a clan of two

You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."

"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"

"He labeled every container by protein count."

"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.

"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."

Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.

Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.

They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.

They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.

And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.

That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.

So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.

And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.

Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.

Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.

The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.

The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.

Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,

"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.

Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.

"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."

Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"

"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."

Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.

"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."

The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.

Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.

Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.

"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.

"Hello to you too."

"Did you eat?"

The room paused.

You looked midly defensive. "Yes."

"You're lying."

"I had crackers."

"That's not food."

Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."

"You're pregnant."

"And?"

"And you require actual nutrition."

Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.

Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.

The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.

Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"

You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."

"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.

You looked confused. "Brendon?"

The entire station froze at the first-name basis.

"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.

"That's his name."

"No one calls him Brendon."

"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."

After that, people started noticing things. Little things.

Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.

How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.

One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.

"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."

Dana laughed. "Six?"

"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't even want to know."

Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"

You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."

"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"

"Oh, that was ours."

Silence.

You blinked up. "What?"

Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"

"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."

Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.

"You're... close with him?"

You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."

Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.

You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.

And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.

Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.

The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.

And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.

Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.

"You can't have that much caffeine."

You looked offended. "It was half-caf."

"It was basically battery acid."

"You tasted it?"

"You left it on the counter this morning."

Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.

You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"

"You wanted fries."

"I mentioned fries once."

"You cried about it."

"I was emotional that time."

"You threatened divorce."

The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.

Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.

Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.

Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.

"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."

Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."

You looked at him. "I know."

"You forgot."

"I remembered eventually."

"You remembered because I reminded you."

The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.

Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.

The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.

The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.

"Oh my God."

You frowned. "What?"

He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"

You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"

"That man practically tucked you in!"

"He's just—"

"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"

"My husband!"

"Exactly!"

You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.

"Oh my god."

"So, you are!"

"No I'm not, Frank."

"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"

"Because he made it."

Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."

"He color-coded the whole calendar."

He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.

Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.

Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.

Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.

But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.

And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.

That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.

Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.

You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.

"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."

The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.

"No."

Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.

"Repeat what you said."

The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"

"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."

The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.

"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."

Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.

The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.

It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.

And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Dennis looked at her. "What?"

But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.

At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.

Not like a lover, like a husband.

"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.

You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.

Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.

You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.

Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."

"You never said—"

"Well, nobody asked."

"You literally acted like you hated each other!"

You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."

Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.

Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.

Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.

And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.

The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.

The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.

And worst of all?

Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.

Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:

"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"

Michael’s off days always carried a different kind of atmosphere inside the house.

Softer. Slower.

Not because he suddenly stopped being a doctor the second he clocked out of the hospital because honestly, you didn’t think that part of him would ever fully turn off but because on days like this, he tried so hard to belong entirely to you and Aria.

And you noticed it in the little things first.

Like how he stayed in bed longer that morning instead of immediately reaching for his phone. How he lazily pulled you closer against his chest when you tried getting up too early. How he buried his face into your shoulder and muttered a sleepy, “Five more minutes,” in that rough morning voice that always weakened your knees a little.

Then there was Aria.

The second she climbed into bed between both of you, Michael’s entire attention shifted immediately.

“Papa,” she announced very seriously while sitting on his stomach. “Mama says your ponytail skill is ugly.”

You burst out laughing instantly from beside them.

Michael looked deeply offended.

“Excuse me?”

“You make me look like broccoli yesterday.”

“You did look like broccoli,” you added helpfully.

Michael narrowed his eyes at both of you.

“I’m being bullied in my own home.”

Aria giggled loudly when Michael grabbed her dramatically and buried his face into her tummy until her squeals echoed across the bedroom.

The morning continued like that afterward; warm, messy, domestic.

Michael making breakfast while wearing sweatpants low on his hips and glasses sliding slightly down his nose because he refused to put contacts in on his days off. Aria sitting on the kitchen counter kicking her legs while demanding pancake shapes that made absolutely no sense.

“I want bunny pancake!”

“You had bunny yesterday,” Michael pointed out while flipping another pancake.

“Okay… dinosaur bunny pancake.”

You snorted into your coffee.

Michael looked at her silently for a moment before sighing like the burden of fatherhood was simply too heavy.

“…I’ll see what I can do.”

And somehow, ridiculously, he actually tried.

The pancake looked horrifying.

Aria thought it was beautiful.

After breakfast, the three of you got ready to head out to the mall. Nothing extravagant. Just errands. Groceries. Things for the house. A few things Aria needed for preschool. Some skincare you’d casually mentioned running out of three weeks ago that Michael somehow remembered better than you did.

Unfortunately for you, Michael’s off days also triggered another problem.

His spending habits.

More specifically

His inability to say no to you and Aria.

“Michael,” you sighed while watching him casually toss another dress into the cart for Aria. “She does not need this.”

“She likes strawberries,” he replied simply, like that explained everything.

“It has strawberries on it,” Aria defended immediately from inside the cart.

“She already has clothes with strawberries.”

“But not this strawberry.”

Michael nodded once. “Exactly.”

You stared at both of them with betrayal.

“This family enables each other.”

Neither of them even looked guilty.

If anything, Michael looked amused.

And honestly? Watching him like this always did something dangerous to your heart.

The way he walked beside the cart while absentmindedly rubbing Aria’s hair every time he passed her. The way his large hand settled automatically on your lower back whenever crowds got thicker. The way he kept reaching for your hand for absolutely no reason other than he liked touching you.

Even while grocery shopping.

At one point, you stopped to compare prices between two products.

Michael glanced once.

Then immediately grabbed the more expensive one.

You frowned. “Michael.”

“What?”

“This one is cheaper.”

“You like the other one more.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is to me.”

Then he leaned closer slightly, voice lower near your ear.

“I work hard so my girls don’t have to stare at price tags.”

Your face warmed instantly.

“Stop saying things like that.”

“Why?” he smirked faintly. “It works every time.”

Unfortunately, the mood shifted later.

Subtle enough that Aria didn’t notice.

But you did.

The three of you had just walked out of another store when someone suddenly called his name.

“Michael?”

Michael turned first, confusion briefly crossing his face before recognition replaced it.

“…Daniel?”

The man laughed immediately and walked forward, pulling Michael into a quick one-armed hug.

“Holy shit, man. Look at you.”

You stood quietly beside Michael while they caught up, and it was strangely nice watching this older version of him interact with someone from a completely different chapter of his life.

College stories.

Old professors.

Complaints about work schedules.

The exhaustion of getting older.

At one point Daniel looked toward you and Aria.

“And this is your family?”

Michael’s expression changed immediately.

Softened.

His hand rested instinctively on Aria’s head, fingers sliding through her hair carefully.

“My daughter,” he said first, his voice gentler without realizing it. “Aria.”

Daniel blinked. “You have a whole kid now?”

“A very spoiled one,” Michael corrected.

“I heard that!” Aria protested immediately.

Daniel laughed loudly at that.

Then his attention shifted to you.

“And your wife?”

For a second, Michael looked at you.

And there it was again.

That look.

That impossibly soft look that still made your stomach flip even after all this time.

“My wife,” he repeated simply.

Not your name.

Not an introduction.

Just my wife.

Like that title alone already carried too much pride.

Everything stayed warm after that.

Easy.

Until Daniel checked the time and sighed.

“Damn, I gotta go.”

“Yeah, us too.”

They exchanged another quick hug before pulling apart.

Then Daniel grinned teasingly.

“Bye, oldie.”

Michael rolled his eyes instantly. “Fuck off.”

“I’m kidding!” Daniel laughed loudly, already walking backward away from your family. “Take care, old man!”

Michael shook his head with a quiet snort.

But afterward…

Something changed.

Not obviously.

Not enough for anyone else to catch immediately.

But you knew him too well.

At first it was just the silence.

Michael became quieter while walking beside you.

Still present physically but mentally somewhere else.

Aria would show him things excitedly, and he’d react a second too late.

“…Papa, look! Bluey bag!”

Michael blinked like he’d been pulled back into the moment.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, baby. Cute.”

But his smile didn’t fully reach his eyes.

Later, while you were waiting for coffee, you caught him staring at his reflection in the dark window of the café.

Not casually.

Not absentmindedly.

Really looking.

At his face.

At the gray in his beard.

At the lines around his eyes.

At the tiredness sitting heavier on him lately.

And suddenly Daniel’s joking “oldie” comment replayed itself loudly in your own head too.

Oh.

The realization settled heavily in your chest after that.

Throughout dinner, Michael stayed attentive enough not to worry Aria, but you noticed every little thing now.

The way he touched his beard more often.

The way his eyes lingered on younger couples walking by.

The way he smiled automatically at your jokes but seemed distracted immediately afterward.

And Michael had always been like this sometimes.

Quietly insecure.

Especially about his age.

Especially with you.

By the time you got home and finished putting Aria to bed, the feeling in your chest had turned into full worry.

You changed into your pajamas quietly afterward before heading into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

That’s when you saw him.

Michael stood shirtless in front of the sink wearing only his briefs, one hand gripping the edge of the counter while the other slowly moved over his beard.

The bathroom light was unforgivingly bright.

It highlighted every silver strand threaded through the darker beard he used to complain about trimming. The faint wrinkles near his eyes. The exhaustion etched into his features after years of stress, sleepless nights, responsibility.

His stomach wasn’t as firm as it used to be years ago either.

And the saddest part?

The way he looked at himself.

Not with vanity.

Not even frustration.

Just… quiet disappointment.

Like he was mourning a version of himself he thought he was supposed to stay.

You didn’t speak immediately.

Instead, you walked slowly toward him until you stood right behind him.

Then gently, carefully, you wrapped both arms around his waist and rested your cheek against the warmth of his back.

Michael startled slightly before relaxing once he realized it was you.

For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.

You simply stood there together in front of the mirror.

Looking at him.

Looking at the man you loved.

The man who still made Aria laugh until she snorted milk through her nose.

The man who still reached for your hand in his sleep.

The man who stayed awake through fevers, nightmares, sickness, breakdowns, exhaustion without ever making you feel alone.

“You’re thinking too much again,” you murmured softly.

Michael let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“…Am I wrong?”

Your brows furrowed immediately.

“About what?”

He looked at himself again.

“I’m getting older.”

The way he said it hurt your heart.

Not because it was true.

But because he sounded afraid of it.

You tightened your arms around him slightly.

“So am I.”

“It’s different.”

“No,” you whispered gently. “It isn’t.”

Michael laughed softly then, but there was no humor in it.

“You don’t see what I see.”

“Then tell me.”

His jaw shifted slightly.

“The gray hair. The wrinkles. The stomach.” His voice lowered more. “I don’t look like I used to.”

You stayed quiet for a moment before speaking carefully.

“Michael… do you know what I see when I look at you?”

His eyes flickered toward yours in the mirror but he didn’t answer.

“I see the man who held me after labor when I cried because I thought I wasn’t doing enough for Aria.” Your voice stayed soft and steady. “I see the father who slept sitting upright in a hospital chair because our daughter wouldn’t stop crying unless she was on his chest.”

His throat moved slightly.

“I see the husband who still buys my favorite snacks even when I forget mentioning them.” You pressed another kiss lightly against his shoulder blade. “The man who works himself to exhaustion just to make sure the people he loves are safe.”

Michael lowered his eyes quietly.

“And every gray hair?” you whispered. “Every wrinkle? It just means you stayed. It means you lived. It means Aria got more years with her papa.”

Silence filled the bathroom afterward.

Heavy.

Emotional.

Michael’s breathing slowed slightly beneath your arms.

Then finally, quietly

“You really still look at me the same?”

Your chest ached instantly.

You moved around him then, standing directly in front of him before reaching up and holding his face gently between your hands.

“Michael,” you said softly, firmly. “I have never once looked at you and wished you were younger.”

His eyes closed briefly.

“I look at you and thank God you exist.”

Something fragile flickered across his face then.

Vulnerability.

Relief.

Love.

He leaned forward slowly until his forehead rested against yours, his hands finally settling around your waist tightly.

And when he hugged you afterward, it felt desperate in the smallest quiet way.

Like he needed to be reminded he was still loved exactly as he was.

Later that night, the bedroom stayed dark and peaceful.

You slept curled against Michael’s chest, one leg tangled with his while his arm stayed wrapped securely around your waist beneath the blanket.

Even half asleep, he still held you close instinctively.

Then sometime in the middle of the night

The bedroom door creaked open softly.

Tiny footsteps shuffled across the floor.

Michael stirred first, eyes barely opening before immediately softening.

Aria.

Still sleepy.

Still holding her bunny plushie by one ear.

Her hair was a complete mess, cheeks warm from sleep, eyes barely even open properly as she climbed onto the bed clumsily.

Without a word, she crawled directly toward Michael.

Half onto him, honestly.

One tiny leg over his stomach while she snuggled against his side like she belonged nowhere else.

Which she didn’t.

Michael let out the quietest sleepy laugh.

“Hey, baby…”

Aria rubbed her face against his chest tiredly before whispering in the softest little voice imaginable,

“I love you, Papa.”

Michael’s entire expression softened instantly.

Then Aria added sleepily,

“You’re my papa.”

Not complicated.

Not poetic.

Just certain.

Absolute.

Like in her little world, there was nobody better to belong to.

Michael swallowed hard before wrapping his arm tighter around her automatically, pulling her close while keeping you tucked safely against his other side too.

Three people tangled together under warm blankets.

And in the darkness, with his daughter asleep against him and you breathing softly on his chest

Michael stopped seeing gray hair.

Stopped seeing wrinkles.

Stopped seeing age.

Because all he could feel was love.

Michael learned a long time ago that if he wasn’t careful, the hospital would follow him home.

Not physically.

But emotionally.

It happened to a lot of people in his field. The exhaustion, the pressure, the constant exposure to grief and panic and trauma and it clung to the skin if you let it. It made voices sharper. Patience thinner. It made people carry their worst days into places that were supposed to feel safe.

Michael refused to let that happen.

Especially after Aria was born.

Because she was still little. Still soft-hearted and observant in ways adults underestimated. And Michael knew children noticed everything; the tension in voices, the heaviness in sighs, the way someone’s eyes looked tired even while smiling.

He also knew what it felt like growing up around emotions adults didn’t know how to manage properly.

So over time, he created rituals for himself.

Small things.

He sat in the car for a minute before coming inside.

Took a breath.

Removed the invisible weight of the hospital piece by piece before reaching for the front door.

Doctor stayed outside.

Papa came home.

And that evening, when the front door finally opened just before dinner, the first thing Michael heard was tiny running footsteps slamming across the floor.

“PAPAAAAAA!”

He barely had time to close the door before Aria crashed into him at full speed.

“Oof—Jesus Christ,” he laughed warmly, catching her automatically before she knocked herself backward.

Aria wrapped around him instantly, arms tight around his neck while her legs locked around his waist dramatically.

“You home!”

“I am home,” Michael smiled, pressing a loud kiss against her cheek.

“You late.”

“I know.”

“You smell like hospital.”

“That’s offensive.”

Aria giggled loudly while Michael carried her further inside like she weighed absolutely nothing.

From the kitchen, you looked over your shoulder just in time to see your daughter aggressively kissing Michael’s face while he pretended to suffer through it dramatically.

“Oh no,” he sighed heavily. “I’m under attack.”

“By LOVE!” Aria shouted proudly.

“That’s the deadliest kind.”

You snorted softly, trying to hide your smile as you stirred the pot on the stove.

And then Michael looked at you.

Really looked at you.

It happened every single day without fail.

The moment his eyes landed on you, something in his entire expression softened instantly.

The tension around his shoulders eased. His eyes warmed. His mouth curved into that quieter smile he only really used at home.

“There’s my wife,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes lightly.

“You says that every day.”

“Because every day I’m surprised you still like me.”

“I love you.”

“Exactly,” he said seriously. “Even crazier. I love you too, My wife”

Aria made the loudest fake gagging noise imaginable between you both. And Michael leaned closer to give you a sweet and gentle kiss on your lips.

“EW.”

Michael immediately gasped.

“Excuse you? That’s my wife.”

Aria hugged him tighter possessively.

“That’s MY mama.”

Michael narrowed his eyes at her.

“Our mama.”

You laughed softly while turning off the stove.

The warmth of moments like this never got old.

Never.

Even after years together.

Especially not after long hospital shifts.

Because no matter how difficult his day had been, Michael always came home like this as if the two of you were still the best thing he’d ever found.

“Go wash your hands,” you told him.

Michael nodded obediently before looking at Aria.

“You heard your mother.”

“You heard your wife,” Aria corrected immediately.

Michael looked deeply offended.

“Wow. Betrayal.”

A few minutes later, your kitchen became a complete disaster.

Not because dinner was complicated.

But because Michael and Aria together in one space somehow always created chaos naturally.

At first, it started innocently enough.

Michael stood beside you helping chop vegetables while Aria sat on the counter swinging her legs and “supervising.”

Which really just meant stealing ingredients every thirty seconds.

“Aria,” you sighed without turning around. “Stop eating the cheese.”

“I testing.”

“You tested six times already.”

She gasped dramatically.

“Need more testing.”

Michael, still cutting vegetables, nodded thoughtfully.

“She’s committed to quality control.”

You slowly turned toward him.

“Michael.”

“What?”

“You are encouraging her.”

“I’m encouraging scientific curiosity.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

That man had the audacity to look innocent while secretly sliding another cheese cube toward Aria when he thought you weren’t looking.

Unfortunately for him—

You saw everything.

“OH MY GOD.”

Both of them burst into laughter immediately.

“Papa gave me!” Aria squealed happily.

Michael pointed at her instantly.

“She’s a liar.”

“You literally just did!”

“No proof.”

You stared at the two of them in disbelief.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m raising two children.”

Michael grinned shamelessly.

“Yet you love us both.”

That unfortunately was true.

The situation somehow escalated from there.

Michael accidentally spilled flour across the counter while trying to help knead dough.

Aria laughed so hard she nearly slipped off the stool.

Then she tried stirring sauce herself.

Too aggressively.

A splash landed directly across Michael’s black shirt.

Silence.

Aria froze.

Michael slowly looked down at the stain.

Then back at her.

Aria’s eyes widened.

And before you could warn either of them,

Michael flicked flour directly onto her nose.

Aria SCREAMED with laughter.

“PAPAAAA!”

“You started this war.”

“I’m baby!”

“You’re dangerous.”

The next five minutes became complete nonsense.

Flour everywhere.

Aria hiding behind Michael while throwing tiny pinches of cheese at you.

Michael pretending he was “neutral” while actively making things worse.

At one point, you turned around and saw flour somehow stuck in Michael’s beard.

“How did you even get it THERE?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Aria laughed so hard she wheezed.

Then Michael reached down and wiped flour lightly onto her cheek too.

“Oh my GOD,” you groaned, finally laughing despite yourself. “Can Mama cook in peace for ONE night?”

Both of them froze immediately.

Then slowly looked at you with matching guilty expressions.

And it was terrifying.

Same eyes.

Same tiny pout.

Same “maybe she won’t stay mad if we act cute” face.

Michael even had flour in his eyebrows now.

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he offered carefully.

You pointed toward the dining table immediately.

“Out.”

Aria copied your tone perfectly.

“Yeah Papa. Out.”

Michael looked genuinely betrayed.

“This family turns against me too fast.”

Still...

Your chest felt warm watching them.

Because this was exactly what Michael protected so carefully.

This softness.

This normalcy.

This safe little life.

Dinner eventually made it to the table despite the kitchen looking like a crime scene afterward.

The three of you sat together while warm food filled the room with comfort and the soft hum of music played quietly in the background.

Michael changed into a clean shirt while Aria proudly announced she “survived the cooking battle.”

Now she sat between both of you happily kicking her legs beneath the chair while talking nonstop about preschool.

“And then Noah cry because Mila say his dinosaur ugly.”

