#1 romcomrry advocate

she smiled, looking out at the endless view of pine trees rushing past the window as he drove a little bit above the speed limit.

“m’ perfect."

"you say that every time i ask."

"and i’m still good." she giggled, squeezing his hand that held hers.

jack chuckled, shaking his head. "you'd tell me if you needed to stop?"

"yep." she mused, leaning over to place a chaste kiss against his jawline.

jack hummed happily as he focused on the road ahead of them.

—

by the time the stained wooden mailbox finally appeared between the trees, the sun was beginning to sink— his eyes lit up in excitement as the truck rolled over the pebbled driveway.

"hey, we’re here," he said quietly.

"oh my gosh..." she squealed, looking up from her phone as the cabin looked like something out of a storybook.

it had a large porch with flower boxes beneath the windows and a fire pit with two wooden chairs that rested in the front yard. the sparkling lake behind the cabin catching their eyes as the sunset started to fade behind the mountains.

jack cut the engine before stretching to the side, his arm resting on her chest making her laugh as he craned his neck to kiss her temple.

jack was happy because the silence felt different here. there weren’t any ambulance sirens, no ringing phones, and no urgency whatsoever. just the silence of the night and the gentle rustle of leaves as the wind blew outside his truck.

"i think we picked the right place," she whispered.

jack smiled. "i think you're right." he hummed before opening his door so they could finally step into their escape.

—

inside was even prettier. the warm wood floors stretched throughout the little cabin, soft plush lamps cast golden pools of light across the walls.

she wandered slowly through each room while jack carried in their bags.

"oh.."

he looked up from the suitcase he was setting beside the couch.

"what?" she called from somewhere in the cabin.

“come in here, baby.” he called so she could follow his voice to the bedroom.

she stood frozen in the bedroom doorway as jack placed the bags down and rested his hands upon his his as she walked over to him.

the bedroom was impossibly cozy— the bed was dressed in layers of fluffy sheets of the prettiest softest pink bedding she'd ever seen. the lump pillows were stacked neatly against the light wooden headboard.

the room smelled faintly of fresh linen and cedar making her turn to him with the biggest smile. "it looks so cozy! wow it’s beautiful." she mused, placing a peck against his bicep as she wrapped her arms around his freckled arm.

"it is." jack said as he twisted her in his arm and pulled her into his chest making her look up at him.

it was so peaceful. safe.. like the world had slowed down just for them.

—

after unpacking, they took quick showers, washing away the long day of traveling and by the time she stepped out of the bathroom, jack had already changed into a faded blue t-shirt and a pair of old plaid pajama pants she'd stolen more times than she could count.

"you stole my shirt." she teased, taking his crutches that rested against the bed and placing them next to the nightstand.

jack trailed his eyes down at the oversized university t-shirt hanging almost to her knees.

"you mean our shirt." he laughed.

"you and your practicalities." she teased as she climbed onto the bed first, the mattress sinking beneath her weight.

"oh god,” she nearly moaned, bouncing lightly in the mattress making jack smirk at her. "this is dangerous."

"why?" jack raised an eyebrow.

"i'm never leaving this bed.”

he set his phone on the bedside table before climbing in beside her making the mattress shift again and she immediately, she scooted closer until she was practically lying on top of him.

"there she is." he smiled knowingly.

"what?"

"if you keep doing that i dont think i’ll let you leave this bed." he joked making her laugh sleepily.

she tucked one leg between his and rested her head against his chest as they sand beneath the comforter. she slipped an arm around his waist and sighed as he wrapped both arms around her without a second thought. his chin rested lightly against the top of her head as the only sounds were the crickets outside and the occasional breeze brushing against the trees.

"you comfortable, babe?" jack murmured against her hair.

"mhm."

"tired?"

"so tired.. you? i feel bad you drove the whole time after you got off.”

“yeah, but i wanted to drive. don’t worry about it.” he said, rubbing slow circles along her back through the cotton of his t-shirt.

“i love being your passenger princess.”

“me too, that’s all you ever have to do.” he said making them both laugh.

she reached for his hand beneath the blankets, weaving their fingers together before resting them over his heart.

"i like hearing it."

"hearing what?" he questioned, looking down at her.

"your heartbeat,” she whispered, “helps me fall asleep."

his expression softened so completely it almost hurt.

