evie

You couldn't say you were surprised but that didn't mean getting kicked out on your ass by your fiancée didn't hurt any less. It had been months leading to the eventual break up, months of distance and late nights 'looking over the books'. You should've left him when you first found out the store manager, Anna, was spending most of those late nights at the store with him.

Having Noah dump you had meant you lost your shared apartment, your job at his family clothing store, and whatever dignity you had left after even dating the loser in the first place.

Now you had landed yourself on your best friend's couch and you could tell she was just itching to get rid of you. Parker and you had been friends since she moved to Pittsburgh for her residency, running (literally) into her at the coffee shop next to your old job. You had just grabbed your fresh iced coffee off the counter and when you turned towards the door you ended up dumping your ice cold drink down the front of her scrubs (which you later found out made her late to her first shift.. oops).

Now 3 months into living with Parker you seemed to have made a decent routine. You knew you were bothering her by over staying your welcome as much as she says you're not. Your womanizer of a best friend is getting antsy and you could sense it, the guilt becoming all consuming

You were up making morning coffee when you heard the apartment door creak open and the sound of Parker's shoes dropping on the floor, her bag quick to follow. Her feet stomped around as she tried to quickly slink towards the smell of coffee, coming around the corner looking as dead as ever. Her eyebrows slightly raised at the sight of your feather trimmed robe, but she kept mouth shut used to the extravagant.. wear by now.

"If I never ever have to set foot in that hospital again I think I'd be the happiest person alive," You handed her a cup of decaf, one cream two sugars just how she takes it, and sat down next to her at the kitchen island.

"Well good morning to you too sunshine, way to look on the bright side," Parker just grunted in response before letting her head fall to the counter, the stress visibly leaving her shoulders the more settled in at home. Her eyes peaking up just slightly at you as watched the thoughts pass behind her eyes.

She rolled her shoulders before leaning back up towards you, body still carrying a certain level of tension that made your stomach twist. "Listen.. It's been great having you here," Oh, god. You had a feeling this conversation was coming. "But I really would like my bachelor pad back, nothing against you it's just a little hard to bring girls home and shit when you've got one crashing on your couch,"

"I know, I know. It's not like I'm not trying. Finding a job at 29 with not a lot of experience outside of fashion is a little difficult, especially with no degree." You knew better than anyone how much you were jacking Ellis' style right now. You felt horrible to put her in this position of taking care of you and you knew you could go back to your parents but the idea of facing your parents with another failed relationship was too humiliating to fathom

Every man (and a good portion of friends) left you for being yourself. You knew you were loud and exuberant, you wore flashy outfits casually and fixed your makeup to match every time. You unabashedly spoke in a thick and loud yinzer accent just like your family, and made no move to change it, people loved to tell you how annoying you could sound. But you loved yourself and didn't see a reason to change, and in turn you repeatedly got screwed over by people you thought actually liked you.

"Listen I'm not kicking you out any time soon, you know you're more than welcome to stay for however long you need. But I might have an opportunity to fix everyone's problems," Your mood picked up at the thought of a solution and you nodded at her to continue. "You remember my attending from that staff picnic I brought you to?"

You thought about it for a second before speaking, "The old grumpy one with the kids?" Your face contorted into confusion, not understanding how he would be involved in a solution.

"Yeah that one. He's looking for a new nanny, he's a widow so it's just him at home for the most part, his best friends help as much as possible but he still needs more. I spoke to him about it earlier and it seems like he'd be down for an interview (not really) if you are," The lines on your face got deeper as your confusion grew. Ellis knew what had happened between you two when you first met and she just hoped you would go along with it

"Parker, I'm not a nanny. I've never taken care of kids professionally. It'd be a mess. Plus he was an absolute dick when I met him. I don't think I'd want to work for him," You huffed out in defeat. You knew she was looking out for you but this sounded like a disaster waiting to happen.

"You practically helped raise your sister's kids, you come from a huge family and you’re always the designated babysitter. I've seen you, you'd be fine. If you really don't want to you don't have to but I don't think it'd hurt to at least talk to him. Plus he lives over on Park ave, you know you’ve always wanted one of those brownstones,”

You zoned off thinking for a hot minute. It wouldn't hurt to at least interview, there's no way he would hire you and it would at least shut Parker down from the idea. And if you somehow manage to bag the job you’d live in your dream neighborhood, at least there’d be one good outcome. "Okay fine, give him my number or whatever and I'll see how it goes."

"Sick. Anyways, plans for the weekend, I'm off till Tuesday baby!"

Earlier at PTMC, around 2am

Ellis spent most of her shift avoiding her superior, his mood was potent and he was taking everyone in his path down with him. She knew why he had a stick up his ass but that didn't make his attitude acceptable. He had confided in her when they shared a beer after work not even a week ago about how he was struggling to keep up with his kids.

Dana and Robby helped as much as they could but he struggled to keep a nanny due to his kids being absolute nightmare menaces who scared them away with borderline home alone anarchy. Ellis had immediately thought about her best friend and her current predicament, she had watched her single handedly manage all the children in the family (Which Ellis could never keep track of) and knew she could handle this task.

When she caught Abbot going towards the ambulance bay after Lena called an incoming trauma with a 7 minute ETA she knew this was the perfect time to ambush. Following him out the sliding doors she found him over by the motorcycle parking scrolling through his phone, no doubt checking in on his kids.

“Hey Abbot, I’ve got a quick question for you if you’ve got a moment,” her feet landed beside his as she clocked the dark bags underneath his eyes making him look older than he actually is.

“Of course kid, shoot,” His attention was still on his phone, only half engaged in the budding conversation.

“Any chance you’re still looking for some extra help with the kids?” This finally caught Abbots full attention. “I’ve got this friend, she lost her fiancée, her job and her place to live so she’s been crashing on my couch, figured I’d do us both a favor and pawn her off to you,”

Ellis stayed hopeful as she watched Abbot mull over the offer. “I could have some interest in this, she got any experience?” Oh thank fuck.

“Yeah she’s literally amazing with kids. You met her awhile ago, you know that friend I brought to the picnic? She–“ Abbots face dropped as he remembered what friend Ellis was talking about.

“No. Thank you but absolutely not,” Abbot checked out of the conversation, turning back to his phone to check his missed texts from his oldest, Daisy.

“Oh come on Abbot. You’re desperate, I’m desperate, she’s desperate. Everyone wins in this situation. Plus I know for a fact she’ll actually be able to handle the nightmare you’ve got going on at home.” Ellis was desperate at this point. She needed her place back.

“Parker in the first five minutes of meeting her she flashed my 8 year old, called me geriatric, and convinced my 15 year old to get the adult waiter's number. So no I don’t think she’d be a good fit for my family but thank you for the offer.”

“Oh come on Abbot she’s not the bad you just misunderstood her, just give her a chance,”

“No means no Ellis. If you don’t understand that concept as a medical professional I don’t expect your friend to understand it either,” Abbot threw his head back, finger coming up to dig into his eyes trying to shake the oncoming migraine he can feel brewing “So for the last time I’m not hiring your friend, I would only consider it if I happened to exhaust every other option I had in this city and I’m far from that. End of conversation, trauma is here so get your head in the game.”

Well, technically that was exactly a no. He said if she was his only option… so what if she becomes his only option.

It’s been almost a week since Ellis tried to pawn her best friend off on her attending. And over that last week she had watched Jack become more and more haggard.

She heard from Shen, who heard from McKay, who heard from Javadi, who heard from Whitaker and Santos, who heard from Robby that Jack has gone through 3 nanny’s in 5 days.

The first nanny left in the middle of the night when the kids convinced her their late mom was haunting them with some very very convincing amateur special effects.

The second nanny left when Jack’s 13 year old, Ben, kept putting creepy crawlers, hoppers, and things that slither wherever she happened to be. The final straw being a garter snake in her shoes.

And the final nanny left when the kids started booby trapping the house. Yes. Actual booby traps. From buckets of water above doors and cooking oil on the hallway floors, to saran wrap pulled tight and clear in the doorway. These kids did it all.

So by Wednesday morning the agency Jack has been working with had dropped him as a client, leaving him absolutely clueless on what to do next. Meanwhile Parker had been plotting, she knew this was the perfect time to bring up their previous conversation.

So that night she found the perfect moment during hand overs to corner him. His guard was down so he was weak and vulnerable, this was Ellis' time to strike. She was going to get her apartment back

Leaning up against the nurses station next to him Ellis cleared her throat, his head slowly stretching to look at her. His face was pulled tight and already filled with suspicion. A single eyebrow raised, encouraging the resident to speak up. "I heard your kids are literal demon spawns,"

That seemed to break his facade as his eyes crinkled into a silent laugh. "Yeah you're telling me I'm the one who lives with them. I know it's my fault they're like that too, the Abbots are animals my wife had the good genes." His suspicion began to grow back as he trailed off watching Ellis fidget as he spoke. "Ellis please tell me this conversation isn't going where I think it's going,"

"It totally is dude. You're exhausted, you got dropped from one of the only agencies in town and blocked from care dot com. Just get over your prudish beliefs and give the girl a chance," Just as Abbot went to respond Robby popped around the corner.

