rie

Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.

No.

No, no, no.

Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”

He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.

He’s taller up close.

Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.

“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.

You force your brain to function.

“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”

He nods once, then holds out his hand.

“Jack Abbot.”

Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.

Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.

But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.

Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.

You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”

A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.

Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring. 

A silver band on his left hand.

Your entire body goes cold.

For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.

You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.

A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.

Waiting for him.

Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.

The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.

She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

“Occupational hazard.”

She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.

Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”

You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”

Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.

Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.

You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.

You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.

You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.

So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.

A FEW MONTHS LATER…

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT

By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.

You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.

Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.

You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.

“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”

Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”

The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.

A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.

Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.

But through all of it, you had stayed calm.

You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.

At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”

Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.

“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.

“On my way.”

Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.

Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”

“That’s not what I said.”

There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.

Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.

“You eat yet?” he asks.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”

“A little of both.”

You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.

The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.

Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.

And you know that.

The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.

You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.

TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT

Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.

“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”

“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.

“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.

You’re already there.

Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.

“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”

“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.

You hate how much that matters to you.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.

Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.

The entire department visibly brightens.

“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”

“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.

Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”

“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.

“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”

“I absolutely am not.”

You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.

Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.

“You must be Lifeline.”

You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.

Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”

“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”

Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.

Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”

You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”

“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”

“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.

“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.

You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.

You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.

Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.

“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”

Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”

“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.

Jack ignores her completely.

His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”

“We did now.”

Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”

“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”

Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.

You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”

“You gang up on me constantly.”

“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.

Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”

“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.

“You’re all terrible people.”

His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.

Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.

You’re becoming part of their lives.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER

The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.

“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”

“That’s healthy.”

“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”

Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”

“Rude.”

“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”

“He was wrong.” You pointed out.

“He was technically right.”

“He was spiritually wrong.”

That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”

Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”

Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”

Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.

“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”

Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”

“I’m serious.”

The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.

“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”

The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.

Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.

“Me too.”

2020, COVID PANDEMIC

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.

Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.

The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.

Through all of it, Jack keeps working.

You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.

You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.

To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.

Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.

The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.

You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does. 

Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.

“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.

“No.”

Lena moves first.

“Jack—”

“That’s my wife.”

The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.

It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.

You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”

“No, let me—”

“Jack.”

“She’s still warm—”

His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.

Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.

Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.

COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.

Only Zoom.

Fucking Zoom.

You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.

Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.

While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.

He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.

You cry with your microphone muted.

Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.

You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”

But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.

You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it. 

“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”

Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.

Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.

Not him.

Never him.

So you stay.

At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.

Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.

You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.

You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.

Life continued like his world didn’t just end.

Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.

For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”

You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.

You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.

“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”

“I’m serious.”

You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.

"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."

Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."

A faint huff of breath leaves him.

"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."

That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.

"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."

Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.

"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."

The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."

Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.

"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.

A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.

"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."

Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."

A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.

You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.

"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."

The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.

Even if he never knew.

2021

YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT

By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.

Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.

You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.

Positive.

You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”

You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.

Still—it hits you hard.

Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.

So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.

The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.

You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.

You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.

One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.

Ninety-three? Ninety-two?

You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.

By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.

You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.

Probably the wrong apartment.

Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.

“Hey.”

Your stomach drops.

No.

Absolutely not.

You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.

And there he is.

Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”

“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”

“Lena told me… and Dana.”

Traitors.

You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”

“That is not comforting!”

“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”

You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.

“Jack—”

“Open the door.”

You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”

Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.

“Open the door.”

You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.

"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”

“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”

You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”

“It’s fine.”

“Temperature.”

“One-oh-one earlier.”

“And oxygen?”

You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”

“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”

His jaw tightens, “Okay.”

You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”

Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”

Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You almost passed out opening the door.”

Rude.

You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.

In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"

Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”

“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.

“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”

Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”

Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”

Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”

You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”

“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.

“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”

The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.

Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.

The thought nearly breaks your heart.

Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.

"Drink."

You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."

"Drink." He insists.

"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."

You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"

"No."

That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."

"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."

"...I was trying not to worry anyone."

"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."

You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."

"That's because it is worse."

You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.

"Why are you smiling?"

"You care."

Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."

The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"

"I have food."

"You have soy sauce and olive oil."

"That's food-adjacent."

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."

"So do you."

"I know."

"Have you seen what doctors eat?"

He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."

You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.

Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.

You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.

And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.

Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?

Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."

You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"

"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."

"I had soup."

"You had olive oil."

"That was one time."

Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.

You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.

The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.

2023

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.

Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.

It just did.

There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.

You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."

Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.

Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"

"No."

"You are literally hiding."

You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.

"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."

His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.

Another impossible night.

A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.

By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.

Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.

A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to. 

It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.

Until everyone else does.

"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."

"Parker."

"I'm serious."

You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."

You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.

2024

PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY

The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.

After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.

When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.

Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"

Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."

That explains it.

"How'd you get here?"

"Rideshare."

You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"

Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."

"What?"

"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."

You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"

"Nope."

You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.

"You serious?"

"Very."

A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."

Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."

"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."

"My reputation was already questionable."

"Fair."

You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."

You pause.

"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."

"Lifeline."

"Jack."

"You'll get soaked."

You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."

His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."

"That's not remotely reassuring."

"It shouldn't be."

Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."

Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."

"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."

That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.

The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks.  Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.

Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."

Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.

The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.

2025

NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT

The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.

So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.

Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.

Waiting for Jack to answer.

He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."

Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"

"They're gone."

"Lifeline."

"They disappeared."

"Keys don't disappear."

"They absolutely do."

The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"

You blink, "Huh?"

"Where are you?"

You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"

You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh,  "Jesus Christ."

"It’s not that bad—"

"No."

You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"

"Do not leave with anybody."

"Jack—"

"Do not get into a stranger's car."

"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.

"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."

"Jack—"

"I'm already grabbing my keys."

Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."

"So are you."

"Jack."

His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."

"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."

Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.

Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.

Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"

Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?" 

You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."

"That's not an answer."

"I lost my keys."

"You mentioned."

You immediately point at him, "I looked."

"I believe you."

"I looked everywhere."

Jack softens despite himself, "I know."

Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.

"Where are your friends?"

You blink.

"Oh."

You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus." 

You laugh, "They're having fun."

"They look like a liability."

"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.

"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."

There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?" 

You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."

The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."

You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.

You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.

You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."

"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"

You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.

"Ohhh."

You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."

"That's the doctor."

"No."

"The hot doctor."

You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."

Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."

You groan, "Stop."

"He likes you."

"He does not."

"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."

"That's called friendship."

"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."

Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"

"Apparently not."

He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"

"My friends are terrible people."

"Fair."

You point at him, "Don't encourage them."

"I'm not encouraging anybody."

"Liar."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.

"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."

"The floor did not move."

"It absolutely moved."

"Lifeline."

"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."

You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.

Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."

That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.

The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.

Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.

Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."

You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."

"What?"

His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.

Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."

"They were in my way."

A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.

Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.

The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"

"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."

"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"

"It definitely wasn't this tall before."

Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.

"Okay."

Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.

For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."

Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"

"Seatbelt."

"Oh."

Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."

Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.

JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT

The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.

Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."

"I'm not sleeping."

"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."

"I was thinking."

"You were drooling."

You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."

"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.

By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."

You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.

Jack groans, "Oh my God."

"You drove all the way there."

“Don’t.”

"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."

"Don't." 

Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place. 

By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.

"What?"

"Maybe let's not do that."

You frown at him, "Why?"

Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.

"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."

"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."

"Thank you."

"I am smart."

"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."

Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."

"Cool."

Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.

"Jesus Christ."

You blink, "What?"

Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."

"Why?"

Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.

"Bathroom," he says.

"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."

"Correct."

Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.

"Sit."

You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.

"Drink."

You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."

"What?"

"You listened."

You point at him, "You're bossy."

"Drink the water."

You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.

You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."

Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"

"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."

Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."

"It's literally why we carry purses."

"Pretty sure that's not why."

"It absolutely is."

He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"

"Your mascara's halfway down your face."

Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."

"No, I'm not."

"You really are."

Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.

"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."

The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.

"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."

A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.

"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry." 

His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"

Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.

A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.

The touch lingers slightly.

"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."

The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.

He closes his eyes for a second.

A mistake.

Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.

Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.

The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.

JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING

The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.

You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."

Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.

Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..." 

You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.

Drink water before standing up.

Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."

Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.

Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.

You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.

The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.

"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.

After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.

The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.

At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.

Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."

You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.

"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."

His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."

"Don't."

"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."

"Jack."

"You accused the floor of moving."

"Jack."

"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."

Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"Oh my fucking God."

Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."

There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.

You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."

"You sound surprised."

"You made breakfast."

"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."

You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.

Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.

The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"

You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."

You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."

"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."

The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."

Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."

"And I kind of crashed into your life last night." 

His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."

"I know."

"You called me."

"I know."

Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."

Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.

"You are not imposing."

You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."

"No." His answer comes immediately.

You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."

"But—"

"It's not a burden."

You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."

And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.

Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.

"Exactly."

You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.

"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"

You nearly choke, "What?"

"The eggs."

"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."

Jack stares at you, then laughs.

Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."

Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."

"I'm serious."

"Why?"

You stare at him, "Because it's your room."

"Correct."

"And your bed."

"Also correct."

You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."

"What?"

"I feel bad."

His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"

"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

"It happened one time."

"It happened three times."

"Allegedly."

Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."

"I know."

"You sounded doubtful."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.

For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."

Your eyes immediately dart away.

Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.

"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."

You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.

Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."

You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."

"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."

"Oh, good."

"They should fit."

"Should?"

"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."

The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."

Across his expression is as soft as his response,  "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."

You nod, "Okay."

"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."

Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."

"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."

"I know you."

"You wound me."

Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.

You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.

Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.

The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.

Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."

A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.

"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.

"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"

Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.

Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY

Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."

Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."

"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."

The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"

That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask,  "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."

Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.

THREE DAYS LATER…

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."

"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"

"She switched."

"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago." 

Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"

"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.

A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.

Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.

He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."

Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."

That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.

"I gotta go."

"Lifeline—"

"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.

That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"

A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.

His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.

No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.

While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.

2025

6:00 PM

PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.

There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.

"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.

Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."

Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"

"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."

Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.

"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."

Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."

Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face. 

"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."

Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"

"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."

After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.

Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.

He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.

Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"

"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.

You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.

Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"

"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp. 

"Jack—"

"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"

You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"

Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.

"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking. 

"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."

The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."

Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."

A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.

"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."

Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."

"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.

"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."

Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.

The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"

Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"

You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.

7:00 PM

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.

The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.

You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.

So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.

"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"

"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."

"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.

The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.

"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"

Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.

Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.

One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.

The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.

You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.

He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.

"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."

Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.

You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."

Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"

"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."

"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."

Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.

"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."

Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.

"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."

Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."

Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."

Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."

The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.

"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."

Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.

Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."

His jaw tightens, "No."

"Jack."

"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.

The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.

As if love might finally be enough this time around.

PTMC, ICU — DAY

The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.

The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.

The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle. 

Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.

Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.

So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.

The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.

The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.

His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.

The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"

Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.

Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"

The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once. 

"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."

The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."

Jack glances up.

"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."

The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.

Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.

Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.

"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.

PTMC, ICU — DAY

The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.

A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.

Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.

Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.

Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.

"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.

"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."

You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again. 

Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding.  "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."

Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time." 

You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.

"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."

Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.

Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."

You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.

Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues,  "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."

Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."

Your stomach drops. 

Jesus.

"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."

Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.

"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."

For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.

"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."

Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.

Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."

The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.

Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.

Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."

His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.

Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”

Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."

His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.

"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."

A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens. 

"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her. 

"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away. 

"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."

Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.

"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."

"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.

"It kind of is."

You point weakly, "I got shot."

"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.

"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.

"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."

You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."

He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.

"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."

Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.

"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."

Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.

"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."

"You absolute idiot."

"I've been told."

You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.

Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.

So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.

When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."

A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."

After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.

End Notes:

Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.

It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.

I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.

Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…

Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.

LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this… 

Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight

two.

Frank Langdon was good.

Like, really good.

The kind of good that made senior attendings pause to watch him work. The kind that made nurses trust him instinctively during traumas. The kind that made you grit your teeth every time he pulled off something impressive with that smug look still plastered across his face.

Which only made his arrogance more unbearable.

Because the asshole actually had the skill to back it up.

"Did you hear about Langdon's intubation today?"

You barely glanced up from your chart as Samira fell into step beside you.

"No, but I'm sure he'll find a way to tell everyone himself before the end of the shift."

Samira ignored the jab entirely, completely unphased due to the volume of them she'd heard over the years.

"There was so much swelling you literally couldn't see anything."

You paused, your pen stilling against the chart. "So what, you're saying he did it blind?"

"Completely." Samira nodded. "Robby said he did it perfectly too."

A reluctant pulse of admiration twisted in your chest before you shoved it back down where it belonged with a small huff.

"Nice."

The word came out clipped.

You dropped the chart onto the counter and headed toward the break room before Samira could catch the grimace on your face.

Hour ten of your shift was always when the headaches started.

Like clockwork, tension coiled up the back of your neck and settled at the base of your skull. The fluorescent lighting suddenly became too bright. The overlapping conversations too loud.

You shut the break room door behind you with a quiet exhale and reached for the medicine cabinet.

The door opened again just as your fingers closed around the Advil.

"You hear about my intubation today Ace?"

You rolled your eyes automatically before even turning around as you shut the medicine cabinet.

“I did.”

You grabbed a mug from the cupboard, acutely aware of his gaze following you across the small room.

“Nice work.”

The words were stiff, rolled unnaturally off your tongue, said with an attempt at forced casualness which instead resembled something pained.

Frank blinked.

Then slowly, his mouth curved into a grin.

“Wow.”

You finally looked over at him at that.

He was leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, scrubs stretched tight over his forearms, a smirk present on his face.

“Was that a compliment I just heard? Are you feeling ok?”

This time you rolled your eyes openly as you threw the Advil down your throat.

“I’m mature enough to acknowledge when a peer does something impressive, Langdon.”

His brows lifted slightly. “A peer? Is that all I am to you after all these years?"

He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Describing you as a peer is my way of being nice.”

You could see that a laugh was threatening to spill from his lips.

You turned toward the sink before your own expression betray you. You rinsed the mug beneath lukewarm water, missing the way his eyes tracked down your figure.

“Or maybe you just don’t want to admit that you’re jealous I practically performed a miracle.”

You let out a humourless laugh.

“Don’t worry, I perform miracles too.”

