the neck and shoulders.

His heart leaps up. Exhale caught in his throat.

You’re standing with your back to him, your dress dark blue and hair up, your shoulder blades left bare. And he would recognize you anywhere. It makes him stop. It stuns him: as he is staring at you, everything else — that’s bright and loud and harsh — suddenly grows dim.

Jack timidly allows his gaze to look you over. He was afraid you’d change, but he can see it even from a distance: the same slow movement of your arms, your bearing poised, same slight tilt of your head as you are listening to someone, a hand gliding over your waist —

a man’s hand.

You didn’t come alone.

When Jack sees who the hand belongs to, everything in him sinks, the weight of heartbreak filling up his stomach. This isn’t just unfortunate — it is a worst-case scenario, it’s watching the paper boat of his hopes being completely torn apart.

Jack knows Jonathan: a classmate turned your best friend, the man who looks like he stepped out of a magazine — tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, and with a million-dollar smile. He is a neurosurgeon who operates on kids with brain cancer, he regularly donates to charity, he owns a three-legged dog he rescued (of-fucking-course). What makes things even worse is that he’s not an asshole. He’s also never brash or loud — because he doesn’t have to be; he catches everyone’s attention like a diamond among marbles. When he’s with you, his smile grows wider. And Jonathan’s lips glisten like he had a kissing session not so long ago.

Jack hears quick footsteps approaching, and he already knows who’s coming. 'Cause no one radiates anxiety like Robby.

“I didn’t know she’d bring him,” Robby says, gaze splashed with worry.

Jack grasps his glass tighter. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t look like it is.”

“I didn’t expect her to wait for me forever.”

But Jack did hope he’d get another chance. He gulps more water, still perfectly icy — but on the inside, he is burning. He’s not allowed to be this jealous: you aren’t his to keep, and that’s on him. He’d rather walk through fire than watch you with another man. He cannot take his eyes away.

“You can do it in the parking lot,” Dana’s voice comes from his left.

Jack turns to her, his face perplexed.

“... What?”

“I mean, he is a bit taller than you, and he works out for sure. But your military training should be good for something, right? If you want to punch him, just don’t do it here,” she takes a sip of what looks like a Gin tonic. “I spent half an hour listening to that douchebag tech guy who wants to fly to Mars — and who also offered to pay for our new MRI machine. I’d like to get that check by the end of the night, so please don’t fuck things up.”

When Jack broke up with you, Dana refused to talk to him for weeks. And now she does, so technically, they’ve made some progress.

“I’m not gonna punch anyone,” Jack tells her. More like a protest, less a promise.

“Oh, 'cause you’re in therapy now,” she rolls her eyes. “If only you started it, I don’t know, a year or two earlier. Wouldn’t be standing here throwing daggers at the other guy.”

She isn’t wrong. He’s got no arguments in his defence nor any wish to argue. Jack’s eyes are drawn to you again — but this time, when he finds you, he can tell: you know. And he can almost see the tension straightening your shoulders, the wariness stealing away your smile. He gets his guess confirmed when you finally turn — and look exactly where he’s standing. You aren’t smiling. You manage to control your feelings, but one of them slips out for a second: pain. And Jack discerns it in your gaze, just like he did the day he left you.

You look away. It nearly unstitches all of his patched-up composure.

“You think she’ll talk to you?” Dana’s voice comes out a tad softer, more concerned.

“Only one way to find out,” Jack quietly replies.

He is way more unsure than he wishes he would be. His main wish is to apologize to you.

You make it obvious you do not want to talk to him at all.

You aren’t the one to make a scene, but it is hardly subtle — how consciously you keep your distance. You move around the hall as people wave at you and call your name: McKay and Collins gush over your dress and pepper you with questions, Princess makes jokes that get a smile out of you. Dana pulls you into a hug, and Robby greets you just as warmly. And Jonathan surprisingly isn’t a clingy boyfriend — he keeps darting back to the bar, avoiding women of all ages who keep staring at him, which you don’t seem to care about.

But you are dead set on not crossing paths with Jack.

He tries approaching you nonchalantly, like he is merely an old friend wanting to catch up. You talk with literally anyone but him. Even with that damn server, pale and panting in your face after you stop him with a question Jack can’t hear. He spends an hour on attempts to get to you — you move further away each time he makes a step in your direction.

Jack knows you certainly have reasons to be upset. He grows increasingly uncertain about his chances for a reconciliation. His heart rushes from what feels a little bit like panic. He gets a glimpse of you chatting with Garcia — before he all but runs into the bathroom, into the empty room behind closed doors, to splash his face with some cold water. And then he stares at the mirror like he’s trying to summon a version of himself that you might tolerate; but to no avail.

Jack takes a minute to calm down. To bolt into his head that he won’t give up easily. He strides into the corridor with a newfound determination and his tie fixed —

in a few seconds, the door to the women’s bathroom opens —

and you walk outside.

You take a step away, two, three.

A measurement of time is yet to be invented for just how fast you turn to him. Like you are still aware — unwittingly, unfailingly, always — of his presence; you can’t help but look.

You freeze immediately. He stands unmoving. The two of you are separated by a couple of feet. But also by the months apart and the unsaid and the unhealed. It’s hard to casually break that kind of silence. And all the pre-planned speeches in Jack’s head boil down to I’m so sorry and Please, don’t leave. You look like you’re about to —

There is a sharp, loud sound followed by a dull one — of something heavy falling. You both instantly turn your heads and find the source of it around the corner: a metal tray and a smashed bottle of champagne, a server lying sprawled out on the floor. That same white-faced man, deadly unconscious.

The awkwardness gives way to urgency: you act like not two strangers but a team, just like you were once. And you worked damn well together.

Jack runs to him and crouches down, two fingers pressing on the man’s neck. “Got a pulse.”

You take your phone out to use the flashlight and lean down to his face. “Pupils reactive.”

“Will probably have a bruise from the fall,” Jack is examining his head and neck.

“And a nasty bump too,” you add, your own hands moving quickly down the server’s body. You start searching his pockets.

Jack quirks a brow at that. “You think he’s got any meds on him?”

“He’s diabetic,” you explain. “He looked pale, so I asked him if he was okay. He said it was his low blood sugar 'cause he kept forgetting to get a snack.”

Abbot bites down a smile: you still catch on to small things he doesn’t, and people always talk to you more willingly. He wonders if you’ve ever missed working with him, too. Out loud, Jack notes:

“So he might be in a coma.”

“I was hoping he’d have glucagon,” you mumble, with a hint of discontent.

Two other servers see you and sprint closer. Jack asks them to deal with the mess of glass and alcohol left on the floor. He isn’t moving from his spot, he knows this moment won’t last long: you next to him, you two talking, proximity you aren’t avoiding, aren’t distressed by.

“Look for an inside pocket in his vest,” Jack suggests.

Your fingers move to check, quickly unbuttoning the man’s clothes. “Bingo,” you whisper joyfully when you find the small injection kit.

You don’t waste time on reading the instructions you already know: you mix the powder with the liquid and easily fill the syringe. He helps you out by dragging down the man’s pants so you can inject the glucagon into a leg muscle. A few guests and doctors are gawking at the scene.

Jack can only look at you.

The server opens his eyes with a pained exhale. “S-shit, did I pass out?”

Jack helps him to sit up; you do the talking. “How’s your head? Any dizziness?”

He rubs his temple and frowns at the sight of his dirtied white shirt. “Nah, I’m fine. Didn’t mean to bother you guys, gotta go clean myself up.”

Jack holds him by the elbow as the man slowly gets up. You button back his vest and give advice. “You need to get a head CT just in case. Or at least get checked properly. The ER is just around—”

“No, I can’t afford that,” he retorts quickly, tiredly. “I know you mean well, but it’s gonna cost me a fortune. And I should get back to work.”

But Jack tightens his grip on the man’s arm. “You’re gonna pay a bigger price if you don’t take care of your health,” Abbot tells him in that effortlessly persuasive tone. “They won’t charge you for a simple check-up. Take the main exit and turn left, then look for ambulances and follow them. The ER is not that busy right now, you’ll be out in under 30 minutes.”

It’s very hard to say no under the pressure of his gaze. The server nods, a bit disoriented; but also grateful. “Thank you so much,” he utters, then clumsily adjusts his vest and moves to the exit in jerky steps, like he has to stop himself from running.

The crowd of spectators lazily disperses. Jack sends a quick text to John, eyes on the screen, but his spine tenses like a string at the cognizance: you aren’t leaving. And he can calculate the distance without looking — it’s barely an arm’s length, and if he reaches out his hand, he knows he’ll touch you. God, how much he wants to touch you.

Jack is so stuck on his reluctance, he doesn’t expect you to speak up.

“Don’t you charge for check-ups?”

When he turns to you, you are already looking at him. It twinkles in your gaze like the moon through clouds: hope. Like you are waiting, wishing for him to say something. He doesn’t know where to begin.

“I asked Shen for a favor,” Jack says, holding up his phone. “Besides, he’s bored out of his mind, so we’re kinda helping each other out,” he chuckles lightly.

“Shen is an attending now?” your question is equally surprised and guilty: you and John used to be friends. You must’ve cut ties with a lot of people when you quit.

