els

You bite your bottom lip nervously, unsure of how to voice yourself. You know you’re a good person. You don’t view yourself as a loathsome person who no one can get along with. But you often wonder why people like you. Why do they put up with your attitude and anger and worries, just to be around you?  And when they do put up with it, it’s hard for you to accept. Even harder to accept when they finally get rid of you. 

“Are you hiding something from me?” 

He doesn’t look taken aback by your question, his eyebrows furrowed as he takes you in. “Like what?”

“You tell me, Andrew.” 

“Andrew?” He’s amused, the corner of his mouth quirked up. 

You nod, “yeah, some lame ass advice J told me.” You sigh dramatically once again, “are you cheating on me?” 

He huffs, “I’m not cheating on you.” He pauses and you can tell it’s a strain to speak his next words, “you’re the only one I want.” 

“Until the next one.” You chime with a scoff. 

His grip on your chin isn’t tight, but it’s enough for him to force your eyes onto his. “There’s no next one.”

“Until there is.” 

“You’re incredibly—“ 

“Gorgeous? Smart? Funny?” You interrupt with a small smack to his chest. “You’ll tell me if I annoy you, right?”

“You don’t annoy me.” 

“You are such a liar.” 

“I don’t lie.” 

“He lies—“ 

“Shut up.” His lips press to yours. It’s a tender kiss, his hands cupping your face as his lips move against yours. It doesn’t last very long, your mouth chasing him when he pulls away. “I can promise you, there’s no one else. You don’t annoy me. You’re not too much for me. You are very pretty. Anything else I need to cover?” 

You hum, a grin plastered on your face as you lean your chin on his chest. “Tell me my ass is fat.” 

“Your ass is fat.” 

You hum, content by how well he obeys. “You’re the only old man in my life who listens to what I say.” 

“How many old men do you have in your life?” 

“Nunya. Keep eating me out.” 

authors note . . . me vs putting in my hyperfixations and rn it’s those shitty vertical movies. love you give me your thoughts

The early afternoon sun beats down on the backyard as you stand a few steps from the pavilion, one hand shielding your eyes while you squint up at the string lights.

Jack, balanced on top of a chair, glances over at you. "Higher?"

You nod. " A little."

He raises the strand another inch.

You tilt your head, taking another step as you study it. "That's perfect."

He climbs down, brushing his hands together as he steps beside you.

The pavilion stands in the corner of the yard, a couple of tables stashed under it along with some chairs. White tablecloths flutter gently in the breeze, little jars of wildflowers scattered across the tables between empty serving platters waiting to be filled.

Jack had spent most of yesterday putting it all together, with the help of Robby, refusing to sit down for more than a few minutes at a time until everything looked just right.

"One more thing to cross off the list," he says.

You sigh. "Only twenty thousand more to go."

"Hey," he murmurs. His fingers find your chin, gently turning your head toward him. "Breathe. We've got this."

You take a slow breath as you look into his calm eyes. His thumb brushes along your jaw before he releases his grip.

"We need to get the drinks outside—they're ready in coolers inside the garage—but I'm gonna wait to bring them out. Otherwise, they'll get warm." His hand finds yours. "We'll fire the grill after the guests have arrived. Everything needed for that is either by the grill or in the fridge." He glances around the yard as his thumb brushes your knuckles absentmindedly. "What else do we need to do, honey?"

You take another breath, collecting your thoughts. His fingers squeeze yours gently. "Uh… The welcome drinks still need to be made. More chairs. Oh, and the snacks need to be plated and brought outside." Your gaze sweeps over the yard before finally dropping to yourself. "I also need to get ready."

Jack nods. "I've got the chairs and snacks—" He waves away your concern. "Robby'll be here any minute to help me."

Your brows pinch together. A flutter of nerves runs through you.

He steps closer, his expression softening. "You go get the drinks and yourself ready, okay? No stressing. This is supposed to be a fun day."

"Yeah… You're right."

"I usually am." He smirks and pinches your side gently. Your startled yelp dissolves into laughter before he catches your lips with his. His kiss is warm and eager, and you happily let him drag you closer.

"Ahem." Olivia's voice cuts through the moment from the open patio doors.

You freeze in Jack's arms but still allow him to steal one more kiss. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch her standing in the doorway, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"When I agreed to come by and help," she says, "I didn't realise that meant you two making out and me doing all the work."

"We are working," you reply.

"Mm." She doesn't look convinced.

You slip out of Jack's arms and turn towards her, gesturing to the pavilion. "Look."

"Very pretty," she concedes, "But I've been watching from the window. No one did any work the last ten minutes."

"Creep," you mutter.

"Please," she waves you off. "Somebody had to make sure you two actually got something done."

You stick your tongue out at her.

She rolls her eyes but can't hide the smile that tugs at her lips. "Come help me before I start looking through your closet for my sweater. I know you have it."

"It's my sweater," you shout as she disappears inside again. You turn back to Jack. "I'd better go."

He grins. "I didn't know your thieving streak went that far back."

"I didn't steal her sweater."

He shrugs as he steps closer. "Well. You keep stealing my hoodies, so the evidence—"

"It's not the same," you argue but still step into his arms again.

His face nears yours again. "Is that so?"

"Mm," you hum. You press a quick kiss to his lips, then spin out of his grip before he manages to hold on. You point at him from a few feet away. "Snacks. Chairs."

"Yes, ma'am." He gives you a mock salute.

You grin, shaking your head as you slip away to the kitchen.

The kitchen counters are a mess by the time you walk in. Half a dozen bottles clutter the island alongside empty bowls, bunches of mints, straws and more glasses than you remember owning.

Olivia is standing in the middle of the chaos, wooden spoon in hand as she stirs a huge bowl of punch.

She looks up when she hears you come in. "Finally."

"I didn't take that long," you say.

She sends you a look.

You nudge her shoulder as you pass her to wash your hands. "Cut me some slack. It's a special day."

"I'll cut you some slack after we finish these drinks." She shoves a lemon into your hand, the second after you've dried your hands, then points to the mountain of citrus fruits lining the counter. "You'd better start cutting if we wanna be done before the guests arrive."

Your eyes widen, lips turning downwards. "Damn."

"Yeah," she laughs. "You were the one who wanted to decorate the drinks."

"I regret that now," you murmur.

A comfortable silence settles between you as you work through the pile of fruit. Olivia begins pouring the punch into glasses, carefully finishing each one with slices of citrus and fresh berries.

Having Olivia here since yesterday has been your saving grace. She's so in tune with you that she knows exactly when to tease you and when to go easy. She's kept track of everything your frazzled mind has forgotten, stepping in to organise Robby and Jack whenever they needed direction. You honestly don't know what you'd have done without her.

"So," she says after a moment as she begins cutting strawberries. "How are you holding up?"

You shrug, reaching over to grab a watermelon. "I think I'm okay."

"Yeah?" She looks over at you.

You nod. You're nervous, yes—but underneath it all, you're excited. "I just want everyone to have a good time."

"Oh, trust me. They will," she assures you. "I honestly can't wait to see their faces."

You grin at her before turning your attention back to the cutting board. You cut the watermelon into bite-sized pieces, placing them in a bowl that Olivia brings you.

She leans against the counter next to you. "You know, I'm really happy for you. I know I've said it before, but—"

You blink, caught off guard by the emotion in her voice.

"I've seen you in relationships before, and yes, you were happy," she says, "but this is different. You're different."

"I am?"

"Yeah. It's a good different," she says, popping a strawberry into her mouth.

"Phew," you say, laughing.

She pushes her foot against your leg. "You know what I mean. I'm just—I'm happy for you."

You send her a soft smile. You do know what she means.

Because it is different.

You still work ridiculous hours. There are days when you barely see Jack because day shift needs help, and all you get of each other is a few minutes during handoff. Some mornings are nothing more than sleepy kisses over coffee before you crash. Some evenings are takeout on the couch because neither of you has the energy to cook.

It's so different from what you shared with previous boyfriends. It's also so much better.

It's not just the easy days. It's knowing when he needs his wheelchair and getting it without him having to ask. It's him reminding you that you've earned your job—that you're good at it—on the nights you can't believe it yourself. It's showing up for each other when there's nothing glamorous about it all.

You wouldn't change a thing about it.

"I'm happy, too," you admit quietly.

Olivia smiles as she steals a bit of watermelon. "Good. You deserve to be."

The room falls quiet for a moment as she helps you scoop all the fruit into different bowls.

"I was also," she says as she sets a bowl down, "wondering if the two of you have talked about…" She looks at you, wiggling her eyebrows. "You know."

You narrow your eyes at her. "We're barely married."

She scoffs, glancing down at the stone that glints off your finger. "I don't know anyone who's getting married twice."

You make a face at her.

"Besides, with the two of you, you never know."

"Oh, so that's how it is, huh?" You point a spoon at her. "What about you and Robby, then? How was the drive from the airport yesterday? Did you talk?"

She glares at you before lifting both hands in surrender. "Okay. Truce. You fight dirty."

"That's what I thought," you say, grinning smugly. You clap your hands as you look over the counter of finished drinks. "All done."

Olivia nods. "Just missing you, now."

You glance at your strawberry-patterned pyjamas. "I don't know—I feel like this screams 'Summer Barbeque' attire."

She huffs and grabs your arm to pull you with her. "You and Jack need to work on your jokes. He's been making the same ones all morning. We get it. It's not just a barbecue."

Through the open bedroom window, a muffled burst of laughter drifts in from outside. You don't say anything, but you notice the way Olivia's mouth pulls into a tiny smile at the sound of Robby.

She stands beside the chair she'd ordered you into, a makeup brush tucked between her fingers and an open eyeshadow palette balanced in her hand. She's already worked her magic on your hair, rearranging loose strands until every piece sits exactly where she wants it.

She sweeps a shimmer across your eyelids, tilting your head gently with her fingertips whenever she needs a better angle. It feels strangely familiar.

For a moment, you're back in college—sitting on her dorm room floor while she helped you get ready for parties. It's the same teasing, the same steady hands, the same feeling that she's got your back no matter what.

Twenty minutes later, she twists the lid back onto your lipstick. "Done," she says.

"Can I look?"

"Not yet." She steps over to her bag and returns with a pair of small blue pearl earrings. "Your something blue."

"Oh." You hadn't expected that. Warmth spreads through your chest as she helps you put them in. You catch her hand. "Thank you."

She just nods at you, then takes a step back. For several seconds, she just looks at you.

"Liv?"

Her smile wavers, and she blinks rapidly. "You look stunning." Her voice comes out softer than usual.

You swallow around the sudden tightness that has climbed up from your chest. Before either of you can get too emotional, she reaches for the dress hanging in the closet.

"C'mon. Let's get you into that dress before you make me cry."

You laugh softly as you step out of your pyjamas and into the dress. It's a white, flowy dress that you found a couple of weeks ago. It's simple enough that nobody would think twice about seeing you wear it to a summer barbecue, yet beautiful enough that it feels perfect for today. Olivia's fingers work quickly, tying the delicate bows on top of each shoulder before smoothing the fabric across your back.

When you look into her eyes, they're glistening. She blinks and smooths a wrinkle that isn't there.

"Hey, don't. You'll make me cry," you say.

"Don't you dare," she warns you. "I just spent ages doing your makeup."

"Well, you stop then," you argue, but your voice comes out hoarser than intended.

Olivia clears her throat and nods toward the mirror. "Go look."

You walk over to the full-length mirror. For a second, you just… stare. The woman looking back at you looks completely at peace. No pretending. No forcing a smile. She's just… happy.

Beside you, Olivia leans against the dresser.

"I…" You laugh softly, smoothing your hands down the fabric. "I actually look nice. Thank you."

She snorts. "Nice? You're drop-dead gorgeous."

You huff but don't disagree, turning to wrap your arms around her. She hugs you back just as tightly.

She lets you go after a moment. "Right. I should probably make myself look presentable." She nudges you toward the door. "Go make sure everything's ready outside."

"You sure?"

She nods. "I'll be out in a minute."

You step into the living room, heels clacking against the hardwood floor. The patio doors stand halfway open, carrying in bursts of conversation from outside as well as the scraping of chairs.

Just as you're about to head outside, the door slides fully open.

Jack steps into the house, a clean dish towel in one hand. He's changed into the navy polo you'd once casually mentioned brought out his hazel eyes.

He looks so handsome.

He takes one step, then looks up. Then he stops.

Completely.

The towel slips from his fingers onto the floor.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. His eyes travel over you slowly, lingering as though he's trying to memorise every detail.

Your smile turns shy. "Hi."

He doesn't answer. His throat works around a swallow. For a moment, he just looks at you.

"Jack?"

He blinks once, dragging a hand across his jaw. "…Hi."

You laugh softly. "Are you okay?"

He lets out a shaky breath, finally meeting your eyes. "I don't…" He shakes his head, sneaking another glance across your body. "I don't think I've ever seen anything as beautiful as you."

Heat blooms across your cheeks at the awe written so plainly across his face.

"You.." He laughs quietly to himself, still looking completely overwhelmed. "Sweetheart…" He shifts his weight uncertainly.

You close the distance. As your arms wrap over his shoulders, his hands find your waist automatically. "You really are trouble."

You grin. The nickname has followed you through almost every version of yourselves—colleagues, friends, something complicated in between, and now this.

Now love.

You lift a hand, brushing your thumb gently beneath one of his eyes. "Are you crying?"

He catches your hand, but instead of pulling it away, he presses it closer to his face. For a moment, you can see him considering a lie, but then a tear slips free and lands on your skin.

He closes his eyes. "…Maybe."

"Oh, honey." You laugh.

He laughs, too, and the sound is lighter than it usually is. He cups your face carefully, looking you deeply in the eye. "I can't believe you're mine."

You tilt your cheek into his hand, nuzzling closer. "Well, you'd better believe it soon, because I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." He kisses you softly. "I wouldn't be able to take it if you were."

Your lips part to answer, but Robby's voice booms through the open doors before you can.

"Abbot! Where should I put the chairs?"

Jack closes his eyes briefly. "…Give me ten seconds," he shouts back.

"You've already had ten!"

You giggle.

Jack sighs dramatically, but the smile gives him away. He presses one lingering kiss to your lips before he steps back. "I should probably go make sure he doesn't leave them all in one pile."

When he reaches the doors, he glances back, still grinning. Still looking at you with that expression that makes you feel like he can't quite believe you're standing there.

By the time you step back outside with the final tray of welcome drinks, the backyard is buzzing. Music drifts softly from the speakers, mixing with the chatter of half a dozen conversations. Coolers are already open, bottles clinking as people help themselves. The snack bowls are half empty, and the fruit platters already have generous gaps in them.