"you know.." he said quietly, “i don't think i've ever slept this well until you came along."

"really?" she tipped her head back just enough to look at him as he nodded.

"for years, Iid wake up every few hours."

she frowned.

"and now?"

“eh i usually wake up because you've somehow managed to steal ninety percent of the blankets." he shrugged making her gasp dramatically.

"excuse you! i do no such thing."

"you absolutely do."

"you have no proof."

"baby, i don’t need any. i've lived it.” he said bid matter of factly making hhe giggled.

“i'll do better." she promised giving him a light squeeze.

"i hope not." he blinked.

"what?"

jack brushed a loose strand of damp hair behind her ear. "if you're stealing the blankets,” he kissed her forehead. “it means you're here."

for a long moment, she simply looked at him as her heart tightened in her chest— then she buried her face back into his chest.

"i love you." she whined as his arms tightened around her.

"i love you too."

When Jack sees your hands shaking while trying to open a granola bar, he jumps at the opportunity to be close to you. He comes over to you, offering, “Let me,” while deft hands try to replace yours.

You flinch and try the plastic again. “It’s fine.”

He exhales through his nose, reaching another time. He tries to keep his hands guided toward the snack in your hands and not you. “I can—”

“I said it’s fine, Jack,” you snap, finally meeting his eye after a long while. You look exhausted and wrung out, and he knows it’s his fault. To Jack, you still look as beautiful as the day you walked out on him, leaving your heart in pieces for him to pick up. 

He puts his hands up in surrender. “Alright,” he concedes, but he doesn’t walk away yet.

You manage to tear the plastic and take a bite, but now you’re annoyed, angry, sad, or a combination of three from Jack’s insistence. He broke your heart weeks ago, and now he has the gall to show up? 

You try to push back the thought that insists it means he cares. 

He keeps staring, and you huff. Chewing impatiently, you grumble, “What?”

Jack clears his throat and ghosts a hand over your back. “You just look tired—you're doing okay, right?”

Your spine straightens. “Nothing for you to worry about, Abbot.”

Abbot. Not Jack, or Jackie, or any other of the lovely names you call him. The sudden change paralyzes him, and he’s dumbfounded as you saunter off. 

Watching you walk away, a piece of him goes with you. The aching, burning feeling in his chest roars, and while Jack is realizing he misses you, he’s also realizing that he needs you, too. He’s restless because you’re not in his apartment with him, laughing life into his kitchen and kissing him sweetly. That you’re not giving him knowing looks across the ER or brushing against his shoulder to ground him after hard traumas. He feels equally the fool for not grasping his feelings earlier, and now you’re slipping out of his hands like sand. 

"you're thinking again," he said loudly so she could hear him over the waves.

she glanced over her shoulder, smiling sheepishly.

"am i that obvious?"

"to me?" he said with a smirk as he waded closer to her as the waves crashed against his toned muscles, "always."

she laughed softly as a wave rolled between them.

"i was just...thinking about how nice today was."

"yeah?"

she nodded eagerly.

"i didn't want it to end."

jack reached for her hands beneath the water, lacing their fingers together.

"good thing tomorrow exists."

she looked up at him.

"you'd take me again?"

he smiled, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face.

"i'd take you anywhere." he mused, “we can do whatever we want. vacation is a beautiful thing, baby.”

her heart melted into molten honey as she tried to hide the smile that was creeping across her tinted lips.

but it was impossible, of course. because he was there, looking, oh so handsome and wet. and sun-kissed.

"you're making me blush." she sighed as he guided her further into the water.

"that's the goal." he puffed his chest playfully as she rolled her eyes— though they were shining brightly.

"you're so cheesy sometimes”

"and yet..." he stepped even closer until the water lapped gently against both of them, "...you're still looking at me like that."

"like what?" she trembled, wrapping her arms around his neck while his hands snaked around her hips.

"like i'm the only man on this beach."

she whispered, "you are."

for a second, neither of them spoke.

the only sounds were the waves breaking around them and the distant cries of seagulls flying over them.

jack tutted, his thumb slowly brushing over the fabric of her swimsuit.