Michael nodded seriously while eating.

“Understandable.”

“No it’s not,” you laughed.

“It might’ve been an ugly dinosaur.”

“PAPA,” Aria gasped dramatically.

“What? Dinosaurs deserve respect too.”

Aria dissolved into giggles immediately.

This was Michael at home.

Playful.

Patient.

Warm.

So different from the version of him people saw at work sometimes.

At home, he listened carefully when Aria spoke even when her stories made absolutely no sense. He asked questions. Remembered details. Acted shocked at preschool gossip like it was breaking world news.

“And Oliver scream because he saw bug.”

Michael nodded again.

“Reasonable reaction.”

“Papa scared bugs too?”

“Yes.”

“He scream too?”

Michael glanced at you calmly.

“Your mother protects me.”

You nearly choked laughing.

Dinner stayed easy after that.

Comfortable.

Until you noticed the shift in Aria.

It was small.

She suddenly got quieter.

Not sad quiet.

More like…

Nervous.

She poked at her rice for a moment, glancing at you briefly before looking away quickly.

And immediately. You knew.

Oh no.

That look meant danger.

You hid your smile instantly behind your glass because you already knew she was about to say something insane.

Meanwhile Michael sat peacefully unaware, eating like a man moments away from destruction.

Aria cleared her throat softly.

“Papa.”

Michael looked up immediately, gentle as always with her.

“Yeah, baby?”

Aria blinked once.

Then calmly, like she was announcing the weather “I have boyfriend.”

Everything stopped.

Michael froze mid-motion.

His fork literally stayed suspended halfway to his mouth.

“…You what?”

You bit your lip so hard it hurt.

Aria blinked innocently.

“I have boyfriend.”

Michael’s eyes widened in absolute horror.

“NO YOU DON’T.”

You immediately looked down because the laugh threatening to escape would absolutely make things worse.

Aria frowned in confusion.

“I do.”

“No,” Michael repeated firmly, already panicking. “Absolutely not.”

“He likes me.”

“He can stop.”

That was it.

You lost control immediately, laughter bursting out while Michael looked personally betrayed by the situation.

“This isn’t funny!” he said, staring at you.

“It’s a preschool boyfriend!”

“That’s how it starts!”

Aria looked offended now.

“Papaaaa.”

Michael leaned forward seriously.

“How old is he?”

“He's FIVE,” you cried through laughter.

“I need information.”

Aria answered proudly anyway.

“His name Lucas.”

Michael looked physically wounded.

“Oh my God. He has a NAME?”

“Yes?”

“What does he want from you?”

“To color.”

Michael narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“That’s exactly how men operate.”

You genuinely almost fell out of your chair laughing and Aria crossed her tiny arms dramatically. “You jealous.”

Michael pointed at himself immediately.

“Yes.”

“You old.”

Michael gasped loudly like she shot him.

“WOW. Okay.”

“You old and jealous.”

“And you’re grounded until you’re thirty.”

“She’s FIVE.”

Michael ignored you completely.

“No dating.”

“It not dating.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Aria stared at him for a second before suddenly climbing down from her chair. She walked around the table quietly before climbing directly onto Michael’s lap.

Michael immediately steadied her automatically, still grumbling under his breath about “boyfriends.”

Then Aria grabbed his face with both tiny hands.

Completely serious.

“You my favorite boy.”

And just like that... Michael melted. Entirely.

All the dramatics disappeared from his face instantly.

“…Yeah?” he asked softer now.

Aria nodded confidently. “Always.”

Michael’s arms wrapped around her tightly as he kissed her temple.

“Okay,” he sighed dramatically. “Lucas can live. For now.”

Aria cheered loudly like she’d won a legal battle while you laughed so hard tears formed in your eyes.

And sitting there at the dinner table with flour still somehow stuck near Michael’s wrist, your daughter safe in his lap, and warmth filling every corner of the room.

Michael silently reminded himself again why he worked so hard to leave the hospital outside the door.

Because this was the part of his life he never wanted darkness touching.

Chapter One: Shift Change

YOUR POV:

You were halfway through convincing a six-year-old that stitches were not a government conspiracy when your phone buzzed in the side pocket of your child life bag. You ignored it. Not because you lacked curiosity. Because Miles Warren had one hand clamped beneath his chin, one suspicious eye fixed on the suture tray, and the posture of a man preparing to report Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to whoever regulated betrayal, he was six. Furious enough to be forty-five.

“No one is sewing my face,” Miles announced.

Dr. Mel King looked up from the rolling stool near the bedside, where she had been reviewing his chart with the focused gentleness that made kids trust her faster than they expected to.

“No one is sewing your face without explaining it first,” you said.

Miles narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like trick words.”

“Fair,” you said, because it absolutely did.

His mother sat beside the bed with one hand hovering near his sneaker, wearing the exhausted, hopeful expression of a parent who had already tried snacks, bargaining, and one deeply unsuccessful promise involving extra screen time. Perlah stood near the counter, quietly arranging supplies with the calm efficiency of someone who had already survived three versions of this exact argument before lunch.

You smiled at Miles and reached into your bag. “I’m going to tell you the truth in kid words,” you said.

Miles’s hand loosened slightly. “Kid words?”

“Yep.” You pulled out two options and held them up. “You can hold the squishy dinosaur or the blue stress ball while we talk.”

Miles studied both with the gravity of someone choosing legal representation. Mel leaned back slightly on the stool, giving him time.

The dinosaur was green, soft, and vaguely cross-eyed. The stress ball was shaped like a globe and had seen better days.

Miles pointed with his free hand. “Dinosaur.”

“Strong choice,” you said, placing it gently in his lap.

Miles picked it up and squeezed. “What’s his name?”

You looked at the dinosaur with grave consideration. “That depends. Is he a doctor dinosaur or a regular dinosaur?”

Miles blinked. “A doctor.”

“Then Dr. Pickles,” you answered.

Perlah’s mouth twitched. Mel’s eyes brightened in immediate approval.

Miles looked down at the dinosaur, deeply unimpressed. “That’s a bad doctor name.”

“You’re right,” you said. “He’s had some complaints.”

Miles’s mother let out a soft, relieved breath that almost became a laugh.

Mel nodded once, as if this was clinically relevant. “Dr. Pickles is currently under peer review.”

Miles looked at Mel. “What does that mean?”

“It means other doctors are checking his work,” Mel said.

You nodded toward the dinosaur. “And his attitude.”

Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles again. His shoulders lowered by half an inch.

You counted that as progress. Your phone buzzed again. You ignored that, too.

Probably Jack. Definitely Jack. Which meant the text was probably about ginger ale, crackers, decaf coffee, the mint candies he had started keeping in places you had not known mint candies could be kept, or the fact that you had slept for roughly four hours and then stared at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed you.

Jack had not been overbearing about the pregnancy. Not exactly. He had been Jack about it. Which meant he noticed everything, filed it away, and quietly rearranged the world by six inches so it bothered you less. He knew you still adored coffee and had accepted decaf with all the grace of a woman being exiled from her homeland. He knew you got jealous every time someone walked past with a real latte. He knew you had wanted fries for three days last week and then gagged the second a takeout container opened near you.

He knew the specific face you made when you were trying to decide if a food sounded possible or if your stomach had already declared war. He knew you were tired. He knew you were trying.

That was the part that got you.

Jack never treated the pregnancy like you were fragile. He treated it like you were doing something hard, and he wanted to be useful. You loved him so much that it made you deeply irritated.

“You said truth,” Miles reminded you.

“I did.” You shifted closer, keeping your voice calm. “First, Perlah is going to clean your chin. That part might feel cold and wet. It might sting a little because cuts are rude.”

Miles’s eyes moved to Perlah. Perlah held up the gauze to show him.

“Then,” you continued, “Dr. King is going to use medicine to help the skin around the cut get sleepy.”

Miles’s face tightened. “How?”

You did not soften the answer into a lie. Kids usually knew when adults were sanding off the sharp edges of truth. They could feel the missing parts. “With a poke,” you said.

Miles stiffened. His mother’s hand twitched toward him, then stopped.

You kept your attention on Miles. “It is okay to not like that part.”

“I don’t like that part,” Miles said immediately.

You nodded. “Excellent honesty.”

“It sounds terrible,” Miles grumbled.

“It is not my favorite design choice either,” you said.

Mel hugged the chart lightly to her chest, like she was restraining herself from laughing. “Medicine has several design flaws.”

Miles’s mouth twitched before he remembered to be outraged. “Medicine is stupid.”

“Sometimes,” you agreed. “But the poke is fast, and then the sleepy medicine helps the stitches hurt less.”

Miles looked at Mel. “How many stitches?”

Mel shifted closer on the stool, her expression open and serious. “Probably three.”

Miles stared at her. Mel held up three fingers. “Maybe four if your chin decides to be dramatic.”

Miles looked personally offended by his own chin.

You held up your fingers. “Here are your choices. You can watch what’s happening, or you can look at your mom. You can count, or I can tell you each step before it happens. You can squeeze Dr. Pickles, or you can squeeze your mom’s hand.”

Miles considered this. His mother leaned closer. “You can squeeze my hand as hard as you need, bud.”

Miles looked suspicious. “What if I break it?”

His mother smiled in that brave way parents did when they were trying not to cry in front of their children. “Then I’ll get stitches too.”

“That’s not funny,” Miles said.

“No,” she agreed. “It was medium funny.”

Miles gave this serious thought.

Your phone buzzed a third time.

Mel’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag. Mel saw things. Not loudly. Not with the hungry curiosity of someone looking for gossip. She noticed the way a room shifted, the way a voice changed, the way someone’s hand moved toward pain before they remembered other people could see.

Quietly. Accurately. A little dangerously.

You reached into the front pocket of your bag for your laminated prep cards, and your fingers brushed the edge of a saltine sleeve. You paused. Jack. Of course. He had tucked crackers into the pocket that morning while you were standing in the kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts, staring mournfully at his real coffee like it had betrayed you by existing. Not the main pocket. That would risk crumbs near your stickers and fidgets. The outside pocket. Because Jack Abbot was an emotionally devastating maniac about practical details.

You had started dressing differently two weeks ago. Not dramatically. Nothing that would look like a confession to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention. Looser sweaters. Longer cardigans. Scrub tops that skimmed instead of clung. At first, it had been practical. Your body had changed quietly, then all at once. One morning, you had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted just enough to see the new curve beneath your ribs, and Jack had gone still in the doorway behind you. You had seen his face in the mirror. Not surprise. Not fear. Just love. So much of it, so sudden and bare, that your eyes filled before you could tell yourself not to be ridiculous.

Jack had crossed the room without a word and wrapped both arms around you from behind, one hand settling carefully over the place where your son was beginning to make himself known.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you had said, already crying.

His chin had brushed your shoulder. “Like what?”

“Like you’re happy,” you replied through tears.

Jack had gone quiet for a second. Then his thumb moved once over your stomach, barely there. “I am.”

That had made you cry harder, obviously. Jack had held you through it with the grim patience of a man accepting consequences for being too sincere before coffee.

Now, in Miles’s exam room, you tugged the hem of your cardigan lower without thinking. Mel’s eyes dropped for half a second to the visible corner of the cracker packet, then briefly to your cardigan. Then she looked back at Miles. She did not say anything. That was somehow worse.

You pulled out the prep cards and turned back to the bed. “Okay. This card shows what stitches look like when they’re still in the package.”

Miles leaned forward despite himself.

You showed him the card, then the next one. “These are not like sewing clothes,” you said. “No giant needle. No sewing machine. No one is turning you into pants.”

Miles stared at you and almost smiled. “Who would turn me into pants?”

“No one in this room,” Perlah said.

Miles glanced at Mel. Mel shook her head. “I’m not qualified for pants.”

Miles looked marginally reassured.

Something shifted low in your abdomen. Small. Strange. Not painful. Not sharp. Just enough to make you pause with your thumb resting against the edge of the laminated card. It was still new enough that your body had not figured out how to make it casual. A flutter. A roll. A quiet internal reminder from someone who had recently developed the habit of making his presence known at inconvenient times. Yesterday morning, while Jack was making breakfast, it had startled you badly enough that you had stopped mid-sentence.

Jack had gone still across the kitchen, butter knife in hand, eyes already on you. You had told him it was nothing. He had not believed you for one second.

Now, in Miles’s exam room, you let one hand drift to the lower edge of your cardigan for half a breath. Then you moved it away.

Mel was looking at the chart. Mostly. “You okay?” she asked.

You lifted the next card. “Yep.”

Mel nodded. She did not challenge you. She did not stare. She only tucked one foot under the stool and watched Miles again, giving you the grace of not making your body the center of the room.

You appreciated that. You also did not trust it.

Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles. “What if I cry?”

You looked back at him, grateful for the question. “Then you cry.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you said. “Crying is allowed.”

Perlah stepped closer with the cleaning supplies. “I cry when my coffee order is wrong.”

A sharp little pang of envy hit before you could stop it. Coffee. Real coffee. Full-caffeine, glorious, beautiful coffee. You missed it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for long-lost lovers and discontinued favorite lipsticks.

Miles looked at Perlah as if this were possibly the most adult thing anyone had ever admitted to him.

Mel nodded. “I cried once because a patient gave me a sticker and told me I was doing a good job.”

Miles looked at you.

“I cried last week because someone walked past me with an everything bagel,” you said.

Mel’s eyes slid briefly toward you. Damn it.

Miles frowned. “You don’t like bagels?”

“I love bagels,” you said. That was the problem.

Mel’s gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before she turned back to Miles.

Miles looked between all of you. “Adults cry a lot.”

“Constantly,” Perlah said.

“Secretly,” Mel added.

You nodded. “In supply closets.”

Miles considered this and seemed to find it medically acceptable.

Perlah moved beside the bed. “I’m going to clean your chin now. Cold and wet first.”

Miles clutched Dr. Pickles. “No tricks?”

“No tricks,” Perlah said.

You held up the card. “Truth in kid words, remember?”

Miles looked at you. “Tell me each step.”

“I can do that.”

Perlah cleaned the wound. Miles hissed through his teeth but did not pull away. You kept your voice low and steady, narrating before each step, leaving space for him to react, reminding him that holding still did not mean pretending he liked it. Your phone buzzed again.

This time, even Miles noticed. “Is someone calling you?” he asked.

“Texting,” you said.

His brow furrowed. “Is it important?”

You thought of Jack’s probable message. Ginger ale still helping? Crackers are in the outside pocket. There’s decaf in your travel mug if you want it. No pressure. Just options.

Your throat warmed. “Someone’s just checking on me,” you said.

Perlah smiled to herself.

Miles nodded like he understood this on a personal level. “My grandma texts like that.”

You smiled. “Then your grandma and my person would probably get along.”

Mel’s gaze lifted again. Your person. You had not said husband. You rarely did at work. Not because you were hiding. Not exactly.

It just never came up in a way that needed correction, and Jack was private enough that announcing your marriage at the nurses’ station sounded like something he would endure with the expression of a man being asked to donate a kidney recreationally. Also, there was a small, terrible part of you that found the whole thing funny. PTMC knew you by your first name because kids did better with first names. Families did too.

You were Child Life, soft sweaters, a calm voice, and stickers tucked into every available pocket.

Jack was Abbot. Night shift. Dry voice. Trauma rooms. Military posture. Coffee so black it seemed medicinal.

People saw you both in fragments. Shift change. Late consults. Hallway overlap. The occasional staff meeting where Jack sat in the back and looked like every agenda item had personally offended him. Almost no one put the pieces together.

Robby knew, obviously. Dana knew too, because Dana knew everything worth knowing and had the good sense not to announce other people’s lives at the nurses’ station. But Robby was the one who enjoyed it. Robby had stood beside Jack in a suit and called it deeply unsettling when Jack adjusted his tie for the fourth time before the ceremony. He had been Jack’s best man, a title he brought up only when it would annoy Jack most.

Perlah finished cleaning Miles’s chin. “First part done,” Perlah said.

Miles opened one eye. “That kinda sucked.”

“It does suck,” you agreed.

Miles looked surprised. “You can say that?”

“Yes,” you said.

Miles processed this with the intensity of a philosopher in dinosaur socks.

Mel rolled closer on the stool. “Sleepy medicine next.”

Miles’s face tightened. You leaned in just enough to keep his focus. “Do you want to count, or do you want me to tell you when it’s done?”

Miles swallowed. “Tell me when it’s done.”

“Okay.” You placed Dr. Pickles more firmly under his hand. “You squeeze him. I’ll watch the medicine.”

Miles nodded once. His mother offered her hand. Miles took it. The poke happened fast. Miles cried. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a tight little burst of tears that made his mother’s face crumple and Perlah’s gaze soften.

You stayed with him through it. “That was the worst part,” you said when the needle was gone.

Miles sniffed hard. “That was terrible.”

You nodded. “It was.”

“I hated it,” Miles added.

“That’s okay,” you said. “You’re allowed.”

Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles, betrayed by medicine and possibly dinosaurs.

Mel gave the anesthetic a minute to work. Your phone buzzed again. Perlah set the used supplies aside. Mel glanced at your bag, then back at Miles. Only once. A quick thing. Barely anything. Still enough.

“You can check that,” Mel said gently.

“I’m good,” you said.

Mel hugged the chart closer to her chest. “It’s persistent.”

You smiled. “That’s one word for him.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, you felt Mel’s attention sharpen by a fraction. Not enough to make a thing of it. Enough. Miles’s mother leaned over to kiss the top of his head, giving you a small window. You reached into your bag and checked your phone. There were, in fact, four texts.

Jack: Ginger ale still helping?

Jack: Crackers are in the outside pocket if not.

Jack: No pressure. Just options.

Jack: Love you both. You’re doing good.

You stared at the last message for half a second too long. Love you both. You’re doing good. It was such a Jack text. Practical care stacked under one plain, devastating sentence. No exclamation points. No hearts. No little cartoon baby emoji. Just ginger ale, decaf, and love, organized in order of immediate usefulness.

You typed back with one thumb.

You: We’re okay. With a patient. Dr. Pickles is under peer review.

The response came almost immediately.

Jack: Sounds fair. A second later: Jack: Tell him to improve.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You had texted him a picture of the dinosaur earlier, with no explanation except "new attending on peds."

Jack had replied: Looks underqualified.

You locked your phone. Mel’s eyes were on Miles, but you knew better than to think she had missed the way your face softened. You tucked the phone away and picked up the sticker sheet. The stitches went better than Miles expected and worse than he wanted. Both things could be true. He squeezed Dr. Pickles hard enough to flatten the dinosaur’s head. He cried once more when the first stitch tugged, then got distracted by the fact that Mel had once fainted during a blood draw when she was twelve.

“You’re a doctor,” Miles said, scandalized.

“I recovered,” Mel said.

Miles eyed her. “But you fainted?”

“Briefly.”

You leaned closer to Miles. “She’s very brave now.”

Mel pulled off her gloves. “Medium brave.”

Miles nodded solemnly. “Medium brave counts.”

By the time Mel finished the last stitch, Miles looked exhausted, offended, and deeply proud of himself. A good combination. “You did it,” his mother whispered.

Miles looked at you. “Was I brave?”

You peeled a dinosaur sticker from the sheet. “Very.”

Miles frowned. You waited.

“Medium brave,” he corrected. “Not all the way.”

You pressed the sticker gently to the back of his hand. “Medium brave counts.”

Mel smiled as she reached for the discharge instructions on the computer. “Usually more than all-the-way brave,” she said.

Miles looked at her. “Why?”

Mel glanced over from the screen. “Because medium brave means you were scared and did it anyway.”

Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles. His chin was swollen. His cheeks were blotchy. His fingers were still tight around the dinosaur. But he smiled. Just a little.

You felt that tiny, internal shift again. A small roll low under your ribs, subtle enough that no one else should have noticed. You breathed through it.