It's rare for healthcare workers to have time to eat without being interrupted, and judging by the speed the food is disappearing, everyone's making up for lost time.

"Oh, wow." Parker sidles up beside you, looking you up and down with an appreciative grin. "You clean up pretty well."

You laugh as you do a spin for her.

"Honestly," Trinity cuts in, reaching for a piece of watermelon. "Abbot better watch out. If he ever fumbles this, you let me know."

"Girl, get in line," Parker says, throwing her a sideways look.

You shake your head, laughing at them. You hand them both a drink.

Parker smiles. "What? I can't remember the last time I saw you out of scrubs. I'm allowed to appreciate it."

You hum, shrugging lightly. "Not that many chances to get all dressed up."

"I invited you out last week?" Trinity says.

"Okay," you concede. "Not that many days where I'm off and can get dressed up. Better?"

She scrunches her nose, but nods. Her gaze then drops to your hand where your engagement ring glints in the afternoon sunlight. She blinks. "Damn. Abbot's loaded."

You roll your eyes, but before you can answer her, Shen appears with a drink in hand. "I'm letting you know as a courtesy that I expect this to be a yearly tradition."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He shrugs, taking a sip. "Yeah. Good food. Good company, and nobody's calling me about a patient. Only thing missing is—"

"Coffee," Parker finishes with a groan.

"That's not what I was gonna say," he says, turning to her with an affronted look.

"Uh huh."

You smile as you watch them get into their usual bickering.

Before you can linger, someone catches your arm, and the next twenty minutes disappear in a blur.

A hug from a nurse you worked with in your surgical rotation. A quick conversation with one of your old pediatric attendings. A resident from the ICU stopping you just long enough to compliment your dress before getting distracted by someone calling their name.

The backyard feels impossibly full. Nurses, residents, attendings, people from departments you only crossed paths with during rotations—somehow they're all here now, laughing together like they've known each other for ages.

Most importantly, your people are spread all over the garden. Mel sits nearby with Frank, Dennis, Perlah and Princess, all waiting their turn to hold Donnie's baby. Dana stands near the grill with Robby, Jack and Lena. Lily catches you as she passes by with her boyfriend, squeezing your arm with a smile, before heading to the corner where the other nurses sit and chat.

Jack's friends from SWAT start arriving not long after. Introductions are fleeting but still warm, and Jack's face lights up as more of his teammates arrive.

Someone compliments the decorations. Someone else asks where you found the flowers. Two of Jack's teammates stop you to properly introduce themselves, explaining that they've heard so much about you. They also try to convince you to get Jack back on tasks, which he hasn't done since that day. You tell them politely that it's up to Jack, secretly grateful that he hasn't been back.

Somewhere between the drinks and the laughter and people filling the backyard, you realise how much bigger your life has become. From being the disappointment at home, the daughter that never could be enough, to being and working with people who think you're enough as you are.

For a moment, you just take it all in.

You catch Jack's eye as your gaze sweeps over the yard. He tilts his head, asking a silent question, and you nod. You walk steadily through the crowd toward him as he mutters something into Robby's ear.

Just as you step up onto the patio, Jack clinks his bottle, the clear ringing note carrying across the space. Conversations slowly begin to fade, heads turning to you. Jack's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close.

He clears his throat, his fingers tightening around your side for the briefest moment before relaxing again. "Thanks for coming, everyone. We know getting this many healthcare workers together on the same day is basically impossible. So…thank you for making it happen."

He takes a slightly deeper breath than usual as he glances around the yard. "Now, I know we called this our end-of-summer barbeque—"

You feel your heartbeat start to pick up. Jack's thumb strokes absentmindedly along your side, grounding you like he knows exactly what your nerves are doing.

"—but there was another reason we wanted everyone here."

Confused looks pass through the crowd.

"We've all heard the complaints," you say. "So…" You take a slow breath, a twinkle beginning to shine in your eye. "We figured we'd do something about it."

You can see Shen's frown deepening.

"We thought…maybe you'd all like to come to our wedding?"

For a moment, nobody reacts. Samira stares at you. Parker looks from you to Jack, then over at Dana, who's already smiling, clearly trying to figure out if everyone else knew something she didn't.

Trinity is the first to find her voice. "You're kidding."

And then it starts to click. The dress. The decorations. The way you and Jack had been acting about this 'party'. The realisation moves through the yard like a wave—then chaos erupts. It's a loud jumble of disbelief, laughter and cursing.

Shen is still trying to process what just happened. You catch Parker shaking her head at you, grinning wider than you've ever seen. Off to the side, Olivia is already recording the moment with a wide smile.

Robby steps forward beside the two of you after people begin to quiet down. He grins. "Shall we get to it?"

He gestures for people to move closer, and waits until everyone has settled, then he turns to look at you and Jack.

"So, I was one of the people complaining I didn't get to be there for the first wedding. I guess my nagging paid off because you asked me to officiate this one."

You smile.

Robby's smile softens. "I'm really glad you asked. But frankly, I would have been offended if you didn't—I've aged at least ten years because of you two."

"Okay." You hold up your hands as Robby laughs.

"It was worth it." He turns back to the crowd. "Because you two were always meant for each other."

"I've known Jack for a long time." He glances at him. "When I first met him, I honestly wasn't convinced anyone would ever be able to put up with him."

Jack glares at him.

Robby continues, nonetheless. "He works too much. Forgets to eat if no one reminds him. Also keeps insisting he doesn't need help when he very obviously does. Like earlier when he tried to carry seven ch—" Robby's voice catches as Jack puffs his shoulder.

Dana laughs loudly.

"Never mind." Robby's gaze shifts to you. "And then you came along." The teasing leaves his voice. "I've never seen him happier."

You glance at Jack. He's already looking at you.

"I've also never seen him so thoroughly outmatched."

Jack laughs.

"You keep him honest. You remind him to slow down. And somehow…" He smiles at you both. "…your craziness matches. You make each other better."

He turns back to you. "You were a pain in my ass when you were a resident. Headstrong. Unafraid. Always getting into trouble." He lifts a finger when your mouth opens to argue. "So damn argumentative. But you were also one of my best residents. So smart and brave. Always able to see things from a different perspective. We were lucky to have you."

You swallow.

"Now, Jack's the lucky one."

"Damn right," Jack murmurs.

Robby takes a slow breath. "So. Speaking as someone who's had a front-row seat to every stupid thing these two have done…" He looks from Jack to you. "I can't think of two people better suited for each other."

He lets the silence linger for a moment before clapping his hands together. "Right. I am, apparently, supposed to say something official." He reaches into his pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. "We're here today to join two people in matrimony—well, for the second time. We're here because marriage isn't just one day. It isn't just paperwork. It isn't even the vows you're about to hear."

He looks up. "It's every ordinary day that comes afterwards. It's the early mornings, the late nights, the takeaway dinners because you're too tired to cook. It's choosing each other over and over again. On the easy days, and especially on the hard days. Today isn't about starting your marriage. It's about celebrating it."

He folds the paper in half and slips it back into his pocket. "Now, I think that was enough from me." He looks between the two of you. "I believe you have something you'd like to say."

You nod and feel every gaze settle on you. Jack smiles, his eyes warm with reassurance.

You unfold your paper. "When we met…" You start, already laughing softly as you admit, "I tried really hard to find a reason not to like you."

Laughter sounds across the yard.

"But you just kept being nice and being ridiculously good at your job. And..." You glance at Jack as a grin spreads across your face. "Well...being really fucking hot."

Jack laughs.

"You've always been the person I looked for first. The person I wanted to tell things to. The person I wanted beside me after a difficult shift."

Your eyes don't leave his.

 "I used to think love was supposed to be the big moments. The ones people write stories about." You shake your head gently. "I was wrong. It's coffee waiting for me when I wake up after a night shift. It's the way you always know when I need a hug before I ask for one."

A smile tugs at your lips.

"It's you pretending not to notice when I steal your hoodies. It's arguing over what to order for dinner, knowing we'll end up sharing anyway. It's coming home and knowing you're there. It's laughing until we can't breathe because one of us said something stupid. It's every ordinary day somehow becoming extraordinary because you're in it."

You crinkle the paper between your fingers. "When everyone talks about soulmates..." You swallow. "I don't think they're talking about someone who completes you. I think they're talking about someone who makes you feel yourself completely."

You bite your lip. "That's what you've given me. Somewhere I never have to be anyone but myself. Somewhere that feels like home."

Jack's jaw tightens, blinking a bit more rapidly than usual.

"I know our story hasn't been... conventional." A few guests smile knowingly, assuming you're talking about the elopement they'd all heard about. Only Robby and Olivia nod with a truly knowing smile.

"But if I had the chance to do it all again...I'd do it. No hesitation."

You hear someone sniffle behind you. It sounds suspiciously much like Lena.

"I promise..." You reach for Jack's hand. "…to keep choosing you. When life is easy and when it isn't. I'll remind you to eat lunch."

Robby chuckles.

"I promise to tell you when you're being stubborn."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "When am I ever—"

You squeeze his hand, sending him a look, and he drops it. You laugh softly before continuing.

"I promise to celebrate every victory with you and help carry every burden. I promise to keep laughing with you. To keep dancing with you in the kitchen. To keep making this house our home."

"And lastly..." You smile through the tears gathering in your eyes. "I promise I'll never stop feeling lucky that somehow...after everything..." Your voice catches. "...I get to call you my husband. "

Jack lets out a shaky laugh, squeezing your hand tightly. Tears drip down his face, but he makes no effort to hide it.

"How am I meant to go after that?" he jokes, wiping his face.

He reaches into his jacket and slowly unfolds his own piece of paper. "Well..." He chuckles softly. "I should probably start by admitting I liked you straight away."

Everyone laughs as he takes a moment to gather himself.

"When people ask how we met, I usually give them the short version." He glances at you. "The real version is a lot messier and involves a surprising amount of paperwork."

You huff a quiet laugh.

"I don't think either of us expected any of this. I definitely didn't expect to fall in love." His voice softens. "But then you kept showing up. Every shift. Every conversation. Every bad day."

He shrugs lightly. "And somewhere along the way... you became the person I wanted beside me for all of it."

He folds the paper and slips it back inside his pocket, then reaches out and grabs your hands. "I like to pretend I have everything under control. I push away the things I don't want to think about. You've seen me at my worst… and yet, you stayed."

The words hit you harder than you expect.

"You love me despite it. Because of it." His voice catches. "And I don't think you realise what a gift that has been."

Now, it's your turn to cry.

"I've never met anyone who gives so much of themselves to other people. You worry about everyone. You carry everyone. You'll stay an hour after your shift ends because someone needs help. You'll pretend you're not exhausted because you don't want anyone else to worry."

He gives your hands a gentle squeeze. "I wish you could see yourself the way everyone else does." He pauses. "The way I do."

A tear drops down. Jack reaches up automatically, brushing it away with his thumb.

"You make every place feel like home." He smiles. "I don't care where we live. This house. A tiny apartment. Somewhere halfway across the country. As long as you're there... I'm home."

Robby sniffles, trying to be discreet but failing.

Jack smiles without looking away from you. "I promise..." He takes a steadying breath. "...to keep choosing us. Even when life gets busy. Especially when life gets busy. I promise to never stop flirting with you."

"Yeah, no kidding," Parker mutters.

Jack ignores her. "I promise to keep making coffee for you every day, because you still don't know how to use the machine."

You laugh.

He grins back. "I promise to hold your hand every chance I get. I promise to dance with you in the kitchen...Even though I can't dance."

"You really can't," you whisper.

"I promise to remind you that you don't have to carry the world on your own. You've got me now, too." His eyes search yours. "And I promise..." His voice breaks, and he laughs at himself. "...I promise I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you've made me."

You can barely see him through your tears.

Silence settles over the yard once more. No one speaks. No one moves. Looking around, you can't find a single dry eye.

Jack leans forward just enough for only you to hear. "I love you."

You smile. "I love you, too."

Robby quietly clears his throat, wiping discreetly at one eye. "I think..." He glances toward Olivia. "...it's time for the rings."

Olivia steps forward from where she'd been standing beside Bridget, carrying a small velvet box in both hands. She stops in front of the two of you with a warm smile. "I've been told these are important."

She opens the box. Nestled inside are two simple wedding bands. Nothing extravagant. Just the two rings you'd chosen together months ago, now engraved with two dates. Your fingers brush over the tiny inscription before you lift one from the box.

The date of the convention. And today.

Jack takes the second from her.

Olivia closes the empty box before looking between the two of you. "I love you both." The words are quiet enough that only the three of you really hear them.

You step forward and hug her. "Thank you."

She kisses your cheek, squeezes your hand once, and quietly rejoins the others. You barely hear Robby through the rush in your ears.

All you take in is the feeling as Jack reaches for your left hand. The gold catches the late afternoon sunlight as he holds it just above your fingertips.

He looks up, waiting, as though silently asking one last time.

You answer with a smile and a nod. Always. He slides the ring onto your finger smoothly.

You slide the ring onto his finger with slightly shaky hands. Jack's fingers fold into yours. He looks elated, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins at you,

You're married again.

The words "You may now kiss the bride" barely leave Robby's mouth before Jack surges forward.

For the next twenty minutes, you're fairly certain neither you nor Jack actually touch the ground. Applause, whistles and laughter erupt across the yard after the kiss. People talking over one another as they surge toward the two of you.

Dana reaches you first. She's crying before she even wraps her arms around you. "Oh, sweetheart."

You laugh into the hug. "I know."

"You sneaky little thing."

"We've been planning it for weeks."

She sighs. "I should've noticed."

"You really should have. You're losing your touch. "

"It won't happen again." She pulls back just enough to cup your face. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you."

"And your vows—" She stops, pressing her lips together as her eyes fill all over again. "You've built such a beautiful life."

"Oh no," you laugh. "Don't. You'll make me cry again."

"I'm trying."

You hug her again, feeling her laugh through the tears.

Parker is next. She shakes Jack's hand firmly before immediately pulling him into a hug anyway. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks."

She steps back, looking between the two of you. "You've done well."

Jack glances at you, unable to hide his smile. "I know."

She rolls her eyes, but it quickly softens into a grin. "The dress should've tipped me off."

You beam at her.

Shen steps up beside Parker. "I knew."

Parker raises an eyebrow. "You absolutely did not."

"I suspected it."

"Yeah, yeah." You laugh. "You can't take credit for this one, too."

After that, the congratulations blur together. Trinity nearly squeezes the air out of your lungs. Lily's eyes are already shining before she even reaches you, mumbling heartfelt congratulations. Perlah and Princess both admit they're impressed you managed to keep such a huge secret.