"c'mere."

she didn't have to be told twice.

she rose onto her tiptoes in the water, ghosting her lips against his. they both breathed each others sunscreen in as she shook absentmindedly against his grasp.

he smiled against her lips before kissing her—slowly, unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be.

she smiled into the kiss, and he laughed quietly against her as her fingers wondered into his curly locks.

"what?" he murmured.

"nothing." she said pulling away.

"that's twice you've said 'nothing' today." he said, chasing her lips with his own.

she tucked her face against his neck. "i just..."

he rubbed circles against her back making her arch into him even more.

"just what, sweetheart?"

"...i love you."

the words came out so quietly he almost missed them.

almost.

his expression softened instantly and he leaned back just enough to look at her.

"say it again." he pleaded.

his eyes glittered in the sunlight as he bent down to brush his nose against the nape of her neck.

she giggled, a timid smile blossoming onto her cheeks.

"jack..."

"humor your old man."

she shook her head, smiling as she playfully punched his bicep.

“stop, don’t say that.” she said tenderly as he rested his head against her forehead.

jack laughed, nodding his head motioning for her to speak again.

"i love you."

his eyes grew dark and he kissed her forehead. then her nose. then the corner of her mouth.

"good."

"good?" she laughed. slightly mortified.

"because i'm completely and endlessly in love with you."

she let out the tiniest, happiest gasp before pulling him into another kiss.

behind them, the sun slipped beneath the horizon but neither of them noticed.

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

If he wasn’t saving lives in the ER, he was risking his own. It doesn’t matter that you’ve knelt in front of him, the hardwood cool and unforgiving, as you pleaded for him to take a day off. Just one. 

There is always something. A colleague who has children and needs that day to take them to Disneyland. Or a patient who only trusts him. A shift he just has to cover.  

You’ve heard nearly every excuse possible and smiled like it didn’t matter, like you didn’t matter, because maybe you didn’t. 

When you and Jack first started dating, he warned you that surgeons are the worst kinds of doctors to date because of their pretentiousness. He seemed to have forgotten to mention that ER doctors came in second on that list. 

It wasn’t the desire for fame or hubris that made Jack so careless about your feelings. It was his devotion to everyone but you. 

Sure, he’d kiss you and make you feel special—on a day when he could afford it. When he wasn’t chasing the high of being needed by strangers who’d maybe not even remember his name once he had saved them. 

You know the placement of every freckle on his body, and still, it doesn’t change anything. 

The third glass of wine doesn’t taste as bitter as the first. You don’t particularly like this brand or year or anything about it—you just know that Jack had bought it for today, back when he was still telling himself that he’d be home to celebrate with you. 

As the cap of the bottle dances between your fingers, the metal now warm from your body heat, you glance at the clock. 

Three hours and twelve minutes.

God, you’re a fucking loser. 

Maybe it would be a different story if you were married. Maybe you could forgive yourself for your desperation, your constant attempts to convince yourself you mattered to him as much as he mattered to you. If there were a little bit of proof of his commitment, you’d be able to look into the mirror without feeling sick with shame. 

But there is no ring on your finger or the promise that one will come one day. Jack doesn’t want to get married again. He says you two don’t need that. 

Three hours, thirteen minutes. 

You slosh the wine in your mouth while the darkest of thoughts creep in. It’s just a little fantasy you’ve curated and perfected over the years, and it’s an insane one, but you love to lose yourself in it every now and then. 

Jack comes home. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Goosebumps creep up his arms and neck as he calls out your name. When no answer comes, he runs up the stairs and finds the bathroom door ajar. Light seeps out under it, along with a small pool of water tainted light pink. 

Fine. You’re a little melodramatic. Maybe Jack’s neglect has driven you to regress into your teenage self who also fantasized about this whenever her dad yelled at her. 

Once the fourth hour starts, the wine bottle is empty, and you’re so drunk it feels like time has stopped. The tears certainly have. They’ve been replaced by this hollow laugh that echoes through the house while you watch the trashiest TV show you could find. 

While the alcohol courses through your veins, your eyes zero in on the women’s lip and cheek fillers. It stands out to you like black ink on white paper. 

You wish Jack would’ve been a plastic surgeon instead. You wouldn’t care that he sees women’s naked breasts and gives BBLs on a daily basis if that meant that he was home in time for dinner. 