You set the mug down harder than necessary before glancing back at him.

“I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."

You saw his jaw tick slightly, indicating that you’d finally penetrated his thick ego shield.

“You’re a real ball of sunshine today Ace.”

You smiled sarcastically. “Only for you Langdon.”

three.

Frank Langdon loved to rest his arms on things.

Whether it was one arm leant lazily against the nursing station, both folded across his chest when he was thinking, or both braced on either side of your monitor as he loomed over you while you dictated.

His arms were always….there.

It was irritating and more importantly, it was distracting.

Like right now, as a team of you prepped a trauma patient for transport to the OR.

Frank stood on the other side of the gurney, his gloved hands curled around the metal rails as he leant forward. His forearms flexed as he adjusted his grip, the veins there straining, just visible in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Your gaze lingered, traitorous and immediate, tracking the movement of his hands as he tightened his hold on the bed frame. Your eyes ghosted upwards at the shift of muscle beneath fabric, his biceps straining slightly with the motion.

A flurry of images hit you.

His arms around your waist.

His arms flexed as he held his weight above you, steady and controlled, while he-

“Think she’ll make it?”

His voice cut through your thoughts cleanly.

You blinked, snapping your head up too fast.

He was already looking at you, with that infuriating, calm focus fixed directly on your face like you were the only thing in the room that required dissecting.

His tongue brushed briefly over his lower lip. A habit you first observed in med school and had never successfully un-noticed since.

You despised how your body reacted to it.

You turned away too quickly, hiding your burning face under the guise of discarding your gloves into the bin.

“50/50.” You answered, praying your voice was even as you spoke.

You shook your head slightly as you tried to shake yourself out of whatever this was.

You could not find Frank Langdon attractive.

That was not an option. Not a consideration. Not a thing your brain was allowed to do.

You wanted to slap yourself.

“I’m thinking more 70/30.” You heard him remark.

And just like that, mercifully, the fantasy collapsed.

four.

Sometimes, it felt like Frank Langdon could read your mind.

“Incoming trauma, two minutes out.” Dana announced in the middle of the pitt, red phone pressed to her ear. “MVA involving a single car and a motorcycle. The rider’s in a bad way.”

“What’s free?” Robby asked.

“Trauma one.”

You glanced up at Robby as he called out your last name.

“-and Langdon, with me.”

Frank didn’t answer - he was already following you.

You were already scrubbing in as the ambulance bay doors burst open. The gurney rattled violently over the polished floors.

“What have we got?” Robby asked.

“Rider unhelmeted. Found unconscious on scene. Hypotensive en route, tachycardic. GCS eight.” The paramedic answered as they wheeled the patient into the bay.

The room shifted and swelled around you - fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of equipment, the controlled chaos snapping into place like muscle memory.

“C-spine?” Robby asked.

“Immobilised.”

The patient was a young man. Early twenties. Dirt and road rash smeared across his face and chest, chest rising unevenly beneath cut fabric and exposed skin.

“Alright, transfer in three, two-“

Everyone moved together, sliding the patient onto the bed in one practiced motion.

“Airway appears patent but compromised.”

You leaned forward, placing your stethoscope on his chest.

“Reduced breathing sounds on the left.”

Frank was already there on the opposite side, his hands steady as he moved his fingers across the rib cage.

“Subcutaneous emphysema.” He said. “Likely pneumothorax.”

“Pulse-ox is dropping.” Perlah announced. “Eighty-eight and falling.”

“Alright get ready to intubate.” Robby ordered.

“Wait.”

The word left your mouth before you could second-guess it.

Every head turned slightly.

You leaned closer, eyes moving over the monitor, then the uneven rise of his chest, the subtle shift in breathing effort.

“He’s compensating.” You said. “This isn’t primary airway failure yet. If we intubate now without addressing the thoracic injury he'll drop further.”

“Ace is right.” Langdon agreed. “We should do needle decompression first.”

“Left second intercostal space, midclavicular line.” You added. “If it’s tension physiology, that’s what’s driving the instability.”

Everyone turned to Robby, waiting for his call.

The smallest of nods, the slightest flicker of approval.

“You heard them.”

You moved instantly, prepping the site, antiseptic swab snapping across skin, fingers precise as you located the rib landmarks through trauma and swelling.

Frank held the patient steady as the needle went in.

The hiss came instantly.

The patient’s chest expanded easier this time.

“Stats stabilising.” Perlah confirmed.

“Better.” Frank observed.

You exhaled through your nose, already shifting focus. “We still need definitive imaging. He’s not out of the woods, we’re likely dealing with associated haemothorax or pulmonary contusion.”

“Agreed.”

Frank didn’t look at you when he said it.

But somehow, the two of you were entirely in sync anyway.

“Chest tube tray.” Robby ordered. “Let’s move.”

The rest of the procedure blurred into controlled motion - scalpel, incision, blunt dissection, the familiar gravity that settled over a trauma room when everyone locked into the same rhythm.

And through all of it, Frank moved instep with you.

When you moved, he made space like it was instinct. When you reached for instruments, they were already halfway to your hand. When you spoke, he didn’t interrupt - he simply factored your words into the next step.

It was infuriating how seamless it felt, dangerous how easy it was.

“Tube’s in.” Frank said finally.

“Bilateral breath sounds confirmed.” You spoke.

A beat.

Then Robby stepped back, stripping his gloves off.

“Good call both of you.”

You looked up as he pushed open the swinging doors.

“You aren’t staying?”

He gestured between you and Frank.

“I know when I’m not needed.”

Your eyes met Frank’s briefly.

A smile flickered between you before either of you could stop it.

-

The ambulance bay was quieter than the pitt, but not by much. The afternoon sun glared off the cracked bitumen, the distant echo of monitors still lingered in your ears like a phantom rhythm.

You rolled your shoulders back, trying to shake off the adrenaline that always persistently lingered after a trauma.

“Good work in there.”

You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Robby.

“Thanks.”

Silence stretched between the two of you.

His gaze shifted between you and the doors leading back inside.

“You know.” He said slowly after a moment. “You and Langdon work well together.”

You scoffed lightly. “When we’re not at each others throats, you mean.”

Robby’s eyes twinkled with amusement, dipping his chin down to conceal it. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

You exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall.

“Yeah." You admitted. "We do.”

It came out quieter than you intended.

You knew immediately that Robby noticed.

“But if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll deny it completely.”

Robby’s mouth twitched.

“Noted.”

“And, I’ll tell everyone about the time I caught you nearly in tears over a cockroach in the break room.”

Robby turned to you. “It had wings.” He said flatly.

"You still screamed like a little girl.”

five.

Frank Langdon could be thoughtful, when he wanted to be.

It was never loud. Never performative. It didn’t announce itself the way everything else about him did. No smug commentary, no pointed remarks, no expectation of recognition.

It was quieter than that, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

You saw it in fragments over time, tucked into the spaces between the chaos.

The way his voice would soften when he spoke to patients. Or the way he’d comfort them when he thought no one else was listening.

You’d seen him pay for taxi fares out of his own pocket. You’d seen him quietly remove hospital cafeteria food from a patient's tray and replace it with sandwiches from the deli over the road.

None of it fit easily with the version of Frank Langdon that lived in your head.

And that was the problem.

Because the longer you worked with him, the more difficult it became to keep those versions separate.

You were on hour nine of a shift.

School holidays had transformed the ER into something louder, hotter, more chaotic than usual. The kind of chaos that didn’t spike cleanly, but accumulated in layers until the entire department felt stretched too thin.

The air carried a constant noise of beeping monitors, overlapping voices, crying kids, the scrape of gurney wheels against linoleum.

Like usual, your shoulders had started to tighten without permission, creeping up to your ears no matter how many times you tried to square them.

A slow, familiar clamp at the base of your neck. The kind that crept upward until it turned into something debilitating behind your eyes.

You half-heartedly tried to do your physio exercises in the breakroom before eventually giving up and opening the fridge instead, reaching automatically in for the Red Bull you knew was stashed behind someone’s abandoned lunch bag.

You paused.

A ziplock bag sat neatly on top of your lunchbox.

A plain glazed donut stared back at you through the plastic, alongside two Advil.

You stared at it.

You’d heard that upstairs had sent their usual trolley of unethical donuts down earlier. You’d been drowning in back to back traumas, only resurfacing long after all of the plain glazed, your favourite, were gone.

Or so you'd thought.

You looked over your shoulder. Was this meant for you? Surely not. Someone must have just accidentally chucked it on top of your lunchbox.

Your stomach grumbled.

Although, it looked intentionally placed. Maybe you could eat it and if the owner came asking for it later you could just-

You turned slightly at the sound of your name to see Perlah standing in the doorway.

“Robby’s looking for you.”

You hesitated only briefly before placing the bag back into the fridge, all thoughts of the donut dissolving as you heard the trauma code ring out over the loud speaker.

An hour later, the headache had settled in fully.

You leaned against the desk, elbows planted either side of the computer as pain pulsed behind your eyes. The words on the screen blurred at the edges.

You blinked rapidly, rubbing at your temples as you tried to massage some of the thrumming away.

“You need to take your Advil earlier.”

The voice came from above you.

You looked up to see Langdon towering over you.

“What?”

He slid something towards you.

The donut and Advil now sat on a napkin, a cup of water beside it.

"Your shoulders always start tightening around hour nine." He said. "Which means the headache peaks around now because you never take the Advil early enough."

You stared at him for a moment, then your eyes flickered down to the napkin.

"What's the donut for?"

His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"Increased blood sugar helps stabilise headaches." He answered smoothly. "And you haven't eaten lunch today."

You surveyed the donut suspiciously.

“Jesus Christ I haven’t poisoned it.” He huffed as he nudged it closer to you.

“Eat.”

You hesitated for a moment.

"...Fine." You relented as you pulled it in front of your keyboard.

"...thank you."

His eyes lifted sharply at that.

"Don't thank me. This is entirely for my own benefit."

You frowned.

"When you've got a headache you're somehow even more annoying than usual."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"You're welcome."

He was already stepping away before you could respond.

You stared down at the donut for a second longer, your stomach tightening hopefully at the smell of sugar.

What you didn’t see was Frank lingering at the end of the corridor just long enough to make sure you actually took the Advil.

Just long enough to watch you finally take a bite, observing the small act of compliance like it mattered more than it should.

You didn’t know that he’d had to almost physically fight Donnie for the last plain glazed donut because he knew they were your favourite.

You didn't know that he'd been buying the double strength Advil and sneaking it into the medicine cabinet for the last six months because he'd noticed your headaches getting worse.

What you did know, was that it was irritating when he did shit like this without explanation.

Because it reminded you that there was more under all of the bolstering and ego. Something softer, something complex.

Something that made you want to peel him apart layer by layer just to understand what lived underneath.

Even when you absolutely shouldn’t.

six.

You couldn’t escape Frank Langdon’s eyes.

It wasn’t just that he looked at you often, it was the timing of it. You would glance up from a chart, be mid-sentence in a handover, reach for a new pair of gloves, and there he would be. Already looking. Already watching.

Those piercing blue irises never seemed to settle on you for long, but they always found you again. It was infuriatingly precise. Like some internal compass had been set to your presence without your permission.

“Are you going to knock off drinks tonight?”

The voice pulled you back into the present. You blinked, realising you’d been staring blankly at your tablet for long enough that the screen had dimmed.

Holland was leaning against the edge of your desk, casual in a way that was unique to interns, half confident, half desperate for approval.

“Oh uh, I don’t know. Maybe.” You said half heartedly.

“Oh c’mon doc, it’ll be fun.” Holland’s grin widened as he studied you, searching for a crack in your resistance. “Especially if you’re there.”

You huffed a small laugh.

“Nice try Holland, but this one here likes to be in bed by 9pm.” McKay smirked as she walked behind you.

Your brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with that?“

“Nothing, if you’re like 80.” Holland shot back, making you roll your eyes.

“I do go out.”

McKay let out a snort that was entirely unconvinced. “Sure you do.”

You straightened slightly, feigning offence. “I just like to keep my work and personal life seperate, so I can avoid doing things like oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to ponder.

"Falling off a table in front of my coworkers in the middle of a drunken rendition of Mamma Mia?" You suggested, raising a brow pointedly at McKay.

McKay flipped you off cheerfully without even slowing down.

Holland, undeterred, was still hovering like a persistent shadow over your desk.

“So… is that a yes?”

“You interns are nothing if not persistent.” You grumbled.

“I prefer passionate.”

You studied him for a moment.

“If you leave me alone to let me finish my charting, I’ll consider it.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.” Holland grinned, tapping the table once triumphantly, like the matter was closed. “See you tonight doc.”

You exhaled through your nose in reluctant amusement as he finally backed away.

Only then did you look up properly.

And, like you always seemed to do, your eyes met Langdon's from across the room.

Something unreadable flickered across his face - too fast to catch, too controlled to decode. It vanished before you could even decide whether you had imagined it.

-

Later, you found yourself alone with him in the trauma bay.

You were halfway through de-scrubbing when his voice cut through the sterile hum.

“Didn’t realise you had a thing for interns.” Langdon remarked as he yanked off his gloves, the latex snapping softly against his wrist.

You glanced over at him as you united your gown.

“Huh?”

“Holland.” He clarified, like it should have been obvious.

You frowned. “What about him?”

“He was flirting with you.”

You scoffed immediately. “No he wasn’t.”

Langdon stopped mid-movement, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“There’s no way you’re that oblivious.” He said flatly.

Your brow knitted. “I’m not oblivious.”

“You are if you don’t notice the way he looks at you.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How does he look at me?”

“Like-“ Langdon cut himself off. His jaw tightened once before he looked away.

“Never mind.” He muttered, scrunching his gloves into a ball and lobbing it into the trashcan with practiced aim.

“Well if he’s flirting with me, maybe I can wrangle a free drink out of him.” You said lightly.

Frank stilled. Not dramatically, but enough for you to notice the tension settling across his shoulders. The brief curl of his fingers before he forced them open again.

You weren’t sure what reaction you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you got.

When he looked back at you, his expression had hardened slightly around the edges.

“So you’re going tonight?”

You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I might.”

He shook his head slightly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He pushed open the glass doors, holding it open for you to pass through first. “Just thought I’d be free of you in a few hours.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stepped past him.