Mel did not look at your stomach. She did not ask. She only handed you the sanitizer when you reached for it and watched your hand settle for one brief second against the lower curve beneath your cardigan before you caught yourself and moved.

That was the thing about Mel. She didn’t need to say anything to make you feel seen.

Miles’s mother thanked everyone three times. Mel gave wound care instructions. Perlah handed over extra gauze and the kind of practical reassurance parents needed after watching their children bleed. You promised Miles that Dr. Pickles could stay with him until discharge as long as he did not file another complaint with the medical board.

Miles hugged the dinosaur to his chest. “He’s on probation.”

“Fair,” you said.

You stepped out of the room with Mel a few minutes later, letting the door click softly behind you. The noise of the ER met you all at once. Phones. Monitors. A transport tech laughed near the desk. Someone called for an EKG. The familiar, relentless rhythm of PTMC refused to pause just because one six-year-old had survived the betrayal of stitches.

Mel stopped beside the counter and reached for the sanitizer. You checked the time. The day shift ended in thirty minutes. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced down.

Jack: I’m early. Five minutes out.

You smiled despite yourself.

Jack had always liked nights. He liked the dark. The smaller crew. The way the hospital narrowed down to alarms, instincts, and people who knew how to move without talking too much. He liked the solitude of it, the strange mercy of working while the rest of the world slept.

Or he had.

Lately, nights had started to feel different. Lately, nights meant leaving you at home with ginger ale on the nightstand, decaf in the cabinet, pillows wedged around your hips, and a body that could not decide what it wanted without punishing you for guessing wrong.

Jack still loved the work. You knew he did. But you also knew the way his hand lingered at your back before he left now. The way his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize how tired you looked before he had to spend twelve hours away from it. The way he kissed you once, then again, like the second one might keep something safe that the first one could not. He hated leaving. You knew that, too.

Mel dried her hands with a paper towel beside you. You slipped your phone back into your pocket before she could see the screen. Mel didn’t ask who it was. She didn’t need to. Instead, her gaze moved once to the ginger ale beside your water bottle. Then, to the sleeve of saltines in your bag. Then to your face.

“You feeling okay today?” Mel asked. The question was gentle enough to pass as nothing.

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah.”

Mel nodded once, accepting the answer without quite believing it. “Good,” she said.

You looked at her for another beat. Mel only smiled mildly and tossed the paper towel into the trash. You turned toward the workstation to finish your notes, one hand resting briefly over the place where your son had rolled beneath your ribs. The day shift was almost over. Night shift was getting ready to begin. And no one in the ER knew that Jack Abbot was five minutes away from walking through those doors with decaf in one hand, plausible deniability in the other, and every intention of checking on his pregnant wife without anyone noticing.

The first thing you saw was the cup. Not Jack. Not technically. The cup came through the ambulance bay doors first, carried in one hand like a formal apology. It was not from the cafeteria. It was not from the lobby kiosk. It was definitely not hospital decaf, which tasted like someone had rinsed a coffee pot and asked you to be grateful. This cup had a sleeve. A stamped logo. A handwritten label. Fancy. Suspicious. Hopeful, which felt cruel.

Then Jack came through the doors behind it, already in dark scrubs, his badge clipped at his chest, his other hand wrapped around his own coffee. Real coffee. Actual coffee. Coffee with caffeine and dignity and a future. You stared at it with immediate, unreasonable resentment.

Then you looked at your husband. Jack’s eyes found yours from across the department the way they always did, quickly and without announcement. Face first. Then shoulders. Then the ginger ale beside your laptop. The sleeve of the crackers was half-tucked under your notebook. Your cardigan, loose and soft over the curve you had spent the last two weeks pretending was not becoming obvious.

His gaze dropped for less than a second. You felt it anyway. Then he crossed the ER like he was only coming in for the night shift. Like he had not texted you three separate options in the last hour and found a new brand of decaf because you had said, once, half-asleep and miserable against his pillow, that you missed coffee so much you could cry. He set the fancy cup beside your laptop. ‘Decaf. Don’t yell until after trying’ was written in black marker across the lid.

Your throat did something ridiculous. Jack’s face did not change. “New one,” he said.

You looked at the cup, then at him. “You bought me fancy decaf coffee?”

His mouth barely moved. “Try it.”

You picked up the cup with both hands because it was warm and because your body, traitorous and exhausted, had already decided that warmth was reason enough to hope. The first sip was cautious. Defensive. You expected disappointment. You expected hot brown sadness. You expected the thin, bitter lie every decaf had been telling you for the past month and a half.

Instead, the coffee was warm. Smooth. Rich. Good. Actually, unfairly, wonderfully good.

Your eyes closed before you could stop them. “Oh my God,” you said.

Jack went still. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not unless they knew him. Not unless they knew the exact way his body held itself when he was waiting for the verdict on something that mattered more than he wanted it to.

“Yeah?” he asked.

You nodded, still holding the cup close. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on you.  “It’s good.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Grateful in a way coffee probably did not deserve.

Except it was not just coffee. It was a normal thing. One thing your body had not rejected. One thing that tasted as if it belonged to the version of you who used to drink real coffee without negotiating with your stomach first. Jack understood that. Of course he did. That was the best part.

His shoulders settled by a fraction. “Good.”

You looked down at the lid again, and a laugh caught in your throat. “I wasn’t going to yell,” you said.

Jack gave you a look.

“I was going to emotionally object,” you corrected.

“Mm,” he hummed.

“With dignity,” you added.

Jack nodded once. “Sure.”

You took another sip, and this time you did not bother hiding how much you liked it. You were too tired to perform indifference, too relieved to make him work for it. “Thank you,” you said.

Jack’s expression went quieter. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

Behind the counter, Santos lowered the chart in her hand. Slowly. “Oh, no,” she said.

You closed your eyes. Jack did not move.

Santos pointed at the cup. “That was a moment.”

Jack looked at her. “It was coffee.”

“It was not coffee.” Santos’s eyes narrowed. “It was emotionally loaded coffee.”

Robby made a pleased sound from the workstation behind her. “Excellent band name.”

Jack’s gaze cut toward him. “Don’t help.”

“I’m helping myself,” Robby said.

Dana did not look up from the discharge papers in front of her, but the corner of her mouth moved like she had decided not to be held responsible for anyone in the department. Mel, who had been reviewing something on her tablet near the counter, glanced between you and Jack with quiet interest. Not nosy. Not loud. Just watching.

Santos was loud enough for both of them. “Since when does Abbot bring Child Life specialty beverages?” she asked.

Jack picked up his own coffee. “Since Child Life suffered enough.”

You took another sip. “I support this policy.”

Santos pointed at you. “You’re too happy. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m drinking good decaf for the first time in weeks,” you said. “My joy is proportionate.”

Robby leaned one hip against the workstation. “Strong argument.”

Jack looked at him again. Robby lifted both hands. “I’m neutral.”

“You have never been neutral in your life,” Dana said.

Robby nodded once. “Also fair.”

Jack’s real coffee drifted near you when he shifted his weight, and your stomach made one small, sour complaint. You did not move. You did not even think you changed expression. Jack noticed anyway. He moved his cup to the far side of the counter without looking at it. Small. Quiet. Automatic. Your fingers tightened around your decaf. Mel noticed. You saw her notice. Her eyes flicked to Jack’s hand, then back to your face, and something thoughtful crossed her expression before she politely looked down at her tablet again.

Santos missed none of it. Her gaze sharpened.

Jack lowered his voice, but not enough to be secretive. Just enough to make the space between you feel smaller. “How bad?”

You knew what he meant. Not work. Not Miles. Not the coffee. The nausea. The hunger that kept arriving with disgust tucked beneath it. The way your body had started treating dinner like a negotiation no one had authorized. “Manageable,” you said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.

You sighed. “Annoying.”

He almost smiled, “Closer.”

“The bagel smell in the break room was a crime scene,” you grumbled.

His mouth twitched. “That bad?”

You nodded. “I considered filing charges.”

Jack nodded as if this were a reasonable escalation. “What sounds possible for dinner?”

You looked down at the coffee in your hands. Good coffee. Actual good coffee. Decaf, tragically, but not a punishment. Not a thin, bitter insult. Good enough that your whole body seemed confused by the relief of wanting something and being able to have it.

“Toast,” you admitted.

Jack nodded once. “Toast is good.”

“Toast is barely dinner,” you said with a frown.

Jack looked at you so sincerely that your chest squeezed tight. “Toast is dinner if it stays down.”

Your throat tightened. That was the thing about Jack. He did not make ‘possible’ sound like failure. He just lowered the bar until you could step over it without shame.

“Butter and honey,” you said.

His expression softened. “Irish butter’s in the fridge.”

You looked at him. “You got more?”

He nodded. “Aldi had it.”

“You went to Aldi?” you asked, eyes bright.

Jack shrugged. “I survived.”

“You hate Aldi.” Your eyebrows rose.

“I hate the parking lot,” Jack corrected you.

You couldn’t stop your smile, “And the cart quarter.”

Jack's eyes narrowed, “The cart quarter is an aggressive system.”

You laughed before you could help it, one hand settling briefly against your cardigan when your son shifted low and strange, as if he had opinions about grocery logistics. Jack saw. Of course, he saw. His eyes dropped for half a second, then came back to your face. “Still okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His voice stayed low. “Good honey’s on the counter.”

You inhaled sharply, “The farmers market one?”

“The one you said tasted like flowers and sunshine,” Jack replied.

You stared at him for one second too long.

Santos put the chart down. “Hold on.”

Jack did not look away from you quickly enough.

Apparently, that was Santos’s final straw. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

You took another sip of coffee.

Santos pointed at Jack. “You know what butter she has.”

Jack’s face stayed calm. “Most kitchens have butter.”

Santos glared, “Do not insult me.”

Robby made a quiet, delighted noise.

Santos’s finger stayed aimed at Jack. “You said Irish butter. From Aldi. Like a man who has personally fought the parking lot and lost.”

Jack’s brow furrowed, “I didn’t lose.”

“You know where her farmers' market honey is.” Santos continued.

“It’s on the counter,” Jack said with a nod.

Santos stared at him. “Again, not helping your case.”

Dana finally looked up. “It is good honey.”

Santos turned on her. “You stay out of this.” Dana’s eyebrows lifted. Santos exhaled sharply. “Actually, no. You’re involved now. Is this normal?”

Dana glanced once at you, then at Jack, then at the coffee in your hands. “For them?” she said. “Yes.” The department went quiet for half a beat. Robby’s smile became openly dangerous. Jack looked at Dana. Dana returned to her paperwork like she had not just thrown a match into gasoline.

Santos’s eyes widened. “For them?”

You looked down at your coffee. Jack took a drink from his. Neither of you answered. Mel hugged her tablet a little closer to her chest. “Oh,” she said softly.

Santos snapped her attention to Mel. “Oh, what?”

Mel’s cheeks colored. “Nothing.”

“No, that was an oh,” Santos replied, eyes narrowed.

Mel shrugged. “It was an observational oh.”

Robby nodded. “Clinically, much worse.”

Jack set his coffee down. “Robby.”

Robby folded his arms. “What? I’m supporting the diagnostic process.”

Santos pointed between you and Jack. “Oh, my God.”

You took another sip. Jack’s jaw shifted like he knew exactly where this was going and had decided to let it happen.

Santos’s eyes narrowed. “You’re dating.”

The words landed in the middle of the nurses’ station with the subtlety of a dropped tray. Perlah, passing behind Santos with a stack of supplies, slowed for exactly one step before deciding she valued her peace and kept walking. Mel’s eyes widened. Robby leaned back against the workstation, delighted in a way that did not bode well for anyone.  “Interesting theory,” he said.

Santos pointed at him without looking. “You know something.”

“I know many things,” Robby said, nodding wisely.

Her eyes narrowed, “About this.”

“Especially about this,” Robby agreed.

Jack’s eyes cut toward him. Robby smiled. “Sorry. Department morale.”

Santos turned back to you. “Are you dating Abbot?”

You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. There was a very long second where neither of you spoke, not because you were trying to hide anything, but because the actual answer was so much funnier than the question. “No,” you said.

Santos blinked. “No?”

“No,” Jack said.

Santos stared at both of you. “That was too synchronized.”

“Still true,” Jack said.

She threw up her hands, “Then why do you know her butter?”

You lifted the coffee. “It’s very memorable butter.”

Santos pointed at you. “I do not like you right now.”

You nodded solemnly. “That seems fair.”

Mel looked from you to Jack again, her expression caught somewhere between surprised and delighted. “So you’re not dating?”

Jack picked up his coffee. “No.”

Mel’s eyebrows drew together. “But the coffee?”

“It’s decaf,” Jack said.

Santos made a strangled sound. “That is not an answer.”

Dana turned a page. “It is one if you’ve met him.”

You smiled into your cup. Jack saw that too. The smile. The way you were trying to hide it. The way you were failing because the coffee was good, and he had gone to Aldi for butter, and your son was rolling around like he had decided to make himself known during the least convenient window of time. His face softened before he caught it.

Santos saw that too. She went very still. Then she pointed at him again. “You have a face.”

Jack stared at her. “Most people do.”

“No.” Santos stepped closer. “You have a specific face.”

Robby pressed his lips together. Jack looked unimpressed. “That cleared nothing up.”

“You looked soft.”

“Santos,” Mel said, but she sounded like she was trying not to laugh.

“He did,” Santos insisted. “He looked soft at Child Life.”

You glanced at Jack. “Congratulations.”

His mouth twitched. “Thank you.”

Santos threw a hand out. “See? Vibe.”

Dana sighed. “This is why I don’t work nights.”

“You work all the time,” Robby said.

Dana looked at him. “And yet I avoid this.” The overhead speakers crackled, and someone called for environmental services near trauma two. The ER resumed around you in pieces. Monitors beeped. A printer coughed out discharge paperwork. Someone laughed near the medication room. Jack glanced toward the board. Night shift was beginning to swallow him. You could feel it happening. The department reaching for him. The trauma rooms and consults and handoffs and all the things that would keep him here while you went home to the quiet house with the new loaf of bread on the counter and good honey waiting beside it.

His gaze came back to you. “I’ve got four minutes,” he said.

“Luxury,” you replied.

He almost smiled. “Can I walk you out?”

Your chest warmed before you could stop it. “You have handoff.”

Jack shrugged. “Robby’s still pretending to work.”

Robby lifted one hand without looking away from the show. “Rude. Accurate.”

Jack held your gaze. “Four minutes.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Okay.”

Santos made a sound. “No.”

Jack looked at her. “Problem?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Yes, problem. You cannot say you are not dating and then walk her out with your emotionally loaded coffee situation.”

“It’s her coffee,” Jack said.

“That does not make it less loaded,” Santos replied.

You started gathering your things before Santos could build a formal case. Your notebook went into your Child Life bag. The laminated prep cards slid into their folder. Dr. Pickles, temporarily retired from active duty after Miles’s successful stitches, stayed tucked in the side pocket.

Jack watched your hands. Not hovering. Not taking over. Just ready, the way he always was.

When you reached for the bag strap, his eyes dropped to it. “Can I?” he asked.

The question was quiet enough that it was mostly yours. You handed him the strap. Jack took the bag and settled it onto his shoulder like it belonged there. Santos stared. Mel’s mouth parted slightly. Robby looked delighted enough to require supervision.

Dana did not look up, but she said, “Careful, Abbot. That bag has stickers.”

Jack adjusted the strap. “I’m aware.”

Santos’s voice went flat. “You’re aware.”

You picked up your coffee. “There are a lot of stickers.”

Mel smiled. “That tracks.”

Santos pointed between you again. “You are all hearing this, right?”

Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I hear many things.”

“You knew he carried her bag?”

Robby’s grin widened. “I know many things.”

“Stop saying that,” she snapped.

Robby’s grin turned wicked. “No.”

Jack looked toward the elevator, then back at you. “Ready?” You nodded. The movement made your back complain in a low, annoying pulse. You must have shifted your weight more carefully than you meant to, because Jack’s hand lifted a fraction at his side. He did not touch you. Not here. Not in front of the whole department while Santos was watching like she had been personally assigned to solve the mystery of your entire life. But he wanted to.

You could feel that too. “I’m good,” you said softly.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours for one second longer. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

Santos looked at Mel. “They are absolutely dating.”

“They said they’re not,” Mel said, though her voice had gone thoughtful.

Santos narrowed her eyes. “People lie.”

Dana picked up her bag from the counter. “Sometimes people answer the question asked.”

Santos turned slowly toward her. Dana’s expression stayed mild. Robby made a sound like he was enjoying the evening more than anyone had a right to. Jack started toward the elevators with your Child Life bag on his shoulder and your four-minute goodbye ticking down beside him. You fell into step at his side.

Behind you, Santos made a sound. “Nope,” she said.

You glanced back. She had grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and was already following.

Mel looked between Santos and the elevator. “Are we all going down?”

“I am,” Santos said. “For reasons.”

Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I’m done for the day.”

Dana picked up her bag. “I’m also leaving before this becomes my problem.”

“Too late,” Robby said. Dana ignored him.

Cassie appeared from the hallway with her keys in hand, Langdon beside her, still zipping his coat. “Are people leaving?” Cassie asked.

Santos pointed toward Jack. “Yes. Quietly. Together. Suspiciously.”

Jack did not stop walking. “Shift change,” he said.

Robby smiled. “Love this place.”

By the time the elevator doors opened, all of you had somehow become a group. You. Jack. Santos. Mel. Robby. Dana. Langdon. Cassie. It was too many people for one elevator, and exactly the wrong number of witnesses for a secret that had never really been a secret. Santos got in first, like proximity might help her solve whatever crime she had decided Jack was committing. Mel followed, glancing between you and Jack with careful, growing curiosity. Robby stepped in behind her, already wearing the expression of a man who knew exactly how this ended and had chosen not to save anyone. Dana entered last with the resigned calm of someone who had seen more than enough hospital nonsense to recognize when nonsense had become inevitable. Langdon and Cassie squeezed in at the last second, both still half in their coats, both clearly unsure why Santos looked like she was about to interrogate someone under oath. The elevator doors slid shut. Jack stood beside you with your Child Life bag on his shoulder. The bag had three cartoon stickers on the front pocket, two laminated keychains, one slightly crushed granola bar in the side pouch, and Dr. Pickles’s green squishy dinosaur head peeking out from the top. Jack Abbot, night-shift attending, former combat medic, allergic to unnecessary bonding, carried it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Which it was to you.

Not, apparently, to everyone else. The elevator hummed down one level. Santos looked at Jack’s shoulder. Then at you. Then back at Jack’s shoulder. “I’m just saying,” she said, “this is weird.”

Jack did not look at her. “Most things are.”

“No.” Santos pointed at your bag. “This is specific weird.”

Robby made a pleased sound. “Specific weird is my favorite kind.”

Dana closed her eyes. Mel pressed her lips together. You took another sip of your decaf, which remained warm and good, and therefore, the only reason you had not started openly laughing. Jack’s gaze slid toward you. Just briefly. That was all. But you knew him well enough to read it. ‘Careful’, his eyes said. You lifted your brows. ‘I am behaving beautifully’, your face said back. His mouth moved at the corner. Santos saw it.

She stepped forward as the elevator doors opened into the parking level. “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. Jack walked out first because he was closest to the doors. You followed with your coffee in hand, the cool garage air brushing across your face. It smelled like concrete, rainwater, and old exhaust, sharp enough to wake you up a little. Somewhere farther down the row, a car chirped unlocked. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Your back ached in that deep, annoying way that felt less like pain and more like your body had reorganized itself without asking permission. You shifted your weight as you walked. Jack noticed. He slowed half a step.

You did not look at him when you said, “I’m good.”

Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly,” you replied.

Robby coughed behind you. Santos’s footsteps stuttered. Mel made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.

Jack looked down at you. “I’ll work on that.”

You smiled softly. “No, you won’t.”

“No,” he said. “Probably not.”

Santos pointed at both of you as she walked. “See? Dating.”

“We’re still not dating,” Jack said.

Robby’s smile turned bright enough to become a workplace hazard. You started walking towards your car, which was only two rows away, and you were suddenly very aware of the butter in your refrigerator, the honey on your counter, the toast waiting at home, and the fact that your husband was on the edge of being swallowed by the night shift. The group followed. Of course, they followed. Santos had the look of a woman who had found blood in the water and also somehow filed an HR complaint about it in her head. At your car, Jack shifted your bag carefully off his shoulder and handed it to you.

“Can I have that?” he asked.

You smiled and traded him the coffee for the bag so you could dig out your keys. He held the cup without comment, thumb resting against the sleeve, watching you search the pocket where your keys were supposed to be and definitely were not. You frowned. Jack reached into the smaller front pocket without looking. He pulled out your keys. You looked at him.

He held them out. “Front pocket,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed. “I know where my keys are.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Eventually.”

Behind you, Santos made a sound of actual physical pain. Mel whispered, “Oh.”

Langdon looked at Cassie. “What did I miss?”

Cassie’s eyes were huge. “A lot, apparently.”

You unlocked the car. Jack handed your coffee back to you. “Text me when you’re home,” he said.

“You’ll probably be in trauma one, saving lives,” you replied.

Jack grinned. “Text me anyway.”

Your chest warmed. “Bossy,” you said.

Jack’s face softened, small and private. “Accurate.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but your son shifted low and strange again, a flutter turning into something just solid enough to make you pause. It was not painful. Just new. Still new enough that wonder arrived before you could protect yourself from it. Your hand hovered near your cardigan and stopped there. You did not press. You did not draw attention. You only breathed once, slowly. Jack’s eyes dropped. Half a second. No more. When they came back to your face, his expression had changed. Barely. Enough. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, softer. “Just ready to be home.”

He nodded. The department pulled at him from three floors above you. You could feel that too. The invisible hook of night shift. Handoff. Trauma bays. The board. The particular gravity of people needing him. But for this second, in the parking garage, he stayed.

His hand settled briefly at the small of your back. Familiar. Automatic. Yours.

You leaned up without thinking, and he bent down to meet you.

The kiss was quick. Not dramatic. Not performative.

Just the warm press of his mouth against yours before one of you went home and the other went back inside. A married goodbye. The kind that had happened in kitchens, doorways, airport drop-offs, grocery store parking lots, and once in the middle of a hotel hallway when Robby had yelled that he was happy for you but also deeply uncomfortable. Jack pulled back first, but not far. His thumb brushed once against your back before he let his hand fall.

Behind you, something clattered against concrete. Probably Santos’s keys. Possibly Santos’s entire understanding of the world.

“I’m sorry,” Santos said.

You turned. Santos stood ten feet away, mouth open, keys now on the ground near her shoe. Mel had gone perfectly still beside her. Langdon looked like someone had switched the language on a monitor and expected him to interpret the rhythm strip anyway. Cassie had both hands pressed over her mouth. Dana looked at the ceiling like she had requested one quiet shift change and been personally denied. Robby looked like Christmas had come early and brought catering with it.

Santos pointed at Jack. “You said you weren’t dating.”

Jack’s hand stayed near your back. “We’re not.”

“You kissed her,” she replied.

Jack nodded. “I did.”

“So you’re dating,” she replied, gesturing between the two of you.

“No,” Jack said. “We’re not dating anymore.”

Santos blinked. Mel blinked. Cassie dropped her hands. “Anymore?”

You looked up at Jack, then shrugged. “What’s it been, six years?”

“Seven in May,” Jack said.

“Seven in May,” Robby said at the same time.

The garage went silent. You turned slowly toward Robby. Robby lifted both hands. “What? I was there.”

Santos’s mouth opened. “You were where?”

Jack sighed. “Don’t.”

Robby’s smile became catastrophic. “Best man.”

Santos stared at him. “Best man?” she repeated.

Robby nodded. “Great suit. Very emotional day.”

Jack looked at him. “You cried.”

Robby pointed at Jack. “Allegedly.”

You lifted your coffee. “There are photos.”

“Hostile witness,” Robby said.

You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you, his face soft in a way he probably would have hidden if he had remembered anyone else was there.

Santos made a sound. Not a word. A sound. Then she looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Jack again. “You’re married?”

Jack nodded once. “Yep.”

You nodded too. “Yep.”

The garage erupted.

“YOU’RE MARRIED?” Santos’s voice bounced off three levels of concrete.

Jack winced. “Inside voice.”

“No.” Santos stabbed a finger toward him. “Absolutely not. You do not get an inside voice right now. You lost inside voice privileges when you kissed Child Life in a parking garage and revealed a seven-year marriage.”

Langdon stared at Jack. “You’re married married?”

Jack looked at him. “As opposed to?”

Robby leaned closer to Langdon. “Spiritually married. Recreationally married. Trial subscription married.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “Stop.”

Robby smiled. “Never.”

Cassie looked between you and Jack, eyes bright with shock. “Wait, before PTMC?”

You nodded. “Before PTMC.”

Mel’s expression softened. “That’s why the coffee.”

Santos spun toward her. “Do not act like the coffee was enough information.”

“It was emotionally loaded coffee,” Cassie said.

Robby pointed at her. “She gets it.”

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Dana adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “This could have been an email.”

Santos turned on her. “You knew.”

Dana looked at her. “Yes.”

Santos threw both hands out. “Why does everyone know?”

“Everyone does not know,” Dana said.

“I didn’t know!” Santos exclaimed.

Dana’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “Then, everyone clearly does not know.”

Mel pressed her lips together. Cassie turned away, shoulders shaking.

Santos pointed at Dana. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dana’s eyebrows lifted. “It was not my marriage to announce.” Santos stared at her. Dana added, “Also, you never asked.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Santos looked personally betrayed by the entire universe. Then she turned on Robby. “You,” she said.

Robby put a hand to his chest. “Me?”

She glared at him. “You knew for seven years.”

“Technically longer. They dated before that,” Robby replied.

Jack stared at him. Robby shrugged. “Context matters.”

Santos took one step toward him. “You watched me investigate Aldi butter like an idiot.”

Robby grinned, “You were doing great.”

“I hate you.” Santos snapped.

Mel looked at you, still gentle despite the chaos. “How did you meet?”

That quieted the group by a fraction. Not completely. But enough. You felt Jack beside you, the small shift in his body. Not discomfort exactly. Something older. Something private. Your hand tightened around your coffee. “Military hospital,” you said.

Mel’s face softened. Cassie’s expression changed too, curiosity gentling into something more careful. Santos, to her credit, did not make a joke. Jack looked toward the far end of the garage, then back at you. You smiled a little. “He was lurking outside room 417.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Lurking.”

“You were standing in the hallway pretending not to hover,” you said to him.

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was waiting.”

“For what?” you asked. He paused.

Robby leaned in. “Careful. This is how history gets written.”

Jack gave him a look. You looked back at Mel. “I was helping a little girl get ready to see her dad after he’d been hurt. Jack saw us.”

Mel’s eyes warmed. Cassie pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s actually really sweet.”

“He asked someone who I was,” you added.

Robby nodded immediately. “Immediately.”

Jack looked at him. “You weren’t there.”

“I know Miller,” Robby said. “Miller told the story better.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Miller told the story worse.”

You smiled. “Then he asked me for coffee.”

Santos squinted at Jack. “You asked someone out?”

Jack stared at her. “Yes.”

“Out loud?” she continued.

Jack looked confused. “How else would I do it?”

Robby opened his mouth. Jack pointed at him without looking. “No.”

Robby closed his mouth with visible effort. Langdon looked at you. “And he proposed?”

“No,” Santos said, already turning back to Jack with renewed offense. “No, wait. I need this. How did Abbot propose? Did he do it with words? Did he make eye contact? Did he file paperwork?”

Jack looked toward the elevator. “I have to go back inside.”

“Absolutely not,” Santos said. “You owe us seven years of lore.”

Jack narrowed his eyes at her. “I owe you nothing.”

“You owe me emotional damages,” she snapped back.

Dana started toward her car. “You’ll survive.”

“I might not,” Santos called after her.

Dana did not turn around. “Then update your emergency contact.”

Robby laughed. Jack did not. Mel looked at you, smiling now. “How did he propose?”

You glanced at Jack. His face had gone quieter, the line of his mouth held flat like he knew what you were about to say and wanted very badly to stop you, but not enough to actually do it. You loved him so much that it made you a little stupid. “He put it on the grocery list,” you said.

Santos stopped moving. “I’m sorry?”

Robby’s face lit up. “Oh, this is good.”

Jack looked at him. “Do not.”

Robby ignored him completely. “Strong list.”

Cassie whispered, “The grocery list?”

You nodded. “At home. In the kitchen. He asked me to look it over and see if he missed anything.”

Mel’s smile grew. Langdon blinked. “And he wrote ‘proposal’ on it?”

“Not proposal,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it. You looked down at your coffee. “He wrote, ‘marry me?’” You said. “With a question mark.”

Cassie made a soft noise. Mel pressed the tablet to her chest. “That’s beautiful.”

Santos pointed at Jack. “You proposed with errands.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “She said yes.”

Robby nodded gravely. “Again. Strong list.”

You smiled. “There was coffee on it, too.”

“Of course there was,” Dana called from near her car.

Santos dragged both hands down her face. “This entire department is a conspiracy.”

“It’s not a conspiracy,” Mel said, though she was still smiling.

Santos turned to her. “You are only saying that because you’re happy for them.”

“I am happy for them,” Mel replied.

Jack looked at you then, and the noise around you thinned for a second. His eyes moved over your face. Tired. Nauseous. Amused. Softened by good decaf and too much attention and the strange tenderness of watching your private life become public in one loud, ridiculous burst. He stepped closer. “Enough,” he said, not exactly to the group. To you, maybe. For you.

Santos opened her mouth. Jack looked at her. She shut it. Mostly.

He turned back to you. “Go home. Eat your toast.”

Santos pointed weakly. “See? Again with the toast.”

You opened your car door. “Goodnight, Santos.”

“The toast was married toast,” she glared at you.

“All toast is married if you use the good honey,” Robby said.

Dana opened her car door. “I’m leaving before this gets worse.”

“It can get worse?” Langdon asked.

Robby smiled. “Always.”

Jack handed you the coffee one last time, his fingers brushing yours around the cup.

“Text me when you’re home,” he said.

You nodded once. “I will.”

“And after toast,” he added.

You smiled. “Bossy.”

His gaze held yours. “Married,” he corrected quietly.

Your chest went warm. “Apparently,” you said.

His mouth softened. For a second, you wanted to stay there. To keep him in the parking garage under bad fluorescent lights with your bag in his hand and the whole department spinning around the two of you. To have one more minute before the ER took him back. But the night shift was already waiting. And you had toast to make. And a son the ER did not know about yet, shifting softly beneath your ribs like he had survived his first family scandal and found it unimpressive.

You slid into the driver’s seat. Jack shut the door carefully after you were settled. Through the open window, Santos was still staring at him like she had discovered a new organ. “I have follow-up questions,” she said.

Jack nodded once. “I’m sure.”

She pointed at him. “Tomorrow.”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

“Yes.” Santos snapped back.

Dana’s voice carried from across the row. “Tomorrow will be worse if you fight it.”

Robby lifted a hand. “I have photos.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “Do not,” he said.

Robby smiled at you over Jack’s shoulder. “I have selected favorites.”

You laughed as you set your coffee in the cup holder. Jack looked pained. Santos looked reborn. Mel looked delighted. Cassie was already whispering something to Langdon, who still seemed stuck on the phrase grocery list. And you realized, with your good decaf beside you and your husband standing in the parking garage in his dark scrubs, that PTMC had finally caught up to a story that had been yours for years.

Santos pointed at Jack one last time. “Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

Jack glanced toward the elevators, already half-pulled back to work. Then he looked at you. His mouth moved, barely. “You never asked,” he said.

Santos stared at him. “That,” she said, “is the most annoying thing you have ever said.”

Robby leaned closer to your window. “Top five.”

Jack looked at him. “Go home.”

Robby pushed off your car with a grin. “Yes, sir.”

You started the engine. Jack stepped back, but his eyes stayed on yours until you pulled out of the space. In the rearview mirror, you saw him standing there for one more second, surrounded by people who suddenly knew one of the truest things about him. Then the elevator doors opened. Night shift called him back.

And Jack Abbot went.

Prologue: Before The Pitt

Jack Abbot hated these appointments.

He hated the waiting room. He hated the clipboard. He hated the fluorescent lights and the cheerful laminated signs reminding him to ask questions, as if he had ever needed encouragement to interrogate a medical professional doing something inefficient near his body.

Mostly, he hated the way appointments made him feel like a thing being adjusted.

A socket.

A gait.

A residual limb.

A pain scale.

Useful words. Clinical words. Words he understood perfectly and still resented.

By the time he left prosthetics, his jaw ached from clenching it.

The new fit was better. That was the irritating part. The adjustment had helped. His stride felt cleaner, less pull through his hip, less pressure where the skin had been threatening to break down.

He should have been pleased.

Instead, he stood in the hallway of the military hospital with his discharge papers folded in one hand and the particular fury of a man who had gotten what he needed and still hated needing it.

He was supposed to go home.

Instead, he went up two floors to visit Miller.

Then Torres.

Then maybe Kline, if Kline wasn’t asleep or pretending to be asleep to avoid talking to people.

Jack told himself it was because they were his people. Because visiting was practical. Because nobody in recovery needed another civilian standing at their bedside making sad eyes and saying thank you for your service, like grief was customer service.

It was not because the hospital was easier when he had a reason to stay inside it.

It was not because outside the building, everyone looked too long or too quickly away.

Inside, at least, people had the decency to be clinical about it.

Usually.

Outside, there were softer voices. Averted eyes. Too much gratitude. Too much careful space. Men who had once shoulder-checked him in doorways now moved around him like he was made of something breakable. Women at grocery stores looked at him like he had carried tragedy home in his hands and might drop it if startled.

Jack did not want to be pitied.

He did not want to be inspirational.

He did not want someone else’s discomfort dressed up as kindness and handed to him like a casserole.

He wanted his body to be his body without the whole world acting like it had become a public service announcement.

He turned the corner toward the rehab wing and stopped.

A little girl was sitting on the floor outside room 417.

She couldn’t have been older than seven. Maybe eight. Her hair was in two uneven braids, one already half coming loose, and she had a stuffed rabbit clutched so tightly against her chest that one of its ears had folded over its face.

You sat cross-legged beside her.

That was the first thing Jack noticed.

Not the badge. Not the child life kit open on the floor near your knee. Not the laminated cards spread between you with pictures of IV poles, monitors, oxygen tubing, and bandages.

You.

Soft scrubs. Cardigan sleeves pushed to your elbows. Hair slipping loose near your cheek. Warm eyes focused completely on the little girl beside you, like the hallway could fill with officers, alarms, doctors, ghosts, and you would still make sure that child had somewhere safe to look.

Jack noticed that you were beautiful.

It hit him plainly, almost inconveniently.

Then you started talking, and the beauty became the least interesting thing about you.

“Your dad might look a little different than he did the last time you saw him,” you said gently.

The little girl’s fingers tightened around the rabbit.

You noticed, but you didn’t rush to fix it.

“He has some bandages,” you continued. “And some machines near his bed. The machines are there to help the nurses and doctors take care of him. They can look scary if you don’t know what they’re for.”

The little girl looked down at one of the laminated cards. “Will he be asleep?”

“He might be,” you said.

You touched the edge of the card with one finger and turned it slightly so the little girl could see it better.

“Or he might be awake and tired,” you added. “Sometimes bodies need a lot of rest after they get hurt.”

The girl’s mouth trembled. “What if he doesn’t look like my dad?”

Something moved behind Jack’s ribs.

He should have kept walking.

He didn’t.

You leaned a little closer, your voice low enough that the whole hallway seemed to quiet around it.

“Then you can take your time,” you told her. “You don’t have to decide how you feel right away. You can look. You can ask questions. You can step back out with me if you need to.”

The little girl sniffed.

You touched the rabbit’s folded ear and smoothed it down.

“He’s still your dad,” you said. “Even if some things look different today.”

Jack looked away.

Too late.

You had already seen him.

Your eyes lifted to his, and for one strange second, Jack had the unnerving sense that you had caught more than a man standing in a hallway.

You had caught the flinch.

You did not soften your face with pity.

You did not glance down at his leg.

You did not give him the careful, wounded-veteran smile people used when they wanted him to know his existence moved them.

You just looked at him.

Then your mouth curved slightly.

“You need something?” you asked.

Jack blinked once. “No.”

You stayed seated on the floor beside the little girl. “Okay.”

Jack waited.

You tilted your head. “Then you’re hovering.”

His eyebrows lifted.

The little girl looked at him, then back at you.

“I don’t hover,” Jack said.

You nodded toward him, solemn as a judge. “What do you think?”

The little girl studied him with the ruthless honesty of children and commanding officers.

“He’s hovering,” she decided.

Your smile widened.

Jack should have hated that.

He didn’t.

“I was walking by,” he said.

You raised your brows. “You stopped.”

“People stop,” Jack said, mirroring your expression.

“Near doorways,” you replied. “Usually for a reason.”

The little girl’s rabbit drooped in her lap as she watched the exchange, her fear interrupted by curiosity.

Jack looked at you for another beat.

Most people in the hospital now handled him carefully. Not obviously. That would have been easier to despise. They did it in little ways. Softer voices. Averted eyes. Too much gratitude. Too much space.

You did none of that.

You looked at him like he was just a man who had been caught doing something mildly annoying in a hallway.

It was the first normal thing that had happened to him all day.

Maybe all month.

“I’m visiting someone,” he said.

“Ah.” You nodded. “Then you’re hovering with purpose.”

The little girl giggled.

Jack’s gaze flicked to her.

You noticed that too.

“See?” you said softly to the girl. “People can be nervous and still go into rooms.”

The child looked toward the closed door.

Jack understood then that you had not been teasing him only for sport.

You had used him.

Efficiently.

He should have minded that too.

He didn’t.

The door opened a few inches, and a nurse stepped out. Her eyes went to you first.

“He’s ready when you are,” the nurse said.

You nodded, then turned back to the little girl.

“Do you want to bring Rabbit in first,” you asked, “or should I carry him?”

The girl hesitated.

Jack stood very still.

Then she held the rabbit out to you. “You.”

“I can do that,” you said.

You took the rabbit carefully, as if it were a sacred thing and not a toy with one plastic eye scratched nearly white. Then you gathered your cards with one hand and stood.

Jack was tall enough, broad enough, and used to people adjusting around him.

You didn’t.

You rose into the space like you belonged in it, child life badge swinging from your lanyard, one hand full of laminated hospital equipment pictures, the other holding Rabbit by his soft, battered middle.

As you passed Jack, you paused.

“Try not to scare anyone else while you’re hovering with purpose,” you said.

His mouth twitched before he could stop it. “I’ll do my best.”

You gave him one last look, quick and assessing and entirely unintimidated.

“Do better than that,” you said.

Then you turned back to the little girl.

Your voice changed immediately. Not fake. Not sugary. Just warmer.

“Ready?” you asked.

The girl reached for your hand.

Jack watched her take it. He watched the way your fingers closed around hers. Not tight. Not leading. Just there.

An offered thing.

Steady enough to trust. Gentle enough not to trap.

Jack had seen plenty of people mistake softness for weakness.

This was not weak.