You just shrug. If only they knew.

Beside you, Jack is surrounded by his SWAT teammates. They clap him on the shoulders, pull him into hugs, and give him enough grief that his laugh carries all the way across the yard.

The conversations begin blending together after that. Someone starts arguing over who cried first. Trinity insists it was Robby. Robby loudly denies it, but video evidence is quickly produced, and he ends up conceding.

At some point, Dennis ends up standing on a chair, trying to organise everyone into something resembling a group photo while at least three people completely ignore him.

You don't move straight away. Instead, you watch.

Dana is already fussing over the food despite repeatedly being told to sit down. Parker has somehow accumulated a drink and three different appetisers. Lena is laughing so hard she has to wipe at her eyes while Vivi quietly shakes her head beside her. Across the yard, Jack catches your eye and smiles, then turns back to the grill.

Olivia quietly slips beside you while Dennis is still unsuccessfully trying to direct traffic. She doesn't say anything at first. She simply loops her arm through yours. You lean your head briefly against hers.

You laugh. "I don't think this is how weddings normally go."

Olivia follows your gaze. "No." She pauses. "I think yours is better."

Ten minutes later, as you're scanning the coolers to make sure there's still enough drinks, your hip gets nudged softly. Jack stands beside you with a plate in his hand.

"Eat."

You narrow your eyes. "Is that an order?"

"It's a request." He pushes the plate into your hands. "You've had approximately one strawberry and half a glass of spritz all afternoon."

"You've been monitoring my food intake?"

He shrugs. "I'm married to you."

"So?"

"So I know exactly how easy it is for you to forget."

You smile despite yourself. "Well, what about you?"

He lifts the plate he'd been hiding behind his back. His brow lifts. "Gotcha."

You scrunch your nose at him.

His smile softens. He turns your hand over, his thumb brushing slowly across your wedding band. For a long moment he simply looks at it. "This feels different."

It does.

"Everyone was here." You hadn't realised how much it would mean to share this part of your story with them. You lean over and kiss him. "I love you."

"I love you." His forehead rests against yours for a second. The hiss of the grill interrupts you.

"You should probably save dinner."

Jack sighs. He starts walking backwards. "I'll be back." He disappears into the crowd, greeting someone who immediately claps him on the shoulder. Still, he glances back one more time to send you a smile.

Jack has just finished rescuing a couple of burger patties from Robby's questionable supervision when the two of them find themselves alone by the grill. Well…as alone as either of them can be with fifty or so people scattered around the yard.

He puts the final patties on and closes the lid of the grill, resting the spatula on the plate next to it. "Almost done."

Your laughter carries across the yard, and Jack turns toward it without thinking. He finds you standing with Olivia, both of you laughing loudly. He smiles at the sight.

Robby crosses his arms next to him and follows his gaze. "They're something else when they're together."

"Tell me about it." Jack nods. Most of last night had been spent screaming in excitement about the following day, catching up on the latest gossip, and, of course, teasing Jack.

He loves it when Olivia is in town.

Tearing his eyes away from you, he flips the lid to turn the patties. "I don't think today's really sunk in yet."

"No?"

He turns back to look at you. "I never imagined…" He shakes his head, pulling Robby into a hug. "Thanks, man. For everything."

Robby nods, clapping his back twice. "Of course."

Jack clears his throat and moves to flip the final patties onto a plate. He closes the valve, waits for the lines to clear and then turns off the knobs. When he turns back, he finds that Robby is still looking across the yard.

You're laughing at something Parker says as you steal a sip of Olivia's drink. A second later, you splutter dramatically, and Olivia doubles over laughing at your expression.

The corner of Robby's mouth lifts before he seems to realise he's smiling.

Folding his arms across his chest, Jack nudges Robby's shoulder lightly with his own. "Careful."

"What?" Robby asks, still watching.

"She'll catch you staring."

Robby tears his gaze away a little too quickly. "I'm not staring." He reaches for the tongs, unaware that Jack has already turned off the grill.

Jack just raises an eyebrow. "If you say so."

It takes all of five seconds before Robby's eyes drift back again. The tongs hang between his fingers, forgotten again.

Jack chuckles.

Robby huffs. "You're no better."

"She's my wife," Jack says, unable to hide his grin. He slides the burger buns onto a platter before glancing sideways at Robby. "What are you two?"

Robby's jaw twitches. "Shut up."

The evening slips by almost without you noticing. As the sun sinks lower, the warm string lights begin to glow around the garden, casting everything in a softer light.

One conversation melts into the next as music drifts through the yard. The last of the burgers has disappeared, and most of the dessert has already been devoured.

You duck into the kitchen in search of more ice.

"So this is where you're hiding."

You look over your shoulder, finding Robby leaned against the doorframe. He's got an empty stack of bowls in his hands.

"Jack put you on clean-up duty?" You sit down to rummage through the fridge.

"Volunteered." He shrugs, stepping toward the kitchen.

"Who are you and what have you done with Michael Robinavitch?" you gasp.

"Ha. Ha." He sets the bowls down.

You laugh, pulling open another drawer. "I think we're officially out."

"Good."

You glance back at him. "Good?"

He nods. "Means people are having a good time."

You guess he's right. You close the fridge, standing up to lean against the counter. Neither of you moves to go back outside just yet.

From here you can still hear the party through the open patio doors—bursts of laughter, the clink of glasses, and soft music.

Robby leans against the island opposite you. His brown eyes trail over your face. "You belong here."

You blink. "What?"

"With us." He gestures toward the yard where most of the Pitt is having fun. "You're family."

Your throat tightens. This is everything you'd wanted for years without quite believing you'd ever have it. Before you can find the words, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

Robby stiffens for only a heartbeat before hugging you just as tightly. He's never been particularly comfortable with emotions, but he's always shown how much he cares in quieter ways—in the hours he gives his patients, the way he looks after his staff, the loyalty he shows the people he loves.

When you step away, he clears his throat and moves for the patio door. Without looking back, he says quietly, a smile in his voice, "See you at work on Monday."

There are orange streaks in the sky when Jack finds you standing by yourself. People aren't gathered in one big group anymore. Instead, they're scattered wherever there's room—chairs pulled together, people leaning against tables, conversations stretching lazily into the evening. Some have left for work, others heading home to get some sleep before their day shifts. It's everything you hoped for.

Santos is halfway through a story that has Princess and Perlah laughing loudly. Mel sits next to Dennis, whispering follow-up questions that he tries to answer. Shen and Parker sit off to the side watching it all with an amused smile.

A little further away, you spot Olivia sitting with one of Jack's SWAT friends. She's laughing at something he says, while Robby pretends hard not to look in their direction. He keeps failing.

"What's so funny?" Jack asks. He holds out a glass of water for you.

You accept it gratefully, and nod your head to the right.

He follows your gaze. "Ah."

"Yeah."

"That's not the first time he's been staring at her."

"Oh?"

He nods. "He thinks he's being subtle."

You look back toward Robby. "He really isn't."

Jack laughs. He turns to face you fully as the song drifting through the speakers changes into something slower.

The last of the sunlight catches in his hazel eyes, making the green seem brighter than usual. He holds out his hand. "Dance with me."

"Here?"

"Why not?"

"There's no dance floor," you say, but step closer to him anyway.

He glances down at the grass beneath his feet. "Looks good enough to me."

You laugh, letting him take your drink and set it aside. He draws you closer until one hand settles naturally at your waist. The other stays wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. It isn't really dancing. Just the two of you swaying beneath the lights, more interested in being close than keeping time.

"Was it everything you wanted?" you ask.

"Even better," he says.

You look at him. His thumb traces slow circles against your back while the two of you sway.

"I love you." You've lost count of how many times you've said that tonight.

He presses his forehead against yours. "I love you, too, sweetheart."

Neither of you notice when another couple joins you. Then a second, and a third. At some point, Olivia stands, walking over to Robby and offering him her hand. He looks surprised for half a second, hesitant for another, but then smiles and takes it.

Little pockets of slow dancing appear all over the yard.

"I love this," you say. Your hands settle at the back of his neck, your fingers disappearing into the soft grey curls there.

"The dancing?"

"The people." You look around. "All of them."

Jack lifts his head to look around, then he quietly kisses the top of your head and continues swaying with you.

At last, when all the dessert is gone and most of the coolers have been emptied, guests gradually trickle out until only you, Jack, Robby, and Olivia remain.

You're collecting trays into neat piles while Jack stacks chairs nearby. To your left, Olivia stuffs paper plates into a rubbish bag as Robby makes his way around the garden, gathering empty bottles.

She catches your eye, and you raise an eyebrow, nodding subtly towards Robby. She shakes her head, eyes narrowing immediately.

You fight back a smile.

Looking around, there's still so much to be done. Cushions scattered across the lawn, empty glasses on every flat surface and enough washing up to keep you busy until morning. However, instead of tackling it now, you turn to Jack.

"Let's save this for tomorrow."

His eyes hone in on the mischievous twinkle in your eye, and he catches on quickly when he spots Olivia's glare. A slow smile appears on his face. "Yes. That sounds like a plan."

He turns toward Robby. "Couch's yours." He grins. "I hope it doesn't take out your back like it did last time."

Bait set. Now, it was up to Olivia to take it.

You laugh quietly, tugging him toward the door before either of you burns from the heat of their glares. You're almost at the threshold when he pulls you back.

"Wait. I've got one wedding tradition I'd quite like to keep." Without another word, he bends, slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, and lifts you clean off the ground.

You yelp, immediately laughing as your arms wrap around his neck. "Jack!"

"What?"

"I can walk."

His lips turn up at the corners. "Despite everything, so can I."

Jack ducks through the patio doors without so much as a stumble, and continues until he's inside the bedroom. Once inside, he lowers you carefully onto your feet.

He looks at you, his eyes soft. "Hi, wife."

You smile so widely your cheeks ache. "Hi, husband."

He steps closer. You're not sure who moves first, but your lips meet in a gentle kiss. You tug him with you toward the bed, your fingers reaching under his shirt to pull it up. He obeys without hesitation, lifting his arms to help.

"I need to take off my leg, honey." He reminds you when you try to push him down on the bed.

You kiss his cheek. "Let me."

He sits on the edge of the bed. You roll up his trouser leg before carefully unfastening his prosthetic. Pressing a kiss to the skin just above the scar, you set it beside the bedside table. He makes quick work of his pants, tossing them somewhere across the room.

Then he pulls you up. You climb onto his lap, your thighs settling on either side of his.

"God, this dress…" he murmurs as he begins sliding the straps down. He kisses your shoulder softly, trailing down to your collarbone. His fingers brush against heated skin, goosebumps fluttering in their path.

He presses another soft kiss to the skin just above your boob before the fabric slowly falls down, revealing your chest to him. With one hand, he guides the other side to join the pooling fabric at your waist.

You push your chest toward him, and he takes the hint without teasing. His mouth closes around one nipple, tongue swirling before he sucks lightly.

"Feels so…" you moan, holding onto his shoulders.

"Yeah?" he hums, lifting his head to look at you. Your lips find his neck, trailing kisses up and down, before nibbling lightly at his earlobe.

He pulls back. "I'm losing my mind, sweetheart. No more teasing. Are you ready or do I need to—"

You grab his fingers and pull them under your dress. He groans when he feels how soaked you are. "Christ. Where's your underwear?"

You gesture at the ground. "Took it off when you weren't looking." You grind down on his cock, and his hips lift at the sensation. "I'm ready."

"You sure?" He looks into your eyes. "I don't mind."

Tired of his talking, you reach down to free his cock. His head falls back down onto the mattress when you glide it against your folds. Then you sink down.

The dress pools around your thighs, hiding the spot where he disappears into you, but the slick that sounds around the room is unmistakable.

Jack's eyes grow darker. "Jesus. How'd I get so lucky?"

You grin.

"I mean it," he says, his hands tightening their grip on your waist. He punctuates the following words with separate thrusts. "Luckiest. Man. Alive."

A hand reaches up to cup your boob while the other trails down under the dress. His thumb finds your clit easily, putting just the correct amount of pressure on it that gets you gasping.

It doesn't take long to send you over the edge. Jack tries to stay steady through it, but the tightening grip around his cock proves too hard to resist. He comes with a long groan, thrusting himself deep into you.

You collapse against his chest. Both of you take a moment to regain normal breathing, his hands brushing soft patterns across your back.

"I'll go get you a washcloth," he murmurs into your hair.

"Just one more minute." You nestle closer, burrowing into his heat.

"One." He relents, pressing a soft and content kiss into your hair.

The first thing you notice when you wake is the smell of coffee. Its rich scent entangling with the clean scent of the duvet sheets. You don't open your eyes, but stay there, wrapped in warmth as memories of last night wash over you.

Lights. Drinks. Jack. Vows. The ring.

You twirl it around your finger, smiling into your pillow. You got married to Jack.

Again.

But this time it was even better than last time. This time you both meant to. This time he chose you.

Married on purpose sounds a lot better than accidentally.

You hear the quiet scrape of the bedroom door being pushed open. The familiar shuffle of Jack's slightly uneven gait. The thump as something gets set down on the bedside table and the clunk of something placed on the floor.

Then the mattress dips beside you. A warm hand brushes your hair away from your face before a soft kiss meets your forehead.

"Morning, wife."

You finally open your eyes. "Morning, husband."

Jack grins at you. Sleep has left his soft grey curls sticking up in every direction.

You grin back. "You made breakfast."

"I did," he says. He settles fully down beside you. "How are you feeling?"

"A little hungover…" You glance around the room. Sunlight spills through the half-open curtains. Your dress hangs over the chair, Jack's trousers lie abandoned in the corner, and the empty ring box still rests on the dresser. "But very happy."

His hand brushes your shoulder. "Good."

You sit up, taking the cup he holds out for you. "You?"

He looks down at his coffee, then at you. "I couldn't be better."

"Yeah?"

He nods and reaches for your hand. His thumb traces slowly over your wedding band. "I meant what I said last night."

"About making me coffee every day?"

He laughs softly. "That too. But also about being lucky."

"Well. I guess we're both pretty lucky." You hold your cup up. "To us."

He clinks his cup against yours. "To us."

"And to forever." You clink your cup against his again. "Oh, and to—"

He pinches your chin with his free hand. "How about we workshop it before we try again?"

The Pitt never sleeps, and it sure as hell never shuts up.

That’s the first thing you learn when you work here.

Not the medicine. Not the charting system that seems determined to humble every physician alive. Not the way time stretches and collapses until ten minutes can feel like an hour, and twelve hours can disappear in a blur of labs, consults, discharge instructions, and cold coffee you keep forgetting you poured.

