‹ sai ˖ ࣪ ˒ 𖧁

“Eye movement detected.”

Brightness blinded you from above as you blinked away a glacier of at least a decade's worth of sleep dust. Everything was so heavy, like a lead blanket cementing you to the mattress. You could hear the same sterile voice repeat itself over and over, not satisfied with your dazed silence as it slowly pulls out the feeding tube from your stomach. “What is one plus one?” The thing clogging up your throat is removed also, followed by more noise, more questions. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth, swiping at the claw above, it dodges the attack. So you’re forced to roll over, half a body limp off the side of a bed, ejecting its sustenance to splatter on the ground. Some drools from your nose, all you can taste is the vomit as another wave of nausea hits you.

“Incorrect. Contaminant detected.”

The arm takes you by the hood of the sleeping bag, momentarily choking you in its pursuit of getting you back onto the table. It is then you realise the plastic body suit underneath that is against your bare skin. You are in your underwear, in a plastic bag, in a sleeping bag. Looking up, you find your crew’s beds empty. Still waking and confused, mouth too numb to focus on words just yet, you try to say something. Only resulting in uninterpretable babble, the frustrated tears do little to help the situation. After all, shouldn't people be here, helping?

“GRACE. HUMAN. Human awake, awake!”

You hear an echoing tumble towards you from the other end of the ship, the voice was unfamiliar, giddy. “Grace! Come. Come. Come.” You were relieved, happy to be heard and have someone answer. They were safe, so others survived with them. What you weren’t expecting when they turned the corner was a large angular hamster ball barrelling towards you. Speaking too. “Hello, my name is Rocky. Rocky is my name. Statement”

You parroted the word back best you could, tongue still feeling limp, “state-men. Tuh.” You tried at least, continuing to attempt a pencil roll to freedom and proper clothes, determined to peel off the damp plastic bodysuit. “Human slow, brain damaged in sleep. Sleep damage brain, question?” Your eyes had trouble focusing on what you were looking at, the lights reflected off the ball’s surface, spreading out like a star across your vision.

Ryland followed soon after, sprinting into his now co-surviving crew member, mid lean. “I’m here, what - Woah. WOAH, hey.” He was panting, hands on his knees, catching his breath for a moment. Wiping his nose he takes a step forward, you shimmy back, forgetting about the limited width of the table. “Nope, maybe don’t do - yeah, that. Okay.”

You fell.

“Umm, Mary.” Grace hadn’t get taken in the fact that he was no longer alone, unable to really look at you, choosing to pace back and forth the room instead. “Please return to the table, Doctor. Body is not yet fully functional.” Rocky approached the liquid, melting across the floor. Poking at it with his claw through the permeable window. “Squidgy secretions, humans much disgust even after eat.”

“No, Rocky!”

The ship wasn’t as you remember. In the most polite terms, Grace lived like a pig in a pigsty, somehow Rocky was the clean freak roommate for having standards. Though Grace did try to keep you confined to the med bay to buy himself time for a quick clean up, more so just shoving everything in random drawers and various containers. He was praying for any space God to strike him down when you found a pair of his boxers on the floor of the lab. It’s not like Rocky even knew what they were.

“So you remember everything?” Grace had brought you your storage bag, with some folded clothes on top. You were eternally grateful, it only slightly disturbed you that Rocky could see through walls while you were sleeping or changing. “Don’t you?” Your crew mates were waiting on the other side of the room for you to finish changing in the sleeping bay. “No?” Ryland had explained his situation to you, but you could only offer so much information, you were familiar with each other but not close enough for you to know much about his personal life. Rocky had taken a liking to Grace’s friend.

“Doctor is smart, Grace is stupid. Stupid. Stuuupid.”

“I’m a Doctor too.”

“Doctor isn’t actually my name, Rocky.”

You were the Flight Engineer, so when you saw the primary command centre you were not pleased. “What the hell did you do to my ship?” Climbing into the pilot seat, you move forward, then back again. Reaching to the left and then the right. Scowl planted heavily in your features with enough definition Rocky could see it. “Did you - You fucked with my seat settings? Come on, man.”

“Pilot detected.”

You adjust the ship's rotation with ease, scrolling through the map to figure out where in the journey you were. “New human good pilot, Grace bad. Bad. Bad.” Smiling down at the ball pressed up against the side of your chair, your mood shifts completely, “thank you, Rocky.” Despite the lack of face or eyes, you could feel how intensely the alien was watching your movements. Grace was busy pouting. “You can’t have a favourite, that's not fair, I steered this thing with minimal training.” Huffing out a laugh, you dismiss his fears of you stealing his hat bro.

“It’s not favouritism.”

“Then why does he want you sleeping closer to the dome?”

“I’m the better view.”

That was also a new development, sleeping together. Not together together, obviously. Grace would probably collapse in on himself if you ever even joked about it, so you saved him the embarrassment. But it was nice just being close to someone, especially after learning about your passed comrades. He was the only human within reach, a part of you wanted to believe you’d still find him this attractive on earth as well, instead of a massive doofus. Cuddling took your mind off it, having created a tangled nest of sorts next to Rocky’s enclosure you and Ryland shared every night.

It was just routine now.

“Ry?”

You’d cornered him in the observation lounge, It was set to the beach loop again. “Are you done bullying me now?” Grace was only half joking, you joined him, placing the coffee mug next to his knee. “It wasn’t bullying, and I've got an apology.” You added four sugars, just how he liked it. “Accepted.” On your way up from standing you stop by his ear, mumbling, “you’re a nice view too.” The man sets down his cup, looking at the cream as it mixes in with the steaming brown drink. Stalling.

“What.”

“Bye.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Rocky.”

Chapter One: Shift Change

YOUR POV:

You were halfway through convincing a six-year-old that stitches were not a government conspiracy when your phone buzzed in the side pocket of your child life bag. You ignored it. Not because you lacked curiosity. Because Miles Warren had one hand clamped beneath his chin, one suspicious eye fixed on the suture tray, and the posture of a man preparing to report Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to whoever regulated betrayal, he was six. Furious enough to be forty-five.

“No one is sewing my face,” Miles announced.

Dr. Mel King looked up from the rolling stool near the bedside, where she had been reviewing his chart with the focused gentleness that made kids trust her faster than they expected to.

“No one is sewing your face without explaining it first,” you said.

Miles narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like trick words.”

“Fair,” you said, because it absolutely did.

His mother sat beside the bed with one hand hovering near his sneaker, wearing the exhausted, hopeful expression of a parent who had already tried snacks, bargaining, and one deeply unsuccessful promise involving extra screen time. Perlah stood near the counter, quietly arranging supplies with the calm efficiency of someone who had already survived three versions of this exact argument before lunch.

You smiled at Miles and reached into your bag. “I’m going to tell you the truth in kid words,” you said.

Miles’s hand loosened slightly. “Kid words?”

“Yep.” You pulled out two options and held them up. “You can hold the squishy dinosaur or the blue stress ball while we talk.”

Miles studied both with the gravity of someone choosing legal representation. Mel leaned back slightly on the stool, giving him time.

The dinosaur was green, soft, and vaguely cross-eyed. The stress ball was shaped like a globe and had seen better days.

Miles pointed with his free hand. “Dinosaur.”

“Strong choice,” you said, placing it gently in his lap.

Miles picked it up and squeezed. “What’s his name?”

You looked at the dinosaur with grave consideration. “That depends. Is he a doctor dinosaur or a regular dinosaur?”

Miles blinked. “A doctor.”

“Then Dr. Pickles,” you answered.

Perlah’s mouth twitched. Mel’s eyes brightened in immediate approval.

Miles looked down at the dinosaur, deeply unimpressed. “That’s a bad doctor name.”

“You’re right,” you said. “He’s had some complaints.”

Miles’s mother let out a soft, relieved breath that almost became a laugh.

Mel nodded once, as if this was clinically relevant. “Dr. Pickles is currently under peer review.”

Miles looked at Mel. “What does that mean?”

“It means other doctors are checking his work,” Mel said.

You nodded toward the dinosaur. “And his attitude.”

Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles again. His shoulders lowered by half an inch.

You counted that as progress. Your phone buzzed again. You ignored that, too.

Probably Jack. Definitely Jack. Which meant the text was probably about ginger ale, crackers, decaf coffee, the mint candies he had started keeping in places you had not known mint candies could be kept, or the fact that you had slept for roughly four hours and then stared at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed you.

Jack had not been overbearing about the pregnancy. Not exactly. He had been Jack about it. Which meant he noticed everything, filed it away, and quietly rearranged the world by six inches so it bothered you less. He knew you still adored coffee and had accepted decaf with all the grace of a woman being exiled from her homeland. He knew you got jealous every time someone walked past with a real latte. He knew you had wanted fries for three days last week and then gagged the second a takeout container opened near you.

He knew the specific face you made when you were trying to decide if a food sounded possible or if your stomach had already declared war. He knew you were tired. He knew you were trying.

That was the part that got you.

Jack never treated the pregnancy like you were fragile. He treated it like you were doing something hard, and he wanted to be useful. You loved him so much that it made you deeply irritated.

“You said truth,” Miles reminded you.

“I did.” You shifted closer, keeping your voice calm. “First, Perlah is going to clean your chin. That part might feel cold and wet. It might sting a little because cuts are rude.”

Miles’s eyes moved to Perlah. Perlah held up the gauze to show him.

“Then,” you continued, “Dr. King is going to use medicine to help the skin around the cut get sleepy.”

Miles’s face tightened. “How?”

You did not soften the answer into a lie. Kids usually knew when adults were sanding off the sharp edges of truth. They could feel the missing parts. “With a poke,” you said.

Miles stiffened. His mother’s hand twitched toward him, then stopped.

You kept your attention on Miles. “It is okay to not like that part.”

“I don’t like that part,” Miles said immediately.

You nodded. “Excellent honesty.”

“It sounds terrible,” Miles grumbled.

“It is not my favorite design choice either,” you said.

Mel hugged the chart lightly to her chest, like she was restraining herself from laughing. “Medicine has several design flaws.”

Miles’s mouth twitched before he remembered to be outraged. “Medicine is stupid.”

“Sometimes,” you agreed. “But the poke is fast, and then the sleepy medicine helps the stitches hurt less.”

Miles looked at Mel. “How many stitches?”

Mel shifted closer on the stool, her expression open and serious. “Probably three.”

Miles stared at her. Mel held up three fingers. “Maybe four if your chin decides to be dramatic.”

Miles looked personally offended by his own chin.

You held up your fingers. “Here are your choices. You can watch what’s happening, or you can look at your mom. You can count, or I can tell you each step before it happens. You can squeeze Dr. Pickles, or you can squeeze your mom’s hand.”

Miles considered this. His mother leaned closer. “You can squeeze my hand as hard as you need, bud.”

Miles looked suspicious. “What if I break it?”

His mother smiled in that brave way parents did when they were trying not to cry in front of their children. “Then I’ll get stitches too.”

“That’s not funny,” Miles said.

“No,” she agreed. “It was medium funny.”

Miles gave this serious thought.

Your phone buzzed a third time.

Mel’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag. Mel saw things. Not loudly. Not with the hungry curiosity of someone looking for gossip. She noticed the way a room shifted, the way a voice changed, the way someone’s hand moved toward pain before they remembered other people could see.

Quietly. Accurately. A little dangerously.

You reached into the front pocket of your bag for your laminated prep cards, and your fingers brushed the edge of a saltine sleeve. You paused. Jack. Of course. He had tucked crackers into the pocket that morning while you were standing in the kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts, staring mournfully at his real coffee like it had betrayed you by existing. Not the main pocket. That would risk crumbs near your stickers and fidgets. The outside pocket. Because Jack Abbot was an emotionally devastating maniac about practical details.

You had started dressing differently two weeks ago. Not dramatically. Nothing that would look like a confession to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention. Looser sweaters. Longer cardigans. Scrub tops that skimmed instead of clung. At first, it had been practical. Your body had changed quietly, then all at once. One morning, you had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted just enough to see the new curve beneath your ribs, and Jack had gone still in the doorway behind you. You had seen his face in the mirror. Not surprise. Not fear. Just love. So much of it, so sudden and bare, that your eyes filled before you could tell yourself not to be ridiculous.

Jack had crossed the room without a word and wrapped both arms around you from behind, one hand settling carefully over the place where your son was beginning to make himself known.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you had said, already crying.

His chin had brushed your shoulder. “Like what?”

“Like you’re happy,” you replied through tears.

Jack had gone quiet for a second. Then his thumb moved once over your stomach, barely there. “I am.”

That had made you cry harder, obviously. Jack had held you through it with the grim patience of a man accepting consequences for being too sincere before coffee.

Now, in Miles’s exam room, you tugged the hem of your cardigan lower without thinking. Mel’s eyes dropped for half a second to the visible corner of the cracker packet, then briefly to your cardigan. Then she looked back at Miles. She did not say anything. That was somehow worse.

You pulled out the prep cards and turned back to the bed. “Okay. This card shows what stitches look like when they’re still in the package.”

Miles leaned forward despite himself.

You showed him the card, then the next one. “These are not like sewing clothes,” you said. “No giant needle. No sewing machine. No one is turning you into pants.”

Miles stared at you and almost smiled. “Who would turn me into pants?”

“No one in this room,” Perlah said.

Miles glanced at Mel. Mel shook her head. “I’m not qualified for pants.”

Miles looked marginally reassured.