“Don’t worry." You shot back, "I’ll make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table.”

-

The bar the pitt crew frequented was already too crowded for your liking by the time you arrived.

It was loud in a way that pressed against your skin. The kind of place where conversation blurred into overlapping noise and every surface felt slightly sticky.

You’d been nursing a wine for the better part of an hour, perched on the edge of the booth, perfectly content listening to everyone else talk.

"I'll be back." You murmured to Samira beside you, sliding your unfinished glass toward her.

"Don't get lost." She teased.

You threaded your way through the crowd toward the bathroom, shoulders brushing strangers, the air growing hotter the further you moved from your group.

“I can’t believe she’s here.”

“Who?”

You froze when you heard the sound of your last name.

It wasn’t spoken loudly, but it cut through the noise anyway.

“I know, Holland actually managed to convince her.”

You slowed instinctively.

A cluster of interns stood near the bar, half-leaning into each other, already loosened by alcohol and confidence. All oblivious to the fact you were only a few feet away.

“It wasn’t hard, just had to smile at her and call her doc.”

A few of them laughed.

“She definitely has cat lady energy."

"In all fairness." Someone else said. "She is hot. Just way too fucking uptight."

"Seriously." Another voice added. “You can tell she’s never relaxed a day in her life."

The laughter swelled again.

The words landed like barbs in your chest.

The air felt suddenly too thin, too sharp. Your fingers curled instinctively around nothing.

“Holland, honestly, do everyone a favour and take care of her tonight so maybe she chills the fuck out next shift-"

You turned before you could hear the rest, not sure if you'd be able to bear hearing more.

Heat burned behind your eyes as you pushed through the crowd, swallowing the emotion down so aggressively it turned sharp inside your chest. You rerouted, diverting your course to the bathroom back to your table.

There were plenty of other doctors at PTMC who had sacrificed their social lives for this job. Robby and Langdon were self professed life long bachelors because of their obsession with work. But the difference was, they were men.

By the time you reached the booth again, anger had replaced humiliation almost entirely.

As you approached your table, Samira glanced up at you.

"Hey, you ok?" She asked.

"Never better." You answered smoothly, sliding back into the booth as you let the anger spark into something different.

You gestured to the bar.

"Want to get wasted?"

-

What neither you or the interns had realised was that Frank had been standing further down the bar waiting to order. And he had heard every word.

"Hey."

The interns turned.

Frank stood there holding two untouched beers, expression unreadable.

“Maybe be careful of how you talk about your seniors.” Frank said, too calmly for it to be genuine.

Holland, who’d already had one too many, snorted.

“Come on man, you of all people know what she’s like.”

Frank’s jaw ticked.

“I know that she’s a brilliant doctor who deserves your respect."

"Respect?" Holland laughed. "We all see the way you talk to her." Holland continued, the alcohol flowing through his veins hindering his ability to realise that he was walking into a death trap.

Frank stepped forward just enough that the space between them shifted.

"Don't ever try and conflate your working relationship with what her and I have." He spoke evenly, his voice lowering just enough.

A hush descended over the interns.

"And from now on I suggest you watch your fucking mouth." He continued, his eyes moving from Holland to flit over the group. "Because if I hear any of you breath another bad word about her, I'll personally ensure that none of you make it through this internship."

No one dared to speak or move.

"Are we clear?”

Holland swallowed. “Crystal.”

-

You had never been one to hold your alcohol well, and tonight was no exception.

Three shots and four drinks in and your vision was blurring at the edges. You and Samira had managed to convince Dana and a few of the other nurses to join in, the group of you giggling and slurring like a bunch of underage teenagers.

And still, every so often, despite the bodies and the noise and the light, Frank's eyes would find yours.

You had no idea what time it was when you stumbled out of the bar.

The night air hit your face like relief and exhaustion all at once. You dropped onto a bench without fully deciding to, legs slightly unsteady, head tipping back toward the night sky. The music from the bar seeped out into the quiet street, carried by the faint breeze.

You could hear foot steps approaching.

You didn't need to look to know who it was.

"How's your night going?"

You blinked slowly up at him.

"Was going great until about two seconds ago."

Frank studied you carefully. "How much have you had to drink?"

"You tell me." You squinted.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he sat beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth that radiated off his body.

"I'll answer for you." You continued, hiccupping as you folded your arms over your chest. "Not enough."

"You should have some water."

You let out a fake a gasp. "Is Frank Langdon worried about me?"

Despite himself, a small smile tugged at his mouth. "Worried about dealing with you hungover tomorrow? Definitely."

That pulled a laugh out of you. "Don't worry." You said as you leant back. "I've got the next two days off so you'll get a break from me."

He didn't answer you as you looked back up at the sky, your eyes settling on the full moon hanging above the two of you.

Instead, he watched you for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to place something unspoken.

"Do you think I'm uptight?" You blurted out.

Frank's brows jerked upward.

"Is that a trick question?"

The teasing disappeared immediately when he saw your expression shift.

"Maybe I should just go adopt some cats and embrace it." You mumbled, barely audible as you hugged your arms around yourself.

"Hey." He said, making you look up at him.

"So what if you're uptight?" Frank asked. "It means you care. Means you don't half-ass things."

A pause.

"Because uptight implies...I don't know.." You let out a small sigh as you glanced down at your hands. "That I'm boring or annoying, or both."

"You're definitely not boring." He said immediately.

"But yes." He added after a beat. "You are definitely annoying."

That loosened a real laugh from you this time.

Frank watched it happen carefully, something softer flickering across his face.

"But I like that about you." He added quietly, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

You shot him an incredulous look. "Sure you do."

"I do." He insisted.

"Uh huh." Your lips pursed in amusement. "Don't pretend like you wouldn't give me a personality transplant if you could."

"I wouldn't." This time he sounded firmer, too focused on proving you wrong to realise that he was giving away too much.

"I wouldn't change anything about you." He repeated, his eyes locking onto yours.

"I like you. Just as you are."

The words hung between you for a moment.

You stared at him as your body suddenly completely still.

And then the espresso martinis and tequila shots reminded you that they were still swirling around in your stomach, causing a wave of nausea to rip through you.

The colour drained from your face as the alcohol, the heat, the exhaustion - everything surged through you at once.

Frank noticed it instantly.

"Come on, let's get you home."

-

The walk up to your apartment was a blur of stairs, half-coherent instructions, and Frank’s hand steadying you at your elbow whenever you swayed too far.

By the time he guided you inside, you were well beyond the point of being able to remember anything.

Too drunk to notice the way Frank's eyes trained on the interior of your apartment, gaze lingering on family photos, books, decorations, anything that provided him a glimpse of who you were outside of work.

He got you into bed, moving around your space with a familiarity that made it feel like he'd been here a hundred times before.

You watched as he placed a glass of water and a packet of painkillers on your bedside table.

Then he paused.

Your pink bedspread was patterned with tiny cherries.

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth.

"Try not to vomit all over your fancy bedspread." He remarked.

You looked up at him blearily.

There was something dangerously fond in his voice now.

You watched him hover for a moment, like he was trying to convince himself to leave.

"Thank you."

A smile, small and private, broke through.

"Don't mention it Ace."

He turned to leave when your hand caught his forearm lightly.

He stopped immediately.

"Hey." You whispered.

"What's wrong?" He asked, already shifting back toward you instinctively.

You studied him for a long moment, as if something about his face had changed shape in the quiet. Frank suddenly became aware that your hand was still on his arm.

"Your eyes have a little green in them."

Frank froze.

The words had been spoken so softly he almost thought he imagined them.

He swallowed, glancing down at the floor as he tried to reconcile the emotions flooding his nervous system, tried to formulate a response.

But when he looked at you again, you were already gone - head tilted slightly, lashes fluttered close, breath even, asleep mid-thought.

He stayed there for a moment longer than he should have.

Then he left quietly, closing the door behind him like he was afraid to disturb whatever had just changed between the two of you.

seven.

Frank Langdon could make you laugh like no one else could.

It wasn’t just the words he said. Like everything else, it was the timing of them.

The way he seemed to sense the exact moment your thoughts started tipping somewhere too heavy and quietly redirected them before you could sink too far into yourself, like he refused to let it stay there too long.

Ever since that night out at the bar, things had shifted between the two of you.

Not dramatically. Not in any way anyone else would have been able to point at and name.

But there had been a change in the space between interactions. Less friction. Less sharpness for the sake of it. The edges of your usual back-and-forth softened into something that almost resembled ease - like both of you had, without discussion, agreed to stop pressing on eachother’s bruises.

You couldn’t remember much from that night. Couldn't even remember how you'd gotten home. You only had fragments to analyse - warmth, noise, Frank’s voice close enough to feel like it belonged somewhere under your skin.

"I like you. Just as you are."

That part, unfortunately, you remembered perfectly.

The words had settled somewhere deep and stubborn inside you, resurfacing at the worst possible moments. Mid-shift. Mid-sentence. In the brief seconds before sleep when your brain stopped pretending it wasn’t still at work.

And now, weeks later, you were still carrying them around like something you hadn’t figured out how to put down.

The unspoken truce between you and Frank held anyway.

Sharper jabs were replaced with quieter ones, almost always softened with half-hearted eye rolls and almost-smiles neither of you acknowledged.

If anyone else noticed it, they didn't say it out loud, careful not to disrupt whatever delicate peace treaty had been formed.

You’d been having a good shift, until hour eleven.

Your patient, a young woman with a soft, girlish face that made her look even younger. She’d come in complaining of vague chest discomfort with a documented history of anxiety. No other significant past medical history. Stable vitals on arrival.

She'd been sweet, telling you all about how she had finally worked up the courage to book flights to Italy for the summer.

Then she crashed.

Chest compressions were already underway when you arrived, the rhythm of them loud and brutal in the confined space. Someone was bagging her. Someone else was calling out time intervals.

"Epi’s in." Jesse confirmed.

You were already moving, hands automatically checking rhythm on the monitor, eyes scanning for anything reversible.

Nothing.

Still PEA.

"Again." You said, voice steady in a way you didn’t feel as you swapped in for compressions.

The bedframe rattled faintly beneath the force of it.

Time stretched in that strange, distorted way it always did during arrest, both too fast and painfully slow at once.

You all paused again, stepping away to look at the monitor for another rhythm check.

"Call it."

Robby's voice cut through the room.

"We can still try-" You began.

"You've been going for twenty minutes." Robby voice stayed calm, firm. "Call it."

The room shifted like it always did when a resuscitation failed. That invisible collective acknowledgment that the line had been reached.

You reluctantly moved your hands away from the patients chest, your gaze lingering on her glassy eyes that would never blink again.

You felt your chest tighten.

You glanced down at your watch. "Time of death, 5:17pm."

Your voice remained clinical despite the way your throat had started closing around the words.

Silence settled over the room.

The monitors still beeped softly in the background, almost offensively alive compared to everything else.

"Does she have next of kin listed?"

Robby glanced down at your hands that had started to tremor slightly. Something soft flickered across his face.

"I'll do it."

You shook your head before he even finished the sentence.

"No." Your voice tightened slightly. "She was my patient. I can do it."

A pause.

Robby studied you for a second longer than necessary, then nodded once.

"Ok."

The room began to reset around you, people stepping back, lowering their voices, the clinical transition from emergency to aftermath already beginning.

But your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

-

The wind up on the roof of PTMC was colder than expected. Sharp against your skin, grounding in a way that almost hurt.

You sat curled against the wall with your knees tucked to your chest, staring at your shaking hands.

“Heard you had a rough one.”

You turned your head.

Frank was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets.

“She was only 19.” You murmured, shaking your head. “I just had to tell her parents that their daughter isn’t coming home.”

You turned your head away as he sat down beside you, wiping at your face quickly before he could fully register it.

“I’m sorry.”

"I should have checked for a PE risk or a structural issue or-"

"She presented exactly like most young patients with anxiety do. None of us would have done anything differently." Frank interrupted gently.

You inhaled sharply. "But if I'd just-"

"Ace."

Your nickname, said like that, cut through the spiral before it could finish building.

You looked at him.

His gaze dropped briefly to your hands.

Then, slower, like he was deciding rather than acting, he reached forward and wrapped his hands around yours.

"This wasn't your fault."

The contact grounded you in a way that felt unfair.

The warmth of him grounded you instantly in a way that felt deeply unfair.

You swallowed hard and nodded once.

"I don't know how Robby and Dana are still here." You admitted quietly. "How they just keep... showing up."

Frank raised a brow. "Have you met them? They're both completely unhinged."

Despite yourself, a small sound escaped you - half laugh, half broken exhale.

"I didn't realise unhinged was an official medical diagnosis."

"It is according to me.” He nodded solemnly. “Right alongside basketcase and whacko."

That got another laugh out of you, sharper this time. More real.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was checking whether it had actually worked.

"There we go." He said quietly.

You looked down then.

His hands were still around yours.

"I’m scared to know what you'd diagnose me with." You said after a moment, voice steadier now.

A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"You're your own medical condition entirely." He answered. Pausing as he tried to think of the best way to describe it.

"Ace-itis."

That made you laugh again, properly this time, breath catching slightly at the end, the heaviness in your chest loosening just enough for you to breathe deeper.

Frank watched it happen like it mattered more than it should.

When the laughter faded, the silence between you felt strangely easy.

After a moment, he shifted slightly but didn’t let go of your hands.

“You want to go get a drink or something?”

The question was casual, but it didn't feel like it.

You blinked at him once, processing it slowly through the fog of adrenaline and exhaustion.

A joke rose automatically to your tongue, something defensive, something sharp, but you swallowed it as you studied him.

“Only if the first rounds on you.”

He smiled faintly.

“After the day you’ve had, I’ll even get the second.”

eight.

Frank Langdon could also make you cry in a way no one else could.

Because when he turned on you, it felt like being shut out of something you hadn’t realised you were standing inside of, something that you suddenly didn't want to leave.

It was the day of Pittfest.

It was also the day for new interns and residents, which meant a whole slate of fresh faces trying too hard while the rest of the ER oscillated between mentorship and survival mode.

The halls were louder than usual. Too many voices overlapping, too many unfamiliar footsteps echoing off the linoleum floors.

And through all of it, there was Frank.