The words pile up on Jack’s tongue: it’s not your fault you weren’t there, no one holds that against you, everyone misses you, and he’s been missing you so much it is a never-ending torment —

“Got the job in August,” is what Abbot actually says.

“Good to hear,” your eyes are still on him. “Got anyone new on the team?”

“Same old,” he shakes his head. “We don’t do well with change in here.”

Your affability dissolves into an expression that’s disappointed first, then — completely blank. Jack has no idea why. It would be great to show assertiveness, to bring back the same commanding tone he used a few minutes ago. But that would feel like playing pretend. Which he has never done with you, and he is not about to start.

So Jack allows himself the truth. And his voice softens when he says:

“You look beautiful.”

He catches a ghost of a smile on your lips. But your eyes aren’t smiling.

“You look like you don’t want to be here,” you tell him plainly.

“I do, actually.”

“Since when do you care about socializing?”

Since he found out you’d come. But he thinks it would be too blunt to say that.

“It’s for a good cause. So I figured, why not,” Jack brushes it off. The panic is pulsating through his chest again: what did he do, how can he make this better? “How’s your new job?”

You sigh like he made the wrong move. “Pays well. Way less chaotic,” and your voice is void of anything that can give him hope.

You used to be so bubbly and expressive, he never pushed for details — you’d give him all down to the smallest, and he heeded to every word. He cannot tell if you’re trying not to overshare or if this is just how you are now, grown out of your exuberance like it was something foolish. Something he made you regret.

“Don’t you miss the chaos?” Jack asks swiftly.

It does seem that he manages to scratch the mask you have on: you frown, like you’re about to remind him why exactly you had to leave it all behind —

“There you are!” Gloria cuts in, her long dress light pink, her voice booming from across the hall. The smile she gives you doesn’t look fake. “Why didn’t you come say hi? I found out that you’re here from Jonathan! So lovely that you came together!”

She’s interrupted briefly by some old man — a doctor or perhaps a donor, someone who’s got enough authority to matter. Your smile is nothing but polite. You smooth your dress, something you do when you are nervous or uncomfortable. Or both. But this is your way out, and Jack knows you will take it. Of course, he wishes that you wouldn’t. He’d abdicate his pride, his morals and beliefs; he is ready to beg you. But wouldn’t it be selfish to drag you into something you want none of?

He wants you back, yes. He also wants you to be happy. And maybe there is no connection between the two, maybe it’s indeed too late. Accepting it wounds him. Jack pushes through; he puts his feelings under anesthesia, he puts on a smile.

“I’m glad that it’s him,” he says, unprompted, his words meant only for you to hear. “You deserve someone good, something stable. It seems like a perfect match.”

Your face falls. And his sincerity that’s meant to be a farewell backfires. You are trying to hide it, but he can read the signs: you bite the inside of your cheek and purse your lips, eyes momentarily drawn to the floor. When you look back at him, your gaze is also wounded. Like you are in a whirlpool too, and your pain goes by his name.

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper:

“I didn’t want it to be perfect, Jack. I just wanted it to be you.”

He is left standing — staggered, speechless — as Gloria takes you by the arm and speedily leads you away. You disappear into the crowd, you’re on your way to a much better future, and Jack is on his own. Because in real life, not everyone gets their happy ending.

Except, this doesn’t feel final. This feels like a mistake.

The Fundraiser is in full swing: the main hall packed with people, every glass surface dappled with light, beams flashing in the air like confetti. Gloria thanks everyone for being in attendance, her speech a faraway echo, soon drowned out by the cheering. Some lone guests brush by him, but Jack stays in the quiet, at a distance, deep in his thoughts. They churn in him just like the clouds outside the windows — dark grey, crawling over the sky, over the faint shades of violet and red. The colors dim at the horizon, but not his doubts: they only rise, like water vapor rising in the air. He never told you just how sorry he was. Maybe he should have. Abbot picks up his glass that he left on the floor, half-full still, the ice melted. What clinks through his head are the words: why didn’t he tell you? What if it could’ve made a difference?

Someone walks up to him, slowly, with purpose. And Jack expects Robby’s or Dana’s sympathetic face, or maybe that poor server coming back. But it’s none of these people.

It is Jonathan.

“Tired of trying to charm old millionaires for a paycheck?” he smiles at Abbot and steps closer, a glass of red wine in his hand, smelling so strongly of perfume, he must’ve soaked himself in it.

He seems relaxed and harmless. And yet, Jack’s rigid, like he is looking for a catch.

“I don’t have much charm in me,” he doesn’t bother with a smile. “Not a problem for you, I reckon.”

But he speaks with no bitterness. Primarily because it seems impossible to hate him: Jonathan is fun, lighthearted, witty. He’s everything Jack’s not.

“Oh, I don’t need charm for that,” the brunet chuckles. “I just mention kids and cancer in one sentence, and that does it. Saves me a lot of time so I can spend it in a more pleasant company.”

Yours, Jack assumes. He’s trying not to picture you and Jonathan together, doing the things you’ve done with Jack.

“You shouldn’t leave her waiting, then,” he forces out, swallowing his jealousy.

He raises his glass with an unspoken toast — to your happiness, Jonathan’s luck. Jack’s loss. He’s waiting for the picture-perfect man to leave him to his misery.

But Jonathan is in no rush to go. And weirdly enough, his face is actually... amused.

“You are aware we’ve been friends for years, right?” he narrows his eyes a little. “Ever since the uni. Has she told you how we met?”

Okay, this is where he draws the line. Jack doesn’t need to listen to how easily it was to fall in love with you. He knows already. And Abbot’s never been nonchalant about his feelings. How do you tell a man that you are mad about his girlfriend? Jack tells himself he’ll keep his mouth shut until he’s out of water.

He takes a sip. There’s barely a couple left.

How far’s the parking lot?

Jonathan is oblivious to his internal struggle. Or maybe he’s just unconcerned. “It happened at the end of the first semester,” he recounts, smoothing his green silk tie with manicured fingers. “I got so smashed at one of the parties, I actually forgot where the dorm was. Passed out somewhere in the bushes, I’m not kidding. A dozen people must’ve walked by me, but she didn’t. She helped me up, let me crash in her room. When I woke up with what probably is the worst hangover I’ve ever had, she brought me coffee. And then she told me that if drinking and partying were all I’m good for, I should drop out,” he drops his glee, his serious expression hinting at how much weight your words held. “Believe it or not, that conversation changed my life. And in our uni days, she was my closest friend. I knew I could rely on her because she’s so... straightforward. Funny. Kind. I’ve always got enough attention from the ladies, sure. But I valued kindness and sincerity way more,” then he looks Abbot dead in the eye — and punctuates, “Because I was a closeted gay.”

Jack chokes on water.

Jonathan doesn’t even flinch.

“You know, I keep hearing how good a doctor you are, and I do believe it to be true. But man, you fucking suck at picking up social cues,” the brunet gives his wine a swirl and lists. “I’ve got a suit that’s tailored to perfection. I dodged every woman’s attempt to flirt with me and spent the evening making heart-eyes at the bartender. I am literally wearing lip gloss. If I wanted to be any more gay, I’d have to jump your bones. And honestly, I would rather lick the pavement. No offence.”

“None taken,” Jack says under his breath, wiping droplets of water off his jacket, utterly confused. “Why didn’t she tell me that? I thought you two were dating. And she didn’t correct me.”

Jonathan holds a pause and holds his gaze, as if he’s hoping Abbot can figure out himself the explanation that is so glaringly apparent.

“You shattered her heart, Jack,” the brunet tells him, not with reproach but with honesty. “I’m surprised she said a word to you. She once promised me she never would.”

That’s when it hits him like a blinding spotlight: you did grant him a chance to make things right. And he just wasted it.

Or did he?

“I really need to go,” Jack mutters. He makes a few rushed steps away before abruptly turning on his heels. “Do you know where—”

“I left her with Evans,” Jonathan readily informs him and adds with a sad half-smile. “You may need to do some groveling.”

Jack offers no reply because he is already on the move. But he knows he will kneel and crawl and wear his feet off to the knees to merit your forgiveness.

Anticipation gets his blood pumping as he sprints through the crowd, through the cacophony of sounds and a swarm of colors, his eyes darting all over the place, looking for you. His pulse competes in speed with passing seconds. It maybe takes him five minutes or just a half of one — before he spots Dana. Who’s standing at the bar alone. Her plastic smile has almost worn off; it dies completely as she notices Jack coming. She meets him with hissed words and an accusatory tone.

“Geez, I ran out of talking points, she just left! What took you so long?!”

“You knew Jonathan was gay?” Jack can’t help his bafflement. His body is already turning in the direction of the lobby.

She groans and yanks away his glass he totally forgot about. “Anybody with eyes would know that! Now hurry up!”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Abbot careens into the lobby just in time to see you grabbing your black coat. You’re leaving earlier than planned — that much is clear from how hastily you move, from how pensive and distant your expression is. Just as you turn, your eyes fall on him — and in an instant, you put on a mask again, only this one is cold and stern and so defensive, you don’t allow him to say a word.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I know, I know,” Jack agrees humbly, ruefully. “Just give me a minute, I —”

“We already had one pointless exchange of pleasantries, and now I’m going home,” you pop on the coat without looking at him, putting the collar up like it’s your armor.