Something shifted low in your abdomen. Small. Strange. Not painful. Not sharp. Just enough to make you pause with your thumb resting against the edge of the laminated card. It was still new enough that your body had not figured out how to make it casual. A flutter. A roll. A quiet internal reminder from someone who had recently developed the habit of making his presence known at inconvenient times. Yesterday morning, while Jack was making breakfast, it had startled you badly enough that you had stopped mid-sentence.

Jack had gone still across the kitchen, butter knife in hand, eyes already on you. You had told him it was nothing. He had not believed you for one second.

Now, in Miles’s exam room, you let one hand drift to the lower edge of your cardigan for half a breath. Then you moved it away.

Mel was looking at the chart. Mostly. “You okay?” she asked.

You lifted the next card. “Yep.”

Mel nodded. She did not challenge you. She did not stare. She only tucked one foot under the stool and watched Miles again, giving you the grace of not making your body the center of the room.

You appreciated that. You also did not trust it.

Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles. “What if I cry?”

You looked back at him, grateful for the question. “Then you cry.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you said. “Crying is allowed.”

Perlah stepped closer with the cleaning supplies. “I cry when my coffee order is wrong.”

A sharp little pang of envy hit before you could stop it. Coffee. Real coffee. Full-caffeine, glorious, beautiful coffee. You missed it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for long-lost lovers and discontinued favorite lipsticks.

Miles looked at Perlah as if this were possibly the most adult thing anyone had ever admitted to him.

Mel nodded. “I cried once because a patient gave me a sticker and told me I was doing a good job.”

Miles looked at you.

“I cried last week because someone walked past me with an everything bagel,” you said.

Mel’s eyes slid briefly toward you. Damn it.

Miles frowned. “You don’t like bagels?”

“I love bagels,” you said. That was the problem.

Mel’s gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before she turned back to Miles.

Miles looked between all of you. “Adults cry a lot.”

“Constantly,” Perlah said.

“Secretly,” Mel added.

You nodded. “In supply closets.”

Miles considered this and seemed to find it medically acceptable.

Perlah moved beside the bed. “I’m going to clean your chin now. Cold and wet first.”

Miles clutched Dr. Pickles. “No tricks?”

“No tricks,” Perlah said.

You held up the card. “Truth in kid words, remember?”

Miles looked at you. “Tell me each step.”

“I can do that.”

Perlah cleaned the wound. Miles hissed through his teeth but did not pull away. You kept your voice low and steady, narrating before each step, leaving space for him to react, reminding him that holding still did not mean pretending he liked it. Your phone buzzed again.

This time, even Miles noticed. “Is someone calling you?” he asked.

“Texting,” you said.

His brow furrowed. “Is it important?”

You thought of Jack’s probable message. Ginger ale still helping? Crackers are in the outside pocket. There’s decaf in your travel mug if you want it. No pressure. Just options.

Your throat warmed. “Someone’s just checking on me,” you said.

Perlah smiled to herself.

Miles nodded like he understood this on a personal level. “My grandma texts like that.”

You smiled. “Then your grandma and my person would probably get along.”

Mel’s gaze lifted again. Your person. You had not said husband. You rarely did at work. Not because you were hiding. Not exactly.

It just never came up in a way that needed correction, and Jack was private enough that announcing your marriage at the nurses’ station sounded like something he would endure with the expression of a man being asked to donate a kidney recreationally. Also, there was a small, terrible part of you that found the whole thing funny. PTMC knew you by your first name because kids did better with first names. Families did too.

You were Child Life, soft sweaters, a calm voice, and stickers tucked into every available pocket.

Jack was Abbot. Night shift. Dry voice. Trauma rooms. Military posture. Coffee so black it seemed medicinal.

People saw you both in fragments. Shift change. Late consults. Hallway overlap. The occasional staff meeting where Jack sat in the back and looked like every agenda item had personally offended him. Almost no one put the pieces together.

Robby knew, obviously. Dana knew too, because Dana knew everything worth knowing and had the good sense not to announce other people’s lives at the nurses’ station. But Robby was the one who enjoyed it. Robby had stood beside Jack in a suit and called it deeply unsettling when Jack adjusted his tie for the fourth time before the ceremony. He had been Jack’s best man, a title he brought up only when it would annoy Jack most.

Perlah finished cleaning Miles’s chin. “First part done,” Perlah said.

Miles opened one eye. “That kinda sucked.”

“It does suck,” you agreed.

Miles looked surprised. “You can say that?”

“Yes,” you said.

Miles processed this with the intensity of a philosopher in dinosaur socks.

Mel rolled closer on the stool. “Sleepy medicine next.”

Miles’s face tightened. You leaned in just enough to keep his focus. “Do you want to count, or do you want me to tell you when it’s done?”

Miles swallowed. “Tell me when it’s done.”

“Okay.” You placed Dr. Pickles more firmly under his hand. “You squeeze him. I’ll watch the medicine.”

Miles nodded once. His mother offered her hand. Miles took it. The poke happened fast. Miles cried. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a tight little burst of tears that made his mother’s face crumple and Perlah’s gaze soften.

You stayed with him through it. “That was the worst part,” you said when the needle was gone.

Miles sniffed hard. “That was terrible.”

You nodded. “It was.”

“I hated it,” Miles added.

“That’s okay,” you said. “You’re allowed.”

Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles, betrayed by medicine and possibly dinosaurs.

Mel gave the anesthetic a minute to work. Your phone buzzed again. Perlah set the used supplies aside. Mel glanced at your bag, then back at Miles. Only once. A quick thing. Barely anything. Still enough.

“You can check that,” Mel said gently.

“I’m good,” you said.

Mel hugged the chart closer to her chest. “It’s persistent.”

You smiled. “That’s one word for him.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, you felt Mel’s attention sharpen by a fraction. Not enough to make a thing of it. Enough. Miles’s mother leaned over to kiss the top of his head, giving you a small window. You reached into your bag and checked your phone. There were, in fact, four texts.

Jack: Ginger ale still helping?

Jack: Crackers are in the outside pocket if not.

Jack: No pressure. Just options.

Jack: Love you both. You’re doing good.

You stared at the last message for half a second too long. Love you both. You’re doing good. It was such a Jack text. Practical care stacked under one plain, devastating sentence. No exclamation points. No hearts. No little cartoon baby emoji. Just ginger ale, decaf, and love, organized in order of immediate usefulness.

You typed back with one thumb.

You: We’re okay. With a patient. Dr. Pickles is under peer review.

The response came almost immediately.

Jack: Sounds fair. A second later: Jack: Tell him to improve.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You had texted him a picture of the dinosaur earlier, with no explanation except "new attending on peds."

Jack had replied: Looks underqualified.

You locked your phone. Mel’s eyes were on Miles, but you knew better than to think she had missed the way your face softened. You tucked the phone away and picked up the sticker sheet. The stitches went better than Miles expected and worse than he wanted. Both things could be true. He squeezed Dr. Pickles hard enough to flatten the dinosaur’s head. He cried once more when the first stitch tugged, then got distracted by the fact that Mel had once fainted during a blood draw when she was twelve.

“You’re a doctor,” Miles said, scandalized.

“I recovered,” Mel said.

Miles eyed her. “But you fainted?”

“Briefly.”

You leaned closer to Miles. “She’s very brave now.”

Mel pulled off her gloves. “Medium brave.”

Miles nodded solemnly. “Medium brave counts.”

By the time Mel finished the last stitch, Miles looked exhausted, offended, and deeply proud of himself. A good combination. “You did it,” his mother whispered.

Miles looked at you. “Was I brave?”

You peeled a dinosaur sticker from the sheet. “Very.”

Miles frowned. You waited.

“Medium brave,” he corrected. “Not all the way.”

You pressed the sticker gently to the back of his hand. “Medium brave counts.”

Mel smiled as she reached for the discharge instructions on the computer. “Usually more than all-the-way brave,” she said.

Miles looked at her. “Why?”

Mel glanced over from the screen. “Because medium brave means you were scared and did it anyway.”

Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles. His chin was swollen. His cheeks were blotchy. His fingers were still tight around the dinosaur. But he smiled. Just a little.

You felt that tiny, internal shift again. A small roll low under your ribs, subtle enough that no one else should have noticed. You breathed through it.

Mel did not look at your stomach. She did not ask. She only handed you the sanitizer when you reached for it and watched your hand settle for one brief second against the lower curve beneath your cardigan before you caught yourself and moved.

That was the thing about Mel. She didn’t need to say anything to make you feel seen.

Miles’s mother thanked everyone three times. Mel gave wound care instructions. Perlah handed over extra gauze and the kind of practical reassurance parents needed after watching their children bleed. You promised Miles that Dr. Pickles could stay with him until discharge as long as he did not file another complaint with the medical board.

Miles hugged the dinosaur to his chest. “He’s on probation.”

“Fair,” you said.

You stepped out of the room with Mel a few minutes later, letting the door click softly behind you. The noise of the ER met you all at once. Phones. Monitors. A transport tech laughed near the desk. Someone called for an EKG. The familiar, relentless rhythm of PTMC refused to pause just because one six-year-old had survived the betrayal of stitches.

Mel stopped beside the counter and reached for the sanitizer. You checked the time. The day shift ended in thirty minutes. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced down.

Jack: I’m early. Five minutes out.

You smiled despite yourself.

Jack had always liked nights. He liked the dark. The smaller crew. The way the hospital narrowed down to alarms, instincts, and people who knew how to move without talking too much. He liked the solitude of it, the strange mercy of working while the rest of the world slept.

Or he had.

Lately, nights had started to feel different. Lately, nights meant leaving you at home with ginger ale on the nightstand, decaf in the cabinet, pillows wedged around your hips, and a body that could not decide what it wanted without punishing you for guessing wrong.

Jack still loved the work. You knew he did. But you also knew the way his hand lingered at your back before he left now. The way his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize how tired you looked before he had to spend twelve hours away from it. The way he kissed you once, then again, like the second one might keep something safe that the first one could not. He hated leaving. You knew that, too.

Mel dried her hands with a paper towel beside you. You slipped your phone back into your pocket before she could see the screen. Mel didn’t ask who it was. She didn’t need to. Instead, her gaze moved once to the ginger ale beside your water bottle. Then, to the sleeve of saltines in your bag. Then to your face.

“You feeling okay today?” Mel asked. The question was gentle enough to pass as nothing.

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah.”

Mel nodded once, accepting the answer without quite believing it. “Good,” she said.

You looked at her for another beat. Mel only smiled mildly and tossed the paper towel into the trash. You turned toward the workstation to finish your notes, one hand resting briefly over the place where your son had rolled beneath your ribs. The day shift was almost over. Night shift was getting ready to begin. And no one in the ER knew that Jack Abbot was five minutes away from walking through those doors with decaf in one hand, plausible deniability in the other, and every intention of checking on his pregnant wife without anyone noticing.

The first thing you saw was the cup. Not Jack. Not technically. The cup came through the ambulance bay doors first, carried in one hand like a formal apology. It was not from the cafeteria. It was not from the lobby kiosk. It was definitely not hospital decaf, which tasted like someone had rinsed a coffee pot and asked you to be grateful. This cup had a sleeve. A stamped logo. A handwritten label. Fancy. Suspicious. Hopeful, which felt cruel.

Then Jack came through the doors behind it, already in dark scrubs, his badge clipped at his chest, his other hand wrapped around his own coffee. Real coffee. Actual coffee. Coffee with caffeine and dignity and a future. You stared at it with immediate, unreasonable resentment.

Then you looked at your husband. Jack’s eyes found yours from across the department the way they always did, quickly and without announcement. Face first. Then shoulders. Then the ginger ale beside your laptop. The sleeve of the crackers was half-tucked under your notebook. Your cardigan, loose and soft over the curve you had spent the last two weeks pretending was not becoming obvious.

His gaze dropped for less than a second. You felt it anyway. Then he crossed the ER like he was only coming in for the night shift. Like he had not texted you three separate options in the last hour and found a new brand of decaf because you had said, once, half-asleep and miserable against his pillow, that you missed coffee so much you could cry. He set the fancy cup beside your laptop. ‘Decaf. Don’t yell until after trying’ was written in black marker across the lid.

Your throat did something ridiculous. Jack’s face did not change. “New one,” he said.

You looked at the cup, then at him. “You bought me fancy decaf coffee?”

His mouth barely moved. “Try it.”

You picked up the cup with both hands because it was warm and because your body, traitorous and exhausted, had already decided that warmth was reason enough to hope. The first sip was cautious. Defensive. You expected disappointment. You expected hot brown sadness. You expected the thin, bitter lie every decaf had been telling you for the past month and a half.

Instead, the coffee was warm. Smooth. Rich. Good. Actually, unfairly, wonderfully good.

Your eyes closed before you could stop them. “Oh my God,” you said.

Jack went still. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not unless they knew him. Not unless they knew the exact way his body held itself when he was waiting for the verdict on something that mattered more than he wanted it to.

“Yeah?” he asked.

You nodded, still holding the cup close. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on you.  “It’s good.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Grateful in a way coffee probably did not deserve.

Except it was not just coffee. It was a normal thing. One thing your body had not rejected. One thing that tasted as if it belonged to the version of you who used to drink real coffee without negotiating with your stomach first. Jack understood that. Of course he did. That was the best part.

His shoulders settled by a fraction. “Good.”

You looked down at the lid again, and a laugh caught in your throat. “I wasn’t going to yell,” you said.

Jack gave you a look.

“I was going to emotionally object,” you corrected.

“Mm,” he hummed.

“With dignity,” you added.

Jack nodded once. “Sure.”

You took another sip, and this time you did not bother hiding how much you liked it. You were too tired to perform indifference, too relieved to make him work for it. “Thank you,” you said.

