spencer reid's fingers

AMESH Season 2 would open with Amesh, his glioblastoma advancing quickly. He would tell the first story of the season, but would be struggling to make it through. We'd focus on his love story with Natsuki for those first few episodes as it becomes clear that Amesh's death is imminent.

Meanwhile, Ilonka is trying to reconcile how she was fooled by Julia Jayne, all while falling further in love with Kevin, and she realizes he may be fading faster than he lets on.

Ilonka begins a serialized story in an effort to encourage him to "stay alive a little longer," like he did in season one. And the story she tells is... REMEMBER ME.

This was the thing I was most excited about for this season.

REMEMBER ME is one of my all-time favorite Pike books - it tells the story of a teenage girl who is pushed off a balcony, and awakens as a ghost. She has to navigate being a spirit while trying to solve her own murder. We would have stretched this story out over 5 episodes. We were going to use it as a vehicle for Ilonka to try to come to terms with the fact that she is going to die, and to begin to trying to wrap her head around being a ghost... but this is the coolest part... the lead character of Ilonka's story wouldn't be played by Ilonka. She'd be played by...

Anya.

Because this is how we live on, isn't it? In the minds of those we leave behind. And Ilonka would use REMEMBER ME as a way to imagine her dear friend Anya, waking up as a ghost, navigating the afterlife. And this sets up one of the best mechanisms of the show - even if a character dies, as long as they're remembered by members of the club, they live on in their stories.

As the story starts to pick up steam, though, the group will have to deal with the death of Amesh, which he greets with grace and bravery.

In his final moments, he sees someone in his room - the Janitor from the first season, as played by Robert Longstreet, who says comforting things to Amesh even though he can't respond.

In his final, final moments, the SHADOW descends upon Amesh, and he is engulfed into it, which reinforces the idea that the Shadow is DEATH...

With Amesh's death comes something that upends the entire thing: a NEW PATIENT. We didn't work out too much about who this would be, but it would be a new roommate for Ilonka. Someone taking Anya's old bed. Ilonka would find herself being initially cold to her - just as Anya was when Ilonka arrived. Even feeling like this new girl shouldn't necessarily be ushered into the Club. But of course they would develop a beautiful friendship over the course of the season. The new girl joins the club, where something else exciting is happening - Cheri is telling a story. We hadn't decided which one, but I think it might have been MONSTER.

Natsuki would be the next to die, which would be heartbreaking. And again, she would talk to the janitor just before it happened... and again, the Shadow would come in the final moments.

For Spence, though, things would take a different turn.

The advancements in HIV treatment in the late 90's would come into play, and we'd see his prognosis change. The HIV cocktail came out in Dec 1995, and we really wanted to explore that.

Spence would ride the swell of antiviral advancements, and by the end of the season, he'd no longer be classified as terminal. In the finale of season 2, Spence would leave Brightcliffe just like Sandra did in Season 1, heading off to manage his disease and live the rest of his life.

But onto the BIG MYSTERIES of the season one... here are some answers: What is up with Dr. Stanton's tattoo and bald head? Well, a few things. First, Dr. Stanton is actually the daughter of the original Paragon cult leader, Aceso. Her nickname was Athena, she wrote the Paragon journal that Ilonka found in S1. She turned on her mother and helped the kids escape, but because she was part of the cult in her teenage years, she had the tattoo.

It was her initials that Ilonka found carved into the tree in season 1 (her maiden name was Georgina Ballard, hence the G.B. that Ilonka finds carved in the tree).

She hated what her mother became, and the atrocities of the cult. She reclaimed the property after her mom was gone, and wanted to change it into a place that celebrated life. She was trying to undo her mother's legacy and leave something behind that was beautiful. She is wearing a wig at the end of S1 not because of a sinister reason, but because she is undergoing chemo. Dr. Stanton has cancer. Having helped so many people deal with disease, she now has to deal with it herself.

Her treatment would be successful, and she'd go into remission, but having to face that - while caring for the terminal kids at Brightcliffe - was going to be a very introspective arc for Stanton.

What about the Living Shadow? It's Death, right? Well... no.

At the end of the season, Kevin will die... followed shortly by Ilonka. And as she is dying, two things will happen. First, she'll find herself talking to the Janitor, played by Robert Longstreet... and she'll make a discovery.