There is a rumbling outside, the sound creeping close, closer. A car alarm goes off. You go towards the exit.

“It’s gonna rain any minute now, you should wait it out,” he tries to persuade you, following behind, but you refuse to spare him a glance.

“I’m sure I’ll survive. Thank god for Uber,” you pull your phone out, heels clicking on the polished floor.

And his resolve is melting into desperation that pours into his abdomen, heavy like molten rocks. Burning like magma.

“I talked to Jonathan. Actually, he did most of the talking,” Jack manages to keep pace. “And he kinda came out in the process. So I know you aren’t dating.”

“I didn’t say we were, you made an assumption. Good to know you still like those.”

Affliction flickers through his voice. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Because the thought of me dating someone is an intolerable torment,” you sneer at him over the shoulder, still not slowing down.

The answer flies out of his mouth before he even thinks about it:

“Yes.”

Three-letter word — that’s what it takes for you to stop and turn to him. But when you do, it isn’t out of confusion or surprise. No, Jack is getting a different emotion from your sharp exhale and knitted brows and flaming gaze.

And Abbot realizes he’s never seen you truly angry. He sure does now.

“Wow,” you draw, eyes boring into him, the phone in your hand forgotten. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You don’t get to have any opinions on my love life.”

Jack looks like you just hit him in the face. Like if you actually did, it would’ve hurt him less. He takes a breath so he’s got enough air for all the words he must let out.

“I want to apologize. I know I treated you horribly, and I never should’ve—”

“Thanks, I feel whole again,” you cut him off and turn your back to him, as if his words are idle. Meaningless.

You venture out into the street, a gust of wind tearing through the layers of your dress and coat. The sky is swallowed up by grey clouds and autumn’s gloom, the silence hanging in the air is eerie like a premonition.

Jack catches up to you, and desperation rises up in him under the pressure of his awakened fears, of his sleepless yearning.

“Can you stop for a second?”

“Why, so you can heap me with some excuses? As if I’m still supposed to care,” you say, voice brimming over with emotions — he can hear fury and offence. But the pain is there too.

“I just want to explain—”

“For months I’ve been waiting like a goddamn idiot for your text or your call or your visit,” you wander on to the parking lot, seething and so obviously hurt. “But you never reached out, didn’t even leave me a single message. You moved on so fast, like I was just a bump on your road.”

“That’s not what—”

“And then you come and tell me I hurt your feelings?” you whirl around, face tear-stained, each word a shard of glass that cuts him. “And how dare I not inform you that I’m still pathetically single? Why would I do that, Jack? Who the hell do you think you are to make any demands?!”

Lightning cracks fiercely in the sky, silver electric pulses threading through the darkness. Wind roughens up the trees and tears wilting leaves that swirl down in the air.

You notice none of it.

“You were the one who broke up with me! You didn’t do shit for things to work out, you didn’t care about my efforts, you decided for both of us because, of course, you always know better. So you don’t get to have any feelings about it now, after a year of radio silence! After you made it so clear you didn’t want me,” your voice breaks.

And it’s not anger that flashes across your face but sadness, inordinate and undeniable, like your heartbreak is fresh. Because, oh god, you still have feelings for him. And everything in you screams how much you want it not to be true.

You wipe the tears off your cheeks, not realizing that some of it is rain — the first few drops fall down, their patter just a murmur in the foliage. But it is getting louder. You shamefully avert your gaze. You sound dejected when you speak.

“At least have the decency to leave me alone. Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why did—”

“Because I can’t fucking breathe without you!” Jack’s voice roars like thunder, like eruption, a force of nature breaking loose.

You instantly turn back to him, your gaze linking with his. It makes you stop. It stuns you: when he’s with you, everything else — crowds, faces, storm brewing above — suddenly grows dim. You gape at Jack like he just cut his chest open with bare hands.

And then he offers you his heart.

“I can’t move on, I am incapable of it, there wasn’t a day in the past year that I didn’t spend wishing I could go back and fix this! You think I don’t know I fucked up? I’d still remember it with my skull cracked in half! I’d have to get amnesia to forget it — and then it would come back to me the second I get back home. Because every part of it, every inch of it is stained with you.”

His eyes are riveted to you, and you are rooted to the spot. The rain comes down harder, but you are only hearing what pours out of Jack’s mouth.

“I still have the apartment. The one you helped me pick, the one we lived in. There’s the same bed we shared, the same shower, the same kitchen where you made me breakfasts. And I see shadows of you on every wall, I hear echoes of your voice, I wait for the sound of your key. And it’s suffocating. But I keep renewing the lease because that’s all I have left of you.”

You are looking at him like you don’t recognize him. And truthfully, you can’t: the Jack you knew buried his feelings deep. He never shared them — not when he woke up in cold sweat, not when his hands shook or his mood dropped. He never even told you that he loved you.

But this Jack talks to you like he can’t even think of stopping.

And he lays all his feelings bare.

“I wake up wanting you, I suffer through each day wanting you, I can’t sleep at night because lying there awake without you is unbearable — and if I close my eyes, I dream of no one but you, which feels worse than stepping on a landmine. Because I know that I’ll wake up alone. And it’s been tearing me to shreds.”

His voice is hoarse, his usually impenetrable expression collapsing into one of undeniable remorse. You don’t move when Jack allows himself a step to you.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you. And I’d never want to hurt you. Not again,” Jack needs another breath before he shares his reasoning — fervid and candid and certain in its brevity. “I want you back.”

Your clothes are getting wet, his too. But all you’re feeling is how your fury and defiance disintegrate around the edges, turning to dust the rain washes away. And after everything Jack’s put you through, you can’t hate him, can’t fight him, can’t reject him.

And he can’t stay away from you.

“I’d crawl through hell for you if it gets me another chance. I’d cut off my arm up to the shoulder, I’d give up my career, I’d move cities and cross countries and swim across oceans. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

The sky lights up, white flashes on an indigo canvas. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears. Jack pleads:

“Tell me you can give me a second chance.”

“Please.”

“Tell me.”

You try to say something, but no words come out. And in this moment, you don’t want to talk. You want to feel something, you search for solid proof that this is real — for something grounding and tangible, like an embrace. Or like a kiss.

You dart to him without thinking.

His hands catch you midway.

His lips meet yours with no resistance and no hesitation.

It’s soft first, not out of reticence but out of tenderness — Jack holds and kisses you like you’re fragile, a treasure he’s afraid to damage with his fingerprints. But that is hardly satisfying for how much you’ve missed him. You pull him closer, you want the kiss to deepen — and he obliges you, his tongue skating across your lower lip. You almost lose the sense of time, mindless of the wind and raindrops dripping in your mouth — you only feel the heat of his, the need for him, the way your lungs burn from the lack of air, from the intensity of him.

Jack has to pull away first, his own breath heaving. The rain is trickling down your cheeks, and he brushes a few drops away. “You’re gonna catch a cold, we can’t just stand here,” and then he grabs onto an idea, the way a drowning man would grip a straw. “I still have some of your things. The drive to the apartment is only—”

“About nine minutes,” you whisper, eyes searching his, like maybe there is a reason hidden there for you to turn down his offer. He doesn’t want you to. You know that you don’t want that either.

“C'mon, let’s get you in the car,” Jack takes you by the hand and leads the way.

And you comply. You know he’s sober — his tongue didn’t bring the taste of alcohol, no bitterness of whiskey or the spiciness of rum. He just tasted like Jack. You press your lips together like you’re savouring it (you actually are).

He spots his pickup truck and helps you get in first, then takes the driver’s seat. Jack turns the heater on and keeps his gaze away from your wet clothes that cling to every curve of you. He fights the urge to take the tie off — you catch his fingers drumming on the wheel, his shoulders tense, eyes sometimes darting down, trying to be discreet. To you, he isn’t. This goes on for a minute, two; the roads aren’t busy, and he is driving fast.

A red light stops him at a crossing. Jack shifts a little on his seat. Tries for a deep, calming inhale —

You lean to him.

Your hands move on their own accord, out of habit you never unlearned: you skillfully loosen the knot, pulling the thin tail of the fabric out, then carefully unfold his tie. Jack sits mellowed and motionless, his gaze tracing your face — wet eyelashes and lines of your nose and cheeks down to the parted lips. He knows if you allow him another kiss, he will have trouble stopping.

But you pull back. And he steps on the gas.

Heat floods in through the vents, and you silently watch the city through the rain-streaked window. You’ve missed a lot about Jack, and Dana’s words skate through your mind: “he has been working on himself, he’s really changed.” But it’s impossible to change the past, to act like his behavior didn’t scar you. You don’t know if you can let him in again. And yet, the truth thuds in tact with your heartbeat: you want to, you want to, you want to.

He parks as close to the apartment building as he can — the walk up to the entrance is barely half a minute. He doesn’t take your hand, he gives you space. But he still holds the doors for you, and you can feel his palm hover over your lower back when you go up the stairs. And you expect to see the flat changed too, you keep imagining how he revamped the place and rearranged things, new paint over the old, over the traces that you left. Just so his memories don’t loom in every corner.