Jack’s expression went quieter. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

Behind the counter, Santos lowered the chart in her hand. Slowly. “Oh, no,” she said.

You closed your eyes. Jack did not move.

Santos pointed at the cup. “That was a moment.”

Jack looked at her. “It was coffee.”

“It was not coffee.” Santos’s eyes narrowed. “It was emotionally loaded coffee.”

Robby made a pleased sound from the workstation behind her. “Excellent band name.”

Jack’s gaze cut toward him. “Don’t help.”

“I’m helping myself,” Robby said.

Dana did not look up from the discharge papers in front of her, but the corner of her mouth moved like she had decided not to be held responsible for anyone in the department. Mel, who had been reviewing something on her tablet near the counter, glanced between you and Jack with quiet interest. Not nosy. Not loud. Just watching.

Santos was loud enough for both of them. “Since when does Abbot bring Child Life specialty beverages?” she asked.

Jack picked up his own coffee. “Since Child Life suffered enough.”

You took another sip. “I support this policy.”

Santos pointed at you. “You’re too happy. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m drinking good decaf for the first time in weeks,” you said. “My joy is proportionate.”

Robby leaned one hip against the workstation. “Strong argument.”

Jack looked at him again. Robby lifted both hands. “I’m neutral.”

“You have never been neutral in your life,” Dana said.

Robby nodded once. “Also fair.”

Jack’s real coffee drifted near you when he shifted his weight, and your stomach made one small, sour complaint. You did not move. You did not even think you changed expression. Jack noticed anyway. He moved his cup to the far side of the counter without looking at it. Small. Quiet. Automatic. Your fingers tightened around your decaf. Mel noticed. You saw her notice. Her eyes flicked to Jack’s hand, then back to your face, and something thoughtful crossed her expression before she politely looked down at her tablet again.

Santos missed none of it. Her gaze sharpened.

Jack lowered his voice, but not enough to be secretive. Just enough to make the space between you feel smaller. “How bad?”

You knew what he meant. Not work. Not Miles. Not the coffee. The nausea. The hunger that kept arriving with disgust tucked beneath it. The way your body had started treating dinner like a negotiation no one had authorized. “Manageable,” you said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.

You sighed. “Annoying.”

He almost smiled, “Closer.”

“The bagel smell in the break room was a crime scene,” you grumbled.

His mouth twitched. “That bad?”

You nodded. “I considered filing charges.”

Jack nodded as if this were a reasonable escalation. “What sounds possible for dinner?”

You looked down at the coffee in your hands. Good coffee. Actual good coffee. Decaf, tragically, but not a punishment. Not a thin, bitter insult. Good enough that your whole body seemed confused by the relief of wanting something and being able to have it.

“Toast,” you admitted.

Jack nodded once. “Toast is good.”

“Toast is barely dinner,” you said with a frown.

Jack looked at you so sincerely that your chest squeezed tight. “Toast is dinner if it stays down.”

Your throat tightened. That was the thing about Jack. He did not make ‘possible’ sound like failure. He just lowered the bar until you could step over it without shame.

“Butter and honey,” you said.

His expression softened. “Irish butter’s in the fridge.”

You looked at him. “You got more?”

He nodded. “Aldi had it.”

“You went to Aldi?” you asked, eyes bright.

Jack shrugged. “I survived.”

“You hate Aldi.” Your eyebrows rose.

“I hate the parking lot,” Jack corrected you.

You couldn’t stop your smile, “And the cart quarter.”

Jack's eyes narrowed, “The cart quarter is an aggressive system.”

You laughed before you could help it, one hand settling briefly against your cardigan when your son shifted low and strange, as if he had opinions about grocery logistics. Jack saw. Of course, he saw. His eyes dropped for half a second, then came back to your face. “Still okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His voice stayed low. “Good honey’s on the counter.”

You inhaled sharply, “The farmers market one?”

“The one you said tasted like flowers and sunshine,” Jack replied.

You stared at him for one second too long.

Santos put the chart down. “Hold on.”

Jack did not look away from you quickly enough.

Apparently, that was Santos’s final straw. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

You took another sip of coffee.

Santos pointed at Jack. “You know what butter she has.”

Jack’s face stayed calm. “Most kitchens have butter.”

Santos glared, “Do not insult me.”

Robby made a quiet, delighted noise.

Santos’s finger stayed aimed at Jack. “You said Irish butter. From Aldi. Like a man who has personally fought the parking lot and lost.”

Jack’s brow furrowed, “I didn’t lose.”

“You know where her farmers' market honey is.” Santos continued.

“It’s on the counter,” Jack said with a nod.

Santos stared at him. “Again, not helping your case.”

Dana finally looked up. “It is good honey.”

Santos turned on her. “You stay out of this.” Dana’s eyebrows lifted. Santos exhaled sharply. “Actually, no. You’re involved now. Is this normal?”

Dana glanced once at you, then at Jack, then at the coffee in your hands. “For them?” she said. “Yes.” The department went quiet for half a beat. Robby’s smile became openly dangerous. Jack looked at Dana. Dana returned to her paperwork like she had not just thrown a match into gasoline.

Santos’s eyes widened. “For them?”

You looked down at your coffee. Jack took a drink from his. Neither of you answered. Mel hugged her tablet a little closer to her chest. “Oh,” she said softly.

Santos snapped her attention to Mel. “Oh, what?”

Mel’s cheeks colored. “Nothing.”

“No, that was an oh,” Santos replied, eyes narrowed.

Mel shrugged. “It was an observational oh.”

Robby nodded. “Clinically, much worse.”

Jack set his coffee down. “Robby.”

Robby folded his arms. “What? I’m supporting the diagnostic process.”

Santos pointed between you and Jack. “Oh, my God.”

You took another sip. Jack’s jaw shifted like he knew exactly where this was going and had decided to let it happen.

Santos’s eyes narrowed. “You’re dating.”

The words landed in the middle of the nurses’ station with the subtlety of a dropped tray. Perlah, passing behind Santos with a stack of supplies, slowed for exactly one step before deciding she valued her peace and kept walking. Mel’s eyes widened. Robby leaned back against the workstation, delighted in a way that did not bode well for anyone.  “Interesting theory,” he said.

Santos pointed at him without looking. “You know something.”

“I know many things,” Robby said, nodding wisely.

Her eyes narrowed, “About this.”

“Especially about this,” Robby agreed.

Jack’s eyes cut toward him. Robby smiled. “Sorry. Department morale.”

Santos turned back to you. “Are you dating Abbot?”

You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. There was a very long second where neither of you spoke, not because you were trying to hide anything, but because the actual answer was so much funnier than the question. “No,” you said.

Santos blinked. “No?”

“No,” Jack said.

Santos stared at both of you. “That was too synchronized.”

“Still true,” Jack said.

She threw up her hands, “Then why do you know her butter?”

You lifted the coffee. “It’s very memorable butter.”

Santos pointed at you. “I do not like you right now.”

You nodded solemnly. “That seems fair.”

Mel looked from you to Jack again, her expression caught somewhere between surprised and delighted. “So you’re not dating?”

Jack picked up his coffee. “No.”

Mel’s eyebrows drew together. “But the coffee?”

“It’s decaf,” Jack said.

Santos made a strangled sound. “That is not an answer.”

Dana turned a page. “It is one if you’ve met him.”

You smiled into your cup. Jack saw that too. The smile. The way you were trying to hide it. The way you were failing because the coffee was good, and he had gone to Aldi for butter, and your son was rolling around like he had decided to make himself known during the least convenient window of time. His face softened before he caught it.

Santos saw that too. She went very still. Then she pointed at him again. “You have a face.”

Jack stared at her. “Most people do.”

“No.” Santos stepped closer. “You have a specific face.”

Robby pressed his lips together. Jack looked unimpressed. “That cleared nothing up.”

“You looked soft.”

“Santos,” Mel said, but she sounded like she was trying not to laugh.

“He did,” Santos insisted. “He looked soft at Child Life.”

You glanced at Jack. “Congratulations.”

His mouth twitched. “Thank you.”

Santos threw a hand out. “See? Vibe.”

Dana sighed. “This is why I don’t work nights.”

“You work all the time,” Robby said.

Dana looked at him. “And yet I avoid this.” The overhead speakers crackled, and someone called for environmental services near trauma two. The ER resumed around you in pieces. Monitors beeped. A printer coughed out discharge paperwork. Someone laughed near the medication room. Jack glanced toward the board. Night shift was beginning to swallow him. You could feel it happening. The department reaching for him. The trauma rooms and consults and handoffs and all the things that would keep him here while you went home to the quiet house with the new loaf of bread on the counter and good honey waiting beside it.

His gaze came back to you. “I’ve got four minutes,” he said.

“Luxury,” you replied.

He almost smiled. “Can I walk you out?”

Your chest warmed before you could stop it. “You have handoff.”

Jack shrugged. “Robby’s still pretending to work.”

Robby lifted one hand without looking away from the show. “Rude. Accurate.”

Jack held your gaze. “Four minutes.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Okay.”

Santos made a sound. “No.”

Jack looked at her. “Problem?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Yes, problem. You cannot say you are not dating and then walk her out with your emotionally loaded coffee situation.”

“It’s her coffee,” Jack said.

“That does not make it less loaded,” Santos replied.

You started gathering your things before Santos could build a formal case. Your notebook went into your Child Life bag. The laminated prep cards slid into their folder. Dr. Pickles, temporarily retired from active duty after Miles’s successful stitches, stayed tucked in the side pocket.

Jack watched your hands. Not hovering. Not taking over. Just ready, the way he always was.

When you reached for the bag strap, his eyes dropped to it. “Can I?” he asked.

The question was quiet enough that it was mostly yours. You handed him the strap. Jack took the bag and settled it onto his shoulder like it belonged there. Santos stared. Mel’s mouth parted slightly. Robby looked delighted enough to require supervision.

Dana did not look up, but she said, “Careful, Abbot. That bag has stickers.”

Jack adjusted the strap. “I’m aware.”

Santos’s voice went flat. “You’re aware.”

You picked up your coffee. “There are a lot of stickers.”

Mel smiled. “That tracks.”

Santos pointed between you again. “You are all hearing this, right?”

Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I hear many things.”

“You knew he carried her bag?”

Robby’s grin widened. “I know many things.”

“Stop saying that,” she snapped.

Robby’s grin turned wicked. “No.”

Jack looked toward the elevator, then back at you. “Ready?” You nodded. The movement made your back complain in a low, annoying pulse. You must have shifted your weight more carefully than you meant to, because Jack’s hand lifted a fraction at his side. He did not touch you. Not here. Not in front of the whole department while Santos was watching like she had been personally assigned to solve the mystery of your entire life. But he wanted to.

You could feel that too. “I’m good,” you said softly.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours for one second longer. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

Santos looked at Mel. “They are absolutely dating.”

“They said they’re not,” Mel said, though her voice had gone thoughtful.

Santos narrowed her eyes. “People lie.”

Dana picked up her bag from the counter. “Sometimes people answer the question asked.”

Santos turned slowly toward her. Dana’s expression stayed mild. Robby made a sound like he was enjoying the evening more than anyone had a right to. Jack started toward the elevators with your Child Life bag on his shoulder and your four-minute goodbye ticking down beside him. You fell into step at his side.

Behind you, Santos made a sound. “Nope,” she said.

You glanced back. She had grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and was already following.

Mel looked between Santos and the elevator. “Are we all going down?”

“I am,” Santos said. “For reasons.”

Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I’m done for the day.”

Dana picked up her bag. “I’m also leaving before this becomes my problem.”

“Too late,” Robby said. Dana ignored him.

Cassie appeared from the hallway with her keys in hand, Langdon beside her, still zipping his coat. “Are people leaving?” Cassie asked.

Santos pointed toward Jack. “Yes. Quietly. Together. Suspiciously.”

Jack did not stop walking. “Shift change,” he said.

Robby smiled. “Love this place.”

By the time the elevator doors opened, all of you had somehow become a group. You. Jack. Santos. Mel. Robby. Dana. Langdon. Cassie. It was too many people for one elevator, and exactly the wrong number of witnesses for a secret that had never really been a secret. Santos got in first, like proximity might help her solve whatever crime she had decided Jack was committing. Mel followed, glancing between you and Jack with careful, growing curiosity. Robby stepped in behind her, already wearing the expression of a man who knew exactly how this ended and had chosen not to save anyone. Dana entered last with the resigned calm of someone who had seen more than enough hospital nonsense to recognize when nonsense had become inevitable. Langdon and Cassie squeezed in at the last second, both still half in their coats, both clearly unsure why Santos looked like she was about to interrogate someone under oath. The elevator doors slid shut. Jack stood beside you with your Child Life bag on his shoulder. The bag had three cartoon stickers on the front pocket, two laminated keychains, one slightly crushed granola bar in the side pouch, and Dr. Pickles’s green squishy dinosaur head peeking out from the top. Jack Abbot, night-shift attending, former combat medic, allergic to unnecessary bonding, carried it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Which it was to you.

Not, apparently, to everyone else. The elevator hummed down one level. Santos looked at Jack’s shoulder. Then at you. Then back at Jack’s shoulder. “I’m just saying,” she said, “this is weird.”

Jack did not look at her. “Most things are.”

“No.” Santos pointed at your bag. “This is specific weird.”

Robby made a pleased sound. “Specific weird is my favorite kind.”

Dana closed her eyes. Mel pressed her lips together. You took another sip of your decaf, which remained warm and good, and therefore, the only reason you had not started openly laughing. Jack’s gaze slid toward you. Just briefly. That was all. But you knew him well enough to read it. ‘Careful’, his eyes said. You lifted your brows. ‘I am behaving beautifully’, your face said back. His mouth moved at the corner. Santos saw it.