HE is Death. And nothing to be afraid of. It turns out no one else ever saw this character. Stanton has a cleaning service, and the Nurse practitioners make up the rooms - the only people who ever saw this mysterious Janitor were the patients. He is Death, and offers them kind words before they die. Then what was the Shadow?

This is an idea we take directly from the book REMEMBER ME, and we'll see it play out in the final moments of Ilona's final tale. In Pike's book, Shari is pursued by a dark entity called The Shadow. When it finally catches her, though, it turns out it is not a bad thing at all.

The Shadow is THEMSELVES. It's the Unknown. As it engulfs someone, in the last moment of their life, it takes them through a place of understanding and catharsis, preparing them for the next step.

THIS is what happened to Anya in S1 when the Shadow finally reached her - that's why she fantasized a life beyond Brightcliffe, which ultimately let her find acceptance of her death. It looks different for everybody, depending on their mind-set - because it is simply an extension of themselves.

The Shadow is just the final catharsis, a return to our original form - it is a moment of true understanding, and once we experience it, we move on to the next place.

We see the Shadow in full effect when it finally comes for Kevin. KEVIN DIES with Ilonka at his side, and it leads to the biggest reveal of the season:

Who were the Mirror Man and the Cataract Woman?

They were Stanley Oscar Freelan and his wife, who built Brightcliffe (fun trivia, he is named after the real-life Freelan Oscar Stanley, who built my favorite hotel in America - the Stanley Hotel. The Stanley is also the inspiration for THE SHINING!).

But more than that... there's a reason that Ilonka only sees Stanley in the mirror, and sees the Cataract Woman whenever she looked at Kevin. This is something else we took from Pike's original book... these aren't ghosts, but glimpses of PAST LIVES.

Ilonka WAS Stanley Oscar Freelan, and Kevin WAS his wife. They've lived many lives this way, and are true SOUL MATES - they always find each other, and they always fall in love. In this life, they knew it would be a short one, so they agreed to find each other in the house they built. They've been "remembering" who they are, and glimpsing their former selves in reflections, and sometimes when they look at each other. This is also why Ilonka's very first words to Kevin in S1 were "Do I know you?" and why Kevin thought she was familiar as well. They are two souls who always find each other, again and again.

The story is this: Stanley was dying, and built this cliffside home hoping that the seaside air would help him. It did, and he far outlived his prognosis (this is also true of the real-life Freelan Stanley). However, his wife began to succumb to dementia.

She would wander the halls, looking for him ("Darling!") and would even forget to feed herself ("I'm starving...") and she eventually refused to leave the basement. Heartbroken for her, Stanley painted the walls to resemble the woodland view, and the ceiling to resemble the night sky, so that it would be a little more beautiful for her.

He also painted a labyrinth on the floor, which was a technique used to try to curb the effects of dementia. She'd walk the pattern of the maze and it was believed it could help her cognition. Eventually, she developed frightening cataracts, but Stanley loved her through it all.

They were soul mates.

So while they seemed scary in season 1, that was just how Ilonka and Kevin's mind were trying to remember their pasts. We even had their faces distorting in ways consistent with how memories degrade over time. When the Shadow comes for Ilonka, and gives her this understanding - this "remembering" - she realizes she has nothing to fear. She and Kevin will shed these personas and be reborn, and have the joy of finding each other another way. The Shadow comes for her, Death takes her gently, and Ilonka goes off with Kevin back into the cosmos, ready for their next incarnation. The series would end with Cheri telling this story to a whole new table of patients, including our new series leads. Most of our original cast now would exist as stories, a story told to the next "class" of storytellers at the table, all of whom we will have met by the end of the season. A story called "The Midnight Club."

Well, that's it... that was what we had in mind. It's a shame we won't get to make it, but it would be a bigger shame if you guys simply had to live with the unanswered questions and the cliffhanger ending. I loved making this show, and I am so proud of the cast and crew. Particularly our cast, who attacked this story with incredible spirit and bravery each and every day.

But for now, we'll put the fire out, and leave the library dark and quiet. To those before, and to those after. To us now, and to those beyond.

Seen or unseen, here but not here.