"And what are we talking about over here?" Before Jack could get a word out Parker cut in.

"Trying to convince Jack over here to give my bestie a chance to be his nanny," A sly smirk spread across her face as she watched Robby toy with that information, knowing exactly who parker was talking about and decide he liked the idea. Jack watched in horror as his best friend was about to turn against him.

"I like that girl," He nodded fondly and turned to smack a hand over Abbot's shoulder. "Come on brother, give her a shot, you met her the one time she's actually pretty cool," Abbot threw Robby's hand off his shoulder, getting frustrated with the conversation at this point. "You can't keep relying on me, Dana and her family. If it helps I'll interview her with you, weed out her bad qualities,"

"Okay If it gets everyone on my ass then fine, Ellis give me her number." And in that moment Jack knew the damage from this was going to be irreversible. 

He takes a sip of his drink and glances at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

“This is strange,” he says.

“Strange good or strange bad?”

“Strange like we’ve been talking for weeks but I’m only just hearing your voice in person.”

You laugh softly. “It is a little weird bringing the chat into real life.”

“That’s exactly it,” he says. “Feels like we skipped the awkward part.”

“You mean the part where two strangers pretend they’ve always liked the same music?”

“Exactly that.”

You tilt your head. “We did cover a lot of ground already.”

He smiles. “We did.”

There’s a small pause, comfortable enough that neither of you rush to fill it.

“So,” you say, turning slightly toward him, “how were the meetings today?”

He exhales softly, leaning back on the stool.

“Long,” he says. “A lot of people in rooms talking about the album like it’s a strategy.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not terrible,” he says quickly. “Just strange sometimes. You make something extremely personal and suddenly it’s being discussed like a product.”

You nod slowly.

“I think that happens with writing too,” you say. “Just smaller.”

His eyes flick back to you.

“How so?”

You shrug slightly, tracing the rim of your glass.

“I’ll write something about a neighborhood or a person and suddenly people online are arguing about it who have never been anywhere near the place I’m talking about.”

He smiles faintly at that.

“Sounds familiar.”

“Does it bother you?” you ask.

He thinks about it for a second.

“Not always,” he says. “Sometimes it means people care. Sometimes it’s just background noise.”

You nod.

“That’s the exact balance.”

He studies you for a moment, curious in a way that doesn’t feel intrusive.

“You’re exactly how I imagined you’d be,” he says.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “That sounds like a dangerous thought.”

“Why?”

“Expectations.”

He shakes his head.

“Not expectations,” he says. “Just… familiar.”

You glance down at your drink to hide the small smile forming.

The conversation drifts after that. Not shallow, not heavy. Just steady.

You tell him about the bakery that almost closed and the neighborhood that rallied around it. He tells you about the strange quiet of studios late at night when everyone else has gone home.

At one point he leans his elbow against the bar and tilts his head slightly.

“You ask good questions,” he says.

You shrug.

“That’s the job.”

He smiles at that, like he’s realizing something.

“Good thing you asked me out then.”

You blink.

“I did not ask you out.”

“You asked if I had plans.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

And somewhere between that moment and the next sip of your drink, the last of the nerves disappear.

You’re not meeting Harry Styles.

You’re just talking to Harry.

Eventually the night starts to wind down on its own.

Not because the conversation dries up, but because the bar slowly empties around you. The couple in the corner leaves. The bartender begins wiping down the far end of the counter again. The quiet hum of closing time creeps into the room.

You glance at the clock on the wall without meaning to.

He notices.

“Early morning?” he asks.

“Always,” you say. “Deadlines wait for no one.”

He smiles faintly at that, but there’s a small nod that follows.

“Same,” he says. “Flight’s early.”

That swims in the space between you. Not heavy. Just real life.

You both sit there for a moment longer, letting the night settle around the edges of the conversation.

“I’m glad you asked if I had plans,” he says after a second.

You look over at him.

“I’m glad you said yes.”

The simplicity of it makes you smile.

The bartender brings the check without being asked. He reaches for it automatically and you immediately reach too.

“You don’t have to—” you start.

“It’s one drink,” he says lightly.

“You flew across the country.”

“That’s unrelated.”

You hesitate, then let it go with a quiet shake of your head.

Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. The streetlights make everything look softer, quieter than the day version of the same block.

You stand there for a second on the sidewalk, both of you adjusting to the abrupt shift from dim bar to cold night air.

“Well,” you say.

“Well,” he echoes.

It’s not awkward. Just the natural pause of two people deciding what the ending of the night looks like.

Then he steps forward and wraps you in a hug.

It catches you slightly off guard, but you hug him back without thinking.

And for a brief second your brain short circuits.

Wow.

That’s a really good hug.

Warm. Easy. The kind that feels genuine instead of polite.

And he smells… incredible.

Clean, warm, something subtle and expensive that you can’t place but immediately notice.

You pull back before your brain can spiral too far down that path.

“Safe flight tomorrow,” you say.

“Good luck with the deadlines,” he replies.

You both hesitate for half a second like there might be something else to say.

But somehow it already feels complete.

You start walking toward your building, hands tucked into your coat pockets, trying very hard to act normal.

Halfway down the block you realize something.

You’re smiling.

And you can still faintly smell whatever cologne he was wearing clinging to your clothes.

Work drags the next morning.

Not because anything is particularly difficult. Just because your brain refuses to stay where it’s supposed to be.

Wednesday night keeps replaying in small, inconvenient flashes.

The bar. The way the conversation never stalled. That hug.

You sit through a meeting Thursday morning where someone is explaining a zoning amendment and realize halfway through that you haven’t heard a single word. Your editor asks you a question and you answer just slowly enough that she pauses.

“Coffee,” you say.

She nods like that explains everything.

By the afternoon you’re finally settling back into your work when your phone buzzes on your desk.

Raya.

Your stomach flips immediately, which is deeply annoying.

You open it.

Made it.

You blink at the screen.

Gone so soon :(

The typing bubble appears quickly.

Still thinking about our date.

A smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it.

Wow. A date? I thought it was just one drink.

Three dots appear.

Semantics.

You laugh quietly to yourself and lock your phone, setting it face down on your desk before you can keep the conversation going.

The rest of the afternoon slowly finds its rhythm again. Emails. Edits. A deadline that refuses to write itself.

Still, every once in a while, your brain drifts back to Wednesday.

Friday passes in much the same way. Normal enough on the outside, but with your mind wandering back to the same handful of moments.

By evening you’re finally packing up your bag when your phone buzzes again.

Camille.

Girl dinner tonight. My place.

You smile.

What time.

Soon. I made pasta and something I’m calling salad but it’s mostly cheese.

On my way.

You step out into the early evening air and start walking toward her neighborhood, letting the noise of the city swallow up the end of the workweek.

Your mind drifts again, unhelpfully, to Wednesday night.

The way he laughed when you told him about the laundromat cat.

The way he listened when you talked about your job.

The way that hug lingered just a second longer than you expected.

You shake your head slightly as you walk.

It was just one drink.

A very good drink.

But still. Just one.

By the time you reach Camille’s building the sky has already turned that deep blue that only happens at the end of a long day in the city, the kind of evening where the sidewalks are still busy but the rush has softened into something looser, people lingering outside restaurants and talking louder than they probably should. You climb the familiar stairs and let yourself in the way you always do, the faint smell of garlic and something creamy drifting down the hallway before you even reach her door.

When you push it open she’s standing at the stove with her back to you, hair twisted up loosely and one of those oversized sweatshirts she claims is vintage even though you’re fairly certain she bought it last month. A pot is bubbling on the stove and the island is already scattered with bowls and plates in a way that somehow still looks intentional.

“You’re early,” she says without turning around, stirring something with exaggerated focus.

“You texted soon,” you reply, dropping your bag near the couch and shrugging out of your coat.

“That’s my version of time management.”

You walk over and slide onto one of the stools at the island while she finishes whatever final step she’s pretending requires deep concentration. Without even looking she reaches behind her, grabs a wine glass from the counter, pours generously, and slides it across the island toward you.

You accept it gratefully.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says, finally turning around. “You look calm for someone who had a full work week.”

You take a sip before answering, letting the wine settle for a second.

“It was normal.”

“Normal is boring,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter and studying you.

You shrug. “It was busy.”

She starts plating the pasta while you talk, asking about your editor, about the piece you were finishing, about the bakery story that had you rewriting the same paragraph three different ways. The conversation drifts the way it always does between the two of you, jumping between work and random stories and small complaints about the city.

You answer her, but you’re quieter than usual.

Not distant exactly. Just… thoughtful.

Camille notices almost immediately.

She always does.

Halfway through telling you about a brand event she went to the night before she stops mid sentence and squints at you across the island.

“What happened.”

You blink. “What.”

“You’re thinking about something,” she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you like it’s evidence. “And you’re trying to act like you’re not.”

You look down at your wine for a second before glancing back up at her, a small smile already pulling at the corner of your mouth.