You noticed it within the first hour.

Something was off.

He moved like his body was running half a step ahead of everything - conversations, people, decisions. His voice came too quickly, clipped at the edges. His attention snapped between patients and staff with an intensity that didn’t feel controlled so much as driven. Like his nervous system had been turned up too high and forgotten how to come back down.

His pupils were slightly too wide under the fluorescent light, sweat gathered faintly at the back of his neck despite the air conditioning.

And worst of all - his arrogance, usually carefully calibrated, was unfiltered.

Loud.

You caught yourself watching him repeatedly throughout the shift.

Each time, you told yourself you were imagining it.

Then another hour passed.

Then another.

Eventually, you found yourself avoiding him entirely, because something about the way he looked today made you think of a system running too hot right before it failed.

You just hoped that whatever was going on with him would settle and he wouldn’t sweep up too many people in his chaos.

That hope lasted until you heard raised voices coming from trauma two.

You were already moving before you consciously decided to.

Even from the doorway, you could tell the atmosphere was off. A room holding its breath in the wrong place.

Frank was at the centre of it.

One of the new interns, Trinity, stood across from him, her body rigid, eyes wide. You had a brief thought that she resembled a frightened lamb.

Frank’s voice cut through everything.

“-stupid or arrogant, you need to realise that you are a beginner.” His voice was loud and unforgiving.

“Which means your job is to shut up, listen, and learn, because so far today the only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing.”

Trinity’s eyes widened slightly when she spotted you over his shoulder. You couldn’t decide if it was a silent plea or a warning.

Frank turned slightly at that movement.

For one brief second, his expression faltered when he saw you, like seeing you had been pulled back into himself.

Then immediately it hardened again, too fast to hold onto.

You swallowed, attempting to regain your composure as you glanced between them.

“Santos.” Your voice was level as you tilted your head towards the exit. “Dr McKay needs help in Room 4.”

Relief crossed Trinity’s face so quickly it was almost painful.

She nodded once, eyes darting between the two of you before escaping the room like she’d been given permission to breathe again.

The moment she left, the air changed again.

You turned back to Frank slowly, taking a few steps toward him so you were fully enveloped by the room.

He was still standing there, hands half-curled at his sides, like he’d been interrupted mid-impact and didn’t know what to do with the energy still in him.

“What the fuck was that?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“What the fuck was what?”

His tone made you bristle.

“Don’t do that.” You said sharply. “Don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what you just did was completely out of line.”

“Have you worked with her yet?” He shot back, words tumbling out too fast. “She’s arrogant and-and completely incapable of-“

“It doesn’t matter.” You interrupted. “That is not how we talk to rookies. Actually, it’s not how we talk to anyone.”

Frank scoffed, sharp and humourless.

“Didn’t realise you were the tone police.”

The agitation radiating off him made you instinctively want to step back.

Your gaze sharpened.

“What is going on with you today?” You demanded. “You’re all twitchy and acting completely fucking manic-“

You stopped when you caught it.

Because you saw it properly now you were up close. His pupils were too dilated, not situational, not lighting, not stress.

Something else.

Something your brain immediately started assembling pieces around before you could stop it.

Sweats at his hairline, restless movement in his jaw, the uneven pacing of his breath.

And then the memory surfaced - uninvited, unwelcome.

Back pain from when he’d helped his parents move. Been too cheap to hire movers, he’d joked.

A prescription.

You remembered him mentioning it offhand weeks ago - something about weaning off them, something about not needing them anymore.

The realization hit so hard it almost made you feel sick.

You went still.

Frank noticed immediately.

Something defensive shifted across his posture like he’d followed your thoughts to their conclusion before you even spoke.

“Frank.” You said slowly.

Your voice softened involuntarily. Careful in a way that didn’t match the argument anymore. Weeks of quiet moments and softened edges bleeding into the argument without permission.

“Are you having withdrawals?”

There was a beat of silence.

Something flickered across his face.

Not denial first, not anger.

Something closer to pain, mixed with a semblance of something like surprise, maybe at the sound of his first name leaving your lips, or being caught, you weren’t certain.

And then it vanished.

“What?” He said, voice sharp enough to cut, “are you seriously trying to ask me if I’m a drug addict?”

“No, I-“ You started immediately, stepping forward again.

But he was already unraveling faster than you could catch.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Bitterness curled through every word now. “Get your competition shipped off to rehab so you can be the only golden child of the ER.”

Your breath caught painfully.

“That’s not fair.”

"Isn't it?" He studied you for a moment, his eyes intense and unblinking. "This place isyour whole life, it makes sense that you'd be dying to have Robby's attention all to yourself."

The words, slung like arrows, found their mark with deadly accuracy. They penetrated your thick skin, embedding themselves somewhere deep behind your rib cage.

Not because they were true, but because they were thrown like they were, like they were designed to hurt you.

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you.” You said quietly, voice shaking now despite your efforts. “But I seriously suggest you stop talking before you say something you can’t take back.”

For a moment something in him wavered. A crack.

Like he could suddenly see you again instead of whatever he was fighting.

Your bottom lip was quivering now.

For a second, he looked horrified by it.

And then his expression closed again, like a door slamming shut.

“Don’t worry.” He said flatly, void of any emotion as he stalked past you. “I was just leaving.”

You stood there frozen for a few seconds before the tears finally came, sliding down your face in hot, fat tracks.

Anger crashed through you almost instantly afterward.

Not just at Frank, but at yourself.

Because you hadn’t cried when you heard interns say horrible things about you, hadn’t cried when you’d lost a patient. You’d been on the brink, but never quite fallen off the ledge.

But somehow, Frank Langdon was the one to push you off it.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because it meant you’d let him get under your skin in a way that you never thought he would. And now, you didn’t know if you could ever scrub yourself clean of him.

nine.

Frank Langdon left without saying goodbye.

You stood in the descrubbing bay long after your gloves had been peeled off and discarded, staring at nothing in particular. The curtain that separated you from the trauma bay still fluttered slightly, like the room itself hadn’t settled yet.

You didn’t want to move. Didn't want to pull back the curtain and see the blood soaked floor beyond it.

Because if you did, it would become real in a different way. Not just something you survived, but something that stayed.

A dull headache pulsed steadily behind your eyes. Your shoulders ached with tension. Your body felt disconnected somehow, like part of you was still moving even though you’d stopped minutes ago.

Your mind was struggling to process what you'd just witnessed. How many people you saved. How many you didn't.

You swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat.

For one strange second, you genuinely thought you might pass out.

The curtain shifted. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Sorry.”

The voice was quiet and all too familiar.

Your stomach dropped before you even turned.

Blue eyes met yours.

Frank stood in the doorway, still in scrubs. Hair slightly dishevelled. Exhaustion carved into his face in ways that you were sure mirrored yours.

The mass casualty had left no room to think about him as anything other than another set of hands beside you. But now, standing here with him again, every emotion you’d shoved aside came flooding violently back.

“What do you want, Langdon?”

Your voice came out flatter than intended as you turned away again, like movement alone might protect you from whatever this conversation was about to become.

"I came to apologise... about earlier." He said quietly. "That was fucked up."

"Yeah. It was." You said.

A humourless breath escaped you.

"Although now it feels kind of trivial after-" You stopped yourself before your brain could drift back toward everything you’d all just witnessed.

You turned back properly then - freezing when you saw the raw emotion on his face.

"I'm really sorry."

This time, you weren’t entirely sure he was only talking about the argument anymore.

You took a step towards him.

"What happened Frank?" You asked quietly.

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

"I fucked up Ace." He admitted, his voice cracking slightly, like it cost him something to say it out loud.

"Really badly."

Your expression softened before you could stop it, and that seemed to break something in him further.

"I think I need help." The confession came out barely above a whisper as tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.

You took a step toward him instinctively.

"Ok." You said immediately, nodding slowly. "Ok. We can get you help."

"Jesus-" He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like he was trying to physically reset himself. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you... like you pity me."

"Jesus Christ Langdon, I don't pity you I-" You stopped yourself, breath catching slightly as you realised what you were about to say.

"I care about you."

The honesty of it startled even you.

Frank went still.

"You do?" He asked.

There was no teasing in his voice now. No arrogance. Only something small and uncertain underneath it that made your chest ache unexpectedly.

"Yeah." You said, softer now. "Even though it pains me to admit it."

That got the smallest flicker of something, his eyes never leaving your face.

"Which is why we're going to figure this out." You continued, stepping closer again without thinking about it. "Whatever this is, we can sort it out, we can-"

You never got to finish your sentence.

Because Frank Langdon kissed you.

It was sudden - like something inside him had snapped beneath the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

You froze completely at first. Hands half-raised, breath caught, brain refusing to process the shift from conversation to collision.

Frank pulled back abruptly, eyes wide, mouth parted.

“I- oh my god." He breathed heavily. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-”

You grabbed the front of his scrubs and pulled him back down before he could finish.

The second kiss wasn’t hesitant.

It was years of tension collapsing all at once into something sharp and immediate and impossible to take back.

Frank made a quiet sound against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were kissing him back.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. His breathing uneven, chest rising too fast.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head as he took a step away from you, like he needed the physical distance to stop himself. "I can't- I can't do this."

"Frank-"

But he was already gone.

You didn't see him again after that.

Not in passing, not in corridors, not in all the strange little spaces where the two of you had somehow built an entire relationship out of arguments and eye contact and timing.

You found out a week later from Dana that Frank had admitted himself into a treatment program that same night.

And then he disappeared from your life for ten months.

ten.

The thing you hated the most about Frank Langdon was that you didn't hate him.

Not even a little bit, not even at all.

You’d known it long before you admitted it to yourself. But that moment - that kiss- had made it undeniable in a way you couldn’t pretend to ignore anymore.

And that was the problem.

Because hatred would’ve been easier than this constant, aching awareness of him existing somewhere just beyond your reach.

Fourth of July shifts were universally hated at PTMC.

Too hot, too loud, too many fire-work related disasters waiting to happen.

You could already feel a faint film of sweat start to coat the back of your neck as you opened your locker that morning.

Footsteps approached behind you.

You peered around the locker door out of habit, ready to say good morning to whichever poor colleague was stuck with you on this shift.

Your brain short circuited.

Frank Langdon stood there.

Cap on. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Like he belonged somewhere casual, somewhere outside of this building entirely.

Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life for ten months without a word.

You stared at him for a moment.

Then he opened his mouth, your name formed silently on his lips.

You slammed your door shut with finality, then walked straight past him without saying a word.

Your pulse roared in your ears, your heart bashed against your ribcage.

You knew he’d be coming back, you knew you would have to see him again eventually - you just didn’t think it would be today.

You didn’t think it would hurt this much either.

-

The shift was unbearable in the quietest possible way.

Every time you turned a corner, you expected him to be there. Every time you reached for a chart, you expected his voice behind you.

Every time someone called your name, your body reacted before your brain caught up - a stupid, pathetic flicker of hope you immediately hated yourself for.

And then there were the moments he was there.

Hands steady, voice controlled, face carefully neutral in the way only Frank Langdon could manage when he was actively trying not to look at you.

Even then, you could feel his eyes on you wherever you moved.

It made your skin feel too tight.

By hour four, you had already done two traumas with him. Your body slipped back into your old rhythm together so naturally it made you feel sick.

By hour eight, your scrubs were starting to cling to you in a way that felt suffocating.

By hour ten, your tension headache had made itself home again.

By hour fourteen, you thought you might scream if you stayed in the same room as him any longer.

The stairwell was empty when you found it.

Quiet in the way hospital spaces rarely were - concrete walls absorbing sound instead of reflecting it. The air was cooler here, industrial and slightly damp, smelling faintly of disinfectant and metal.

You pressed your back against the wall and closed your eyes for half a second.

Just one breath.

Just one moment where you didn’t have to think about him.

Your eyes snapped open when you heard the door open.

Frank stood in front of you, his chest rose and fell slightly faster than usual, like he’d decided to follow you on impulse and was only now catching up with the consequences.

You straightened immediately.

"I just want to talk." He spoke, taking a step toward you slowly like you were a wild animal he didn't want to spook.

"There's nothing to talk about Langdon."

He paused. "You know that's not true Ace."

"Don't call me that."

Your voice came out sharper than you intended.

His expression flickered.

“Please Ace just-"

"I said stop." You cut him off again, stepping back slightly without meaning to. "You don’t get to call me that anymore. Not after-"

You stopped.

The words jammed in your throat.

Because saying it out loud meant making it real in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

"Not after what?" He asked quietly.

Something in your restraint finally cracked, frustration pouring out of you.

"I wrote to you in rehab." You said, voice tightening. "Even after everything, I wrote to you. And you didn't write back."

Pain flashed openly across Frank's face.

"I'm sorry."

You shook your head.

"You kissed me Langdon. And then you disappeared without a word and then you just - just appear without any warning, like nothing happened." Your voice grew louder as you spoke, trembling despite your best efforts.

"I didn't want you to get caught up in any of this."

"That wasn't your call to make." You snapped back. "I can make my own decisions."

"You don't think that I know that?" He answered, his own tone sharpening. "There's more to this then my addiction."

"I know."

Frank's eyes flared in surprise.

You exhaled shakily.

"Robby and Santos have been glaring at you all day. And I saw the way he looked at you last year before you left.” Your jaw clenched. “It doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

Frank watched you for a moment, his surprise morphing into one of disbelief.

"And you're saying what? You wouldn't have exiled me too?”

"No. I would have been there for you, if you'd given me the chance to."

His expression faltered as he shook his head slightly.

"What?" You challenged, taking a step towards him. "You don't believe me?"

"You hate me." He countered.

You stared at him, then let out a breath somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.

"Jesus Langdon, I don't hate you.” You snapped. “And that's precisely the problem."

A pause.

He took a step closer.

"I didn't plan on kissing you like that."

You swallowed as you looked at him, all your frustration seeping out of you.

"Then why did you?" You murmured.

For a moment he didn't answer.

"Because I don't hate you either."

This time when he looked at you, there was something different. Like he wasn’t looking at you as competition, or a colleague, but something more exposed than either of you had ever allowed before.

"You're all I thought about in rehab."

Your heart stuttered violently.

Frank laughed softly under his breath, humourless.