She stepped forward as the elevator doors opened into the parking level. “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. Jack walked out first because he was closest to the doors. You followed with your coffee in hand, the cool garage air brushing across your face. It smelled like concrete, rainwater, and old exhaust, sharp enough to wake you up a little. Somewhere farther down the row, a car chirped unlocked. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Your back ached in that deep, annoying way that felt less like pain and more like your body had reorganized itself without asking permission. You shifted your weight as you walked. Jack noticed. He slowed half a step.

You did not look at him when you said, “I’m good.”

Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly,” you replied.

Robby coughed behind you. Santos’s footsteps stuttered. Mel made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.

Jack looked down at you. “I’ll work on that.”

You smiled softly. “No, you won’t.”

“No,” he said. “Probably not.”

Santos pointed at both of you as she walked. “See? Dating.”

“We’re still not dating,” Jack said.

Robby’s smile turned bright enough to become a workplace hazard. You started walking towards your car, which was only two rows away, and you were suddenly very aware of the butter in your refrigerator, the honey on your counter, the toast waiting at home, and the fact that your husband was on the edge of being swallowed by the night shift. The group followed. Of course, they followed. Santos had the look of a woman who had found blood in the water and also somehow filed an HR complaint about it in her head. At your car, Jack shifted your bag carefully off his shoulder and handed it to you.

“Can I have that?” he asked.

You smiled and traded him the coffee for the bag so you could dig out your keys. He held the cup without comment, thumb resting against the sleeve, watching you search the pocket where your keys were supposed to be and definitely were not. You frowned. Jack reached into the smaller front pocket without looking. He pulled out your keys. You looked at him.

He held them out. “Front pocket,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed. “I know where my keys are.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Eventually.”

Behind you, Santos made a sound of actual physical pain. Mel whispered, “Oh.”

Langdon looked at Cassie. “What did I miss?”

Cassie’s eyes were huge. “A lot, apparently.”

You unlocked the car. Jack handed your coffee back to you. “Text me when you’re home,” he said.

“You’ll probably be in trauma one, saving lives,” you replied.

Jack grinned. “Text me anyway.”

Your chest warmed. “Bossy,” you said.

Jack’s face softened, small and private. “Accurate.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but your son shifted low and strange again, a flutter turning into something just solid enough to make you pause. It was not painful. Just new. Still new enough that wonder arrived before you could protect yourself from it. Your hand hovered near your cardigan and stopped there. You did not press. You did not draw attention. You only breathed once, slowly. Jack’s eyes dropped. Half a second. No more. When they came back to your face, his expression had changed. Barely. Enough. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, softer. “Just ready to be home.”

He nodded. The department pulled at him from three floors above you. You could feel that too. The invisible hook of night shift. Handoff. Trauma bays. The board. The particular gravity of people needing him. But for this second, in the parking garage, he stayed.

His hand settled briefly at the small of your back. Familiar. Automatic. Yours.

You leaned up without thinking, and he bent down to meet you.

The kiss was quick. Not dramatic. Not performative.

Just the warm press of his mouth against yours before one of you went home and the other went back inside. A married goodbye. The kind that had happened in kitchens, doorways, airport drop-offs, grocery store parking lots, and once in the middle of a hotel hallway when Robby had yelled that he was happy for you but also deeply uncomfortable. Jack pulled back first, but not far. His thumb brushed once against your back before he let his hand fall.

Behind you, something clattered against concrete. Probably Santos’s keys. Possibly Santos’s entire understanding of the world.

“I’m sorry,” Santos said.

You turned. Santos stood ten feet away, mouth open, keys now on the ground near her shoe. Mel had gone perfectly still beside her. Langdon looked like someone had switched the language on a monitor and expected him to interpret the rhythm strip anyway. Cassie had both hands pressed over her mouth. Dana looked at the ceiling like she had requested one quiet shift change and been personally denied. Robby looked like Christmas had come early and brought catering with it.

Santos pointed at Jack. “You said you weren’t dating.”

Jack’s hand stayed near your back. “We’re not.”

“You kissed her,” she replied.

Jack nodded. “I did.”

“So you’re dating,” she replied, gesturing between the two of you.

“No,” Jack said. “We’re not dating anymore.”

Santos blinked. Mel blinked. Cassie dropped her hands. “Anymore?”

You looked up at Jack, then shrugged. “What’s it been, six years?”

“Seven in May,” Jack said.

“Seven in May,” Robby said at the same time.

The garage went silent. You turned slowly toward Robby. Robby lifted both hands. “What? I was there.”

Santos’s mouth opened. “You were where?”

Jack sighed. “Don’t.”

Robby’s smile became catastrophic. “Best man.”

Santos stared at him. “Best man?” she repeated.

Robby nodded. “Great suit. Very emotional day.”

Jack looked at him. “You cried.”

Robby pointed at Jack. “Allegedly.”

You lifted your coffee. “There are photos.”

“Hostile witness,” Robby said.

You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you, his face soft in a way he probably would have hidden if he had remembered anyone else was there.

Santos made a sound. Not a word. A sound. Then she looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Jack again. “You’re married?”

Jack nodded once. “Yep.”

You nodded too. “Yep.”

The garage erupted.

“YOU’RE MARRIED?” Santos’s voice bounced off three levels of concrete.

Jack winced. “Inside voice.”

“No.” Santos stabbed a finger toward him. “Absolutely not. You do not get an inside voice right now. You lost inside voice privileges when you kissed Child Life in a parking garage and revealed a seven-year marriage.”

Langdon stared at Jack. “You’re married married?”

Jack looked at him. “As opposed to?”

Robby leaned closer to Langdon. “Spiritually married. Recreationally married. Trial subscription married.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “Stop.”

Robby smiled. “Never.”

Cassie looked between you and Jack, eyes bright with shock. “Wait, before PTMC?”

You nodded. “Before PTMC.”

Mel’s expression softened. “That’s why the coffee.”

Santos spun toward her. “Do not act like the coffee was enough information.”

“It was emotionally loaded coffee,” Cassie said.

Robby pointed at her. “She gets it.”

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Dana adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “This could have been an email.”

Santos turned on her. “You knew.”

Dana looked at her. “Yes.”

Santos threw both hands out. “Why does everyone know?”

“Everyone does not know,” Dana said.

“I didn’t know!” Santos exclaimed.

Dana’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “Then, everyone clearly does not know.”

Mel pressed her lips together. Cassie turned away, shoulders shaking.

Santos pointed at Dana. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dana’s eyebrows lifted. “It was not my marriage to announce.” Santos stared at her. Dana added, “Also, you never asked.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Santos looked personally betrayed by the entire universe. Then she turned on Robby. “You,” she said.

Robby put a hand to his chest. “Me?”

She glared at him. “You knew for seven years.”

“Technically longer. They dated before that,” Robby replied.

Jack stared at him. Robby shrugged. “Context matters.”

Santos took one step toward him. “You watched me investigate Aldi butter like an idiot.”

Robby grinned, “You were doing great.”

“I hate you.” Santos snapped.

Mel looked at you, still gentle despite the chaos. “How did you meet?”

That quieted the group by a fraction. Not completely. But enough. You felt Jack beside you, the small shift in his body. Not discomfort exactly. Something older. Something private. Your hand tightened around your coffee. “Military hospital,” you said.

Mel’s face softened. Cassie’s expression changed too, curiosity gentling into something more careful. Santos, to her credit, did not make a joke. Jack looked toward the far end of the garage, then back at you. You smiled a little. “He was lurking outside room 417.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Lurking.”

“You were standing in the hallway pretending not to hover,” you said to him.

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was waiting.”

“For what?” you asked. He paused.

Robby leaned in. “Careful. This is how history gets written.”

Jack gave him a look. You looked back at Mel. “I was helping a little girl get ready to see her dad after he’d been hurt. Jack saw us.”

Mel’s eyes warmed. Cassie pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s actually really sweet.”

“He asked someone who I was,” you added.

Robby nodded immediately. “Immediately.”

Jack looked at him. “You weren’t there.”

“I know Miller,” Robby said. “Miller told the story better.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Miller told the story worse.”

You smiled. “Then he asked me for coffee.”

Santos squinted at Jack. “You asked someone out?”

Jack stared at her. “Yes.”

“Out loud?” she continued.

Jack looked confused. “How else would I do it?”

Robby opened his mouth. Jack pointed at him without looking. “No.”

Robby closed his mouth with visible effort. Langdon looked at you. “And he proposed?”

“No,” Santos said, already turning back to Jack with renewed offense. “No, wait. I need this. How did Abbot propose? Did he do it with words? Did he make eye contact? Did he file paperwork?”

Jack looked toward the elevator. “I have to go back inside.”

“Absolutely not,” Santos said. “You owe us seven years of lore.”

Jack narrowed his eyes at her. “I owe you nothing.”

“You owe me emotional damages,” she snapped back.

Dana started toward her car. “You’ll survive.”

“I might not,” Santos called after her.

Dana did not turn around. “Then update your emergency contact.”

Robby laughed. Jack did not. Mel looked at you, smiling now. “How did he propose?”

You glanced at Jack. His face had gone quieter, the line of his mouth held flat like he knew what you were about to say and wanted very badly to stop you, but not enough to actually do it. You loved him so much that it made you a little stupid. “He put it on the grocery list,” you said.

Santos stopped moving. “I’m sorry?”

Robby’s face lit up. “Oh, this is good.”

Jack looked at him. “Do not.”

Robby ignored him completely. “Strong list.”

Cassie whispered, “The grocery list?”

You nodded. “At home. In the kitchen. He asked me to look it over and see if he missed anything.”

Mel’s smile grew. Langdon blinked. “And he wrote ‘proposal’ on it?”

“Not proposal,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it. You looked down at your coffee. “He wrote, ‘marry me?’” You said. “With a question mark.”

Cassie made a soft noise. Mel pressed the tablet to her chest. “That’s beautiful.”

Santos pointed at Jack. “You proposed with errands.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “She said yes.”

Robby nodded gravely. “Again. Strong list.”

You smiled. “There was coffee on it, too.”

“Of course there was,” Dana called from near her car.

Santos dragged both hands down her face. “This entire department is a conspiracy.”

“It’s not a conspiracy,” Mel said, though she was still smiling.

Santos turned to her. “You are only saying that because you’re happy for them.”

“I am happy for them,” Mel replied.

Jack looked at you then, and the noise around you thinned for a second. His eyes moved over your face. Tired. Nauseous. Amused. Softened by good decaf and too much attention and the strange tenderness of watching your private life become public in one loud, ridiculous burst. He stepped closer. “Enough,” he said, not exactly to the group. To you, maybe. For you.

Santos opened her mouth. Jack looked at her. She shut it. Mostly.

He turned back to you. “Go home. Eat your toast.”

Santos pointed weakly. “See? Again with the toast.”

You opened your car door. “Goodnight, Santos.”

“The toast was married toast,” she glared at you.

“All toast is married if you use the good honey,” Robby said.

Dana opened her car door. “I’m leaving before this gets worse.”

“It can get worse?” Langdon asked.

Robby smiled. “Always.”

Jack handed you the coffee one last time, his fingers brushing yours around the cup.

“Text me when you’re home,” he said.

You nodded once. “I will.”

“And after toast,” he added.

You smiled. “Bossy.”

His gaze held yours. “Married,” he corrected quietly.

Your chest went warm. “Apparently,” you said.

His mouth softened. For a second, you wanted to stay there. To keep him in the parking garage under bad fluorescent lights with your bag in his hand and the whole department spinning around the two of you. To have one more minute before the ER took him back. But the night shift was already waiting. And you had toast to make. And a son the ER did not know about yet, shifting softly beneath your ribs like he had survived his first family scandal and found it unimpressive.

You slid into the driver’s seat. Jack shut the door carefully after you were settled. Through the open window, Santos was still staring at him like she had discovered a new organ. “I have follow-up questions,” she said.

Jack nodded once. “I’m sure.”

She pointed at him. “Tomorrow.”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

“Yes.” Santos snapped back.

Dana’s voice carried from across the row. “Tomorrow will be worse if you fight it.”

Robby lifted a hand. “I have photos.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “Do not,” he said.

Robby smiled at you over Jack’s shoulder. “I have selected favorites.”

You laughed as you set your coffee in the cup holder. Jack looked pained. Santos looked reborn. Mel looked delighted. Cassie was already whispering something to Langdon, who still seemed stuck on the phrase grocery list. And you realized, with your good decaf beside you and your husband standing in the parking garage in his dark scrubs, that PTMC had finally caught up to a story that had been yours for years.

Santos pointed at Jack one last time. “Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

Jack glanced toward the elevators, already half-pulled back to work. Then he looked at you. His mouth moved, barely. “You never asked,” he said.

Santos stared at him. “That,” she said, “is the most annoying thing you have ever said.”

Robby leaned closer to your window. “Top five.”

Jack looked at him. “Go home.”

Robby pushed off your car with a grin. “Yes, sir.”

You started the engine. Jack stepped back, but his eyes stayed on yours until you pulled out of the space. In the rearview mirror, you saw him standing there for one more second, surrounded by people who suddenly knew one of the truest things about him. Then the elevator doors opened. Night shift called him back.

And Jack Abbot went.

I have built a house where I wait for your return

The dress had been hanging on the back of the bedroom door for almost two weeks before Jack finally noticed it.