“Nothing dramatic,” you say.

Her eyes narrow further.

“Tell me.”

You take another sip of wine, setting the glass down carefully before finally saying it.

“I met up with Harry Wednesday night.”

There’s half a second of silence where the words land.

Then Camille screams.

Not a polite gasp. Not a surprised laugh.

An actual scream.

The wooden spoon flies out of her hand and clatters across the counter as she grabs the nearest thing within reach and throws it at you, which turns out to be a folded kitchen towel that bounces harmlessly off your shoulder.

“YOU WHAT?”

You burst out laughing despite yourself while she stares at you like you just announced you’ve secretly been living on the moon.

“You went on the date and didn’t tell me?” she demands, already pacing behind the island.

“It wasn’t a whole thing,” you protest.

“You went on a date with him, and then just casually came to pasta night like that didn’t happen?”

You lift your hands defensively, still laughing.

“It was one drink.”

“ONE DRINK?” she repeats, throwing her hands in the air. “You buried the lead for forty eight hours and now you’re acting like this is normal information?”

You shake your head, smiling into your wine glass.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?” she demands. “Next month?”

“I was literally about to tell you.”

She stops pacing and stares at you, hands on her hips, trying to process the fact that the story she’s been waiting weeks to unfold apparently already happened without her.

“You went on the date,” she says slowly, like she’s confirming reality.

You nod.

“And?”

You take another sip of wine, letting the suspense linger just long enough to annoy her.

“It was really good.”

You take another sip of wine, letting the moment breathe while Camille stands there across the island looking like she might explode if you don’t start talking.

“It was great,” you say finally.

She blinks.

“That’s it?”

“It was short,” you add with a small shrug. “He was a little late. But once he got there it was… really good.”

Camille leans forward across the island like she’s conducting an interrogation.

“How good.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head.

“Camille.”

“I need details.”

You roll the stem of your wine glass between your fingers for a second before answering.

“It was just easy,” you say. “We talked the whole time. It didn’t feel weird or awkward like I thought it might. It just felt like we picked up the conversation we’d already been having.”

She studies your face carefully, clearly reading between the lines.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Did you kiss.”

You chuckle at the bluntness of it and take another sip of wine before answering.

“No.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“No?”

“We hugged.”

She leans back, crossing her arms.

“A hug.”

“It was a really good hug,” you say defensively.

“That is not the same thing.”

“I know.”

She watches you for another second, then smirks slightly.

“You liked him.”

You try to keep your expression neutral and fail completely.

“He was amazing,” you admit.

Her reaction softens just a little at that.

“Okay,” she says. “So what did he think.”

“What do you mean.”

“The date,” she says impatiently. “Did he say anything. Did he text you after. Did he vanish into the pop star void.”

You reach into your bag and pull out your phone, unlocking it before sliding it across the island toward her.

“He messaged me when he got to the airport.”

She grabs the phone immediately and starts scrolling through the short exchange on the screen, reading the messages silently while you sip your wine.

Her expression moves through a full range of reactions in about ten seconds.

“Hm.”

“What.”

She looks up at you.

“Well first of all,” she says, pointing at the screen, “I love that he called it a date.”

You smile slightly.

“Second,” she continues, narrowing her eyes a little as she hands the phone back to you, “I don’t love that he hasn’t taken it off the app.”

You blink.

“What.”

“He should’ve given you his number,” she says matter of factly. “That’s step one.”

“It’s been like… thirty hours,” you reply.

“I don’t care,” she says. “Men with phones give numbers.”

You laugh.

“That’s your takeaway.”

“It’s one of them.”

She leans forward again, lowering her voice slightly like she’s sharing a theory.

“But.”

“But?”

She points at the screen again.

“He said he’s still thinking about Wednesday.”

You glance down at the message again.

“Yeah.”

“That’s not casual,” she says. “That’s a man who wants to see you again.”

You take your phone back from her and stare down at the screen for a second, the short exchange suddenly feeling heavier now that someone else has looked at it.

Camille watches you closely while you think.

You run a hand through your hair, pushing it back in that absentminded way you do when your brain is moving faster than your words.

“I want to see him again too,” you admit finally, your voice quieter than it was a minute ago.

Her expression immediately softens into something smug and sympathetic at the same time.

“I knew it.”

“But,” you continue quickly, leaning your elbows on the island and wrapping your hands around your wine glass, “we haven’t actually talked about that.”

She tilts her head.

“What do you mean.”

“I mean we had the drink, he had to fly out early the next morning, and then he texted when he got to the airport. That’s it.”

Camille squints at you like she’s examining evidence.

“And you didn’t bring it up.”

You shake your head.

“He’s so busy,” you say, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “He flew back to LA for promo and meetings and all of that. I’m not going to be the person who immediately asks when he’s coming back.”

She leans against the counter, thinking.

“That’s fair,” she says slowly. “But also you’re allowed to want to see someone again.”

“I know,” you say with a small laugh. “I just don’t want to make it weird.”

She studies you for another second, then gestures toward your phone again.

“You realize this whole situation is already weird, right.”

You smile into your glass.

“I’m aware.”

Camille sighs dramatically and pushes the pasta bowl closer to you.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s establish a few things.”

You brace yourself.

“One,” she says, counting on her fingers, “you went on a date with Harry Styles and had a good time. No, a great time.”

You nod.

“Two,” she continues, “he texted you after and called it a date.”

Another nod.

“And three,” she says, pointing directly at you now, “you both clearly liked each other.”

You laugh quietly.

“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous,” she says immediately. “But it’s also happening.”

You glance down at your phone again, the screen still dark in your hand.

“I just don’t know what the next step looks like,” you admit.

Camille grins.

“Oh, I think we’re about to find out.”

You shake your head immediately.

“No.”

Camille lets out a dramatic groan.

“Why are you acting like this is a hostage negotiation,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Just message him.”

“I am not messaging him.”

“You literally already message him.”

“That’s on the app,” you say quickly, pointing at the phone on the counter between you. “That’s different.”

“How.”

“Because that’s where we’ve been talking,” you explain. “This would be… something else.”

Camille stares at you for a long moment like she’s trying to understand how your brain works.

“You two have already gone on a date,” she says slowly. “You hugged goodbye.”

You wince slightly.

“That was a really good hug.”

“That is not the point.”

You drag your hands back through your hair again, leaning your elbows on the island.

“I don’t want to make it weird.”

Camille leans forward, suddenly calmer.

“Okay,” she says. “Then don’t make it weird.”

You squint at her.

“I don’t like when you say things like that.”

“Just send him your number.”

You blink.

“What.”

“Send him your number,” she repeats, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “You’re not asking for anything. You’re just saying, hey, if you want to text instead of the app, here it is.”

You hesitate.

“He might actually feel more comfortable with that,” she adds. “Think about it. He probably doesn’t just hand his number out on apps.”

You sit there quietly for a second, considering it.

“That’s actually… not a terrible point,” you admit.

“I know.”

“But it’s still terrifying.”

Camille smiles.

“That’s because you like him.”

You look down at the phone again, suddenly very aware of the empty message box waiting on the screen.

Your stomach twists.

“I can’t.”

“You absolutely can.”

“No, I really can’t.”

She sighs and holds her hand out across the island.

“Give me the phone.”

You hesitate for a second before sliding it toward her across the counter.

“I regret this already,” you say.

Camille grabs it immediately, eyes lighting up like she’s been waiting all night for this moment.

“Relax, look what happened when I messaged him last time for you,” she says, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

“You are not allowed to say anything weird.”

“I would never.”

“That’s a lie.”

She grins without looking up.

“Trust the process.”

You lean back on the stool and cover your face with one hand while she starts typing.

Camille studies the screen for a second, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard while you sit across from her with your hand still half covering your face.

“You better not say anything crazy,” you mumble through your fingers.

“I am crafting a perfectly normal message,” she says calmly.

“That sentence alone makes me nervous.”

She ignores you and starts typing, pausing once or twice to reread it like she’s editing an email instead of sending a message on a dating app.

“Okay,” she says after a moment. “Tell me if this is insane.”

You slowly lower your hand and lean forward across the island.

She turns the phone so you can read it.

Hey, I really enjoyed our time together Wednesday. I figured I’d send my number in case texting is easier than the app. No pressure, just thought I’d share it.

Below it she’s typed your number.

You stare at the message for a few seconds, reading it twice.

It doesn’t sound desperate. It doesn’t sound awkward. It sounds… normal.

Thoughtful, even.

“That’s good,” you admit quietly.

“I know,” Camille says smugly.

You hesitate for another second, your stomach tightening again now that the send button is right there.

“What if this is weird,” you say.

“It’s not weird.”

“What if he thinks it’s weird.”

“He won’t.”

You exhale slowly and lean back on the stool again, pushing the phone back toward her.

“I can’t press send.”

Camille grins.

“Good thing I can.”

Before you can change your mind, she taps the screen.

The message disappears into the chat.

For a moment neither of you move.

You both just stare at the phone sitting on the counter between you like it might explode.