"You're all I've thought about since med school, really."

"That can't be-"

"It is." He cut in gently. His eyes dropped briefly toward the floor.

“Ever since you sat across from me with your colour coded textbooks and looked at me like you wanted to kill me.” A small smile tugged briefly at his mouth.

Your breath caught.

“That's probably why I was always such a dick to you.” He glanced back up. “Because it was the only time you ever really looked at me."

The stairwell felt too small suddenly. Too warm, too honest, too vulnerable.

"It's always been you Ace.” His voice softened. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”

You swallowed hard.

"You left." You said quietly.

"I know." He said immediately. No defence. No excuse. Just truth.

“I panicked. I wasn't thinking straight."

A beat.

"And I’ve regretted it every day since."

He took another step towards you.

"The kiss, or you leaving?” You whispered.

His eyes heals yours steadily.

"You know which one."

Now he was close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact. Close enough that you could see the small flecks of green scattered through his eyes.

"I don't think I can keep pretending that I don't want you anymore." He admitted.

Silence hung between the two of you.

"Say something." He said quietly. "Please."

The space between you was nothing and everything at once.

"Frank.." You breathed out.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to pretend anymore either."

Frank swallowed, his eyes flickering down to your mouth.

"I'd really like to kiss you again.”

Whatever restraint you still had left finally broke.

You fisted his scrubs in between your fingers, guiding him down to your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t careful this time.

It wasn’t confused.

It was real in a way that almost hurt.

Like years of wanting each other had finally run out of places to hide.

Frank’s hand came up immediately to cradle your jaw, anchoring you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

You pulled him closer against you, one hand threading through his hair. You felt your back hit the wall, a small breath escaping your mouth at the impact.

The stairwell door creaked somewhere nearby.

You both broke apart instantly.

You turned, but there was no one there.

Frank looked back at you, breathing unevenly now, a grin slowly pulling at his mouth.

"You know what I just realised?”

"Oh god.” Your fingers scraped lightly against the back of his neck. “What?”

“I never got to tell you I performed a closed cervical reduction like thirty minutes ago.”

Your eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Completely." His smile grew as he ghosted his thumb over your jaw. "Guess that's two miracles I've performed today."

You snorted despite yourself. "That was terrible, even for you."

"I know." He smirked as he leant forward, his mouth hovering over yours. "You love it though Ace."

Your smile widened helplessly as you rolled your eyes.

"Just shut up and kiss me Langdon."

-

Robby glanced over his glasses to see Abbot making his way towards him, his face slack like he was trying to process something.

“Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?” Robby asked.

“Because I’m traumatised.”

“I think we all are.”

“No.” Abbot shook his head gravely. “Somehow this was worse than anything I’ve seen in here.”

Robby raised a brow as Abbot shuddered.

“I just caught your two protégées making out in the stairwell.”

“Huh.”

Robby glancing down casually at his watch.

“Well I'll give them credit."

Abbot's eyes narrowed. "For what?”

Robby shrugged as he turned back to his screen.

"They lasted longer than I thought they would.”

two.

Frank Langdon was good.

Like, really good.

The kind of good that made senior attendings pause to watch him work. The kind that made nurses trust him instinctively during traumas. The kind that made you grit your teeth every time he pulled off something impressive with that smug look still plastered across his face.

Which only made his arrogance more unbearable.

Because the asshole actually had the skill to back it up.

"Did you hear about Langdon's intubation today?"

You barely glanced up from your chart as Samira fell into step beside you.

"No, but I'm sure he'll find a way to tell everyone himself before the end of the shift."

Samira ignored the jab entirely, completely unphased due to the volume of them she'd heard over the years.

"There was so much swelling you literally couldn't see anything."

You paused, your pen stilling against the chart. "So what, you're saying he did it blind?"

"Completely." Samira nodded. "Robby said he did it perfectly too."

A reluctant pulse of admiration twisted in your chest before you shoved it back down where it belonged with a small huff.

"Nice."

The word came out clipped.

You dropped the chart onto the counter and headed toward the break room before Samira could catch the grimace on your face.

Hour ten of your shift was always when the headaches started.

Like clockwork, tension coiled up the back of your neck and settled at the base of your skull. The fluorescent lighting suddenly became too bright. The overlapping conversations too loud.

You shut the break room door behind you with a quiet exhale and reached for the medicine cabinet.

The door opened again just as your fingers closed around the Advil.

"You hear about my intubation today Ace?"

You rolled your eyes automatically before even turning around as you shut the medicine cabinet.

“I did.”

You grabbed a mug from the cupboard, acutely aware of his gaze following you across the small room.

“Nice work.”

The words were stiff, rolled unnaturally off your tongue, said with an attempt at forced casualness which instead resembled something pained.

Frank blinked.

Then slowly, his mouth curved into a grin.

“Wow.”

You finally looked over at him at that.

He was leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, scrubs stretched tight over his forearms, a smirk present on his face.

“Was that a compliment I just heard? Are you feeling ok?”

This time you rolled your eyes openly as you threw the Advil down your throat.

“I’m mature enough to acknowledge when a peer does something impressive, Langdon.”

His brows lifted slightly. “A peer? Is that all I am to you after all these years?"

He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Describing you as a peer is my way of being nice.”

You could see that a laugh was threatening to spill from his lips.

You turned toward the sink before your own expression betray you. You rinsed the mug beneath lukewarm water, missing the way his eyes tracked down your figure.

“Or maybe you just don’t want to admit that you’re jealous I practically performed a miracle.”

You let out a humourless laugh.

“Don’t worry, I perform miracles too.”

You set the mug down harder than necessary before glancing back at him.

“I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."

You saw his jaw tick slightly, indicating that you’d finally penetrated his thick ego shield.

“You’re a real ball of sunshine today Ace.”

You smiled sarcastically. “Only for you Langdon.”

three.

Frank Langdon loved to rest his arms on things.

Whether it was one arm leant lazily against the nursing station, both folded across his chest when he was thinking, or both braced on either side of your monitor as he loomed over you while you dictated.

His arms were always….there.

It was irritating and more importantly, it was distracting.

Like right now, as a team of you prepped a trauma patient for transport to the OR.

Frank stood on the other side of the gurney, his gloved hands curled around the metal rails as he leant forward. His forearms flexed as he adjusted his grip, the veins there straining, just visible in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Your gaze lingered, traitorous and immediate, tracking the movement of his hands as he tightened his hold on the bed frame. Your eyes ghosted upwards at the shift of muscle beneath fabric, his biceps straining slightly with the motion.

A flurry of images hit you.

His arms around your waist.

His arms flexed as he held his weight above you, steady and controlled, while he-

“Think she’ll make it?”

His voice cut through your thoughts cleanly.

You blinked, snapping your head up too fast.

He was already looking at you, with that infuriating, calm focus fixed directly on your face like you were the only thing in the room that required dissecting.

His tongue brushed briefly over his lower lip. A habit you first observed in med school and had never successfully un-noticed since.

You despised how your body reacted to it.

You turned away too quickly, hiding your burning face under the guise of discarding your gloves into the bin.

“50/50.” You answered, praying your voice was even as you spoke.

You shook your head slightly as you tried to shake yourself out of whatever this was.

You could not find Frank Langdon attractive.

That was not an option. Not a consideration. Not a thing your brain was allowed to do.

You wanted to slap yourself.

“I’m thinking more 70/30.” You heard him remark.

And just like that, mercifully, the fantasy collapsed.

four.

Sometimes, it felt like Frank Langdon could read your mind.

“Incoming trauma, two minutes out.” Dana announced in the middle of the pitt, red phone pressed to her ear. “MVA involving a single car and a motorcycle. The rider’s in a bad way.”

“What’s free?” Robby asked.

“Trauma one.”

You glanced up at Robby as he called out your last name.

“-and Langdon, with me.”

Frank didn’t answer - he was already following you.

You were already scrubbing in as the ambulance bay doors burst open. The gurney rattled violently over the polished floors.

“What have we got?” Robby asked.

“Rider unhelmeted. Found unconscious on scene. Hypotensive en route, tachycardic. GCS eight.” The paramedic answered as they wheeled the patient into the bay.

The room shifted and swelled around you - fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of equipment, the controlled chaos snapping into place like muscle memory.

“C-spine?” Robby asked.

“Immobilised.”

The patient was a young man. Early twenties. Dirt and road rash smeared across his face and chest, chest rising unevenly beneath cut fabric and exposed skin.

“Alright, transfer in three, two-“

Everyone moved together, sliding the patient onto the bed in one practiced motion.

“Airway appears patent but compromised.”

You leaned forward, placing your stethoscope on his chest.

“Reduced breathing sounds on the left.”

Frank was already there on the opposite side, his hands steady as he moved his fingers across the rib cage.

“Subcutaneous emphysema.” He said. “Likely pneumothorax.”

“Pulse-ox is dropping.” Perlah announced. “Eighty-eight and falling.”

“Alright get ready to intubate.” Robby ordered.

“Wait.”

The word left your mouth before you could second-guess it.

Every head turned slightly.

You leaned closer, eyes moving over the monitor, then the uneven rise of his chest, the subtle shift in breathing effort.

“He’s compensating.” You said. “This isn’t primary airway failure yet. If we intubate now without addressing the thoracic injury he'll drop further.”

“Ace is right.” Langdon agreed. “We should do needle decompression first.”

“Left second intercostal space, midclavicular line.” You added. “If it’s tension physiology, that’s what’s driving the instability.”

Everyone turned to Robby, waiting for his call.

The smallest of nods, the slightest flicker of approval.

“You heard them.”

You moved instantly, prepping the site, antiseptic swab snapping across skin, fingers precise as you located the rib landmarks through trauma and swelling.

Frank held the patient steady as the needle went in.

The hiss came instantly.

The patient’s chest expanded easier this time.

“Stats stabilising.” Perlah confirmed.

“Better.” Frank observed.

You exhaled through your nose, already shifting focus. “We still need definitive imaging. He’s not out of the woods, we’re likely dealing with associated haemothorax or pulmonary contusion.”

“Agreed.”

Frank didn’t look at you when he said it.

But somehow, the two of you were entirely in sync anyway.

“Chest tube tray.” Robby ordered. “Let’s move.”

The rest of the procedure blurred into controlled motion - scalpel, incision, blunt dissection, the familiar gravity that settled over a trauma room when everyone locked into the same rhythm.

And through all of it, Frank moved instep with you.

When you moved, he made space like it was instinct. When you reached for instruments, they were already halfway to your hand. When you spoke, he didn’t interrupt - he simply factored your words into the next step.

It was infuriating how seamless it felt, dangerous how easy it was.

“Tube’s in.” Frank said finally.

“Bilateral breath sounds confirmed.” You spoke.

A beat.

Then Robby stepped back, stripping his gloves off.

“Good call both of you.”

You looked up as he pushed open the swinging doors.

“You aren’t staying?”

He gestured between you and Frank.

“I know when I’m not needed.”

Your eyes met Frank’s briefly.

A smile flickered between you before either of you could stop it.

-

The ambulance bay was quieter than the pitt, but not by much. The afternoon sun glared off the cracked bitumen, the distant echo of monitors still lingered in your ears like a phantom rhythm.

You rolled your shoulders back, trying to shake off the adrenaline that always persistently lingered after a trauma.

“Good work in there.”

You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Robby.

“Thanks.”

Silence stretched between the two of you.

His gaze shifted between you and the doors leading back inside.

“You know.” He said slowly after a moment. “You and Langdon work well together.”

You scoffed lightly. “When we’re not at each others throats, you mean.”

Robby’s eyes twinkled with amusement, dipping his chin down to conceal it. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

You exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall.

“Yeah." You admitted. "We do.”

It came out quieter than you intended.

You knew immediately that Robby noticed.

“But if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll deny it completely.”

Robby’s mouth twitched.

“Noted.”

“And, I’ll tell everyone about the time I caught you nearly in tears over a cockroach in the break room.”

Robby turned to you. “It had wings.” He said flatly.

"You still screamed like a little girl.”

five.

Frank Langdon could be thoughtful, when he wanted to be.

It was never loud. Never performative. It didn’t announce itself the way everything else about him did. No smug commentary, no pointed remarks, no expectation of recognition.

It was quieter than that, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

You saw it in fragments over time, tucked into the spaces between the chaos.

The way his voice would soften when he spoke to patients. Or the way he’d comfort them when he thought no one else was listening.

You’d seen him pay for taxi fares out of his own pocket. You’d seen him quietly remove hospital cafeteria food from a patient's tray and replace it with sandwiches from the deli over the road.

None of it fit easily with the version of Frank Langdon that lived in your head.

And that was the problem.

Because the longer you worked with him, the more difficult it became to keep those versions separate.

You were on hour nine of a shift.

School holidays had transformed the ER into something louder, hotter, more chaotic than usual. The kind of chaos that didn’t spike cleanly, but accumulated in layers until the entire department felt stretched too thin.

The air carried a constant noise of beeping monitors, overlapping voices, crying kids, the scrape of gurney wheels against linoleum.

Like usual, your shoulders had started to tighten without permission, creeping up to your ears no matter how many times you tried to square them.

A slow, familiar clamp at the base of your neck. The kind that crept upward until it turned into something debilitating behind your eyes.

You half-heartedly tried to do your physio exercises in the breakroom before eventually giving up and opening the fridge instead, reaching automatically in for the Red Bull you knew was stashed behind someone’s abandoned lunch bag.

You paused.

A ziplock bag sat neatly on top of your lunchbox.

A plain glazed donut stared back at you through the plastic, alongside two Advil.

You stared at it.

You’d heard that upstairs had sent their usual trolley of unethical donuts down earlier. You’d been drowning in back to back traumas, only resurfacing long after all of the plain glazed, your favourite, were gone.

Or so you'd thought.

You looked over your shoulder. Was this meant for you? Surely not. Someone must have just accidentally chucked it on top of your lunchbox.

Your stomach grumbled.

Although, it looked intentionally placed. Maybe you could eat it and if the owner came asking for it later you could just-

You turned slightly at the sound of your name to see Perlah standing in the doorway.

“Robby’s looking for you.”

You hesitated only briefly before placing the bag back into the fridge, all thoughts of the donut dissolving as you heard the trauma code ring out over the loud speaker.

