Hello, Darling

Hannah Wells is the kindest person on this planet is the conclusion you reached after having coffee with her. You searched for anything to dislike during the first 30 minutes. You looked for a sharp edge, a fake smile, a subtle hint of condescension, or even just an annoying habit that you could cling to in the dark. You wanted her to be superficial. You wanted her to be the kind of girl who only cared about the status of dating the hockey captain, someone you could easily categorize and dismiss so you could justify the bitter ache in your ribs. But after that thirty-minute mark, you completely forgot to search because, unfortunately for you, Hannah and you just seemed to click. 

She was deeply intelligent, effortlessly funny, and she spoke about Garrett with a quiet, grounded respect that made it painfully obvious why he had chosen her. She didn't flaunt him in your face. She didn't treat you like a threat or a lingering ex; she treated you like someone important because you were important to the person she loved. By the time the ice had melted in your cup, you were caught in a brutal, suffocating paradox. You swear in another life you two are best friends and not well complicated. As you pushed out of the coffee shop, the cold autumn air hitting your face, you reached one definitive conclusion: you most definitely needed to move on. You couldn't keep living in the margins of Garrett’s new life, hoping for a sudden shift that was never going to happen, especially not when the girl by his side was entirely undeserving of your silent malice. To actually move on, you needed two distinct things: immediate space from Garrett Graham and dates with other guys.

The pulling back was a slow, agonizing process of rewiring your entire daily routine, an exercise in emotional architecture where you had to dismantle a three-year-old foundation brick by agonizing brick. For the longest time, Garrett had been the baseline of your existence, the fixed point of gravity around which your entire campus life orbited. You were used to the effortless influx of casual text messages that required zero mental energy, the random 11:00 PM knocks on your dorm door when his overactive brain wouldn't shut down after a grueling game, and the unspoken, ironclad agreement that you would be sitting exactly three rows up from the glass at every single home game. Breaking those deeply ingrained habits felt like trying to unlearn how to breathe, a constant, physical ache that settled deep behind your ribs every time you had to consciously choose to turn away from him.

But the trick to your survival was that you didn't cut off the rest of the boys. You loved the rest of the team too much to vanish from the face of the earth entirely, and you fiercely refused to let Garrett's new relationship dictate or destroy your bond with the people who had become your chosen family. So, you still showed up when Logan texted the group chat to invite everyone over for a chaotic, loud late-night Mario Kart tournament, and you absolutely never turned down an invitation when Tucker announced he was spending his afternoon off making his legendary braised short ribs. Tucker was, without a single shred of a doubt, the undisputed culinary savior of the hockey house, a man whose talent in the kitchen was spoken of with a kind of reverent awe across the entire athletic department. Sitting around their massive, battered, scratch-laden dining table eating food that actually tasted like it belonged in a five-star Michelin restaurant was a sacred ritual you simply weren't willing to sacrifice just because your heart was bruised.

Instead, the boundary you drew was hyper-specific, surgical, and aimed with absolute, devastating precision directly at Garrett. You became an undisputed expert in the art of the subtle room shift, a phantom in the house he thought he controlled. If Tucker’s spectacular dinner was winding down and Garrett tried to slide into the empty chair next to you, you would wait exactly two minutes, just long enough not to look completely unhinged, before standing up to help stack the dirty plates and disappear into the kitchen. If the boys were crowded around the television yelling at a football game and Garrett tried to catch your eye across the room to share an unspoken, familiar inside joke, you intentionally kept your gaze fixed firmly on your phone or focused every ounce of your attention on whatever animated story Logan was telling. When Garrett texted you a picture of a ridiculous, neon-green vintage shirt he saw at the campus store, the exact kind of niche, hyper-specific humor that used to launch a three-hour banter session between the two of you, you waited four full hours to reply, finally sending a single, dry sentence: Haha, cool.

The shift was quiet, executed with a terrifyingly polite distance, but to someone like Garrett Graham, it was absolutely deafening. Garrett was a natural leader, entirely used to reading the ice, commanding the room, and predicting the micro-movements of everyone around him. He was far too observant, far too deeply attuned to the atmospheric pressure of your presence to miss the sudden, invisible wall you had constructed between your lives. At first, his confusion manifested as a sort of heavy, lingering puzzlement that turned into a persistent shadow. He began to stalk after you in the quad, stopping you between your morning lectures with his massive hockey duffel slung over his broad shoulder, his brow furrowing in that overthinking, deeply protective way that always made your chest feel like it was being squeezed by a vise. He would look at you with those wide, searching blue eyes, entirely unaccustomed to being locked out of the one room he had always taken for granted.

He started pushing for answers in the small gaps between your classes, cornering you near the library or by the campus coffee cart, his voice laced with a strange, defensive edge that he couldn't quite mask. He would ask why you didn't stay for movie nights anymore, why you left before he could even ask how his week was going, or why you suddenly seemed to have an endless mountain of schoolwork that kept you confined to your room. You maintained your composure with a terrifying, icy grace, offering him nothing but polite, empty platitudes about senior year being incredibly demanding and midterms taking up every spare second of your sanity. You smiled tightly, kept your hands buried deep in your coat pockets so he couldn't see them shaking, and excused yourself before he could reach out and touch your shoulder to ground you, knowing that if his fingers brushed against you, the entire facade would crumble into dust.

When the polite avoidance wasn't enough to fully cauterize the wound, you initiated the second, much more public phase of your plan: you started dating. If avoiding Garrett was the shield designed to protect your peace, throwing yourself into the Briar dating pool was the sword meant to cut the final tether. You needed to force your brain to realize that Garrett Graham wasn't the sole center of the universe, and more importantly, you needed Garrett to see that you weren't a permanent, stationary safety net he could just leave on the sidelines while he played the game of his life with someone else. You accepted every single introduction your communications seminar classmates offered, you said yes to a coffee date with an incredibly polite guy from your study group, and you agreed to drinks with a handsome track athlete who had been casting lingering glances your way at the campus gym for months.

Crucially, you made a conscious decision that these dates wouldn't be hidden away in dark, forgotten corners of the city where no one could see you. You went to the most popular, high-profile spots on campus: the crowded, bustling coffee shops during peak morning hours, the local diner where the athletes always hung out after morning workouts, and the main campus bar downtown on a Friday night. You let these men hold the door open for you, you sat across from them in full view of the world, and you dressed up, wearing the clothes that made you feel powerful and the specific shade of lipstick you usually saved for massive events.

The reaction from Garrett was instantaneous, developing from a low, rumbling grouchiness into a dark, suffocating petulance that completely infected the atmosphere of the hockey house. He didn't understand what he was feeling, which only made his volatile mood significantly worse. To Garrett, his bubbling frustration felt entirely platonic, rooted in a fierce, older brother-style protective instinct for his best friend. He constantly told himself he was just looking out for your well-being, that the guys you were choosing were entirely wrong for you, and that it was his solemn duty as your closest confidant to heavily vet the people allowed into your orbit. He convinced himself that he was just being rational, that a track athlete was too vain or a communications major was too superficial to deserve your time.

But beneath that comfortable, self-righteous lie was a much darker, sharper reality that he completely and utterly refused to admit to himself: a deeply romantic, fiercely territorial jealousy. He had spent three years enjoying the exclusive, unchallenged privilege of your undivided attention, your softest smiles, and your unwavering loyalty. The sudden, violent realization that another man could touch the small of your back to guide you through a room, make you laugh until your eyes crinkled, or hold your gaze across a candlelit table was driving him absolutely, completely insane. He became impossible to live with, snapping at his teammates during film review, throwing his gear around the locker room, and pacing the floors of the house like a caged animal whenever he knew you were out.

The boys in the house watched this slow-motion trainwreck happen with a mix of exhaustion and severe irritation. One Friday evening, the tension in the kitchen was thick enough to cut with a knife while Tucker was busy prep-cooking a massive batch of fresh pasta from scratch. Garrett was leaning against the counter, aggressively tearing the label off a sports drink bottle with his thumb, his face dark and thunderous as he stared at his phone, waiting for a text from you that was never going to arrive. He was grumbling about a guy you had been seen with at the campus diner earlier that morning, tearing the man's appearance and posture apart with a petty, vicious critique that was entirely uncalled for.

Tucker just shook his head, refusing to engage with the captain's ridiculous tantrum, while Logan openly laughed at him from the kitchen island, pointing out that Garrett was acting like a total psycho over a girl he wasn't even dating. Logan told him flat out that he had a gorgeous, perfect girlfriend sitting right in the next room and that he needed to stop staring out the window like a jealous dog waiting for his owner to come home. The comment sent Garrett into a defensive rage, his voice dropping into a harsh, dangerous register as he claimed he was just looking out for your standards before he stormed out of the kitchen entirely. He went into the living room and sat down next to Hannah, pulling her against his side and letting her rest her head on his chest, but even as his fingers mechanically stroked her hair, his blue eyes remained fixed on the front door, his mind entirely consumed by the torturous thought of you sitting in a restaurant somewhere with a stranger.

The true turning point arrived a week later when you started seeing someone new, a guy who didn't fit into the usual rotation of shallow campus distractions. He was a first-year law student, incredibly smart, quick-witted, and possessed a calm, grounded confidence that didn't rely on athletic bravado or loud, locker-room arrogance. Your first date with him hadn't felt like a performance or a calculated move in a game of emotional chess; it had been an actual, genuine conversation. For the first time in months, you found yourself laughing without having to force the sound past the lump in your throat. The heavy, suffocating weight of your unrequited feelings for Garrett lifted, if only for a few hours, allowing you to actually taste your food and enjoy the warmth of the room.

The absolute best part about this new guy was that he existed entirely outside the insular, toxic bubble of the Briar sports ecosystem. He didn't know who Garrett Graham was, he didn't care about the hockey team's standings, and he had no interest in the petty drama of the athletic department. When you talked to him, the conversation was entirely, beautifully about you. He wanted to know about your plans for after graduation, your favorite books, the specific things that made you passionate, and the weird childhood memories that shaped who you were. You didn't feel like a supporting character in Garrett's grand story anymore; you felt like the main event.

On a rainy Thursday night, he took you to a small, semi-crowded Italian restaurant tucked away just a few blocks from the edge of campus. The atmosphere inside was incredibly warm and intimate, the air rich with the scent of garlic, rosemary, and expensive red wine. You were sitting in a plush booth near the front window, the single candle between you casting a soft, dancing glow over his face as he leaned in, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach do a pleasant, unfamiliar flip. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the phantom image of Garrett didn't flash across your mind when a man smiled at you. You weren't constantly measuring this guy's words against Garrett's; you were just entirely present, letting yourself be coveted by someone who actually had the right to do so.

Then, the heavy wooden door of the restaurant swung open with a violent gust of wind, letting in a spray of cold, rainy air and the one person who had the terrifying power to ruin everything.

Garrett stepped into the entryway, shaking the water out of his dark, wet curls. He was wearing his heavy team jacket, his broad, athletic frame easily dominating the small, intimate space of the restaurant. He was holding a plastic takeout bag from the front counter, clearly having been sent by Hannah to pick up dinner for their quiet night in, but the exact second his eyes scanned the dining room and landed squarely on your booth, his entire body went completely rigid. You saw the shift in his face in terrifying real-time through the flickering candlelight. The exhaustion from a long, grueling practice vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, sharp spike of that familiar, toxic, unhinged jealousy. His eyes dropped to the way you were leaning toward your date, the genuine, unforced smile on your lips, and the complete, devastating absence of the detached, polite mask you had been wearing around him for weeks.

He didn't hesitate. Garrett didn't stop at the edge of the entryway, nor did he consider the sheer insanity of what he was about to do. He marched straight through the dining room, his heavy boots squeaking against the hardwood floor, entirely ignoring the takeout bag in his hand as he made a definitive, aggressive bee-line straight toward your table. He stepped right up to the edge of the booth, towering over the space and casting a long, suffocating shadow over the candlelit table. He didn't even glance at the man sitting across from you; his burning blue eyes were fixed entirely, obsessively on your face.

"What are you doing here?" Garrett asked, his voice low, rough, and completely devoid of any basic manners or civility.

Your date's brow furrowed, his calm demeanor instantly shifting into something much sharper and defensive as he looked up at the massive intruder. He asked Garrett who he was and if there was a problem, his tone steady but carrying a clear warning. You felt a wave of absolute, burning humiliation wash over your skin, your hands tightening around your wine glass so hard the stem creaked. You told Garrett to go away, your voice cutting through the space like ice, reminding him that he was being incredibly rude and that he needed to leave immediately.

But Garrett was completely past the point of reason. He gripped the wooden edge of your booth, his knuckles turning white as he leaned down, claiming that the two of you needed to talk right now because you hadn't answered his text messages earlier in the day. He tried to use a campus charity event as an excuse, a pathetic shield to justify why he was invading your private life, his breathing shallow and angry. Your date stood up from his side of the booth, his tall frame squaring off against Garrett's in the narrow aisle, telling him flat out that the lady had asked him to leave and that he needed to walk away. Garrett finally snapped his gaze to the man, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek, his voice dropping into a dangerous, territorial growl as he told the man to back off because he was your best friend and he had known you for three years.

"Garrett, stop it right now!" you yelled, sliding out of the booth and stepping directly between the two men before a physical altercation could break out in the middle of the restaurant. The quiet murmur of the dining room had completely died, replaced by a tense, uncomfortable silence as every single patron stared at the scene. You looked at your date, your eyes full of deep, sincere apology, begging him to just give you five minutes to deal with this outside. Giving Garrett a look of absolute, unadulterated fury, you turned on your heel and marched straight out the front door, slamming it behind you as you stepped into the dark, rain-slicked alleyway beside the building.

The heavy door clicked shut a second later as Garrett followed you out into the cold, misty drizzle. The cool night air hit your flushed skin, but it did absolutely nothing to cool the raging fire vibrating through your veins. You turned around to face him, your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, the rain instantly dampening your hair.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you screamed, your voice echoing sharply off the wet brick walls of the alley. "Are you completely out of your mind, Garrett? You just humiliated me in front of a guy I actually like! A guy who was actually treating me like a human being!"

"He's not right for you!" Garrett yelled back, stepping closer into your space, his chest heaving under his damp jacket. He looked frantic, his usual cool, calculated captain's persona completely shattered into a million jagged pieces. "I saw the way you were looking at him! You don't even know him! You’re just throwing yourself at these random guys because you're mad at me, and it's driving me crazy!"

"This isn't about you! Not everything in my life revolves around you, Garrett Graham!" you lied, the defensive wall slamming up instantly to protect the rawest part of your soul. "I am a grown woman, and I am allowed to go out and have a life and have a conversation with a man who actually wants to know about me, without my so-called best friend acting like a psycho, possessive stalker!"

"I am not acting like a psycho!" he defended fiercely, his voice rising to match yours as he threw his hands up in absolute frustration. "I am trying to protect you! You've been ghosting me for weeks! You treat me like I'm a complete stranger when I walk into a house that we used to share. You don't answer my calls, you don't look at me, and then I find out you're running around campus with a different guy every single weekend? It’s driving me out of my mind! I feel like I'm suffocating because I don't know where my person went!"

"You didn't lose me, Garrett! You gave me away!" The words finally ripped past your throat, raw, unpolished, and dripping with the agonizing truth you had kept buried in the dark for three long years. The dam had completely broken under the pressure of the rain, and there was absolutely no stopping the flood of your heartbreak.

Garrett froze instantly, his hands dropping slowly to his sides, his blue eyes wide and completely struck as the rain dripped down his nose. The accusation seemed to physically wind him, leaving him standing there looking smaller than he ever had. "What?" he whispered, his voice cracking on the single syllable, the sound completely bare.

"You can't have both," you said, a single, hot tear finally cutting through the rain on your cheek, though your voice remained fiercely steady, powered by a lifetime of quiet suffering. "You don't get to have a beautiful, amazing, perfect girlfriend like Hannah, a girl who I went to coffee with, Garrett, a girl who I actually like because she is so kind and still keeps me on a short leash because your immense, selfish ego can't handle losing my attention. You don't get to have both of us. You just can't."

"I don't- I don't want to keep you on a leash," he stammered, looking genuinely horrified by the reality of what you were saying, his mind clearly racing as he tried to reconcile his actions with the comfortable, platonic lies he had been telling himself for months. "I swear to God, I'm just trying to look out for you. We're partners, you and me. We do everything together. I need you."

"No, we don't do everything together, Garrett! Not anymore!" you yelled back, stepping right into his personal space, forcing him to look down into the absolute wreckage his selfishness had caused. "Partners don't do what you do. You don't get to hold my hand under the kitchen table when you think the boys aren't looking, and you don't get to look at me with those heavy, lingering eyes whenever I wear a nice dress, and you definitely don't get to crash my dates because you're jealous, but then turn around and go home to her bed every single night! You are splitting yourself in half, and you are using me to fill the gaps, and it is destroying me!"