“Oh my god,” you say, dropping your head into your hands.

Camille laughs and slides the phone back toward you.

“Relax.”

You peek at the screen again, your heart suddenly beating much louder than it should.

“Now what.”

“Now,” she says, reaching for her wine again, “we wait.”

And you did wait.

Not dramatically at first. The message had been sent, the number shared, and for the rest of that night you and Camille forced yourselves to stop staring at the phone like it might immediately light up with an answer. Dinner continued, the pasta was eaten, the wine disappeared from your glasses, and eventually the conversation drifted to other things the way it always did.

The next morning passed quietly. You checked the app once out of habit and saw the message sitting there exactly where it had been left, your number at the bottom of it like a small offering you were now trying not to overanalyze. You told yourself that was fine. He was traveling. He had meetings. You had no idea what his schedule actually looked like and you refused to become the person who refreshed a dating app every twenty minutes.

So you let it sit.

A few days moved past that way, filled with work and errands and the small routines that keep a week moving forward whether your brain cooperates or not. By the time the weekend rolled around you had mostly convinced yourself not to expect anything. If he texted, great. If he didn’t, the date had still been good and that could simply be where the story ended.

Late Sunday afternoon you left your apartment to walk to the grocery store a few blocks away, your coat half zipped against the chill and your mind already making a mental list of things you needed to buy. The sidewalks were busy in that lazy weekend way where people move slowly and no one seems particularly rushed.

Your phone started ringing in your coat pocket just as you reached the corner.

You pulled it out without thinking, already assuming it was Camille calling to ask if you wanted to come over again or some unknown number trying to sell you something you definitely didn’t need. The screen lit up with a number you didn’t recognize and for a moment you just stared at it, thumb hovering over the answer button while the phone continued vibrating in your hand.

You debated letting it go.

If it was important, they would leave a voicemail. If it was spam, it would stop eventually. There was no real reason to answer a random number while standing on a cold sidewalk.

The phone kept ringing.

You sighed quietly and tapped the screen.

“Hello?”

There was the faintest pause on the other end before a familiar voice came through the speaker, warmer than you expected and immediately recognizable in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hi,” he said. “It’s Harry. I hope it’s alright that I called.”

You stop walking the second you heard his voice.

Not gradually either. One step forward and then nothing, like your body forgets the next instruction.

People move around you on the sidewalk while you stand there holding your phone to your ear, the grocery store completely forgotten.

“Harry?,” you say after a second, your voice catching slightly before settling. “Yes. Hi.”

You hear him let out a quiet breath on the other end, almost like relief.

“Good,” he says. “I was starting to think you might not answer.”

“Well… I almost didn’t.” You laugh softly, the sound more nervous than you meant it to be.

There’s a small pause between you. Not uncomfortable, just the kind that happens when two people who are used to texting suddenly have to remember how conversations move out loud.

“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” he says.

You glance around, still standing on the corner with a grocery bag hanging off your arm.

“No,” you reply. “I was just walking to the store.”

“I’ve been meaning to reach sooner, but things got a little chaotic here.” He replies.

“LA,” you say.

“Exactly.”

You start walking again without thinking, moving slowly down the block while you talk.

“So,” you say after a moment, “you survived the meetings.”

“Barely,” he says. “But I did.”

“That’s impressive.”

Another small pause settles in, the kind that feels thoughtful instead of empty.

Then he says something that makes your stomach flip all over again.

“I’ve been thinking about Wednesday.”

You glance down at the pavement while you walk.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His voice is calm, almost reflective.

“I had a really good time.”

You feel yourself smile automatically.

“Me too.”

A few steps pass before he speaks again.

“I was actually calling because I wanted to ask you something.”

You slow down slightly.

“Okay.”

Another breath on the other end of the line.

“When are you free again?”

You feel the smile before you even answer.

It spreads slowly, the kind you can hear in someone’s voice even if they’re miles away.

A quiet laugh escapes you as you continue walking, weaving around a couple pushing a stroller while you tuck the phone closer to your ear.

“I’m actually free next week for a few days,” you say.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a little sheepish now that you’re saying it out loud. “I decided to take what the kids call a mental health break.”

He laughs softly at that.

“Good for you.”

“I figured if I didn’t step away from my computer for a minute I might start writing zoning updates in my sleep.”

“That sounds like a real risk to the public.”

You smile to yourself.

“So I took a few days.”

There’s a small pause on the other end of the line before he asks, casually but with just enough curiosity tucked into the question.

“Do you have any plans?”

You slow your pace slightly as you approach the grocery store, the automatic doors sliding open and letting out a burst of warm air that fogs your glasses for a second.

“Not really,” you say, stepping inside and grabbing a basket without breaking the rhythm of the conversation. “That was kind of the point.”

You hear him shift slightly on the other end, like he’s settling into the call.

“That’s good,” he says.

You pause in the produce aisle, leaning your hip against the display while you listen.

“Why’s that?”

There’s a brief moment of quiet before he answers, his tone still easy but carrying a small thread of intention now.

“Because I happen be in New York again that week.”

You stop mid step in the produce aisle, your fingers hovering over a basket of apples as his words settle in.

“Wait,” you say, a small laugh slipping out with a hint of surprise, “really?”

“Yeah.”

There’s something casual about the way he says it that makes it feel almost spontaneous.

You let out a quiet gasp before you can stop yourself.

“Yeah? Doing anything fun while you’re here?”

You hear him shift slightly on the other end of the line, like he’s leaning back wherever he is.

“I decided to just take a trip,” he says. “See the scenes a bit. Walk around without a schedule for once.”

You smile to yourself, picturing it.

“That’s actually a pretty good plan.”

“Thought so.”

You pick up one of the apples absentmindedly, turning it in your hand while you think.

“Well,” you say lightly, trying to keep your voice casual, “there are a few places you should try if you’re actually going to do that properly.”

“Oh yeah?” he replies.

“Yeah,” you say. “Most people do the obvious stuff and miss the good parts.”

There’s a small pause on the line.

Then he answers, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well,” he says, “maybe you know a good tour guide.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you set the apple back down.

“That depends,” you say.

“On what?”

“On whether you’re actually interested in the local version of the city and not just the Instagram one.”

He hums thoughtfully.

“I think I’d prefer the local version.”

You shift the basket on your arm, leaning your shoulder lightly against the display while you answer.

“Well then,” you say, smiling into the phone, “you’re in luck.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’m pretty good with the local area.”

There is a small pause on the other end of the line, just long enough that you know he is smiling.

“I had a feeling you might say that.”

You shift the basket on your arm and start slowly down the aisle again, scanning shelves while trying not to look like someone currently planning an entire tour of New York in their head.

“So,” he says, voice relaxed, “are you volunteering.”

You laugh quietly.

“That might be possible.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Only if you’re actually interested in seeing the city properly,” you say. “I have very strong opinions about the right way to do New York.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I refuse to be responsible for someone thinking Times Square is the highlight,” you add.

He laughs again, the sound warmer this time.

“Fair enough.”

You grab a box of pasta off the shelf without really looking at it.

“So when are you coming,” you ask, keeping your voice casual even though your stomach has started doing something inconvenient.

“Early next week.”

You pause in the aisle.

“That’s soon.”

“Yeah,” he says simply.

You lean your shoulder lightly against the shelf, thinking for a second.

“Well,” you say slowly, “lucky timing.”

“How’s that.”

“My very official mental health break starts Monday.”

There’s a brief silence.

“Perfect,” he says.

You continue down the aisle, turning toward the next row of shelves.

“So what does your ideal version of sightseeing actually involve,” you ask.

“Honestly?” he replies. “Walking around, finding places that look interesting, eating something good.”

“That’s a solid approach.”

“I figured someone with local expertise might refine the plan a bit.”

You bite back a smile.

“I could probably work with that.”

“Good.”

The conversation settles for a moment as you reach for a loaf of bread, your phone tucked between your shoulder and your ear.

Then he asks, almost casually,

“What are you doing Monday.”

You slow your steps a little as you reach the end of the aisle, the basket resting against your hip while you think about the question.

A small smile slips across your face before you answer.

“Well,” you say lightly, “I was hoping I’d be seeing you.”

There’s a quiet pause on the other end of the line.

Then you hear him laugh under his breath.

“I think that can be arranged.”

You pick up a loaf of bread and drop it into the basket, trying not to look like someone whose mood has just shifted dramatically in the middle of a grocery store.

“Good,” you reply. “Because my very official mental health break would feel wasted otherwise.”

“That would be tragic.”

You turn the corner toward the checkout lanes, the conversation settling into a comfortable rhythm again.

“So Monday,” you say. “What are you thinking.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

For a second all you hear is the faint sound of movement on his end of the line, like he’s shifting the phone in his hand.

“There’s actually a place I’ve been wanting to take you,” he continues. “It’s one of my favorite spots in the city.”

You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it.

“Oh, so now you’re the one giving the tour.”

“Something like that.”

You smile, shifting the basket onto the counter as the cashier waves you forward.