An hour later, the headache had settled in fully.

You leaned against the desk, elbows planted either side of the computer as pain pulsed behind your eyes. The words on the screen blurred at the edges.

You blinked rapidly, rubbing at your temples as you tried to massage some of the thrumming away.

“You need to take your Advil earlier.”

The voice came from above you.

You looked up to see Langdon towering over you.

“What?”

He slid something towards you.

The donut and Advil now sat on a napkin, a cup of water beside it.

"Your shoulders always start tightening around hour nine." He said. "Which means the headache peaks around now because you never take the Advil early enough."

You stared at him for a moment, then your eyes flickered down to the napkin.

"What's the donut for?"

His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"Increased blood sugar helps stabilise headaches." He answered smoothly. "And you haven't eaten lunch today."

You surveyed the donut suspiciously.

“Jesus Christ I haven’t poisoned it.” He huffed as he nudged it closer to you.

“Eat.”

You hesitated for a moment.

"...Fine." You relented as you pulled it in front of your keyboard.

"...thank you."

His eyes lifted sharply at that.

"Don't thank me. This is entirely for my own benefit."

You frowned.

"When you've got a headache you're somehow even more annoying than usual."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"You're welcome."

He was already stepping away before you could respond.

You stared down at the donut for a second longer, your stomach tightening hopefully at the smell of sugar.

What you didn’t see was Frank lingering at the end of the corridor just long enough to make sure you actually took the Advil.

Just long enough to watch you finally take a bite, observing the small act of compliance like it mattered more than it should.

You didn’t know that he’d had to almost physically fight Donnie for the last plain glazed donut because he knew they were your favourite.

You didn't know that he'd been buying the double strength Advil and sneaking it into the medicine cabinet for the last six months because he'd noticed your headaches getting worse.

What you did know, was that it was irritating when he did shit like this without explanation.

Because it reminded you that there was more under all of the bolstering and ego. Something softer, something complex.

Something that made you want to peel him apart layer by layer just to understand what lived underneath.

Even when you absolutely shouldn’t.

six.

You couldn’t escape Frank Langdon’s eyes.

It wasn’t just that he looked at you often, it was the timing of it. You would glance up from a chart, be mid-sentence in a handover, reach for a new pair of gloves, and there he would be. Already looking. Already watching.

Those piercing blue irises never seemed to settle on you for long, but they always found you again. It was infuriatingly precise. Like some internal compass had been set to your presence without your permission.

“Are you going to knock off drinks tonight?”

The voice pulled you back into the present. You blinked, realising you’d been staring blankly at your tablet for long enough that the screen had dimmed.

Holland was leaning against the edge of your desk, casual in a way that was unique to interns, half confident, half desperate for approval.

“Oh uh, I don’t know. Maybe.” You said half heartedly.

“Oh c’mon doc, it’ll be fun.” Holland’s grin widened as he studied you, searching for a crack in your resistance. “Especially if you’re there.”

You huffed a small laugh.

“Nice try Holland, but this one here likes to be in bed by 9pm.” McKay smirked as she walked behind you.

Your brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with that?“

“Nothing, if you’re like 80.” Holland shot back, making you roll your eyes.

“I do go out.”

McKay let out a snort that was entirely unconvinced. “Sure you do.”

You straightened slightly, feigning offence. “I just like to keep my work and personal life seperate, so I can avoid doing things like oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to ponder.

"Falling off a table in front of my coworkers in the middle of a drunken rendition of Mamma Mia?" You suggested, raising a brow pointedly at McKay.

McKay flipped you off cheerfully without even slowing down.

Holland, undeterred, was still hovering like a persistent shadow over your desk.

“So… is that a yes?”

“You interns are nothing if not persistent.” You grumbled.

“I prefer passionate.”

You studied him for a moment.

“If you leave me alone to let me finish my charting, I’ll consider it.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.” Holland grinned, tapping the table once triumphantly, like the matter was closed. “See you tonight doc.”

You exhaled through your nose in reluctant amusement as he finally backed away.

Only then did you look up properly.

And, like you always seemed to do, your eyes met Langdon's from across the room.

Something unreadable flickered across his face - too fast to catch, too controlled to decode. It vanished before you could even decide whether you had imagined it.

-

Later, you found yourself alone with him in the trauma bay.

You were halfway through de-scrubbing when his voice cut through the sterile hum.

“Didn’t realise you had a thing for interns.” Langdon remarked as he yanked off his gloves, the latex snapping softly against his wrist.

You glanced over at him as you united your gown.

“Huh?”

“Holland.” He clarified, like it should have been obvious.

You frowned. “What about him?”

“He was flirting with you.”

You scoffed immediately. “No he wasn’t.”

Langdon stopped mid-movement, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“There’s no way you’re that oblivious.” He said flatly.

Your brow knitted. “I’m not oblivious.”

“You are if you don’t notice the way he looks at you.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How does he look at me?”

“Like-“ Langdon cut himself off. His jaw tightened once before he looked away.

“Never mind.” He muttered, scrunching his gloves into a ball and lobbing it into the trashcan with practiced aim.

“Well if he’s flirting with me, maybe I can wrangle a free drink out of him.” You said lightly.

Frank stilled. Not dramatically, but enough for you to notice the tension settling across his shoulders. The brief curl of his fingers before he forced them open again.

You weren’t sure what reaction you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you got.

When he looked back at you, his expression had hardened slightly around the edges.

“So you’re going tonight?”

You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I might.”

He shook his head slightly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He pushed open the glass doors, holding it open for you to pass through first. “Just thought I’d be free of you in a few hours.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stepped past him.

“Don’t worry." You shot back, "I’ll make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table.”

-

The bar the pitt crew frequented was already too crowded for your liking by the time you arrived.

It was loud in a way that pressed against your skin. The kind of place where conversation blurred into overlapping noise and every surface felt slightly sticky.

You’d been nursing a wine for the better part of an hour, perched on the edge of the booth, perfectly content listening to everyone else talk.

"I'll be back." You murmured to Samira beside you, sliding your unfinished glass toward her.

"Don't get lost." She teased.

You threaded your way through the crowd toward the bathroom, shoulders brushing strangers, the air growing hotter the further you moved from your group.

“I can’t believe she’s here.”

“Who?”

You froze when you heard the sound of your last name.

It wasn’t spoken loudly, but it cut through the noise anyway.

“I know, Holland actually managed to convince her.”

You slowed instinctively.

A cluster of interns stood near the bar, half-leaning into each other, already loosened by alcohol and confidence. All oblivious to the fact you were only a few feet away.

“It wasn’t hard, just had to smile at her and call her doc.”

A few of them laughed.

“She definitely has cat lady energy."

"In all fairness." Someone else said. "She is hot. Just way too fucking uptight."

"Seriously." Another voice added. “You can tell she’s never relaxed a day in her life."

The laughter swelled again.

The words landed like barbs in your chest.

The air felt suddenly too thin, too sharp. Your fingers curled instinctively around nothing.

“Holland, honestly, do everyone a favour and take care of her tonight so maybe she chills the fuck out next shift-"

You turned before you could hear the rest, not sure if you'd be able to bear hearing more.

Heat burned behind your eyes as you pushed through the crowd, swallowing the emotion down so aggressively it turned sharp inside your chest. You rerouted, diverting your course to the bathroom back to your table.

There were plenty of other doctors at PTMC who had sacrificed their social lives for this job. Robby and Langdon were self professed life long bachelors because of their obsession with work. But the difference was, they were men.

By the time you reached the booth again, anger had replaced humiliation almost entirely.

As you approached your table, Samira glanced up at you.

"Hey, you ok?" She asked.

"Never better." You answered smoothly, sliding back into the booth as you let the anger spark into something different.

You gestured to the bar.

"Want to get wasted?"

-

What neither you or the interns had realised was that Frank had been standing further down the bar waiting to order. And he had heard every word.

"Hey."

The interns turned.

Frank stood there holding two untouched beers, expression unreadable.

“Maybe be careful of how you talk about your seniors.” Frank said, too calmly for it to be genuine.

Holland, who’d already had one too many, snorted.

“Come on man, you of all people know what she’s like.”

Frank’s jaw ticked.

“I know that she’s a brilliant doctor who deserves your respect."

"Respect?" Holland laughed. "We all see the way you talk to her." Holland continued, the alcohol flowing through his veins hindering his ability to realise that he was walking into a death trap.

Frank stepped forward just enough that the space between them shifted.

"Don't ever try and conflate your working relationship with what her and I have." He spoke evenly, his voice lowering just enough.

A hush descended over the interns.

"And from now on I suggest you watch your fucking mouth." He continued, his eyes moving from Holland to flit over the group. "Because if I hear any of you breath another bad word about her, I'll personally ensure that none of you make it through this internship."

No one dared to speak or move.

"Are we clear?”

Holland swallowed. “Crystal.”

-

You had never been one to hold your alcohol well, and tonight was no exception.

Three shots and four drinks in and your vision was blurring at the edges. You and Samira had managed to convince Dana and a few of the other nurses to join in, the group of you giggling and slurring like a bunch of underage teenagers.

And still, every so often, despite the bodies and the noise and the light, Frank's eyes would find yours.

You had no idea what time it was when you stumbled out of the bar.

The night air hit your face like relief and exhaustion all at once. You dropped onto a bench without fully deciding to, legs slightly unsteady, head tipping back toward the night sky. The music from the bar seeped out into the quiet street, carried by the faint breeze.

You could hear foot steps approaching.

You didn't need to look to know who it was.

"How's your night going?"

You blinked slowly up at him.

"Was going great until about two seconds ago."

Frank studied you carefully. "How much have you had to drink?"

"You tell me." You squinted.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he sat beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth that radiated off his body.

"I'll answer for you." You continued, hiccupping as you folded your arms over your chest. "Not enough."

"You should have some water."

You let out a fake a gasp. "Is Frank Langdon worried about me?"

Despite himself, a small smile tugged at his mouth. "Worried about dealing with you hungover tomorrow? Definitely."

That pulled a laugh out of you. "Don't worry." You said as you leant back. "I've got the next two days off so you'll get a break from me."

He didn't answer you as you looked back up at the sky, your eyes settling on the full moon hanging above the two of you.

Instead, he watched you for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to place something unspoken.

"Do you think I'm uptight?" You blurted out.

Frank's brows jerked upward.

"Is that a trick question?"

The teasing disappeared immediately when he saw your expression shift.

"Maybe I should just go adopt some cats and embrace it." You mumbled, barely audible as you hugged your arms around yourself.

"Hey." He said, making you look up at him.

"So what if you're uptight?" Frank asked. "It means you care. Means you don't half-ass things."

A pause.

"Because uptight implies...I don't know.." You let out a small sigh as you glanced down at your hands. "That I'm boring or annoying, or both."

"You're definitely not boring." He said immediately.

"But yes." He added after a beat. "You are definitely annoying."

That loosened a real laugh from you this time.

Frank watched it happen carefully, something softer flickering across his face.

"But I like that about you." He added quietly, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

You shot him an incredulous look. "Sure you do."

"I do." He insisted.

"Uh huh." Your lips pursed in amusement. "Don't pretend like you wouldn't give me a personality transplant if you could."

"I wouldn't." This time he sounded firmer, too focused on proving you wrong to realise that he was giving away too much.

"I wouldn't change anything about you." He repeated, his eyes locking onto yours.

"I like you. Just as you are."

The words hung between you for a moment.

You stared at him as your body suddenly completely still.

And then the espresso martinis and tequila shots reminded you that they were still swirling around in your stomach, causing a wave of nausea to rip through you.

The colour drained from your face as the alcohol, the heat, the exhaustion - everything surged through you at once.

Frank noticed it instantly.

"Come on, let's get you home."

-

The walk up to your apartment was a blur of stairs, half-coherent instructions, and Frank’s hand steadying you at your elbow whenever you swayed too far.

By the time he guided you inside, you were well beyond the point of being able to remember anything.

Too drunk to notice the way Frank's eyes trained on the interior of your apartment, gaze lingering on family photos, books, decorations, anything that provided him a glimpse of who you were outside of work.

He got you into bed, moving around your space with a familiarity that made it feel like he'd been here a hundred times before.

You watched as he placed a glass of water and a packet of painkillers on your bedside table.

Then he paused.

Your pink bedspread was patterned with tiny cherries.

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth.

"Try not to vomit all over your fancy bedspread." He remarked.

You looked up at him blearily.

There was something dangerously fond in his voice now.

You watched him hover for a moment, like he was trying to convince himself to leave.

"Thank you."

A smile, small and private, broke through.

"Don't mention it Ace."

He turned to leave when your hand caught his forearm lightly.

He stopped immediately.

"Hey." You whispered.

"What's wrong?" He asked, already shifting back toward you instinctively.

You studied him for a long moment, as if something about his face had changed shape in the quiet. Frank suddenly became aware that your hand was still on his arm.

"Your eyes have a little green in them."

Frank froze.

The words had been spoken so softly he almost thought he imagined them.

He swallowed, glancing down at the floor as he tried to reconcile the emotions flooding his nervous system, tried to formulate a response.

But when he looked at you again, you were already gone - head tilted slightly, lashes fluttered close, breath even, asleep mid-thought.

He stayed there for a moment longer than he should have.

Then he left quietly, closing the door behind him like he was afraid to disturb whatever had just changed between the two of you.

seven.

Frank Langdon could make you laugh like no one else could.

It wasn’t just the words he said. Like everything else, it was the timing of them.

The way he seemed to sense the exact moment your thoughts started tipping somewhere too heavy and quietly redirected them before you could sink too far into yourself, like he refused to let it stay there too long.

Ever since that night out at the bar, things had shifted between the two of you.

Not dramatically. Not in any way anyone else would have been able to point at and name.

But there had been a change in the space between interactions. Less friction. Less sharpness for the sake of it. The edges of your usual back-and-forth softened into something that almost resembled ease - like both of you had, without discussion, agreed to stop pressing on eachother’s bruises.

You couldn’t remember much from that night. Couldn't even remember how you'd gotten home. You only had fragments to analyse - warmth, noise, Frank’s voice close enough to feel like it belonged somewhere under your skin.

"I like you. Just as you are."

That part, unfortunately, you remembered perfectly.