It must've been the meds kicking in, lulled you to a nap, blunted your senses to this syrupy haze. The pain in your lower belly has dulled to a tolerable, constant ache rather than something sharp and crippling. When you sit up, the crocheted blanket—handmade and gifted by Penelope a few years ago—slips from your shoulders and pools over your waist.

Meanwhile, pandemonium seems to happening in your kitchen.

You can hear your daughter giggling wildly. Spencer's groans are muffled, and a suffocating, smoky scent finally wafts to the living room and reaches you from your position on the couch.

You squint at the clock on the far end of the room and huff when it stays blurry. And then, footsteps, light and quick, followed by a delighted gasp.

"Mommy wakey!" she announces loudly—probably for her father's sake.

Beatrice.

Your daughter hurls herself on your lap before you even see her, but your arms band around her tiny form in reflex. A soft oof leaves your lips from the impact. Somehow, some part of you still expects her to weigh the same as she did when she was still a crawling baby. Like the way she's growing hasn't registered completely, or perhaps it's the speed at which she's growing that's throwing you off.

She used to be so tiny.

Now, you're convinced she would have knocked your glasses off, had you been wearing them.

"Hi, honeybee," you press your nose into her halo of rumbled curls, the exact same texture as Spencer's. She smells like smoke and baby powder, "What have you been up to?"

"Cooking!" she says proudly, her hands resting on your chest. Right over your heart, which feels close to bursting when her face scrunches seriously, an expression that doesn't seem to fit her chubby-cheeked loveliness. "Mommy feel better?"

"Yes, mommy feels better now, thank you."

"No more blood?"

You wince, remembering her panic earlier when you'd bled through your dress after lunch. Her only conscious experiences with blood have so far been limited to skinned knees, so Beatrice had thought you'd gotten a scrape on your butt somehow.

"Well, there's still some blood. But mommy's better."

"Daddy says you—you peeing blood."

You have to bite your lip to stifle a laugh. "Did he now?"

"Yes," your daughter nods gravely, settling herself on your lap. She places a sticky hand to your cheek in a vaguely reassuring way. It's a gesture she'd learned from watching Spencer. "Daddy says you peeing blood and I have to be good so you rest."

Maybe it's her matter-of-fact tone, or the way the words stumble from her lips in her clear, lightly lisping voice, but your mouth finally curls into a grin. You tuck her to your chest so you can have a moment to silently giggle without her thinking she's being laughed at, and reach forward for your glasses.

They're sitting neatly on the coffee table, folded and completely free of any stains. Spencer must have cleaned them when you fell asleep, just as he'd covered you in the blanket.

"What else has daddy said?" you ask, slipping your glasses on.

The world sharpens into focus. The bookshelves lining the sage walls, now home to multiple children's books and framed pictures—you and Spencer had moved your joint collection in the newly refurbished basement not long after Beatrice had been born. There's a TV that rarely gets used, and an open chest of toys.

In the heart of it all, you and your daughter, on the couch, perfectly content.

"It's every… every month. And it hurt." Beatrice says, brows furrowing in focus as she recalls her own version of Spencer's explanation.

"I pee blood every month, huh?"

"I did not say you pee blood!" comes Spencer's flustered voice. He pads from the kitchen with his own glasses so low on his nose you're afraid they'll slip right off. Sweat gleams from his forehead, beading down his temples.

"Did too!" Beatrice exclaims.

You laugh, reaching a hand out to him. "It's okay, it's a pretty close approximation."

Spencer is pink as he holds your outstretched palm, though you're not sure if it's from the stress or from embarrassment. He settles on the couch beside you, tucking your hand to his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't really expect her to start asking about that and had to improvise."

Of course, neither of you had anticipated it. Beatrice is a little too young to be having the talk, but she's also… Beatrice. Daughter of two professors who, at their core, have lived for the pursuit of knowledge their whole lives. If anything, it's naive on you and Spencer's part to have been unprepared for this.

You're still grinning, holding Beatrice to your chest with one arm, cheek resting on the crown of her head. "You didn't expect our daughter, with our combined genes, to start asking questions?"

"You're right," Spencer admits with a sheepish laugh, "She's got the curious instincts of researchers and scholars."

"Exactly. This won't be the first she pursues a topic through rigorous questioning, right Bea?"