He could see it in the pause before you answered hard questions. In the careful breath you took before choosing the next right words. In the way you let the little girl be afraid without trying to rush her out of it.

You were not calm because none of it touched you.

You were calm because it did.

You walked the little girl into room 417.

Jack watched the door close behind you.

For a moment, the hallway seemed louder than it had before.

Monitors. Footsteps. A cart rattling somewhere near the elevators. Someone laughing too hard at the nurses’ station because hospitals made people laugh strangely when the alternative was worse.

Jack looked down at the papers in his hand.

Then he kept walking.

Miller was awake when Jack got there, which was unfortunate for both of them.

He was sitting propped against three pillows, one arm braced in a sling, bruising yellowed along the side of his face. His grin appeared the second Jack stepped through the door.

“You’re late,” Miller said.

Jack pulled the visitor chair closer with his foot. “You’re ugly.”

Miller smiled. “Doctors say it’s temporary.”

“They’re lying,” Jack replied.

Miller laughed, then winced. “Still charming. Good to know the leg didn’t take that from you.”

Jack sat.

Miller watched him for half a second too long.

Jack hated that too.

“How’d the appointment go?” Miller asked.

“Fine,” Jack said.

Miller squinted at him. “Fine as in fine, or fine as in you’re being an asshole about it?”

Jack looked at him.

Miller grinned. “Second one.”

Jack leaned back in the chair and stretched his bad leg out carefully enough that Miller’s eyes tracked the movement despite his best effort not to.

“Fit’s better,” Jack said.

Miller nodded once. “Good.”

That was why Jack liked him.

No speech. No pity. No swelling orchestral score.

Just good.

A comfortable silence settled for almost thirty seconds.

Then Jack ruined it.

“Who was the woman in the scrubs and cardigan?” Jack asked.

Miller’s grin returned slowly.

Jack immediately regretted every decision that had led him into this room.

“You’re going to have to narrow that down,” Miller said.

Jack gave him a flat look. “Outside 417. With the kid.”

“Oh,” Miller said, brightening. “The pretty one who can smell bullshit a mile away?”

Jack looked toward the door.

Miller’s grin widened. “Yeah. She got you.”

“She was preparing a kid to see her father.”

“And catching you hovering.”

“Hovering with purpose,” Jack corrected.

Miller laughed, then winced. “God, she really did get you.”

Jack looked toward the door.

Miller made a sound of deep, delighted pain. “You got called out by Child Life.”

Jack sighed. “She was working with a kid outside 417.”

“Yeah,” Miller said, softer now. “That’s Harris’s daughter.”

Jack looked back at him.

Miller’s expression shifted, humor thinning around the edges. “She’s been scared to go in. Mom’s trying, but it’s a lot.”

Jack thought of the rabbit in your hand.

“She any good?” he asked.

Miller huffed. “You saw her, didn’t you?”

That was answer enough.

Jack looked toward the hallway again.

Miller was quiet for a beat.

Then, because he was Miller, he added, “Her name’s on her badge, you know.”

“It was flipped,” Jack said.

Miller pressed his lips together. “Tragic.”

Jack gave him a flat look.

Miller smiled like a man who had found a reason to live another day.

“You want me to tell you?” Miller asked.

“No,” Jack replied immediately.

Miller stared at him for half a second. Then his grin went dangerous.

“Oh,” Miller said.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “No.”

Miller raised his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said oh.”

Miller settled deeper into his pillows. “Because there was an oh.”

Jack stood.

Miller laughed and winced again. “Careful, Abbot. She’s nice.”

Jack paused at the foot of the bed.

Miller’s smile gentled into something more knowing.

“And she’s not scared of you,” Miller said.

Jack’s fingers tightened once around the folded discharge papers.

No.

He could still hear your voice. Not gentle because you were afraid of what might break. Gentle because you knew things broke and still deserved to be touched carefully.

“No,” Jack said. “She isn’t.”

Miller watched him for another second.

Then he told Jack your name.

Jack did not ask him to repeat it.

He heard it clearly the first time.

He found you again forty minutes later near the elevators.

Jack told himself that was not why he had taken the long way out.

It was a hospital. There were only so many exits.

Technically.

You stood beside the coffee cart with your bag hooked over one shoulder, flipping through a stack of laminated cards while the line moved at the pace of federal infrastructure.

The stuffed rabbit was gone.

Returned to its owner, probably.

Jack found himself glad about that before he could decide it was a ridiculous thing to be glad about.

You looked up before he could walk past.

Your mouth curved. “Hovering again?”

Jack stopped beside you like he had meant to be there. “Leaving.”

“Near the coffee cart?” you asked.

Jack shrugged a shoulder, “Scenic route.”

Your eyes narrowed with amusement. “Through caffeine?”

Jack glanced at the menu board, then back at you. “You drink coffee?”

“Religiously,” you said.

That should not have pleased him.

It did.

Jack slid one hand into his pocket because apparently his body had decided to act casual even if the inside of his chest had become a tactical failure.

“Good,” he said.

You waited.

Jack waited too, because he was stubborn and because some doomed part of him wanted to see what you would do with silence.

You tilted your head. “Was that the whole question?”

His mouth twitched. “No.”

“Okay.” You shifted the cards against your chest. “I’m invested now.”

Jack looked at you for half a second longer than he should have.

“Have coffee with me,” he said.

Your eyebrows lifted. “That wasn’t a question.”

“No,” Jack said. “It was an invitation.”

You studied him, and for the first time all day, he did not feel assessed like a patient.

He felt assessed like a man who had walked up to a beautiful woman and made his interest known.

It was inconveniently terrifying.

You looked calm.

Jack did not trust that.

He had already seen what your calm could do.

“You always this confident?” you asked.

“When I’m right,” Jack answered. 

“And you’re right about me wanting coffee with you?”

Jack let one shoulder lift. “Religiously seemed promising.”

You laughed then.

Not politely. Not because you thought he needed it.

A real laugh, warm and quick, and Jack felt it somewhere lower than his ribs.

“I didn’t say yes,” you reminded him.

Jack raised his brows, “You also didn’t say no.”

The line moved forward. You did not. Jack counted that as a victory.

“You don’t even know my name,” you said.

He did.

Miller had told him. Jack had held onto it with the grim determination of a man refusing to admit he had been handed something he wanted.

But he looked at your badge anyway.

This time, it was facing out.

Jack said your name like he had only just learned it. Like it had not been sitting in his head for the last half hour.

Your expression shifted, pleased despite yourself.

“And you are?” you asked.

“Jack,” he answered. 

“Just Jack?”

“For coffee, yeah.”

You looked at him for another beat, making him stand there in it.

Making him wait.

He did not fidget.

He was proud of that.

Finally, you reached into the side pocket of your bag, pulled out a pen and a stack of Post-Its, and you wrote your number.

Jack watched you do it with an amount of attention he would later claim was unnecessary.

You handed it to him. “Coffee. Sometime.”

Jack took the Post It.

Your fingers brushed.

It was nothing.

It was not nothing.

“Sometime,” he repeated.

Your eyes flicked over him, bright and unafraid. “Try not to hover until then.”

Jack tucked the paper into his jacket pocket. “I’ll do my best.”

You started toward the elevators, then glanced back.

“Do better than that, Jack,” you said.

He stood there after you left, one hand still in his pocket, the other resting over the Post-It like it might disappear if he stopped paying attention.

For the first time all day, he did not feel like something being adjusted.

He felt like something had started.

Years later, people at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center would make a hundred wrong assumptions before they ever made the right one.

They would see you walk into the ER with your child life badge, your soft sweaters, and your calm voice, and they would see Jack Abbot look up like some part of him had known you were coming before the doors opened.

They would know you by your first name because children trusted first names faster than last ones.

They would know Jack mostly as Abbot because the ER had a way of sanding people down to the sharpest syllable.

They would not think to put the two together.

You worked days.

Jack worked nights.

Most of what anyone saw of you together happened in the seams: shift change, late consults, cafeteria overlap, the parking garage, the brief handoff spaces where one version of the hospital exhaled and another one started breathing.

They would see you pass him in the hall and fix his twisted ID badge without breaking your sentence.

They would see Jack let you.

They would think, " Oh.”

Interesting.

Robby would think, finally.

They would think it was new.

They would think it was a crush.

They would think he was learning how to be soft around you.

They would not know about room 417.

They would not know about Rabbit.

They would not know that the first time Jack saw you, he had been standing in a military hospital hallway with his leg aching and his pride worse, pretending he was not hovering.

They would not know you had looked at him and seen a man instead of a wound.

They would not know that one day, he would marry you.

That one day, years after that hallway, you would stand beside him with a ring on your finger and his son tucked beneath your ribs, a name folded between the two of you like a secret.

That Robby would know.

That everyone else would be late.

They would only know what they saw.

Jack watching you from across the ER.

You rolling your eyes when he hovered.

And the thing between you looking so much like the beginning of love that no one thought to ask if it had already survived years of it.

Dana snorted and Robby’s lips twitched. They lasted about thirty seconds before you were all laughing. “Gifting Goblins?”

“Eh,” you said with a shrug. “Why not?” Noting you’d drawn the attention of several people around the hub you took the opportunity to make an announcement. “As you know Gloria said no Secret Santa this year.” You ignored the boos that went up from various staff members. “So you all get to be Gifting Goblins. You know the drill. Draw a name, make sure it’s not yours, then cross yourself off the list and take a sheet. First gift due by the second. If you do not get a gift by the second, please let me know. Don’t be an asshole and flake. Final gifts by New Year’s Eve this year.”

You placed everything on the counter and stepped away to let them have at it. The Pitt gift exchange was simple. Just do nice things for your fellow staff member throughout the month. A minimum of four little gifts though most usually did more, even if it was bringing a coffee in or whatever. The goal was to keep your identity a secret until the final gift. You set up a mailbox in the lounge where gifts could be left if so desired.

You pretended not to see Perlah and Princess exchanging names. You were supposed to keep the name you drew but people were always switching.

“Uh, question,” Trinity Santos said rocking on her feet in front of you.

“What’s up?”

She showed you the paper with Garcia’s name on it. “I thought it was for the emergency department only.”

You nodded. “With a couple of exceptions. Namely Garcia and Walsh. Did you want to trade with someone? Technically you’re not—”

“No,” she said quickly cutting you off. “This is fine. Really.”

“Good.” You gave her a small smile and patted her shoulder when she turned to go with a bounce in her step.

“Matchmaking again?” Robby asked, voice tinged with humor.

“And just how am I supposed to have manipulated what names people draw out of a bag, Robinavitch?”

He shrugged. “If anyone could it would be you.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and narrowed your eyes at him in annoyance. He just smiled at you. Idiot.

“What did you do now, Robby?” Jack Abbot’s question announced his presence.

You couldn’t stop the smile that crossed your face at the sight of one of your favorite people. “He’s accusing me of being able to control who picks what name.”

Jack looked affronted on your behalf. “You take that back. She would never.”

Robby just made a sound of half-hearted agreement and wandered off to check on a patient.

“Brat,” you muttered under your breath.

Jack chuckled and you turned to find him scanning one of the info sheets for the gift exchange. “Gifting Goblins?”

“I wasn’t about to let Gloria kill our favorite tradition around here.”

“Good for you, sweetheart.”

It was an hour into the night shift when Shen approached Jack. “Abbot, I want New Year’s Eve off.”

Jack glanced up from the chart he was looking  at. “Take it up with Robby. He’s in charge of the scheduling, you know that.”

Shen rocked back on his heels. “I thought you might like to cover for me.”

Jack fully turned his attention to the other man. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Because I thought you might want to trade names,” Shen said and held up the piece of paper he’d drawn with your name on it. “She’s also covering for Lena that night.”

“Done,” Jack said, snatching the paper before handing over his own with Robby’s name on it.

“Awesome.” John smiled wide, gave Jack a nod and moved on to his next patient.

On December 1, Jack trudged into the ED at 18:45. Winter had arrived in Pittsburgh with a vengeance and his right leg was aching from the cold. He nodded greetings to those he passed on his way to store his bag then he headed for the breakroom. Coffee first, then handoff to see what fresh hell awaited him tonight.

The room was mercifully empty and Jack made a beeline for the coffee pot. It appeared to have been freshly brewed and he smiled a little as he poured himself a mug. His gaze drifted over to the mailboxes you had set up and his smile widened at seeing items in several of them. You tried so hard to make this a success every year and it always made you happy to see how into it people got.

Then he realized that his own box had something in it. Coffee temporarily forgotten he moved over to see what he’d gotten. A plain brown sack sat inside, his name written on the outside in block letters. He lifted it out and after confirming he was still alone, peeked inside.

Inside sat a dozen individual packets of trail mix, the expensive kind that were more nuts than filler. It was the blend he liked that had three different kinds of nuts, pumpkin seeds and dried cranberries. Lots of Omega 3 and protein. And tucked beneath them were half a dozen of his favorite protein bars. Not the brand he typically bought because they were cheaper and easier to find, but the ones he had to get from that one store across town.

Jack stood frozen, staring at the contents. It was such a simple gift but so specifically tailored to him that someone must have been paying attention to him. Very close attention.

“Well played, goblin,” he muttered to himself, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through his chest. He tucked one protein bar into his pocket for later and took the rest to his locker to stash away from greedy hands. The night shift hadn’t even started and it was already shaping up better than expected.

You arrived for your shift on the second with a bit of a bounce in your step. Everyone should receive their first gift by the end of the day. You hadn’t received anything yet, but that wasn’t unusual. When you arrived, you checked the list you’d left by the mailbox for everyone to check off that they’d received their first gift. Usually, you didn’t have to worry about anyone flaking after the first one.

There were a couple of names still to be marked off but a quick glance showed items for them in the mailboxes. But nothing in yours. You shrugged, there were hours left on your shift yet.

You didn’t think much more of it until you entered the breakroom at the end of your shift and still found nothing.

Oh.

It wasn’t like you could be your own Secret Santa Gifting Goblin. You sucked in a breath and straightened your shoulders. That was okay. Most of the fun for you was watching everyone else get doted on. And buying for your own recipient.

One of the benefits of running the exchange was you were in charge of making the name slips for everyone that signed up. And if Jack’s name happened to find it’s way into your pocket in the process, well, that was your business.

It wasn’t like you’d been planning your gifts since summer or anything. October maybe, but not before then. That would be pathetic.

You slid the strap of your bag further up your shoulder and headed toward the doors. You ran into Jack on your way out.

He stopped to greet you. “Hey. How was your shift?”

“The usual,” you said with a shrug. “No surprises waiting for you.”

“Good, good.” He nodded. “Get your first gift from your goblin?”

You did your best to maintain a neutral expression. “Oh yeah, a couple of days ago, already took it home.”

Jack frowned, his brow furrowing.

Before he could say anything, you gestured toward the door. “I should go. I need to run by the store tonight.”

“Yeah, sure. Be careful,” he said stepping aside.

“See you tomorrow,” you called over your shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind you.

Jack watched you retreat, his frown deepening. Then he spun on his heel and headed straight for the hub where Robby was chatting with Dana.

“Hey,” he interrupted, “were any flowers delivered here today?”

Robby and Dana exchanged a glance.

“Flowers?” Dana repeated. “Not that I saw.”

“Definitely no flowers,” Robby confirmed. “Why? You expecting some?”

Jack swore under his breath and pulled out his phone. “They were supposed to be delivered at noon. I confirmed it twice yesterday.” He scrolled to find the florist’s number, punching it with more force than necessary.

“This is Jack Abbot,” he said as soon as someone answered. He was lucky they were open late. “I placed an order yesterday for delivery to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center emergency department. Winter arrangement with red and white roses. It was supposed to arrive at noon today.” He paused. “Yes, that’s the recipient and the message for the card. No, it absolutely did not arrive. No, I don’t want a refund, I want the flowers delivered as promised. She starts work at seven tomorrow morning. As soon after that as you can, the earlier the better. Yes, I’ll hold.”

As Jack waited, Robby’s face split into a wide grin. “Flowers, huh?”

Jack glared at the pain in the ass he called a best friend. “Shut up, Rob.”

“Roses, too. Pretty elaborate for a gift exchange,” Robby continued undeterred. “Most people just go with candy or coffee. Maybe a gift card.”

“I said shut up.” Jack turned slightly away as the florist came back on the line. “Yes, I’m still here. First thing tomorrow, and I expect a substantial apology note attached. Yes. Fine.” He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

“So,” Dana drawled, “whose name did you say you drew?”

Jack gave her a flat look. “I didn’t.” He turned to Robby. “Let’s do handoff so you can get out of here.”

The next morning, a delivery person came through the main doors of the ED carrying a large arrangement of red and white roses exploding from a frosted glass vase, interspersed with pine branches, silver painted twigs and enough sparkly accents to make a showgirl jealous. A large note card dangled from the front with your name on it above, Sincere apologies from Allegheny Flower Shop.

“You can set those here,” Dana told him, clearing a spot on the counter for the flowers before calling your name over her shoulder. “Should have known he had her as soon as he said flowers,” she muttered to herself.

You appeared from around a curtain, eyes going wide. “Are those for me?”

Dana hummed in agreement and handed you the card. You opened it to find an apology from the flower shop along with a message that said: from one goblin to another.

You grinned then turned the vase so you could take in the entire arrangement. “They’re so pretty,” you said softly, your eyes getting suspiciously moist.

“Is something wrong?” Cassie asked as she came to stand beside you and smell the flowers.

You shook your head quickly. “No. It’s just…no one’s ever bought me flowers before. Not like this.”

“Never?”

“Nope.” You ran a finger over one of the rose petals. “One boyfriend said, and I quote ‘it wouldn’t have occurred to him’. Another didn’t see the point because they just die anyway. You get the idea.”

“You have shit taste in men,” Cassie observed.

You snorted a laugh. “Look who’s talking.” You buried your nose in the arrangement, inhaling deeply, eyes closed in pleasure. “These smell amazing.”

Across the room, Robby casually lifted his phone and snapped a photo of the moment, you surrounded by flowers, your happiness evident in the wide smile on your face. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen as he sent it to Jack.

Mission accomplished. She loves them.

Over the following days, Jack continued to find small, thoughtful gifts in his mailbox. One day was his favorite candy, another was a printout of a journal article about advances in prosthetic technology he’d been meaning to read but hadn’t found the time for. Then he’d gotten a vinyl Penguins decal for his new truck.

The next morning found him meeting a delivery driver at the bay doors to get the coffee he’d ordered for you. He sat the cup on the counter as he dug around in the drawer for a marker to write your name on it.

Finally locating a Sharpie, he reached for the cup only to find it missing. He looked up fully to see Robby taking a sip, his face immediately contorting into a grimace.

“This is not your usual order,” Robby said, staring accusingly at the cup.

Jack stared at him. “That’s because it was a gift, Robinavitch.”

Robby’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh. Oh shit.” He looked sheepishly at the cup then back to Jack. “Sorry, man. I only took one drink of it.”

Jack shook his head. “I am not giving her your backwash coffee, Rob.”

“It was barely a sip. And it’s still hot. She’ll never know,” he protested.

“I’ll know,” Jack replied flatly, taking the cup from Robby’s hand and dropping it in the trash with perhaps more force than necessary.

“That’s like eight bucks you just wasted.”

“Worth every penny to not be the guy who gives backwash coffee as a gift,” Jack retorted. He glanced at his watch. Not enough time to get another one delivered.

Robby rocked back on his heels. “So…Gifting Goblin duties not going as planned, huh?”

Jack gave him a look that would have silenced most people. Unfortunately, Robby was not most people.

“I’m just saying if you simplified things a bit, you probably wouldn’t have as many issues,” he continued cheerfully.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Jack asked.

Before he could respond, you appeared. You spotted Jack and your face brightened. “Hey! How was your shift?”