“Well,” you say, pulling your wallet out of your coat pocket, “I guess I’ll have to trust your taste.”

“I think you’ll like it,” he replies.

The quiet confidence in his voice makes you believe him.

The way he says it that makes you believe him without asking anything else.

The cashier starts scanning your groceries and you fumble for your wallet, suddenly aware that you’ve been standing in the middle of the store having a full conversation.

“I should probably let you go,” you say with a small laugh. “I’m currently holding up a checkout line.”

“Ah,” he says. “Important responsibilities.”

“Very important. Pasta and bread don’t buy themselves.”

You hear him laugh quietly on the other end.

“So Monday,” he says, his tone settling again, making sure it’s understood. “I’ll text you when I’m in the city.”

“Okay.”

There’s a brief pause before he adds, softer this time,

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You feel the smile spread across your face again, even as you swipe your card through the reader.

“Me too.”

Another quiet beat passes between you.

Then he says, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“You too. Safe travels.”

“Talk soon.”

“Talk soon.”

The line clicks softly as the call ends.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, phone still in your hand, while the cashier finishes bagging your groceries.

The ordinary sounds of the store fill the space again, carts rolling past and people chatting as they move through the aisles.

But as you pick up the bags and step back out into the cool evening air, the week ahead suddenly feels very different than it did an hour ago.

You step out of the store and into the cool evening air with two grocery bags cutting into your fingers and your phone still warm in your hand. For a moment you just stand there on the sidewalk letting the call settle in your head, the noise of the street moving around you like normal while your brain is still catching up.

Then you immediately tap Camille’s name.

The phone barely rings once before she answers.

“Hello?”

“Monday,” you say.

There’s a pause.

“What.”

“Monday,” you repeat, starting down the block toward your apartment, the grocery bags swinging slightly at your sides. “I’m seeing him Monday.”

You hear the rustling of something on her end, like she just sat up very quickly.

“You spoke to him?”

“He called me.”

Camille makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.

“He called you?”

“Yes.”

“On the phone?”

“Camille, how else would someone call me.”

“Don’t get technical with me,” she snaps. “What happened.”

You weave around a couple standing outside a deli, shifting the bags in your hands while you start walking faster without meaning to.

“I was walking to the grocery store and my phone started ringing from a random number. I almost didn’t answer.”

“You almost didn’t answer a call from Harry Styles.”

“I didn’t know it was him!”

She groans loudly.

“Continue.”

You laugh under your breath and keep walking.

“He said he saw the message with my number and wanted to call. We talked for a bit and he asked when I was free next week.”

“And?”

“And I told him I’m off Monday through Wednesday.”

“And?”

You smile despite yourself.

“And he’s coming back to the city.”

There’s a full second of silence.

Then Camille screams so loudly you have to pull the phone away from your ear.

“I KNEW IT.”

You shake your head, laughing as you turn onto your street.

“He said he wanted to see me again.”

“Of course he does.”

“And he’s taking me somewhere,” you add.

“Oh my god.”

“He said it’s one of his favorite places.”

You hear Camille pacing through the phone now, the sound of her footsteps echoing as she processes this new development.

“So this is a second date,” she says finally.

“I guess so.”

“No,” she corrects immediately. “This is a second date.”

You smile to yourself as you reach your building.

“Well,” you say, pushing the door open with your shoulder, “I guess it is.”

The weekend passes slowly in a way that feels slightly unfair.

Not painfully slow, just stretched. Every normal moment feels a little heavier with the knowledge that Monday is coming.

After you hang up with Camille that night you put your groceries away and try very hard to behave like a person whose life is not suddenly orbiting a second date with someone she met on the internet. You cook dinner, you watch something mindless, you answer a few emails you’d been ignoring.

Still, every once in a while your brain drifts back to the call.

The quiet confidence in his voice. The way he said he had a place in mind.

Saturday morning you wake up later than usual and take your time with the day. Coffee, laundry, a long walk through the park where the air still has that sharp early spring chill to it. At one point you catch yourself mentally calculating how many hours are left until Monday and immediately shake your head.

This is ridiculous, you tell yourself.

It’s just a date.

Sunday goes by even faster. You meet Camille for brunch where she spends an unreasonable amount of time trying to decide what you should wear tomorrow.

“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you tell her as she leans back in her chair, studying you with the kind of focus that would make sense if she were planning a photoshoot instead of brunch.

“It might as well be,” she says, completely serious while scrolling through her phone. “This is a second date.”

You laugh and shake your head, but she continues anyway, holding up different outfit ideas and explaining her reasoning like it’s a full strategy meeting.

By the time you get home that evening the city has that quiet Sunday night feeling where everything slows down just enough that you start noticing the coming week creeping in.

You tidy your apartment a little, mostly as a distraction, and eventually settle onto the couch with a book you read three pages of before realizing you’ve absorbed none of it.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

You glance at it automatically.

Harry.

Your heart jumps before you even open it.

You pick up the phone.

Made it to the city.

A smile spreads across your face before you even start typing.

Already?

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Flight got in early.

You lean back into the couch cushions.

Welcome back.

There’s a short pause before another message appears.

Still good for tomorrow?

You glance at the clock, then back at the screen.

Yes.

Another bubble appears.

Good.

You set the phone down on the coffee table and stare at it for a moment longer than necessary, the glow of the screen fading as it locks again. The apartment is quiet in that particular Sunday night way where everything feels paused for a second before the week starts again. Outside your window the city is still moving, distant traffic humming and someone laughing somewhere down the block, but inside your living room the silence feels heavier now that you know he’s back in the city.

Tomorrow.

You lean your head back against the couch and let out a slow breath, letting the thought settle in. A second date. The words still feel slightly surreal when you say them in your head. A few days ago you were standing on a street corner debating whether to answer a call from a number you didn’t recognize. Now you’re sitting here on a Sunday night knowing you’ll see him again in less than twenty four hours.

You pick up your book again and try to read, but your eyes move over the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. Eventually you give up and set it aside, pushing yourself up from the couch and wandering into your bedroom instead.

Your closet door slides open and you stand there for a moment looking at the options like they might magically arrange themselves into the right answer. Camille’s voice echoes faintly in your head from brunch earlier, her dramatic commentary about outfits and second dates still fresh enough to make you smile.

“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you had told her.

“It might as well be,” she replied.

You shake your head and pull out the outfit the two of you eventually landed on, holding it up briefly before laying it carefully over the back of the chair. Seeing it there makes the plan feel more real, less hypothetical.

Your phone buzzes again from the living room.

Your heart jumps immediately and you walk back out faster than you intended, picking it up from the coffee table.

Harry.

You open the message.

Settled into the hotel.

A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.

Hope it’s cozy for you.

A moment passes before the typing bubble appears again.

You watch it blink on and off, curiosity building as the next message appears.

Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight?

You stare at the screen for a second, completely caught off guard by the question.

Your heart does an immediate, inconvenient flip.

You read it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.

Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quiet but incredulous, and you sink back onto the couch while you think about what to say. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the timeline. That was the reasonable, well paced version of events.

And yet the thought of seeing him tonight sends a warm ripple through your chest.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you start typing.

Wrong might be a strong word.

You hit send before you can overthink it, watching as the message disappears into the conversation.

You stare at the screen for a moment after sending it, the quiet of your apartment suddenly feeling a little too still. The message sits there for a second before the typing bubble appears again, blinking on and off like he’s reconsidering how much to say.

Then the next message comes through.

I know we said tomorrow.

You can almost hear the slight sheepishness in it.

Another bubble appears.

But I just got in and the city feels too quiet.

You shift your legs up onto the couch, tucking them underneath you as you read.

A third message follows.

Thought I’d ask.

Your stomach flips.

You glance back up at the ceiling for a second like the answer might be written somewhere up there. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the reasonable version of this. The paced, sensible one.

Instead you’re sitting on your couch with your heart doing something wildly unhelpful while a pop star casually asks if he can see you tonight.

You look back down at your phone just as the typing bubble appears again.

You’re probably tired.

A quiet laugh slips out of you.

I’m not, you type.

There’s a brief pause on the other end before the bubble returns.

Are you sure?

You glance around your apartment, taking in the quiet room, the outfit hanging over the back of your chair in the bedroom that you had carefully set aside for tomorrow.

You smile.

I think I can handle one spontaneous decision.

The response comes quickly this time.

I’m glad you said that.

You feel that same warm ripple again, the anticipation settling in where the earlier nerves used to be.

What did you have in mind, you ask.

The typing bubble flickers once more.

Nothing complicated.

Another message follows right after.

Maybe a walk.

You tilt your head slightly at the simplicity of it.

You flew back to New York for a walk.

Don’t sound so unimpressed.

You laugh softly.

I’m not.

There’s a small pause before his next message appears.

If you’re up for it.

You glance toward the window where the city lights glow faintly through the glass, the quiet hum of traffic still drifting up from the street below.

The idea of stepping outside again, of seeing him tonight instead of waiting for tomorrow, suddenly feels far more appealing than staying on your couch pretending to read.

Your fingers move before you can second guess it.

Where?