Beatrice nods, even though she looks a little lost from the adult conversation.

You smile and kiss her brow. "You're a smart girl, Bea."

She giggles, tickled by the compliment. "Like you?"

Spencer's free hand ruffles her hair. "Exactly. Smart, just like mommy."

The words land somewhere unexpectedly tender. It would've been so easy to claim that for himself; he's the genius between the two of you, after all. But he doesn't. Didn't even insert himself and say like mommy and daddy, which would have been objectively true.

You look up with the softest exhale, eyes misting. He grins, lifts your hand to brush his lips over your knuckles. A soft, warm look settles on his face, as reassuring as it is loving.

"You're feeling better now? Do you need more meds?" he asks, casual and sweet and perfect, as if he hadn't just undone you only moments ago.

"No, no, I'm all right." you scoot closer to him. Spencer lets go of your hand to wrap an arm over your shoulder, tugging you gently until you're tucked to his side. On your lap, Beatrice yawns and blinks at the two of you.

For a moment, it's silent. A perfect snapshot of peace. Your chest tightens a little more, some invisible force strangling your throat.

"You could've woken me up, you know, to help with dinner." you murmur.

"I can handle it."

Your brows raise, head tilting up so you can pin him with an incredulous glare. "It still smells burnt in here, Spence."

"It's not that bad."

"Really? What are we having, then? Char with a side of chicken?"

"Daddy burn the oven." Beatrice supplies seriously.

Spencer shakes with laughter. "No, the chicken just burned inside the oven, honeybee."

Beatrice pouts as she considers, dimples on her cheeks deepening. She's got your coloring, but the most noticeable features are Spencer's—messy curls, massive hazel eyes, a collection of dimples exactly in the same spots as his.

"But dinner," you say with a groan, "I'll go see—"

"You don't have to cook, darling," he interrupts, his arm around you tightening to prevent you from moving, "I've already ordered takeout. Lo mein for you, of course."

You swear you've lost the ability to breathe. It never quite settles, this realization that he knows you to the bone. Well enough to anticipate your needs, to provide without being asked. That he'll keep doing them without expectation or prompting.

"And extra wontons!" Beatrice adds enthusiastically, "because mommy likes them, even when she says she don't."

Oh. Now there's two of them.

You don't think the twisting in your chest will ever stop, but at least now you know it's not a bad feeling. It never was, even in those early days, before Beatrice, before building a life together.

You recognize it for what it is now.

You laugh. It's a thin, watery sound. Spencer pulls you even closer, warm lips pressed to your temple.

"You stay right here," he whispers, nosing a line down your cheek, "With us."

"Only if we keep getting snuggles."

Spencer squeezes his arms around the two of you playfully in response, tight enough that Beatrice is overcome with giggles, not loosening until you wheeze a laugh yourself.

In his arms, with your daughter in your lap, the period cramps feel like a distant memory.

The patient was drenched in sweat, muscles straining violently against the straps. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused, jaw clenched so tight the tendons strained in his neck. He thrashed the second you stepped close, nearly catching a you in the jaw. The trauma bay lights were brutal overhead, all sharp white glare and humming electricity, making the blood at his temple look darker than it probably was.

“Sir, we need you to hold still,” you said, keeping your voice steady, low, and nonthreatening. He responded by trying to tear himself off the stretcher entirely.

“That’s enough,” Dr. Abbot snapped, already gloving up, moving to grab ahold of the patients thrashing legs. “We’re sedating.”

Dr. Ellis moved in on the opposite side, bracing one forearm across the patient’s chest. “You got that arm,” she muttered, nodding toward the arm thrashing closest to you.

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed the patient’s upper arm, fingers digging into trembling muscle. He was stronger than he looked—adrenaline fuelled and panicked—and he bucked hard enough to nearly throw you off balance. Abbot swore under his breath as the patient tried to twist free.

“Ketamine ready,” Dr. Whitaker called from your left. His voice had that tight edge to it—focused but nervous. The syringe was already drawn, clear liquid catching the light.

“On three,” Abbot said. “One... two—”

The patient jerked violently.

Your grip shifted just as Whitaker moved to inject the patient.

Before you realized, sharp pain exploded in your hand.

“Ow—what the fuck!”