Garrett went entirely pale, the stark, ugly reality of his own behavior hitting him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. The convenient, safe excuse of “platonic best friends” completely evaporated into the damp night air, leaving his truest, most hidden feelings entirely exposed to the elements. He hadn't been acting like a worried friend; he had been acting like a selfish, territorial man who wanted to keep all his favorite things in the exact same room, completely blind to the fact that his comfort was costing you your sanity. He had been half-heartedly convincing himself it was platonic, but standing here in the rain, looking at the tears on your face, he couldn't deny the romantic, desperate terror gripping his chest anymore. He was in love with you, and he had realized it far too late.

"I didn't... I didn't realize I was doing that to you," he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, all the defensive anger completely draining out of him, leaving nothing but a profound, crushing guilt that bowed his shoulders. He looked down at his own trembling hands, the water dripping from his fingers onto the gravel. "I swear to God, I didn't mean to drag you along. I just... I can't imagine my life here without you in it. The thought of you looking at another man the way you used to look at me... it makes me feel like I'm drowning."

"That is a selfish reason to keep me broken, Garrett," you said softly, the burning rage suddenly dying out, leaving behind a deep, hollow tiredness that felt entirely terminal. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the boy you had loved for years, but for the first time, the love didn't feel like a sanctuary. It felt like a prison sentence you were finally serving out. "Hannah is wonderful. She is kind, she is smart, and she loves you completely. You chose her. You standing here right now is a betrayal to her, and it's a cruelty to me. So let her love you. But you have to let me go. You don't get to be possessive over my life when you're the one who put me on the sidelines in the first place."

Garrett stared at you, his lips parted as if he wanted to speak, as if he wanted to find the courage to tell you that he was sorry, or that he would change, or that he was ready to throw away the perfect, uncomplicated life he had built with Hannah just to keep you. He reached out a hand, his fingers hovering just inches from your wet jacket, his eyes begging you not to close the door on him forever.

But he didn't say the words. Because saying the words meant facing the chaos of his own mistakes, and Garrett Graham was many things, but he wasn't ready to let go of his safety net.

"Go back inside and get your takeout, Garrett," you said quietly, stepping backward out of his reach, letting the cold rain fill the space between you. "I'm going to go back to my date."

You turned your back on him, your boots splashing through the puddles as you walked back toward the heavy wooden door of the restaurant, leaving him standing entirely alone in the dark, rainy alleyway. Garrett didn't follow you this time. He stayed rooted to the wet asphalt, his hair stuck to his forehead, watching you disappear back into the warmth of the building where another man was waiting to clean up the mess he had made. You had wanted a reaction from him for months, but as you sat back down in the booth and let your date take your cold hand, you realized that the only thing worse than Garrett Graham not knowing he was breaking your heart was him finally realizing it and still choosing to let you go.

Notes - So many of yall asked for a part two so it only felt right to write one asap! Thanks for reading! Love ya! ps. I'm tagging every one that requested a pt. 2

Your pager went off mid-sip.

The page had come in as “urgent” which, in hospital terms, usually meant one of the doctors couldn’t figure out how to access their records without their badge automatically logging them in. 

It was one of those calls that could be quickly fixed if they bothered to remember their hospital-given access codes.

You grabbed your coffee, badge swinging against your chest as you made your way down to the ED.

The second the elevator doors slid open, the chaos hit you. Phones were ringing, stretchers rolling in, voices overlapping. All of it made you grateful to be hidden away in a room for most of the day.

You made your way to the nurses' hub; it was bound to be the location of the confused doctor. 

“Someone called for IT?”

“That would be me.”

You followed the voice to find Dr. Trinity Santos sitting there, staring at a frozen screen as if it had personally betrayed her.

“I’ve been trying to fill out charts forever,” she huffed. “Damn thing kicked me out.”

You stepped in beside her, setting your coffee down carefully before leaning over the keyboard.

“Let me guess,” you said, already reaching for the mouse. “ You tried a couple of passwords, got locked out, and now it's not letting you in.”

Santos pointed at you as you’d just insulted her personally. “First of all, I tried multiple passwords. It’s the damn computer that won't take them.”

“Incorrect passwords are still incorrect to the computer,” you mention lightly, finger moving across the keys as you pull up the backend system. 

She groaned, dropping back in her chair. “I swear, technology has it out for me.”

You smiled to yourself, suppressing a laugh. “Technology is a neutral party, but user error isn’t, however–”

“Don’t,” she warned, though there was no real heat behind it.

You hummed, still working. “Alright, I’m going to unlock your account. It might take a couple of minutes.”

She leaned back in her chair, eyes catching on your ring while you typed. 

“That’s a really nice ring.”

You glanced down, almost like you’d forgotten it was there, your thumb brushing over the band without thinking.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” you said, a small smile slipping through. “My husband actually picked it out on his own.”

“Did he?” Santo leaned forward slightly, interest replacing her earlier frustration. “Damn girl, he must make a pretty penny. That’s a good choice.”

You laughed at her comment, a grin spreading. “He’s a doctor.”

Santos blinked. “Of course he is.”

“How do you even make that work?” she continued. “I barely have time to see my fling that works here, let alone manage to date or marry anyone.”

“You get used to it.” You shrugged, “Schedule lines up sometimes. Other times you just make time even if it's not very long.”

“That sounds way too functional,” Santos muttered. “Are you sure he’s actually a doctor?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Does he work here?” she asked, curiosity creeping in now.

You tilted your head, like you were considering whether to answer, before just focusing back on the screen. “Try logging in again in a minute.”

Santos huffed, watching you work. “You computer people are too calm. If my job locked me out of patients, I’d lose it.”

“You are losing it,” you pointed out.

“Fair.”

There was a pause while you worked, the hum of the ED filling the space.

“So,” she said again, clearly not done talking, “married life.”

You glanced at her briefly. “What about it?

“How long have you been with Mr. Fancy pants?”

“A while,” you said vaguely.

“That’s not an answer,” she said immediately, narrowing her eyes at you.

You smiled slightly. “It’s a safe answer.”

“You’re funny. I like you.”

“Dangerous combination,” you muttered.

​​She ignored that. “Okay, seriously though, what’s it like being married to a doctor?”

You leaned back in the chair, still working as you spoke, as the words came easily now.

“It’s kind of funny, actually,” you started. “We met here at the hospital. I was fixing a printer no one wanted to deal with, and he was hovering like I was about to make it worse.

Santos snorted. “That tracks.”

You smiled slightly, shaking your head. “I thought he didn’t trust me at first. Kept asking if I knew what I was doing.”

“Please tell me you humbled him.”

“Oh, immediately,” you said. “I finally turned around and snapped at him, told him if he was that concerned, he could fix it himself.”

Santos let out a sharp laugh. “No—”

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “And he just” you paused, mimicking it slightly, “kind of froze for a second.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” you said. “Then he goes all quiet and goes, ‘I just figured you might need help lifting it…’”

Santos blinked. “…lifting what?”

“The bottom panel,” you said, gesturing slightly. “The paper tray was jammed. He thought I wouldn’t be able to lift it.”

There was a beat.

Then Santos’ face lit up.

“Oh my god,” she laughed. “He was trying to help you.”

“Yeah,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee. “Just… very badly.”

“And you snapped at him?”

“I didn’t know,” you defended, smiling. “He was hovering.”

“That is so much worse for him,” she said, shaking her head. “He tried to be nice and got told off.”

You hummed. “To be fair, I fixed it without his help.”

Santos let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Wow.”

She leaned forward again, interested now. “Does he still work here?”

You hesitated just long enough to be annoying on purpose. “Sometimes.”

Before she could even question it, a voice cut in from behind you both.

“Dr. Santos, trauma room four needs your signature before we can send the patient home.”

You didn’t look up right away, your gaze still on the computer loading screen, fingers idly tapping against the desk.

Santos did. “Yeah–got it, I–”

She stopped mid-sentence because Dr. Jack Abbot was standing right next to you, tablet in hand.

He was calm, as usual, not caring that he just walked into the middle of someone's conversation.

You finally glanced up, meeting his eyes for half a second.

It was hard to notice, but the small shift at the corner of his mouth gave him away. Quick enough that anyone not paying attention would’ve missed it, he added the slightest wink to match.

Your fingers stilled for just a second against the desk before you picked your coffee back up, as if nothing had happened.

Santos definitely didn't miss that.

Her brows pulled together instantly, eyes flickering between the two of you.

You, who suddenly looked just a little too composed.

Him, who was already looking back at her like nothing had happened, one hand resting against the counter just beside yours. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, you guys would touch. 

Her eyes slid back to you. Then to your ring.

Then to him.

And something clicked.

Her posture straightened just a little too much.

You took a slow sip of your coffee, unbothered.

Jack didn’t help her either.

Santos looked between the two of you one more time.

Her eyes widened.

“No way.”

You set your coffee down, pushing your chair back just slightly like you were getting ready to leave.

“Try logging in now,” you said casually.

She didn’t move.

Her mouth opened slightly. “…that’s your husband.”

You tilted your head, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“You asked if he worked here,” you reminded her lightly. “You managed to answer your own question.”

For a second, Santos just stared at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.

Her jaw dropped.

She just stared at the two of you, eyes wide, as her brain had stalled completely.

You stood, grabbing your coffee like nothing had just happened.

“You’ll be fine, Dr. Santos,” he said evenly. A beat. “Try not to make it a department event.”

That made it worse.

Santos made a strangled sound, still staring between you and him like her brain refused to cooperate.

You stepped back from the desk. “Try logging in now,” you said, already turning away.

Which is why you end up messaging an Etsy seller in the middle of the night (Jack’s night off) with what must be the strangest request, like, ever. 

You chew on your lip as the seller’s reply pops up on your screen. 

Hi! I do custom plushies, yes! Could you tell me more about the object or toy you have in mind?

You type. 

okay so this is going to sound weird but it’s a prosthetic leg that i was as a plushtoy.

…You’re a little bit terrified when it takes her five minutes to respond. 

Oh! Like for educational/medical purposes?

kind of? it's for my baby. she’s totally obsessed with her dad’s prosthetic leg. i can send you some photos of course. 

Dot. Dot. Dot.

This is certainly the most unique commission I’ve ever gotten. I would be honored!

You didn’t mean for your laugh to wake Jack, but gosh, you’re already much too eager for his reaction. He cracks an eye open. 

“What are you doin’?”

“Nothin’...just commissioning something.”

Just then, the seller asks for your reference photos. 

Message as many as you’d like to send! The more the better.

“Is it okay if I take some pictures of your prosthetic from several angles and in good lighting? Please?”

Jack sits up, eyes fully open and face fully flattened into something suspicious of you. 

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“What are you doing? What is it?”

“You’ll ruin it.”

“Well, it concerns my leg, so I think I have a right to ask. Let me see your phone—”

“It concerns your daughter and a gift for her. Take your guesses. I’m not telling you.” 

You don’t know if he’s guessing right. You can see him deciding it might be framed photos or artwork of his prosthetic, but either way, it gets him to shut up, and by morning…

Jack’s standing over your shoulder the entire time you take the pictures of it. 

“This is insane.”

“But she's gonna love it!” 

“...Yeah. I know.”

The seller asks how many details you’d like to replicate, and you say yes to all. Because duhhhh. If Chubby’s gonna get a plushie version of Leggy?

It has to be right! No detail can be amiss. 

…Not that you’d leave a bad review or anything if there was, though. That would be so rude. The seller’s been almost as patient with you as Jack’s been with Chubby since the day she was born.

You can’t but gasp the way you imagine your baby would when the plushie arrives. It’s so, so beautiful. 

It’s soft black fabric filled with stuffing, where his real prosthetic is metallic. But it’s lovingly replicated. The structural details of the socket, knee, and pylon are embroidered with a crazy amount of care and expertise. It’s even slightly weighted at the bottom, inside the plushie's boot, so it can sit upright if you want to prop it up.

And she didn’t forget to sew in the stickers Chubby littered the real Leggy with. Kitties. Hearts. Suns. 

“She’s getting five stars. And a tip. I don't know if you can tip on Etsy. I'll find a way."

You watch Jack stare at it in silence for a full twenty seconds, the lines of his face twisting into something unreadable, but since there’s nobody who loves him pathetically more than you, you can clock him as aching n' breaking. Maybe he's a little disturbed. Or endeared. Endearingly disturbed. 

He crosses his thick, lovely arms of pale and freckles, head tilting low. 

“...Well. It’s, uh…it’s upsettingly accurate. I don’t know what else to say.”

He picks it up and turns it over in his hands. 

“I saw the payment order for it. I didn’t know a toy could cost that much.”

“It’s custom. It’s a custom, lovingly handcrafted stuffed replica of your leg for your daughter. It’s more than worth the price.”

Jack swallows, tilting his head into a semi-shrug. Yep. You knew that would be an argument your guy couldn't argue with. It’s why the thinning of his mouth and tongue running over his teeth keeps the expression of his face something even more impossible to truly name. 

Affronted, Jackie? Impressed, definitely. Emotional against his will? Well, that’s been the state of him since he knocked you up. 

Jack runs a thumb over one of the stitches. 

“She’s gonna lose her fucking mind.”

For being such a good kid during bathtime, you and Jack decide to give Chubby the plushie after it. She’s scrubbed clean and sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor with her pile of mangled, vivid drawings and crayons. She hums the way you do. 

And since you’re just so generous towards the perfection you birthed, you’ll name whatever Chubby’s currently coloring a…family portrait. Maybe it’s a dog. You won’t offend her by guessing right now. 

You carry the package with a cartoonishly exaggerated gait so you can catch her attention. You know you’re smiling like a dope when her eyes go huge. You set it down next to her. 

“Whatttttt’s that?”

“It’s a surprise for you.” 

“For me?!”

“Yes, silly-lily, what did I just say?”

You can feel Jack enter the doorway behind you. You glance back to see his hands in his pockets. His eyes of every color are as light as his smile. 

“Open it, baby. Mommy got it for you.”

You think he’s trying to look normal? But your doctor’s failing. He’s certainly bracing for the impact of however Chubby might love this toy version of the thing that’s been a part of his life for a very long time. 

“Ooooooo.”

Chubby claps and bounces on her knees before tearing at the package paper with her child-violent excitement. She’s only getting more ruthless with her gifts each birthday and Christmas. 

She tips the box, and bam. 

The plushie prosthetic falls right into her lap. 

“Surprise, Chubs—”

“LEGGGGGYYYYYYYY!!”

For that half-second silence she allowed, you and Jack took to watching the shock of her face. But now, you wish you had bought yourself earplugs. 

“IT’S LITTLE LEGGY!!”

No, you don’t. Not one bit. You want to hear your baby’s irrepressible joy from miles away.

Chubby continues to shriek to the point that Jack flinches, and she grabs the plushie to clutch it to her chest in a way where you’d think she’s been reconnected with a long-lost friend. But this…this is her new friend, isn’t it?

You snort when she keeps holding it out at arm’s length to study it in her screams and gasps, which isn’t much distance considering she’s got little arms. 

You’ve been preparing for this reaction for weeks, but you still have to remember to breath because you’re laughing too hard, and you just might cry when she dashes over to Jack. 

You hear his deep inhale when she pushes Little Leggy against big Leggy. You think he’s remembering to breathe, too. 

“They match! Mommy, they match!”

God, you’d lose it if you weren’t on Jack’s heart enough to notice it collapsing in on itself. He only takes his hands out of his pockets to rub his chest. 

“Yeah…they do, Chubs.”

Chubby bounces up and down when you reach her dad to do all the rubbing for him. 

“You alright, Jackie—”

“Dada! It’s Leggy’s baby!”

“Leggy’s…baby?”

Jack’s question comes out gruff and strangled, like he’s held in a cough. Chubby simply nods with all the certainty a three and a half year old can hold. 

She smashes the plushes against his thigh. 

“Hold him.”

Jack takes…him? Him? Oh God, can you blame the tears about to well up on postpartum hormones here? Nearly four years out, and Chubby’s still jabbing at your heart. It's terrible that she has the ability to speak now.

Jack’s face, though, that gets at you, too. 

The genuine, aching joy that you can see seep into the pale of his face and the widening of his perfect, stubbled dada-grin. 

“Leggy’s baby is a boy, huh? She’s a mommy like Mommy?”

My prosthetic leg’s a damn mother. Never thought I’d say those words. Never thought I’d ever have anything this perfect. 

“Mhm!” 

“...He’s—” 

His throat bobs. He nods slowly. 

“He’s beautiful, baby.” 

I’m holding a plush version of my prosthetic because my girl just knew how to soften our baby’s obsession without shaming it, and because my baby loves me so much that she needs this just to keep close. 

Fuck me. Nobody take this away from me. Nobody can. 

Chubby circles the room as you and her dad suffer her love. Mostly him. Jack would probably have it no other way. 

“Little Leggy sleep with me! Little Leggy have snacks! Little Leggy come in the car!”

When you wipe your face, you wipe tears you didn’t even know were there. The welling’s sneaked right past you. 

“See? Now Leggy can go places without Dada needing to take her off first. Or…now you have her baby to play with.”

Chubby stills, which seems improbable with all her joy, but when she points at Jack with a gasp, you realize it’s only for dramatic effect. 

“Dada! Big Leggy stay with you. Little Leggy stay with me.”