Once you stand up to get a new bottle, you feel all the blood rushing to your head. Your legs are unsteady, and your forehead and nose feel so heavy, like they’re pulling you forward. 

You find out just how firm the fridge is when you knock against it. 

It’s not like you feel it anyway. 

The next bottle of wine is closed with a cork stopper. You’ve seen Jack open this kind of bottle with that metal apparatus that looks like you could find it in a gynecologist’s office. You have no idea how to use it. So you take a knife and start hacking away. You only miss your fingers by pure, dumb luck. 

That luck runs out when you try to pop out the cork stopper by hitting the bottom of the wine against the kitchen counter. 

What used to be the bottle is now a bunch of shards and a cold, wet feeling seeping through your socks. 

You laugh hysterically and drop to your knees, not half as careful as you should be. Something pierces your big toe, but you don’t care. 

The front door opens. Jack steps inside. And his eyes widen. If anything, Jack has always had one hell of a timing.

You’re a fucking mess. 

“Jackie,” you slur. 

You try to get up, but your muscles protest. 

“Jesus, what the fuck?” he hisses. 

He is by your side in an instant, stepping over the glass carefully. It crunches underneath his boots when he picks you up by your underarms and puts you down on the counter. 

“Baby, what the fuck happened?”

You giggle. You fucking love it when he calls you baby. 

“Oopsie,” you whisper. 

Jack stares at you with disbelief. His fingers catch your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his.  For a second, his mouth opens, and you await the lecture that never comes. Instead, his eyes dart over your face, taking it all in—the smeared makeup, the heat radiating from your cheeks, the glassy, far-away look. 

“Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice trembling slightly. 

You try to bite back a smile as you reply, “As a skunk.”

He lets go of your chin and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair.  You let yourself slide off the counter, trying to close the distance again. 

“Stop,” Jack yells.  His arm snaps forward, pushing you back. For a moment, you stumble. Your back hits the counter, and you look up at Jack with a hurt expression. Then your eyes follow his, and you realize that you almost stepped into the glass. A stupid smile spreads over your face.

Jack’s expression falls. 

“Hey,” he says sharply. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing, huh?”

He grabs you by your biceps and pulls you away from the sharp mess on the floor. You only feel the closeness as his fingers dig into your skin. 

“I missed you today,” you murmur dreamily.  Even to you, your own voice sounds far away. Or maybe only to you? You can’t tell. 

Jack stares at you, his eyes searching for something. Anything. 

“Talk to me,” he demands. “What is going on? Why are you wasted on a fucking Thursday?”

Oh, that one blows.  On a Thursday. Yes, a random Thursday.

You giggle so hard your throat hurts. 

“You’re never gonna believe this, but—” As you pause dramatically, Jack’s eyebrow twitches, “—it’s kinda an important Thursday. Like… really important.”

It’s almost visible how the wheels in Jack’s head start turning. They spark, creak, and squeak as he searches for the answer that’s written all over your face in the runny mascara and that look bordering on insanity. 

 His face falls when the wheels come to a stop.

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

As his eyes dart to the calendar pinned to the fridge, you feel your stomach turning. 

“Yeah,” you say.  Your mouth feels dry now, and nothing’s quite as funny anymore.

Jack looks at you, but you don’t meet his eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” You believe him. That’s the worst part. But it doesn’t matter how sorry he is, because you’re sorrier. To the little girl you once were who thought she’d be happier than her parents ever got to be.

You shift your weight and wince softly. 

Jack’s eyes widen.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.  His voice comes out rough. 

“No,” you murmur. 

Jack pats you down anyway, his hands searching alongside his eyes as he inspects your legs. At the end, he finds a small shard of glass stuck in your big toe.  You're holding onto Jack’s head as he looks at your foot. His ears have grown red. 

“You are hurt,” he mumbles. “I—Lemme…”

Torn between another apology and his worry, Jack picks you up. His arms slide under your back and your knees. The room tilts dangerously—you had almost forgotten that the contents of an entire wine bottle were coursing through your veins. 

“Rollercoaster,” you whisper.

He shushes you as he carries you to the upstairs bathroom where you keep the first aid kit.  The bright, white light flickers to life and hurts your eyes, making you groan. Jack only glances at you with more concern before he sets you down on the bathroom counter. 