It was sharp and immediate, a hot, blooming sting that made you recoil. You looked down in disbelief.

The needle was buried in your hand not the patients arm, the plunger already fully depressed.

For a split second, nobody moved.

Whitaker went sheet white. “Oh my God—I didn’t mean for that to happen! The angle changed right before and I-I’m so sorry.”

“Get another syringe!” Ellis barked, not even looking up as she continued wrestling the patient down. “We need to sedate the actual patient.”

A nurse was already moving, efficient and fast. The second injection went into the correct person this time, clean and precise. Within moments the patient’s movements slowed, then stopped entirely, his body going limp against the stretcher.

Meanwhile, the world had started to tilt.

The overhead lights felt wrong. They were too bright, too close. Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, but your limbs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.

“Okay,” you said carefully, blinking hard. “Someone get a gurney.”

Your words came out thick and slightly slurred. The floor shifted under your feet like you were standing on a boat. You tried to steady yourself by grabbing the edge of the stretcher.

“And please someone break my fa—”

Your knees buckled.

And everything went black.

—————————

Waking up felt like dragging yourself through syrup. The fluorescent lights overhead were blinding, stabbing through your eyelids until you groaned and rolled your head away from them. Your mouth was dry and your thoughts were slow, floating lazily out of reach.

“Hello,” you mumbled, voice thick.

“Hey there, kid.”

You knew that voice immediately.

You blinked several times until the blur focused into Jack sitting beside the bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching you carefully.

“Jack,” you whispered, smiling dopily. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

He let out a soft breath, tension easing from his shoulders. “Yeah?”

You frowned slightly.

Something wasn’t adding up.

You glanced around—the monitor, the IV pole, the curtain pulled halfway around the bed.

“W-where am I?”

“At PTMC. You were working on a patient and Whitaker injected you with nearly five hundred milligrams of ketamine.”

You stared at him.

“Oh,” you said after a long pause. “That’s not good.”

“Nope.”

You shifted under the blanket and felt thin fabric against your skin. You looked down, and froze.

You were in a hospital gown.

“Why am I in this?” you questioned. “I’m a doctor. I should be saving lives.”

Jack’s lips twitched. “We’ll need a raincheck on that. We’re observing you until the medication wears off.”

You processed that slowly. “Did you put me in this?”

He leaned back slightly. “No. Lena did.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Boo. I was hoping you did.” You squinted at him, expression soft and hazy. “You’re so hot.”

Jack blinked.

“…I’m sorry?”

“You’re really hot,” you repeated matter-of-factly, then dissolved into giggles. 

Jack's eyebrows launch up.

You poked your own cheek experimentally. “My face feels like jello.”

Your fingers drifted upward and found the nasal cannula. You tugged at it lazily.

“Nope,” Jack said immediately, gently catching your wrist. “That stays in. Your O2 levels dipped earlier.”

You frowned at him like he’d personally betrayed you. Then your eyes dropped to the IV taped securely in your arm.

“Oh no, they forgot to take the needle out,” you whispered, horrified, reaching toward it.

“That has to stay in too.”

You huffed out in frustration, but then, for absolutely no reason, you started laughing again.

“What’s so funny?” Jack asked, a small smile making its way over his lips despite himself.

You looked at him very seriously, leaning slightly closer like you were about to share classified information.

“You smell like cologne and money.”

Jack blinks, shifting slightly in his chair. “Do I?”

You nod and hold his gaze, eyes heavy but locked on him. “Sometimes it makes me want to drag you into an on call room and lock the door.”

Silence.

Complete, stunned silence.

His jaw tightens. “That’s—”

“I’ve wanted to for months,” you add softly, like you’re commenting on the weather. “Its hard not, especially when you look like that.”  

He just stares at you, visibly recalibrating, breath shallow now.

“You don’t mean that,” he manages. “You’re high out of your mind.”

You opened your mouth to continue, but before the words could leave your mouth, the door to the trauma room opened, revealing none other than Whitaker.

“Huckleberry!” you say with sudden excitement, your smile widening instantly.

Whitaker gulps nervously and closes the door behind him. “I—I just wanted to come and apologize to you, for, you know… injecting you.”

“It’s okay, white chocolate,” you reply generously. “I forgive you.”