Jack sighed, giving you a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was fine. No problems at all.” He shot a warning glance at Robby who looked suspiciously close to smirking.

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” you said. “I’m sure you want to get home.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, grabbing his bag. “Have a good shift.”

You smiled and disappeared down the hall.

“Better luck next time, Romeo.” Robby patted his shoulder.

Jack briefly considered whether punching a colleague would get him fired, decided it probably would, and settled for accidentally stepping on Robby’s foot instead.

A couple of days later, Jack’s eyes trailed you as you walked into the ED to begin your shift. He waited until you ducked into the breakroom for your morning cup of coffee and followed you. Your back was turned to the door as you checked your mailbox. He stepped over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee he wouldn’t drink.

“No way,” you said excited.

Jack glanced over his shoulder to see you smiling wide as you held the three books he’d given you to your chest. “Well, someone seems happy,” he said, turning to lean against the counter.

You turned to him with an expression of pure delight. “These have all been on my wish list for ages. And there’s a gift card to my favorite coffee shop.” You ran your fingers over the cover of the top book. “This is too much. The flowers were already—”

‘The point is to enjoy it,” Jack said, surprised by the softness in his own voice. He cleared his throat. “I mean, someone obviously thinks you deserve it. Don’t fret so much.”

You nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Yeah, you’re right.” You grinned at him. “I guess me and one of these books have a date at my coffee shop on my next day off.”

Jack felt a wave of satisfaction. He’d gotten it right. You were happy and he’d made that happen. He watched as you headed out to start your shift, a new bounce in your step. He waited until you were out of sight before allowing a small, satisfied smile to cross his face.

Twelve hours later, after completing handoff with Robby, Jack headed into the breakroom to get his coffee and check his box. A colorful bag was stuffed into his box and he veered over to check it. It was much heavier than he expected when he pulled it out, colorful tissue paper exploded from the top.

He glanced inside and his eyes went wide. His hand closed around the neck of a bottle and he pulled it out. A fifth of a high-end spiced rum, the kind he’d mentioned was his favorite once during a staff outing. Beside it was something soft and fuzzy. Jack reached in again and emerged with a stuffed parrot. It was bright blue and yellow with an elastic band on one foot, clearly designed to perch on someone’s shoulder.

Frowning now, he reached into the bag one more time and extracted a black eye patch. Jack stared at the items on the table in front of him. Rum. Eye patch. Parrot. The joke landed a second later and he completely lost it.

A bark of laughter escaped him, followed by another and suddenly he was collapsing on a break room chair, shoulders shaking with mirth. He’d just received a complete pirate kit to go with his ‘peg’ leg.

It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of humor he appreciated but most people were too afraid to direct at him.

“Jack? Are you okay in here?” Robby’s voice preceded him into the breakroom. He stopped short at the sight of Jack wheezing with laughter, tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

“What is so funny?” Robby asked, then noticed the items on the table. “Is that…is your goblin calling you a pirate?”

Jack, still unable to form words, simply nodded and pushed the items toward Robby who ran a hand down his face in exasperation.

“Isn’t this a little insensitive?”

This only sent Jack into another fit of laughter. He wiped tears from his eyes, finally regaining enough composure to speak. “Who cares? That’s funny as fuck.”

Robby looked uncertain. “You’re not offended? You don’t even know who gave it to you.”

“Why would I be?” Jack picked up the parrot and patted it on the head. “This is the first time anyone at this hospital has made a joke about my leg without immediately looking like they wanted to die afterward.”

He attached the parrot to his shoulder and held up the rum. “This is good shit, too. Not some cheap garbage.”

Robby hummed in thought. “They seem to really get you.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. They really do.”

The gift exchange continued with little trinkets. You discovered a handcrafted leather bookmark in your box embossed with your initials. Jack found a dark blue scarf made of the softest material he’d ever felt the day after he’d complained about losing his old one.

Each small token seemed more thoughtful than the last. A travel mug that kept coffee hot for hours appeared in your box after you’d spent a shift complaining yours was always cold by the time you got a chance to drink it. Jack received a small bottle of high-end curl oil that smelled like cedar and citrus.

Every gift was a message. I see you. I notice what matters to you. I’m paying attention.

One evening Jack limped slightly as he made his way into the hospital, the cold seeping into his joints and making his prosthesis feel like it was attached to a block of ice rather than his leg. Three straight nights of a winter cold snap had left him irritable and hurting more than he cared to admit.

He needed hot coffee desperately and headed toward the breakroom as soon as he took the handoff from Ketterman, the day shift attending. His box contained several items and Jack made his way over, looking forward to his evening brightening just a bit. He needed it tonight.

He pulled the items out one at a time. Two different types of unscented ultra-moisturizing lotion—the specialized kind meant for amputees that wouldn’t be greasy or leave any sort of residue. A small tube of nerve pain cream that he recognized as the medical grade variety. His fingers hovered over the items, a lump forming in his throat.

These hadn’t been grabbed from some drugstore display. These were specific products selected with knowledge and care. The kind of products he used but rarely discussed because he hated to acknowledge that vulnerability, that weakness.

Someone had noticed. Someone had seen him wince when the weather turned, maybe caught him massaging his residual limb during a quiet moment on shift and instead of politely ignoring it as most people did, they’d actually thought about what might help.

Jack swallowed hard, running his thumb over the label of the nerve cream. It was his preferred brand, the one that actually worked when phantom pain kept him awake at night. They had to have researched the best one because he knew for a fact he’d never mentioned that to anyone.

Something soft, folded into a square sat in the box behind where the lotions and cream had been. He lifted out what appeared to be a t-shirt. He shook it open and as the design came into view, his emotional moment shifted into unexpected laughter.

The shirt was white with a simple illustration. A cat was lying under a rainbow with text that read I’M FUCKING FINE. THE REST OF YOU NEED THERAPY.

It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The dark, cynical humor he appreciated mixed with the surprisingly thoughtful leg care products. Whoever his goblin was they understood both parts of him. The part that hurt and the part that used humor to cope with it.

He stashed everything in his locker except the shirt which he put on under his scrub top. A smile played at his lips every time he remembered what was written across his chest as the night wore on.

The next morning, when Robby arrived to take over Jack was waiting at the hub.

“You look like you’re in a suspiciously good mood,” Robby commented, setting down his coffee. “Nothing major overnight?”

“Surprisingly quiet,” Jack confirmed with a shrug then grinned. “Want to see what my goblin left me?”

Robby raised his brows. “Sure, but if it’s an actual peg leg I’m calling HR.”

Jack glanced around to make sure no patients were nearby, then pulled up his scrub top to reveal the shirt underneath.

Robby leaned in to read it and then his face split into a grin. “Oh my god.”

“Right? It’s fucking perfect.”

“Your goblin is deranged,” Robby declared, shaking his head but still smiling.

“Isn’t it great?” Jack asked, letting his scrub top fall back into place.

“Suits you,” Robby admitted. “Though I’m pretty sure Gloria would have an aneurysm if she saw it.”

“Just another service I provide,” Jack replied, gathering his things to head home. His leg still ached, but somehow it bothered him less today.

You were pulled directly into a trauma when you arrived for your shift the next day and it took a couple of hours before you could even grab a coffee, never mind checking the boxes.

Inside yours was something rectangular wrapped in simple blue tissue paper. It was heavier than you expected as you pulled it out and laid it on the table. You unwrapped it carefully, then froze in disbelief. Inside was a set of charcoal gray Figs scrubs. Brand new in exactly your size.

“Oh no. That’s entirely too much,” you said aloud, running your fingers over the buttery-soft fabric.

Cassie entered the breakroom, peering at your gift and letting out a low whistle. “Holy shit. All I got was a McDonald’s gift card.”

You blinked, still staring at the scrubs and said absently, “You love McDonald’s”

Cassie grinned. “I know, but not more than Figs.” She reached out to feel the fabric, lifting the top to look underneath. She chuckled. “They got you the jacket, too. That’s a mint right there.”

Your stomach dropped. “I can’t keep these. That’s far too much.”

“You absolutely can,” Cassie argued. “You aren’t giving these back. I won’t let you.” She nudged your shoulder. “Just enjoy it. Someone obviously wanted you to have them and is using the exchange as an excuse.”

“But there’s a limit.”

“There is not. Not officially.” When you hesitated, she continued. “Look, if your goblin wants to spoil you, that’s their business. Don’t ruin their fun by being noble.”

Your fingers were still tracing the soft fabric. “They are really nice.”

“And they’re practical. It’s not like they got you diamond earrings or something. These are for work. You’ll wear them literally all the time.”

You considered this, a slow smile spreading across your face. “They are pretty amazing.”

“Exactly. Now try them on and tell me if I need to be more jealous than I already am.”

Two days later, you arrived for your shift in your new gray Figs. They fit perfectly, professional but flattering with just enough give to be comfortable during a twelve-hour shift. You felt good in them, and judging by Cassie’s exaggerated pout when she saw you, you looked good too.

“Not fair,” she grumbled. “But I did have a fantastic breakfast sandwich this morning.”

As you headed to the nurse’s station to check in, you passed Jack and Robby finishing up their handover. Jack’s sentence trailed off mid-report as he caught sight of you. His eyes tracked from your shoulders down to where the perfectly tailored pants met your shoes then back up again. A small, appreciative grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Morning, gentlemen,” you said, heat flooding your cheeks at his obvious appraisal.

“Morning,” Jack replied, voice a touch lower than normal. “New scrubs?”

You nodded.

“They look…” Jack paused, choosing his words carefully. “Professional.”

Robby snorted. “That’s not what your face just said, but okay.”

Jack shot him a look then turned back to you. “They suit you.”

“Thank you,” you replied.

A moment of silence stretched between you until Robby cleared his throat dramatically. “And on that note, we have patients to see and Jack has a home to go to. Right, Jack?”

Jack nodded, still looking at you. “Right. Have a good shift.”

As he walked away you caught yourself watching his retreating form wondering if you were imagining the extra attention and really hoped you weren’t.

The ED on New Year’s Eve was always busy. Drunks with varying degrees of alcohol poisoning and injuries from falls, a steady stream of car accidents as the night progressed and the inevitable chest pains from people who overexerted themselves shoveling snow.

The department filled with the typical casualties but the staff maintained a festive atmosphere despite the chaos. Several people had brought in finger foods that were set up in the lounge and Jack had brought in several bottles of sparkling grape juice.

He kept watching the clock. Not because he was eager for the shift to end, but he wanted to make sure he gave you your gift before midnight. He couldn’t stand you thinking you’d been forgotten again.

At 23:45 during a brief lull, Jack found himself at the hub where you were updating a chart.

“Hey, got a minute?” he asked.

You looked up with a smile. “For you? Maybe even two minutes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up in response. From his pocket he withdrew a simple white envelope. “It’s more an IOU than a gift,” he explained as he handed it to you.

“You were my goblin?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’ve already done too much, Jack. I don’t need anything else,” you argued.

“Just open it.”

You carefully opened the seal and pulled out a simple white card with snowflakes embossed on it. Inside were the words Dinner for two at Del Frisco’s.

For a moment you simply stared at it, then you looked up with wide eyes. “That’s really too much.”

He shook his head. “It’s not. But I’d like to be the one to take you.”

The statement hung in the air between you for a long moment.

“Like…” You trailed off as you searched his face.

“Like a date,” he confirmed, a quiet confidence in his tone that thankfully failed to betray the rapid beating of his heart. “You can say no of course, but I’d love it if you didn’t.”

A slow smile spread across your face, transforming your tired features into something that made Jack’s chest tighten. You reached into your scrub pocket and pulled out your own envelope, holding it out to him with a grin.

“What’s this?”

“Your final Gifting Goblin present, Dr. Abbot,” you replied, eyes dancing with mischief.

“You were my goblin?”

You nodded and warmth flooded him at the thought that it had been you that so perfectly captured him with your gifts.

He tore open his envelope with considerably less care than you’d shown yours. Inside were two tickets to the Carnegie Museum of Natural History.

“You remembered,” he said softly, looking at the tickets with genuine surprise. He’d mentioned that the museum was one place he hadn’t been that he really wanted to see in the city. Once. Months ago.

His eyes met yours, a pleased smile forming. “Two tickets, huh?”

You matched his smile as you echoed his earlier words. “Yeah. I’d like to be the one to take you. You can say no of course, but I’d love it if you didn’t.”

Jack’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sweetheart, that sounds like a date.”

“It is.”

From down the hall someone began counting down to the new year. Others quickly joined in.

TEN! NINE! EIGHT!

Jack moved around the counter placing one hand on the back of your chair, the other on the desk as he leaned into your space. “So, museum first, then dinner? Make a day of it?”

SEVEN! SIX! FIVE!

“That sounds perfect,” you replied, eyes locking onto his.

FOUR! THREE! TWO!

He traced the line of your face with the back of one finger before leaning closer as shouts of ONE went up.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he said, lips brushing yours before he closed the distance.

Part 4: I knew you were trouble

Your first morning together. One cheeky comment from you. And suddenly - another first.

--- --- ---

Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?

All you wanted was clarity. Instead it became an inside-joke - and the start of your favourite little game.

--- --- ---

Part 6: And you are...?

You just came to pick your boyfriend up for breakfast after his shift. Instead you accidentally became the main attraction of the entire emergency department.

--- --- ---

Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts

A shower, a bedside drawer and a discovery you never expected - and suddenly you're in your first real fight.

--- --- ---

Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs

Two days of fever, no voice and ignored messages. (Un)fortunately for you, Jack Abbot notices.

--- --- ---

Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby

A cozy lake house getaway. No bodies to bury. Just some fluff.

--- --- ---

Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by this

You were always the one preaching honesty and open communication. And now you're the one keeping a secret.

--- --- ---

Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks

When Jack thinks you're sick because you drank too much, the real reason turns out to be far more sobering - for both of you.

--- --- ---

Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo

The night isn't over yet and neither is the conversation

--- --- ---

Part 13: I'll be right here and clean up the mess

Some nights are harder than others. Good thing you're not facing them alone anymore.

--- --- ---

Part 14: Reminds me of my time in Afghanistan, just a bit nicer

You can take the doctor ouf of the hospital but you can't take the hospital out of him.

--- --- ---

Interlude I

The next three chapters will be a little different in style. I wanted to show a bit of Jack’s side of the story, and there’s probably no better way to do that than through his therapy sessions.

Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part I)

Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part II)

Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part III)

--- --- ---

Part 15: What's next? Bungee jumping?

What happens when you're finally released from the hospital? Apparently: snow, Christmas plans, Jack being overprotective… and a whole lot of fluff.

--- --- ---

Part 16: Grief-induced rebound-shag? Did he really say that?

Christmas Party at Robbys place. That's it. That's the plot. Enjoy!

--- --- ---

Part 17: You can't say that anymore

Apparently the thought of fatherhood changes a few things about Jack. Unfortunately, one of those realizations happens in the bedroom.

--- --- ---

Part 18: I'm not Santa but I brought gifts anyway

Christmas decorations appear where Jack definitely didn’t leave them, gifts are exchanged, and pregnancy hormones make New Year's Eve a little different than planned.

--- --- ---

Part 19: You shouldn't be worrying about money

You never liked talking about money. Unfortunately sometimes life forces the conversation. Luckily Jack doesn't mind taking care of things.

--- --- ---

Part 20: The eyes, Jack. The eyes.

You are telling a funny story. And Jack... listens.

--- --- ---

Part 21: Didn't know your dad was here helping you move

Moving day, creepy neighbour and a jealous Jack. Happy ending guaranteed.

--- --- ---

Part 22: I'm a hopeless romantic trapped in the body of a slightly sarcastic boomer

Jack was never the most romantic guy. And then Valentine's Day happened. The morning brings a surprise neither of you ever wanted.

A/N: This chapter contains some angst, including bleeding during pregnancy, mentions of blood and a miscarriage scare

--- --- ---

Part 23: I've been thinking about something...

Jack has been thinking about you again. It's lucky he's a brilliant physician because communication clearly isn't his strongest skill.

--- --- ---

Part 24: Hard to predict what I'll do in the haze after night shift

Jack likes to be prepared. Unfortunately for you that now includes preparing for the baby like it's a medical emergency.

--- --- ---

Part 25: I'm not your punching bag

Pregnancy hormones, old wounds and the difficult art of actually talking to each other.

--- --- ---

Part 26: Not my fault you can't keep it in your scrubs

Sometimes all a man needs is brunch with his best friend.

--- --- ---

Part 27: That's not enough time

Sometimes honest conversations take time… and it seems like the time has finally come.

--- --- ---

Part 28: Congratulations on the degree, Dr. Abbot

Waiting is the worst part - especially when nerves take over. And especially when your boyfriend is a highly trained physician who’s used to being in control… until he’s not.

--- --- ---

Part 29: I didn't know she was your girl

A quick trip to your old apartment turns into a lesson in boundaries - Jack style.

--- --- ---

Part 30: You guys act like he committed a crime

You had one simple plan: in, out, no drama. Well. The plan did not survive.

--- --- ---

Part 31: You never have to apologize for calling me or being scared

You're home alone, very pregnant and suddenly your body starts doing something it definitely did not do before...

--- --- ---

Part 32: It's about the fact that I don't want you to die

When Robby asks you to pick up your boyfriend you expect him to be drunk. Not… whatever this is.

--- --- ---

Bonus chapter: Did you actually think this through?

Jack gets hurt on a SWAT call and calls the one person he trusts most - unfortunately, this person has opinions.

--- --- ---

Part 33: You had a problem. I fixed it. No big deal.

Jacks an emergency medicine specialist. If you have a problem he will find a way to handle it. Apparently he’s also an expert in any kind of emergencies.

--- --- ---

Part 34: Sorry for being so fucking late

It starts with “This is probably nothing” and ends with “Oh god, this is happening.” And the only question is: where is Jack?

--- --- ---

Interlude II: And she called you?!

Let's answer the very important question before moving on: Where the hell was Jack? (A very short interlude)

--- --- ---

Part 35: You did so fucking brilliantly, kiddo

He made it. And now there’s no turning back.

--- --- ---

Part 36: She deserves to become her own person

The first quiet moment alone with your daughter and your boyfriend. You are happy - but the guilt hasn’t quite let go yet.

--- --- ---

Part 37: I think we made a mistake

Robby is the first visitor. He did not plan on getting emotional about it.

--- --- ---

Part 38: You two do realize you're not a couple, right?

Jack introduces his newborn daughter to the ED. Featuring proud dad energy, Robby being the worlds most intense godfather and a team that is absolutely losing it over baby Lizzie.

--- --- ---

Part 39: I don't know what to do. I don't know anything

The first days with a newboarn aren't easy... but you're not doing it alone.

--- --- ---

Part 40: I'm glad he finally stuck with something

Jack is excited for his sisters visit. You try to be too. But something about her just doesn't feel quite... right.

--- --- ---

Part 41: It's not against you, darling. It's just... personal

Some comments linger. Some truths explode. And not everything said can be taken back.

--- --- ---

Part 42: I get it. Family isn't easy

Bad timing, family drama and a man who is absolutely done being polite.

--- --- ---

Part 43: I don't want you thinking about my sister the first time we have sex again

You try to make an effort. He makes it very clear you don’t have to.

--- --- ---

Part 44: You had it coming

Family is complicated. Especially when the truth finally shows up.

--- --- ---

Bonus Chapter: You don't get to decide what kind of woman I should be

Some conversations aren’t about winning. They’re about being heard.

--- --- ---

Part 45: I didn't think it was all battle royal out there

Daycare hunting hits like a competetive sport you didn't know you'd already lost

--- --- ---

Bonus chapter: Wow. Not even hypothetical me gets any freedom?

Jack and Robby try to figure out childcare. It's not their ... most productive conversation.