You had left it there on purpose, though you told yourself you hadn’t. You told yourself it was there because the closet was too full, because the garment bag was too long, because the silk would crease if you shoved it between winter coats and blazers. You told yourself a lot of things because admitting the truth felt too humiliating, and the truth was that part of you wanted him to see it. You wanted him to remember without being reminded. You wanted him to walk past it after a long shift, pause with his hand still on the doorknob, and say, “That’s for the gala, right?” like the date lived somewhere in his head that wasn’t overcrowded by trauma charts, shift changes, hospital pages, and everyone else’s emergencies.

It was a black silk gown, simple in the way expensive things were simple. Off the shoulder, fitted through the waist, smooth over the hips, with a slit that opened only when you walked. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The fabric caught the bedroom light softly, almost like water, and every time you passed it, you imagined wearing it beside him.

That was the part that embarrassed you now. You had imagined it.

Jack in a dark suit. You in the black dress. His hand at the small of your back while people congratulated you. Maybe he would be tired, because he was always tired, but he would be there. You pictured him standing slightly behind you when people asked questions about the hospital contracts, his expression quiet but proud, his thumb brushing your hip like he needed to remind himself you were real. You pictured him leaning down and saying something low near your ear, something dry and teasing, something only meant for you. You pictured walking into a room and not feeling like you had to be impressive alone.

Three weeks earlier, he had stood in the kitchen with the invitation in his hand, wearing sweatpants and an old Pitt hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes had looked bruised underneath from exhaustion, but when he read your name embossed in gold, he smiled.

“Dr. Y/N Abbot,” he said, running his thumb over the raised lettering. “Founder and Chief Systems Architect. This is fancy.”

You had been sitting at the island with your laptop open, pretending not to watch him too closely. There was a half-empty mug of tea beside your hand that had gone cold while you answered emails, and Jack had been barefoot on the kitchen tile, still carrying the warmth of the shower and the fatigue of the hospital with him.

“It’s a major industry gala, Jack. It’s supposed to be fancy.”

He looked up, amused. “I know. I’m just saying. This is real fancy.”

“You’re acting like I invited you to prom.”

“Kind of feels like it,” he said, setting the invitation down. “Except I don’t think anyone at my prom was casually entering billion-dollar valuation territory.”

You laughed despite yourself, and he came around the island, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. For a moment, you let yourself lean back into him. He smelled like soap, coffee, and hospital laundry detergent, that clean, sterile scent that had somehow become part of your marriage. His mouth brushed the side of your neck, and for a second, the kitchen felt like a place where both of your lives still fit.

“Don’t say it like that,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous,” Jack said, his voice low against your skin. “In a good way. My wife builds technology hospitals are fighting to buy, and I’m over here trying to remember where I left my badge.”

You turned in his arms and looked up at him. His hands stayed at your waist, warm and familiar. You could feel the small tremor of exhaustion in him, the way he was never fully still after a hard shift, like some part of his body was always bracing for the next alarm.

“So you’re coming?”

His smile softened. “Of course I’m coming.”

“You asked Harper to switch?”

“Already done.”

“You’re not on call?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Jack’s expression changed then, the teasing fading into something more careful. He touched your cheek with his thumb, and you hated how quickly your heart wanted to believe him. It was always like that with Jack. One gentle touch, one serious look, one promise said in that tired, sincere voice, and all the loneliness you had been trying to gather into evidence loosened in your hands.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m coming.”

You searched his face. “This one matters to me.”

“I know.”

“It’s not just dinner. We’re announcing the hospital network implementation contracts. The rollout plan. Market entry. The valuation estimate. This is the kind of night people remember.”

Jack nodded and kissed your forehead. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

That was the version of him you kept loving. The version that meant it. The problem was, Jack almost always meant it. If he had been careless, maybe you could have hated him properly. If he had forgotten because you did not matter, maybe the grief would have sharpened into something cleaner, something you could hold without blaming yourself. But Jack remembered in fragments. He loved in fragments. He showed up in small, exhausted pieces and looked at you like he wanted to give you everything, right before the world asked him for more than he had left.

And you kept living on those pieces.

A hand on your waist in the kitchen. His mouth against your temple before a shift. The rare mornings where he woke before his alarm and pulled you back against him like sleep had made him honest. The way he still looked at your face sometimes, quietly, almost helplessly, like he was surprised life had ever given him something soft. You had survived on that for longer than you wanted to admit, and that was the humiliating part. Not that he hurt you. Not even that he missed things. It was that one good look from him could still make you forgive a loneliness he had not yet apologized for.

On the night of the gala, he called you at 5:18 p.m.

You were standing in the bathroom in a silk robe while your makeup artist packed up her kit. Your hair was pinned into a low twist at the back of your neck, with a few pieces left soft around your face. Your earrings were already on, small diamond drops that caught the light whenever you moved. Your face looked finished in the mirror — warm skin, dark lashes, softly lined lips — polished enough that no one would know how nervous you were.

The bathroom smelled like hairspray, powder, perfume, and the faint steam from the shower you had taken an hour earlier. On the counter, your lipstick lay uncapped beside a little dish holding your wedding rings, which you had cleaned that afternoon because you thought there would be photographs of the two of you. The whole apartment felt too quiet, too prepared, like a stage waiting for someone who had not arrived yet.

Your phone lit up on the counter.

Jack.

Your stomach dropped before you even answered.

“Please don’t,” you said immediately.

There was a pause on the other end. Then Jack sighed, and the sound told you everything before he did.

“Y/N.”

You closed your eyes. “You said you weren’t on call.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You said you switched.”

“I did.”

“Then why are you calling me like this?”

He sounded tired already. Not physically tired exactly, but braced, like he knew he was about to hurt you and hated that knowing. “Harper’s kid got sick, and they’re short. It’s bad. I wouldn’t go in if they had coverage.”

You stared at yourself in the mirror. Your eyeliner was perfect. Your lips were perfect. Your whole face looked calm in a way that made you feel almost detached from it.

“Did they ask you, or did you offer?”

Jack didn’t answer quickly enough.

You let out a small, humourless laugh. “Oh.”

“They were drowning,” he said.

“So you offered.”

“I said I could come in for a few hours. I’m going to try to get out as soon as I can.”

You pressed your fingertips into the cool marble counter. The makeup artist moved quietly in your peripheral vision, pretending very hard not to listen.

“Jack, the reception starts at seven. Dinner is at eight. Speeches are at nine-thirty.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“That’s not fair.”

You looked down at your wedding band in the dish. The diamond caught the bathroom light, clean and bright and cruel.

“I can’t do this right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

The silence stretched. You could hear hospital noise in the background already: a distant page, someone calling for transport, the low hum of a place that never cared what anyone had planned.

“I’ll make it,” Jack said, but his voice had changed.

You heard the lie before it fully left his mouth.

“Don’t,” you said softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t give me a second promise to cover the first one.”

He exhaled. “Y/N.”

“I have to finish getting dressed.”

“I love you.”

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

He waited, but you did not say it back. After a few seconds, he said he would text you when he knew more, and you ended the call before he could apologize again.

The makeup artist stood very still, her brush bag in one hand, pretending she had not heard enough to understand. You looked at her through the mirror and smiled with the exact expression you used in investor meetings.

“Sorry about that.”

Her face softened. “No, don’t apologize.”

You picked up your lipstick and opened it even though your lips were already done. “I’m fine.”

She did not believe you, which was kind of her. At least she did you the courtesy of not saying so.

You waited until she left before you put your rings back on. For a moment, you stood in the quiet bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror. The woman looking back at you was composed, elegant, expensive. She looked like someone who knew exactly where she was going. She did not look like someone trying to decide whether it was more pathetic to cry before the biggest night of her career or to still hope her husband might walk through the door in time.

You got dressed carefully. You stepped into the gown and pulled it up over your body, smoothing the silk over your hips with both hands. The dress fit perfectly. That almost made you cry. You had wanted Jack to see it. You had wanted the private little intake of breath he sometimes gave when he forgot to pretend he wasn’t stunned by you. You had wanted him to look at you like he remembered you were not just the person waiting at home with leftovers and patience.

Instead, you zipped yourself up alone.

The first news segment aired from the lobby of The Pitt just after 7:00 p.m.

It wasn’t unusual for the televisions in the emergency department to run local news with the volume low. Most of the time, no one paid attention unless there was a weather alert, a mass casualty incident, or something affecting hospital funding. It was background noise beneath sharper sounds: monitors beeping, wheels rattling, phones ringing, curtain rings scraping open and shut.

Jack was at the desk reviewing imaging when one of the nurses looked up at the television.

“Wait,” she said. “Is that your wife?”

Jack’s head lifted.

The screen showed the front of the Meridian Grand, a luxury hotel downtown with a glass canopy and warm lights spilling onto the rain-dark sidewalk. A reporter stood outside in a wool coat, holding a microphone while guests moved behind her in formalwear.

The lower-third banner read:

L/N POWER SYSTEMS CELEBRATES MAJOR HOSPITAL GRID CONTRACTS Company valuation expected to climb as implementation phase begins

Jack’s hand tightened around the tablet.

The reporter smiled into the camera. “Tonight, L/N Power Systems is hosting a private gala following a major round of hospital infrastructure contracts that could place the company among the most valuable emerging players in emergency energy systems. Founded by electrical engineer Dr. Y/N Abbot, L/N Power Systems has developed adaptive microgrid technology designed to keep critical hospital units powered during grid failures, natural disasters, and rolling outages.”

A resident standing nearby glanced between the television and Jack. “Dr. Abbot, that’s your wife, right?”

Jack nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Damn,” the resident said, clearly trying to sound impressed rather than awkward. “That’s huge.”

Jack did not respond. The broadcast cut to a graphic showing projected contract values, implementation timelines, and valuation estimates. The numbers were careful, couched in analyst language, but the implication was obvious. If your company hit its implementation targets and the contracts expanded the way people expected, you were on track to enter billion-dollar territory.

A nurse whistled quietly. “Billion with a B?”

Another nurse said, “And she designed the actual system?”

Jack looked at the screen. “Yeah.”

The nurse shook her head. “That’s wild.”

The camera returned to the hotel entrance just as your car pulled up. Jack knew it was you before the door opened. He recognized the way Mara, your assistant, stepped out first and turned back toward the car, one hand hovering near the open door.

Then you appeared.

For a second, the desk around him faded out. The dress looked different on you than it had on the hanger. It followed your body with quiet confidence, the black silk catching silver from the camera flashes and gold from the hotel lights. Your shoulders were bare. Your hair was pinned low, elegant but not severe, and the diamonds at your ears glittered whenever you turned your head. You stepped under the canopy and smiled for the cameras.

It was a beautiful smile. It was also the smile you wore when you were trying not to feel something.

The reporter turned as photographers called your name. “And there she is now, Dr. Y/N Abbot, founder and chief systems architect of L/N Power Systems. Dr. Abbot has been described by analysts as one of the most closely watched engineers in the hospital infrastructure space, especially now that her company’s adaptive grid platform is moving from pilot installations into large-scale implementation.”

Someone at the desk said, “Jack, aren’t you supposed to be there?”

Nobody meant it cruelly. That almost made it worse.

Jack swallowed, still watching as you paused beside the step-and-repeat, your clutch held neatly in both hands.

“I was.”

The answer made the area around him go quiet.

On-screen, a reporter asked you, “Dr. Abbot, tonight is being described as a turning point for your company. What does it mean to have hospital systems moving forward with implementation?”

You smiled, and Jack noticed your fingers tighten slightly around your clutch.

“It means the work is becoming real,” you said. “Designing the system was one part of it. Proving it under stress testing was another. Implementation is where it starts to matter for patients, doctors, nurses, and everyone relying on those seconds when the grid becomes unstable.”

The reporter asked, “There’s already discussion of a possible billion-dollar valuation. Are you thinking about that tonight?”

You gave a small laugh, polite and controlled. “I think my CFO is probably thinking about it more than I am. The valuation matters because it affects growth and deployment, but for me, the focus is still the technology. If a trauma bay stays powered during an outage because of something my team built, that means more to me than a headline.”

The reporter thanked you. You nodded, smiled again, and moved inside.

Jack stood very still until the charge nurse beside him looked over. “You okay?”

He dragged his eyes from the screen. “Yeah.”

She held his gaze long enough to make it clear she did not believe him. Then a trauma page came through, and the whole department lurched back into motion. Jack handed off the tablet, shoved his phone into his pocket, and went where he was needed.

Again.

At the gala, people kept asking where your husband was.

You answered the first few times with patience. “He got called into the hospital.”

Most people responded kindly. Some even looked impressed, as if Jack’s absence made the two of you nobler somehow.

“Oh, of course. Emergency medicine.”

“That must be so difficult.”

“You both do such meaningful work.”

“Power couple, even when you’re in different places.”

You smiled through all of it. “Yes. He’s very dedicated.”

The ballroom was beautiful, but after a while its beauty started to feel almost cruel. The ceiling was high and painted cream and gold, with chandeliers throwing soft light over round tables covered in white linen. Each place setting had a black menu card with gold foil, a small arrangement of white orchids, and a tiny glass votive candle. Along one wall, a projection displayed animated renderings of your adaptive grid system: hospital wings lighting in sequence, power rerouting through alternate pathways, emergency loads stabilizing under simulated failures.

Your company’s leadership team sat near the stage. Your engineers were at the tables closest to you, dressed in suits and gowns that looked slightly unfamiliar on them. You loved seeing the people who had built the system with you getting treated like they belonged in rooms where money moved. Some of them kept taking discreet pictures of the menus and the floral arrangements. One of your junior engineers had shown up in a suit that still had a faint fold line in the sleeve from being fresh out of the garment bag. Another kept touching the stem of his wineglass like he was afraid of breaking it.