It’s the noise.

The Pitt is all noise.

Monitor alarms. Overhead pages. Someone is coughing behind a curtain. Someone retching into an emesis bag. A patient in Bay Four is yelling that he’s been waiting forever and doesn’t care that the trauma team is currently trying to keep someone alive down the hall.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A radio crackles at Dana’s hip. A gurney wheel squeaks past in a rhythm that drills straight through your skull.

Your hearing aids catch it all.

Every alarm.

Every scrape.

Every sharp edge of sound.

That’s the thing people don’t understand about hearing aids. They think they fix things. They think you put them in, and suddenly the world makes sense again.

They don’t know that sometimes they just make the chaos louder.

You stand at the nurses’ station, watching Dana’s mouth more closely than you want to admit.

She’s talking fast because Dana always talks fast when the department is on the verge of tipping from busy into disaster. Her eyes are on the board, her hand already reaching for the next chart, her radio spitting static between you.

“Room Nine,” she says.

The radio crackles.

You miss the rest.

“What?”

Dana looks back at you.

Not annoyed. Not yet. Dana notices more than people think. Sometimes that makes you feel safer. Sometimes it makes you feel too visible.

“I said Room Nine’s been waiting over an hour. Eighteen-year-old. Abdominal pain. Deaf. No interpreter yet.”

You catch it that time.

All of it.

Your stomach tightens.

“VRI?”

“Cart’s down.”

Of course it is.

“Interpreter services?”

“Called forty-five minutes ago. Still waiting.”

You glance toward the hallway.

Room Nine.

You already hate this.

The Pitt runs on speed, instinct, and duct tape. Everyone knows what’s supposed to happen. Everyone knows the policy. Everyone knows the right number to call, the form to fill out, the backup procedure that exists somewhere in a binder nobody has time to read.

But when the system breaks, it breaks on the patient.

It always breaks on the patient.

“I’ll take her,” you say.

Dana watches you for half a second.

“You sure?”

You know what she’s asking, even if she doesn’t know exactly why she’s asking it.

Not whether you can handle abdominal pain.

Whether you can handle this kind of abandonment.

This kind of failed.

This kind of personal.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m sure.”

Dana hands you the tablet.

“Bell, Maya. Triage notes bare bones. Good luck.”

You don’t say thank you.

You’re already moving.

The hallway is its usual obstacle course.

You sidestep Javadi with a stack of discharge papers tucked against her chest. She says something as she passes, but her mouth is turned away and the radio pops at the exact wrong second.

You smile anyway.

It’s automatic.

You hate that it’s automatic.

You’ve spent your entire life becoming fluent in pretending. A smile when you miss a sentence. A nod when you catch enough to guess. A small laugh when everyone else laughs, and you’re a beat behind. Most people don’t notice.

That’s the point.

Dennis nearly clips your shoulder coming around the corner with a urine cup in each hand and panic written all over his face.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” he says. “Have you seen Dana?”

“Behind me.”

“Great. Perfect. Thank you.”

He gets three steps away before turning back.

“Wait, blue tops before purple, right?”

“Blue first.”

“Blue first,” he repeats, like he’s trying to carve it into his brain. “I knew that.”

He absolutely did not know that.

You keep walking.

At the trauma board, Robby is talking to Mel, his voice low and clipped. Trinity stands near them with her arms folded, listening while pretending not to look like she’s listening. She catches sight of the chart in your hand.

“What’ve you got?”

“Room Nine. Abdominal pain.”

“Anything good?”

“Deaf patient. No interpreter.”

Her expression shifts, quick and controlled.

“Still?”

“Still.”

She glances toward the board. “We’re about to get slammed.”

“We’re already slammed.”

“That’s my point.”

Her eyes stay on you for a second longer than they need to. There’s a question there, maybe a warning. Trinity lives in the pressure point of things, always ready to move, always measuring where she’ll be most useful. It’s part of what makes her good. It’s also part of what makes her hard.

You keep walking before she can say anything else.

Room Nine is at the end of the hall.

The curtain is half-drawn.

You pause outside long enough to scan the chart.

Maya Bell. Eighteen. Right lower quadrant pain. Started around the belly button this morning. Worse now. Nausea. No vomiting. No documented fever. Vitals stable.

The triage note says, “Patient is Deaf. Requests an ASL interpreter.”

That’s it.

Nothing about what it feels like to sit in pain for over an hour while people talk around you.

Nothing about fear.

Nothing about isolation.

Nothing about the way a hospital can be full of people and still leave someone completely alone.

You pull the curtain back.

Maya is curled on her side on the gurney, knees drawn up, one arm wrapped tight around her middle. She’s wearing an oversized blue hoodie, the sleeves pulled over her hands. Her face is turned toward the wall.

Her shoulders shake.

She’s crying.

Silently.

No sob. No gasp. No sound that would make someone walking by turn their head.

Something in your chest twists.

You step inside and let the curtain close behind you.

The noise of the ED dulls, but it doesn’t disappear. It never does. Still, in the room, there’s a pocket of something quieter. Not peaceful. Not safe. Just contained.

You move slowly into Maya’s line of sight and lift one hand.

She turns.

Her eyes are red, wet, and terrified.

You raise both hands.

“Hi,” you sign. “I’m the doctor. I’m going to take care of you.”

Maya stares at you.

For a second, she doesn’t move.

Then her face changes so fast it hurts.

“You sign?” Her hands shake, but her signs are clear. “You actually sign?”

“I do,” you sign back. “I’m hard of hearing. I sign.”

Her mouth opens around a breath you barely hear.

“I’ve been here so long,” she signs. “No one understands me. They gave me a clipboard. I kept trying to explain, but they just pointed at the pain scale. It hurts. It really hurts. My dad died in a hospital. They didn’t have an interpreter. He was alone. I’m scared.”

The words come fast.

Too fast.

Like they’ve been trapped in her hands for an hour, and now there’s finally somewhere for them to go.

You pull the rolling stool closer and sit at eye level.

“I’m here now,” you sign. “I’ll explain everything. You’re not alone.”

Maya wipes at her face with the sleeve of the blue hoodie. The fabric is worn soft at the cuffs. There’s a faded crease across the front, like it’s been washed too many times and loved too hard.

You wait.

You don’t rush her.

You know what it means when someone finally gets language back.

You know what it means to be given a room where your hands can speak faster than your mouth ever could.

Maya takes a shaky breath, then nods.

You start with the pain.

“When did it begin?”

“This morning,” she signs, pointing around her belly button. “Here first. Then it moved.”

She points lower. Right side.

“Sharp?”

“Yes.”

“Worse when you move?”

“Yes.”

“Nausea?”

“Yes.”

“Vomiting?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

“I don’t know.”

You watch her hands, her face, the way she protects her abdomen when she shifts. Pain has a language of its own. It’s in the shoulders, the breath, the way someone tries not to move until the fear of moving becomes its own symptom.

It looks like appendicitis.

You’re asking about allergies when the curtain opens behind you.

“There you are.”

You don’t turn right away.

You finish signing, “Any allergies?” and wait for Maya to answer.

“No.”

Only then do you turn.

Trinity stands in the opening, already braced for an argument.

“We’ve got an MVA coming in,” she says. “Two critical. Robby wants extra hands.”

“I’m with a patient.”

“I can see that.”

Her eyes flick to Maya, then back to you. They don’t linger on Maya for long enough. Not yet.

“Can Dennis take over for five minutes?”

“No.”

Trinity’s jaw tightens.

Not anger exactly.

Pressure.

She gets like this when the department surges. Focused. Sharp. Too fast for softness. Her whole body seems to lean toward the crisis that isn’t here yet, already anticipating where she’ll be needed, already annoyed by anything that slows the room down.

“We’re about to have two critical traumas,” she says.

“And she’s been sitting here for over an hour without access.”

“I’m not saying that’s okay.”

“Then don’t ask me to leave her.”

Maya’s hands move behind you.

“What’s happening?” she signs. “Is something wrong?”

You turn back to her immediately.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you sign. “Another patient is coming in. I’m staying with you.”

Maya looks past you toward Trinity. Her eyes are wide and searching. She’s trying to read the room with none of the tools the room is using.

When you look back, Trinity’s expression has changed.

Not softened.

Not yet.

But she heard that.

“She has abdominal pain,” Trinity says, quieter now.

“She has no communication,” you say. “That’s not a side issue.”

“I know that.”

“No,” you say, and your voice comes out lower than you mean it to. “You know it as a policy. She’s living it.”

Trinity looks at Maya again.

This time, she really looks.

Maya has one hand pressed to her side and the other clenched in the front of her father’s hoodie. Her eyes move between you and Trinity, trying to understand a conversation that keeps moving without her.

Trinity’s mouth tightens.

You see the moment the facts rearrange themselves for her.

She doesn’t like being challenged. She doesn’t like being wrong. But she likes missing the point even less.

“Okay,” she says.

You blink.

She looks back at you.

“I’ll tell Robby you’re staying. But if the trauma goes sideways, I’m coming back.”

“That’s fair.”

She nods once and leaves.

No dramatic exit.

No cutting remark.

Just movement.

That’s Trinity too.

She pushes. She tests. She challenges. But when the truth lands, she recalibrates.

Even if she hates that you made her do it.

You finish the exam.

You explain every step before you touch Maya.

“I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs. Then I’m going to press on your belly. I’ll start away from where it hurts.”

Maya nods.

You warm the stethoscope between your palms before placing it against her. It’s something small, probably not important in the grand scheme of things, but Maya watches the movement and relaxes half an inch before you even touch her.

Heart regular. Lungs clear.

When you move to her abdomen, you go slowly. You start away from the pain, like you promised. Your hands are gentle, but the second you reach the right lower quadrant, Maya flinches before you even press.

“Here?” you sign.

“Yes. There.”

Guarding. Rebound. McBurney’s point is tender as hell.

You pull off your gloves.

“I think this might be appendicitis,” you sign.

Her eyes widen.

“Do you know what that is?”

“A little. Appendix infected?”

“Close. It gets inflamed and blocked. It’s a small organ attached to your intestine.” You point to the spot. “When it swells, it hurts. If it bursts, that can be dangerous. We need blood tests and a CT scan. If it’s appendicitis, surgery will probably remove it.”

“Surgery?”

Her signs get smaller at that word.

“Yes,” you sign. “But it’s common. The surgeons here are good. And you’ll have an interpreter for consent and questions.”

Her hands pause.

“You won’t leave?”

You feel that one in your throat.

“I won’t leave you without communication,” you sign. “I promise.”

Maya stares at you for a second, like she’s trying to decide if promises can be trusted in hospitals.

Then she nods.

At the nurses’ station, you put in the orders.

CBC. CMP. Lipase. Urinalysis. Pregnancy test. CT abdomen and pelvis with contrast. Fluids. Pain control. Nausea meds.

Dennis appears beside you, facing you directly this time.

“Dana sent me. What do you need?”

“Check whether the VRI cart is actually broken or just dead. Then call interpreter services again and get an ETA.”

“Got it.”

He starts away, then stops.

“And I should not go in there and try to use my one semester of ASL, right?”

“Correct.”

“I know turtle.”

“That won’t help.”

“It rarely does.”

“Dennis.”

“Going.”

He goes.

Dana comes up on your other side.

“Probable appy?” she asks.

“Yeah. CT pending.”

“Pain meds?”

“Ordered.”

“I’ll get the line.”

You look at her.

“Thanks.”

Dana’s eyes flick over your face. Brief. Assessing. There’s something there, something almost like concern, but Dana doesn’t dress concern up in soft clothes. She makes it sound like an order.

“Don’t burn yourself down in one room.”

You almost laugh.

“Trying not to.”

“Try harder.”

You’re halfway to Room Nine when Trinity catches you near the supply alcove.

“Hey.”

You stop.

She keeps her voice low, which you appreciate even though the hallway is still too loud.

“Robby’s got enough hands. Trauma’s covered.”

“Good.”

She watches you for a second.

Then, “I didn’t know she was that scared.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Trinity’s eyes sharpen, but she takes it.

“Yeah. I know.”

You don’t say anything.

For once, neither does she.

The silence stretches between you, awkward and too honest for a hallway full of movement. Trinity shifts her weight, arms still crossed, but her posture is less defensive now. Her gaze cuts toward Room Nine, then back to you.

“This is personal for you.”

It isn’t an accusation this time.

It’s an observation.

“Yes.”

“Because she’s Deaf?”

“Because access is personal.”

Trinity’s gaze flicks to your ears.

It’s quick.

Almost nothing.

But you see it.

Of course you do.

Her face changes.

Not a lot.

Enough.

You feel your stomach drop.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Her mouth opens.

Then closes.

It’s rare, Trinity Santos, without a fast answer. Rare enough that it almost makes you ache.

You step around her.

“I need to get back to my patient.”

This time, she lets you go.

Maya’s IV is in when you return.

Dana is finishing the tape, facing Maya whenever she speaks, glancing to you only when something needs to be signed.

It’s small.

It matters.

“Pain meds are going in,” you sign to Maya. “CT should be soon.”

Maya nods.

Dana steps out.

Maya watches the curtain settle.

“She’s nice,” Maya signs.

“She’s scary,” you sign back. “But yes.”

Maya almost smiles.

It changes her whole face, makes her look eighteen again instead of small and stranded.

Then she looks at you more carefully.

“Can I ask something?”

“Of course.”

“You said hard of hearing. Not Deaf?”

You appreciate the question.

You appreciate that she knows there’s a difference.

“I’m hard of hearing,” you sign. “Progressive sensorineural hearing loss. I’ve had hearing loss since I was a kid. It’s gotten worse over time. It’ll keep getting worse.”

Maya’s face softens.

“I wear hearing aids,” you continue. “I sign. I’m connected to the Deaf community, but I also work in the hearing world. It’s complicated.”

“My mom says hearing people make everything complicated.”

“Your mom’s right.”

That gets a real smile.

Small, but real.

Maya looks down at the blue hoodie. Her fingers rub the cuff, thumb moving over the worn seam.

“This was my dad’s,” she signs. “He died three years ago.”

You wait.

“He had chest pain. My mom asked for an interpreter. They said someone was coming. It took too long. He was scared. My mom tried to interpret, but she was scared too. Then everything got bad.”

Her hands stop.

She presses the sleeve to her face.

“I wore this because she said it would keep me safe.”

You swallow.

“It’s a good hoodie,” you sign.

Maya looks down at it like she wants to believe you.

Then she signs, smaller, “I thought maybe if I wore it, hospitals couldn’t take anyone else from us.”

You don’t have an answer for that.

Not a good one.

Not one that fixes anything.

So you don’t reach for something false.