The words had settled somewhere deep and stubborn inside you, resurfacing at the worst possible moments. Mid-shift. Mid-sentence. In the brief seconds before sleep when your brain stopped pretending it wasn’t still at work.

And now, weeks later, you were still carrying them around like something you hadn’t figured out how to put down.

The unspoken truce between you and Frank held anyway.

Sharper jabs were replaced with quieter ones, almost always softened with half-hearted eye rolls and almost-smiles neither of you acknowledged.

If anyone else noticed it, they didn't say it out loud, careful not to disrupt whatever delicate peace treaty had been formed.

You’d been having a good shift, until hour eleven.

Your patient, a young woman with a soft, girlish face that made her look even younger. She’d come in complaining of vague chest discomfort with a documented history of anxiety. No other significant past medical history. Stable vitals on arrival.

She'd been sweet, telling you all about how she had finally worked up the courage to book flights to Italy for the summer.

Then she crashed.

Chest compressions were already underway when you arrived, the rhythm of them loud and brutal in the confined space. Someone was bagging her. Someone else was calling out time intervals.

"Epi’s in." Jesse confirmed.

You were already moving, hands automatically checking rhythm on the monitor, eyes scanning for anything reversible.

Nothing.

Still PEA.

"Again." You said, voice steady in a way you didn’t feel as you swapped in for compressions.

The bedframe rattled faintly beneath the force of it.

Time stretched in that strange, distorted way it always did during arrest, both too fast and painfully slow at once.

You all paused again, stepping away to look at the monitor for another rhythm check.

"Call it."

Robby's voice cut through the room.

"We can still try-" You began.

"You've been going for twenty minutes." Robby voice stayed calm, firm. "Call it."

The room shifted like it always did when a resuscitation failed. That invisible collective acknowledgment that the line had been reached.

You reluctantly moved your hands away from the patients chest, your gaze lingering on her glassy eyes that would never blink again.

You felt your chest tighten.

You glanced down at your watch. "Time of death, 5:17pm."

Your voice remained clinical despite the way your throat had started closing around the words.

Silence settled over the room.

The monitors still beeped softly in the background, almost offensively alive compared to everything else.

"Does she have next of kin listed?"

Robby glanced down at your hands that had started to tremor slightly. Something soft flickered across his face.

"I'll do it."

You shook your head before he even finished the sentence.

"No." Your voice tightened slightly. "She was my patient. I can do it."

A pause.

Robby studied you for a second longer than necessary, then nodded once.

"Ok."

The room began to reset around you, people stepping back, lowering their voices, the clinical transition from emergency to aftermath already beginning.

But your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

-

The wind up on the roof of PTMC was colder than expected. Sharp against your skin, grounding in a way that almost hurt.

You sat curled against the wall with your knees tucked to your chest, staring at your shaking hands.

“Heard you had a rough one.”

You turned your head.

Frank was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets.

“She was only 19.” You murmured, shaking your head. “I just had to tell her parents that their daughter isn’t coming home.”

You turned your head away as he sat down beside you, wiping at your face quickly before he could fully register it.

“I’m sorry.”

"I should have checked for a PE risk or a structural issue or-"

"She presented exactly like most young patients with anxiety do. None of us would have done anything differently." Frank interrupted gently.

You inhaled sharply. "But if I'd just-"

"Ace."

Your nickname, said like that, cut through the spiral before it could finish building.

You looked at him.

His gaze dropped briefly to your hands.

Then, slower, like he was deciding rather than acting, he reached forward and wrapped his hands around yours.

"This wasn't your fault."

The contact grounded you in a way that felt unfair.

The warmth of him grounded you instantly in a way that felt deeply unfair.

You swallowed hard and nodded once.

"I don't know how Robby and Dana are still here." You admitted quietly. "How they just keep... showing up."

Frank raised a brow. "Have you met them? They're both completely unhinged."

Despite yourself, a small sound escaped you - half laugh, half broken exhale.

"I didn't realise unhinged was an official medical diagnosis."

"It is according to me.” He nodded solemnly. “Right alongside basketcase and whacko."

That got another laugh out of you, sharper this time. More real.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was checking whether it had actually worked.

"There we go." He said quietly.

You looked down then.

His hands were still around yours.

"I’m scared to know what you'd diagnose me with." You said after a moment, voice steadier now.

A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"You're your own medical condition entirely." He answered. Pausing as he tried to think of the best way to describe it.

"Ace-itis."

That made you laugh again, properly this time, breath catching slightly at the end, the heaviness in your chest loosening just enough for you to breathe deeper.

Frank watched it happen like it mattered more than it should.

When the laughter faded, the silence between you felt strangely easy.

After a moment, he shifted slightly but didn’t let go of your hands.

“You want to go get a drink or something?”

The question was casual, but it didn't feel like it.

You blinked at him once, processing it slowly through the fog of adrenaline and exhaustion.

A joke rose automatically to your tongue, something defensive, something sharp, but you swallowed it as you studied him.

“Only if the first rounds on you.”

He smiled faintly.

“After the day you’ve had, I’ll even get the second.”

eight.

Frank Langdon could also make you cry in a way no one else could.

Because when he turned on you, it felt like being shut out of something you hadn’t realised you were standing inside of, something that you suddenly didn't want to leave.

It was the day of Pittfest.

It was also the day for new interns and residents, which meant a whole slate of fresh faces trying too hard while the rest of the ER oscillated between mentorship and survival mode.

The halls were louder than usual. Too many voices overlapping, too many unfamiliar footsteps echoing off the linoleum floors.

And through all of it, there was Frank.

You noticed it within the first hour.

Something was off.

He moved like his body was running half a step ahead of everything - conversations, people, decisions. His voice came too quickly, clipped at the edges. His attention snapped between patients and staff with an intensity that didn’t feel controlled so much as driven. Like his nervous system had been turned up too high and forgotten how to come back down.

His pupils were slightly too wide under the fluorescent light, sweat gathered faintly at the back of his neck despite the air conditioning.

And worst of all - his arrogance, usually carefully calibrated, was unfiltered.

Loud.

You caught yourself watching him repeatedly throughout the shift.

Each time, you told yourself you were imagining it.

Then another hour passed.

Then another.

Eventually, you found yourself avoiding him entirely, because something about the way he looked today made you think of a system running too hot right before it failed.

You just hoped that whatever was going on with him would settle and he wouldn’t sweep up too many people in his chaos.

That hope lasted until you heard raised voices coming from trauma two.

You were already moving before you consciously decided to.

Even from the doorway, you could tell the atmosphere was off. A room holding its breath in the wrong place.

Frank was at the centre of it.

One of the new interns, Trinity, stood across from him, her body rigid, eyes wide. You had a brief thought that she resembled a frightened lamb.

Frank’s voice cut through everything.

“-stupid or arrogant, you need to realise that you are a beginner.” His voice was loud and unforgiving.

“Which means your job is to shut up, listen, and learn, because so far today the only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing.”

Trinity’s eyes widened slightly when she spotted you over his shoulder. You couldn’t decide if it was a silent plea or a warning.

Frank turned slightly at that movement.

For one brief second, his expression faltered when he saw you, like seeing you had been pulled back into himself.

Then immediately it hardened again, too fast to hold onto.

You swallowed, attempting to regain your composure as you glanced between them.

“Santos.” Your voice was level as you tilted your head towards the exit. “Dr McKay needs help in Room 4.”

Relief crossed Trinity’s face so quickly it was almost painful.

She nodded once, eyes darting between the two of you before escaping the room like she’d been given permission to breathe again.

The moment she left, the air changed again.

You turned back to Frank slowly, taking a few steps toward him so you were fully enveloped by the room.

He was still standing there, hands half-curled at his sides, like he’d been interrupted mid-impact and didn’t know what to do with the energy still in him.

“What the fuck was that?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“What the fuck was what?”

His tone made you bristle.

“Don’t do that.” You said sharply. “Don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what you just did was completely out of line.”

“Have you worked with her yet?” He shot back, words tumbling out too fast. “She’s arrogant and-and completely incapable of-“

“It doesn’t matter.” You interrupted. “That is not how we talk to rookies. Actually, it’s not how we talk to anyone.”

Frank scoffed, sharp and humourless.

“Didn’t realise you were the tone police.”

The agitation radiating off him made you instinctively want to step back.

Your gaze sharpened.

“What is going on with you today?” You demanded. “You’re all twitchy and acting completely fucking manic-“

You stopped when you caught it.

Because you saw it properly now you were up close. His pupils were too dilated, not situational, not lighting, not stress.

Something else.

Something your brain immediately started assembling pieces around before you could stop it.

Sweats at his hairline, restless movement in his jaw, the uneven pacing of his breath.

And then the memory surfaced - uninvited, unwelcome.

Back pain from when he’d helped his parents move. Been too cheap to hire movers, he’d joked.

A prescription.

You remembered him mentioning it offhand weeks ago - something about weaning off them, something about not needing them anymore.

The realization hit so hard it almost made you feel sick.

You went still.

Frank noticed immediately.

Something defensive shifted across his posture like he’d followed your thoughts to their conclusion before you even spoke.

“Frank.” You said slowly.

Your voice softened involuntarily. Careful in a way that didn’t match the argument anymore. Weeks of quiet moments and softened edges bleeding into the argument without permission.

“Are you having withdrawals?”

There was a beat of silence.

Something flickered across his face.

Not denial first, not anger.

Something closer to pain, mixed with a semblance of something like surprise, maybe at the sound of his first name leaving your lips, or being caught, you weren’t certain.

And then it vanished.

“What?” He said, voice sharp enough to cut, “are you seriously trying to ask me if I’m a drug addict?”

“No, I-“ You started immediately, stepping forward again.

But he was already unraveling faster than you could catch.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Bitterness curled through every word now. “Get your competition shipped off to rehab so you can be the only golden child of the ER.”

Your breath caught painfully.

“That’s not fair.”

"Isn't it?" He studied you for a moment, his eyes intense and unblinking. "This place isyour whole life, it makes sense that you'd be dying to have Robby's attention all to yourself."

The words, slung like arrows, found their mark with deadly accuracy. They penetrated your thick skin, embedding themselves somewhere deep behind your rib cage.

Not because they were true, but because they were thrown like they were, like they were designed to hurt you.

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you.” You said quietly, voice shaking now despite your efforts. “But I seriously suggest you stop talking before you say something you can’t take back.”

For a moment something in him wavered. A crack.

Like he could suddenly see you again instead of whatever he was fighting.

Your bottom lip was quivering now.

For a second, he looked horrified by it.

And then his expression closed again, like a door slamming shut.

“Don’t worry.” He said flatly, void of any emotion as he stalked past you. “I was just leaving.”

You stood there frozen for a few seconds before the tears finally came, sliding down your face in hot, fat tracks.

Anger crashed through you almost instantly afterward.

Not just at Frank, but at yourself.

Because you hadn’t cried when you heard interns say horrible things about you, hadn’t cried when you’d lost a patient. You’d been on the brink, but never quite fallen off the ledge.

But somehow, Frank Langdon was the one to push you off it.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because it meant you’d let him get under your skin in a way that you never thought he would. And now, you didn’t know if you could ever scrub yourself clean of him.

nine.

Frank Langdon left without saying goodbye.

You stood in the descrubbing bay long after your gloves had been peeled off and discarded, staring at nothing in particular. The curtain that separated you from the trauma bay still fluttered slightly, like the room itself hadn’t settled yet.

You didn’t want to move. Didn't want to pull back the curtain and see the blood soaked floor beyond it.

Because if you did, it would become real in a different way. Not just something you survived, but something that stayed.

A dull headache pulsed steadily behind your eyes. Your shoulders ached with tension. Your body felt disconnected somehow, like part of you was still moving even though you’d stopped minutes ago.

Your mind was struggling to process what you'd just witnessed. How many people you saved. How many you didn't.

You swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat.

For one strange second, you genuinely thought you might pass out.

The curtain shifted. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Sorry.”

The voice was quiet and all too familiar.

Your stomach dropped before you even turned.

Blue eyes met yours.

Frank stood in the doorway, still in scrubs. Hair slightly dishevelled. Exhaustion carved into his face in ways that you were sure mirrored yours.

The mass casualty had left no room to think about him as anything other than another set of hands beside you. But now, standing here with him again, every emotion you’d shoved aside came flooding violently back.

“What do you want, Langdon?”

Your voice came out flatter than intended as you turned away again, like movement alone might protect you from whatever this conversation was about to become.

"I came to apologise... about earlier." He said quietly. "That was fucked up."

"Yeah. It was." You said.

A humourless breath escaped you.

"Although now it feels kind of trivial after-" You stopped yourself before your brain could drift back toward everything you’d all just witnessed.

You turned back properly then - freezing when you saw the raw emotion on his face.

"I'm really sorry."

This time, you weren’t entirely sure he was only talking about the argument anymore.

You took a step towards him.

"What happened Frank?" You asked quietly.

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

"I fucked up Ace." He admitted, his voice cracking slightly, like it cost him something to say it out loud.

"Really badly."

Your expression softened before you could stop it, and that seemed to break something in him further.

"I think I need help." The confession came out barely above a whisper as tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.

You took a step toward him instinctively.

"Ok." You said immediately, nodding slowly. "Ok. We can get you help."

"Jesus-" He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like he was trying to physically reset himself. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you... like you pity me."

"Jesus Christ Langdon, I don't pity you I-" You stopped yourself, breath catching slightly as you realised what you were about to say.

"I care about you."

The honesty of it startled even you.

Frank went still.

"You do?" He asked.

There was no teasing in his voice now. No arrogance. Only something small and uncertain underneath it that made your chest ache unexpectedly.

"Yeah." You said, softer now. "Even though it pains me to admit it."

That got the smallest flicker of something, his eyes never leaving your face.

"Which is why we're going to figure this out." You continued, stepping closer again without thinking about it. "Whatever this is, we can sort it out, we can-"

You never got to finish your sentence.

Because Frank Langdon kissed you.

It was sudden - like something inside him had snapped beneath the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

You froze completely at first. Hands half-raised, breath caught, brain refusing to process the shift from conversation to collision.

Frank pulled back abruptly, eyes wide, mouth parted.

“I- oh my god." He breathed heavily. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-”

You grabbed the front of his scrubs and pulled him back down before he could finish.