--- --- ---

Part 46: You wanna tell me something?

What should've been a quiet brunch turns into a fight about something that means very different things to both of them - and suddenly thirty years of friendship feel shaky.

--- --- ---

Part 47: But now listen carefully - Daddy's first important life lesson for you

First baby group, first mom friends - and Jack who’s somehow more nervous about all of it than you are

--- --- ---

Part 48: That face needs to populate a whole bloodline

What starts with a new member in the baby group turns into jealousy - and ends in an insufferable ego boost.

--- --- ---

Part 49: I know exactly who to call

Lizzie needs her first shots. Jack thinks he can handle it. Spoiler: he cannot.

--- --- ---

Part 50: I think I'm more comfortable falling apart in my own apartment

A sleepless night, a screaming baby and the overwhelming fear of failing.

--- --- ---

Part 51: It's just a rough patch. Okay?

You are one breakdown away from walking out. Jack has seen worse - and he's not letting you fall apart.

--- --- ---

Part 52: If you think I'm helicoptering - he's next level

You hit your limit last night. Today you pick yourself back up- with help, of course.

--- --- ---

Part 53: She's totally judging you

A quiet afternoon, a gentle conversation... and Lizzie having opinions

--- --- ---

Part 54: I don't need an audience

An intimate moment gets unexpectedly interrupted.

--- --- ---

Part 55: Good call, labeling your boss the department slut

Lizzie is already a few months old but that doesn't stop the Pitt crew from throwing a party.

--- --- ---

Part 56: I think that's a bad idea, girl

When the nights get too overwhelming, you find yourself reaching out for help. But some things are easier to hide than to explain.

--- --- ---

Part 57: I thought things were going well

Too many things left unsaid, one moment too far - and suddenly the damage is real. (Aka Jack fucks up tremendously.)

--- --- ---

Interlude II:

Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)

Jack's in therapy. It gets uncomfortable fast.

--- --- ---

Part 58: Please tell me she insulted you

Brunch again. Jack has a conversation with Robby that's uncomfortable - for at least one of them.

--- --- ---

Part 59: Must be a world record with only one-and-a-half legs

Sometimes tough conversations really are just a walk in the park. (With Robby of all people.)

--- --- ---

Interlude III:

Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)

Therapy again. That's the plot.

--- --- ---

Part 60: We're okay. So let's be... okay

A small breakdown, a quiet reset - and the work begins.

--- --- ---

Interlude IV:

Let's talk about it (The Couple Sessions - Part I)

Jack takes his therapist's advice… and you end up in couples therapy.

--- --- ---

Part 61: And sorry I'm not a woman you could hit on

When you and Jack plan your first baby-free night out, you find a babysitter. It's not Robby - and he takes it personally.

--- --- ---

Part 62: Maybe they think we're having an affair

No baby. No chaos. Just them, wine, bad joked - and a piece of Jacks past that no one was supposed to know.

--- --- ---

Part 63: That was the funniest thing you ever said

You were just going to do some laundry. Instead you find something Jack’s been hiding - cue a misunderstanding, a minor crisis and Jack trying (very badly) to be responsible.

--- --- ---

Part 64: Don't do that, girl. Some of us had a rough shift

Lizzies first Thanksgiving: an extra guest, a questionable amount of food, a brief deep dive into systemic issues and a resident performing turkey surgery. Karaoke may or may not be involved.

--- --- ---

Bonus chapter: robbby forced me. 0/10 expeirence. miss you.

Karaoke.

--- --- ---

Part 65: I feel like we missed a memo

Plan: sexy breakfast for boyfriend. Reality: boyfriend brings coworkers.

--- --- ---

Part 66: So, we are negotiating with terrorists now?

Jack Abbot, experienced medical professional, outsmarted and emotionally manipulated by a baby with strong opinions and excellent grip strength.

--- --- ---

Part 67: I think I could use your help too

Jack runs into his therapist in public and is forced to watch Robby hit on her in real time.

--- --- ---

Part 68: I'm working nights over Christmas, by the way

Jack reveals he's working over Christmas turning a simple holiday plan into a quiet but painful argument.

--- --- ---

Interlude V:

Tell Me About It (The Jack Sessions - Part VI)

Jack is in serious need of therapy today

--- --- ---

Part 69: I just need a break

Jack tells you the real reason he chose to work Christmas. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

--- --- ---

Part 70: That's not a win. That's a warning

Jack has a therapist. And then he has Robby. Reality checks included. Coffee optional.

--- --- ---

Bonus chapter: A knee to the balls would probably fix that dick-swinging behavior

What happens after you walk out on Jack - and before you go back to face him? Well… the answer’s simple: A much-needed girl talk. (And wine.)

--- --- ---

Part 71: That is emotional bullshit with fake snow

Christmas arrives. You expect the worst - and get something better anyway

--- --- ---

Part 72: I'm a big girl, you know?

Jack is late. And this time you don’t wait.

--- --- ---

Part 73: Not now, Lizzie. Daddy needs his hands free to sort that guy out

In the weird limbo after Christmas, you decide to throw a New Year’s Eve party - complete with too many guests, a little harmless flirting and the ongoing challenge of keeping Robby away from Mara.

--- --- ---

Part 74: She's doing coke with some guy in the bathroom

“It's just a few days.” Turns out a few days is more than enough for Jack to realize what he actually wants - and what he might be losing.

--- --- ---

Interlude VI:

Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)

It's day five of your absence and Jack has another therapy session - one that’s very much needed and emotionally charged.

--- --- ---

Bonus chapter: Tell me again - why didn't you bring Jack?

You were looking forward to some alone time with your mom - until she called you out.

--- --- ---

Part 75: You're really not making this easy for me, huh?

You come home. Nothing is fully fixed - but it's a start.

--- --- ---

Part 76: Can I ask you something?

Coffee, communication and the quiet realization that you're actually going to make this work.

--- --- ---

Interlude VII:

What the hell are you working on?

Jack at the gym. A very short interlude.

--- --- ---

Part 77: But boy, I guess he’s a disaster on the inside

A much mneeded girls night and an unexpected visitor. Tumbler included.

--- --- ---

Interlude VIII:

:)

Some texts between Robby and you.

--- --- ---

Interlude IX:

Inter-Interlude: Your best friend is completely unhinged

Some texts between Jack and you

Brendon wouldn't say he was 'jamming out' during the surgery but he was enjoying the music playing overhead while he worked. This was not a routine scheduled knee or hip replacement; this was an unfortunate individual who had been trying to get home when someone else decided to drive recklessly and caused a massive accident. Brendon didn't worry about the clock but he knew he'd be here another hour at least.

A voice interrupted Brendon's focus, "Dr. Park, your wife is calling," the circulating nurse, Emily, called to him.

He had texted you before the surgery not to expect him home anytime soon. "Go ahead and answer it," he responded, looking over to the nurse for her nod that he could speak. "Hey sweetheart, you're on speaker phone."

His family was no secret to the staff of the OR. He had photos in his office of his family. The only ones that were ever surprised were the new students or anyone from another department that happened to come into his office.

"Sorry to interrupt but uh … it's time for Goodnight Moon," you said hesitantly.

Brendon paused his movements before letting out a small sigh. "No reasoning with the enemy?"

"I tried, baby. I knew you were tied up. But he's three."

Brendon nodded despite you not being able to see it. Three year olds didn't see reasoning or logic at times. He knew you would have done anything else to have avoided calling while he was working. Texting was different; he'd respond when he could. "Alright, let's go."

As you switched to speaker phone on your end, he heard you say, "Daddy's on the phone. He'll read the story."

Brendon chose to ignore the looks exchanged between the staff. He had read Goodnight Moon every night for a solid year. Other books were often in addition to Goodnight Moon, but it was a mandatory read. He could recite it in his sleep.

"HI DADDY!" a loud voice exclaimed.

"Shh," you said. "Daddy can hear you without yelling."

"Hi, buddy. You got your book?"

"Yeah and Bunny," he said referring to the bunny plush that came with the book.

"Good. In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon, and a picture of -"

"Cow jump over the moon!" His son said happily. Brendon wasn't the only one who had this book memorized.

"Hey, who's reading this story? Me or you?"

"Daddy!"

"That's right," Brendon said. "And there were three little bears sitting on chairs, and two little kittens-"

"And a pair of mittens," the little voice wasn't quite so loud now as he listened to his dad's voice.

Brendon continued on. "And a little toy house, and a young mouse. And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush." Brendon paused to see if there would be an interruption. "And a quiet old lady whispering 'hush'," he said the last word in a loud whisper.

"Goodnight room, goodnight moon…" Brendon recited even though the other side of the phone had gone very quiet. Finally he finished and he listened for any stirring.

"He didn't make it past 'goodnight bears'" your whispered voice came over the line. "I'll see you when you get home. I love you."

By the time Santos called Jack, you had been singing for twenty-three minutes.

Not continuously.

There had been pauses.

Important pauses.

One pause to tell Robby he was doing the background vocals wrong. Another to inform Whitaker that his attempt to close the tab was “emotionally hostile.” Another to point at a man near the jukebox and announce, with deep conviction, that he was not your husband because your husband had better shoulders.

Mel had tried water.

Javadi had tried fries.

Whitaker had tried logistics.

Robby had tried joining in, which had only made everything worse.

And Santos, because she had the glare of a woman who had spent years keeping doctors from making stupid choices, and no patience left, finally pulled out her phone.

You were standing beside the booth with one hand braced on the table, swaying to the beat of a song that was no longer playing.

“Baby! Woo-hoo, where the hell is my husband? Woo-hoo! What is takin' him so long to find me? Woo-hoo!”

Robby lifted both hands as if he were conducting you. “Great projection.”

Santos pointed at him. “Stop encouraging her.”

Robby shrugged, “She’s an artist.”

“She is refusing to leave a bar because she thinks her husband has been misplaced,” Santos replied. 

You turned sharply. Too sharply. Mel caught your elbow before gravity could make a compelling argument.

“He is not misplaced,” you said.

Santos lowered the phone slightly. “No?”

You frowned, “He is missing.”

Javadi nodded from the end of the booth, phone in hand, filming with the calm detachment of someone documenting history. “The distinction is important.”

Whitaker rubbed both hands over his face. “It is not.”

You slapped one palm gently against the table. “My husband is handsome and tall and sexy and has doctor hands.”

Robby leaned toward Mel. “Doctor's hands is specific.”

Mel nodded. “And accurate.”

“And,” you continued, because you were not finished and everyone needed to understand the scale of the emergency, “he has very serious pecs.”

Santos closed her eyes.

Robby whispered, “Here we go.”

You pointed at him. “Respect the pecs.”

“I do,” Robby said immediately.

Whitaker slid your glass of water toward you. “Can we respect the pecs from the parking lot?”

You shake your head quickly, “No.”

“Why?” He groans. 

You point towards the door, “Because my husband is not in the parking lot.”

Santos pressed Jack’s contact and lifted the phone to her ear.

You gasped. “Are you calling him?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

“No!” You exclaimed. 

Santos looked at you. “No?”

You shook your head, “I don’t want to call him.”

“You have been singing for him for twenty-three minutes,” Santos said.

You rolled your eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I want him to appear.” 

Robby slapped the table once. “That is marriage.”

Santos ignored him and turned slightly away as the call connected.

Jack answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”

His voice came through low and alert, and you froze.

Santos looked at you.

You stared at her phone like it had become sacred.

“Abbot,” Santos said.

There was a small pause on the other end. “Santos?”

“You busy?” She asks. 

“At home.” Jack’s voice sharpened. “Is she okay?”

You grabbed Mel’s wrist and whispered very loudly, “Is that my husband?”

Mel patted your hand. “Yes, honey.”

You looked down at your left hand.

Your wedding rings gleamed under the warm bar lights.

You gasped. “I have wife jewelry.”

Robby bent forward with a wheeze. “Wife jewelry.”

On the phone, Jack went quiet. “What was that?”

Santos looked at you as you lifted your hand in front of your face and admired your rings with genuine awe.

“She is okay,” Santos said carefully.

Jack exhaled. “Define okay.”

You turned toward the booth again, apparently remembering your mission. “Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?” You pick up your song.

Jack went silent.

Robby threw his head back and supplied a terrible echo. “Woo-hoo!”

Santos pinched the bridge of her nose.

Jack said, “Is that her?”

“No,” Santos said. “That is the jukebox haunting me.”

Jack sighed, “Santos.”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Is she hurt?” He asked. 

“No.”

“Sick?” He continued. 

“No.”

Jack exhaled, “Crying?”

You pointed at a man near the pool table. “Not him. My husband has a better ass.”

Mel covered her mouth with a hand.

Santos stared at the ceiling. “No. Not crying.”

There was a pause.

Then Jack said, dry as hell, “Did she say something about my ass?”

Robby lunged across the table, trying to get closer to the phone. “Tell him she said better.”

Santos shoved his forehead back with two fingers. “She is refusing to leave until her husband comes to collect her.”

You leaned toward Santos’s phone. “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants.”

Santos pulled the phone away from you. “Absolutely not.”

Jack made a sound that might have been a cough. “I’m leaving now. Send me the address.” He was already moving.

“All right,” Santos said. “I’ll send it.”

In the background, Robby shouted, “Tell him she’s been reviewing his ass for twenty minutes!”

Jack went silent again.

Santos closed her eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”

You reached toward the phone. “Wait, I want to talk to him.”

“No,” Santos said, ending the call. 

Your lower lip trembled, “But he’s missing.”

“He’s on his way.” She told you. 

That stopped you. Your mouth fell open. “He’s coming?”

Santos slid her phone into her pocket. “Yes.”

You laid a hand on your chest, “To me?”

“Yes.” Trinity nodded. 

You pressed both hands to your cheeks. “Oh, fuck.”

Whitaker nodded toward the door. “Great. Now we can go.”

“No,” you said immediately.

His shoulders dropped. “Why not?”

You looked at him like he had just asked the stupidest question in recorded history. “I have to be here when my husband appears.”

Robby raised one hand. “I support her.”

Santos snapped, “No one asked you.”

You sat back down in the booth and folded your hands on the table like you were waiting for a job interview.

Mel slid the water toward you again. “Drink some water while you wait.”

You stared at the glass.

Then at Mel.

Then at Santos.

“What if he gets here and I’m drinking water?” You ask. 

Javadi tilted her head. “Would that be bad?”

You frowned, thinking hard. “No. Hydration is sexy.”

Whitaker looked at the ceiling. “Thank God.”

You picked up the glass, took one sip, and set it down with a proud nod.

Then you leaned toward Robby. “Do you think he knows he’s my husband?”

Robby’s face lit with dangerous joy.

Santos pointed at him. “Do not.”

Robby held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

Her eyes narrowed, “You were about to.”

Robby frowned deeply, “I have never done anything wrong in my life.”

Javadi looked up from her phone. “There are videos.”

You tapped your rings against the table, watching them sparkle. “I’m going to ask him.”

Mel smiled. “Ask him what?”

“If he’s my husband.” You answer. 

Whitaker muttered, “This will be efficient.”

“It will not,” Santos said.

And it wasn’t.

Because when Jack walked in seven minutes later, everything in you stopped working.

He came through the door in jeans, sneakers, and a dark hoodie under his jacket, like he had pulled on the first clothes he found and driven over without thinking about anything except getting to you. His hair was messy, his expression serious, and his eyes scanned the bar once before landing on your booth.

On you.

You stopped mid-hum.

Your hand tightened around Mel’s wrist. “Oh no.”

Mel followed your gaze. “What?”

You pointed. “That man has pecs like my husband’s.”

Robby twisted in his seat so fast he nearly knocked over Whitaker’s drink.

Santos sighed. “That man is your husband.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on Jack as he crossed the bar. “No.”

Javadi kept filming. “Denial phase.”

Jack reached the table and looked you over first, quick and clinical, because he was Jack. No visible injury. No tears. No panic. Just you, drunk and bright-eyed and staring at him like he had been sent from some divine catalog of bad ideas.

His shoulders eased. “Hey, baby.”

You blinked. Then slowly turned to Santos. “He called me baby.”

She nodded slowly, “Because he is your husband.”

You whipped back toward him. “You are?”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

He lifted his left hand without hesitation.

His wedding band caught the bar light.

You looked down at your own rings.

Then back at his.

Then at your rings again. “Oh, my god.”

Jack’s face softened. “Yeah?”

You beam. “We match.”

“We do.” He replied.

You looked him up and down, with a long pause at his chest. “Hell yeah.”

Robby slammed both hands on the table. “And we’re off.”

Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Don’t.”

You leaned toward Mel, still staring at Jack. “He has very serious pecs.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

Mel’s shoulders shook. “I know, honey.”

“Do you think he works out?” You whispered to Trinity. 

Santos answered before Jack could. “Occasionally.”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s working.”

Jack opened his eyes. “Okay. Time to go.”

You frowned. Then looked him up and down again. “Hey, soldier.”

The whole booth went quiet.

Jack stared at you.

Santos slowly turned her head. “Oh, my god.”

You gave Jack what you clearly thought was a seductive smile. “You come here often?”

Jack’s mouth twitched again, despite his best efforts. “To retrieve my drunk wife from a bar? No.”

Your eyes went wide. “Wife?”

He lifted his hand again.

You looked at his ring.

Then yours.

Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”

Javadi, still filming, said, “The verification system remains functional.”

Jack looked at her phone. “Are you recording?”

“Yes.” She answered instantly. 

Jack groans, “Why?”

“Documentation,” Victoria answered. 

“It’s behavioral science,” Robby added.

Jack ignored all of them and reached for the water glass instead of you. “Drink.”

You froze. Then you sat up straighter, eyes suddenly sharp with drunk discovery. “Huh.”

Jack paused. “Huh?”

You pointed at him. “Attending voice.”

Robby made a delighted noise. “Oh, she clocked it.”

Jack gave him a flat look. “Do not participate.”

You leaned toward Santos, whispering very loudly. “He said drink like he was about to order labs.”

Santos nodded. “He did.”

“I did not,” Jack said.

Mel patted your shoulder. “You kind of did.”

Jack pushed the glass closer. “Three sips.”

Your lips parted. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Please just drink the water.”

You picked up the glass with both hands, still staring at him. “You’re very bossy for a stranger.”

Jack opened his eyes. “I’m not a stranger.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Then you looked down at your rings again.

Jack lifted his hand.

You inspected his wedding band with deep seriousness.

“Right,” you said. “Husband.”

“Yes,” Jack confirmed. 

You took one sip.

Jack nodded once. “Good.”

You set the glass down too hard. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

“You can’t say ‘good’ with attending voice.” You frowned. 

Robby dropped his forehead onto the table. “She’s right.”

Jack pointed at him. “Not another word.”

You finished the water because Jack stood there with crossed arms and serious eyes, and the world had become a place where hydration was suddenly compelling.

When you set the glass down, Jack picked up your coat. “Arm.”

You inhaled sharply.

Santos pointed at him. “That one was attending voice.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “I need her arm in the sleeve.”

You looked at him, dazed. “You need my arm?”

Jack took a slow breath. “Baby.”

You melted back against the booth. “Oh, Jackie.”

That got him. Just a little. His expression shifted, the stern line of his mouth almost breaking.

Santos saw it immediately. “Don’t reward her.”

“I’m not rewarding her,” Jack said.

“You liked Jackie,” Santos replied. 

Jack held the coat open and looked at you. “Arm.”

You stared at him. Then slid one arm into the sleeve. “Bossy.”

He guided the coat around your shoulders. “Other arm.”

You looked at Mel. “He wants the other one too.”

Mel nodded, fighting for her life. “Coats usually do.”

You gave Jack your other arm. He pulled the coat into place and zipped it halfway with careful, practical hands. You looked down at the zipper. Then up at him. “That was hot.”