You just sign, “I’m sorry.”

Maya nods once.

Her eyes fill again, but this time she doesn’t look away.

Robby finds you after CT confirms it.

Acute appendicitis. No perforation.

He listens to your rundown without interrupting.

“How long without an interpreter?” he asks.

“Over an hour before I got to her. More if we’re talking formal interpreter access.”

“VRI?”

“Down.”

“Backup?”

“In-person interpreter called but delayed.”

His jaw tightens.

“Document every step.”

“I will.”

“I’m filing a safety report.”

You nod.

You expected that, but it still settles something in you.

Robby looks toward Room Nine.

“Communication access isn’t optional.”

“No.”

“Good work staying with her.”

The praise is brief. Direct. Then he’s gone, pulled toward another problem.

That’s fine.

You don’t need a speech.

You need the report filed.

The interpreter arrives before surgery comes down.

His name is Jonah. He introduces himself to Maya, explains his role, and positions himself so Maya can see him clearly.

You step back.

That part matters.

You’re Maya’s doctor, not her interpreter. Emergency communication is one thing. Informed consent is another.

Dr. Garcia comes in from surgery and explains the laparoscopic appendectomy, the risks, the recovery, the timing. Maya asks good questions. Jonah interprets. Dr. Garcia answers without rushing.

That should be the baseline.

It still feels like a victory.

Maya’s mother arrives twenty minutes later with her aunt.

The second Maya sees her, she starts crying again. This time, her mother is there to catch it. Their hands move fast, fear and relief all tangled together. Maya’s mother touches her daughter’s cheek, then the hoodie, then the side of the bed, like she’s confirming everything is real.

Maya’s aunt keeps apologizing.

“I had to go to work,” she says. “I shouldn’t have left her. I shouldn’t have left her here.”

“You didn’t know,” you say gently.

Maya’s mother turns to you.

You introduce yourself in ASL.

Her eyes lock on your hands, then your face.

For a moment, she just looks at you.

Then she steps forward and hugs you hard.

You freeze for half a second, caught off guard by the force of it, by the motherness of it. Then you hug her back.

When she pulls away, she signs, “Thank you for seeing my child.”

Not treating.

Seeing.

You nod because you don’t trust yourself with anything else.

From the hallway, you feel someone watching.

You glance over.

Trinity stands near the doorway, half-hidden by the curtain, her tablet held against her chest. She isn’t interrupting. She isn’t inserting herself.

She’s just watching.

And this time, you think she understands a little more.

Maya goes to surgery at eleven.

The case is clean. Uncomplicated. She’ll be okay.

You check the OR board anyway.

Three times.

At two in the morning, you end up in the staff lounge with coffee you’re too tired to drink.

Your hearing aids hurt.

The molds have been in too long. The edges rub. Your brain feels raw from sorting noise for hours. Every alarm from the shift seems to have left an echo behind your eyes.

You want to take them out.

You can’t.

Not at work.

Not when someone might call your name. Not when a code might be announced. Not when the world still expects you to meet it on its terms, even when those terms leave you exhausted.

The door opens.

Trinity steps in.

She pauses when she sees you.

“Can I sit?”

You nod.

She sits beside you, angled toward you. Purposefully. So you can see her face.

You notice.

So does she.

Neither of you says anything about it.

“Maya did okay,” Trinity says.

“Yeah.”

“I saw the OR note.”

“Of course you did.”

She ignores that, but one corner of her mouth moves like she almost smiled.

Then she looks down at her hands.

“I was wrong earlier.”

You stare into your coffee.

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again.”

Of course she is.

Trinity doesn’t like being wrong, but once she decides she is, she doesn’t half-admit it.

“I let the trauma dictate the whole room,” she says. “That’s not an excuse. I made it sound like access was secondary because the patient wasn’t actively crashing.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She could’ve gotten worse,” Trinity continues. “She needed consent. Pain control. Imaging. Surgery. None of that works if she can’t understand what’s happening.”

“No,” you say. “It doesn’t.”

Trinity nods once, almost to herself.

The room settles around you. The hum of the vending machine. The distant murmur of voices through the wall. The soft click of Trinity’s nail against the side of her paper cup.

Then her gaze drops again.

Your ears this time.

You go still.

“How long?” she asks.

You almost pretend not to understand.

You’re too tired.

“Since I was a kid.”

“Progressive?”

“Yeah.”

“How progressive?”

You press your thumb into the side of the cup.

“It’ll get worse.”

Trinity’s face closes down for half a second.

Not cold.

Controlled.

Her control always looks cold if you don’t know her.

“I didn’t notice,” she says.

“No.”

“That’s not a question.”

“I know.”

“We’ve been together six months.”

“I know that too.”

Her jaw tightens.

She looks angry, but not at you. Not exactly.

“With your hearing aids,” she says slowly. “Have you always worn them around me?”

“Most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“At home, sometimes I take them out.”

“I thought you were just tired when you got quiet.”

“I usually am.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

She looks away.

For a second, you think she’s going to snap. That sharp Santos defense, the one that comes out when she’s scared of feeling too much.

Instead, she takes a breath.

“What helps?”

You blink.

“What?”

“What helps?” she asks again. “At work. With me. In general.”

You stare at her.

You’d expected hurt. Anger. A demand. Maybe all three.

Not that.

You set the coffee down.

“Face me when you talk,” you say. “Don’t call from behind me and expect me to catch it. In loud rooms, get my attention first. Touch my arm, wave, something. Don’t cover your mouth. Don’t say never mind when I ask you to repeat something.”

Her expression changes at that.

She’s said never mind before, a lot.

You both know it.

“Okay,” she says.

“And don’t tell people before I do.”

Her eyes lift to yours immediately.

“I wouldn’t.”

You believe her.

That scares you more than not believing her would.

A long silence settles between you.

Trinity leans back into the couch, shoulders tense, eyes fixed somewhere past the coffee table.

“I’m trying not to make this about me,” she says finally.

You look at her.

Her voice is quieter now. Stripped down. Still Trinity, but without the armor polished quite so bright.

“But I keep thinking about all the times I missed it,” she says. “All the times I was talking too fast, or turned away, or annoyed because you didn’t answer me the first time.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t tell you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

She huffs once, but there’s no humor in it.

“I hate that I didn’t see you.”

That breaks through more than anything else.

Not because it’s perfect.

Because it isn’t.

It’s messy and guilty and blunt. It’s Trinity, honest in the only way she knows how, with the edges still on.

“I didn’t want to be seen,” you say.

She looks at you then.

“I know.”

The softness in her voice almost ruins you.

You make it to the end of your shift on fumes.

Dana tells you to go home twice before you actually listen.

The first time, you pretend not to hear her.

The second time, she stands directly in front of you and says, “Don’t even try that with me.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Try what?”

Dana points at the locker room.

“Home.”

“I have one note.”

“You have one foot in the grave. Finish the note and leave.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gives you a look but lets you go.

In the locker room, you take your hearing aids out.

The world softens.

Not silence.

Never full silence.

But close enough that your shoulders drop for the first time in twelve hours. The buzzing lights vanish. The hallway noise fades into a dull vibration. Your own breath becomes the loudest thing in the room.

You close your eyes.

For a second, you let yourself exist without translating.

The door opens.

You don’t hear it.

You see Trinity in the mirror.

She says something, then stops when she realizes.

You point to your ears.

She nods, pulls out her phone, types, and turns the screen toward you.

Coffee? Not here.

You stare at her for a second.

Then nod.

The diner two blocks from the hospital is almost empty.

The windows are fogged around the edges. The booth seats are cracked. The sugar packets sit in a little metal holder that looks older than both of you combined. Someone in scrubs sleeps face-down at a corner table with one hand still wrapped around a coffee cup.

You put your hearing aids back in with fresh batteries, the quiet making it easier. Trinity chooses the booth in the back without asking. She waits until you sit, then takes the spot across from you, facing you fully.

Again, you notice.

Again, she doesn’t make a thing of it.

The waitress leaves with your orders.

Trinity waits until the footsteps fade.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“You said that.”

“I have more.”

You almost smile.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I know you hid it, and I’m not blaming you for that. But I hate that I missed it.”

You look down.

Her hands are wrapped around her coffee cup even though it hasn’t been filled yet. She’s holding onto the empty space like she needs something to steady herself.

“I’m sorry for talking to you from another room,” she says. “I’m sorry for getting annoyed when you didn’t answer. I’m sorry for every time I said never mind.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I’m sorry if I made you feel cornered tonight,” she says. “You didn’t owe me that information in the middle of a shift.”

“I should’ve told you.”

“Maybe.” Trinity leans back. “But disclosure isn’t simple. I know enough not to pretend it is.”

You look at her then.

Her face is tired. Guarded. Honest.

“I was afraid,” you say.

“I know.”

“No, Trinity. I was afraid of you.”

That one lands.

You watch it hit.

She doesn’t look away.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

“I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

“I already look at you differently than everyone else.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

You breathe out.

The waitress brings your tea and Trinity’s coffee. Trinity doesn’t touch hers right away.

She reaches across the table, but she doesn’t take your hand. She just sets her palm there, open, waiting.

You look at it for a long second.

Then you meet her halfway.

Her fingers close around yours.

“I’m mad,” she says.

Your stomach drops.

“Not because you’re hard of hearing,” she adds. “Not because you didn’t tell me fast enough. I’m mad because the world made you think hiding was safer.”

That breaks something in you.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you admit.

“Then don’t stop all at once.”

You laugh once, watery and tired.

“That’s your medical advice?”

“Yes. Gradual exposure. Very evidence-based.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like that about me.”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll take it.”

The laugh that slips out of you this time is small, but real.

Trinity’s thumb moves once over your knuckle. It’s barely there, a small brush of warmth in the too-bright diner. She watches the movement like she’s making sure it’s allowed.

It is.

You let your fingers relax in hers.

For a while, neither of you talked about the hard parts.

Trinity tells you about the trauma you missed. You watch her mouth as she speaks, catching most of it over the low hum of the diner and the distant clatter from the kitchen. Two critical patients. One intubated. One stabilized. Robby calm in the middle of it, Mel catching a med discrepancy, Dennis almost dropping suction tubing and recovering so dramatically that half the bay noticed.

“You should’ve seen his face,” Trinity says. “Like the suction tubing had betrayed him personally.”

“He gets attached.”

“To tubing?”

“To being useful.”

Trinity’s mouth curves. “That’s annoyingly generous of you.”

“I’m a delight.”

“You’re something.”

Her voice is dry, but her thumb is still moving lightly over your hand.

You let the warmth of it settle you.

There’s something almost ordinary about sitting there with her. Your tea is cooling between your hands. Her coffee is untouched because she keeps making faces every time she tries it. The sunrise is beginning to pale at the edge of the window. The exhaustion sits heavy in your bones, but not swallowing you.

This could be normal, you think.

Not easy.

But real.

Trinity looks at you over her coffee cup.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a face.”

“I always have a face.”

“You have a specific face.”

You roll your eyes. “I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“You’re one to talk.”

She smirks, then sobers.

“I want to learn ASL.”

You freeze. “Trinity.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “It’s a language. I know it’s not a cute girlfriend project. I know I’m not going to become fluent in a month because I’m good under pressure and annoying enough to make flashcards.”

“You’d make flashcards?”

“I already have.”

You stare at her.

She shrugs, defensive now.

“Not from some random app. I looked up Deaf-led classes.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“When I was supposed to be sleeping.”

“Of course.”

“I want to learn properly,” she says. “Not to interpret at work. I know that’s not my role. But I want to understand more. For patients. For you. For me, honestly, because I don’t like being bad at something I should know enough about to not be useless.”

“That’s very you.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t exactly a compliment.”

“I take what I’m given.”

You look at her hand on yours.

“I love you,” she says.

Your chest stops.

Six months together, and neither of you has said it.

You’ve said it in other ways. In coffee. In spare scrubs. In the way she texts you after bad shifts and pretends the meme she sends isn’t a check-in. In the way you know when she needs food before she knows she needs food. In the way she steals fries off your plate and then gives you the last bite of her dessert without commenting on it.

But not like this.

Not out loud.

Trinity looks terrified in the controlled way she gets when she’s decided to be brave and hates every second of it.

You lift your free hand.

Slowly, you sign it.

“I love you.”

Trinity watches carefully.

Then she copies you.

Badly.

So badly you laugh before you can stop yourself.

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“That was not right.”

“How not right?”

“Deeply.”

“Did I insult someone?”

“Maybe a goat.”

She groans. “Oh my god.”

You show her again.

This time, she slows down.

This time, she gets it.

Mostly.

“I love you,” she says aloud, holding the sign with awkward, careful fingers.

Your eyes sting.

“I love you too.”

Trinity’s face changes.

It’s not one of the expressions she lets the department see. Not sharp. Not smug. Not guarded.

It’s open.

Just for you.

She slides into your side of the booth without asking, which is very Trinity. Then she stops halfway, like she remembers she’s supposed to be careful now.

“Can I?”

You nod.

She sits beside you, shoulder pressed to yours, and you lean into her before you can overthink it.

She smells like hospital soap, coffee, and the faint citrus of the shampoo she uses. Her cheek rests briefly against the top of your head.

Neither of you says anything for a while.

You don’t need to.

The next shift, Trinity changes small things.

She doesn’t announce them.

That’s why they matter.

She comes up on your left side when she can. When she needs your attention, she taps two fingers lightly against your forearm. In the trauma bay, if Robby gives an order while turned away and the noise eats half of it, Trinity repeats the key part while facing you.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

Like it’s medicine.

Like it’s teamwork.

The first time she does it, you nearly miss the next step.

Trinity notices.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like I donated a kidney. I repeated a lab value.”

You smile.

“Still.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it.

Across the bay, Dennis watches the exchange with open curiosity until Mel elbows him without looking up from the chart.

“Stop staring,” Mel says.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was observing.”

“Creepily.”

Dennis turns red and suddenly becomes deeply invested in restocking gauze.

Trinity looks at you and lifts one eyebrow.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing.

Dennis finds out by accident.

He comes up behind you at the nurses’ station and says your name twice.

You don’t hear him.

Trinity does.

“Dennis,” she says, not looking up from her tablet. “Move where she can see you.”

He freezes.

Then his face goes red so fast you feel bad for him.

“Oh. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t realize. I mean, I did realize just now because Santos said it, but before that I didn’t. Obviously. Because I was behind you. Which was the issue.”

You turn around.

“What did you need?”

“Robby wants you to look at the lac in Seven.”

“Okay.”

He hesitates.

You wait.

“Can I ask something and you can tell me if it’s stupid?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I can ask or yes, it’s stupid?”