But then Jack turns his key and lets you in. And it feels like you traveled back a year.

Because nothing is different. Everything looks exactly how you left it.

Jack locks the door behind you, and for a moment, he just stands here. You feel his gaze on you, while yours is wandering — over the same furniture, same colors, green apples in the white bowl in the hallway, because you used to grab a couple before leaving. And he remembered it. You.

Warmth roots deep in your chest.

You toe off your shoes and wiggle out of your semi-dry coat. Jack carefully pops it on a hanger while you amble around. It’s like a walk down memory lane: you can recall how he assembled every shelf, his brows wrinkled in concentration, his sleeves rolled up, you shamelessly admiring his tensing muscles instead of reading the instructions (not that he needed any). You think of him refusing to let you lift a single box, of how you cheerfully unpacked them — taking out clothes and books and new things meant for just the two of you to share: soft cotton towels and fresh bed linen and dinnerware sets. He didn’t show any emotions when you were shopping; but when you were alone, Jack’s feigned aloofness vanished — he smiled softly at you, one arm secured around your waist, his short hums of approval pressed into your shoulder. You smile at the memory.

And then you glimpse the painting — bright blue wave, still in the same spot on the bedroom wall. You can’t help but come in.

The gap between the heavy curtains lets barely any light in, but you manage to find the bedside lamp and flip the switch on. The yellow glow spreads all over the room, over the printout. You notice instantly: he fixed the corner you almost ripped off. You didn’t mean to — you were heartbroken, you were in a rush, you thought he’d hate it if you left it. You also absolutely had to leave before he came back, so you didn’t have time to properly untape the whole thing. But Jack took care of it like it was more than just a piece of paper. Like it held meaning to him simply because it did to you.

The warmth in you grows, like snowdrops at the edge of winter.

You take a better look around — there’s the dresser you used to put vases with flowers on, the dark blue bed cover you spent many days under, the fluffy bedside rug he bought you because the floor always felt cold. Belatedly, you see a thick spine of what looks like a book left on the nightstand. But you know it’s a photo album. One of your gifts to him.

It’s something you found startling when you got to know Jack — he barely had any photographs. As if the whole idea of capturing life’s moments seemed alien to him. Or maybe he didn’t want to have reminders of everything he’s lost. But you wanted to remind him of all the good bits life was still full of. You chose the first three photos: Robby in heart-shaped glasses he put on as a joke, Shen in a white gown he had to wear for an hour when they ran out of scrubs, Trinity grinning next to sleeping Frank after she drew a mustache on him, with Dana laughing in the background. And Jack loved it. He was way more selective, but he did add dozens of polaroids as the months went on — you turn the pages and see familiar faces, the people you loved working with. The image you remember last was of you and Jack: you dozed off on his shoulder, his arm casually tucked behind your back, his eyes on you. Walsh snapped the photo sneakily and sent to you, although you blatantly denied all her suspicions.

But the collection doesn’t end there — you unexpectedly discover a few more photos.

Of you.

They’re from his phone, you guess — some shots are blurry, definitely made without you knowing. The first one is you cooking with his shirt on, knees bare, and hair in a messy bun, a grin curling the corner of your mouth. Then comes a photo of you standing at the ER’s exit, probably waiting for him, your tired face soaking up the sun. Then it’s you chatting with McKay at the nurse station, you sitting in a call room reading, you sniffing candles in IKEA, you hugging a sad kid who got his leg broken, you petting stray cats at the farmer’s market. But it’s the one Abbot put at the end that makes your breath catch in your throat. He took a picture of you sleeping — your back and shoulders peeking from the bedsheets, faint sunlight glittering over your naked skin. The shadow of his hand covers your closed eyelids. And the realization bolts through you so violently, it makes you shiver: you don’t know how to stop loving him.

You can’t.

All of a sudden, the air feels warmer. You know that Jack walked in — you feel him staring. You always do.

“I wasn’t sure you would keep this,” you say, your fingers gliding over the edges of the album.

“Of course I did,” he replies quietly, fondly.

You turn to look at him.

He brought your plaid blue shirt, his tie and jacket discarded somewhere in the hall. Your gaze unhurriedly traces his face — the wrinkles faintly scattered at the corners of his hazel eyes, lines of his nose and cheekbones and curve of his lips. But in his features, you are also seeing weariness, the kind that doesn’t bother with pretence. And in the ambience of soft light, after so many truths unveiled, there’s still one answer you are seeking.

“Why didn’t you leave a message?” you wish you’d sound more collected; you don’t. You cast your eyes back to the polaroids as you dig out the memories that are less pleasant. “I got notifications after your every call. I had to buy a second phone eventually because I got too tired of waiting for you to say something.”

And you don’t see Jack opening his mouth and closing before he reads between the lines: you could’ve turned off notifications, you could’ve changed your number. Instead, you waited. For many months.

For him.

“At first I thought it would be too soon,” he confesses, a pained edge to his tone. “I knew I hurt you. Figured you’d want some time away from me. It felt wrong to disturb you, to offer excuses that would be pointless without fixing the real issue. Which was all in my head,” Jack admits. “It took me a while to get hold of myself. I didn’t want to give you some half-assed apologies and I... What I need to tell you, I didn’t want to say it over the phone.”

He doesn’t turn it into a performance, you do not hear him move or even make a sound. For a few seconds, you wait for him to say more. But then you glance at Jack —

and see him on his knees.

Your heart stutters.

The sight brings you no satisfaction. Because you are imagining the edges of his prosthesis dig into his skin, his upper leg pressing into the hard metal at this uncomfortable angle. And just a thought of him being in pain is what you still can’t bear.

“Jack, your leg will hurt if—”

“I don’t care,” he breathes out, eyes not leaving yours. “I love you.”

His voice is roughened by sincerity. You’ve never seen him so exposed, so unashamed about being vulnerable.

“I don’t remember what it’s like not to love you. And it’s the only thing I know won’t change,” the words fall out of him, steeped in devotion that slowly binds your wounds. “I knew I loved you before I even kissed you. I should’ve told you then. I should’ve told you that so many times.”

You cross the space between you, barefoot and up to your throat filled with longing. Jack rests his head against your stomach, one of his hands finding your lower back. Like he needs you to ground him. It only takes one touch — for your body to cave in, to ask for more, a treacherous response that only he elicits. An exhale shudders out of you as you’re anchoring yourself to him, so you won’t be carried away by currents of desire. But it’s already swelling in your core.

You feel the warmth of his mouth when Jack speaks up again. “I was afraid that if I said it, it would make it real. Would mean that I dragged you into my mess. Even though you deserve so much better.”

You look down at him — at his broad shoulders slacken in defeat, the damp grey curls with a dusting of white. Instinctively, you thread your fingers through his hair. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I’ve always been exactly where I wanted,” and your voice wavers in a confession of your own, “But you hurt me so badly.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Jack slowly turns his head, his other hand tracing your leg up to your hip. Both of his palms lay flat against your back. And then he nuzzles you, inhales you through the thin fabric of your dress, as if he’s been deprived of air. His muffled words burn your skin.

“I hurt myself too,” but then he looks up and meets your gaze and whispers, “I want us both to stop hurting,” in that low voice that makes your knees buckle.

Your craving for him has been crooning in your chest, and now the heat of him — his gaze, his touch — is making your blood sing. You lower yourself down to him, shift closer to him, your fingers falling on his jaw. Jack leans in, letting his face fall into your hand. His eyes seem darker in this lighting, deep umber with the specks of green, with the same sheen of need. You’ve never seen a man more handsome.

And you want him to kiss you like he doesn’t plan on stopping.

“What you said at the parking lot, I feel that too,” you murmur. “I wake up every day wanting you.”

His lips crash into yours — or maybe yours crash into his — it’s hot and frantic, it loosens the last remnants of your self-control. You grasp his shirt as you’re struggling to undo the buttons, snapping a few off until you bare his chest and feel his skin, his muscles taut under your palms. Jack makes a sound — a groan you swallow, his teeth grazing your lower lip before his tongue is sliding against yours. The kiss is deep, dizzying. There is no grace nor shame in how your body presses into his, in how his hands clutch onto your hips, in how you barely keep balance until you two part to catch your breath.

Your voice is shaky. “We should—”

“The bed, yes,” Jack rasps.

But his mouth trails for yours again, and you can’t keep your hands off him, can’t fight this all-consuming need.

The bed is barely twenty feet away — you stumble toward it. You’re kissing like you are starving for each other, leaving a trail of clothing on the floor. His shirt goes first, then he pulls down his pants, his mouth lowered to your throat, to where the jugular vein thuds under your skin. Your jaw falls open with a gasp — just like he knew it would; his hands are quick to steady you, his grip tight as his lips move up. His breath brushes the spot beneath your ear; he stops there. You can’t hold back a whine and turn your face to kiss him, eyes already dazed. But as Jack teeters on the edge of no return, an inkling takes shape in his mind: this is the closure that you didn’t get last year. This is the grand finale to the story before the curtain drops. Before you leave for good. Because you didn’t promise him you wouldn’t.