You should have been happy. Part of you was happy. That was what made the grief feel so unfair. The night was not ruined. The contracts were real. The applause was real. Your team’s pride was real. Your name on that screen was real. All of it was real.

So was the empty chair beside you.

By the tenth time someone asked where your husband was, you stopped hearing the question as a question. It became part of the room.

Where is he?

In the clink of champagne glasses.

Where is he?

In the scrape of chairs being pulled out for other wives, other husbands, other people with someone’s hand resting warmly against the backs of their seats.

Where is he?

In the empty space beside your plate, where his name sat in elegant black ink on heavy cream cardstock.

Dr. Jack Abbot

You stared at it for too long once, long enough that Mara touched your elbow beneath the table.

“You okay?”

You smiled before you answered, because that had become its own kind of muscle memory. “Yes.”

But your chest ached with something so childish and raw that it embarrassed you. You wanted him to think of you. Not the company. Not the press segment. Not the award. You. The woman in the dress he had promised to stand beside. The woman who had cleaned her wedding rings because she thought there would be photographs. The woman who kept glancing at the doors like wanting him hard enough might make him appear.

You hated yourself a little for that.

You hated that even surrounded by applause, even with your name glowing behind you, some stupid, tender part of you was still waiting to be someone’s favorite thing in the room.

Mara stayed close, fielding conversations when she sensed you needed a breath. She wore a deep green dress and carried a tablet even though you had told her not to work tonight.

“You’re doing great,” she murmured when a hospital executive walked away after asking too many questions about rollout costs.

You looked at the champagne flute in your hand. You had not taken a single sip.

“I’m doing rich-woman cosplay.”

“You are a rich woman.”

“Not emotionally.”

Mara almost laughed, then looked at your face and didn’t.

Your hand went to your clutch, where the white envelope from the doctor’s office was tucked beneath your phone. You had not told anyone. Not Mara. Not your mother. Not Jack.

Especially not Jack.

The result had come through that morning after bloodwork confirmed what the home tests had already said. Five weeks. Early enough that it still felt secret and unreal, but real enough that the nurse had told you to start prenatal vitamins and book a follow-up appointment. You had sat in your car outside the clinic with both hands on the steering wheel, staring at the printed result until the words stopped looking like English.

Pregnant.

At first, you cried because you were happy. Then you cried because you were scared. Then, worst of all, you cried because the first person you wanted was Jack, and you had already known there was a chance he would not be there when you told him.

During dinner, your phone buzzed once. You checked it under the table.

Jack: I’m still here. I’m so sorry. I watched your interview. You looked beautiful. I’m proud of you.

You stared at it for a long moment. For a second, you felt nothing. Then the hurt arrived slowly, settling into the parts of you that had already made room for it.

Mara leaned closer. “Is it him?”

You put the phone face down on the table. “Yeah.”

“Is he coming?”

You smoothed the edge of your napkin in your lap. “No.”

Mara went quiet. Across the room, your CFO was laughing with two investors. Someone from the hospital network raised a glass toward you, and you smiled back automatically.

“I don’t want to cry in this dress,” you said.

Mara’s voice softened. “Then don’t. Be mad instead.”

You looked at her, and something in your chest tightened. “I’m so tired of being mad.”

That was the truth you never said out loud. Anger took energy. Anger required the belief that something could still change if you made enough noise. You were so far past that now. You were tired in a way sleep could not fix, tired of dressing up disappointment until it looked like understanding, tired of giving Jack the best parts of your compassion while keeping none of it for yourself.

The first time the lights flickered at The Pitt that night, nobody really reacted.

Hospitals had a way of making disaster feel routine at first. A monitor blinked. A ceiling light hummed. Somewhere behind the desk, a printer stopped halfway through a page and then coughed itself back to life. The nurses looked up, annoyed but not afraid, because annoyance was easier to wear than fear.

Jack was in trauma two with both hands pressed around a patient’s bleeding thigh when the second flicker came.

This time, the room noticed.

“Power?” someone asked.

“Backup should catch,” a nurse said, but her voice had gone thin.

Then the overheads steadied. The monitors held. The ventilator kept its rhythm. The trauma bay stayed bright.

A few seconds later, someone from facilities came over the radio, breathless and stunned.

“Adaptive reroute engaged. Critical load stabilized. We’re holding.”

Jack froze.

Only for a second, but long enough for the words to land somewhere beneath his ribs.

Adaptive reroute.

Your system.

Your work.

Your sleepless nights, your marked-up schematics, your laptop glowing blue at two in the morning while he came home too tired to ask what you were building. Your hands, your mind, your stubbornness, your company, your impossible little gap between failure and recovery.

The trauma bay lights stayed on because of you.

And he was not beside you when the world clapped for it.

“Dr. Abbot?”

Jack blinked and looked down. His gloves were slick. The patient was still bleeding. The room still needed him.

“Clamp,” he said, voice rough. “Now.”

He kept working because that was what he did. He kept people alive. He kept rooms from falling apart. He kept going until the crisis passed and everyone around him could breathe again.

But after, when the patient was taken upstairs and Jack stepped into the hall, the television over the nurses’ station was still showing the gala.

Your gala.

The reporter’s voice filled the space between ringing phones and rolling carts.

“Moments ago, L/N Power Systems’ adaptive grid platform stabilized a critical load interruption at an emergency department participating in one of its pilot programs. Company officials have not yet confirmed which hospital experienced the event, but analysts are already calling tonight a live demonstration of the technology’s value.”

A resident looked from the screen to Jack.

No one had to say it.

Jack already knew.

The hospital had needed you tonight too. The difference was, the hospital had gotten you.

He had not shown up for you at all.

Jack saw your acceptance speech from the staff lounge.

He had missed the start because a patient had crashed, and by the time he made it to the lounge, his scrub top was damp at the collar and his hands still smelled faintly of antiseptic even after washing them twice. Someone had turned the television volume up because your gala was now the top local business story of the evening.

You were on stage behind a podium, your award resting beside the microphone. The lights made your skin glow and turned the black silk of your gown almost blue at the edges. Behind you, the screen showed a slow animation of your company’s system keeping a surgical wing powered during a simulated outage.

Jack stayed in the doorway.

On the screen, you took a breath and looked out at the room.

“When I started this company, a lot of people told me the idea was too difficult to scale,” you said. “Some were polite about it. Some were not. I was told hospitals already had backup systems, that emergency power was a solved problem, and that the failure gap we were focused on was too small to justify the investment.”

You smiled slightly, and the audience laughed when you added, “The thing about engineers is that if you tell us the gap is small, we tend to ask what happens inside it.”

Jack’s throat tightened. He had heard you practice versions of this speech in the shower, in the kitchen, in the car. He had teased you once for rewriting one paragraph eleven times. You had thrown a pillow at him and told him the paragraph was weak.

Now you were saying it without him in the room.

“We built this system because seconds matter,” you continued. “A few seconds without stable power can change what happens in an operating room, in a trauma bay, in a NICU, in an elevator carrying a patient between floors. The goal was never to make hospitals perfect. The goal was to give them a better chance when everything else is failing.”

The staff lounge was quiet. Jack noticed one of the nurses standing near the coffee machine, arms folded, watching with damp eyes.

You glanced down briefly, then back up.

“I’m grateful for my team. I’m grateful to the hospital partners who believed in the technology early. I’m grateful to the people who asked hard questions, because they made the system better.”

You paused.

Jack knew that pause. He knew it because he had lived with you long enough to hear the breath you took before saying something that cost you.

“Tonight is a professional milestone, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel personal too. Building something this demanding changes your life. It changes your relationships. It tests who shows up, who wants to, and who actually does.”

Jack’s face went still.

On-screen, your expression remained calm, but your voice softened.

“I’ve learned that success does not make loneliness disappear. It can fill a ballroom. It can put your name on a screen. It can bring applause, contracts, and congratulations. But at the end of the night, you still know which chair beside you stayed empty.”

Nobody in the lounge moved.

Jack looked at the floor. He did not have to see the screen to know the camera would have found his empty chair. A place card with his name. A dinner plate cleared untouched. A visible absence.

But the camera did find it.

Not for long.

Just long enough.

There it was on the television: the chair beside you, empty beneath warm ballroom light. A white place card sat above the untouched dinner setting.

Dr. Jack Abbot

Someone in the lounge inhaled quietly.

Jack stared at his name on the screen.

It was different seeing it like that. Not as a missed text. Not as a fight waiting to happen. Not as something he could explain with patients and short staffing and impossible nights.

It was a space with his name on it.

A promise that had a shape.

An absence everyone could see.

You continued, steadier now. “I am proud of this company. I am proud of the team who built it. And tonight, I am proud of myself for believing that the things I needed were worth building, even when I had to build them alone.”

The applause started slowly, then grew.

Jack stood there, unable to move.

One of the residents near the table said quietly, “I’m sorry, man.”

Jack nodded, because there was nothing else to do. A minute later, his pager went off again.

You left the gala after midnight with your award in one hand and your clutch in the other.

People tried to stop you on the way out. A board member wanted to introduce you to someone from a national health system. Your CFO wanted five minutes about a follow-up call. A journalist asked for one more quote. You gave polite answers, promised emails, and let Mara run interference until you made it to the lobby.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a mist. The hotel’s front drive shone under the lights, slick and dark like spilled ink. Your heels clicked against the polished stone as you waited for the car. The night air was cold against your bare shoulders, and Mara draped your coat over you before you could pretend you were fine without it.

“You don’t have to go home,” she said.

You looked at the road. “I know.”

“I can book you a suite upstairs.”

“I already did.”

Mara turned to you.

You kept your eyes forward. “I booked it this afternoon. Just in case.”

Her expression changed, but she did not make it worse by reacting too much. “Okay.”

The car pulled up. The driver took your award and placed it carefully in the back seat. When you slid into the car, the dress gathered around your legs in a pool of black silk. Mara got in beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The city moved past in blurred lights and wet windows. Billboards, traffic signals, restaurants closing for the night, people standing under awnings with cigarettes and phones. The world looked ordinary, which felt insulting. Something inside you had cracked open, and outside, people were still ordering late-night fries.

Mara broke the silence gently. “Do you want me to stay with you for a bit?”

You looked down at your clutch. “I’m pregnant.”

The words came out flat, almost too calm.

Mara’s head turned slowly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Your eyes burned immediately. “I found out this morning.”

“Does Jack know?”

You shook your head. “I was going to tell him tonight.”

Mara covered her mouth for a second, then lowered her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

That was what undid you. Not the empty chair. Not the text. Not the speech. Just someone being sorry for you without making you explain why you had the right to be hurt.

You bent forward slightly, one hand pressed over your stomach, the other over your mouth, trying not to sob too loudly in the back of the car. Mara moved close and put an arm around your shoulders, careful of your hair, careful of the dress, careful of all the pieces of you that were barely holding.

“I wanted him there,” you said, voice muffled through your fingers. “I wanted one night where I didn’t have to understand.”

Mara rubbed your back. “I know.”

“I hate that I still wanted him.”

“That’s love,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t always leave when it should.”

You cried harder at that, because she was right. You thought you had moved past needing him like that. You thought if you got busy enough, successful enough, full enough, maybe you would not notice the missing parts so much. But then something happened, something beautiful or terrifying or important, and he was still the first person you wanted to tell.

You looked out the window, watching the city smear itself into streaks of white and red through the rain. Pittsburgh looked softer from inside the car, almost forgiving. Like it did not know what had happened to you tonight. Like somewhere behind all those lit windows, people were still coming home to each other.

“I’m sitting here with an award, a company people are saying might be worth a billion dollars, a baby I don’t even know how to feel brave enough for yet, and all I can think is that I wanted my husband to call me his girl one more time and mean it like nothing else in the world mattered.”

Mara reached for your hand.

You let her take it.

“I don’t know where to put all of this love,” you whispered. “That’s the worst part. I can leave the apartment. I can sign papers. I can sleep somewhere else. But what am I supposed to do with all the years I spent loving him?”

Mara squeezed your hand.

You looked down at your wedding ring.

“What if I spend the rest of my life missing him?”

The question was so quiet it barely felt spoken, but once it was out, there was no taking it back.

Jack came home at 2:38 a.m.

He opened the apartment door quietly, like quietness could make his absence smaller. The living room lamp was on. Your award sat on the coffee table, still gleaming, still heavy, still proof that the night had happened whether he had attended or not. Beside it were two envelopes. One cream, one white.

You were sitting on the couch in your gown. You had taken your earrings off. Your hair had loosened, soft pieces falling near your cheeks. Your lipstick had faded, and there were faint marks under your eyes where you had cried and carefully wiped the evidence away. Your heels were lined up beside the couch. Your bare feet were tucked beneath you.

Jack stopped near the door. “Hey.”

You looked up. “Hey.”

He closed the door and set his keys in the bowl by the entryway. The sound was small and domestic, so painfully normal that you almost laughed. How many times had you heard that exact sound? Keys in the bowl. Shoes by the door. His tired sigh. Your voice asking if he had eaten. Marriage had so many tiny rituals that survived even when the people inside them were falling apart.

“You’re still dressed,” he said.

“I know.”

“I thought you might be asleep.”

“I thought a lot of things tonight.”

Jack looked down. He was still in his scrubs under a dark jacket. His hair was messy from running his hands through it, and there was a line across his cheek from where a mask had pressed into his skin. He looked exhausted. He looked guilty. He looked like the man you loved.

That was inconvenient.

That was devastating.