Your laugh dances with Jack’s low, thrown one. He throws his head forward. But she doesn’t get the joke, you’re sure, because she just jumps for uppies that have no trouble tearing the strings of your mommy and Jack-loyal heart. Especially when he has no trouble picking her up. 

“Glad you’ve sorted the custody out.”

Her cheek rests limp against his chest, surely from being tired from her roundabout of joy. She sighs a hum or hums a sigh.

“Both my boys.”

“Pfft—”

You fold right over. How can you not?? How the heck does she even come up with that??

Jack closes his eyes, inhaling even more deeply than the first as he fixes his arms so she can fix him better. 

“What the hell? Yeah. Okay. Your boys. Don’t forget big Leggy.”

“My girrrllll. Like my mommy.”

When you’re finished laughing at the ridiculousness of the child you’ve made, you come over to gift him something. Just a kiss, a little sloppy with dying laughter.

You reluctantly tear your gaze away, blinking innocently at her with a cheeky grin stretched across your glossy lips.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” 

The subject of your affection moves, and so do you– or at least you attempt to, until Trinity grabs your arm holding you in place.

“Nope, no way– not tonight!” 

You pout, shaking your arm as you try to get her to let go.

“Trin, come on– I’m not going to do anything except talk to him!”

“Talk?” she repeats incredulously, moving to block your distracted gaze from him. “You look like you’re about thirty seconds away from pouncing on him,”

You gasp in faux offense, finally meeting her gaze with your sly one.

“How dare you! I have self control,” 

“I highly doubt that,”

Jack Abbot is leaning against the bar like he doesn’t even realize how much space he takes up in your mind, just by existing. Short sleeves straining over his biceps, on display for anyone to ogle at– his gray curls slightly mussed like he’s run a hand through it one too many times. 

He’s laughing at something Robby is saying, head tipped back just enough for your stomach to twist, the outline of his strong jaw entrancing you further.

“I just know he’s better than in my head,” you sigh out, going back to chew on your straw until your drink is snatched out of your grip. “Hey–” your protests are cut off with one glare.

“You finished it twenty minutes ago,” she shoots back, placing her hands on your shoulders and forcing you to actually face her instead of craning your neck toward the bar and towards the night shift attending. 

You perk up at her words, a mischievous glint forming in your eyes.

“I’ll get us some new drinks then!” you chirp, narrowly avoiding her grip as you wiggle your fingers at her in lieu of a goodbye.

Weaving through the crowded floor, you coincidentally end up right next to Jack by the bar. When he doesn’t notice your arrival, you roll your eyes, before lightly bumping his shoulder.

“Oh my gosh– Doctor Abbot! I didn’t see you there–” you try to sound casual, but it comes out rather breathless instead.

Jack grunts quietly at the impact, before turning around, shoulders dropping when he sees that it’s just you.

“It’s all right,” he reassures you, and then it looks like he’s about to turn back around.

“So!” you exclaim, wincing at the sudden volume of your voice, “Are you having fun?”

He stops mid-turn, then faces you once again, this time fully. You gulp, fighting the urge to check him out when he’s this close to you– looking even more tempting than he does in his usual black scrubs.

Don’t even get me started on the SWAT-uniform–

Jack’s face comes into view as he catches your line of sight again, a soft smirk on his face.

“Am I boring you already?” 

 “No! No, not at all– never, actually– well, not never, but like–” you wave your hands quickly, laughing a little too loudly.

Stop. Talking.

You clamp your mouth shut, and the silence stretches for a moment too long, before you start to scramble sentences together again.

“Anyway! I was just coming to get drinks,” you gesture vaguely to the bar, which you are, in fact, not ordering from.

Jack nods, pursing his lips slightly and you wonder if he’s going to just keep letting you embarrass yourself like this for the entire interaction, or end up taking pity on you and say something.

“Let me buy you a drink–”

“I’ll get you one–”

Your sentences overlap, and you regret the fact that you didn’t take at least one shot before coming over to talk to him. What was your plan in the first place?

 “No, you– you go first,” you gesture toward him, already regretting every life decision that led you here.

Jack studies you for a second, something akin to amusement flickering in his eyes again, like he’s actually starting to enjoy this.

“I was just going to say I’ll buy you one,” he says, nodding toward the bar.

“Right! Yeah– I mean, I was also going to say that. But, like, for you,” you say quickly and trail off nervously, dragging a hand through your hair.

Jack turns slightly toward the bartender, lifting two fingers to signal, then glances back at you. 

“What do you want?”

Your brain, the traitor that it is, short-circuits again, and you spit out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Sex on the beach,”

With him.

“Okay then,” Jack nods, and you swear you saw him stifle a laugh before he turns back to the bartender, voice smooth and low when he orders.

In an urge to try and make up for how incredibly awkward it was and to try and maybe even impress him, you tap your card on the small card reader the bartender placed where you’re standing. Jack blinks, a small frown forming on his face when you beat him to the punch, the sleek, black card in his hand landing on the bar with a clang!

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, eyes narrowed in what looks like offense, like you’d just done something unimaginable.

You smile, waving him off, shoulders rolling back as you try not to let the satisfaction you’re feeling show. 

“It’s okay! I wanted to–”

A loud beep interrupts your sentence, and you watch in horror as the bartender gives you a sad look.

“Sorry Miss, the transaction failed,”

The words cause a wave of embarrassment to wash over you, and you feel your face warming as you let out a laugh, loud and high-pitched.

“That’s– that’s so weird,” you say through silent puffs of air.

You tap it again, and it gives that same, low pitch beeping sound again.

Amazing.

“It declined again–” The bartender quips, like you can’t already see the huge red words on the small screen, and your smile tightens. “Do you maybe have another card?” she asks carefully, eyes flickering between the grip on your card and your eyes– was that unshed tears?

“I– yeah, I mean, I do,” you say, already digging through your bag with way too much urgency. “Somewhere. Probably. I just, hold on–”

You do not have another card.

You know you don’t have another card. What you do have is a lip gloss, three crumpled receipts, a pen that doesn’t work, and your dignity rapidly disintegrating.

The sound of metal clinging breaks you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you look up just in time as Jack taps it, a cheerful ding confirming that it was indeed a lack of funds on your side.

You watch horrified as it goes through immediately. Turning to him immediately, your eyes widen. 

“No! No, you don’t have to, I was literally just about to–”

“Find another card?” he finishes, one brow lifting slightly, then orders for both of you again like nothing happened and you latch onto that small extension of  mercy with your entire being. 

When he turns back, there’s something different in his expression now, still amused, but softer. His hand slides the drink over to you, and you feel your fingers brush against his as you grab the stem of the glass, cursing internally at yourself for also choosing the ugliest, most egregious looking drink on the planet.

“...Thanks,” you mutter in defeat, taking a sad sip from the loopy straw.

Jack lifts his whiskey in silent cheers, mirroring you and taking a sip. You meet his gaze over the rim of his glass, and despite how utterly humiliated you feel, somehow, your stupid heart is racing like it’s still a win, having a drink with Jack Abbot.

Just as you’re about to speak up again, the sound of someone calling his name across the bar breaks the moment, and Jack turns towards the sound, lifting a hand in greeting, then turns back to you.

“Buddy of mine from the army,” he explains, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d almost say he looked regretful. “I should go say hello–”

“Yeah! Totally, that’s…that’s totally fine,” you wave your hands dismissively, practically shooing him away, “Don’t let me keep you, and uh– thanks again for the drink,”

The sooner he leaves, the sooner you can jump over the bar and crush that fucking card reader–

Jack shifts his weight, his eyes flickering down to your lips and the way they move as you chew on the straw and stare behind the bar, before he looks back.

“Anytime,” he responds, not forgetting to place a crisp twenty dollar bill on the table before leaving.

When he disappears into the crowd, your head falls into your hands, a loud groan escaping you.

2. 

“Stupid fucking, piece of shit garbage!” you cry out as your eyes water, feeling that lump in your throat that reveals exactly what’s about to happen next.

Your head thumps against the steering wheel, loud snivels filling the space of your car.

As if your day hadn’t been bad enough, your car chooses right now to break down as well. 

Normally, you’d brush it off and take the bus, but it was as if the sky had opened up and the ocean was falling from it. No warnings on the forecast, so you sure as hell weren't carrying an umbrella around in your bag either. 

Ordering an Uber was out of the question, since the last of your money had just been taken by a mysterious Apple charge you had no way of cancelling– and even if you did, your nine dollars weren’t going to cover the thirty minute long ride fare to your shitty apartment across town. 

Taking a deep breath, you shove your phone into your bag and zip your jacket up– not bothering to try and avoid the rain.

“I hope I drown,” you mutter, the rain pounding down mercilessly on your head, the thin jacket you have on doing nothing to warm you as you waddle across the parking lot and onto the sidewalk.

Within seconds, your hair is plastered to your face, your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin as your shoes splash through shallow puddles forming across the cracked asphalt– currently soaking through your socks.

The sound of cars whooshing along the road can be heard, but you keep your head down.

That is until you hear a car pull up to where you’re walking, and a window rolling down as a voice breaks through the loud noise of water rushing.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You squint, blinking through the wet droplets clouding your vision as it focuses on the black truck that’s stopped in the middle of the road.

Sitting there in all his glory is Jack Abbot, a concerned look etched onto his face as he takes in your soaked figure, the way your clothes cling to you and how your shoulders are slumped inwards, like you’re trying to cover yourself, while simultaneously having given up.

Naturally, it had the red flags in his head blaring.

You blink at him like he’s a hallucination. Honestly, with the day you’ve had, it wouldn’t even be that surprising if he was one.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you shout back over the rain, your voice wobbling despite your attempt at sarcasm, your arms crossing as you another gust of wind blows.

“It looks like you’ve lost your mind,” he says dryly, and it almost sounds like he’s concerned for you, already reaching across to shove the passenger door open. “Get in–”

“Oh, no– I’m okay, I’m taking the bus–” you shake your head wildly, motioning to the bus stop just right ahead. A car honks, and you see Jack roll his window down, motioning with his hand for it to drive around him, clearly having no plans on pulling away just yet.

“You’re not standing in this, waiting for a bus,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I can drive you home,”

The cars continue to honk behind him, yet Jack is in no rush to move, still arguing with you through the lowered window.

“I don’t want to, like… inconvenience you,” you try again, even as your teeth start to chatter, completely betraying you. “It’s really not that far and I–”

“Get in the truck,” he drawls, not even turning around anymore when the cars honk, simply waving his hand out of the driver side window and letting them pass.

“You’re causing a traffic jam–” you counter, an uneasy look on your face as you notice multiple people roll their windows down and shout out profanties. You didn’t blame them, you were being unreasonably stubborn, but you couldn’t be alone with him, not when you looked like this and he looked like that.

You also didn’t trust yourself to not start crying when feeling the, what looked like, smooth, expensive seat of his car. The rough cushion of your own wouldn’t even allow you to attempt wearing shorts in the summer while driving. 

“I’m not moving,” he cuts in simply, eyes locked on yours. “So you can either keep walking and make this worse for everyone, or you can get in the car,” 

His voice can barely be heard over the sounds of the horns blaring, and you frown, debating for one more moment before you finally succumb to the pressure, hurrying around the front of the car as he pushes the door open from the inside, watching your drenched form climb inside. 

Once the door closes, the outside noise is cut off, only leaving the sound of the heater and your uneven breathing as you try to stop your shivering. 

You sit there, dripping onto what you now know are very expensive seats, hands hovering awkwardly like you’re afraid to touch anything. Water pools beneath you anyway, completely undoing all your efforts. 

Jack exhales slowly through his nose, one hand tightening on the steering wheel before he reaches over and cranks the heat higher.

“Seat’s already wet,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You’re not going to make it worse. Sit back,”

You slowly lean back, cringing at the way the leather squeaks under you, hands clasped together in your lap as Jack starts driving.

“Sorry,” you say quietly after a while, staring straight ahead and watching as the windshield wipers work overtime.

“For what?” he says gruffly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes. Seeing as your hands are still shaking in your lap, he reaches down, turning the seat warmers on as well.

You shift uncomfortably, shrugging while you start digging in your backpack, pulling your phone out. At least that had managed to stay dry. You really couldn’t afford getting a new phone right now.

“Everything, I think. Shit, you need my address, right–”

“No, I got it,” Jack says, one hand on the steering wheel whilst the other pushes the turn signal indicator, and maneuvers the car smoothly.

“You know my address?” you ask dumbly, head whipping around to look at him. 

Oh my God– this is it! This is your chance, he’s clearly–

“I dropped you, Javadi and Matteo off after the last staff party, remember? It’s still in my navigation,”

You visibly deflate, sinking back into the warm seat as your eyes squeeze shut. 

“Oh. Yeah, I remember that– that was a fun night,”

Getting wasted with your colleagues and faceplanting in front of your crush at the annual PTMC Christmas party was objectively not something you’d recall as being a fun night.

In fact, it was actually the night your inconvenient crush on Jack had started– after he silently bought the entire table a round of drinks, and jokingly gave you a wink when you saw him excuse himself to secretly pay the tab.

The car falls silent as you stare out of the window, lost in your thoughts. Jack looks over again when he notices, watching your damp hair stick to the side of your face, the subtle sniffles you let out every now and then. His hand twitches, the urge to reach over and brush a lock out of your face is strong, but Jack’s willpower is even stronger.

Forcing his gaze back onto the road, his fingers grip the wheel tighter instead, and he clears his throat.

“I thought you had a car?” he asks, hand dropping down to shift the gear stick. 

You smile sheepishly, tucking your hair behind your ear as you look over at him, trying not to stare at his arms flexing at his actions.

“I do. It just decided to give up, and apparently Pittsburgh now has a monsoon season, so,” You motion to yourself and the clammy state you’re in, chest fluttering in something akin to pride when you hear Jack let out a soft huff of laughter.

“And the Uber app happened to give up as well?” he quips back, cocking an eyebrow in your direction.

Your smile drops just as quick and you look down at your hands now twisting in your lap, shrugging.

“No, that was my bank account…again,” you mutter in embarrassment, trying to will the memory of that night in the bar away.

Jack hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t comment on it any further– your embarrassment is evident in the way your hands are fidgeting, and he fights his instincts once again to stop you from picking on the skin of your nails.

“Do you have my number?” he decides to ask instead, and when you don’t reply he looks over to find you already watching him. When your eyes meet, you snap out of your reverie, fumbling with your phone instead.

“I think so, uh– I can check–” you scroll through your contacts as if you don’t already know and have memorized his number from the day you got it.

“Call me the next time you need a ride,” he cuts in, then just reaches for the radio, low music filling the air for the rest of the drive.

3. 

The rain has settled into a small drizzle by the time Jack reaches your place. 

Unbuckling the belt, you open the door and step out of the car, sheepishly wiping the seat with your sleeve. You had managed to get dry during the ride, but unfortunately, Jack's car had taken the brunt of the damage.

“Hey, no– leave that,” he grumbles, swatting your hand away, and your skin tingles where his hand accidentally brushes it.

A soft laugh escapes you, and you swing your backpack over your shoulder as you stand by the door, shifting on your feet as you prolong the goodbye.

It’s not everyday you get alone time like this, not any day, actually– considering the fact that the night shift attending shockingly only worked the night shift.

“Thanks for the ride,” you mutter shyly, eyes flickering up to meet him. Jack nods, stifling a smile at the sudden bashful look on your face– so unlike your usual loud and boisterous self that he would so often see at handoffs. 

“Don’t forget what I said–”

You roll your eyes, even though your mind is running thousand miles per minute– the thought of casually texting Jack and asking him to pick you up feels awfully domestic to you. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say absentmindedly, grinning again when he gives you a weak attempt at a stern look. “Alright– okay, I promise,” you concede, and only then does Jack lean back in his seat, looking feeling awfully enamored by the soft, warm version of you he’s getting.

When you finally close the car door and start walking towards the apartment building, you’re stopped by the sight of a large, bulky cardboard box by the entrance. Curiosity takes over, and you quickly take a peek at the name on the waybill, only to freeze once you see that it’s your own.

Shit– you had ordered a new bedframe, but you didn’t think it’d come so soon. Since when does anything ever get shipped on time? Apparently when you’ve already had a crap day, and the one time the elevator is under maintenance. 

Cursing under your breath, there’s not much else you can do than to dig your heels in and try to pull the package– only to get absolutely nowhere.

“What the fuck did they put in here– bricks?” you whine, letting go of it again. Stepping back, your hands land on your hips as you assess the situation. Sighing, you wrap your arms around the large box and pull again, groaning loudly as you do. 

“You just can’t stay out of trouble, huh?”

A yelp escapes you at the sound, letting go of the box and whirling around to find Jack watching you with an amused look on his face.

“I thought you left!” you say breathlessly, stepping away from the package and trying not to show how simply pulling it had knocked the wind out of you.

“I was waiting for you to get inside,” he responds simply, like his words aren’t causing you to shortfunction. 

This entire situation was the reason you tried to deny the ride home in the first place– already feeling mortified over failing to buy him the drink a week ago, to being caught trying to take the bus after yet another monetary issue, and now seeing that you’re unable to even lift a fucking box by yourself.