Whitaker winces immediately. “I see you’ve been hanging out with Santos and Garcia.”

“Yeah, they’re funny ladies,” you giggle, completely unbothered. “If it makes you feel better, I think the nicknames are cute.”

A wave of exhaustion crashes over you mid laugh. You yawn, blinking slowly as your eyes begin to droop.

“We should let you rest,” Jack says, already beginning to stand.

“No,” you protest immediately, instinctively reaching out and grabbing his hand before he can step away. Your fingers curl weakly around his. “I want you to stay.”

Whitaker shifts awkwardly, mumbling something under his breath, clearly aware he’s interrupting something he does not understand but definitely does not want to be part of.

“I have some patients to see,” Jack says gently, voice softening as he looks down at you. “But I’ll come back in a little.”

“But I’m your patient,” you mumble stubbornly.

Before Jack can respond, your grip weakens. Your head tilts slightly to the side, mouth falling open as the medication pulls you under again, breath slow and heavy.

Jack stands there for a moment longer than necessary, still holding your hand.

Whitaker clears his throat quietly, slipping out of the room awkwardly. 

Jack finally lets go, leaving to room.

—————————

You woke up again, this time slightly more coherent and felt less like you were floating. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Jack’s voice pulls you fully out of dreamland. His thumb brushes lightly over the apple of your cheek, slow and uniform, like he’s been doing it without realizing. When your eyes focus on him, he pulls his hand back.

You blink up at him. The room isn’t spinning anymore, just a little foggy at the edges.

“…How long was I out?”

“A couple hours,” he says. “It’s almost shift change.”

You push yourself up carefully. “The patient?”

“Stable. All scans were clean. You can relax.”

You nod, then your brow furrows.

“I remember you were here,” you say slowly. “And Whitaker came in.”

“He did.”

You squint at him. “Did I say anything weird?”

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “You were… chemically compromised.”

“That’s not an answer.”

A flicker of something crosses his face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “We’ll talk later.”

Your stomach tightens. “Jack.”

“Later,” he repeats calmly.

Before you can press him again, the door whips open.

“Well, look who's alive,” Santos announces, stepping inside like she owns the hospital. Garcia follows behind her with a coffee and a grin that immediately makes you nervous.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

“Oh yes,” Garcia says. “The nurses have been talking.”

You sink back against the pillows. “About what.”

Santos gasps dramatically. “About how you were calling Whitaker dessert items.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did,” Garcia cuts in. “Whitaker is currently furious that we’re spreading ‘white chocolate.’”

You clap a hand over your face. “I’m never coming back.”

“He says it’s unprofessional,” Santos continues solemnly.

Garcia nods. “We say it’s branding.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “I don’t even remember saying that.”

Jack clears his throat quietly. You’d almost forgotten he was there. He’s standing now, composed, hands in his pant pockets.

“She needs rest,” he says evenly.

Santos raises an eyebrow. “We’re being gentle.”

Garcia’s gaze flicks between you and Jack, clearly noticing the tension. “We also heard something about cologne and money?”

You freeze. “What…?”

Jack looks entirely unfazed. “It’s time for shift change,” he says smoothly. “We’ll talk when you're fully sober.” His eyes meet yours briefly.

And then he’s gone.

The second he disappears down the hall, Santos leans in. “Okay. What else did you say?”

“I don’t know!” you whisper. “I don’t remember!”

Before they can dig any further, the door opens again.

“Alright,” Robby says, stepping in with a tablet in hand. “You’re clear to go home.”

Relief floods you.

 “You two,” he looks at Santos and Garcia. “Out. Patients exist.”

They groan in unison but shuffle toward the exit.

“We’re not done with you,” Santos warns.

“White chocolate forever!” Garcia adds before disappearing into the hall.

"Garcia stop saying that!" Whitaker exclaims as he rounds the corner.

Robby shakes his head, amused, and starts disconnecting your leads. “Heard you had the trip of a lifetime.”

“I’m gathering that,” you mumble.

He peels the IV out of your arm. “Vitals are good, you just need food and sleep.”

You hesitate. “…Did I say anything to Jack?”

Robby pauses, then gives you a look. “Depends,” he says. “Do you want the nurse version or the attending-approved version?”

Your stomach drops. “The attending-approved version.”