The second kiss wasn’t hesitant.

It was years of tension collapsing all at once into something sharp and immediate and impossible to take back.

Frank made a quiet sound against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were kissing him back.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. His breathing uneven, chest rising too fast.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head as he took a step away from you, like he needed the physical distance to stop himself. "I can't- I can't do this."

"Frank-"

But he was already gone.

You didn't see him again after that.

Not in passing, not in corridors, not in all the strange little spaces where the two of you had somehow built an entire relationship out of arguments and eye contact and timing.

You found out a week later from Dana that Frank had admitted himself into a treatment program that same night.

And then he disappeared from your life for ten months.

ten.

The thing you hated the most about Frank Langdon was that you didn't hate him.

Not even a little bit, not even at all.

You’d known it long before you admitted it to yourself. But that moment - that kiss- had made it undeniable in a way you couldn’t pretend to ignore anymore.

And that was the problem.

Because hatred would’ve been easier than this constant, aching awareness of him existing somewhere just beyond your reach.

Fourth of July shifts were universally hated at PTMC.

Too hot, too loud, too many fire-work related disasters waiting to happen.

You could already feel a faint film of sweat start to coat the back of your neck as you opened your locker that morning.

Footsteps approached behind you.

You peered around the locker door out of habit, ready to say good morning to whichever poor colleague was stuck with you on this shift.

Your brain short circuited.

Frank Langdon stood there.

Cap on. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Like he belonged somewhere casual, somewhere outside of this building entirely.

Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life for ten months without a word.

You stared at him for a moment.

Then he opened his mouth, your name formed silently on his lips.

You slammed your door shut with finality, then walked straight past him without saying a word.

Your pulse roared in your ears, your heart bashed against your ribcage.

You knew he’d be coming back, you knew you would have to see him again eventually - you just didn’t think it would be today.

You didn’t think it would hurt this much either.

-

The shift was unbearable in the quietest possible way.

Every time you turned a corner, you expected him to be there. Every time you reached for a chart, you expected his voice behind you.

Every time someone called your name, your body reacted before your brain caught up - a stupid, pathetic flicker of hope you immediately hated yourself for.

And then there were the moments he was there.

Hands steady, voice controlled, face carefully neutral in the way only Frank Langdon could manage when he was actively trying not to look at you.

Even then, you could feel his eyes on you wherever you moved.

It made your skin feel too tight.

By hour four, you had already done two traumas with him. Your body slipped back into your old rhythm together so naturally it made you feel sick.

By hour eight, your scrubs were starting to cling to you in a way that felt suffocating.

By hour ten, your tension headache had made itself home again.

By hour fourteen, you thought you might scream if you stayed in the same room as him any longer.

The stairwell was empty when you found it.

Quiet in the way hospital spaces rarely were - concrete walls absorbing sound instead of reflecting it. The air was cooler here, industrial and slightly damp, smelling faintly of disinfectant and metal.

You pressed your back against the wall and closed your eyes for half a second.

Just one breath.

Just one moment where you didn’t have to think about him.

Your eyes snapped open when you heard the door open.

Frank stood in front of you, his chest rose and fell slightly faster than usual, like he’d decided to follow you on impulse and was only now catching up with the consequences.

You straightened immediately.

"I just want to talk." He spoke, taking a step toward you slowly like you were a wild animal he didn't want to spook.

"There's nothing to talk about Langdon."

He paused. "You know that's not true Ace."

"Don't call me that."

Your voice came out sharper than you intended.

His expression flickered.

“Please Ace just-"

"I said stop." You cut him off again, stepping back slightly without meaning to. "You don’t get to call me that anymore. Not after-"

You stopped.

The words jammed in your throat.

Because saying it out loud meant making it real in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

"Not after what?" He asked quietly.

Something in your restraint finally cracked, frustration pouring out of you.

"I wrote to you in rehab." You said, voice tightening. "Even after everything, I wrote to you. And you didn't write back."

Pain flashed openly across Frank's face.

"I'm sorry."

You shook your head.

"You kissed me Langdon. And then you disappeared without a word and then you just - just appear without any warning, like nothing happened." Your voice grew louder as you spoke, trembling despite your best efforts.

"I didn't want you to get caught up in any of this."

"That wasn't your call to make." You snapped back. "I can make my own decisions."

"You don't think that I know that?" He answered, his own tone sharpening. "There's more to this then my addiction."

"I know."

Frank's eyes flared in surprise.

You exhaled shakily.

"Robby and Santos have been glaring at you all day. And I saw the way he looked at you last year before you left.” Your jaw clenched. “It doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

Frank watched you for a moment, his surprise morphing into one of disbelief.

"And you're saying what? You wouldn't have exiled me too?”

"No. I would have been there for you, if you'd given me the chance to."

His expression faltered as he shook his head slightly.

"What?" You challenged, taking a step towards him. "You don't believe me?"

"You hate me." He countered.

You stared at him, then let out a breath somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.

"Jesus Langdon, I don't hate you.” You snapped. “And that's precisely the problem."

A pause.

He took a step closer.

"I didn't plan on kissing you like that."

You swallowed as you looked at him, all your frustration seeping out of you.

"Then why did you?" You murmured.

For a moment he didn't answer.

"Because I don't hate you either."

This time when he looked at you, there was something different. Like he wasn’t looking at you as competition, or a colleague, but something more exposed than either of you had ever allowed before.

"You're all I thought about in rehab."

Your heart stuttered violently.

Frank laughed softly under his breath, humourless.

"You're all I've thought about since med school, really."

"That can't be-"

"It is." He cut in gently. His eyes dropped briefly toward the floor.

“Ever since you sat across from me with your colour coded textbooks and looked at me like you wanted to kill me.” A small smile tugged briefly at his mouth.

Your breath caught.

“That's probably why I was always such a dick to you.” He glanced back up. “Because it was the only time you ever really looked at me."

The stairwell felt too small suddenly. Too warm, too honest, too vulnerable.

"It's always been you Ace.” His voice softened. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”

You swallowed hard.

"You left." You said quietly.

"I know." He said immediately. No defence. No excuse. Just truth.

“I panicked. I wasn't thinking straight."

A beat.

"And I’ve regretted it every day since."

He took another step towards you.

"The kiss, or you leaving?” You whispered.

His eyes heals yours steadily.

"You know which one."

Now he was close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact. Close enough that you could see the small flecks of green scattered through his eyes.

"I don't think I can keep pretending that I don't want you anymore." He admitted.

Silence hung between the two of you.

"Say something." He said quietly. "Please."

The space between you was nothing and everything at once.

"Frank.." You breathed out.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to pretend anymore either."

Frank swallowed, his eyes flickering down to your mouth.

"I'd really like to kiss you again.”

Whatever restraint you still had left finally broke.

You fisted his scrubs in between your fingers, guiding him down to your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t careful this time.

It wasn’t confused.

It was real in a way that almost hurt.

Like years of wanting each other had finally run out of places to hide.

Frank’s hand came up immediately to cradle your jaw, anchoring you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

You pulled him closer against you, one hand threading through his hair. You felt your back hit the wall, a small breath escaping your mouth at the impact.

The stairwell door creaked somewhere nearby.

You both broke apart instantly.

You turned, but there was no one there.

Frank looked back at you, breathing unevenly now, a grin slowly pulling at his mouth.

"You know what I just realised?”

"Oh god.” Your fingers scraped lightly against the back of his neck. “What?”

“I never got to tell you I performed a closed cervical reduction like thirty minutes ago.”

Your eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Completely." His smile grew as he ghosted his thumb over your jaw. "Guess that's two miracles I've performed today."

You snorted despite yourself. "That was terrible, even for you."

"I know." He smirked as he leant forward, his mouth hovering over yours. "You love it though Ace."

Your smile widened helplessly as you rolled your eyes.

"Just shut up and kiss me Langdon."

-

Robby glanced over his glasses to see Abbot making his way towards him, his face slack like he was trying to process something.

“Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?” Robby asked.

“Because I’m traumatised.”

“I think we all are.”

“No.” Abbot shook his head gravely. “Somehow this was worse than anything I’ve seen in here.”

Robby raised a brow as Abbot shuddered.

“I just caught your two protégées making out in the stairwell.”

“Huh.”

Robby glancing down casually at his watch.

“Well I'll give them credit."

Abbot's eyes narrowed. "For what?”

Robby shrugged as he turned back to his screen.

"They lasted longer than I thought they would.”

you clench around him on purpose.

he chokes. full-body shuddering. “a-ah! don’t—don’t do that yet, please, i’ll—shit, i’ll cum too fast”

“already?” you whisper. “come on, let me enjoy this a little…” you pout, looking down at him, biting your lip. you move your hips back and forth, moaning softly, “you’re so big, gojo… stretching me so sweet”

he groans, long and wrecked, arms wrapping around your waist to yank you flush against his chest. Face buried in your neck like he’s hiding. “fuck, don’t say it like that —” his voice cracks on the last word, and then he’s mumbling against your skin, hot and frantic. “you’re so warm— so fucking wet… I can’t think straight when you’re on me like this… please don’t stop, baby, please”

you start moving again. slow grinds, little circles now and then. nothing otherworldy. but he’s already babbling.

“s’too fucking good— love how you squeeze me, love how you, ah, ride me, fuck, i’m yours, i’m so fucking yours—” his hands roam everywhere: up your back, down to grip your ass, then back up to cradle your face so he can kiss you. messy and needy. “don’t you dare leave after, ‘kay? i’ll— shit—i’ll do whatever, baby, please…”

you pick up the pace just a little and his whole body buzzes, thighs trembling under you.

“g’nna cum—baby, ‘m gonna—fuck, i can’t hold it—” he sounds panicked, like he’s actually fighting his own orgasm because he doesn’t want it to end.

you lean close — once you’re close to come as well — to whisper right against his ear: “then cum for me, gojo. make me feel good”

that does it for him.

his eyes snap wide— pupils blown, lashes wet, and he comes with a long, shaking moan that cracks into your name. hips stuttering, arms crushing you to his chest, spilling inside you like he’s never going to stop. “fuck—love you, love this pussy-“

when the aftershocks finally fade, he doesn’t push you off. doesn’t roll over and grab his phone like the rumors say he does.

instead he flips you gently so you’re tucked against him, still buried deep. long limbs cage you in. his face smushed between your tits. he’s breathing hard, like he just ran a whole marathon.

you card fingers through his damp hair. “that was something.”

he huffs a laugh, embarrassed. “don’t you ever say a word about this” he mutters, “i’d be dead if you do.”

is this the same guy who was bragging downstairs about never catching feelings and fucking left and right?

You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.

“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.

But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.

In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.

“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”

“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”

You’re not even wearing any earbuds.

He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.

It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. 

Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them, you had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.

But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.

Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.

Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.

You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.

He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.

Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.

It’s infuriating.

But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences. 

No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.

No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.

Why?

Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.

It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.

It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.

Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.

Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.

The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.

Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.

He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.

Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.

Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.

He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.

When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,

—getting you in his bed.

Your lieutenant's acting strange.

Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.

It's suspicious as fuck.

You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)

So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.

Exhibit A.

Standing up for you.

The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?

These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.

"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"

The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.

You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.

"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.

"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"

Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.

"Let's see how good you are then."

The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.

Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.

Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?

Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.

(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)

Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.

Exhibit B.

Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?

"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."

An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.

"My bloodline? Not happening."

He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.

There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.

"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"

"Got plenty," he says.

The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.

"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.

It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.

If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.

"You volunteerin'?"

Your brain short-circuits.

What?

Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.

Shit hits the fan faster than you can gather your thoughts.

Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.

"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"

You don't need to be told twice.

There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.

And then, Exhibit C.

This is how it culminates.

Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.

You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.

“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.

“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.

The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing! It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.

Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.

A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.

You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.

Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.

Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.

You did it.

Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.

It occurs to you then the position you're in.

Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.

He's so warm.

An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.

Big mistake.

Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.

You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.

A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.

There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.

Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.

"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.

"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."

You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.

Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.

How did you end up here?

Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?

Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?

You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.

It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?

(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)

Knock knock.

The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.

Ghost stands there, towering over you.

"Alright, Sergeant?"

His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.

"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."

The silence that falls between you is unsettling.

“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.

“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.

You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”

He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”

Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”

“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”

Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.

“Yes or no, Sergeant?”

His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“…N-no, I—”

“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”

He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.

Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.

He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.

But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.

You chase him when he pulls back.

“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.

"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"

He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.

"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."

You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"

Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.

"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.

Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.

"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."

You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.

Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!

"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."

He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.

Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.

The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.

Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?

It’s unbearable how turned on you are.

Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.

Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.

Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.

Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.

When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.

"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."

You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"

He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.

If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.

Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.

"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.

But then he stills.

Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.

"W-why'd you stop—,"

"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.

"Huh?"

"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."

Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“

You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.

"Answer the question, Sergeant."

Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.

"Mmhh—"

The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.

"Please, Lt.—"

"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."

And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?

You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.

"C'mon, pet," Ghost encourages you. "Know y'want it."

Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.

"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."

The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.

"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.

It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.

The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.

Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.

He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.

“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.

“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”

He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.

"Jerk— hngh!"

Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.

You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.

(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?

It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)

His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.

It's all too much for you to take.

When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.

"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.

He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.

With the crash comes some of your rationality.

"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.

"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."

You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"

He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.

"Don't you?"

Don't you?

Your breath catches in your chest.

And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?

His name? His face?

Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?

Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.

You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.

"You with me, pet?"

Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.

"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."

You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.

“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"

The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.

"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."

Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.

"—off," you manage to say between breaths.

Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.

His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.

"Scared?" He teases.

You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.

"I've had bigger," you lie.

He tilts his head. "S'that right?"

Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.

Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.

He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.

"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"

You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."

"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.

"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.

"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."

Fucking. Asshole!

Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."

You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.

Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.

His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.

“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”

"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.

"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.

"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.

It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.

Simon doesn't stop teasing you.

"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.

"Cock's got your tongue?"

"F-fu-ungh—"

Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.

He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.

"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."

"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.

It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.

He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.

You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.

His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.

"Come f'me, pet."

And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.

Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.

When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.

Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.

“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.

But there’s no real venom in your voice.

Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.

“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”

You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.

Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.

"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"

You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.

His quiet chuckle rumbles deep in your ear.

Fucking prick.