How on earth were you supposed to convince him that you’re a grown person worth loving and willing to care for him, when you couldn’t even take care of yourself?

“Alright– get the door and I’ll get the–” Jack begins, already moving towards the package. You quickly step in front of him, hands landing on his chest as you stop him, only to quickly drop back at your sides when you realize what you just did, eyes widening.

“No! Sorry– but still, no– I got it. Seriously, you already dropped me off, you don’t need to do this,” you’re borderline pleading at this point, a desperate look on your face. 

You cannot let this man do you any more favors or your chances will officially be flushed down the drain, and he’ll see you as some incompetent woman-child, instead of a potential partner.

Not that your chances were particularly great in the beginning, but at least there was a possibility. Now, each moment you spend in his presence out of work only slims that window of opportunity down further. 

Jack frowns, the lines around his mouth deepening at your words. Stepping around you, he grabs the package, lifting it over his shoulder in one, smooth motion.

You gape at the sight, having just spent the last five minutes pathetically tugging on it, only for him to lift it in seconds.

“That was a lot heavier when I tried to–” you begin, only to realize he’s carrying pounds of furniture on his shoulders and you’re standing there yapping. In an instant, you’re opening the entrance door, watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he grips the box, holding it steady.

“What floor?” he grunts, not bothering to stop walking.

You stumble behind him, swallowing down the drool that's collecting in your mouth. 

You’re pretty sure you had a dream just like this before–

When he glances over his shoulder, you clear your throat, finally answering.

“Second floor,” you say, sounding short of breath despite not doing any of the physical labor.

Watching as he makes his way up the stairs, you bite your lip, glancing at his leg. Surely this was painful, even for someone as fit as him. 

Before you can comment on it, he reaches the second floor, and this time you don’t wait for him to ask, before you’re leading him to your front door.

Thank God you tidied up before heading to work today.

He sets the box down carefully once you guide him inside, rolling his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. You, on the other hand, are still standing in the doorway like you’ve forgotten how to function in a straight line.

“Where do you want it?” he asks, gaze flitting across your apartment as he takes it in, the warm lighting, the small trinkets and stack of medical books lining the shelves, even the scent being so utterly you that he has to grip the box harder to try and ground himself.

You try not to react at the sight of Jack Abbot in your apartment– looking so out of place yet somehow, right at home.

“Anywhere,” you say, blinking at him.

Jack lets out a low chuckle, leaning the box against the wall as he sees the way you’re looking at him– pupils dilated and unabashedly obvious, even though you always convince yourself you aren’t.

“What?” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head as he stares back at you, the shoe sized apartment you live in suddenly feeling even smaller.

Shaking your head, you step back, regardless of the already large distance between the two of you. You needed to get further away, maybe even leave the room if possible.

“Thank you,” you say earnestly, swallowing thickly.

Jack realized that he likes seeing you this way, more than he probably should. You depending on him, then wearing that wide eyed, impressed look on your face like he cured cancer, rather than just dropping you home instead of letting you walk through a rainstorm or lifting a fucking box– like he wouldn’t tear the stars from the sky if you asked him to.

Or if you kept looking at him like that.

“You know how to build this thing?” he says instead of any of what he just thought, watching as you fumble with your phone.

“I think so, I saw this tutorial on Tik Tok–” you say, perking up at the thought of finally not having to bother him any longer, only to have your enthusiasm fade away once you see the unimpressed look on his face. 

“What?”

+1

The last piece of your bed-frame is screwed into place, and Jack steps back, hands clasping behind his back as he takes in his work, making sure everything is in the right spot.

God knows you wouldn’t call him to fix it if it wasn’t.

You’re leaning against the doorway, wearing the same guilty expression that’s been on your face since he opened the box and started assembling your bed frame.

“Well? Is it approved?” He jokes, then falters when he sees your face twist as a frown forms on your lips. “Come on, don’t make that face– I wanted to help,” Jack reassures, only for his words to fall to deaf ears. 

“You’ve been constantly helping for weeks,” you mumble defiantly, crossing your arms.

Jack tilts his head, eyebrows raising as he takes note of the slight frustration in your tone of voice.

“And that’s a problem for you?” he provokes, biting back a grin as you fall for it.

“Yes!” you snap, pushing off the doorway and pacing a few steps into the room. “Because it’s always you doing something for me. Driving me around, paying for things, carrying stuff, fixing stuff– ” you gesture at the now fully assembled bed frame like it’s reminding you of what a failure you are.

“Well if it bothers you that much, you can just make up for it,” Jack retorts easily, walking closer to where you’re standing.

You waver, contemplating his words for a minute before looking back at him hesitantly.

“Make it up to you– you’d accept that?” you repeat incredulously, eyes darting across his figure like you’re trying to figure out if he’s being serious or not. 

“Sure,” Jack shrugs, only stopping when he’s right in front of you, looking down at your distrusting face. “Why not?”

“Okay…” you give in, tilting your head up towards him, too focused on what to give him to realize how close you’re currently standing. “What do you want?”

“Nuh-uh,” he tuts playfully, “You’re supposed to come up with it yourself, remember? You don’t want my help–”

“I do!” you spill, running a hand through your hair in distress, “I really do, which is the problem, because if you keep seeing me like this you’ll just feel bad for me, and feel like you need to help me, and I don’t know about you, but I usually don’t end up dating the people I pity–” you ramble, hands moving more frantically with each word you speak.

“Did it ever occur to you that I do this because I want to?” Jack interjects your tangent, lips twitching as he holds back a smile.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“You do? Why would you–”

Your sentence cuts off when you realize what he’s saying.

Oh.

Oh.

You’d been so caught up in your own feelings that you’d missed the hints he’s been giving since the beginning. Jack Abbot was a kind, patient and responsible guy– and you had clearly overestimated how far he was willing to go to help out platonically.

Jack’s gaze drops briefly to your lips, then back up to your eyes– like he’s giving you time, like he’s waiting for you to catch up. When he sees the realization in them, he tilts his head.

“Any way you can think of making it up to me now?”

Your hand jerks up instinctively, gripping the front of his shirt as you pull him closer, then pressing your lips to his. 

It takes Jack approximately two seconds to realize that you’re kissing him and that he’s standing there like an idiot instead of kissing you back.

A soft gasp escapes you when his hands grip your hips, holding you in place.

Jack pulls back enough to catch his breath, a small laugh bubbling in his chest as you eagerly chase after his lips, not quite as ready to pull away as he seems to be.

A small pout forms on your lips, and he can’t help but to lean down and press a shorter peck against it, then moving to your cheek, exhaling at the side of your face, before finally moving his head so that the tip of his nose brushes against yours. 

Your heart beats fast in your ribcage, and you let go of his shirt, opting to grip his shoulders instead.

“...I think I have some more making up to do,” you breathe out shakily, then pull him down into another searing kiss.

Jack laughs into the kiss, but can't find it in him to pull away this time.

☆END NOTE: I have no idea what car he drives, or if he even drives, but I do know that whatever it is, it’s going to be big, sleek and manual (it’s possible for amputees to drive them, and especially below the knee amputees such as Jack.)

The star of the show is the man in 12. He’s middle-aged with stable vitals and no exact reason for the kind of pettiness he’s carrying. The pain he’s in for is just as petty. And loud. Abdominal pain that’s been a “ten out of ten” for two weeks. You think he’s been drinking for three more.

You squeeze the BP cuff you were going to put around his bicep. 

“I–Sir—”

“Get me a different one. Please.”

His demand is flat as he looks you up and down. You’re a healthcare product he’s disappointed in, apparently. Okay. Nothing new, but you still blink and swallow like you misheard his jab. Your heart is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“A different—?”

“A different nurse,” The man repeats, louder. Slower, as if you’re stupid for being confused. “One that preferably doesn’t look like....” He gestures vaguely with a burp. “...You.”

…Oh. 

Well, can’t be everyone’s type, not with the way you look—not with the way you look even when you think you’re pretty. Even though…a nurse shouldn’t have to be anyone’s type to do their job. There was no beauty contest in the hiring process, from what you can remember. Whatever, sir.

Your smile doesn’t falter as you reach for the script of routine. 

“I can absolutely take care of you, but if you have a preference for a male nurse or, I’ll admit, someone who looks more experienced, I ca—”

“Listen, Honey. I’m in pain. I don’t need some ugly little girl fumbling around on me.” 

You blink. You swallow. 

The word ugly lands like a slap on your face. Ironic, considering that’s what he’s calling ugly. 

Ugly. 

It’s not like you haven’t heard it before, it’s not even the worst thing you’ve been called. But…none of that softens the blow. It doesn’t lessen the hurt in how he’s found your soft spot. 

You keep your tone even, again, despite the way your confidence just washes down the drain. Go you!

“That’s not appropriate.”

The patient laughs—a near snort, and you’d swear you can feel him enjoying this. 

“Oh, here we go. The lecture. You nurses all think you’re underpaid saints. God forbid, a guy don’t want some butterface twenty-something sticking needles in him.” His eyes flicker over your chest, your badge, your mouth. “Just expecting attention, acting sweet, and God forbid, that guy tells you the truth instead.”

You feel a heat drag a burning of humiliation along your neck. You think your palms are going damp, and you realize that you’re still holding the BP cuff, and now…it feels like a toy in your hands. 

“Sir, if you are…if you’re going to continue to speak to me like that, I’m going to step out, and we can try again when you’re calmer. 

He leans forward, scoffing as he rubs his nose, and as his voice drops, you’re very sure he’s purposeful in his poison. 

“If you don’t get me a new nurse when you step out, I’ll tell someone who can actually do their job right that you refused to treat me because you didn’t like what I said.”

“I didn’t like what you said, Sir—”

“Girls like you, you think you’re something because men look at you sometimes. Up close though…”

He makes a sound, a soft click of his tongue, before slumping back on the bed. 

“You’re not even pretty. It’s all the decorations you’ve got that are killing me. You’re trying, I’ll give you that, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitches. 

That opens up a wound, no—a scar, something old, something pre-Pitt. 

Something that’s making sure you know he’s only telling the truth, and it’s a splinter in your heart. 

You don’t melt down in front of him, because oh, wouldn’t that be material? You just feel your eyes stinging, your body betraying you as it follows your insecurities instead. 

“Okay…um—”

You turn away fast, like you’re reaching for supplies, anything to hide your face as you feel tears gathering anyway, hot and humiliating. 

Go you. 

“I’m gonna—I’m just gonna step out for a second and get—”

“Thank you.”

You fumble out of the room as your heartache compresses itself into one goal. Don’t let anyone see you like this, you absolute mess. You’ll be as ugly as he said you are. 

You make it to the supply closet, slipping inside. The door doesn’t latch all the way. There was no way you were going to make it to the bathroom without sobbing for free admission. 

The door stays cracked open, a sliver of fluorescent light spilling from the hallway. 

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes. You try to breathe. 

You don’t believe him. Not…not fully. But he wanted to hurt you. And he did. That’s the worst part. It’s like he walked in looking for someone to bruise, and he just happened to find the easiest one to make cry. You’re a crybaby. You’re nothing but tears, and sensitivities you hide with bubbilness and sparkles. Stupid! 

You swallow hard, shoulders shaking. A tear slips. 

Then another. 

And suddenly, as your breath catches, you realize you’re sobbing. Yep. Okay. That tracks. 

You’ve done so much, and you’re here in a closet because a stranger called you ugly. 

Well. That’s what happens when someone hits a nerve, right? 

You laugh through congestion and snot, wiping your face as you lean your forehead against the cool metal shelf. 

“Get it together—”

A shadow falls across the sliver of light. 

Your name falls out, graveled and low with all the familiarity that makes you freeze. Your stomach drops at the door creaking. 

Of course, it’s Jack. Of course, it’s the one person you don’t want to see you like this, is the one who finds you, because the universe loves you. 

You scrub at your cheeks again, turning your face away. You try to make your breathing even, like the claim you’re fine is a plausible one. 

“Just…just resetting.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away, and that quiet is what makes you look up despite everything. 

He’s standing in the doorway, broad-shouldered as his eyes take in the red of yours, the way you…at some point, you guess, ended up clutching a pack of gauze. 

…You think he looks…surprised. 

It’s a genuine, almost boyish shock, which seems impossible for such a well-aged man like Dr. Jack Abbot. You’d think he thinks a universe where you aren’t invincible is an alternate one. 

You’ve gifted me these types of tears, Jackie. More than you think. But it’s not your fault, I’m as sensitive as you are mean. 

“What happened?”

The surprise is gone as quickly as it went. You can tell by his neck rolling his head forward, eyes focusing on you through his brows, as his stare is just as harsh as his question.

He’s at your side in an impossible second, palm resting flat on the small of your back. 

He doesn’t blink as he waits for your answer. You laugh weakly. 

“Nothing.”

Again, Jack just stares at you, and that doesn’t help your heart to soften in its pained beat. His jaw only tightens, and you think he’s measuring the cost of getting the truth out of you. 

You know very well he can afford it. 

“This is not nothing. Tell me what happened.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. 

“Just a patient.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter, Jack—” You insist, wiping your face once again even though there’s nothing left to wipe. You hate that your hands are shaking, you hate the way you want to lean into Jack’s hot touch. “I just—it was stupid—”

“Did he touch you?”

Jack shifts closer in his low, lamenting question.

… You don’t know what to make of the anger he peers into you, as you’re sure he’s imagining a patient touching you. 

“No.” Your answer is immediate. No, he just made sure to remind me how ugly I am. “No, he didn’t touch me.”

“Did he threaten you?”

You hesitate for half a second. And wouldn’t it be Jack to catch it? Of course, not like he’s looking anywhere else to miss the slightest tell.

“Sleepy.” 

You exhale. There was no way you’d come out of this undefeated. 

“He said…he’d make stuff up if I left, that I refused to treat him just because I didn’t like what he said.”

Your voice cracks. 

“He was just being a jerk.”

You can’t stop the tears from streaking down your cheeks, and it’s where Jack looks like he’s holding a storm in his breath, where his hand finds its way to your neck, his thumb rubbing the end of your jaw. 

You watch him watch you through the blur, and you’re sure it’s his warm, soft-rubbing touch that soothes you as much as it engulfs you. That’s Dr. Abbot’s hand for you, always. 

“He’s got you in tears,” Jack swallows. “And you think this is nothing?”

The laugh that comes out of you is wet. “I know. I’m embarrassing. You tell me enough. You can—you can go.”

Jack doesn’t move. He just takes in a short breath. It leaves him in a slight huff. 

“Not going anywhere. You’re not embarrassing. I don’t—”

This is instinct, he thinks, Sleepy. He wonders if you can tell. It’s not a fucking choice, he just heard kiddo’s voice break and his body that’s already swallowed by filth, and, in turn, you decided mine, mine, mine before he could edit it into something relatively appropriate. 

Jack expects nothing less from the girl who’s ruined him. 

Your lips wobble, and God—Jack’s sudden, gruff gentleness when you feel ugly and small almost worsens your cries with relief, with his comfort. 

It’s gonna be him. It should be, always, but you’ll be thankful if this is the only moment where you have him soft. 

“Talk to me. What did he say?”

“Jack—”

“What did he say specifically?” 

You look down at the gauze in your hands. You don’t really want to give the words life again. 

But Jack is here. Jack is waiting. Jack is listening. His steady, stern presence makes it harder to keep the lid on. You can’t—you can’t deny him. You don’t know why being stubborn with him became impossible. 

“He called me ugly. A butterface.” You’re ripping off a bandage with how you blurt it out. “A–and he said I wasn’t even pretty up close. The way he said it—it was like my face was a trap. He just…knew exactly how to say it.”

Your confession is what gets Jack to drop his touch from your neck, and in the moment after, he goes completely still.

For a heartbeat, you think you’ve done it, you’ve said the thing that will make his face soften the way it does when he’s hurt you, when you think he’s jealous but can’t think of yourself deserving of Jack’s feelings like that enough to fully claim said jealousy. When his flirtatious jabs turn controlling or entitled. 

“You didn’t tell me he was blind.” 

He crosses his arms. 

“Ugly?”

His question repeats the word, flat. You wipe your cheek with the back of your wrist, sniffling, shame and humor burning behind your eyes. 

“You really know how to flatter a gal. But…yeah. It sucks that he just…made my face a point. Brought up the elephant in the room. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t care.” 

Jack’s brows pull together. His voice drops. 

“No.”

You blink. 

“No…what?”

“No, that’s—” He looks genuinely…baffled. For the first time, you’ve thrown Jack off-balance when you didn’t mean to. “Kid, that’s bullshit.”

A tiny, startled laugh escapes you, but Jack’s every-color gaze locks on your face, and you wouldn’t have to know his features as well as you to know he’s frustrated. You make your face, trying to soften his glare with humor. Humor’s safer than sincerity. 

“I mean…I’m not, like, a model. He wasn’t totally wrong. I try. It’s fine.”

Sometimes humor is sincerity. See the previous sentence. Ha. 

Jack tilts his head a fraction, and you’re just waiting to see how the joke lands. 