And yet, it doesn’t stop him. Nothing could. His love is a gratuitous surrender, an offering of the best parts of him, even if it leaves him hollow. If this is what your last shared memory is, he’ll make it worth your time.

Jack kisses you with his mouth open, his hand pressed to your nape, his lips devouring you like he can’t get enough — you let him, you melt into him. And everything in you is reeling. He only breaks for air when you are out of it, your lips swollen, your palms roaming over his naked chest. Your senses are reduced to just the feeling of him — his hands peeling away your dress, the soft press of his mouth at your collarbones, between your breasts, the way his tongue circles your nipple — then his lips close around it, his fingers tugging at the other — you feel the wetness pool between your legs, your body prickling with warmth. Your dress slides down to the floor — the second you step out of it, Jack locks his arm around you and lifts you — it’s barely three heartbeats before he lays you on the mattress, pushing you up until your head reaches the pillows. His mouth comes back to yours.

Desire courses through you freely and burns brighter with his every kiss, his every touch, skin pressing against skin. His hands make their way lower — his perfect, big, firm hands, their roughness molded into softness when they are on you; his lips follow. He leaves a damp trail over the hollow of your throat, over your heaving chest, right over your heart. Over the ridges of your ribs (each one, like he is counting). Then he centers his path, a kiss placed at your belly button. Then his exhale skims right above your underwear.

He pulls back — just a little. Just to get a better view. You know the thin cotton does nothing to cover your arousal — Jack eyes the wet spot at your center, dragging his fingers up your thigh. Then he presses his thumb right where you’re already aching for him.

Your breath comes out in gasps. Your heart lurches, threatening to bruise your ribcage.

Jack doesn’t hesitate or stall or tease you.

He slips your panties off in one smooth motion, then his hands slowly push your legs apart. Cool air touches you before he does, and goosebumps spring up on your skin. You hear Jack swallow loudly as his eyes drop between your thighs. He seems transfixed, pupils blown wide, a vehemence that comes from hunger. Or from reverence.

He bends his knees and sinks down on the bed like he is at the altar. And he lowers his head in worship.

Jack spreads you open with his practiced fingers, flicking his tongue over your clit, then tracing a line lower — to lick what’s dripping out of you already. A moan breaks from your throat, hips jerking down involuntarily as your hands clutch the bed sheets. He drags his tongue back up — and then buries his face between your legs, no warning given before he starts eating you out like he’s having a feast. It is a calculated mess: the way he licks and sucks, obscenely unapologetic, and pleasure sparks off through you, intoxicating and setting every nerve alight. There is no questioning his skills — Jack knows your body like it was made for him, like he has mapped it with his mouth so many times, he’d find and follow every contour in the darkness. He doesn’t use his hands yet. He doesn’t need to: not when he wraps his lips around your clit, the pressure in your stomach building up, your orgasm barrelling towards you deliciously fast — and then it crashes right through you, your body trembling all over, Jack’s name lustily rolling off your tongue.

He doesn’t stop.

One of his palms glides to the inside of your thigh, rubs a few soothing circles on your skin. Then his thumb carefully strokes your swollen bundle of nerves — and you don’t come down from your high, instead reaching a torturous plateau: you are still sensitive and gasping, and yet insatiable for him, your hips instinctively, needily grinding against his hand. He starts with just one finger — thick, long, and pushing into you with ease. Jack’s breathing hitches when you clench around him, and almost instantly, he adds a second, knowing you’ll take it, knowing how much you love being stuffed full of him. You answer with a long-drawn moan because fuck yes, you do.

He’s slow at first, sliding his fingers in up to the knuckles, dragging his gaze up to your face. It’s a debauched sight, a mesmerizing one: the way you spread your legs for him, head falling back against the pillow, a string of wanton sounds spilling from your lips. He watches your reaction closely as he expertly hits the spot that makes you keen and squeeze your eyes shut, hips grounding down into him harder. Jack takes this moment to ease another finger in, his hand already slick with you, his cock straining against his boxer briefs.

And he is picking up the pace, his three fingers stretching you wider, wet sounds filling the dimmed room.

“This feels good?” his voice is quiet, ragged.

“Yeah—yes, s-so good,” you whine helplessly. “It’s—oh god, it’s perfect, Jack, don’t stop—”

He doesn’t plan to. He’s memorizing it again: your scent, your taste, the tremble of your legs he unspools the tension from. This perfect, sweat-covered image of your naked body — he’d paint it on the inside of his eyelids if he could. And Jack can tell you’re getting close: words incoherent, muscles pulling tighter. It takes just four swipes of his tongue — and then you’re cumming with a silent scream, back arched, thighs clamped around his head. He works you through it, patient and waiting until your legs relax again, so he can pull his fingers out.

You feel the aftershocks hum through your body, the satisfying rush of blood ebbing a little. But you are not yet satiated. And when you look at Jack, he is already staring at you, gaze dark, unblinking. He keeps eye contact as he licks his fingers clean, his chin and mouth drenched in you, cheeks flushed. You think, with anxious excitement:

he will not give you anything that you don’t ask for. You have to be straightforward about what you want.

So you tug at his hair to bring him up, to kiss him, the growing urgency you want him to join in on. He moves up purposefully slowly, your legs still open under him, his palm grazing your hip up to the waist, his touches featherlike and fleeting, unseen lines that won’t turn into marks. Jack hovers over you, sturdy and still, but he’s not teasing. Up close, with your faces mere inches from each other, he’s softer — like he’s marveling at you, like he is reverent, like he’d believe in you like he never believed in God.

And yet, he is still holding back.

You put a hand up to his chest, fingers splayed wide, appreciative of how heated his skin feels. His pulse leaps — you do feel it. Your hushed words brush his lips:

“I don’t want just your hands, I need more. I need all of you.”

And then abruptly, your fingers travel lower, over his tensing stomach and down to where he’s hard and leaking through his briefs. You palm him through the fabric, eager, with just the right amount of pressure. Just how he likes it. His hips stutter, a groan stifled in his throat. You easily slip under the elastic and free him — so thick and heavy in your palm, you have to bite your lip to hold back a grin. You wrap your hand around the base without even looking and give his cock a few slow strokes; with each one, Jack gulps more and more air in. Unraveling.

And you say — bluntly, ardently, right into his mouth:

“I want to have you raw.”

Jack’s eyes go wide. Emotions ripple across his face — amazement bordering on disbelief. He grabs both of your hands and pins them above your head, a strong grip you can’t free yourself from. This silences you for a second. And then you watch intently as his resolve gives way to his desires, to something almost primal, inescapable. That mirrors everything you’re feeling. You shamelessly arch into him, bare breasts rubbing against his broad chest.

“Please, Jack,” you writhe — in agony, in need. “I want to feel you. Want you to fill me up. Leave me so full, I’ll leak all over the bed. Please, please, plea—”

His mouth shuts you up, a kiss so searing it knocks the air from your lungs. You taste yourself on him — you also taste his desperation, the fevered hunger he is at the mercy of. Him and you both. There is no space between your bodies, and you can feel his length against your thigh — you plea again, and his hands dart to nudge your legs further apart. Your own hands — freed and impatient — tug at his briefs; he yanks them down to his knees before his cock finally presses at your entrance. His tip slids through your folds until he’s coated in your wetness, until you’re whimpering and begging and bucking your hips forward.

But all the words escape you when he pushes in.

He eases into you, unhurried, inch by inch, his thickness stretching you and filling you until he bottoms out. You are so overwhelmed, it feels like you can’t take a single breath. Jack gives your body a moment to adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his palm against your cheek. And then he rolls his hips experimentally, just once. A sound tumbles from your mouth: loud, throaty moan. And suddenly your lust for him eclipses every other feeling.

You link your hands behind his neck, locking your gaze with his. And you don’t need to say a word for him to move. He starts slow, but he thrusts deep, the way he knows you love, the way that makes your hips cant up to meet his rhythm. You feel him everywhere — the friction and the weight of him, breaths shared between two mouths, the pleasure mounting in you so fast, your head is swimming. And you are pliant in his hands, and you know he did ruin you for every other man. You’d let him do it all over again.

Jack takes his time, determined, each thrust unleashing pure bliss in you. He manages to keep control — until he moves his eyes down to where you are joined, where you’re soaking him.

“You are taking me so fucking well,” he praises breathlessly.

And then his thrusts start growing rougher, sweat dribbling from his temples, his lips tasting like salt when you catch them with yours. You bite his lower lip — he almost wishes you drew blood and left a mark he’d wear for days. A gift, a memory, proof that you allowed him to have you one last time. He also wishes he could make this last, but he’s as wrecked as you are. And you are back to begging.

Jack moves his mouth to your neck, and his hand snakes between your bodies to trace tight circles on your clit. He doesn’t need to ask you or to wait for long — he barely even needs to touch you — you fall apart with a full-body shudder, a cry muffled against his shoulder. And you squeeze him so tight, it tips him over. The orgasm rips through him, hips jerking as he spills inside you, your body clinging to his, welcoming everything he gives you. Down to the last drop. Until he’s emptied, and the room feels colder. And somehow emptiness feels heavy.