“Both are possible.”

“Fair.” He rubs the back of his neck. “After Maya, I was thinking I should learn more ASL. Not from you. I mean, unless you wanted to point me somewhere. But I don’t want to be useless next time.”

Your chest softens.

“Look for Deaf-led classes,” you say. “Not random videos. And don’t use family members as interpreters for consent.”

“Deaf-led classes,” he repeats. “No family for consent. Got it.”

Trinity glances at him. “And don’t make her your personal tutor.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“I was thinking near it.”

“Don’t.”

“Noted.”

You try not to smile.

You fail.

Dennis smiles back, relieved, and disappears toward Seven.

Trinity watches him go.

“He means well.”

“He does.”

“He’s going to sign turtle at someone by accident.”

“Probably.”

“We’ll survive.”

You look at her.

She shrugs like she didn’t just include herself in the we without thinking.

Then she touches your wrist lightly.

“Seven,” she says. “Robby’s waiting.”

You nod and go.

Maya comes back three days later for a post-op check.

She’s wearing the blue hoodie again.

Her mother is with her, watching everything with the kind of attention you understand completely.

Maya looks tired but better. Less folded into herself. Less afraid of the room. She’s sitting up this time, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand resting near the surgical sites like she’s protective of them but not terrified.

“Hi,” you sign. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she signs. “Sore, but better.”

The incision sites look clean. No fever. No worsening pain. No redness or drainage.

“You’re healing well,” you sign. “Keep following the surgery instructions. Come back if you get fever, worsening pain, vomiting, redness, or drainage.”

Maya nods.

Her mother asks two follow-up questions, both sharp and practical. You answer both. She watches your hands the whole time, then your face, then your hands again.

Trust is not instant.

You don’t expect it to be.

Then Maya’s eyes flick past you.

Trinity is in the hall, pretending to review a tablet.

Maya grins.

“Your girlfriend?”

You feel your face heat.

“Yes.”

“Obvious.”

“It is not.”

Maya’s mother gives you a look that says it absolutely is.

You sigh.

Maya signs, “Did you tell her?”

You know what she means.

“Yes.”

“How did she react?”

You glance toward the hallway again.

Trinity looks up at exactly the wrong moment, catches you looking, and immediately looks back down at the tablet like it contains the secrets of the universe.

“She’s learning,” you sign.

Maya’s face brightens.

“ASL?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s love,” Maya signs.

You don’t answer right away.

Then you nod.

“Yeah,” you sign. “It is.”

Maya’s mother watches you for a moment, then signs, “Love should learn.”

The words settle somewhere deep.

You carry them with you when you leave the room.

When you step into the hallway, Trinity pushes off the wall.

“How is she?”

“Good. Healing well.”

“Good.”

A pause.

Then Trinity lifts her hands.

Carefully, she signs, “I’m happy she’s okay.”

The grammar is rough. The movement is stiff. Her expression is too intense because she’s concentrating like this is a central line.

It’s perfect.

You sign back, “Me too.”

Trinity squints. “Too fast.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’m a beginner. Be nice.”

“I am being nice.”

“You look smug.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Dana passes behind you with a stack of charts.

“You two done flirting in my hallway?”

Trinity doesn’t miss a beat.

“No.”

Dana snorts. “At least you’re honest.”

The email takes two nights.

You write about Maya.

About the delay.

About the broken VRI cart.

About the lack of a functioning backup process.

About the clinical risk of treating communication access like a courtesy instead of a safety issue.

You write it at your kitchen table after a shower that didn’t quite wash the hospital off you. Your hearing aids sit in their charger beside your laptop. Without them, the apartment is soft around you. The refrigerator hum is gone. The traffic outside is a distant vibration more than sound. Your fingers move over the keys, and for once, no one is asking you to translate yourself in real time.

You send it to Robby first.

He replies eight minutes later.

Send it.

So you do.

You don’t know what it’ll change.

Maybe nothing.

Hospitals are big. Systems are slow. Everyone believes in access until access requires money, staffing, training, and accountability.

But you send it anyway.

Then your phone buzzes.

Trinity.

Proud of you.

Before you can answer, another text comes through.

Also I practiced for 20 minutes and may have told my ASL instructor I’m romantically committed to tacos???

You laugh so hard you have to put your phone down.

A second later, your phone buzzes again.

Don’t laugh. This language has too many handshapes.

You type back, I am absolutely laughing.

Trinity replies, Rude. Accurate, but rude.

You sit there in your quiet kitchen, smiling at your phone like an idiot.

For once, the quiet doesn’t feel like hiding.

It feels like home.

The Pitt doesn’t transform overnight.

Of course it doesn’t.

The VRI cart gets fixed, then misplaced, then found in a storage alcove nobody admits using. Dana starts checking it at the beginning of every shift with the same energy she uses to check staffing. Robby keeps pushing. Mel quietly makes a laminated reference sheet for interpreter requests and leaves it by the charge desk.

Dennis starts ASL classes and practices at inappropriate times until Trinity tells him that if he fingerspells pancreatitis one more time while she’s eating, she’s going to throw something at him.

“You can’t discourage education,” Dennis says.

“I can discourage you.”

“That feels targeted.”

“It is.”

You laugh into your coffee.

Trinity keeps going to class.

She’s bad at it at first, which bothers her deeply.

“I’m good at languages,” she complains one morning after shift.

“ASL is a language.”

“That’s why this is offensive to me personally.”

“You’re improving.”

“I signed hospital wrong and my instructor looked at me like I’d disappointed her entire bloodline.”

“She sounds great.”

“She is great. I fear her. I need her approval.”

“That tracks.”

Trinity gives you a look.

You smile back.

She’s learning more than signs.

She learns to pause.

To face you.

To touch your arm before speaking when the ED is loud.

She learns not to say never mind.

She learns that when you take your hearing aids out at home, you aren’t shutting her out. You’re coming back to yourself.

The first time she sleeps over after everything changes, you stand in the bathroom with your hearing aids in your palm, suddenly nervous.

Trinity appears in the doorway.

She doesn’t speak.

She just leans against the frame, watching you with that careful stillness she only uses when she knows the wrong move matters.

You look at her in the mirror.

Without the hearing aids, you can’t hear the apartment the way you usually do. You can’t hear the small sounds of her shifting. You can’t hear the city outside. You can’t hear if she says your name.

But you can see her.

Trinity lifts her hands and signs, slowly, “You’re safe.”

The sign isn’t perfect.

The meaning is.

Your fingers close around the hearing aids.

Then you set them in the charger.

Trinity smiles, small and private.

You turn off the bathroom light and follow her to bed.

The Pitt is still loud.

It always will be.

The alarms still hit you the second you walk through the doors. Voices overlap. Phones ring. Gurneys squeak. Someone yells. Someone cries. Someone laughs too loudly at the worst possible time because sometimes that’s the only way anyone survives this place.

But you stop pretending it doesn’t cost you.

Not completely.

Not every second.

When you miss something, you ask for it again. When someone talks from behind you, you tell them to face you. When your hearing aids overload in the middle of a shift, you step into the quietest corner you can find and breathe for thirty seconds.

You stop treating your needs like evidence against you.

That might be the hardest part.

Harder than the medicine.

Harder than telling Trinity.

Harder than the noise.

One morning after a brutal overnight, you and Trinity walk out together.

She’s on your left side.

Your better side.

The parking garage echoes too much, turning footsteps into dull thunder and making every distant car door slam feel closer than it is. Trinity is telling you about a patient who swallowed a poker chip on a dare, but half the sentence gets swallowed by the sound of an engine starting two rows over.

“Again?” you ask.

Trinity turns toward you fully.

No sigh.

No never mind.

No flash of frustration.

She repeats it.

You catch it that time and laugh.

She looks proud in the smallest possible way, like she’s trying not to be obvious about it and failing.

You bump your shoulder against hers.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“You’re suspicious.”

“Accurate.”

At your car, she stops.

She signs, “I love you.”

It’s smoother now.

Not fluent.

Not perfect.

But hers.

You sign back, “I love you too.”

Then, because she’s Trinity, she adds out loud, “And I love being right.”

“You weren’t right about anything in this conversation.”

“I was right that I’d get better.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re in love with me.”

You smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “I am.”

She steps closer, and for once, there’s no urgency in it. No trauma bay pace. No clock running out. Just Trinity in the gray morning light, one hand settling at your waist, the other brushing your sleeve like she’s still asking without words.

You lean in first.

The kiss is soft. Warm. Tired around the edges.

When you pull back, Trinity stays close enough that you can feel her breath against your cheek.

“Text me when you get home,” she says.

“I always do.”

“I know. Do it anyway.”

You roll your eyes.

She kisses your forehead.

It’s quick, almost embarrassed, like tenderness still feels like a thing she has to sneak past herself.

That makes it sweeter.

You drive home in the quiet, hearing aids resting in the cup holder, the world softened around the edges.

You think about Maya in her blue hoodie.

You think about her mother’s hands moving fast with fear and love.

You think about Dana checking the VRI cart like she’s daring it to fail again.

You think about Dennis trying too hard, Mel noticing everything, Robby turning anger into policy, and Trinity sitting in a diner booth at sunrise, signing love badly and meaning it completely.

You think about the silence you used to hide inside.

And the language you’re finally letting people see.

It’s not fixed.

You’re not fixed.

You were never the thing that needed fixing.

The Pitt is still loud.

The world is still built wrong in too many places.

But now, when you walk back into the noise, you don’t disappear inside it.

You lift your hands.

You use your voice.

You ask for access.

You let yourself be seen.

And when Trinity stands beside you, watching carefully, learning slowly, showing up again and again, you let yourself believe that love can be a kind of translation too.

Not perfect.

Not instant.

But patient.

Honest.

Yours.

TAGLIST: @pr1d3ful @xreader1989 @mewmew222 @slaytheday711 @novausstuff @jujuondatbittt @dumbbandpoetic @sugarsunshine4 @marcswife21 @kmumori @ziggy0stardust @iiignoreee @girlokarina @localsams @bearymuchso @3w-guts @cosmosnkaz @silovicbaird @bubiblossom @jcks29 @amterasuu @alejunnie @jahmelat @just-write-that-shit @viviannagiorgini @heartsforts @cantbecreative @kaylajerks @gaypoetsblog @caterppillar @peachyfckingkeen @lov3bugss @zoleea-exultant @rayasromances @fembot-rot @jaelaconsuela @c00kiem0nsterinc @mxtokko @f0rlorn @aselstarr @short-potato @otteryougladimback @urlocalsaxplayer @2loveme-is2sufferme @aurora-makes-shyt @mel164 @harringtonsbowgirl @waverzzzzzzzz @pinkpantheris @tootstoots

When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.

He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”

Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”

“You like dark and dreary.”

She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”

Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.

Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.

He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.

—

The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.

First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)

Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.

Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.

But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.

Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.

Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.

And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.

Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.

And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.

Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?

Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.

Just not directed at you.

He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.

Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.

“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”

Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)

“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

You level her with a look, but she just groans.

“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”

Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.

“Should I talk to him?”

She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”

“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”

“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.

Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”

The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.

Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?

You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!

But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.

It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.

What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.

The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.

Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.

You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.

You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.

It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.

But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.

Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.

Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)

(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)

Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:

“Here, give me that.”

And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”

“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”

Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”

“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”

“So? I know your type.”

You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”

“Hate sex is a thing.”

“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”

She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”

“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”

“You’re not helping.”

Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”

“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.

He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”

“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“

“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.

She’s right.

You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.

Easier said than done.

—

It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.

Damn.

So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.

He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”

He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.

“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”

Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.

Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.

“You hate confrontation.”

Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”

“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”

You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”

“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”

“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.

“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.

“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”

“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”

Jack just hums.

“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.

He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.

Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.

—

If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.

He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.

When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.

Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…

…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.

But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.

Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”

Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.

So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.

So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.

Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.

“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”

‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’

Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.

“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”

It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.

Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“

“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”

You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”

She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”

You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”

You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.

Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.

You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.

Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.

Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.

You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“

Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.

“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”

“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”

Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.

He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.

Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”

The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.

You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”

“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”

Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.

“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“

“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.

Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.

“You’re nosy.”

If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.

He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”

You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”

“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”

You scrub a hand down your face.

“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.

The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.

“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.

“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.

“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”

You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Okay.”

You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.

—

Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.

(“You can’t send me home.”

“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”

“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”

“…”

“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)

The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.

So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.

It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.

Jack. Again.

He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”

Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.

“How long until your bus gets here?”

You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.

“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”

He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.

“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”

Jack just sighs.

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”

You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.

Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.

Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.

Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”

“What would I even be writing you up for?”

“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”

Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:

“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”

The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.

You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.

It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”

“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”

“Yes…?”

“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”

Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.

“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”

The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.

He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”

“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”

Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?”

“Read your book.”

“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”

You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.

“How did you even know I like diner food?”

“Because I pay attention to you.”

You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.

Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”

It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.

"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.

“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”

She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”

“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”

“No it doesn’t!”

It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.

Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.

"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"

"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.

"Yeah, after an MCI."

What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.

"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."

It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.

Not that she needs to know that.

"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"

You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.

Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.

Your phone vibrates again.

“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”

Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.

“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”

“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”

You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.

There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”

“What!?” You screech.

You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.

You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.

(It was funnier at the time.)

Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”

He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“

“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.

hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”

“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.

Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me

Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal

Who?

if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?

Yes.

Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.

then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.

this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls

Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.

You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.

“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”

“He said what?”

—

You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.

Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?

“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.

“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”

“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”

You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”

“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”

You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.

When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.

The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.

It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.

You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.

“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”

“Mm.”

“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”

“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”

“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”

“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”

Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.

“Like what?”

Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”

“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.

“Get going then.”

You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.

—

The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.

It’s bad.

Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.

“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”

“Mel asked.”

Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.

By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.

Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.

It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.

You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”

Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.

“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”

Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.

“What’d you do that for?”

The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”

Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“

“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.

He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.

“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”

It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.

You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.

“Yes.”

Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”

The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.

“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”

What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.

“I know.”

“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”

It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.

“You like being told what to do.”

Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.

“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.

“Makes sense.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.

Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.

He starts pulling back.

It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.

But then you realize what he’s doing.

Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.

He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.

It feels more intimate than sex.

After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.

But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.

—

It’s the card that does him in.

Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.

He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.

He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.

He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.

He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.

And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.

He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.

He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.

Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.

Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.

Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.

So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.

You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.

“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”

“No one’s heard from you in three days.”

You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”

His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”

“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.

Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.

“Do you have headache relief?”

You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”

While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.

“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”

“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”

“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”

“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”

“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.

“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”

The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.

“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.

(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)

He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.

You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.

You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.

“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”

“Of course you can.”

After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.

He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.

And then he gets to work.

Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.

He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.

You’re crying.