With how the exhale through his nose comes out in a sound that’s almost a throaty scoff—not cruel, just more like he’s outraged on your behalf, you think it’s crashed. 

“Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”

He’s shaking his head, and your cheeks heat with every second he seems disappointed. 

“What?”

“You’re not—” 

Kiddo thinks she’s ugly, the world might as well be made of fucking pudding. 

You watch Jack take a deep, deep breath. He’s trying to keep restraint tight, and you can’t know why, because his chest is stretching against his scrub top beautifully. That helps with the tears. 

“You are not ugly.”

You huff a laugh. “Okay, Jack—”

“Do not brush me off. I may let your jabs and bits slide enough that you think you can brush this off, but Sleepy, I swear to God—I can admit my temper’s scaling.”

His temper’s about to find a target. It’s usually you, but not today. Not in this moment. Just at the idea, you could actually fucking believe you’re not the most beautiful woman in the world. At whoever’s the dumb fuck that put the idea that you’re ugly in your head. 

“I’m…brushing it off because I have to go back out there and do my job.”

“And you can, you always do.” 

There’s a pause after his demanding fact, and you realize you’re being defensive because the idea of being this vulnerable with the man you dream about at night, his face between your legs with his fingers down your throat, well…really, you can’t lose points for being defensive here. 

“But you don’t get to stand here and tell me you’re ugly like it’s true. Like you’ve been walking around thinking this low of yourself, like your self-esteem’s some fucking joke.” 

…Why is he so peeved by this? 

“It’s just—some people are pretty, some people…adorn themselves in sparkles and fun makeup and hope flirting and sweetness are enough to distract others from this.”

You gesture to your face, hand circling as your lips pout dramatically. 

“Uh, ow!—”

And you don’t know what, Jack practically slaps your hand down, face casual as he holds onto your wrist after. 

“Excuse me, Dr. Abbot—”

“You walk into a room, and people look at you. It’s always you. And I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you that you can’t hear yourself speak. You hearing yourself?”

You roll your eyes, trying not to collapse from the stern warmth of his hold. That, the tears, his unrelenting gaze, and comments that are somehow demeaning and uplifting…it makes for a bad cocktail. 

“They look because I’m loud.”

“No.” Jack denies you immediately, stepping half a pace closer, and his voice turns gruffer as you can hear his spit move along his tongue and teeth. 

…Somehow, with this being fourth worst shift you’ve ever had, you could die happy. You can smell the whole of him when he’s close like this. 

“They look at you because you’re…you’re beautiful. Very beautiful.” 

You freeze. 

He’s made the occasional joke that you could never believe, the most recent one being how “He couldn’t care that you’re pretty. Blood getting everywhere, including the mug, makes sure of that.” But this, it finds your stomach flipping wildly, and every other muscle burns so hot that you’re sure you might melt. 

How can the most beautiful man in the world think that?

“I’m not saying that to—” He shrugs. “It’s just…fact.” 

You’re stunned enough to only keep your mouth open, a baffled codfish in scrubs. Jack’s jaw only works. 

“It’s fact, and you’re crazy if you wanna act like you’re some busted little thing.” He shoves his hands in his scrub bottom pockets. “Busting my brains, alright. Who else?”

You can’t even take in a breath with the raw…intensity behind Jack’s words. He’s insulting you, because you think that’s just because he’s—he’s offended, like the idea of you thinking you’re ugly is an insult to reality. 

“Jack, calm down—”

“I am calm, I’m stating a fact.”

You watch him, the roll of his head and his quick, furrow-browed blinking. 

“You really think I’m beautiful?” 

His thinking you’re beautiful feels like an insult to reality, but god, you’re selfish enough reality to mean nothing. You want to be flattered. You want to sink into him. 

“It’s not about me thinking. You are. Obviously.” 

His gaze drops only to snap back, and his voice returns slightly more controlled. You watch his shoulders loosen, and you think it’s a forced sort of calm. 

“Listen to me.” 

He squeezes your wrist, and that touch edges down to your hand. He squeezes there before just…holding.

It’s the lightest hold, and what you thought before sticks true now. 

I could die happy here, Dr. Abbot. I’ll listen to you forever and a day. 

“That guy said that because he wanted to hurt you. That’s all. And because of that, you’re not going back in there alone. We’re not giving him another nurse to harass either.”

“Jack—”

“I’m not asking. I’m coming with you. He needs to get treated by a doctor anyway. He can find himself another hospital if that’s not a suitable form of treatment.”

You hesitate, and you’re thankful he doesn’t mind waiting for your hesitation. 

Sometimes, his protection can feel so cruel, but here, hand on yours, it feels like relief, and that fact blooms your belly all too sweetly. 

You nod. Jack drops your hand, and you’re pathetically reeling from the loss of his touch. 

But you don’t mind at all when he replaces it with his palm between your shoulder blades.

He opens the supply closet door, pausing as you step out just before him.

“Sleepy?”

“Hm?”

Jack’s eyes hold yours. Something raw flickers there, and boy, does it make you tingle.

Though he’s hoping you’re not sober from your tears enough to know it’s just ruin and attraction, intense and ready to kill, that he’s trying to bury under anger and righteousness. He’s right. The prettiest girl in the whole wide world think she’s ugly.

He’s right to be angry and righteous in the filth, he just doesn’t know when he stopped caring enough to deny there was that sort of rage for kiddo in the first place. 

He rubs the slight of your spine with his thumb. 

When you fully catch the sight of him, dazed is no longer the right word. There are no words to describe what you feel for what you’ve just walked in on Jack doing. 

Maybe, possibly, the closest you can get is asking a question. 

What fucking universe did I just walk into??

Jack is on a mat. Completely naked. Doing Yoga. 

And every—every bit of him is colored by the sunrise. 

The first thing you think is that he’s sleepwalking. It’s the only possibility your buffering brain can come up with, because you can’t imagine Jack would ever, ever do something as crazy as, well...doing naked Yoga in the early morning is.

...You don’t have to imagine, do you?

You can’t take your eyes off him, and that’s where you watch the way he shifts into something that you don’t think should be possible for a man shaped like him.

His spine goes long in a slow fold, muscles and bones moving like he’s made out of string rather than that gruff, casual sturdiness that swallows your heart. 

He’s absurdly…graceful.

Even as his soft cock swings with the slight jiggle of his rounded man-ass. 

It’s graceful, oddly beautiful, and extremely overwhelming for your nervous system at six in the morning. 

“Oh…Oh my god.”

It’s extremely overwhelming for your nervous system and cunt at six in the morning, and the absurdity of everything you’re witnessing and feeling is enough for a laugh to burst out of you. 

You choke on it as you try to swallow it down, slapping a hand over your mouth, but it all ends in failure as Jack’s head snaps up. 

“Kid—”

In one motion, he jolts from his sleek Yoga pose. One would think you’d caught him committing a crime, which…that wouldn’t be an unfitting word. 

He tries to stand, and that ends in a quicker failure as he immediately loses his balance. 

Another loud, burning laugh escapes you as you watch Jack teeter, his thick thighs shaking and his cock swinging more like it’s up at bat now. His arms windmill slightly, and somehow, his face is already flushing red in the golden strips of the rising sun. 

You don’t know how you’re supposed to do anything else but lose it when he has to grab his cock to stop it from catching air. 

You bend at the waist, laughing silently because all the air inside you left with the last burst. Your shoulders shake the way Jack does. 

Could anything ever be funnier than this?

He plants his feet when he finally settles. He’s glaring at you. Which, fair, you did find your guy in quite a vulnerable position. You think it’s called the three-legged dog. 

“What…What—” His voice is rough and offended all at once. “What are you doing? Didn’t know I had a peeping fucking Tom for a partner.”

As if he doesn’t film you in the shower. 

You have to gasp for air as you wipe a tear away. 

“What am I doing? Jack, what are YOU doing?”

Daddy’s flexible. 

Jack’s jaw tightens as his hands take to resting on his hips. “It’s stretching. It’s Yoga.”

“It’s naked Yoga.”

“It’s my house—”

“During sunrise, too. That’s aesthetically…erotic.” You wheeze, and you’re sure that’s the last of your body’s reaction to all of this. “This would make for the most controversial Lululemon commercial. I mean, I think you’d have to be wearing something for it to be a Lululemon commercial—”

“Enough.”

…Jack looks like he wants to evaporate. The red of his ears makes sure of that. You pout. Your Doctor Abbot’s embarrassed. 

Don’t worry, Daddy, I’m only dying with laughter and a pathetic arousal all at once. 

Jack reaches down to grab your pink throw blanket off the couch. He wraps it around his waist, and the covering of his beautiful, fat bits makes him look more ridiculous. He’s still keeping that stern, dark-eyed look on his face, but now, he has a pastel toga to go with the glare. 

His thick throat bobs. 

“I didn’t know you were awake.”

“That is not the defense you think it is.”

Jack mutters something under his breath that sounds like cursing. You take a few steps closer, still giggling. You squint at the mat. 

“I didn’t know you did yoga.”

He shifts his weight, and your stomach flips in catching the way his eyes narrow. They follow your hands as they settle on his pale, widely spread, drool-inducing pecs.

You’ll pretend you’re not faltering. You need to bully your guy just a little longer. 

“I’ve been doing it for a while. It helps. With my back.” 

You nod, lips pursing in false thought, and you really, really can’t help the question you ask as you lace it in nastily fake innocence. 

“And does doing it with your cock out ease your bones more than doing it clothed?—”

“Nope. You don’t wanna do that, Sleepy.”

“What?”

“Revel in this. You’ll regret it in a minute.”

Jack pulls his blanket toga tighter around his waist, almost like that will undo the fact that you saw him in full in a way that had nothing to do with you being stuffed or degraded while you shake on the cock you caught cosplaying a pendulum not five minutes ago. 

Your giggles calm into something else, for the sake of Jack’s furrowed brow, reddened humiliation.

The something else is made up of that buzzing affection that always comes when you catch him being human. Or weird. Or cute. 

You need him dominating, taking you whole as he turns you into nothing but something made for him, him, him, but you’ll never deny the parts of Jack Abbot that are silly. 

“You done?”

“No, show me another pose–”

“Sleepy, are you done?”

Jack’s glare deepens in the same way his voice does, and that’s telling you he’ll bend you over the couch in the next ten minutes, and that’s not a negative side-effect of the bullying. It’s a benefit, actually. 

Your hands creep down to his pastel-pink-covered hips. You kiss the corner of his mouth and can only love the feeling of his stubble brushing his lips like always. 

“Honestly, that was kind of hot. I got free admission and everything.” 

Jack’s mouth twitches. Your chest warms at what is almost a reluctant smile on his face. You kiss his chest. 

“Go make coffee.”

The command is close to being stoic in dominance, as well as the need to make sure you’re nothing but something for him, but if you didn’t listen so easily to the sound of his voice, you’d catch how it’s spoiled by the fondness in his eyes. 

“I want it black this time.”

“You got it, Doctor Free-Hanging Dick.”

No. You just get to catch Jack's footsteps coming behind you in a half-second as you begin to run down the hall, heavy and ready to punish.

Behind you, your colleagues, Jane and Charles—composed, senior, deeply invested in whatever clause they were dissecting—look up in quiet, collective confusion. Lovely people. Truly. Also deeply, fundamentally not built for whatever this is.

And, unfortunately, you are, in fact, the Pinkie Pie in question.

You’d gotten to become friends with Trinity Santos in your time there. Turns out, her somewhat lacking bedside manners invited a good amount of legal threats.

“What do you mean you told a guy you’d put his IV up his ass if he asked for a lemonade again?!”

“You weren’t there.”

“He’s trying to sue for ten grand.”

“...I stand by it.”

Santos was a good amount different to you, a bit rougher around the edges, but well-meaning at her core. She’d thrown around many nicknames for you. That has unfortunately also spread around the ER now. 

One time, Robby called you Princess Bubblegum. You didn’t know he even knew who that was. 

Another time, Langdon threw around Kirby. That made Mel snicker every time.

McKay loved calling you Lotso when you weren’t in a great mood. “Get it? You’re pink, and soft, but you can also be scary. You’ve seen Toy Story 3, right? That’s Harrison’s favourite. I raised a kid with taste, honestly.” McKay explained once.

Jack was nice enough to hold back from nicknames like that. Well, you didn’t think he knew of them, and you were happy to keep it that way. 

You stand from your desk, giving lovely Jane and Charles a polite nod as you quickly walk out into the hallway with Santos, gently closing the door behind you. 

Santos gives you a look.

You’re dressed particularly formal today, black fitted dress with black tights, and minimal jewellery, your hair done well, black stilettos.

“What’s with you?” She wonders. “Hot date? Funeral?

“What? No,” You say like it’s ridiculous. “Court.”

“Ah, troublemaker.”

“I’m… I’m a lawyer, you know this.” You remind, confused.

“Yeah, I’m messing with you,” she rolls her eyes. “Though you are severely lacking in pink. This is weird. I don’t recognise you. You okay? Want me to book you for a neuro CT? Purely recreational. Discounted.”

You had also received a comment from, shockingly, Jane, in the morning before going into court. “I kind of miss the pink, but the black is a good choice. Makes you look more serious.” She’d said, casually.

You move on quickly. “What were you saying? Drinks?”

“Right.” Santos rolls her eyes like you’ve personally disappointed her. “Wasted. Bar. Drinks. People. You. There. Tonight.”

“Right. Yeah. That—sounds good.” A beat. “Who else is going?”

“Most of day and some night shift,” she shrugs. “You’ll know ’em. Nobody you haven’t worked with.” Then, with a look—“Pretty sure your boyfriend’ll be there.”

You press your tongue into your cheek, giving her a flat look.

“You know,” she goes on, enjoying herself now. “Old. Bit short. Not that charming, really.”

You don’t even dignify that with a proper response.

“Honestly,” she adds, “reminds me of my grandad.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Very funny. Time and place?”

“Tom’s. Down the road. Can’t miss it.” She jerks her chin. “Anytime after seven. Show up, don’t show up—I don’t care.” Then she nods past you, to your office. “What’s with the suits in there? They wanna join?”

“They have families to get back to,” you say, a little defensive despite yourself. “And normal sleep schedules.”

“Boring,” Santos grins. “...You alright? You seem wound up.”

“I’m fine. Long day.” You answer. “Court is a bitch.”

“That’s what I say about my ex-girlfriend, Courtney,” Santos agrees. “See you there, Kirby.” She shoves your shoulder lightly on the way out like that settles it.

You turn slightly, watching her go. “…That’s it?”

“Oh—and a pay rise!” she calls over her shoulder.

You sigh. “Not how it works—”

But she’s already gone.

You stand there for a second, caught between fluorescent quiet and whatever she just presented into your night.

You’ve been here a few months now—long enough that it’s stopped feeling like something to prove and started feeling like something you just do. The edges have worn down. 

The language, the hospital, these staff, there’s a rhythm to it now. Contracts, consults, reviewing medical records, internal investigations, employment agreements, do it all over again. And you find as the sun goes down and your colleagues leave the office, it gets quieter, lonelier — it’s an inevitable drift for you to go to the ED.

You tell yourself it’s balanced, but with how you can’t help the preference you held for the night hours. You did try to rationalise it, but gave up after a while. You were well suited to the night shift curfew.

And no shit, it came down to the night shift attending.

You couldn’t really help it—liking him, enjoying him, letting yourself fall into the ease of it. Not when he was… like that.

The Winnipeg case, a five-point-seven million dollar suit against the ED, doesn’t blow up the way it threatens to.

For a while, it looks like it might—demand letter aggressive, numbers inflated enough to make everyone sit a little straighter in meetings. You’re pulled in early, mostly to observe at first, notebook open, listening as your seniors map out exposure and strategy.

It never makes it anywhere near court.

Negotiations take over. Back-and-forth. Offers shaved down, reframed, pushed again. You sit in on most of it, watch the way language shifts depending on who’s in the room.

It settles. Not five-point-seven million. Not even close. A quiet resolution. No admission of liability. Just enough money to make it disappear without anyone having to say they were wrong.

The kind of ending hospitals prefer.

You told Jack as soon as you could leave the meeting and settle down in the ED, like it’s nothing.

Set up at the nurses’ station like you belong there—files spread, laptop open. The ER moves around you in that constant, controlled chaos, but you’ve stopped noticing it as anything more than background, annotating a contract, pen’s ink running dry as you write and finish explaining it.

“They take your approach?” Jack had asked.

He’s leaned against the counter, forearms braced, looking down at you like you’re something he’s still working out. You wore a soft pink skirt that night—something that moves when you do, matches your nails, even your water bottle, the quiet consistency of you.

You nod, a little pleased despite yourself, turning your pen between your fingers. “More or less. I wanted a full dismissal, but…” you shrug, glancing up, “settlement’s better than nothing. No court, at least.”

Jack hums, but he’s not really listening to the words anymore. His eyes drift over you—brief, but not unintentional.

“You in court…” he starts, almost to himself. “God, don’t tell me you wear those shoes as well.”

Your mouth tips into a smile as you glance down at them, a relatively sane four inch wedge heel.

“Oh, I’ve worn worse,” you admit.