“It was a zipper.” Jack deadpanned. 

You sighed happily, “You did it like a procedure.”

Robby lifted his head. “Sterile field: wife edition.”

Jack did not turn around. “Robby.”

“Sorry.” Robby lowered his head once more. 

Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she proposes to him.”

You froze. Then your head turned slowly toward Jack. “I proposed?”

Jack’s expression softened at once. “No, baby.” He lifted his left hand before you could even ask, wedding band, catching the bar light. “I proposed.”

You looked down at your rings. Then at his. Then up at him, stunned and pleased and drunk-happy. “You wanted to marry me?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still do.”

Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”

Robby dropped his forehead back to the table. “They’re disgusting.”

Jack crouched slightly in front of you and offered his hand. “Stand up.”

The booth went silent. You stared at him. Then you looked at Santos. “Attending voice.”

Santos nodded. “Full attending voice.”

Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling. “I am trying to get you upright.”

You nodded, “You’re doing it with authority.”

“You are drunk in public,” Jack replied. 

You clicked your tongue, “You’re hot in public.”

Mel made a small sound into her hand.

Jack’s ears went faintly pink.

You saw it. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “Jackie’s blushing.”

Jack shook his head, “I am not.”

“You are.” You squeal with delight. 

Jack’s hand stayed steady in front of you. “Up.”

You pressed one hand dramatically to your chest. “Fuck.”

Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she discovers a military kink.”

Jack’s head snapped up. “Santos.”

She shrugged, “What? She’s halfway there.”

You tilted your head, considering. “A what?”

“Nope.” Jack took your hand and helped you stand. “We’re going home.”

For one glorious second, you were upright and triumphant.

Then the room tilted. Jack caught you by the waist.

Your entire body went still. “Oh, fuck.”

“Balance,” he said.

You stared up at him. “You said that like an order.”

“It was an explanation,” Jack replied. 

You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”

“No,” Jack answered immediately. 

Robby lifted his head. “She’s not wrong.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him.

Robby lowered his head again. “Withdrawn.”

You touched Jack’s chest lightly with one finger. “Responsible soldier husband.”

Jack looked down at your hand. Then at your face. “Doctor husband. Former soldier.”

You nodded solemnly. “Doctor husband with command voice.”

Mel laughed into her hand. 

Jack took a slow breath. “Arm over my shoulder.”

Your eyes went wide. “Jackie.”

“Arm,” he repeated, then pointed to his shoulder. “Here.”

You looked at Santos. “He pointed.”

“I saw.” She answered. 

You licked your lips. “He pointed and said here.”

Trinity nodded solemnly, “You’re going to survive.”

You shook your head furiously, “You don’t know that.”

Jack guided your arm over his shoulders.

You held on to him and immediately looked delighted. “I’m touching him.”

Santos nodded. “You are.”

“Legally?” You asked, looking to Jack, bright and hopeful. 

Jack lifted his left hand in front of your face.

You checked his ring. Then yours. “Hell yeah.”

Jack slid an arm around your waist and pulled you carefully against his side.

You went very still. Then you looked down at his arm. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack sighed. “Please walk.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and delighted. “Can you say it again, but like bossier?”

“No,” Jack said. 

“Absolutely not,” Santos said at the same time.

Robby lifted his head just enough to gasp for air. “I can’t believe it. This is foreplay with witnesses.”

Jack pointed at him without loosening his hold on you. “Not foreplay.”

You leaned into his side and whispered loudly. “But later?”

Jack closed his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

You nodded, “But later, when I’m not drunk?”

“Later,” Santos said quickly, “is between you, Jack, and God.”

Javadi nodded. “And possibly the HOA, depending on volume.”

You looked at Jack. “Do we have an HOA?”

He shook his head, “No.”

You leaned closer to him, “Then later?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Walk.”

You inhaled sharply. “Oh, that was better.”

Santos threw both hands up. “Door. Now.”

Jack started moving.

You went with him, tucked carefully into his side, one arm over his shoulders, his arm secure around your waist, your coat half-zipped and your dignity somewhere under the booth.

You made it three steps before he said, “Watch your feet.”

You looked up at him. “Attending voice.”

“Safety voice.” He corrected. 

You shrugged, “They’re cousins.”

“Eyes forward,” Jack replied. 

You sighed dramatically, “Oh fuck me, that one too.”

Santos followed behind you, laughing now despite herself. “This is the worst evacuation I’ve ever seen.”

Jack kept you tucked firmly against his side. “It is not an evacuation.”

“You’re using evacuation posture,” you said.

He looked down at you.

You smiled up at him, drunk and delighted. “I like it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

Halfway to the door, you twisted carefully to look back at the table.

“Everybody be cool,” you announced. “I’m leaving with my husband.”

Robby raised both hands. “Hell yeah, Mrs. Abbot.”

You stopped.

Jack stopped with you, patient but visibly suffering.

You looked down at your rings.

Then grabbed his left hand and checked his.

The band was still there.

You smiled, delighted all over again. “Hell yeah.”

Jack’s face softened.

Then you glanced behind him one more time. 

“And he has a great ass!” You cheer.

Jack immediately started walking again.

“Goodnight,” he called over his shoulder.

Santos waved. “Hydrate her.”

Mel added, “Text when you get home.”

Whitaker pointed at Jack. “Do not let her order fries.”

You gasped. “Traitor.”

Javadi lifted her glass. “The record will show we tried.”

Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ask him to walk bossier!”

Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder and guided you into the cool night air.

The second the air hit your face, you sighed dramatically and leaned a little more heavily into his side.

Jack adjusted his hold. “You okay?”

You looked up at him.

The bar lights spilled behind him, catching the edge of his jaw, the tired concern in his face, the little pinch between his brows that meant he was trying to figure out if you needed water, food, sleep, or all three.

Your drunk brain, unhelpfully, sorted those options into one category.

Husband.

“Jack?” You asked quietly. 

Jack looked down at you, “Yeah, baby?”

“You’re really my husband?” You whispered the question. 

He lifted his left hand between you before you even asked.

You looked at his ring.

Then down at yours.

Then up at him.

Your smile went soft and bright and drunk-happy. “Hell yeah.”

Jack shook his head, but he was smiling now. “Yeah,” he said, guiding you toward the car. “Hell yeah.”

You made it halfway across the parking lot before you stopped again.

Jack looked down. “What?”

You stared at him very seriously. “You came when I sang.”

His mouth twitched. “Santos called.”

“But I sang.” You persisted. 

Jack nodded, “You did.”

“And you appeared.” You added with delight. 

“I did,” Jack replied. 

You nodded, deeply moved. “Powerful.”

Jack opened the passenger door and kept one hand at your back. “In.”

You looked at the seat. Then at him. “I like it when you give directions.”

Jack almost smiled, “I have noticed.”

“Can you say ‘in’ again?” You asked, looking up at him. 

His answer comes quickly, “No.”

“Meaner?” You tried.

This answer was faster: “Absolutely not.”

You sighed and got into the car anyway, mostly because Jack’s hand was warm at your back and he looked like that, and you were only human.

He leaned across you to buckle your seatbelt.

You went very still.

Jack paused immediately. “Okay?”

You nodded, eyes wide. “You smell good.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and clicked the seatbelt into place. “You’re drunk.”

“You smell good when I’m drunk.” You amended. 

Jack shook his head, “That’s not how that works.”

“It is for me.” You replied with a happy shrug. 

Jack braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at you.

His expression was amused. Tired. Fond in a way he would absolutely deny if Robby had been there to witness it. “You need water when we get home.”

You pointed at him. “Bossy.”

“You need sleep.” He added. 

You smiled. “Oh, fuck.”

“And no flirting with me until you can walk in a straight line.” Jack continued. 

Your mouth fell open. “You’re denying your wife?”

Jack held up his left hand.

You looked at his ring automatically.

Then at yours.

The distress vanished.

You nodded, “Hell yeah.”

He smiled despite himself. “And yes. I’m denying my drunk wife.”

You considered that, then nodded slowly. “Responsible husband.”

He smiled softly, “Trying to be.”

You looked him up and down from your seat. “Hot.”

Jack shut the door before you could say anything else. You watched him walk around the front of the car. The parking lot lights were doing very good things to him. His shoulders. His hoodie. His jeans. When he opened the driver’s side door, you were still staring.

He slid in and caught your expression immediately. “No.”

You frowned deeply, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to,” Jack commented. 

You looked out the windshield, dignified. “I was admiring privately.”

You looked at his hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, fuck.”

He closed his eyes. “Baby.”

You looked down at your rings.

Then, at his hand on the wheel, wedding band visible under the passing sweep of the parking lot light.

“You called me baby.” You sighed happily. 

He pulled out of the parking space. “I’m your husband.”

You smiled at his ring. “Hell yeah.” 

The drive home was mostly quiet. Mostly. 

You hummed under your breath until Jack, without looking away from the road, said, “No more husband song.”

You turned your head toward him. “I like it when you’re bossy.”

“I know.” He replied. 

You sat up straighter, “Say something else.”

“No.”

“That was something.” You mumbled. 

He sighed.

You smiled out the window like you had won.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, your energy had softened around the edges. The feral husband appreciation was still there, obviously, because Jack existed and you had eyes, but it had gone warm and sleepy.

Less bar announcement.

More gravity.

Jack came around to your side and opened the door.

You looked up at him.

He looked down at you. “Out.”

Your mouth parted.

Jack pointed at you. “Do not.”

You pressed your lips together, nodding seriously. Then whispered, “Attending voice.”

He helped you out anyway.

You wobbled once on the driveway, and his hand found your waist immediately.

You leaned into him. “Good catch.”

He gave you a little grin, “Good wobble.”

You gasped. “You praised me.”

“I should not have,” Jack replied, regretting his choice immediately. 

You smiled up at him, “I liked it.”

Jack looked down at you, “I know.” 

Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Jack locked the door behind you, then turned back to find you standing in the entryway, looking down at your left hand again.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Checking?”

You lifted your rings toward the hall light. “Still married.”

Jack held up his left hand. His wedding band gleamed.

Your smile went loose and delighted. “Hell yeah.”

He took your coat off first.

Not because you helped.

You did not help.

You got distracted halfway through by the flex of his forearm when he pulled the sleeve down your arm. “Oh, fuck.”

Jack paused. “What?”

You didn’t look up, “Your arm.”

“My arm is removing your coat,” Jack said. 

“Yeah.” You stared at it. “That’s the problem.”

Jack exhaled through his nose and hung your coat on the hook. “Kitchen.”

You looked at him sharply. “Attending voice.”

Jack sighed, “I’m getting you water.”

“You said kitchen like an order.” You argued. 

Jack inhaled, “It was a destination.”

“A hot destination.” You corrected him. 

He pointed down the hall. “Move.”

You inhaled. “Jackie.”

“No.” He said instantly. 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” You said with a whine. 

Jack gave you a look, “I do.”

You followed him anyway, because his hand settled at the small of your back and your drunk brain apparently classified that as a life-altering event.

At the kitchen counter, he gave you more water and two crackers.

You stared at the crackers. Then up at him. “Are you feeding me?”

“I am preventing tomorrow from being worse,” Jack replied. 

Your eyes went wide and affectionate, “You provide.”

“I provide saltines.” Jack amended. 

You picked one up and took a dramatic bite. “Sexy.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Chew.”

You froze. Then pointed at him with the cracker. “Attending voice.”

Jack tilted his head, “Chewing is not optional.”

“Oh, my god.” You fan yourself with the cracker. 

He dragged a hand down his face. “Please eat the cracker.”

You did, mostly because he watched you with that serious, focused Jack expression, and you had already learned at the bar that being perceived by your husband while he gave basic instructions was dangerous.

After water and crackers, he got you upstairs.

Barely.

There was a brief negotiation on the landing because you stopped to admire his butt from a lower step and whispered, “Perspective,” like you had made a scientific discovery.

Jack looked over his shoulder. “Keep walking.”

You gripped the railing. “Attending voice.”

“Stairs voice.” He corrected you.

You shrugged, “Same family.”

When you finally reached the bathroom, Jack set your makeup remover, toothbrush, and face wash on the counter as if he were preparing for a procedure.

You leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “You’re setting up supplies.”

Jack nodded, “I am.”

“Like an attending.” You add. 

“Like a husband who knows you’ll sleep in mascara if I don’t help,” Jack replied. 

You gasped and looked down at your rings.

Jack lifted his left hand immediately.

You checked. Satisfied, you nodded. “Verified.”

He handed you a makeup wipe. “Face.”

You took it, then blinked. “Huh.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”

“You said face.” You answered. 

Jack nodded, “I did.”

“Very direct.” You replied with a crooked smile. 

Jack looks over your face, “You have makeup on it.”

You touched the wipe to your cheek, still watching him. “Bossy skincare husband.”

Jack leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. That was a mistake.

You stared at his chest. 

He noticed. “Face,” he repeated.

You closed your eyes. “That was worse.”

“Makeup off.” He tried again. 

You threw your head back in defeat, “Oh, fuck.”

He held out his hand. “Give me the wipe.”

You handed it over without thinking. Jack stepped closer and gently tipped your chin up with two fingers. The bathroom went very quiet. He wiped beneath one eye with slow, careful strokes, his other hand steady at your jaw. His face was close enough that you could see the tired fondness in his eyes.

You swallowed. “Jackie.”

His thumb stilled for half a second. “Yeah?”

“You’re really good at this.” You whispered. 

He smiled softly, “At taking off mascara?”

“At being mine.” You said, almost breathless. 

His expression softened.

Then, because you were drunk and incapable of letting tenderness survive unbothered, you added, “Also, your pecs are close.”

Jack closed his eyes. “There she is.”

You smiled.

He finished with your makeup, then handed you your toothbrush.

“Toothpaste,” he said.

You looked at the toothbrush. Then at him in the mirror. “Attending voice.”

“Toothpaste voice.”

You brushed your teeth while glaring at him with exaggerated suspicion.

Jack watched you in the mirror, arms crossed, trying and failing not to smile.

When you finished, he pointed to the sink. “Spit.”

You blinked around the toothbrush. Then slowly looked at him. “Jack.”

“What?” He asked. 

Your eyes widened, “You can’t just say spit like that.”

His jaw tightened. Not anger. A smile he was trying to kill. “I am asking you to brush your teeth.”

“You are issuing commands in a bathroom.” You say, mouth foamy. 

Jack looked down at your mouth, “You have toothpaste in your mouth.”

You pointed the toothbrush at him. “Dangerous.”

“Sink.” He commanded. 

“Oh, fuck.” You spat, rinsed, and accepted the towel he handed you.

“Good,” he said.

You pressed the towel to your mouth and froze.

He sighed immediately. “I forgot.”

“You said good.” You grinned. 

He sighed again, “I did.”

“With the voice.” You say, eyebrows raised. 

Jack shrugged, “It slipped.”

You lowered the towel and pointed at him. “Dangerous.”

“Bed,” he said.

You stared. “Jack.”

He pointed toward the bedroom. “Now.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and guided you into the bedroom.

He found one of his old T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts from your drawer. Then he turned back to you, clothes in hand. “Can I help?”

You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Then down at your rings.

Jack lifted his hand before you could ask. You checked his wedding band.

“Okay,” you said. “Husband verified.”

He nodded once, “Good.”

You pointed at him immediately. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did not.” He replies innocently. 

You pouted, “You weaponized good.”

“I am trying to get you into pajamas,” Jack replied. 

Your frown deepened, “Domestic warfare.”

He helped you sit on the edge of the bed. Then he crouched in front of you and touched the hem of your top. “Arms up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this a trick?”

He smiled, “No.”

Your brow furrows, “Because I’m drunk.”

“Exactly.” Jack agreed. 

You look at him suspiciously, “You’re not going to be weird.”

“I’m not going to be weird,” Jack promised. 

You leaned closer, whispering with great seriousness. “I might be weird.”

His mouth twitched. “I know.”

You lifted your arms. 

Jack changed you with the careful efficiency of a man determined not to let his drunk wife turn pajamas into a legal incident. Shirt off, sleep shirt on. No lingering. No teasing. No letting his eyes go where drunk you absolutely wanted them to go.

Which, naturally, offended you. “You’re very respectful.”

“I try,” Jack replied. 

You groan, “It’s annoying.”

“I know.” He said. 

You sighed, “It’s hot.”

“I know that too.” He said with a smile. 

He helped you step into the shorts while you held both hands on his shoulders for balance.

The second your palms settled there, you sighed. “Shoulders.”

“Balance,” Jack corrected.

“Shoulders.” You repeated dreamily. 

He pulled the shorts up to your hips and patted your side once. “Done.”

You looked down at yourself. Then at him. “You dressed me.”

Jack shrugged, “I helped.”

“You’re like a sexy pit crew.” You say with a wink. 

Jack stared at you.

You nodded, pleased with yourself. “Fast. Focused. Good with hands.”

He stood and pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”

Your eyes went wide. “Attending voice.”

He continued to point, “Bed.” 

You looked at him desperately, “Oh, Jackie.”

“Do not make bed weird.” He groaned. 

You pouted, “You made it weird when you pointed.”

He pulled the blanket back. “In.”

You climbed under the covers, mostly because the single syllable nearly took you out.

Jack tucked the blanket around your waist, then set the water on the nightstand.

“You need sleep,” he said.

You looked up at him, suddenly softer. “You’re staying?”

His expression shifted. “Yeah, baby. I’m staying.”

You looked down at your rings one more time. Then reached for his hand.

Jack gave it to you.

You checked his wedding band, slower now, your thumb brushing over the metal.

“You proposed?”

He sat on the edge of the bed beside you. “I proposed.”

“And I said yes?” You asked happily. 

His mouth softened. “You said yes.”

You smiled, sleepy and bright. “Hell yeah.”

Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“No sex,” You murmured. “I’m drunk.”

Jack huffed a laugh against your temple, “I know, baby.” 

Your eyes closed.  “It sucks, though, because you have amazing pecs. And a great ass.”

He laughed quietly and brushed your hair away from your face. “Go to sleep.”

You sighed into the pillow. “Attending voice.”

“Husband voice,” he corrected, softer.

Your smile was almost gone with sleep. “Jackie.”

“Yeah?” He answers quietly. 

“Still hot.” You murmur into your pillow. 

He stayed there until your breathing evened out, his thumb moving once over your rings before he let go. Then he slipped into the bathroom, changed, came back, and climbed into bed beside you. You rolled toward him automatically, even in sleep, one hand landing against his chest like you were verifying he was still there. Jack covered your hand with his. Your rings pressed lightly against his skin.

The Next Day...

In the morning, you woke up to pain, sunlight, and consequences.

Mostly consequences.

Your head hurts. Your mouth was dry. Your body felt like it had been assembled incorrectly. For one blessed second, you remembered nothing after the second round of drinks.

Then your phone buzzed.

You opened one eye.

On the nightstand, your screen lit up with a message from Robby.

MRS. ABBOT LIVE AT THE BAR: WHERE IS MY HUSBAND TOUR

You closed your eye again. “No.”

Beside you, Jack was already awake.

You could feel it.

You turned your head very slowly.

He was lying on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, watching you with the calm, devastating expression of a man who knew everything.

You swallowed. “How bad?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Define bad.”

You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.

He reached over and tugged it down just enough to see you. “You reviewed my body in public.”

Your eyes closed. “Oh, my god.”

“Pecs got mentioned several times.” He added. 

“Jack.” You whined. 

He grinned, “Butt got a standing ovation.”

You covered your face with both hands. “I need to leave the country.”

“You also called your rings' wife jewelry.”

A pause.

You peeked through your fingers. “That’s kind of cute.”

Jack nodded, “It was very cute.”

Your stomach softened despite the hangover.

Then he added, “You made me show you my ring every time someone told you we were married.”

You lowered your hands. “I did?”