The reply comes almost immediately.

Central Park. West side entrance.

You read it twice, like seeing the words again might make the moment feel less surreal.

Give me twenty minutes.

Your heart jumps.

You sit up straighter on the couch, suddenly aware that you are currently wearing an old sweatshirt and socks that definitely do not belong in the category of spontaneous nighttime walks with someone you are very interested in.

Okay, you type.

The second you hit send you’re already standing up.

Your apartment shifts from quiet Sunday evening to low level chaos in about ten seconds. You move quickly through the living room and into your bedroom, mentally cataloguing options as you go. The outfit you had carefully laid out for tomorrow is still draped over the chair, looking far too intentional for what is now a late night walk through Central Park.

You pause for a second, staring at it.

“No,” you say quietly to yourself.

This needs to look like you didn’t panic.

You pull open your dresser and reach for something easier. Dark jeans. A soft sweater that hangs just loose enough to feel comfortable without looking sloppy. You run a hand through your hair while you walk past the mirror, pausing long enough to smooth it down and check that you at least look like someone who planned to leave the house tonight.

Your phone buzzes again on the bed behind you.

You turn back immediately.

Leaving now.

Your stomach flips.

Me too, you reply.

You grab your coat, slip your phone into your pocket, and head for the door before you can talk yourself out of how ridiculous this entire situation feels.

The hallway outside your apartment is quiet, the kind of still that only happens late on a Sunday night when most people have already settled in for the week ahead. Your footsteps echo lightly as you make your way down the stairs and push through the building’s front door into the cool evening air.

The city feels different at night.

Not quieter exactly, but softer somehow. The traffic is lighter, conversations drifting out of restaurants and bars as people linger over late dinners. You pull your coat a little tighter as you start walking toward the park, your mind moving faster than your feet.

You are meeting Harry Styles in Central Park for a walk.

You laugh under your breath just thinking it.

A few blocks pass before you realize you’re checking your phone every thirty seconds like someone waiting for a ride share to appear on a map. Eventually you force yourself to stop and just walk.

The park entrance comes into view ahead of you, the tall trees forming dark shapes against the glow of the city lights behind them. A couple walks past you with a dog, their conversation fading as they move toward the street.

You slow slightly as you approach the entrance, scanning the path without meaning to.

For a moment you wonder if you’re early.

Then you see him.

He’s leaning casually against the stone railing near the path, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat, his hair slightly windblown like he’s been standing there for a few minutes already. There’s something almost unfair about how easily he blends into the scene, like he belongs to the city in a way that makes him look completely natural standing there under the park lights.

He spots you at the same moment.

The small smile that spreads across his face is immediate.

You walk the last few steps toward him, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat again.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi.”

He pushes away from the railing, stepping closer.

“I’m glad you said yes, I know it’s late.”

You smile, hands tucked into your coat pockets.

“I’m glad you asked.”

For a moment neither of you move, the quiet of the park settling around you while the city hums softly beyond the trees.

Then he gestures toward the path.

“Walk?”

You nod.

And just like that the two of you start moving deeper into the park together, the gravel crunching lightly under your shoes as the lights of the street fade behind you.

The path curves gently as you move farther into the park, the noise of the city softening behind the trees until it becomes more of a distant hum than actual traffic. Lamps line the walkway in warm pools of light that stretch across the gravel, and every so often the wind moves through the branches above you with a quiet rustling sound that makes the entire park feel calmer than the streets just outside it.

For the first few moments you simply walk.

Not awkwardly. Just adjusting to the strange fact that you’re next to each other again after a week of messages and one date that ended faster than either of you expected.

He glances over at you.

“You look different.”

Your eyebrows lift.

“Different good?”

“Different from the other night, but yes. Good.”

You glance down at yourself like the sweater might explain something.

“I didn’t exactly plan this outfit.”

“I know.”

You look back at him.

“You know?”

“You texted back too fast,” he says with a slight smile. “That’s how I knew you were scrambling.”

You laugh out loud.

“That’s rude.”

“It’s observational.”

“I had a perfectly good outfit ready for tomorrow,” you tell him. “You disrupted the entire plan.”

The path opens slightly ahead where a small clearing lets the skyline peek through the trees in the distance. The lights glow faintly above the dark outline of the park, and for a moment both of you slow without saying anything.

Eventually he asks, “How was your weekend.”

“Pretty normal,” you say.

“Oh yeah?”

“Laundry. Coffee. Camille interrogating me about you.”

He laughs.

“She is very proud of the Raya code.”

“I owe her then.”

“Please don’t encourage her,” you say quickly. “She’ll start expecting thank you notes.”

He smiles at that.

“I had a pretty quiet weekend too,” he says.

You glance over.

“That surprises me.”

“Why.”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I assume your life is usually… louder.”

“It is,” he says. “That’s why I like coming here.”

You look around at the path, the trees, the quiet space stretching out around you.

“This is your version of normal.”

“For tonight,” he says.

A comfortable silence settles between you as you keep walking. Not the kind that feels empty, just a moment where neither of you feels the need to rush the conversation forward.

Eventually he nudges it again.

“So,” he says, glancing over at you, “do I get the official tour tomorrow or did tonight count.”

You smile.

“This was just the preview.”

“Good.”

“You still have to earn the full tour.”

“And how does one do that.”

You pretend to think about it.

“Well,” you say slowly, “not getting lost would be a good start.”

He laughs quietly.

“That feels like a challenge.”

“Everything in this city is a challenge.”

The path bends again and you pass a couple walking a dog, the leash stretching across the walkway as the dog stops to investigate something near the edge of the grass. The owner apologizes as they pull it back and you both step around them before continuing on.

After a few more minutes you slow your pace, glancing toward the streetlights glowing through the trees ahead.

“You hungry?” you ask.

He looks over.

“Always.”

You smile.

“Good.”

You turn toward the park exit and start leading the way back toward the street.

“I guess I can start the tour tonight after all.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, stepping out onto the sidewalk and turning down a quieter block lined with older buildings. “There’s a place a few blocks from here.”

“What kind of place.”

You glance back at him with a small grin.

“The kind that doesn’t look impressive at all from the outside.”

“That sounds promising.”

“It’s a hole in the wall pizza spot,” you say. “The best one I know.”

He nods immediately like that’s the easiest decision he’s made all day.

“I trust your expertise.”

The two of you walk the rest of the way down the block together, the bright lights of the tiny shop coming into view ahead. Through the window you can see the glow of the ovens and a man behind the counter sliding a fresh pie onto the counter.

You glance over at him with a satisfied little smile.

“Welcome to the real tour.”

The bell above the door gives a tired little jingle as you push it open, the sound barely audible over the low hum of an old refrigerator somewhere behind the counter. The place is small in the way only real neighborhood pizza shops are, narrow with a few tiny tables pushed up against the wall and a long glass case stretching across the counter that holds rows of slices under warm yellow lights.

The air is thick with the smell of baked dough, tomato sauce, and something faintly sweet that’s probably been drifting out of the dessert case all day.

It isn’t polished. The tile floor has seen better decades, and the menu board above the counter is a mix of faded letters and handwritten additions taped into the corners. One of the tables near the window wobbles slightly when a guy in a Yankees cap shifts his weight, and the soda fridge in the corner rattles every few seconds like it’s considering retirement.

Behind the counter an older Italian man stands with his arms folded, watching the two of you walk in with the quiet authority of someone who has been working in the same place for thirty years and intends to continue doing so until they die.

He squints at you for a second.

“Late night pizza?” he asks.

You smile.

“Always.”

He nods like that’s the correct answer and reaches for a paper plate without asking another question.

You step up to the counter and glance back at Harry, who is taking the whole place in with clear amusement, his eyes moving over the slightly crooked menu board and the stack of flour bags tucked against the wall.

“So,” you say, turning toward him. “What do you want.”

He looks at you immediately.

“I feel like I should let you decide.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“That’s a lot of trust.”

“You’re the local,” he says with an easy shrug. “I’m following your lead.”

You turn back toward the counter, considering the options for half a second before nodding.

“Alright,” you say. “We’re going classic.”

The man behind the counter slides open the glass case.

“Two cheese,” you tell him. “And two cannolis.”

He nods approvingly like you’ve passed some kind of test and reaches for the slices with a metal spatula, sliding them into the oven for a quick reheat.

Harry leans slightly closer to you while you wait, lowering his voice just enough that it doesn’t carry across the room.

“This is already better than most restaurants I get dragged to.”

You glance sideways at him.

“Because it’s not trying to impress you.”

“Exactly.”

A minute later the man pulls the slices out and slides them onto paper plates before adding two cannolis wrapped in wax paper and pushing the whole thing across the counter.

You hand over a few bills and grab the plates before Harry can even reach for his wallet.

He notices immediately.

“You didn’t let me pay.”

“You’re the guest,” you say simply.

“That’s not how dates work.”

You shrug.

“You asked for the local experience.”

He laughs softly as you lead him over to one of the tiny tables by the window.

You set the plates down and slide one toward him.