He huffs, sceptical. “You’re kidding.”

You shake your head, tapping your pen against the paper. “Eight inch corset heels once. They took me more seriously the taller I was, it was my first year out of law school. You know, I knew a girl who showed up in full on pleasers once.”

He frowns. “In what?”

You look up at him, deadpan. “Stripper heels.”

There’s a beat. Then—

“…Right,” he nods slowly, recalibrating.

You bite back a laugh, ducking your head slightly. “I don’t dress like this for court, though. Judges like presentation.”

“Well, judges like pretty girls,” he says.

It’s casual, and you still, smiling a bit. You tilt your head up at him, pen pausing mid-spin between your fingers. “Aw, you think I’m pretty?”

“Think you’re the prettiest damn thing in this ER,” He says, voice low.

You held his gaze for a second too long, something quieter threading through the space between you. Then you look down, like you’ve decided not to touch that. 

Your pen taps back against the page. “Presentation is half the argument in court. That’s my theory, anyway.”

“Mm,” he hums, not disagreeing.

He pushes off the counter then, glancing up at the board. The moment shifts, but not completely—something of it lingers, low and steady.

“Alright,” he says. “I gotta make sure none of my residents are killing anyone.”

You nod, already back in your notes, but there’s a faint smile still there. “Have fun.”

He’s already halfway across the floor, but you catch the quiet chuckle he doesn’t bother hiding. And, annoyingly, you feel it linger longer than it should.

Every once and a while he throws a flirt like that out and you can’t tell if he’s just teasing you or being earnest. You think he just likes making you nervous, and it works. 

It doesn’t help.

He leaves himself exits—always does—but he never seems in a rush to take them. And there’s something about the way he watches you after, like he’s waiting. Curious, maybe. Measuring.

He likes when you throw something back. Likes when you don’t and you flush under his gaze. A cadence builds out of it. Not in the obvious moments, but in the quieter ones.

The way your day keeps ending in his car, like it’s not even a decision anymore. Like of course he’d drive you home. Like of course you’d let him. You always do.

It gets easy enough that he starts asking questions like—

“You prefer mint or pine?”

You look up from the nurses’ station, watching him click through charts.

“…Pine,” you say. “Mint makes my nose itch. Why?”

“Got a…. This is gonna sound stupid now that I say it out loud — I got a new car scent, thingy,” he sighs. “And I couldn’t decide which one. Didn’t want you to… I don’t know, not like the smell of my car or something.”

“Your car smells fine.” You shrug, fixing your notes, pen ink dying slowly as you adjust. “Smells like a guy’s car.”

“...Right.” He murmurs, now uncaring for his charts. “In- Is that a good thing?”

You don’t answer, humming to yourself as you make the note look pretty.

He knew your coffee order without asking. Remembered it. Adjusted it when it got colder—less ice, a different milk, something warmer pressed into your hands before you even realised you wanted it.

You weren’t supposed to have favourites.

Not in your line of work. Not in his, either. You’re trained out of it—trained to flatten instinct into objectivity, to treat every person, every problem, with the same measured distance.

And you were good at that. You still are.

You got along with everyone—that was part of it. Being friendly with the physicians and staff to better represent them. And there were some of the obvious examples.

Santos with her relentless nicknames and worse bedside manner, who liked you in a way she’d never admit outright. 

Parker, easy and sharp, sending you song recommendations mid-shift like it was as essential as charting. 

Shen, who trusted you enough to accept whatever experimental caffeine disaster you handed him.

“...You got him a what?” Jack had said, staring at the drink like it might bite.

“It’s called a Dark Vader,” you’d said, completely serious. “Three shots of espresso, cola, condensed milk, whipped cream. Iced.”

Across the floor, Shen moved like a man possessed—fast, erratic, unstoppable.

“The guy’s basically taken twenty lines of coke.” Jack clearly held back a smile, entertained, and nodded. “This is gonna be fun.”

You’d watched Shen nearly clip a trolley at speed, wincing slightly.

Robby, dry and cutting and occasionally kinder than he let himself be. 

Mel, still a little wary of you in that specific way people are when they’ve been burned by lawyers before. 

Langdon, steady. 

The nurses—Lena on nights, Dana on days, Princess and Perlah whispering in Tagalog over charts, Donnie trying to juggle competence with new fatherhood, Jesse, Emma—all of them.

You fit in.

More than that—you were trusted. They came to you before things escalated. You knew how they worked, how they thought, how to protect them without suffocating them in policy. You weren’t just the lawyer they called when something went wrong—you were already there.

That mattered. It meant you couldn’t afford favourites. 

And you didn’t, really. You liked them all. In different ways. For different reasons, professional and personal. Lawyers had to keep their wits and stay objective.

But you let it slip here.

Not because of the flirting.

Not because of the rides home, or the coffees that appeared beside your things without announcement.

Not even because of the way he looked at you sometimes—like he was mid-calculation and didn’t like where it landed.

It was the pens.

“No fucking way—”

It bursts out of you before you can stop it, loud and bright and completely out of place at the nurses’ station. Heads turn. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.

“Sorry—sorry,” you rush, already laughing under your breath as you look back down.

Because—Jesus.

“Jack,” you lower your voice, but not your awe, “Oh my god, I wanted these so bad.”

They sit in your hands like something ceremonial. Weighty. Intentional. A matched pair—Montegrappa and Visconti—lacquered in soft pinks and florals that catch the fluorescent light in quiet, expensive ways. Not loud, not tacky—delicate. 

Accents that mirror the rings you wear, the little details you build yourself out of every morning. The kind of pens you don’t just use—you research and choose.

You turn one between your fingers, thumb brushing over the barrel, feeling the balance of it, the way it settles. You remember the video you watched—how smoothly it glided, how the nib flexed just slightly under pressure, how the ink laid down like silk.

“They’re—” you exhale, shaking your head a little. “The grip on these is insane, the 23k nib—Jack, these are—this is ridiculous.”

Across from you, he’s watching. Not the pens. You. There’s something quieter in his expression than usual—something almost careful, like he’s braced for you to laugh it off, to not get it. But you’re you. Of course you get it. His shoulders ease, just a fraction.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t deliberate. “I know. You had that… wishlist thing open last week. On your iPad.” A small shrug. “And you talked about them the whole drive back.”

You blink up at him.

He shrugs. “You also said your current ones were running dry. Figured it was time. No problem.”

Time. Like this is practical. Necessary. Like he didn’t just buy you something you absolutely did not need but wanted in that specific way that feels almost worse. 

You look back down at them, turning one in your hand again, slower now. The metal catches the light, soft and warm. You didn’t even know they made them in pink.

“I—these are…” you trail, then laugh a little, breathless. “God, I feel bad. I didn’t get you anything.”

That earns you a look. Not annoyed. Not exactly. Just firm. Maybe offended if you didn’t know he was also fond of you, and these pens were evidence of that.

“When have I ever asked for anything in return, sweetheart?”

It lands easy, like it always does. Casual. Practiced.

You swallow, nodding once, softer now. “Thank you. Really.”

Something shifts in his face at that. Small. Satisfied, maybe. Like that was the part he wanted. He nods it off, leaning back against the counter, slipping back into something looser.

“Well,” he adds, glancing at the pens in your hand, “you know, someone’s gotta make sure the hospital lawyer isn’t signing off on contracts with a dying Bic.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “God forbid. Liability nightmare.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a beat where neither of you move. You’re still holding them. He’s still looking at you.

Then—

“Trauma incoming!”

Everything snaps back into place. Noise, movement, urgency flooding in like it never left. Jack straightens instantly, already turning—then pauses mid-step, hand coming up to his chest.

You’re already reaching for it. His stethoscope sits abandoned beside your notebook, exactly where he left it. You pick it up, step forward, and hold it out.

He takes it from you—fingers brushing yours, brief and warm and grounding in a way that feels disproportionate to what it is.

“'m glad you like ‘em,” he says, already moving.

But he lingers just long enough to glance down—at the pens still in your hand, at the way you’re still half-smiling to yourself.

Something unreadable passes over his face. Gone just as quickly.

Then he’s turning, stepping into the chaos, voice shifting into something sharper, more commanding as he calls out orders.

And just like that, he’s back where he belongs.

You stand there a second longer, the noise rising around you, the weight of the pens still settling in your hands. Careful, you think, turning one once more between your fingers.

★★★

Half the ER is here—sprawled across mismatched tables shoved together like an afterthought, drinks sweating through thin napkins, voices stacking over each other until it’s just noise. 

Someone’s already laughing too loud at something that wasn’t that funny to begin with. It’s messy, loud, alive in a way the hospital never quite lets itself be.

It’s your first time out with them like this, and they’re… exactly what you’d expect. Tight-knit, loud, a little unhinged. Easier, somehow, without the constant hum of consequence in the background.

You hold onto your messenger bag tight, nonetheless, hoping whatever leftover nerves and pent up frustration from your day in court has run its course.

Your feet ache, somewhat unusual considering how often you find yourself wearing heels, but a full day of court in stilettos has it pinching at your toes in a way that only court does to you. You ignore it. You need to just… relax. People. Drinks. Whatever Santos said.

You make your rounds—names you know, faces you’ve seen across desks and hallways, now loosened by alcohol and time off. It’s… nice. Strange, but nice.

“No pink?” McKay chuckles as she’s sipping a mocktail, Javadi awkwardly by her side with a sprite.

You sigh. God, does everybody just… notice that you like pink? “Nope.”

“You know, if you ever wanted to try medicine, peades has some cute pink scrubs,” McKay tells.

“Noted. How are you finding the updated contract?” You check. “Gloria was up my ass about it.”

“Fuck Gloria,” She scoffs. “Respectfully, of course. The contract's great. Finally get a few days to Harrison or…. Literally anything else. Considering a spa day.”

“It’s well deserved.” You shrug, fidgety. “I’ll send you a link to my favourite spa place in the city. I worked with the firm that represented them, they send me great discounts.”

McKay scoffs a laugh at that, blowing out air and nodding. “That would… be amazing, thanks. Get a drink, relax.”

You smile at her. You wander the bar.

You drift toward the bar, weaving past bodies and noise until it thins just enough to breathe. Mel’s there—perched neatly on a stool, posture a little too precise for a place like this, ginger ale in hand like it’s been deliberately chosen.

“Hi, Mel,” you say, sliding in beside her. “I really like your shirt.”

She glances down at it, like she has to confirm what she’s wearing. A faded Donnie Darko print, soft with age.

“Thank you, Counselor,” she says, a small nod. Then, after a beat—“You know, you’ve helped with my fear of lawyers.”

You blink, a little thrown. “Oh. That’s good. Your deposition didn’t exactly sell us well, I’m guessing.”

“Not at all,” Mel says, matter-of-fact. “You can be very cruel.”

A pause. She registers it, just a fraction late.

“Not you,” she adds, correcting cleanly. “Lawyers. Structurally.”

You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your elbow against the bar. “Yeah. No, that tracks. Sorry you had to deal with the worst version of it.”

She shrugs—acceptance, not dismissal. Then her eyes settle on you properly, scanning once, quick but thorough.

“…No pink?”

You click your tongue, getting a little irritated. Not at Mel, never at Mel, but god, you did wear other colours. Right? “Nope, no pink tonight.”

Mel nods, processing that like new information being filed. “You’re usually quite pink.”

“I am,” you admit. “This is… a deviation. I don’t just wear pink, by the way. I love… red.”

Another small nod. Filed away. “...That’s like… a variation of pink, but yes. Sure.” 

The bartender’s a few seats down, mid-conversation with Santos—who’s leaning in, smiling in a way that makes the outcome obvious. You watch as a napkin gets turned, a pen appears.

Mel follows your line of sight, equally observant, if less invested.

“They’re flirting,” she says.

“Mm,” you hum. “She’s winning, too.”

The bartender laughs at something Santos says, already writing something down.

Mel takes a sip of her drink. “Efficient.”

You snort softly. “I’m gonna give it a minute before I try my luck for a drink. Feels like I’d be interrupting a… negotiation.”

Mel considers that. “Yes. That would be disruptive.”

You glance at her, amused. “You okay here?”

“Yes,” she says simply. Then, after a second—“I like observing.”

“That checks out,” you smile. “See you around.”

She nods once, already half-turned back to the room.

You leave her there, steady in the noise, as you slip back into it.

Jack’s at the dartboard when you find him—Robby beside him, both mid-game. He doesn’t notice you at first. Focused. Brows drawn, shoulders set, that same quiet precision he brings to everything.

The dart hits a good few inches off bullseye.

He exhales through his nose—low, annoyed.

Robby claps once. Smug. “Tragic.”

You slide in at the edge of the high-top, nudging aside a couple of their empty bottles with your wrist, settling there like you’ve always been part of it. Jack takes a sip of his beer, still studying the board like it personally offended him.

Then—without looking fully at you—

“Where’s your pink?” Jack says, like that’s the only detail that matters.

“I don’t exclusively wear pink,” you continue, a little more worked up than you meant to be. It’s been all day—comments in corridors, in court, even Charles of all people raising a brow like you’d shown up in costume. “I wear other colours. I have range. I wore yellow once. People loved it.”

“Once,” he repeats, lining up another shot.

“I wear blue,” you add. “Red. White. Off-white, even. Polka dots—multi-tonal, technically.”

“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, shooting you a knowing look, “you’re Pinkie Pie.”

You close your eyes. The nicknames have reached him. You want to dump ice over your head. “Not you too.”

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth—gone before it fully forms. He throws again.

Better. Much closer. Close enough that Robby lets out an annoyed huff and rolls his eyes like he’s been personally wronged by the improvement.

“You do wear a lot of pink,” Jack adds, almost as an afterthought, already reaching for another dart.

You open your eyes, fixing him with a look. “So do toddlers. Doesn’t make it a defining personality trait.”

“Hm.”

He adjusts his stance—subtle, practiced. Weight shifting cleanly, compensating without thinking. His right leg plants steady, the movement so natural it only really registers if you’re looking for it—balanced, controlled, deliberate.

He throws again.

Closer still. Not quite there.

Robby scoffs. “Getting warmer, grandpa.”

Jack ignores him completely. His gaze flicks to you instead, quick, assessing—like he’s recalibrating something that has nothing to do with darts.

“Funeral?” he asks, nodding at your outfit.

You glance down at the black. Smooth it once over your thigh. “Court.”

“I can feel the joy from here.”

You glance at him. “Have you ever argued in front of a judge who already hates you?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Every day, sweetheart. Different setting.”

You huff a laugh.

Robby steps up, takes his shot—misses by a fraction and swears under his breath. “I blame the beer.”

“Sure you do,” Jack mutters, already holding out a dart toward you without looking. “You wanna play?”

You take one look at the board, then back at him. “No. I have the coordination of a drunk deer.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

Robby snorts.

And Jack—finally—looks at you properly. Not just the outfit, not just the absence of pink. You. Tired edges, sharp mouth, still buzzing from a day that clearly didn’t go your way.

A minute later, Robby excuses himself—something about another round—leaving without making a thing of it. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly when to disappear.

You and Jack don’t acknowledge it.

“You alright there?” he asks after a second. Quieter now.

You glance down at yourself, smoothing your dress. “Mhm. You?”

He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, clinical scan he gives everyone. Not distracted. This is slower. Intentional. It lingers. “I'm doing a lot better now,” he says.

Your brow lifts, curious. “That so?”

“Mm.”

“You wanna elaborate, or—”

There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. “Haven’t had enough beers.”

“Right,” you hum.

You glance toward the bar—Robby taking his time, very deliberately not looking over, then immediately looking over when he thinks you won’t notice.

“He left,” you point out.

“He did,” Jack says, following your gaze, then back to you. “Very convenient timing.”

“You think he did that on purpose?”

“Definitely. Guy’s got a sixth sense for when to disappear.”

“Good for him.”

“Bad for me,” Jack mutters.

You catch it. “Oh?”

He takes a sip of his beer—finally—like he needs something to do with his hands. “Means I’m stuck making conversation.”

“You’re doing alright so far.”

“Yeah?” he glances at you. “Thought I was bombing.”

“Mm. Strong start. Called me a children’s cartoon character within thirty seconds.”

He nods. “Some would say Little Pony is a universal cartoon.”

“It’s My Little Pony,” you correct.

“Alright, no one’s taking it from you—”

“No, it’s— that’s the cartoon. It’s called My Little Pony. I watched it as a kid,” you insist, smiling despite yourself. “Generational difference. What’d you watch?”

“Other than the gold rush?” he shoots back. “Scooby Doo.”

You nod, amused. “Great show.”

He throws, stance even and steady.

Dead centre.

A sharp, satisfied clap—more to himself than anything—before he looks back at you.

“Nice hit,” you admit.

“First bullseye all night,” he says, then, like it’s an afterthought—“Why don’t you like court?”

You glance at him.

“Isn’t that kind of the cool part of being a lawyer,” he goes on, casual but not careless. “Chatting up a judge, all the stops.”

You glance at him, exhaling. “I don’t mind court,” you say, after a beat. “I just… don’t love what it means.”

He doesn’t look away from the board. “Go ahead.”