“Hold still,” he instructs.  His arms keep you in place for a few seconds, like he is trying to show your body how to keep balance. “Don’t fall, please,” he adds, a little gentler. 

Then he crouches down, grunting a little as his knee pops. Somewhere through the haze of the wine, you remember that he just worked for sixteen hours. But then again, it’s your anniversary, and your empathy for his exhaustion is outweighed by your own misery. By far.

 He finds the first aid kit and takes a pair of tweezers before he catches your foot with his other hand. 

“It’s not too deep,” he says quietly. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel it until you moved.”

Yeah, you think to yourself, that’s definitely why. 

“Spoken like the doctor you are,” you answer. 

Jack looks up at you for a second, his lips pressed together. He murmurs something you don’t quite catch and then pulls out the shard.

You gasp as the pain shoots from your toe to your knee and pulls up high into your hip. 

“Ow, what the—?” you hiss. 

Jack keeps your leg still and rubs your shin slightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Not for that.”

The air in the room grows cold.  Jack straightens up, and his knee pops again. 

“I’m sorry for today, too,” he begins.  He doesn’t get very far because you immediately hold up your hand. 

“No,” you bite out sharply.

For a few seconds, you just sit on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. Jack watches, fumbling with his fingers as he searches your face. 

“Can I clean your cut, please?” he asks.  You shake your head vehemently. 

“It could get infected if I don’t,” he retorts.

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come out. Instead, a wave of nausea hits you. 

“’m gonna be sick,” you mumble. 

Jack’s eyes widen before his hands land on your waist.  He half-carries, half-drags you to the toilet and makes it just in time as the wine comes back up, tasting ten times as bad as it did when it went down. 

“Shit, baby,” Jack curses. He gathers as much of your hair as he can save and rubs your back as you throw up once, then twice. 

It’s all liquid, too, because you haven’t eaten in a few hours—you were planning on having a big dinner with your boyfriend after all, as one does on their anniversary.  As your stomach cramps, you think about the muffins that you ordered, lemon batter and raspberry icing. 

The third time your tummy revolts, it’s just dry-heaving. 

Spit dribbles down your chin, and your hands tremble. You’re somehow sweating and shaking simultaneously. Jack whispers and shushes, but you don’t want his comfort. You want to keep drinking until you pass out. 

“Leave me alone,” you murmur, your hands flailing weakly. 

“And let you knock yourself unconscious? No, thank you,” he replies. “You’re so fucking drunk, you’re lucky you haven’t given yourself alcohol poisoning.” It’s clear he’s aiming for dry and sarcastic, but you hear the fear in his voice. 

“Get out,” you rasp. Your throat might as well be on fire.

“No,” he snaps. 

“You don’t care if I crack my head open,” you accuse. 

His grip on your arm tightens. “Hey,” he says sharply, “That’s not true. I care very much.”

You groan and rest your chin on the toilet seat as your head begins to spin again. 

“Then why are you never here?”

The silence that follows is only broken by your renewed retching. 

Once you’ve emptied your stomach, Jack leaves you by yourself on the bathroom tiles for a few seconds. His eyes keep flickering back to you as he turns on the shower, testing its warmth with the tips of his fingers. 

He returns to your side and flushes the toilet for you. 

“Can you stand?” he asks.  You’re surprised at just how soft his voice is. 

You shake your head. He doesn’t sigh. 

Instead, he nods quietly and maneuvers you against the wall. 

“Put your arms up, baby,” he instructs quietly. 

Piece by piece, he removes your clothes. You feel how his fingers tremble as he unhooks the clasps of your new bra, all black lace and clearly bought for today.  Once you’re down to nothing, he starts undressing, too. He leans his prosthetic against the wall and then manages to get both of you in the shower. 

The tiles are cold underneath you, but the warm spray from above keeps you quiet. Jack doesn’t say anything as he sits next to you, his grey curls slowly growing darker as the water hits. He doesn’t reach for you either, but his knee presses against yours. 

“You love me?” you whisper. 

Jack braces next to you. You feel the tension travel up from where his leg touches yours. 

“I do,” he murmurs. 

You swallow hard. “Then why do you never choose me?”

He’s already there when you arrive, hands in his jacket pockets, and the second he sees you his whole face does something helpless and unguarded that he clearly doesn’t mean to let you see.