You stay like this — tangled together, your labored breathing the only sound in the silence. And Jack suspects that once you slip out of your daze, you will regret this. Him. He watches as you calm your breath, he keeps his weight braced above you as he is trying to compose himself. As if he’s bracing for the impact of your rejection.

You sigh with your whole chest. Then look at him, your words measured, the decision made:

“I can’t give you a second chance.”

His face doesn’t react, not right away. His eyes do — they are much greener now, and pain sweeps through them like an underwater current. Like something that’s about to swallow him. And he will let it drown him willingly.

But then you put your thumb under his chin. To make him pay attention when you add:

“—If you don’t start talking to me. If you don’t let me in that overthinking head of yours,” your voice isn’t commanding but conciliatory, the same softness you always have for him in spades. “Because I don’t want to second-guess your every move. Or watch you distancing yourself from me over something you mentally blew out of proportion. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on, and I hate not knowing.”

He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t move. You aren’t even sure he is breathing. In the faint golden lamplight, Jack is a marble statue, as though his brain short-circuited at your suggestion. As if he can’t believe your words are real.

Your hand cradles his face, like all these months back. Your touch is just as warm and soothing.

“Jack, can you take a breath for me?” you ask quietly, your words grazing his lips.

A few long seconds pass before he blinks and breathes in — and his chest shudders on the inhale, like all the walls he’s built around his heart are finally collapsing. He’s blinking rapidly, eyes glistening. He never looks away.

“Yes,” Jack whispers, his voice colored with relief. “Yes, to everything you said. I’ll do it. You won’t have to ask again,” and then his head drops to your shoulder, and his mouth presses repentance and kisses into your skin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve apologized enough,” you say softly, arms moving up to hug him — but then he shifts his weight, and your thighs flinch. Because he’s still inside you.

You hiss, Jack stops. He drags his lips back, a barely audible apology left somewhere at your collarbone because he just can’t help it. He gets up and almost stumbles, one foot caught in his own briefs that dangle somewhere at his ankles. You laugh and help him pull them up; Jack leaves a kiss on the crown of your head. He comes back with a wet towel, sits next to you, and opens your legs gently to wipe you clean, his hands careful where you are most sensitive. Where you are filled with him.

And while he is attentive, he’s relaxed, like all the tension bled out of him with sweat, like an enormous weight has been lifted from his shoulders. You watch him and you wish so strongly that he could always be like this. And when he’s not, you wish you could be there too.

And something prompts you to blurt out:

“I’m still on the pill, by the way. So no accidental babies, don’t worry.”

A smile splits across his face. Real, evident in both corners of his mouth. He doesn’t fight it, he doesn’t give you a reply until he’s done. Jack pulls your underwear back on and crawls into the bed with you — he is still smiling when he says:

“I wouldn’t mind if you weren’t.”

And you should laugh it off or leave for later, but you can’t. Responsibilities that come with kids usually come hand in hand with marriage. You’ve never talked about either. Although you’ve wanted to — you thought about it, dreamed about it, and Jack has always been the one you could imagine your life with.

Now you’re afraid it all may crumble like a sand castle. He reads the worry from your gaze and pulls you closer, arms on your waist. And this time, Jack lays the foundation for a home he wants to last for years.

“I want everything with you,” he says simply, warmly. “I want to come home to you, I want to fall asleep and wake up next to you. I want you on your day-offs, and I want to be in trauma rooms with you. If there’s a spot for a night-shift attending at your hospital, I’ll transfer,” he leans to place a kiss over your shoulder. Lips soft, words firm, gaze — both, always on you. “I want to marry you — in a cathedral packed with guests or have a courthouse wedding, it doesn’t matter, take your pick. I’d love for us to have a kid one day — but I’ll be just as happy if we don’t. I know that I will love you under any circumstances, through good and bad, and everything else life throws at us. And I don’t ever want to be without you.”

You only realize you’re crying when his fingers sweep the tears from your cheeks.

“I thought you hated weddings,” you sniffle.

“I said I didn’t care about them. But I do care about you,” he skims his thumb across your cheekbone. Then places a kiss there, too.

Before you know it, you are smiling. And these are definitely happy tears. The dreams you deemed delusive come back to your mind — and they are not about diamonds or white dresses: instead, you picture waking in his arms. In an apartment of your own or maybe in a house. And you do want a kid — at least one — with his bright copper curls and freckles and that cheeky crooked smile he had when he was little.

And in the morning, you will tell him that Gloria said she’d gladly have you back.

But right now, you have other words to say. You drop a light kiss on his jaw, your tears dried up, face beaming when you tell him:

“I love you.”

Jack’s smile quivers. As does his voice. “No, don’t say it. Not now,” he shakes his head and drops his gaze, like he’s afraid you’ll notice his one fear he doesn’t yet know how to pacify. “Tell me again later, when I’ll deserve that. I hope I will.”

You put your index finger over his cheek and turn his face a little so he can meet your eyes again. You’re speaking with them, too.

“I loved you then, and I love you now. You don’t need to work for it. You just need to accept it. You need to let me love you, Jack. That’s what you deserve.”

You look out for the furrow of his brows. For shades of doubt or for some objections to make his mouth twitch. But even if they try to, Jack doesn’t let them — because he chooses to believe you. Because he’s not about to waste his second chance. He takes your face in his hands, his eyes in awe of you, in love. He kisses you — deeply, unhurriedly, like it’s a promise no words are needed for.

And then it feels like deja vu, the sweetest dream that’s coming true — you bring him into your embrace, under the bedcover you pull over his back. More kisses tucked between his face and neck. His arms stay wrapped around you, and he’s wrapped in your warmth, in calmness he forgot the feel of. Jack’s breath tickles your skin as his eyes finally dip closed.

And it feels like coming home.

✧ I totally imagined Jonathan Bailey as Jonathan; ✧ the title is a quote from a song. I also made a PLAYLIST for this fic 🎵 ✧ here’s the thing that’s been on my mind: headcanons about Jack finding his therapist (that savvy old man I keep mentioning in my fics). would anyone want to read that? I even have a face claim. ✧ dividers by @/firefly-graphics and @/uzmacchiato. ✧ MY MASTERLIST

Six months ago, your world stopped in the middle of the Pitt during a random Tuesday shift.

You’d joined the ED only a few weeks prior, a transfer from the VA after Jack Abbot, who’d been your patient, recommended you join him at his hospital. He said it was not only a better environment for omegas but that you’d have more opportunities to find your niche during your residency. You wanted to find a surgical fellowship after your residency, and putting in hours in an emergency department would let you log some OR time if you played your cards right.

That day, you'd helped triage the worst broken femur you’d ever seen from an insane football injury and paged for an ortho consult. Dr. Brendon Park came downstairs within minutes; his sub-specialty in sports injuries had him as the first line of defense.

When he pushed through the door, a thick cloud of clove and amber filled your nostrils.

Your pupils dilated. Heat bloomed in your cheeks, your chest, your stomach, your everywhere. Yes, everywhere. The world reoriented and you knew something for certain for the first time in your life: Brendon Park is your mate. Fated. Something rare and special and sacred, even among medical professionals who write it off as a medical phenomenon.

This was supposed to be the most important moment of your entire life. A moment that makes an omega’s knees weak and their world restart for the better. The two of you were supposed to leave the room enamored with each other, ready to explore the possibilities of your life together.

There were two problems with this new reality of yours.

You had been on scent blockers for nearly a decade, which made you unrecognizable to him, and,

Dr. Brendon Park is a big, huge, massive, planetary fucking asshole

“He’s the most stereotypical alpha I’ve ever had the displeasure of encountering. Always peacocking around scenting all over everybody and grinding to be ‘The Top-Rated Orthopedic Surgeon on the East Coast Three Years Running,’” Trinity sneers, doing a decent impression of him as she walks out of yet another awful consult with Park the Shark, snapping off her gloves and punting them in the trash. “You know I had a dream about clocking him in the jaw the other night after we had to work on that hand amputation together?”

Next to you, Whitaker says, sounding almost wistful, “You should try it for all of us omegas who can’t stand him. At least it would give us some entertainment.”

You nod along as you peck away at your chart. It’s a major point of frustration for you; Park is so annoying you want to swat him like a fly, but something in your biology stops you from bad-mouthing him when you can still smell him lingering in the ED. You hate the fact that you get tongue-tied whenever he comes up, the thought of his autumnal scent like a warm, addictive blanket around your shoulders.

Trinity leans over the desk and waves her hand in your face. “Earth to cherry,” she teases, using the nickname based on your scent the way affectionate alphas do to their omega friends, “I’m being mean about Park; don’t you want to pile on while I’m still pissed?”

“Um, not today,” you try weakly, catching Park’s bulky frame talking with Robby in the corner of your eye. “I need to, ah, to get to-” Thankfully, an ambulance rolls into the bay before you have to come up with some lame excuse to duck out of the conversation and away from Park’s smell. You nod toward it and say, “That’s my ride. See you later, guys.”

As you jog over to the EMTs as they unload a crying, embarrassed, upset teenage boy, Park watches you carefully, his subconscious making sure you get to your destination safely. He’s always liked you more than the other ED residents who always find some way to piss him off. The only doctor he fully respects down in this hellhole is Abbot and Abbot chose you personally, which automatically gave you some cred in Park’s mind, but it’s more than that. It’s something in the way you speak, maybe, or how you hold yourself around patients. He can’t quite place his thumb on it, but you’re just better than the rest of your class.