You fold your arms loosely. “It’s like—” you hesitate, searching, then find it in his language instead of yours. “You’ve been nursing a patient all night. Stabilising them. Watching vitals, adjusting, talking to them, keeping things from escalating. Maybe a few dips, but nothing you can’t manage.”

He stills, just slightly.

“You’re not trying to send them to surgery,” you continue. “You only do that if you absolutely have to. If everything else fails.”

A small nod from him. Go on.

“That’s law,” you say. “Or… good law. You negotiate, mediate, settle. You keep things controlled. Court is—” you huff a quiet breath, “—something’s already gone wrong. It’s last resort. It’s expensive and takes up peoples time.”

He considers that.

“Well,” he says, finally. “Fair enough.”

You glance at him. “Thank you.”

“But,” he adds, picking up another dart, “that doesn’t explain why you look like you want to set yourself on fire.”

You laugh under your breath, a little helpless. “Because—” you gesture vaguely at yourself—“the AC was broken. I wore stilettos like an idiot. I couldn’t even wear my favourite colour because I was trying to be taken seriously.”

He glances at your heels, then back up.

“And,” you add, more annoyed now that you’ve started, words picking up pace, “I broke one of the gorgeous pens you got me—like an idiot—I dropped it mid-submission, and it hit the edge of the lectern nib-first. Fully snapped it. Just—” you make a small, defeated gesture with your hand, “—gone. In front of everyone.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “So I had to use one of Jane’s shitty office pens that kept cutting out every three words, like it had a personal vendetta against me. I’m trying to make a coherent argument and it’s just—stop, start, stop—like I’m glitching in real time.”

A breath, then you push on, because now it’s all coming out.

“And the client wouldn’t shut up,” you add, incredulous. “Like she just kept going—interrupting, adding things, contradicting herself—just constant commentary. I swear, people talk so much when it is the worst possible time to talk.”

He throws.

Bullseye. Again.

You scoff, genuinely impressed now. “Okay—what the hell.”

He glances at you, a little smug. “Sweetheart, I think you’re my good luck charm.”

You shake your head, overwhelmed, tired. “I doubt that.”

Then he sets the dart down. Finishes his beer. Decides something, a glint of realisation and mischief. “You broke one of the pens?”

“It was an accident! Stop, I've had such a…” You begin.

Then he steps toward you, it’s close enough that it cuts through the noise in your head. You go quiet without meaning to. He doesn’t crowd you—just enough that you feel him there. Solid. Grounding. His brows raise up at you, a small smile twitching at the edge of his lips.

“Relax,” he says, softer. “Messing with you, kid.”

Your breath catches a little, the proximity doing something unhelpful to your pulse.

“Y’had a long day,” he adds, gentler now, brows lifting slightly as he looks down at you. “Get something to drink. Then I’ll teach you darts.”

There’s a beat where you just look at him. At the steadiness of him. The ease.

The way the day starts to loosen, just slightly.

You press your teeth briefly into your bottom lip, trying to collect yourself. “...Sounds good.”

“Doesn’t it?” he says, already stepping back, like he didn’t just shift the entire axis of your evening. 

You exhale, finally. 

You needed the night out more than you realised.

It settles into you slowly—the noise first, then the warmth, then the way your shoulders finally start to drop from somewhere near your ears. No one’s watching you the way they do in court. No one’s waiting for you to slip. Here, everything’s louder, messier, allowed to be.

You end up orbiting the dartboard with Jack and Robby, the two of them taking turns trying—badly—to teach you.

“Stop throwing it like that,” Robby tries. “You’re not lobbing a grenade.”

“I don’t know how to throw a grenade,” you shoot back.

“I can tell.”

Jack huffs something like a laugh beside you. “Ignore him.”

You throw. It barely makes it halfway.

There’s a pause.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters.

“I told you,” you say, turning to him with a helpless little lift of your hands. “Drunk deer.”

“I’ve seen better coordination from elderly, blind patients,” he says, already stepping in.

This time, he doesn’t talk you through it from a distance. He closes the space—one hand around your wrist, adjusting your grip, the other settling lightly at your elbow.

“Two fingers on the barrel. Not the tip—you’re choking it. Light grip.”

His hand closes around your fingers, adjusting them, precise. His other hand taps your elbow up slightly.

“Elbow stays up. You’re dropping it. And don’t throw—just extend. Straight line.”

It’s unfair, really—decades of muscle memory, steady hands from years in surgery and chaos. He makes it sound simple.

“Eyes on the triple twenty,” he adds. “Even if you don’t hit it.”

“I’m absolutely not hitting that.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

His fingers linger a second longer than necessary before he lets go. “Try again.”

You do. It hits the board. Not well—but enough.

You grin. “Oh, I’m incredible.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Robby says. “That was luck.”

“Let her have it,” Jack says, already reaching for his own dart—but his eyes flick to you again, quick, assessing, like he’s clocking the way you’re smiling.

It doesn’t stay just the three of you for long.

The game grows.

People drift in. Someone suggests betting—because of course they do—and suddenly there’s a loose ring of doctors and nurses, drinks in hand, money out, rules half-agreed on and immediately ignored.

Parker takes over without asking.

“Alright—ten in,” she says, already collecting. “Closest to bullseye takes the pot. No crying, no technicalities.”

“You’re literally creating technicalities,” McKay mutters, fishing out a twenty.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

You end up on the edge of it, drink in hand, watching the chaos build—Whitaker overthinking every throw, Dana cheering like it’s a contact sport, Santos heckling from the sidelines.

Jack plays like he works — precise, confident and controlled. Robby tapped out when more money started to get involved. Langdon makes it decently far.

Parker? Unfairly good.

The final round tightens—Jack, Parker, Shen, who is visibly riding whatever unholy mix of caffeine and tequila he’s been subjected to.

There’s a loose semicircle now. People leaning in. Money already spent in their heads.

Shen steps up first, wobbling just slightly as he toes the line.

“Don’t rush it,” someone calls.

“Don’t listen to them,” someone else adds.

He throws.

It lands in the inner single—respectable, a few inches off the bull. The crowd gives him a half-cheer, half-pity clap.

Jack steps up next. The noise dips—not fully quiet, but it shifts. People expect something from him.

He plants his stance. One foot just behind the other, balanced. Rolls his shoulder once. Dart held clean between his fingers.

You watch his breathing even out. He squints slightly—

“Wait.”

Immediate groans. Booing.

“Come on, man—”

“Don’t be that guy—”

He ignores all of it, already turning his head, scanning until he finds you.

You’re half-hidden behind Santos, drink in hand, amused.

He points. Crooks his finger.

“You—c’mere. Need you here. C’mon.”

“Absolutely not,” Dana cuts in. “No coaching.”

“As if,” Jack mutters. Then, louder—“She’s my lucky charm. Get over here, Pinkie.”

There’s a ripple of chuckles as you step forward, shaking your head, slipping through the crowd.

“What am I doing?” you ask, stopping beside him.

He leans in just slightly—close enough that no one else catches it.

“You stand there,” he says, low, casual, “and you look pretty like you always do, think you can do that for me?”

You nod, because you don’t trust your voice for a second, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the vodka. He chews slightly at his inner cheek, before clearing his throat. Maybe he doesn’t trust his voice either.

You take your place beside him.

You can feel the attention shift again, curious—not to the board, but to the two of you, the shape of it. He resets. Shoulders looser now. Grip easier.

Throws.

The dart lands just kissing the edge of the inner bull—half in, half out, riding the red wire. It's the best hit yet.

A sharp inhale from the crowd—then clapping, louder this time. A few impressed whistles.

“Fuck off,” someone mutters.

“Lucky,” Robby adds, but there’s a grin there.

Jack exhales through his nose, a flicker of irritation anyway—because it’s not clean. He glances at the board like it personally disappointed him.

Parker steps up last.

Jack’s hand finds your arm without thinking—light at first, then firmer as he shifts you both back, guiding you out of her line. It’s absent-minded, almost automatic, but he doesn’t drop it immediately.

You end up with your back near the edge of a booth, him just in front of you, close enough that you feel the heat of him through the space.

Neither of you comment on it.

Parker doesn’t take long.

No theatrics. No reset.

She barely lines it up—just a quick sight, a small adjustment of her stance—

Throws.

Bullseye.

Clean. Dead centre.

There’s a beat—like the room needs a second to register it—

Then chaos.

“Pay up, bitches!” she grins, already downing a shot as a chorus of groans follows.

McKay digs into her wallet like she’s being personally victimised. “This is financial abuse.”

“You agreed to the terms,” Parker shoots back.

“Under duress!”

Jack hands over a hundred like it offends him on principle.

“Extortion,” he mutters.

“Voluntary participation,” Parker corrects.

“Actually,” Donnie cuts in, pointing vaguely in your direction, “we have legal counsel present. Can she weigh in?”

There’s a shift—heads turning, attention snapping to you with sudden, collective interest.

You blink once. “Oh, no—don’t drag me into this.”

“Too late,” Santos calls. “Lotso, is this legal or not?”

You take a slow sip of your drink, considering them over the rim. “Okay, well, I mean— You’ve all entered into an informal wagering agreement with clear terms and voluntary participation—so yes, it’s enforceable in the sense that none of you can suddenly decide you don’t want to pay.”

A few groans.

“But,” you add, lifting a finger, “depending on jurisdiction, private betting like this could fall into a grey area if someone really wanted to push it. So maybe don’t document it and submit it to administration... Just to entertain the actual legality of it.”

“That feels targeted,” Parker says.

“You’re holding the cash,” you point out.

“Hypothetically,” Shen jumps in, still wired, “if I refuse to pay—”

“Then you’re an asshole,” you cut in lightly. “And also potentially in breach of a verbal contract.”

“Jesus,” McKay mutters. “Remind me to never bet against you.”

“Smart,” you nod.

They break apart into smaller clusters—arguments over scores, money changing hands, Parker being insufferable about it. The noise swells again, but it no longer feels like it’s pressing in on you.

You stay where you are.

Jack doesn’t move either.

You’re both half-leaning against the edge of the table, shoulders almost brushing, angled toward the room but not really part of it anymore. There’s a pocket of quiet between you that doesn’t belong to anyone else.

You feel his warmth before you properly look at him.

When you do, it’s quick—meant to be quick—but it lingers anyway.

White t-shirt, sleeves worn just enough to show where the sun’s caught him unevenly—faint tan line cutting across the top of his bicep. His arms are braced against the table behind him, weight settled back, forearms flexing slightly as his hands hook under the edge. There’s a network of veins there you hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe you had and just hadn’t let yourself look.

Freckles, too—scattered across his skin, inconsistent, easy to miss unless you’re close enough.

You are.

The bar lighting softens everything—warmer, less clinical than the hospital, less sharp. It makes him look… different. Not smaller, not softer, exactly—just more real. Less like someone constantly in motion, constantly needed.

Just a man, standing beside you, breathing easy for once.

“Good to know we’ve got legal oversight for our gambling ring,” he says quietly, not looking at you yet.

You drag your gaze back up, like you weren’t just cataloguing details you shouldn’t be noticing.

“Happy to provide my services,” you murmur, lifting your drink. “My rates are very reasonable.”

“Yeah?” He turns his head then, properly, eyes settling on you. There’s something slower in it now. Less distracted. “What do you charge?”

You tilt your head, considering. “Depends. What’re you offering?”

A flicker—quick, sharp.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it. You watch him hold back, the thoughts going through his mind, one by one before he settles. “How about anything you want?”

You click your tongue. You pretend to think, unable to hide the dumb smile that spreads across your cheeks. “I guess that’ll work.”

“Yeah? It’ll work? Tolerable offer?” He wonders, sarcastic and teasing as ever.

“Yeah, tolerable. We can work with that.” You nod.

A beat lingers there—long enough to feel it.

Then Parker shouts something about a rematch, the group pulling back into noise and movement again.

Jack doesn’t move away.

You don’t move away when your shoulder brushes his again. He doesn’t move when your knee knocks lightly into his as you shift your weight.

★★★

Over the next few hours, the bar stretches and softens around the edges—music louder, laughter easier, conversations blurring into one another. At some point, it gets too much in the way good things do. Too many bodies, too much heat, the kind of noise that sits behind your eyes.

You slip out the back without making a thing of it.

The alley is quieter. Cooler. The door thuds shut behind you, muffling everything into a distant, dull thrum. A single overhead light flickers, casting everything in that washed-out yellow that makes the world feel briefly paused.

You lean back against the brick, cigarette between your fingers, phone lighting your face as you scroll without really reading anything.

It’s quiet enough that you hear him before he speaks—footsteps, slower, heavier, familiar.

“You know, those are bad for you.”

You glance up.

Robby stands a few feet away, like he’s not entirely sure how he ended up out here either. There’s a faint crease between his brows, not judgment exactly—more curiosity, maybe a touch of something softer than he’d ever admit.

You smile, flicking your screen off, the glow disappearing. “They give you all doctors the same script, then?”

“Yeah,” he says, easy, stepping in to lean against the opposite wall. “We had a meeting about it.”

A beat settles. Easier than inside. Less performative.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary—not in the way Jack does, not sharp or searching. Robby’s gaze is rougher around the edges, like he’s piecing things together without fully committing to the picture.

“You having a good time?” he asks.

You nod, exhaling smoke slow into the cool air. “Yeah. I needed it after today.”

“Tough one?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Client from hell. AC broken. Judge in a mood. I wore heels like an idiot. Pen broke. Whole thing felt like a setup.”

“Mm,” he grunts. “Sounds about right.”

You glance at him. “You?”

“Good,” he says, like it’s enough. Then, with a small, crooked smile—“Didn’t lose a hundred bucks to Parker, so that’s a win.”

You smile back, softer. “Who would you have betted on?”

He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back briefly against the brick. “Well. I wanna say Jack. Loyalty, solidarity, all that shit—”

“—Parker,” you both say at the same time.

A shared nod. Easy.

You tap ash to the ground, something quieter settling in.

He studies you again—more openly this time. Takes in the cigarette, the dress, the fact that you’re out here at all.

“You don’t strike me as a smoker,” he says.

“I’m not,” you admit. “Not really. Just… sometimes.”

“Bad days,” he guesses.

You glance at him, a little surprised. “That obvious?”

“Mm.” He shifts his weight, folding his arms. 

You look away for a second, out toward the dim alley mouth. Silence again—but not awkward. Just… shared.

Then, after a beat—

"You're good for him, you know. Jack, I mean." Robby suddenly says, maybe surprising himself a bit as he scratches slightly at his beard.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette. “I don’t—”

“I’ve known him a long time,” Robby cuts in, not unkind. “Long enough to know when something shifts.”

You don’t answer straight away. There isn’t a clean answer to give.

He doesn’t push. Just lets it sit, watching you think.

“But you definitely are lucky to him,” he adds after a beat, lighter now, like he’s taking some of the weight back. “I think. Not that I put much stock in that stuff.”

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You think so?”

“Mm.” He tilts his head. “You should’ve seen him before you walked up to that dartboard.”

You raise a brow. “What—missing?”

“Worse,” Robby says. “Overcorrecting. Thinking too much.” A beat. “Then you show up and suddenly he’s back to muscle memory.”

That earns a real laugh from you.

He smiles at that—brief, but genuine, remembers something.

“Guy’s got a tell,” Robby continues. He gestures vaguely, like he’s mapping it out in the air. “You’ll notice it now. His stance. When he’s tired or pushing too hard, he’ll compensate—puts more weight through the left side, shortens his step. Not dramatic. It's just… there. Years of it.”

You picture it before you realise you are—how Jack stands at the board, at the nurses’ station, in hallways. The subtle shift of weight. The way he settles.

“But when he’s… calmer,” Robby continues, “not in his own head so much—he evens out. Gait’s cleaner. Less guarding.” A small shrug. “Closer to neutral. Thinks he’s subtle.” A beat. “He’s not.”

You look down at your cigarette, then back up. “And you are?”

Robby huffs. “God, no.”

Another quiet stretch passes.

The door behind you opens—light spilling out for a second, laughter cutting through before it shuts again.

Robby pushes off the wall first, rolling his shoulders like he’s resetting himself.

“You coming back in?” he asks.

“In a minute,” you say.

He nods once, already moving toward the door. Then he’s gone—door swinging shut behind him, noise swallowing him back up.

You’re left in the quiet again, cigarette burning low between your fingers, his words settling somewhere you don’t quite want to look at too closely.

From inside, you can hear Jack’s laugh—low, familiar, cutting through the rest of it.

You don’t stub the cigarette out right away.

★★★

The night winds down in pieces.

People peel off in twos and threes—Dana half-carrying an overly enthusiastic intern, Parker victorious and loud, counting crumpled notes like she’s just robbed a bank, Shen still vibrating faintly from whatever chemical warfare he put in his system earlier.

There are hugs, sloppy goodbyes, promises to never drink again that nobody means. It softens, slowly, into something quieter. Smaller.

By the time you step out onto the street, the air feels cooler than it should.

Santos and Whitaker stumble out just behind you.

“Do not tell me you two are driving,” Santos says immediately, pointing between you and Jack like she’s personally offended by the concept.