He stepped farther into the room. “I watched your speech.”

You nodded.

“You were incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it. The way you talked about the system, the contracts, all of it. You were…” He stopped, searching for the right word. “You were exactly who you are.”

Your eyes filled, but you blinked the tears back. “That would have been nice to hear in person.”

Jack flinched. “I know.”

You looked down at your hands. Your rings caught the lamplight.

He came closer, stopping at the end of the coffee table. “I’m sorry.”

You smiled a little, but there was no warmth in it. “You say that so much.”

“I know.”

“I think that’s part of the problem.”

Jack sat in the armchair across from you instead of beside you. You appreciated that. At least he could still read a room.

“I didn’t want to miss it,” he said.

You looked at him. “I believe you.”

He seemed thrown by that. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you sound like that?”

“Because wanting to be there and being there are different things.”

Jack rubbed both hands over his face. When he lowered them, his eyes were red. “Harper called. They were short. I thought if I went in early, I could help stabilize things and leave before dinner.”

“You thought.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t call me before deciding.”

“I didn’t want to stress you out while you were getting ready.”

You stared at him, and he heard it as soon as he said it.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.

“You didn’t want to stress me out, so you made the decision alone and told me after.”

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I made the wrong call.”

“You made the familiar call.”

He swallowed.

The room settled around those words. Rain tapped softly at the windows. Somewhere outside, tires hissed against wet pavement. The apartment smelled faintly like his hospital jacket and your perfume, like two lives still pretending they knew how to touch without hurting each other.

“You don’t understand what it’s like there,” Jack said quietly.

The words came out tired. Not cruel. Not even angry at first. Just exhausted enough to be careless.

You went still.

Jack looked at you and immediately seemed to regret it. “Y/N, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” you said softly. “Say it.”

He closed his eyes. “I just mean, when someone is dying in front of you, when there aren’t enough hands, when people are looking at you like you’re the last thing standing between them and the worst day of their life, it’s not easy to walk away.”

You nodded slowly. “I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

That one hurt.

You stared at him for a second, and something in your face changed. Not anger. Not even shock.

Exhaustion.

The kind that comes when someone you love finally says the thing you always knew they believed underneath all the apologies.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack opened his eyes. “What?”

“You’re right. I don’t know exactly what it’s like to be you.”

His mouth tightened. “That’s not what I—”

“But I know what it’s like to keep the lights on when a hospital can’t afford for them to go out. I know what it’s like to have people depend on something I built, something I signed my name to, something that could fail in ways that would haunt me. I know what pressure is, Jack. I know what responsibility is.”

His face softened, shame creeping in.

You looked at the award on the table. “And I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people congratulating me while my husband is on a television screen’s other side, using my work to save people, and still somehow unable to show up for me.”

Jack’s eyes shone. “That’s not fair.”

The words came out before he could stop them.

You laughed once, small and wounded. “There it is.”

“Y/N—”

“No, it’s okay. It’s not fair. Someone was dying. The hospital was short. Harper’s kid was sick. There was a trauma. There was a power issue. There’s always a reason, Jack. There is always a reason good enough to make me feel awful for being hurt.”

His jaw worked, but no words came.

You leaned forward slightly, your voice low. “You know what the worst part is? I believe all your reasons. I believe they’re real. I believe they matter. I believe you’re a good doctor and a good man and that people are alive because of you.”

Your eyes filled.

“But I also believe I have been lonely in this marriage. And you keep asking one truth to erase the other.”

Jack looked down.

You reached for the cream envelope on the table. Your fingers brushed over the thick paper, and Jack’s gaze followed the movement.

“What is that?” he asked.

You held it in your lap for a moment. Jack looked at you like he wanted to memorize you and beg forgiveness at the same time. You wondered if he knew how often you had done that to him.

Memorized him, you meant.

The slope of his shoulders when he came home defeated. The faint scar near his eyebrow. The way his hands looked too capable around a coffee mug, too gentle when they touched you, too absent when you needed them and they were somewhere else holding someone else together. You had loved his face through every version of your own disappointment. You had loved him in doorways, waiting for him to take off his shoes. You had loved him across dinner tables where his phone kept lighting up. You had loved him in bed while he slept beside you, too exhausted to notice you were crying.

You had loved him so thoroughly that leaving him felt less like choosing yourself and more like cutting your own heart out before it could beg you to stay.

“I don’t want you to be a lesson,” you said suddenly.

Jack’s brows pulled together. “What?”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t want to look back one day and tell people you taught me what I deserved. I don’t want you to become some sad, useful story about growth. I wanted you to be my husband.”

His face broke.

You swallowed hard. “I wanted you to be the person I came home to. Not the reason I had to learn how to stop waiting.”

Jack stared at you, and for a moment, you saw the words land somewhere deep enough to hurt him. You almost hated yourself for noticing. You almost hated that even now, a part of you wanted to soften the blow.

“When you asked me to marry you, I thought I understood what you were asking,” you said.

Jack’s face shifted. “What does that mean?”

You looked at him, and the ache in your chest sharpened. “I thought you were asking me to share your life. I thought it meant we would make room for each other, even when it was hard. I knew your job would be demanding. I knew there would be nights you couldn’t leave. I knew I would have to be patient sometimes.”

Your voice stayed even, but Jack’s expression was already changing.

“I didn’t know I was signing up to become the easiest thing to cancel.”

He closed his eyes. “Y/N.”

“I didn’t know I would have to feel guilty for needing you.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty.”

“But I do. Every time. Because there’s always a patient, or a shift, or someone sicker, or something worse. And I know those things matter. I’m not pretending they don’t.”

You set the cream envelope on the table and slid it toward him.

“I just can’t keep living like my pain only counts if it’s an emergency.”

Jack stared at the envelope. For a few seconds, he did not touch it. Then he picked it up.

You watched him open it. You watched him read the first page. You watched the colour leave his face.

“Divorce,” he said quietly.

You folded your hands together so he would not see them shake. “Yes.”

He looked up at you, stunned. “You want a divorce?”

“I don’t want this version of marriage anymore.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You breathed in slowly. “I know.”

Jack stood, then seemed to realize he did not know where to go, so he sat back down hard. “When did you decide this?”

You looked toward the window. The city lights reflected faintly in the glass.

“I think part of me has been deciding for a long time.”

He shook his head. “No. We’ve had hard months. I know that. But divorce?”

“You keep saying it like I’m being dramatic.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“No,” you said. “You’re trying to find the part where I did this wrong, so you don’t have to look at how long you were doing it to me.”

Jack’s mouth tightened. “That’s not fair.”

The words left him fast.

Too fast.

You looked at him, and he looked like he wanted to reach across the room and take them back.

“Stop saying that to me,” you whispered.

His face cracked. “I’m sorry.”

“I am so tired of being told my pain has to be fair to yours.”

Jack covered his mouth with one hand and looked away.

You wiped your thumb over your ring. “I sat at that table tonight with your name card beside me. People kept asking where you were, and I kept making you sound noble because I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

Jack looked crushed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I did. Because I’m used to protecting you from how it feels to be married to you.”

His mouth opened, then closed again. That was the first time he really had no defense.

You continued, softer now. “I don’t think you’re a bad man, Jack. That would be easier. You’re kind. You care about people. You work yourself into the ground because you can’t stand leaving anyone unsupported.”

Your eyes met his.

“But somehow, I became the person you could leave unsupported because I was good at surviving it.”

Jack’s eyes shone. “That’s not how I see you.”

“I know. But it’s how you treat me.”

He pressed his palms together, his hands shaking slightly. “I can change.”

You looked at him with so much sadness that he almost looked away.

“I needed you to change before I had to beg myself to stop hoping.”

The room was quiet after that.

Then Jack noticed the second envelope. The white one. It sat beside the award, small and plain, with the doctor’s office logo in the corner.

His eyes stayed on it too long.

“What’s that?”

You felt your throat close. This was the part you had dreaded most. The part that made everything feel impossible.

You picked up the white envelope. Jack watched you like his body already knew what his mind did not.

“This is what I was going to give you tonight after the gala.”

His face went still.

You held it out.

He did not take it right away.

“Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Please just open it.”

He took the envelope. His fingers were careful, almost gentle, as if the paper might bruise. He pulled out the test results, unfolded them, and read.

You watched the exact second he understood.

His lips parted. His eyes moved over the page again. Then again. When he looked at you, his face had fallen apart so completely that you had to look down.

“You’re pregnant,” he said.

“Yes.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since this morning.”

“This morning?”

You nodded.

Jack looked back at the paper, then at you. “You went alone?”

“I didn’t know if it was real yet. I took tests at home. Then I booked bloodwork.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

You laughed once, and it came out more like a sob. “You weren’t even there when I tried to tell you after.”

He took that quietly.

He deserved it, and he knew he did.

You pressed a hand to your stomach, more for comfort than anything else. “I had this whole plan. It feels stupid now.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“It was.” You wiped under your eye carefully. “I thought we’d get through the gala, and then maybe we’d go somewhere quiet. Maybe the balcony or the car. I thought I’d hand it to you and you’d look confused for a second, and then you’d understand. And I thought, for once, the night would feel like ours.”

Jack’s eyes filled. “I should have been there.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

He put the divorce papers and the test results down on the table with shaking hands, keeping them separate, like mixing them together would make the whole thing more unbearable.

“I want this baby,” he said.

Your face crumpled. “I know.”

“I want you.”

You shook your head slowly. “Jack.”

“I do.”

“I know you want me.”

“Then don’t leave.”

“That’s not how this works.”

He stood again, and this time he came around the coffee table but stopped a few feet away from you.

“I’ll do better,” he said.

You looked tired suddenly. Tired in a way he had never really let himself see.

“You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it differently now.”

“You always mean it.”

He swallowed hard. That hurt him because it was true.

You stood too, the black silk falling around you as you rose. Without the heels, you looked more vulnerable. Less like the woman from the news. More like his wife, barefoot in the living room, exhausted from being brave in public.

“I don’t want to punish you,” you said. “I need you to understand that. I’m not doing this because I want you to suffer.”

“It feels like suffering.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

Your voice broke. “Because staying feels like disappearing.”

Jack’s face tightened as if he had been hit.

You looked down, trying to keep your breathing steady. “I don’t recognize myself anymore sometimes. I used to tell you everything. I used to get excited to share things with you. Then I started editing myself because I didn’t want to add pressure to your life. I stopped telling you when I was upset because you already looked crushed when you came home. I stopped asking for dates because it was humiliating to watch you check your phone the whole time.”

Jack closed his eyes. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“You didn’t ask.”

The words came out quietly, but they landed hard.

He opened his eyes again. “You’re right.”

That made you cry harder, because you had wanted him to argue. You had wanted him to give you something to push against. Instead, he looked at you with tears in his eyes and finally saw the damage.

“You’re right,” he said again, his voice rough. “I should have asked. I should have noticed. I should have made room for you without you having to keep proving you needed it.”

You covered your mouth for a second.

Jack looked at your hand, then your stomach. His voice softened. “Are you okay? Physically?”

That question broke something small inside you.

“I think so.”

“Any pain?”

“No.”

“Bleeding?”

“No.”

“Are you nauseous?”

“A little.”

He nodded, doctor mode flickering in, then dying immediately because he seemed to realize how badly timed it was.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I’m doing the thing.”

You let out a tiny, sad laugh. “Yeah. You are.”

Jack wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “I want to come to the appointments.”

“I know.”

“Will you let me?”

You looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t know yet.”

He nodded quickly, even though it hurt. “Okay.”

“I’m not saying no forever.”

“I understand.”

“I just can’t make promises tonight to make you feel better.”

He breathed in shakily. “Okay.”

You moved toward the chair near the hallway and picked up a small overnight bag.

Jack saw it, and panic crossed his face before he could hide it.

“You packed a bag?”

“Yes.”

“You’re leaving tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“A hotel.”

“Which one?”

You looked at him.

He nodded once, backing off. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m safe.”

“Okay.”

You slipped the bag over your shoulder. The movement was ordinary, almost boring, and somehow that made it worse. This was what leaving looked like. No screaming. No slammed drawers. Just a woman in a black gown picking up a small bag because she had reached the end of what she could carry.

Jack followed you to the entryway but kept a careful distance.

“Can I drive you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Can I at least walk you down?”

“No.”

He pressed his lips together, trying not to fall apart completely.

You put your hand on the doorknob. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Jack said, “Do you still love me?”

You closed your eyes.

Of course he would ask the one question that did not save anything.

“Yes,” you said.

His breath caught behind you.

You turned back to face him, and there he was: wrinkled scrubs, red eyes, hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but had finally learned that wanting did not give him the right.

“I love you,” you said, and the truth of it nearly ruined you. “I love you so much that I stayed long after I started feeling alone. I love you so much that I kept making excuses for you because I knew you were tired, because I knew your work mattered, because I knew you were good.”

Jack’s eyes filled again.

“But I can’t keep giving you access to me just because you’re sorry after,” you whispered. “I can’t keep building a home out of promises you only remember once I’m already hurt.”

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.

“I know.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

You looked at him for a long moment. You thought of the gala. The black dress. The empty chair. The envelope. The baby. All the nights you had waited and waited, feeding yourself on old versions of him, surviving on memories like they were meals.

“Be someone our child can count on,” you said. “Start there.”

Jack nodded, crying silently now. “I will.”

You wanted to believe him.

God, you wanted to believe him so badly that for one dangerous second, your hand almost left the doorknob.

But then you remembered the chair.

You remembered your name being called in a room full of people while the place beside you stayed empty.

You remembered that love had not been enough to bring him there.