“A slice of cheese,” you say. “The only correct first order.”

He studies it for a second before picking it up.

“You’re very confident about this.”

“You’ll understand in about thirty seconds.”

He takes a bite.

For a second he just stands there chewing while you watch him with the quiet satisfaction of someone who already knows the outcome.

Then his eyebrows lift slightly.

“Okay,” he says slowly.

You grin.

“Right?”

He nods once, looking down at the slice again like he’s reassessing something.

“That’s very good.”

You pick up your own slice.

“See,” you say. “Tour guide knows what she’s doing.”

He takes another bite before saying anything, folding the slice the way people here do without thinking about it. The cheese stretches for a moment before breaking cleanly, and he chews slowly, looking down at it like he’s considering something.

Then he nods once.

“That’s very good.”

You smile slightly and take another bite of your own slice.

“I told you.”

For a minute the two of you eat quietly, the small shop carrying on around you in its usual rhythm. The oven door opens and shuts behind the counter, the soda fridge hums steadily in the corner, and every so often someone passes by the front window, their footsteps muffled by the glass.

Harry glances around the room again, taking in the slightly crooked menu board, the narrow tables, the flour bags stacked near the wall.

“It’s nice,” he says after a moment. “Feels real.”

“That’s why I like it,” you reply.

You brush a few crumbs from the paper plate and lean back in your chair.

“I’ve been coming here for years,” you add. “Usually late after work when everything else is closed.”

He nods like that makes sense.

The man behind the counter calls something in Italian toward the kitchen and slides another tray of slices into the glass case. The smell of fresh dough drifts across the room again, warm and familiar.

Harry wipes his hands on a napkin and looks back at you.

“You weren’t exaggerating about this place.”

You shrug lightly.

“It’s one of those spots people only find if someone brings them.”

He nods again, like he understands exactly what you mean.

You reach for the cannoli and slide the small wax paper package toward him.

“You should try that too.”

He unwraps it carefully and takes a bite, pausing for a second before giving a quiet laugh under his breath.

“That’s dangerous.”

You smile.

“Right?”

He sets the rest of it back down on the paper and leans back slightly in the chair, looking more relaxed now than when the two of you first walked in.

Outside the window the street has grown quieter, the late night crowd thinning as the city settles in.

You glance toward the clock near the counter.

“Technically this was the beginning of your tour,” you say.

He looks back at you.

“Just the beginning?”

You nod.

“Tomorrow is the actual tour.”

He considers that for a moment, then gives a small nod.

“Good.”

You both finish the last of the pizza slowly, the conversation drifting into easier things as the night settles around you.

By the time you stand up to leave, the shop has grown nearly empty, the older man behind the counter already stacking trays and wiping down the glass case.

When you push open the door the bell jingles softly again, the cool night air meeting you on the sidewalk.

For a second you both pause under the streetlight, the quiet stretch of the block glowing faintly in the distance.

Tomorrow suddenly feels very close.

The bell gives its soft, tired jingle again as the two of you step back out onto the sidewalk, the warm air of the pizza shop fading behind you the moment the door swings closed. The night has settled fully now, the street quieter than when you first walked in. A few cars pass at the far end of the block and somewhere nearby someone is dragging a metal chair across pavement, the sound echoing briefly before disappearing again.

For a moment you both just stand there beneath the streetlight, the glow from the shop window spilling out behind you.

You glance down the street and then back at him.

“So,” you say, adjusting your coat slightly, “where’s your hotel?”

He turns and points casually down the block.

“Couple streets that way.”

You follow the direction with your eyes, nodding.

“That’s close.”

Then he gestures in the opposite direction.

“And you?”

You point back the way you came, toward the darker stretch of street leading toward your neighborhood.

“That way,” you say. “Short walk.”

He looks down the block for a second and then back at you, considering it.

“I’ll walk you back.”

You blink, caught slightly off guard by the immediacy of it.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “It’s really not far.”

“That’s not the point.”

You smile faintly at the seriousness in his voice.

“It’s New York,” you reply. “People walk home alone all the time.”

He shakes his head a little.

“Still.”

You tuck your hands into your coat pockets and tilt your head at him.

“You realize it’s not exactly safe for you either.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“You’re an international pop star,” you point out. “You walking around the city at midnight probably comes with its own risks.”

For a second he just looks at you.

Then he laughs, the sound easy and warm in the quiet street.

“Fair enough.”

You both stand there another moment, the night stretching comfortably between you.

Finally he glances down your street again and then back toward his.

“Well,” he says, “at least we both made it this far safely.”

You smile.

“So far.”

For a moment neither of you move.

The street is quiet, the glow from the pizza shop window behind you fading as the owner inside begins stacking chairs and wiping down the counter. A car passes slowly at the end of the block, headlights sliding across the pavement before disappearing around the corner.

You both know this is the part where the night ends.

You shift your weight slightly and glance down your street again.

“Well,” you say softly.

“Well,” he echoes.

There’s a small pause where it feels like something else might be said, but neither of you rush it.

Then he steps forward and pulls you into a hug.

It’s warm and easy, the kind that lingers just a second longer than a polite goodbye. Your arms wrap around him automatically and for a moment you just stand there like that beneath the streetlight, the quiet of the city stretching around you.

When you pull back he’s still smiling slightly.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he says.

“You said you wanted a walk,” you reply. “I upgraded it.”

“Good call.”

You hesitate for a second, suddenly aware again that tomorrow technically still exists. The plan. The tour.

“So,” you say, tucking your hands back into your coat pockets, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I guess you will.”

Another small pause settles between you, neither of you quite stepping away yet.

Then finally he nods toward your street.

“Text me when you get home.”

“You’re still doing the protective thing.”

“Just covering my bases.”

You smile.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight.”

You both turn at almost the exact same moment, heading in opposite directions down the block.

You make it about four steps.

Maybe five.

Then something in your chest tightens suddenly, a rush of adrenaline hitting you so quickly you stop walking without even thinking about it.

You turn around.

He’s already halfway down the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly down as he walks.

Your heart is pounding now.

Before your brain can catch up, you call out.

“Harry!”

He stops immediately and turns around.

“What—”

You don’t give him time to finish.

You’re already moving, jogging back across the distance between you with a burst of nervous energy that feels completely irrational and completely necessary at the same time.

He looks slightly surprised for half a second as you reach him.

And then you kiss him.

It’s sudden and unplanned and far more certain than anything you expected to do when you left your apartment earlier that night. Your hands find his coat automatically, pulling him slightly closer as your lips meet his.

For a moment he freezes in surprise.

Then he kisses you back.

The city fades into the background again, the quiet street and the glow of the streetlight blurring into something distant while the kiss deepens just slightly, enough to make the moment feel real instead of impulsive.

When you finally pull back, both of you are a little breathless.

He’s looking at you like he’s still catching up to what just happened.

You take a small step back, suddenly aware of the adrenaline still racing through you.

“Sorry,” you say softly.

But you’re smiling.

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You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

And at the Pitt, you don’t have room for softness.

Jack Abbot notices everything about you. The way you triage with incredible efficiency. The way you steady shaking hands without making a show of it. The way you don’t flinch when someone yells.

He’s never noticed you squint.

Until today.

It happens mid-shift. A trauma rolls in, fast and loud and chaotic, and you’re at the bedside for nearly an hour straight. The air is dry. You blink too much. Your vision starts to blur at the edges. By the time you step out into the hall, your eyes are burning so badly you can barely keep them open.

You duck into the staff bathroom, hands braced on the sink.

“Not now,” you mutter.

The contacts have shifted and one is definitely torn. You recognize that scratchy, wrong sensation immediately. After washing your hands, you take them out carefully, blinking against the sting. The relief is instant—but so is the realization that hits you a second later.

You don’t have spares.

“Great,” you sigh, staring at your blurry reflection.

For a second, you consider just powering through it—squinting your way through the rest of the shift and pretending the sting in your eyes isn’t driving you insane. But you know better. You won’t last an hour like this, and the last thing you need is to misread a chart or medication label because you were too stubborn to grab your backup.

Which means leaving the safety of the bathroom.

You dry your hands slowly, take one last look at your unfocused reflection, and step back into the hallway. Without your contacts, everything feels slightly off-kilter—the lights too bright, the edges of people and gurneys a little too soft. 

You keep your gaze down as you walk toward the lockers, hoping no one stops you on the way.

When you get to the lockers it is mercifully empty. You crouch in front of your locker, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag until you find the hard case tucked into the side pocket. In it, wrapped in an old cleaning cloth, are your glasses.

You hesitate again before unfolding them.

They’re simple, with thin metal frames, a little too big for your face, the kind that make your eyes look wider and a touch more exposed. You slide them on and blink a few times as the world snaps back into sharp focus. The clarity is immediate, almost jarring.

There’s a small mirror on the inside of one of the lockers. You glance at yourself, head tilting slightly as you take in the difference. 

You look… different but not worse. Just less guarded somehow, like a layer you didn’t realize you were wearing has been peeled back.