He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”

You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”

“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”

“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”

“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.

“This is romantic, right?”

He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”

He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.

“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”

You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.

You’re both right where you want to be.

Jack did not propose in the hospital, at least not technically. Even though he thought about it several times, he would want that stated for the record.

He did not propose in a trauma bay. He did not propose near the nurses’ station. He did not propose while you were holding a chart, yelling at transport, or trying to convince Dana that no, you did not need to sit down just because you had yawned aggressively.

Jack proposed in the yellow room. With your daughter asleep in the crib, one tiny fist tucked against her cheek, her little mouth pursed like she was already judging the entire world.

Which, according to Jack, she got from you, and according to you, she got it from him.

The truth was probably both.

She was three months old, small and warm and impossible, and you were sitting in the rocking chair with her tucked against your chest after a feeding. Her little body had gone heavy with sleep, and you were too tired to move. The lamp was low. The house was quiet. Downstairs, the dishwasher hummed because Jack had loaded it incorrectly and then insisted the machine “could adapt.”

The yellow room looked different now.

The cream blanket your mother bought was folded over the chair. The uneven stool your father made sat near the bookshelf, one leg still slightly shorter than the others despite Jack’s repeated and increasingly personal attempts to fix it. The notebook was still on the shelf, tucked beside children’s books and extra diapers.

You looked down at your daughter.

She sighed in her sleep.

Your heart clenched in that almost painful way it did now, like love had made a fist inside your chest.

Jack appeared in the doorway. He was barefoot, wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt, hair damp from a shower. He had the expression of a man trying to seem casual and failing with medical precision.

“What?” You narrowed your eyes.

He blinked. “What?”

“You look weird.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I’m standing normally.”

“You are never normal when you say you’re standing normally.”

Your daughter stirred.

Jack lowered his voice. “Can I come in?”

“You live here.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Your expression softened.

He still did that sometimes. Asked before entering certain rooms.

The yellow room was no longer just grief, but it was still sacred. Jack understood that.

“Come in,” you whispered.

For a moment, he just stood near the crib, looking at you and the baby in the rocking chair.

His eyes softened the way they always did now. “Is she asleep?” he asked.

“Finally.”

He winced. “She has my insomnia.”

“She has your stubbornness.”

“Your dramatics.”

“Your glare.”

“Your inability to admit when you’re tired.”

You gave him a look.

He smiled faintly. “See?”

You would have argued, but the baby was asleep, and you were too exhausted to defend your honor.

Jack crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you.

He touched one finger lightly to your daughter’s tiny sock-covered foot.

“Hi,” he whispered.

You smiled.

He said hi to her constantly. In the morning, when he lifted her from the bassinet.

When he came home from The Pitt and found her asleep on your chest, when she cried for no apparent reason, and he paced the living room with her, murmuring, “Hi, I know, everything is terrible.”

Jack looked from her to you. “How are you?”

You leaned your head back against the chair. “Tired.”

He nodded.

“Happy.”

“Scared sometimes.”

His hand settled on your knee. “Me too.”

You looked at him.

“I still check if she’s breathing.”

“I know.”

“You do too.”

“I know.”

“You’re worse than me.”

“I know.”

You laughed softly.

He smiled.

Your eyes narrowed again. “Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He looked down. Jack Abbot could stare down combative patients, hospital administrators, furious families, residents with terrifying confidence, and Dana Evans in a mood.

But when he was about to say something that mattered, he looked at the floor first.

Your heartbeat shifted. “Jack?”

He took a breath. Then reached into his pocket.

You froze. “No.”

His eyes snapped up, alarmed. “No?”

“No, as in—wait. Are you—”

“I was going to ask.”

“Now?”

“That was the idea.”

“In sweatpants?”

His mouth opened. “I can change.”

You almost laughed, but your throat had already tightened too much.

Your daughter sighed against your chest.

Jack looked at her, then back at you. “I had other plans,” he admitted.

“Of course you did.”

“Three.”

“You had three proposals planned?”

“Four, technically, but one involved your father, and I realized that was a mistake almost immediately.”

You choked out a laugh. “It absolutely was.”

“I thought about DiAnoia’s.”

You softened.

“But that felt like looking backward,” he said.

You swallowed.

“I thought about the overlook.”

“Also backward.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his thumb over the small box in his hand. “I thought about doing it in the kitchen.”

“Our kitchen?”

He nodded.

“That would’ve been nice.”

“I know. But the dishwasher is making that sound again.”

You laughed, tears already in your eyes.

“And then I came up here,” he said quietly. “And you were sitting there with her.”

His voice changed. “And I couldn’t think of any place that made more sense than this room.”

You looked down at the baby.

Your vision blurred.“Jack.”

“I know this room is complicated,” he said. “I know we don’t get to make it simple just because we’re happy now.”

You pressed your lips together.

He shifted closer, still crouched in front of you, the ring box held carefully in both hands.

“The first time I married you, I loved you,” he said. “I loved you so much I thought that would be enough to carry us through anything.”

Your tears slipped free.

“It wasn’t.”

“No,” he whispered. “It wasn’t. Because love without honesty wasn’t enough. Love without grief, having somewhere to go, wasn’t enough. Love without me staying in the room wasn’t enough.”

Your breath shook.

Jack’s eyes were wet too. “I can’t promise we’ll never hurt each other again,” he said. “I won’t insult you with that.”

“That’s romantic.”

His mouth twitched. “I can promise I’ll tell you when I’m scared. I can promise I’ll come back faster when I fail. I can promise I’ll listen when you say you’re not okay, even if every part of me wants to fix it instead of feel it.”

You closed your eyes.

The baby shifted slightly in your arms.

Jack’s voice softened. “I can promise I’ll love her with everything I have.”

Your eyes opened.

He looked at your daughter, then back at you.

“And if someday she has a sibling, or if she doesn’t, if our family grows again or if this is us, I can promise you will never have to wonder if you and me are enough.”

He opened the ring box. The ring was not the same.

That was the first thing you noticed.

This one was simple. Gold. Delicate, but strong-looking in a way you couldn’t explain. The center stone was small and warm in the lamplight, with two tiny stones set into the band.

You stared at it.

Jack followed your gaze. “The old ring didn’t feel right,” he said quietly. “Not because it didn’t matter.”

“I know.”

“This isn’t erasing that one.”

“I know.”

“This is…”

“Again,” you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah,” he said. “Again.”

You were crying openly now.

Your daughter, offended by the emotional atmosphere, let out a tiny grunting sound but did not wake.

You laughed through tears. “Ask me before she starts screaming.”

He huffed a broken laugh. He knelt properly now, one knee on the soft rug in the yellow room.

Your ex-husband. Your partner. The father of your daughter.

The man who had lost you, found you, hurt you, changed for you, grieved with you, built a life with you out of the wreckage of the first one.

Jack held the ring box between you. “Marry me again,” he said softly. “Not because we’re trying to get back what we lost. Not because of her. Not because of the house. Marry me because we know exactly what this costs, and I still want to choose you every day.”

You couldn’t speak. So you nodded.

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

Your voice finally broke free. “Yes.”

“Yes?” he whispered.

“Yes, Jack.”

He exhaled hard, almost laughing, almost sobbing.

Then he carefully took the ring from the box.

Your daughter was still asleep on your chest, so you shifted one hand free.

Jack slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands.

It fit. You stared at it, crying harder. “Did you measure my finger?”

He looked guilty. “I borrowed a ring.”

“From where?”

“Your jewelry dish.”

“When?”

“Two months ago.”

“You’ve had this for two months?”

“Yes.”

“Jack.”

“I was waiting.”

“For what?”

He looked at you. “For the room to feel like a place I could ask.”

He rose just enough to kiss you, careful of the sleeping baby between you. It was awkward and soft and tearful, his hand cupping your face, your daughter making a tiny sound of protest against your chest.

You pulled back, laughing. “She’s already interrupting romantic moments.”

“She gets that from your father.”

“Do not tell him we’re engaged yet.”

Jack’s face shifted immediately. “You want to wait?”

“No, I mean don’t tell him tonight or he’ll come over.”

Jack considered. “That’s true.”

“He might bring a contract.”

“He might bring a whistle.”

“He’s going to demand she call him Coach at the wedding.”

Jack glanced at the baby. “She might.”

“Jack.”

“College is expensive.”

You gasped.

He smiled. Then he kissed your forehead.

For a moment, the yellow room was quiet again.

Your ring caught the lamplight. Your daughter slept. Jack’s hand rested over yours.

The notebook sat on the shelf beside the baby books, holding everything that came before.

Your father found out twelve hours later.

Because Jack was weak. Not medically but emotionally.

You had specifically said, “Let’s tell my parents tonight at dinner.” 

Jack had agreed, then your father texted him at 7:14 in the morning.

Ben: Did you fix the dishwasher, or are you still letting it scream for help?

Jack, half-asleep, holding the baby against his chest while you stood at the coffee maker in pajama pants and your new ring glinting very obviously on your left hand, made the fatal mistake of sending back a picture.

Not of the dishwasher but of the baby.

She was asleep against his shoulder, tiny hand fisted in his shirt.

Very cute. Very normal. Except your ring was visible in the corner of the frame because your hand was resting on Jack’s arm.

You realized it three seconds after he sent it. 

“Jack.”

He looked at you. “What?”

“You sent him the ring.”

His eyes dropped to the phone. “Oh.”

Your phone rang immediately.

You stared at Jack.

Jack stared at your phone.

You answered. “Dad.”

Your father did not say hello. Instead, he yelled, “JACKIE FINALLY DID IT?”

Jack closed his eyes.

You turned away, laughing despite yourself. “Good morning to you, too.”

Your mother’s voice came faintly in the background.

“What? What happened? Ben, why are you yelling?”

Your father shouted, “He proposed!”

Your mother screamed.

The baby startled.

Jack immediately began bouncing her gently. “Shh, shh, sorry, sweetheart, your grandfather has no volume control.”

Your father yelled, “I heard that.”

Your mother was crying already.“Oh, honey.”

“Mom.”

“I’m happy.”

“I know.”

“I’m crying.”

“I also know.”

Your father cut in. “Did he do it right?”

You looked at Jack.

He looked nervous, which was ridiculous considering you had already said yes.

“Yes,” you said softly. “He did it right.”

Jack’s face softened.

“Did he ask my permission?”

You blinked.

Jack’s head snapped up.

“Dad.”

“I’m asking.”

“I am a grown woman with a child.”

“And?”

Jack cleared his throat. “I did talk to him.”

You turned slowly. “You what?”

Jack looked caught.

Your father sounded smug. “He did.”

“When?”

Jack shifted the baby higher on his shoulder. “Two months ago.”

Your mouth fell open.

“You asked my dad two months ago?”

“I did not ask permission.”

Your father scoffed. “He basically did.”

“I asked for his blessing.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not the same thing.”

You pointed at Jack. “You had a ring and a father blessing for two months?”

Jack looked helpless. “I had a plan.”

“You are insane.”

Your mother was still crying.

Your father said, “I told him yes, obviously. After threatening him.”

“Obviously,” Jack muttered.

“What did you say?” you asked.

Your father cleared his throat. “That’s between men.”

You gave the phone a look.

“Dad.”

Jack answered quietly. “He told me second chances aren’t coupons.”

Your father groaned. “Jackie.”

“What does that mean?” you asked softly.

Jack’s voice was rough. “He said I don’t get to use it once and call it good. I have to keep earning it.”

Your throat tightened.

Your father, uncomfortable with feelings, immediately added, “Then I told him if he hurt you again, I’d haunt him while alive.”

“You cannot haunt someone while alive,” you said.

“Watch me.”

Your mother sniffled. “We’re coming over tonight.”

“I know.”

“With champagne.”

“Mom, I’m still breastfeeding.”

“For us.”

“Of course.”

Your father added, “And I want to see the ring in person. Make sure he didn’t cheap out.”

Jack looked offended. “Ben.”

“I’m kidding. Mostly.”

You laughed.

After you hung up, the kitchen went quiet except for your daughter’s soft, sleepy noises against Jack’s shoulder.

You crossed the room and touched the front of his shirt. “You asked my dad.”

Jack looked wary. “Yes.”

“You had a ring.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been sitting on this for two months.”

“Yes.”

“You are very strange.”

His mouth twitched. “You said yes.”

“I did.”

“So it worked.”

You laughed and kissed him.

The baby squirmed between you.

Jack looked down. “Sorry.”

You smiled.

“Our daughter is going to grow up thinking kissing is just something parents do in the kitchen.”

His eyes softened. “Good.”

The first time around, love had been something you assumed the house would understand.

This time, you were going to make sure it was loud enough to be known.

Dana knew by noon.

You walked into The Pitt with the baby strapped to your chest because Dana had demanded a visit during maternity leave and phrased it as an operational necessity.

Your daughter slept through the automatic doors, unimpressed by fluorescent lighting and the emotional significance of arriving at the place where both her parents had fallen apart and come back together.

Dana looked up from the charge desk. “Oh, give me that baby.”

You laughed. “Hello to you too.”

“Hand her over.”

Jack said, “She’s sleeping.”

Dana gave him a look. “I have worked in emergency medicine for thirty years. I can hold a sleeping baby, Abbot.”

Jack immediately stopped talking.

You carefully unstrapped the baby and placed her in Dana’s arms.

“Hi, beautiful girl,” she whispered. “You already look smarter than both your parents.”

“Rude,” you said.

“Accurate,” Robby said, appearing beside the desk.

You turned. “Robby.”

He smiled softly at the baby.“She’s gotten bigger.”

“That is what babies do,” Jack said.

Trinity came rushing around the corner.“Is she here? Is the baby here? Oh my God, she’s here.”

Dana turned slightly away. “Slow down. You have chaotic energy.”

She clasped both hands over her mouth.“She’s so tiny.”

“She is a normal baby size,” Jack said.

Trinity ignored him. Then her eyes dropped to your hand. She gasped so loudly the baby flinched.

Robby looked down, too.

You looked at her. “Do not scream.”

Trinity whispered, “Is that—”

“Yes.”

Dana’s head snapped up.“What?”

You lifted your hand slightly.

Dana stared at the ring. For one second, no one said anything.

Dana handed the baby carefully to Robby, who looked both deeply pleased and mildly terrified, then came around the desk and pulled you into a hug.

“I’m happy for you,” she murmured.

Your eyes burned.“Thank you.”

Then she let go and pointed at Jack.

“You.”

Jack straightened.

“Yes?”

“If you make me regret being happy, I will personally ruin you.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. I will be creative.”

“I believe you.”

“You better.”

Robby, still holding the baby, said mildly, “Congratulations.”