“Hey.” His voice comes out rougher than usual.

“Hey yourself.” You look up at the marquee.

FOOL’S RUSH IN — ONE NIGHT ONLY.

“Okay. Late 90’s rom-com. Bold choice, Abbot.”

“You know it?”

“I know of it. I was, what, one when it came out.” You watch his jaw tighten, anxious. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve checked your watch 4 times since I walked up.”

“That’s a medical habit. Occupational hazard.” But he’s fighting a smile, and he holds the door for you, and inside the theater is nearly empty… a scattering of other people, mismatched velvet seats, the kind of hush that only exists in old buildings that have outlived their purpose and don’t care. Inside it smells like butter, candy, and old dusty carpet with something underneath that might just be decades of other people’s first dates.

You end up in the back row because Jack Abbot, apparently, is a back-row person, and you don’t dislike that about him. Or anything whatsoever.

“So why this one,” you ask, once you’re settled, his arm already finding its way along the back of your seat like he can’t help it. “Out of every movie in the world.”

He’s quiet for a second. Current trailers are still running, throwing blue light across his face.

“My sister loved it. When I was in my residency, when I never had time for anything, she’d make me watch it whenever I came home. Said I needed at least one thing in my life that wasn’t a medical journal or a chart.” He shrugs. “Haven’t watched it in years but I saw it announced on my way to work and thought maybe—” He stops.

“Thought maybe what?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Jack.”

“I thought maybe I could watch again with another person I care about.” He says it fast, like ripping off a bandage, eyes on the screen instead of you. “That’s it. That’s the whole reason.”

You don’t say anything right away, because your chest has gone soft and full in a way you’re not used to, and you’re worried if you open your mouth it’ll come out as something bigger than you’re ready for. So instead you reach over and lace your fingers through his on the armrest, and you feel him exhale.

“I like it already,” you tell him. “And it hasn’t even begun.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The movie is exactly as ridiculous and charming as you’d expect. Las Vegas neon and impulsive marriage and two people who have no business being together making it work anyway.

The plot feels extremely relatable.

Almost at the end you find yourself humming along under your breath to It’s Now Or Never by Elvis Presley.

“You know this song?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I have an unreasonable amount of music knowledge from decades I wasn’t alive for. It’s a whole thing.”

He shakes his head, staring at you like you’ve short-circuited something within him. “That’s my exact music taste. That’s disturbing.”

“Weird disturbing, or regular disturbing?”

“Don’t,” he says, but he’s grinning now, wide and unguarded, the kind of grin that makes the almost 20 years between you feel less like a gap and more like a coincidence of timing. “You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m nervous.”

“You said you weren’t nervous.”

“I lied. Occupational hazard of that too, apparently.”

You laugh, and somebody in the row ahead shushes you both, and you spend the rest of the movie with your head on his shoulder and his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your hand, and it is, without question, the best old romcom you’ve ever seen.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The credits roll. The lights come up slowly, like they’re giving everyone a second to remember where they are.

Neither of you moves. A couple minutes pass and then he turns to look at you.

“That line,” Jack says, staring straight ahead at the blank screen like it’s easier than looking at you. “Near the end. Where he tells her he loves her so much it hurts and he realizes he doesn’t want the version of his life where he doesn’t take the chance on her—”

“I remember.” You do… it had landed somewhere under your ribs a few minutes ago and hadn’t left.

“I know it’s too soon but I’ve been thinking about that line for three weeks.” He finally turns to look at you, and for once there’s nothing careful in his expression, none of the hallway-glance restraint, just him. “I don’t want to live the version where I don’t ask. So. I’m asking. Be my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

It’s not smooth. It’s not the speech he probably practiced in his head on the drive over. It’s better than that, because you can tell it’s real and the same man who checked his watch four times and texted you three panicked messages about a movie theater, laid bare in the worst lighting a single-screen cinema in the middle of Pittsburgh has to offer.

“Yeah,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which feels like its own small miracle. “Of course. Yes.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting ages to do it properly, and somewhere behind you the ancient sound system is still playing the last few bars of the classical rendition of an old song neither of you can name.

And you think, for the first time, that you’d sit through every movie in the world if it meant more nights exactly like this one because you love him too. So much it hurts.

—