You exhale slowly, straighten your shoulders, and throw the ruined contacts into a nearby trash bin, slide the glasses on, and step back into the chaos of the floor.

It takes exactly thirty seconds.

“Oh my God,” one of the nurses says dramatically. “You wear glasses?”

A couple of heads snap up from charts. Someone actually leans closer, squinting at you like they’re trying to confirm it’s really you.

Shen swivels in his chair, openly staring. “Wait, hold on. Since when have you been hiding these? This is a betrayal.”

“A betrayal?” You repeat flatly.

“Yes,” he insists. “We work twelve-hour shifts together. I thought we told each other things.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we focus on the patients instead of my face?”

“Sorry,” another nurse chimes in. “You just look… adorable.”

Adorable.

You groan. “If anyone says the word adorable again, I’m transferring departments.”

Ellis smirks at your irritation. “Noted. Adorable is off the table. We’ll workshop alternatives.”

There’s laughter. A few exaggerated double takes. Nothing malicious—just the kind of teasing that happens when something shifts in a place that rarely changes.

You try to brush past them, pretending none of this is getting to you, but the teasing follows like a wave. It isn’t cruel. It’s just new and impossible to ignore. And in a place where everything is routine and muscle memory, new stands out.

You adjust the bridge of your glasses self-consciously, wishing your face didn’t feel like it’s under a spotlight.

And then you feel it.

That shift in the air that has nothing to do with Shen or Ellis or any nurse.

You glance up almost immediately.

Jack is standing at the end of the nurses’ station with a chart half-lowered in his hand. He isn’t laughing or smirking or joining in. He’s just staring, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to recalibrate something he thought he understood.

His eyes drag over your face like he’s trying to recalibrate something. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“What?” You ask when you get closer, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He blinks, slow and deliberate, as if surfacing from somewhere else. “It’s just…” he trails off quietly. “I—”

His jaw flexes. You’ve seen that look before—usually right before he says something sharp or carefully controlled—but this isn’t sharp. It isn’t controlled, but instead stunned.

“You look…”

Your stomach flips despite yourself. 

“Different?” You offer, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.

His gaze softens, and the shift in it makes your pulse stutter. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Different.” A small pause stretches between you before he adds, lower, “Good different.”

The hallway noise seems to dim at the edges. Someone wolf-whistles from behind you. “Oh, he likes it.”

You feel heat climb all the way up your neck. “Can we not do this right now?”

But Jack doesn’t break eye contact, and that’s what makes it unbearable. 

Later, when the rush finally ebbs into something manageable, you find a computer at the end of the nurses’ station and start charting. The department hums around you—monitors beeping, phones ringing, Shen arguing with pharmacy over speaker—but it’s background noise now. 

Your glasses have stopped feeling foreign on your face, though you’re still hyper-aware of them every time you glance down at the screen.

You don’t notice Jack approach until the chair beside you scrapes softly against the floor.

He pulls out the chair beside you and sits—not across from you or at the next computer, but right next to you.

“You don’t wear them often,” he says after a moment, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past the two of you.

You keep your eyes on the screen, pretending your pulse doesn’t immediately spike. “No. Contacts are easier.”

“For who?” He asks mildly.

“For me.” You huff a quiet laugh. “I get less comments about my sight—or lack thereof—this way.”

He hums at that, but he doesn’t look away. You can feel his gaze tracing over your profile, lingering at the bridge of your nose, the way the thin frames rest against your cheeks. It makes your fingers stumble over the keyboard.

“They suit you,” he says finally.

You snort softly, trying to deflect the sudden tightness in your chest. “That’s not what everyone else thinks.”

“I don’t care what everyone else thinks.”

The words land heavier than they should. You glance up at him, and immediately wish you hadn’t. He’s closer than you realized, one arm resting along the back of your chair, his knee angled slightly toward yours.

“I like seeing your eyes like this,” he continues, voice quieter now, steadier. “They look bigger.”

Your heart stumbles. “They’re the same eyes,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, holding your gaze. “But now I get to see them clearly.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of how easily someone could glance over and notice the way he’s looking at you.

Your glasses slide slightly down your nose when you look back at the screen.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches up. There’s a split second where his hand hovers, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. His fingers gently nudge the frames back into place, the touch light and careful.

It’s brief, but it lingers.

“You should wear them more,” he says quietly.

“So the entire department can keep bullying me?” You let out a small, shaky laugh. 

He almost smiles, something warm flickering in his eyes. “Let them,” he replies. “Gives me an excuse to stare.”

“You stare anyway,” you murmur before you can stop yourself, pulse ringing in your ears.

He doesn’t look embarrassed or caught. Just nods once, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

And the way he says it makes you think maybe the contacts weren’t the only thing that shifted today.

lando @/charles_leclerc EXPLAIN???? YOU'VE BEEN GATEKEEPING.

charles_leclerc I have the right to remain silent

lando NO YOU DONT. WE COULD'VE GOTTEN THESE IN THE PADDOCK.

lando @/georgerussel63 @/maxverstappen1 @/oscarpiastri @/lewishamilton @/f1

charles_leclerc yo WHAT.

user1 these look so so good!! Im so gonna order.

user2 I JUST TRIED THESE AND ITS SOOOOOO GOOOD ALL OF THEM

user3 came out broke but worth it💔

maxverstappen1 you ship to monaco?

bakerleclerc yes!!

bakerleclerc oh my.

yourbaker1 THE WEBSITE LAGGED.

maxverstappen1 well

lewishamilton looking absolutely good, see you

arthur_leclerc she's in france??

arthur_leclerc hey so WHAT.

georgerussel63 looking forward to eat these👀👀

lando do we get brother's friends discount

bakerleclerc depends

lando on what???

bakerleclerc if i like them

lando 🥺🥺

oscarpiastri wow

bakerleclerc have a free croissant

oscarpiastri thank you!!

user4 THE GRID FOUND HER OMG

user5 day 456 of asking y/n leclerc to release phonk

user6 ????

you were just serving costumers and checking over the pastries until you saw the man himself, Lewis Hamilton.

you didn't think he'd be serious from his comment but here we are.

"hey, y/n leclerc right?" he leans against the counter, "oh- yes! i am," you smiled.

"beautiful, so, I'll take —"

lets just say he bought so many.

lewishamilton

liked by charles_leclerc, bakerleclerc, and 987K others

tagged: @/bakerleclerc

lewishamilton france's best bakery. 🥐

( view all comments )

arthur_leclerc I'll let it slide because you gave me some

maxverstappen1 should've invited me to come

charles_leclerc bro

lando WHATTTT.

user7 LETS GOOO

user8 PEAK

user9 omg it looks yummy

bakerleclerc

liked by lewishamilton, maxverstappen1, and 1M others

tagged: @/lewishamilton

bakerleclerc weekdays are back time to get back working more💔 but thats okay i get to meet THE Lewis hamilton.

( view all comments )

charles_leclerc all this but you don't come to monaco to visit us😐

bakerleclerc woops

user10 THE CUPCAKES LOOK DELICIOUS YUHH

user5 day 457 of asking y/n leclerc to release phonk

lando real

user11 crying

user12 IM HUNGRY FOR YOUR PASTRIES UGHHHH

user13 when i wake up and i dont see y/n's pastries next to me💔

lewishamilton it was delicious no debates🫶

arthur_leclerc sobbbing.

yourbaker2 @/yourbaker1 ate the cookies that were on the counter

bakerleclerc THAT WAS FOR MAX VERSTAPPEN.

yourbaker1 woops

maxverstappen1 i want those cupcakes aswell☹️

yourbaker3 sir you've bought everything on the menu

maxverstappen1 so?

oscarpiastri im inlove with the croissants. please bring some to the next gp please.

user14 Y/N PADDOCK APPEARANCE?? IM BARKING

bakerleclerc

liked by maxverstappen1, scuderiaferrari, and 989K others

bakerleclerc my day off! can't wait to go to my first gp :3

( view all comments )

yourbaker4 boss its chaotic here :((

user15 her bakers are so nervous wuthout her💔

bakerleclerc the effect i leave on the people i met

yourbaker4 nevermind.

charles_leclerc oh my god finally🙄

bakerleclerc you're so dramatic

arthur_leclerc right

maxverstappen1 you're supporting for me right?

scuderiaferrari no

redbullracing don't pmo

mclaren 😬

oscarpiastri yippie

user16 IM GOING TO THE GP IM GONNA TRY GET HER PASTRIES IF SHE HAS ANY

lando hey so you're bringing pastries right!! 😁

bakerleclerc unfortunately yes

user17 what's the next gp again

user18 its monaco babe

lewishamilton haha you're supporting me right?

bakerleclerc sure ig

scuderiaferrari 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

redbullracing no verstappen 🔛🔝

bakerleclerc i highkey agree

lewishamilton hey

©lecz3li — 2026 , 01.17.26 - masterlist

note: LILY AND ALEX ARE ENGAGED LETS GOOOO I LOVE LIFE

fics incoming : mv3 x interviewer!reader or f1 grid x germaphobe reader, and f1 grix x driver!f!reader👀👀