After an hour of waiting on imaging and taking a thorough history for the teenage athlete with his shattered knee, you reluctantly page for an orthopedic surgery consult – and brace yourself when it’s Park who returns it right away. You half-jokingly warn the family, “The surgeon who’s coming down gets called Shark by everyone in the emergency department, but don’t let his whole thing scare you. He’s one of the best sports medicine surgeons on the eastern seaboard; you’ll be in great hands.”

Your patient’s mom smiles and gives your forearm a gentle touch. “Thank you, doctor. I’m glad to hear that.”

As usual, Park walks into the room already talking. “Saw you bringing in a kid from an ambulance earlier; what have we got going on here?”

“This is Franklin Murray, but he goes by Frankie.” You give the kid a warm, affirming smile as he stares nervously at the hulking doctor who’s just come in, his alpha scent stinking up the room and making all of you feel small, even Garcia as she stands in the corner. “Fifteen, male, no secondary sex yet. He came to the ED today via ambulance with both parents showing a traumatic fracture to the patella with ACL and meniscus involvement due to an accident at a track meet. After thorough evaluation, I’m guessing the next course of-”

“You’re guessing?” Park grunts as he tugs on his gloves and starts to roughly maneuver the poor kid’s swollen knee around. Through Frankie’s winces and yelps, Park chastises you, “I don’t like the sound of that. Try again.”

You bite your tongue and grimace. “The likely course of treatment would be either open reduction and internal fixation or arthroscopic repair of the tendons with stabilization of the kneecap, but I’m not the orthopedic surgeon here, thus the consult.”

“Good work on these fixes,” he murmurs, almost under his breath, like he doesn't want to give you any praise. But it makes your traitorous heart flutter anyway. Park shakes his head out and snatches the X-Ray machine over, flipping through the scans with that familiar intensity on his face. You can always imagine, far too clearly for your ongoing sanity, what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of a look like that while he drills into you, reckless and sweating, giving you exactly what you need. It’s exhausting. While you swallow hard and avert your eyes, Park gives Frankie a stern expression and informs him, “Kid, you’re not gonna be running on this leg anymore. Time to buckle down on your school work to diversify your options.”

Your mouth falls open as Mrs. Murray chokes out, “Are you serious? You really believe it’s that catastrophic of an injury?”

Arms crossed over your chest, you glare daggers at Park and say to the room before he can, “Actually, Dr. Park is the one who’s guessing now. He can assess the severity of the injury and perform the right surgery to repair it, but he definitely can’t see into the future when it comes to healing, rehabilitation, and physical therapy.”

Park gives you a flat not-smile and tells Mrs. Murray, “Twelve years in orthopedics with a specialization in sports injuries; I know what a long-term disability looks like when I see it.” While you debate how unprofessional it would be to jump on his back and bang some sense into his thick skull with your fists, he glances at Garcia and says, “Get him prepped. I’ll have my team prepare Surgery Three. Come find me when we’re ready to scrub.”

Garcia nods. “Of course, Dr. Park.”

As Park leaves the room without another word, you turn to Frankie and his parents, all of whom now have tears in their eyes because of that stupid-ass alpha, and tell them, “Look, Frankie, you’re not gonna run for the rest of this season, but that definitely doesn’t mean you’ll never run again. Stay positive and focus on following your post-op instructions to a tee, okay? I’ve seen athletes come back from much worse than this and there are actually a lot of studies that show a positive outlook can improve outcomes during recovery, so keep your chin up. For me. Promise?”

Frankie gives you a weak smile, sniffles, and nods.

“Okay, good. I’ll be the first one to check on you after your surgery. I’ll introduce you to our awesome rehab team – they’re so amazing, I promise – and we’ll get you on the right schedule to get you back on track – and on the track. Good?”

Mrs. Murray pulls you into a hug. The gentleness of getting a hug from another omega always makes you feel light and soft. The feeling only doubles when she pulls away and says, “You’ve been so great during all of this, thank you.”

“That means the world to me.” You assure one more time, “We’re all going to make sure he gets the best care possible. You and your husband can wait here at the hospital in one of our family lounges or you can ask reception to give you a call when he’s coming out of anesthesia. Either way, I’ll see you later this evening.”

Then you give all of them another professional smile, walk confidently and slowly out of the room – and then absolutely book it toward the elevator when you spot Park about to successfully escape back upstairs.

“Hey, mister, you stop right there!” You snatch Park by the arm (using your rage to ignore the part of your brain that notices how large and firm his bicep is) and try to drag him away from the elevator toward the nearest corner where you can have him partially alone. After letting you struggle to move his massive form for a second or two, he goes along with you. He doesn’t speak, just gives you one of those ‘get on with it’ looks of his. You furrow your brows, set your jaw cruelly, and shove your finger hard into his broad chest. “You absolutely cannot talk to patients like that. You crushed his dreams without even caring and that’s not acceptable. He’s just a kid!”

“He’s fifteen,” Park scoffs back. “It’s time for him to start learning the ropes of the real world.” Then he laughs, sounding a bit condescending for your taste, and puts his big hand on your shoulder, “And that’s doctor mister, pup.”

The word makes you do a double take. Calling another adult that is so overtly intimate – almost familial – that it has absolutely no place at work. If someone overheard it, they’d assume you were married. Or they’d report him. And, honestly, it’s a spear straight through your resolve to resist him.

A tiny whimper escapes your lips without your permission and you have to pinch your thighs together to attempt to convince yourself not to get all slick when you don’t have a panty liner on. With your eyes shamefully averted, tears stinging them and face burning hot because you’re so embarrassed you whisper, “You can’t call me that when you’re not- when we’re not-”

“I’m sorry,” he replies, earnest, urgent. Regret floods his body; he knows exactly what kind of effect sudden intimacy like that could have on an omega. He cups your cheek, forcing you to look up, but he’s sure to drop his hand away as soon as he has your eyes. You can still feel the strength of his smooth skin on yours when it’s gone and you miss it immediately. You’ve never noticed how pretty his blue eyes are when they’re focused solely on you. “I- I honestly don’t know why I said that. I’ve never called someone – anyone, not even girlfriends – that before.” He tilts his head to the side and searches your face like there’s a mirror in your eyes and maybe he can understand himself by looking into them. After a minute of tense silence, he mutters, “I know I’m…me. I know how people talk about me and they’re not wrong. But I’m not a sexist. I’m not someone who ever questions omegas being doctors or treats them any different than the idiot alphas I work with and- Sorry. Genuinely sorry. I really don’t know what came over me.”

Suddenly unable to stop himself, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, almost like a stress ball, and goes on quickly, like the words are just tumbling out of him, “You’re an incredibly competent doctor and I appreciate that you don’t just fold to me the way a lot of people do. It makes me a better physician when you challenge me. I know I could, ah, work on my bedside manner. If it matters to you, I’ll go back to Frankie and his parents and apologize before his surgery, alright? You’re right; he’s- he’s just a kid. Hasn’t even presented yet. He doesn’t need me talking to him like that when he’s already scared shitless. You’re a kind doctor and a good hire and you shouldn’t ever doubt yourself.” With his voice now shaking slightly – that’s new to him, very new – Park finishes, “I hope you can forgive me. For- for saying that just now and for being a dick. I promise I’ll be better for you.”

For you.

It slips out.

He doesn’t know why.

But he doesn’t apologize for that one.

You study him for another moment, smelling the subtle change to his scent. It’s lighter and sweeter now, more like warm cinnamon instead of harsh clove, and you’re officially a little drunk on it when it’s served up with a side of him actually showing you some vulnerability and care. Without overthinking it, you throw your arms around the back of his neck and murmur, “I forgive you. Thank you for saying all that. It matters, I promise.”

For one split second, he can write it off as normal omega sweetness, the same way he does when his nurses hug him after a successful procedure. He knows how to respond to those hugs. Hands briefly on the upper back, posture tall but open, a professional compliment exchanged. But then his nose makes brief, soft contact with the scent gland on your neck.

There’s only so much scent blockers can do.

They can’t stop someone from smelling your pheromones directly above your skin, especially at the strongest gland on your body. Crisp green apple and nectarine and cherry, the exact sorts of fruits that marry well with cinnamon and cloves. The two of you are a mulled wine slowly simmering over a fire, the rich steam filling a small space with its intoxicating aroma.

Brendon’s cells rearrange. His heartbeat speeds up and his veins are suddenly full of something sweet and syrupy. His eyes flutter shut and he softly noses your neck, the tiny gesture completely instinctual, a quiet, barely-audible moan coming from somewhere deep inside of him. Somewhere completely foreign. He pulls in a deep breath and lets you coat his throat and lungs. When you feel the bridge of his nose touch your jaw, you gasp softly.