Robby had seen too much of the first marriage falling apart. He had seen the aftermath. He had seen Jack become haunted. He had seen you come back. He had seen the two of you try again carefully, painfully, honestly.

His approval mattered even if Jack would never say that.

“Thanks,” Jack said quietly.

Trinity was crying now. “I knew it.”

Dana looked at her. “You did not.”

“I spiritually knew it.”

“You asked if divorced people had joint custody of restaurants.”

“That was part of the knowing.”

McKay appeared next and hugged you. Mohan came down from upstairs when someone texted her. Langdon saw the commotion, looked at your ring, and immediately said, “Oh, thank God,” which made everyone stare at him.

He shrugged. “He’s been weird for months.”

Jack muttered, “This is my workplace.”

You leaned toward him. “It’s our workplace.”

“That’s worse.”

You smiled.

Your daughter woke up then—one tiny cry. The entire ED froze as a bomb had gone off.

He took her from Robby with practiced gentleness, tucked her against his chest, and swayed.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I know. Everyone is loud.”

Dana put a hand to her chest. “Oh, he’s a goner.”

You leaned against the charge desk, watching Jack soothe your daughter under the fluorescent lights of The Pitt.

Once, you had walked through those doors, terrified that your father was dying.

Once, you had kissed Jack in a bathroom because grief had finally forced both of you to tell the truth.

Once, you thought love was not enough.

Now, watching him hold your child while Dana pretended not to cry and Robby pretended not to smile, you understood something better.

Love was not enough by itself. But love that stayed. Love that learned.

Love that apologized, adjusted, and kept showing up with coffee, therapy appointments, and trembling hands.

That kind of love could become a home.

You and Jack did not want a big wedding.

Your father did. Aggressively.

“You only get remarried to the same man once,” he argued at Sunday dinner.

You stared at him.“That sentence means nothing.”

“It means something to me.”

“You want a party.”

“I want to celebrate my daughter’s questionable but emotionally satisfying decision.”

Jack looked up from burping the baby. “Thank you?”

Your father pointed at him.

“You’re welcome, Jackie.”

Your mother stirred pasta at the stove, smiling to herself.

You sat at the kitchen table with the baby’s tiny sock in your hand. She had kicked it off four times in ten minutes because she believed in chaos.

“We are not doing a big wedding,” you said.

Your father sighed dramatically.“I didn’t say big.”

“You said, live band.”

“Music matters.”

“You said full guest list.”

“People love you.”

“You said custom cocktail.”

“I had ideas.”

Jack murmured, “Coach’s Manhattan.”

You slowly turned to him.

Your father slapped the table. “See? He gets it.”

“You are both impossible,” you said.

Your mother finally turned around. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

The kitchen quieted.

That was still a question you sometimes forgot you were allowed to answer.

The house that had survived leaving, returning, grief, smoke alarms, pregnancy tests, crying on the floor, and your father’s unsolicited home repair commentary.

“I want it here,” you said softly.

You looked at Jack. “In the backyard, maybe. Small. Family. The Pitt people. That’s it.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “This house already knows the whole story.”

Your father cleared his throat.

“Backyard wedding,” he said, already mentally planning. “Good. I can work with that.”

“Dad.”

“What?”

“You are not planning it.”

“I am contributing leadership.”

“You are contributing opinions nobody requested.”

“Same thing.”

Jack looked down at the baby. “Your mother gets that from him.”

You threw the tiny sock at him.

He caught it, smiling.

Your daughter spit up on his shoulder.

Your father pointed. “That’s judgment.”

You laughed until you cried.

The wedding was six weeks later. Small, supposedly. That was the word everyone kept using.

Except small things, in your life, apparently meant your parents, your aunt and uncle, a handful of cousins, Dana, Robby, Mohan, Santos, McKay, Whitaker, Langdon, two neighbors, and the retired nurse who used to work with Jack and had somehow heard about it from Dana.

“Small has expanded,” Jack said the morning of the wedding, looking out the kitchen window at your backyard.

White folding chairs were being set up on the grass. Your father stood with a clipboard he had absolutely not been given, directing your cousin and Whitaker on where to put the flowers.

You stood beside Jack in your robe, holding the baby on your hip.

“I told you not to let him have a clipboard.”

“I didn’t give him one.”

“Then where did he get it?”

Jack sighed. “He brought his own.”

“He’s waited his whole life to bully your colleagues,”  you responded 

“He has bullied me for years.” Jack sighs 

“You’re family. That doesn’t count.”

Jack turned from the window and looked at you.

Your daughter grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked.

He winced.“Good grip.”

“She gets that from me.”

“Everything good gets attributed to you.”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

You were not dressed yet. Hair half-done, robe tied loosely, no makeup except what your mother had already applied before crying and needing a break.

Jack looked at you like you were already walking down the aisle.

Your chest tightened. “What?”

He shook his head.“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The emotionally constipated face.”

“I do not have that face.”

“You absolutely do.”

He took the baby from your arms, kissed her cheek, then looked back at you.

“I’m trying not to cry before the wedding starts.”

Your throat immediately tightened.“Jack.”

“I know. I’m being embarrassing.”

“No.”

He glanced down at your daughter, then back up.

“I just keep thinking about the first time.”

“The wedding?” you asked.

He nodded.

The first wedding had been beautiful.

You were younger. Less bruised. More certain. Jack had cried then, too, though he denied it for years and called it “allergies,” which your father had immediately mocked.

You had stood in front of your family and promised forever.

And then forever had broken.

For a long time, thinking about that day hurt too much to touch.

You stepped closer. “What about it?”

Jack’s voice was quiet.

“I meant everything I said then.”

Your eyes stung. “I know.”

“I hate that it wasn’t enough.”

“I know.”

He looked down at the baby in his arms.

“I don’t want today to feel like we’re correcting it.”

You touched his face.“It doesn’t.”

His eyes lifted.

“It feels like we’re honoring it,” you said. “The first one. Who we were. What we tried to be. Even the parts that broke.”

Jack closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they were wet. “Okay.”

You smiled. “Okay.”

From outside, Dana yelled, “Who gave Ben a clipboard?”

You and Jack both turned toward the window.

Your father yelled back, “Leadership finds a way.”

Jack sighed.

You laughed.

The baby laughed too, loud and sudden and delighted.

“Well,” you whispered, wiping under your eyes. “Now I’m crying.”

He kissed your forehead.

Dana yelled again, “Bride better not be in there ruining her makeup!”

You called back, “Bride is busy!”

Your father yelled, “Tell Jackie to stop looking emotional and help with chairs!”

Jack closed his eyes.

“I’m going to miss being engaged.”

You laughed and took the baby back.

Your dress was simple.

Soft, fitted through the waist, sleeves delicate at your arms, skirt loose enough to move in. You had chosen it because when you put it on, you didn’t feel like you were pretending to be a bride from a life you hadn’t lived.

You felt like yourself.

Your daughter sat on the bed in a tiny dress your mother had bought, chewing on her own fist with deep concentration.

“She has no idea her parents are being romantic,” Trinity said, sniffling.

Dana handed her a tissue.

“She’s lucky.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror.

The ring Jack had given you months ago sat on your finger.

Your mother came to stand beside you. “You ready?”

You looked at your reflection.

Then at your daughter.

Then toward the window, where you could hear low voices in the yard.

Jack was out there. Waiting. Again.

Only this time, you were not walking toward a fantasy of forever untouched by grief.

You were walking toward a man who knew the cost of losing you.

A man who had learned how to stay.

You nodded. “I’m ready.”

Your father appeared in the doorway. Eyes already suspiciously wet.

You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I am not.”

“You’re crying.”

“Allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies.”

“Seasonal emotion.”

Your mother laughed through her tears.

Your father looked at you for a long moment.

“Oh, kiddo,” he said softly.

“Dad.”

He stepped into the room and held out his arms.

You went to him carefully, mindful of the dress, and he hugged you the way he always had, like he could hold the whole world away if he needed to.

For a few seconds, you were not a mother. Not a bride. Not a woman who had survived divorce and grief and pregnancy and coming home.

You were his daughter. He kissed the top of your head.

“Proud of you,” he said gruffly.

“For marrying the same man twice?”

“For knowing the difference between going backward and going home.”

Your tears spilled over. “Dad.”

He pulled back and looked at you. “He’s better this time.”

You laughed shakily. “He is.”

“So are you.”

Your father touched your cheek. “You both are.”

Your mother was openly crying now.

Dana, from the hall, muttered, “We are on a schedule, people.”

Your father wiped his eyes quickly.

“Right. Let’s get you remarried before Jackie faints.”

“He will not faint.”

Your father looked deeply unconvinced.

Jack almost fainted. When you stepped into the backyard, his face did something that made Dana lean subtly closer, like she was prepared to catch him.

The backyard was soft with late afternoon light. White chairs on the grass, flowers tucked along the aisle, the porch railing fixed and wrapped with greenery because your father had insisted the railing deserved a redemption arc.

Your daughter was in your mother’s arms in the front row.

Robby stood beside Jack because Jack had asked him to.

Not as best man exactly.

Jack had said, “I don’t need a title. I just need you there.”

Robby had nodded once and said, “I can do that.”

Dana sat front row with tissues already in hand. Mohan and McKay sat beside her. Trinity was crying before anything happened. Whitaker looked determined not to mess up his assigned job of holding the rings, which everyone had questioned but no one had revoked.

Jack stood beneath the small arch your father had claimed was “too flimsy” before reinforcing it himself.

He wore a dark suit.

His hair was slightly messy despite obvious effort. His eyes were fixed on you.

He was crying. You laughed softly when you saw.

Your father leaned toward you as you walked. “Told you.”

“Dad.”

“He’s a crier.”

“You’re crying too.”

“Focus forward.”

You walked down the aisle toward Jack.

Again.

The first time you walked toward him, you had been full of certainty.

This time, you were full of knowledge.

You knew what his silence could do.

You knew what your leaving could do.

You knew the shape of grief, the cruelty of hospitals, the weight of a ring, the sound of a baby crying for the first time.

You knew love was not magic.

You knew it was work.

You knew you wanted the work with him.

When you reached the front, your father placed your hand in Jack’s.

Then he looked Jack dead in the eye. “You know the speech.”

Jack nodded, voice rough.

“Yes, sir.”

Your father leaned in slightly.

“Try louder.”

Your father clapped his shoulder, then sat down beside your mother.

You looked at Jack.

“Hi,” he whispered.

You smiled through tears.

“Hi.”

The officiant began.

Something simple.

Something about second chances, chosen families, love returning not as it was, but as it had learned to become.

You heard pieces.

Mostly, you heard Jack breathing.

You felt his hand around yours.

Your daughter made a happy squeak from the front row, and everyone laughed.

Jack looked toward her, face softening.

When it was time for vows, Jack went first.

He unfolded a piece of paper.

His hands shook.

“I had a lot written,” he said.

A ripple of laughter moved through the yard.

You smiled.

“Too much, probably,” he added. “But I kept coming back to one thing.”

He lowered the paper.

“The first time I married you, I promised to love you in sickness and health, for better or worse. I meant it. But I didn’t understand what worse could ask of us. I didn’t understand that love was not just staying married. It was staying honest. Staying present. Staying when I didn’t know how to fix anything.”

Your eyes filled.

Jack’s thumb brushed over your hand. “I failed at that,” he said quietly.

The yard went still.

“And I have spent a long time learning how to say that without making it smaller.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to sob.

Jack’s voice shook, but he kept going.

“So today I’m not promising to be perfect. I’m not promising I’ll never shut down, never say the wrong thing, never burn breakfast, never hover in medically inappropriate ways.”

A laugh broke through the tears around you.

Jack smiled faintly. “I promise I will come back. I promise I will tell you the truth faster. I promise I will make room for your grief and mine. I promise I will love our daughter loudly enough that she never has to translate it. I promise I will build a home with you that has space for everything we lost and everything we still get to become.”

Jack’s eyes shone.

“And I promise,” he whispered, “that every day I get, I will choose you again.”

You were crying too hard to be elegant.

Your father handed your mother a tissue, then took one for himself while pretending not to.

The officiant looked at you gently.

Your turn.

You had vows.

They were on paper.

Beautiful, probably.

You had written them at two in the morning while the baby slept and Jack snored softly beside you, one hand still resting on the bassinet like he could protect her in his sleep.

But standing there, looking at him, you knew you weren’t going to read them.

You folded the paper in your hand.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

You took a breath.

“The first time I married you, I thought loving you meant never imagining the end.”

Jack’s face softened with pain.

“And then we ended.”

Your voice shook. “We signed papers. We lived in different cities. I told myself that meant the relationship was over because the marriage was. But it wasn’t. It was still there. In every cup of coffee, I compared to yours. In every hospital hallway, that felt wrong without you. In every version of home I tried to build that didn’t have your ugly mugs in it.”

Jack laughed through tears.

You squeezed his hand. “I was angry for a long time. At you. At myself. At the life we lost. And I think part of me believed coming back meant pretending none of that hurt mattered.”

You looked toward the house.

The blue kitchen beyond the window.

The yellow room upstairs.

Your daughter in your mother’s arms.

“But coming back didn’t erase anything. It gave us somewhere to put it.”

“You gave me room to be scared,” you said. “You gave me room to be difficult, grieving, hopeful, impossible, and happy. You learned how to stay without trapping me. You learned how to love me without making silence do all the work.”

Your voice broke. “And I learned that needing you doesn’t make me weak. It makes me loved.”

Jack’s lips parted.

You smiled through tears.

“So today, I promise I won’t run from you in my head before I tell you I’m scared. I promise I’ll let this house hold joy without feeling guilty for it. I promise I’ll love you on the easy days and tell the truth on the hard ones. I promise I’ll keep choosing this life we rebuilt, even when it scares me.”

You glanced at your daughter.

“And I promise our daughter will know that love is not perfect because her parents are not perfect.”

A soft laugh moved through the yard.

You looked back at Jack.

“But she will know love can apologize. Love can come home. Love can try again.”

Jack was fully crying now.

You reached up and wiped his cheek. “And I love you,” you whispered. “Still. Again. Louder.”

Your father made a broken sound from the front row.

Dana muttered, “Oh, hell,” and started crying harder.

The rings came next.

Whitaker, against all odds, produced them successfully.

“I didn’t drop them,” he whispered.

Trinity whispered back, “Growth.”

Jack slid the wedding band onto your finger beside the engagement ring.

His hand trembled.

You slid his onto his finger.

The officiant smiled.

“By the power vested in me, and with the support of everyone gathered here, I now pronounce you married. Again.”

Everyone laughed.

You barely heard it.

Because Jack was looking at you.