He smirks slightly. “According to Jack, you told him he smells like cologne and money. Then you informed him you’d thought about what would happen if you both went into an on-call room.”

Your entire body goes rigid.

“I said that.”

“Mhm.”

You stare at the wall in horror. “Please tell me I stopped there.”

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “That’s all he told me.”

“Oh my God.” You drop your face into your hands. “I have to work with him tomorrow.”

Robby chuckles, handing you your discharge papers. “You’ll survive.”

“I’m never going to be able to look him in the eyes again.”

Unfortunately, this time you were completely conscious for the humiliation.

—————————

It's been 22 hours and 30 minutes since you embarrassed yourself in front of Jack.

And you've been avoiding him all night.

Every time Jack stepped into a trauma bay, you found a reason to step out. When he rounded the nurses’ station, you disappeared into a supply closet. The ED had been mercifully slow, which made it easy to slip through the cracks.

You almost thought you’d succeeded.

Almost.

You’re scanning a chart at the nurses’ station when you feel it—that awareness. The shift in the air.

“We need to talk.”

His voice is low as he leaned down to talk right in your ear.

Goosebumps ripple down your neck instantly.

Before you can even respond, his hand wraps around your forearm—firm and controlled—as he guides you across the ED. Not rough, but not gentle either.

“Jack—” you start.

He pushes open the break room door and ushers you inside. The door swings shut behind you.

You swear you hear the click of the lock.

Your heart stutters.

He turns to face you, jaw tight, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Do you remember anything you said yesterday?”

You swallow. “No. Not really. Robby… kind of filled me in.”

And then it starts—the rambling.

“I’m so sorry, I was high, and that’s not an excuse, I just—I don’t normally say things like that and I promise I’m not unprofessional and I completely understand if that made you uncomfortable—”

He steps closer.

You keep going.

“I mean obviously I think you’re attractive but that’s not the point, the point is I should not have—”

His hand comes up suddenly, fingers warm against your jaw, thumb pressing lightly into one cheek, steadying you.

“Stop.”

You freeze.

His other hand cups the other side of your face, forcing you to look at him.

“Did you mean it?” he asks quietly. “What you said last night—was any of it true?”

Your pulse is probably in v-tach.

You try to look away. He doesn’t let you.

“Answer me.”

You inhale shakily.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I meant it.”

Silence.

Then the smallest smirk touches his mouth. Before you can process it, he pulls you in.

The kiss is not tentative. It’s deep and deliberate, months of restraint snapping all at once. Your hands fly up in surprise, but they don’t push him away. They grip his scrubs tightly instead.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

When he finally pulls back, your breathing is uneven.

“I’ve felt the same,” he murmurs against your mouth. “For months.”

Your brain short circuits.

“Jack—”

“I was trying to be responsible,” he says, thumb brushing along your jaw again. “You made that very difficult.”

His mouth trails briefly along your cheek, your jaw, down to the curve of your neck—slow enough to make your knees weaken.

“You wanted to know what I’d do if you locked the door,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips.

“I think you’re about to find out.”

And then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“What the hell?” Dr. Shen’s voice comes muffled through the door. “Why is this locked? My coffee’s in there.”

You and Jack jump apart like you’ve been electrocuted. You scramble to smooth your hair. He adjusts his scrubs, clearing his throat.

You unlock the door quickly and swing it open.

Dr. Shen looks between you both suspiciously.

“Must’ve locked automatically,” Jack says smoothly as he steps past him.

Shen narrows his eyes but grabs his coffee and mutters something about 'new facilities policies.'

You do not make eye contact with anyone as you speed walk away.

A nurse calls from down the hall, “Can someone come look at bed four?”

"I've got it," you latch onto that lifeline immediately and start walking towards to bed.

Jack catches up to you easily, falling into step at your side.

“Come home with me after our shifts over,” he murmurs, low enough that no one else hears. “I’ll let you finish what you started.”

Your face burns instantly. 

“Yes,” you say eagerly. “I mean—sure, yeah sounds good.”

Jack gives you a knowing look, the corner of his mouth lifting before he turns around to go check on a patient, looking like the picture of professionalism.

By the time you reach bed four, your face is still burning. And you're painfully aware that he’s watching you from across the ED.