“What?” Jack deadpans. “I see double. Means I can drive twice as good.”

You snort.

“Course not,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Gonna grab her a cab.”

“You could share with ours,” Whitaker offers, already swaying a little, like the suggestion might stabilise him. “Cheaper.”

Jack shakes his head, easy. “Don’t really have to worry about that.”

Whitaker nods like that tracks, like he’s suddenly remembering his own bank account.

“Whatever, we get it, moneybags,” Santos sighs, looping her arm through Whitaker’s. “Come on, Huckleberry. We’ll take one of the poor taxis.” She throws you a grin. “Night, Pinkie.”

They disappear down the street in a mess of laughter.

And then it’s just you and him.

The quiet lands differently now—no buffer of people, no noise to hide behind. Just the two of you under a streetlight that flickers every few seconds like it can’t quite decide if it wants to stay on.

Jack rolls his neck, working out the last of the tension, then glances down at you. “Uber should be here soon.”

You nod, slower this time, the alcohol softening the edges of everything. “Thank you.” A small pause. "'m sorry I wasn't so lucky for your gambling ring."

He shakes his head, quieter than you expect. No quip, no easy deflection. “You’re still lucky.”

You huff, looking down at the pavement, scuffing the toe of your heel against it. “I don’t feel that way. Not most of the time.” A beat. “Today really… set that in stone.”

He watches you for a second—properly this time, not the quick glances he usually allows himself. There’s something steadier in it, less amused, more… considering.

“Bad days don’t get to rewrite the whole thing,” he says.

You let out a small laugh. “That sounds like something you tell patients. Or your residents.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Because it’s true.”

You glance up at him. “You believe that all the time?”

“No,” he says, easy. “But I say it anyway. Sometimes you catch up to it.”

It lands. You don’t brush it off. A car passes, headlights briefly washing over the two of you before the street settles back into that dim, flickering quiet.

You fold your arms loosely, tilting your head. “So what, I’m... I'm lucky because I exist? That’s your medical opinion?”

He huffs a quiet breath, something like a smile pulling at it. “No.” A beat, like he’s choosing the words instead of defaulting to something easy. “You’re lucky because you give a shit. And you’re… tough about it. You don’t fold—you adjust. Get smarter. Compromise.”

You blink at him, a little thrown. “I think that’s just stubbornness.”

“Same difference.”

“Not really.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. Then, softer—“You showed up tonight anyway.”

You shrug, but it doesn’t quite land casual. “I needed a drink.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “And you came to us.” A small pause. “To me, some might say.”

There’s something in the way he says it—dry, almost throwaway, but it sits heavier than that.

You glance at him, a crooked little smile pulling at your mouth. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Too late,” he says, dry. “Already built a whole narrative.”

The quiet settles again, but it’s different now—closer. You can feel the heat of him beside you despite the cold, the way you’re both standing just a little inside each other’s space without acknowledging it.

He shifts, weight evening out, one hand dropping from his hip. His gaze drifts—slow, not subtle anymore. Your dress, your tights, the slight tear near your thigh, the way you keep tugging it down without realising.

“You might not... feel lucky,” he says, circling back, quieter. “But you are.”

You meet his eyes. “Because I’m your good luck charm?”

“Partly,” he admits. “Selfishly.”

You raise a brow. “Honest.”

“Sometimes.”

“Better.”

That small smile again—real this time, sitting easier on him.

A car turns the corner, headlights slower now—your Uber—but neither of you moves yet.

“You ever think,” you start, then hesitate, the alcohol making you just honest enough to say it anyway, “that maybe I just like being around you guys because it’s… easier?”

He watches you. Doesn’t interrupt.

“Like,” you go on, quieter, eyes dropping for a second, “at work it’s all liability and contracts and people who’ve been screwed over trying to screw the system back. Everyone’s defensive. Or waiting for you to mess up so they can use it.”

You glance back up at him.

“With you— with all of you,” you correct, but it lands a little pointed anyway, “it feels… normal. Human. No one’s talking down to me. No one’s waiting for me to trip.” A small breath. “You trust me. That’s—” you shrug, softer, “—rare.”

He takes that in properly. You can see it.

“So yeah,” you add, a faint smile returning, “that’s why I bother you all the time.”

“That’s a generous read,” he says.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I do.”

A pause. The engine of the Uber idles somewhere behind you now, unnoticed.

“Goes both ways,” he adds.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

He pauses—long enough that you think he might dodge it. You can see the instinct there, the easy out.

Then he exhales, like he’s too tired to be anything but honest.

“You’re easy to be around,” he says. It lands quieter, but heavier. “Things get lighter when you’re there.”

You don’t look away.

“Even when you’re not,” he adds, glancing off for a second like he’s already annoyed at himself for saying it. “People are… better. I’m better.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “That feels like a lot to pin on one person.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “It is.” A beat. “Doesn’t make it wrong.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around your messenger bag, something in your chest pulling in a way you don’t quite want to name.

“I think you’re romanticising me,” you say, softer now.

“Kid,” he huffs, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I’m old enough to know when something’s actually making my life easier.”

You glance up at him through your lashes. “How so?”

“Quieter in my head. Less… noise.” A small shrug. “Doesn’t happen much.”

That lands somewhere deeper than it should.

The Uber pulls up properly this time, engine idling.

He glances at it, then back at you. “That’s you. I’d come with, but I’m making sure Robby gets back safe. He’s somewhere across the park, last I checked.”

“Okay,” you say—but you don’t move.

You’re standing close enough now that it would be easy to close the gap. Easy to do something about the way he’s looking at you, the way your hand keeps brushing his arm when you shift.

Your lips press to his, warm, a little tentative at first. He stills—caught for half a beat—a hand pulling yours against him by his bicep, and he leans into it, answering you properly. It’s brief, but it’s not nothing. There’s weight in it. Recognition.

You pull back first—quicker than you meant to.

He almost follows. You feel it—the way he leans in a fraction before stopping himself, jaw tightening slightly like he’s reining it in.

“For luck,” you murmur, a little breathless despite yourself, your hand still resting on his forearm. “With Robby. He seems like a confused drunk.”

A corner of his mouth pulls, but his eyes stay on you—darker now, steadier.

“Mm,” he nods, voice rougher than before. His gaze drops briefly to where your fingers rest against his arm—nails brushing the cotton material of his t-shirt, dragging down over his skin. “Could’ve used that a couple hours ago against Parker. I'd be a hundred dollars richer.”

You snicker softly, the tension not quite breaking.

Neither of you moves.

Your hand slides down from his forearm slower this time, not quite ready to let go. You try to ignore how your heart might fall out of its chest, how he watches you with such intensity and curiosity.

“You’ll call me?” you ask, like it’s casual. Like it doesn’t matter.

“Yeah,” he says, immediate. Certain. “I will.”

You nod, like that’s enough. Like you believe him.

He steps forward first this time, opening the door for you, his hand settling at your back—warm, steady, guiding you in. It lingers a second longer than necessary, just enough to make your breath catch again before you sit.

“Get home safe,” he says.

“You too,” you murmur.

You look up at him once more before the door closes—him under the flickering streetlight, a little rumpled, a little tired, still watching you like he’s not quite done with this moment yet.

The door shuts.

And as the car pulls away, you catch him in the side mirror—still standing there, shoulders set, hand flexing once at his side before he drags it back through his silver curls, exhales, and finally turns toward the park.

part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics) here

a/n: guys idk if this is that good im feeling iffy about it. but yk what we can always edit it, come back to it another time. just didnt wanna keep yall waiting any longer

You took his vitals and deflected the usual inappropriate comments and lecherous looks as you always did. He didn’t seem to like that you weren’t your normal, smiling self. He grew more and more agitated, but you didn’t call ‘hula hoop'. You thought you could handle him. That once he got his treatment, he’d calm down some, like all the other visits before.

He tried to get out of bed, and you began to gently redirect him to sit down again. Hands seized your shoulders in an iron grip, and that’s when you realized this wasn’t like the other visits.

Your back hit the wall hard, knocking the wind out of you. The back of your head collided with the drywall, accompanied by a sharp pain and stars behind your eyes. You could barely breathe, let alone shout, but luckily Brian was shouting, and that would catch someone’s attention. Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed incoherently in your face, as you tried with all your might to wrench yourself from his grip, as you gasped like a fish out of water.

At last, your lungs filled with a little bit of air, and you weakly called out, “Hula—“

Brian was ripped away from you by several pairs of hands before you even finished the phrase, and you collapsed to the floor.

He'd been talking to Lena at the front desk, debriefing on the trauma that had just been moved up to ICU, when he heard the noise. Jack's head whipped in the direction of the shouting. Through the glass, he could see a hostile patient, standing up and raving nonsense. 

Then just past the patient’s shoulder, he saw you, pinned to the wall with wide, frightened eyes and a gasping mouth. You, the sweetest nurse in the building, who had a smile for everyone and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Jack began moving before he fully absorbed what he was seeing, before he recognized Brian. All he knew was that you were in harm’s way, which was unacceptable. So he skidded around the edge of the desk, grabbing Diaz by the back of his scrubs and hauling him towards North 6. 

He flew through the doorway and roughly yanked the man away from you, arguably much harder than necessary. The man snarled and shouted profanity as Jack and Diaz wrestled him back to the bed. 

“—stupid fucking whore—“

The patient tried to sit up, and Jack, seeing red, slammed him back down by the shoulder. The patient yelped and writhed beneath his grip. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that someone was trying to to shoulder past him, but Jack stood firm, his jaw clenched as he held the man down.

“Abbot.”

Jack almost didn’t hear the warning past his own pulse roaring in his ears. He turned to see Shen, moving in to take Jack’s place, a stern but understanding look on his face. 

Over his shoulder, Jack saw your crumpled form on the floor, pale and trembling. A few shards of broken plastic surrounded you on the tile, and only when he saw your hair falling wild around your face did he realize what they were — the remains of the clip that you wore your hair in every day, shattered to bits when your head hit the drywall. 

You stared in shock at the scene before you, your eyes still wide like a spooked animal’s.

Jack's eyes snapped back to Shen, and he allowed him to replace him in restraining the patient. “You got him?”

Shen nodded, then jerked his head in your direction. “Get her out of here, and tell security. to get off their asses.”

Jack was at your side in an instant, one hand at your back, the other hand wrapped around yours as he quickly pulled you to your feet and steered you out of the room. “All right. I gotcha,” he murmured. “I gotcha.”

“Lena, tell security to wake up and help out in North 6.” He tried not to shout, but the words still came out rougher than he intended. He felt you flinch slightly beside him and kicked himself internally. “What’s open?”

“South 18. You alright, hon?” Lena had already moved out from behind the desk when the chaos started a few seconds ago, and she laid a gentle hand on your shoulder. You nodded weakly but said nothing.

Lena began to walk with you and Jack towards South 18, but Jack insisted, “I got her. Can you keep this place from falling apart for five minutes for me?”

She nodded, squeezed your shoulder, and pivoted back towards the hub.

Jack ushered you into the room, closed the door behind him, and eased you onto the edge of the bed.

“I’m okay,” you blurted, before he got the chance to say anything. The tremor in your voice and the tension in your shoulders told a different story.

“I know you are,” he replied gently. “I'm just gonna take a look at you. Hospital policy.”

He reached his hand into his pocket for his penlight. “Eyes open for me.” You squinted as he checked your pupillary response, rolled your eyes when he asked, “What's today’s date?”

“Dr. Abbot—"

“Humor me,” he softly urged you, pocketing his penlight again.

You sighed and surrendered. “Thursday, the fifteenth.”

He offered you a smile. “Wasn't so hard, was it?”

As gently as he could, Jack examined the back of your head where it had made contact with the wall, his fingers probing your scalp. You hissed quietly when he pressed near the tender spot.

“Tender here, but no broken skin. You'll probably just have a bump for a few days.” he said thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you. “I wanna get you into CT, just to be sure.”

You started to protest. “I’m fine, I promise—“

“Please,” Jack interrupted you, not allowing you to talk him out of his concern. “For my own peace of mind, if nothing else.”

After a moment’s hesitation, you nodded. “Okay.” 

You peered up at him with those still-frightened doe eyes and took a stuttering breath, your lower lip wobbling ever-so-slightly. Jack's heart nearly cracked at the sight of it. 

“Hey, hey,” he muttered sympathetically, and before he thought better of it, he pulled you into a tight embrace. “C’mere, sweet girl.”

He was sure to regret that particular turn of phrase later. It was too affectionate, a little too revealing. But you were so small and fragile in his arms, and he couldn’t fight his instincts to hold you close, to murmur reassurance into your hair.

“He’s not comin’ near you again,” he vowed, a surge of protectiveness underneath the words. “I promise.”

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his scrubs, your breath hitching with held-back sobs. Jack kept his breathing slow and steady, and soon enough your breathing matched his, evening out to a calmer rhythm. He gave you one last squeeze, breathing in the sweet scent of your shampoo at the crown of your head, and then released you.

Just then, Lena cracked open the door, holding up your water bottle, the one you covered with stickers. Your cheeks flared with embarrassment at having been caught in such an emotional state, and you quickly wiped away the tell-tale tear tracks streaking them. Jack quietly thanked Lena and grabbed the water bottle, passing it to you when you were ready and politely dismissing her. 

“Here, drink.”

You sat down on the edge of the bed once again, taking a few sips obediently. Jack suspected you could use a quiet moment to yourself, so he straightened his spine and prepared himself to return to the circus that likely awaited just beyond the door.

“Sit tight for me, and we’ll get you down to radiology. Can I get you a snack or somethin’?” he offered, his hands slipping into his pockets so they wouldn’t do something foolish like reach for you again. 

You shook your head. “I’m not hungry, but… thank you.”

“Of course. Can't lose my best nurse. You're my backup.”

You didn’t smile. You weren’t quite there yet. But your expression softened a little, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. You’d be all right, he was sure. You were tough underneath all that sweetness, and you wouldn’t let this get you down for long.

Jack gave you the kindest smile he could manage and slipped back out into the hall.

You hated being treated with kid gloves, and there was a lot of that for the next few shifts. Your head CT had come back normal, and without evidence of a concussion, Dr. Abbot let you finish the last few hours of your shift under strict advisement to ‘take it easy’ (which was easier said than done in the Pitt).

But the damage had been done. People had seen you weak, seen you cry. For a week after the incident, every interaction with Pitt staff was marked with well-meaning check-ins and encouragement bordering on the patronizing. You just wanted to forget the whole thing had ever happened, but that was impossible with all the hovering.

The only attention you received that didn’t exhaust or annoy you was Dr. Abbot’s. He'd smile at you from across the bay, but it was friendly, not an expression of pity. He’d ask you how you were doing like he genuinely wanted to hear about your day, not because he was worried you were about to have another breakdown. He cracked jokes and threw winks at you as he worked over patients and instructed residents. 

It wasn’t all that different from his usual attention, just more…dialed-in. It had the same effect on you that it always did — an inexplicable warmth in your chest, a flush to your cheeks, and a slight flutter in your stomach. It was a welcome distraction from the bruises and soreness that were still fading from the altercation.

Three shifts after the incident, you arrived at the Pitt, tossing your bag in a locker and shuffling over to the hub desk. Waiting by the spot where you usually left your water bottle was an unexpected sight — a gift bag, small and in an unassuming color, bearing a tag with your name on it.

On the opposite side, in messy but familiar handwritten script, the tag read:

In case you need a backup.

-J

Flushing slightly, you glanced around you to make sure you didn’t have anyone’s attention before opening the bag. Inside were two small items. The first was a hair clip — not just any hair clip, but the exact one that had lain shattered on the Pitt’s floor almost a week ago, the one you had worn religiously since you started working there. It was just a generic hair clip you had found at the drugstore — not fancy, sturdy enough to keep your hair out of your face and last a couple years. But the fact that he’d gone out of his way to find that exact one made your heart do funny things in your chest.

The second item was a scrunchie, the color matching the fleece you wore most days to stave off the chill of the air con. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself as you slipped the scrunchie around your wrist and began to wind your hair up into a twist, securing it with the clip.

Somehow materializing out of thin air right in front of you on the opposite side of the desk, Bridget gave you a playful side eye as she typed into her tablet. “I know that look. That's an HR issue waiting to happen.”

You feigned nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Discreetly as possible, you slipped the tag off the bag and tried to pocket it. But Diaz, who also apparently obtained teleportation powers, snagged your wrist and managed to pry the tag from your fingers.

“‘’J? Who could that possibly be?” He smirked as you snatched it back, your cheeks on fire.

“Only one person in this building makes her smile like that,” Bridget replied with knowing amusement.

“You know you’re totally his favorite, right?” Diaz whispered conspiratorially. “None of us ever get presents.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut up.”

He snickered as you rounded the desk to glance up at the board, getting the lay of the land as you started your shift. Across the bay, Abbot was doing the same, hands in his pockets, until his eyes drifted to you.

Something twinkled in his eyes when they fell on the scrunchie at your wrist, and a proud smile spread across his face. You smiled back, a little shy but fond all the same, before moving in the direction of your first patient.