Brendon’s right hand slides down your spine slowly, resting at the small of your back, pulling you close against him with a campfire rumble in his chest. His other hand goes to the back of your head, protective, intense, and you twine your fingers in the soft hair at the base of his neck, loose and slightly curled after a day of surgeries. Your nails scratch his scalp softly, right at the edge of his scruff, and he shivers. You roll onto your tiptoes and bare your neck more, thoughtless, pressing your chest to his and falling into the dream of having a mate who adores you completely. Who holds you like this. You sink into the intimacy of the moment and he does, too, both of your bodies molding to the other.

Time ticks by in slow motion. Neither of you have any clue how long the embrace lasts, but you’re pretty sure you could stay safe and cocooned inside of it forever. This is what everyone’s talking about; it has to be.

Then Garcia clears her throat behind Brendon and quietly says, “Um, Dr. Park? Sorry to, ah, interrupt, but I finished with Frankie’s prep; it’s time to take him in for the surgery.”

Brendon pulls away as quickly as possible, eyes blown wide and dark. Pure shock rolling over him in waves. It takes herculean force to stop looking at you. At his mate. He tightens his jaw. Rolls his shoulders. “I’ll, ah, I’ll see you around.” He has to swallow hard and breathe slowly, focusing on Garcia’s and Santos’ nearby scents, to get his cock to soften. Before turning around, he murmurs seriously to you, “Thank you for your understanding. Sorry again.”

You whisper breathlessly, “It’s okay.”

Brendon gives you one more curious, scrutinizing look – Did you feel what he just felt? Does his scent make you go wild like that? Does this mean something? – before turning around and heading with Garcia toward the surgical wing.

Materializing behind you after following Garcia around like a stray, Trinity balks, “What in the holy hell shit fuck was that?”

“I, ah, I- He- He apologized to me. For being mean to my patient,” you rush out to try to explain the truly bizarre scene she’d walked in on. Oh, fuck, your panties are ruined. Your head is pounding and blood whooshes loud and fast in your ears. Blinking fast as your pupils adjust to the lights after being so wide, you awkwardly stammer out, “Um, I have to tell you something, Trin, because if I don’t talk about it with someone I think I’m going to die.”

Back at Santos’ and Whitaker’s shared apartment that evening, Dennis’ jaw has gone slack as he leans forward over his Chinese food and clarifies, “Park the goddamn Shark is your fated mate? How did you- When did you-”

“The first time I met him,” you admit sheepishly as you push your food around your plate. “I could tell right away. Clearly he doesn’t use any suppressants or blockers; it’s completely and totally overwhelming. The first few months, I could hardly think around him until I got used to it.”

Trinity’s eyebrows go up. “Overwhelming? Park? I barely know what he smells like.”

“Yeah, because you’re an alpha.” Whitaker rolls his eyes and then gives you a sympathetic half-smile. “Park does smell really strong. I mean, not as strong as Robby, but-”

It’s your turn to question, “Robby? I can barely smell him at all. What is it…menthol?”

“Peppermint,” Dennis sighs wistfully. “And a little bit of this kind of cold smell I can’t place. Like that Dentyne ice gum with the crystals in it.”

Trinity hangs her head and groans, “I need more non-omega friends; this is brutal.”

Whitaker shushes her and asks you, “How have you been doing it all this time? I just have a crush on Robby and working with him every day makes me want to vomit.”

“It helped a lot that he was always a dick to me,” you reply with a heavy sigh. “Now that he’s all ‘I promise I’ll be better for you’ I just- I’m fucked.”

Dennis whispers like he’s watching a rom-com, “He said that?”

“Yeah, he did.” You flop back on the couch, your appetite dying. Then you throw your arm over your forehead and groan, “And my breakthrough heat is scheduled for next month, of course, because I have the worst luck in the world.”

Whitaker stares at you like you’re absolutely bonkers. “Why haven’t you switched to the implant for your suppressants? The technology’s been available for years now. I haven’t had a heat since before med school.”

“I had one for a year, but the side effects were too strong for me. I guess that makes sense. My secondary hormone levels have always been through the roof. Hard to suppress.”

“You should have a blood panel done,” Trinity adds, “the hormones behind the whole ‘fated mates’ legend can cause-”

“Trinity, please. I’m also a doctor. I know.”

She raises her hands up in defeat. “Well, are you at least certain that you have enough time off planned for when you take the placebo pills? I know I helped you out on your breakthrough heat last year, but now I have-”

Whitaker leaps off the couch. “What?!”

Trinity yanks him back onto the cushion. “It’s not a big deal, huckleberry, that’s something friends do if they need to. Don’t be such a prude.” Then, exasperated, she returns her attention to you. “Like I was saying, it’s gonna be way worse now that you know your mate’s just out and about in the hospital. Now that you know what he smells like. You have to tell him.”

“No. Not an option. I can’t do that.”

“Why not? It’s not like you can avoid it forever.” When you frown, she narrows her eyes at you and gestures like ‘duh,’ “Y’know, it’s fate.”

“I’ve been doing a great job avoiding it until today! And you said yourself that’s a myth! We absolutely can avoid…what do they call it now to make it sound all serious?”

“Endocrine-Mediated Pairing Response,” Dennis says with dramatic, sarcastic air quotes. “Like it’s some disease and not a normal part of evolution.”

“I mean,” Trinity treads carefully, “it is kind of a disease, if you think about it.” She looks to you for confirmation, offering, “Like, something’s happening to you that you can’t control, and it’s because of your hormones, and you don’t want it to be happening. We treat endocrine disorders, right? How is EMPR any different?”

A bit tentatively, you reply, “Who said I don’t want it?”

“You, just now.” Trinity shrugs and says, “You said you don’t want Brendon. So wouldn’t you rather be – sorry for phrasing it like this, but I’m sure you get what I mean – a normal omega? Den can just go around having crushes and once him and an alpha click, they get to choose who to mate with. Isn’t that how it should be? Your body’s doing something to get in the way.”

“Well, yeah, I guess if you say it like that, but-” You gesture around dramatically, trying to make sense of your own thoughts while your friends look on in pity. It doesn’t even make sense to you, not really, which is part of the problem. You’re doctors; you want to be able to sort everything into neat boxes, but there are always exceptions. Some of those exceptions are diseases, some of them are normal variations, some of them are advantages. They all just are and it’s up to your field to decide which category they fit into. So you tell them the truth: “Look, when I hugged him today after he showed me a different side of him, that’s- It was- Jesus, honestly, it’s the best I’ve felt in my entire life. Seriously. I felt so safe and so comfortable and, yeah, okay, so turned on. But it definitely didn’t feel like something was wrong and that’s definitely not a feeling I’d medicate away. I've never felt anything like it.”

She pushes, “Even if that feeling is entirely dependent on proximity to Park the Shark?”

After a minute of quiet, tears sting at your eyes. You’ve never felt so confused. You whimper out, “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

“Oh, cherry.” Trinity scooches closer and wraps her arms around you. She lets her scent flare in an attempt to comfort you, but all it does is make you long for the way it felt when Brendon’s scent finally fell into place with yours. Still, you nestle into the nook of her neck and try to breathe deeply and let your nervous system calm down. “We can figure this out. The three of us – well, us two, at least – are plenty capable of dealing with something as simple as hormones, right? We’ve got, like, two decades of medical training between us -- and Garcia, too, who I’m sure would help out if I asked.”

You pull back and swat tears off your cheek. You feel pathetic and silly and sad all at once. “Help with what?”

Trinity takes out her phone, already scheming. “When’s your heat, sweetheart?”

Still sniffling while Dennis tries to follow what the hell is happening, you take out your phone and open the tracking app. “I start my month of placebo pills tomorrow, so just about four weeks.”

With a tight nod, she says, “That means Shark’s gonna start smelling you like crazy this week while the suppressants leave your system.”

“Fuck, I hadn’t even thought of that,” you groan, pacing around the apartment and debating the merits of hiding under a rock for the next six weeks. “I’ve never had to do this with my mate just walking around all the time. The rest of you stupid alphas won’t even pick it up until the last week before my heat starts. I’m supposed to be-”

“Okay, time to end the spiral,” Whitaker interrupts, standing up and steadying you with hands on your shoulders. “Trinity’s right. We’ll figure this out.”

“I texted Garcia and she’s down,” Trinity replies, trying to sound encouraging. “For the next couple weeks, we run recon on Park. There’s no way he’s ‘the Shark’ 24/7, right? He’s gotta be some semblance of normal underneath all that. We’ll get enough details for you to decide if you can, y’know, invite him to, ah, to do your whole heat thing with you this time or if you need more time to, ah, to trust him with your- with your precious-”

Finally, that makes you laugh. “Are you blushing?”

Definitely turning red, she practically shrieks, “It’s weird to think about!”

You howl, “We’ve literally had sex before.”

“That doesn’t count; we were both-”

“Doesn’t count?” Trying desperately hard to keep a straight face through the laughter, you tell her with a pout, “You’re hurting my feelings here, rosemary.”

“I’m just saying; this is Park we’re talking about. Picturing him all knotted up in your sweet little nest is like-” She shakes her head like the concept is truly revolting. “Not trying to yuck your yum, but…yuck.” Then she forces a smile and adds, “But, hey, if it doesn’t work out, well, you always have dildos.”

A little softer now, you sigh, “Dildos don’t make me feel like he does.”

“Maybe if we added a good vibrator too it could get you there?”