So you opened the door.

The hallway outside was quiet and softly lit. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbour’s television murmured behind a closed door. Life was still going on in all the ordinary ways.

Jack said your name once more.

You looked back.

He stood in the entryway with your award visible behind him on the coffee table and the two envelopes lying open beside it.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

You gave him a small, broken smile. “I know.”

And that was what made it worse.

Because you knew.

You knew he loved you. You knew he was proud of you. You knew he would miss you when the apartment went quiet and the hospital could no longer give him somewhere else to run.

But knowing had never been the same as being held.

So you stepped into the hallway. This time, when you walked away, you did not wait for him to follow. You heard the door close gently behind you, and the softness of it hurt more than a slam would have.

After you left, Jack did not move for a long time.

The apartment stayed quiet around him. The lamp hummed softly. Rain touched the windows. Your heels were still by the couch, lined up neatly, as if even your heartbreak had manners.

On the coffee table, the divorce papers sat beside the pregnancy results.

The ending and the beginning.

Both addressed to him.

Jack picked up the remote with a hand that did not feel like his and opened the news replay. He did not know why. Maybe because grief made people stupid. Maybe because some part of him thought if he watched the night properly, he could punish himself into becoming the man who should have been there.

The video loaded.

There you were again.

Black dress. Soft hair. Bare shoulders. That careful, beautiful smile.

He watched you enter alone. He watched you answer questions alone. He watched you sit at the table alone. Then the camera panned, briefly, almost accidentally, to the empty chair beside you.

His name card was clear.

Dr. Jack Abbot

Jack paused the screen.

The room went silent.

There it was.

Not a feeling. Not an argument. Not your sensitivity. Not his schedule. Not bad timing.

Proof.

A chair with his name on it.

A space he had promised to fill.

Jack sat on the couch slowly, still staring at the frozen image. His face crumpled, but no sound came out at first. He had cried before. He had cried after losing patients. He had cried in stairwells, in supply closets, in the shower with one hand braced against the tile.

This was different.

This was not the grief of failing to save someone he had only just met.

This was the grief of realizing he had been losing you slowly while calling it survival.

His eyes moved from the frozen screen to the divorce papers.

Then to the pregnancy result.

Then back to your face.

“How do I forget you?” he whispered, but there was no one there to answer.

The apartment seemed to hold the question for him.

Your perfume still lived faintly in the room. Your mug was still in the sink. Your cardigan was still folded over the back of the chair. The book you had been reading was still open on the side table, a receipt tucked between the pages because you hated using proper bookmarks. There was a sticky note on the fridge in your handwriting reminding both of you to buy more oat milk. There was a pair of your socks half-hidden under the coffee table because you always kicked them off when you were working late. There was a framed photo from your courthouse wedding on the console, both of you laughing because Jack had been unable to get the ring onto your finger at first.

You were everywhere.

That was the cruelty of it. You had left, but the life you had built with him remained behind like a house still waiting for its owner to come home.

Jack covered his mouth with one hand and bent forward, shoulders shaking.

For once, no one was paging him. No one was asking him for help. No one was bleeding, crashing, coding, crying out, reaching for him from the other side of a curtain.

For once, there was no emergency left to run toward.

Only the life he had kept meaning to choose.

Only the wife he had loved too late.

Only the baby he had learned about on the same night he learned she was leaving.

Only the empty chair beside you, waiting on a screen for a man who never came.

And the worst part, the part that finally broke him open, was that Jack knew this would not be a clean grief. He would not miss you once. He would miss you in places. In the kitchen when the coffee brewed too strong. In the car when he passed the hotel downtown and remembered black silk under gold lights. In the emergency department when the power held steady because of the system you built. In every waiting room, every hallway, every quiet elevator ride where he would think of you standing somewhere else, living a life he was no longer trusted to enter.

He would miss you when the baby came.

He would miss you when your child had your eyes.

He would miss you when people asked about his wife and he had to learn how to say your name without saying mine.

Jack stared at the empty chair until the screen blurred.

For the first time all night, he understood that you had not left because you stopped loving him. You left because you were terrified you would spend the rest of your life loving him from a room he never came home to.

And Jack, too late, finally knew what it meant to wait. Not for a patient. Not for a shift to end. Not for the next crisis to pass. But for a woman who might never come back.

The television stayed paused on his name.

The apartment stayed still around him.

And Jack sat there in the home you had built together, finally surrounded by all the love he had assumed would wait forever.

“That sounds like a yes,” another student muttered.

The class dissolved into snickering.

Ryland sighed dramatically, adjusting his glasses. “Okay. Everybody sit down before Ms. Mercer gets here, because I would like my fiancée to think I’m a competent professional.”

That got their attention instantly. Their young eyes

“You’re getting married?”

“You have a fiancée?”

“How old are you?”

“Mr. Grace has game?” Trevor whispered, horrified.

Ryland pointed at him. “Detention is always an option. And I will not have my game questioned,”

The classroom door opened before Trevor could respond and the room went dead silent.

Y/N Mercer stepped inside wearing a dark NASA flight jacket over black fatigues, sunglasses perched on your head despite the cloudy weather outside. You seemed to carry yourself with the easy confidence of someone who regularly flew experimental aircraft fast enough to liquefy the average middle school science teacher. Which, Ryland supposed, was part of the appeal.

“Wow,” one student breathed.You smiled immediately at the students Ryland had told you all about. Usually while complaining over their lab reports and mocked drawings, “Good morning.”

The entire class chorused a stunned, awkward, “Good morning.”

Ryland folded his arms, leaning against his desk with entirely too much satisfaction. “See? This is why I asked her instead of the accountant from down the hall.”

You shot him a look. “You told them I blow things up, didn’t you?”

“A little.”

“You are such a menace. I do not blow things up, you know that,”

“And yet,” he said, wiggling the engagement ring on his finger, “you said yes.”

A few kids made exaggerated gagging noises.

You laughed softly before setting your helmet bag down on the front table. “Okay, before your teacher embarrasses himself further, hi. I’m Y/N Mercer. I’m a test pilot working with NASA Amres Research center and the ESA joint program. Which means I fly aircraft and spacecraft prototypes before they’re approved for missions.”

A hand shot up immediately.“Yes?”

“Have you ever almost died?”

Ryland rubbed a hand over his face. “Ethan—”

“No, it’s okay,” You interrupted, grinning. “That’s actually a very fair question.” The class leaned forward collectively.

“Yes,” you admitted. Your job was risky more than most, and with it, the risks of coming home. But it didn’t make you love your job less, “Several times.”

A chorus of whoa filled the room and Ryland watched as you spoke, the same way he always did when you talked about flying. There was something different about her when you discussed it—something brighter. Sharper. Like every nerve in your body woke up at once.

You noticed Ryland staring, and looked to him with a raised eyebrow. “What?” You asked.

“You’re doing the voice.”

“The voice?”

“The pilot voice.”

The kids immediately latched onto that. There’s a pilot voice?”

Ryland nodded solemnly. “Oh yeah. It’s this very specific thing where she starts sounding cooler than me.”

You snorted. “That is not a difficult accomplishment, Mr. Grace,”

The students laughed.Ryland clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. Betrayed in my own classroom.”

One of the girls near the front raised her hand carefully. “Were you always good at math and science?”

Your expression softened immediately.“No,” you said honestly. “I had to work really hard at it. Especially physics. I was never good at all that stuff so I had to put in extra time,”

Ryland perked up. “See? Important life lesson. Your brains are all squishy and adaptable. Neuroplasticity.”

“Mr. Grace,” Trevor said, “nobody knows what that means.”

“It means,” you translated smoothly, “your teacher is a nerd.”

“THANK you.”

“And he talks like a Discovery Channel documentary when he gets excited.”

Ryland pointed at you accusingly, “You love that about me.”

“I tolerate it affectionately.”

The kids were grinning now, completely invested.One student raised his hand slowly. “So… how did you guys meet?”

Ryland immediately answered, “She insulted me.”

You looked to him with an offended look, “I did not insult you.”

“You called my lecture ‘painfully enthusiastic.’”

“It was painfully enthusiastic.”

“You said I moved around like a caffeinated flamingo.”

“You do.”

The class burst into laughter. Ryland shook his head. “Anyway, I was giving a guest lecture for a NASA outreach program—”

“And he accidentally spilled coffee on himself in front of like fifty people,” you immediately added.

“It was one time.”

“He tried to pretend it didn’t happen.”“

I thought if I ignored it, everyone else would too.

“You literally had coffee dripping off your elbow.”

The students were wheezing now, filled with young giggles.

You smiled at him then, softer this time. Real. It still amazed you even now how you’re ended up together. You both were rather polar opposites. You were an adrenaline junkie, the very definition of an extrovert. While Ryland was….very much not. But it didn’t make you love him any less.

You two found a balance in each other.And that smile you always gave him, that look in your eyes, it always caught him off guard a little. Like somehow you still hadn’t realized you could do better. Because you knew you couldn’t—though Ryland always disagreed.

One of the quieter students near the windows raised her hand carefully. “What’s it like? Flying, I mean.” The room quieted.

You leaned back against the desk slightly, thinking. “It’s…” you paused. “Imagine you spend your whole life looking up at the sky. And then one day somebody hands you the keys.” The room stayed silent, even Ryland as you spoke.

In all honesty, it was impossible to describe the feeling. But you did your best anyways, “And the first time you break through the clouds,” you continued quietly, “you realize the world is so much bigger than you thought it was.”

A few kids stared at you with wide eyes.

Ryland smiled a little to himself. There it was again. That thing you did. Making people believe they could touch the stars.

Trevor finally broke the silence.“…That’s so cool.”

You grinned at him, “Don’t tell your teacher I can be cool. He’ll get competitive.”

~

“Eye movement detected.”

A strange voice filled your ears. Your eye lids twitched but couldn’t move more than a few flickers. Where were you? What was happening?

You tried to move, but nothing cooperated. Not your fingers, toes. Nothing. Was anything broken? It didn’t feel like it. There was a lot of uncomfortable sensations of tubes coming in and out of you, but besides that it seemed to be the extent.

“What is two plus two?”

The robotic voice filled your head again as your eyebrows furrow slightly in response. God your head was killing you. Can you tell the voice to shut up for two seconds?

“Shjskmmmm mmmppp”

You try to tell the voice just that, but it seemed nothing wanted to work, which really on frustrated you more. Which using that frustration you were able to twitch your fingers. Then your toes. Good. This was good.

”Incorrect. What is two plus two,”

This happened several more times before you were able to get the number out. The robot then asked you another question you couldn’t be bothered to answer.

Consciousness pulled you in and out a few times. Your eyes had opened the second time and the light was cruelly bright. The third time you were able to open your eyes you were able to move. Which had been a relief.

But it didn’t help the fact that your limbs felt like jello. Disregarding the robot arm trying to keep you in bed, your arms lift you sitting up before rolling over and out of bed. You let out a cry of pain feeling the tubes pulling out of you, quickly though not necessarily painlessly.

You quickly realized that it had been some sort of tube and…..catheter.

Ouch.

Your body shook as you rolled slightly, trying to escape the sensation, trying to get away from everything attached to you. Little streaks of flood covering the floor and from your IVs.

The room didn’t stop you. It seemed to simply watch you. Something else though, filled your ears beyond the hum of the room.

Footsteps. Real. Heavy. Careful.

Your head snapped up instinctively, vision was still blurred with tears, but you saw him.

A figure.

Human-shaped. Standing at a distance, like he was afraid to approach too quickly. Wrapped in what looked like a sheet, face half shaved. He looked terrifying.

He didn’t move closer. He just stopped. Hands slightly raised, palms open. But his expression was relieved. Why did he look relieved?

“Hey,” he said softly, “Hi. God, thank god you’re alive. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to wake up. But here you are!” He said, breathing out.

But your throat locked as panic surged again, sharper now.

You pushed herself backward on the floor, shaking your head weakly as your back hit one of the curved walls of the room.

The man didn’t follow, safely keeping his distance and you stared at him, breathing hard, trying to force your voice to work. Your chest tightened painfully as you worked your voice up.

“Who—” you tried. You really did. But it broke halfway. Your face twisted with frustration and fear.

The man’s expression softened, like he understood what you were going through. Did he?

“Who…” you tried gain, throat dry and rough, “who are you….”

“I….i don’t know. I was kinda hoping…” he said gently, carefully choosing every word, “I was kinda hoping you would know that..”

The reality of his words hit you like bricks, and panic settled in your stomach at the realization.

If it wasn’t for Jack’s presence, you wouldn’t have been able to accept the job at the University of Pittsburgh that you interviewed for. It pays better, the hours are more sociable, but you absolutely cannot have Gwen in your classroom.

Jack changed his entire work schedule to fit around you both.

Mixing days and nights, and trying to keep weekends as free as possible.

His colleagues are happy to oblige. After watching Jack nearly work himself to death over the last few years, they’re all just grateful he doesn’t seem to be actively suicidal anymore.

You have noticed a few things that are different from the last time you were here regularly. The room that his mom stayed in, at the very end of the hall, stays closed at all times. You’ve never seen him so much as open the door, much less go inside.

He also seems to be staying in one of the smaller bedrooms, rather than the primary. Quite why, you’re not sure.

The ensuite had the best bath you’ve ever used in your life.

A part of you wonders if you have anything to do with it. The more logical part knows it must be something else.

Gwen’s started sleeping through the night on a regular basis, leaving you to pad down to the kitchen at eight, to find her already fed and changed, courtesy of Jack.

“Hi, bug,” You smile widely, dropping a kiss to the top of her head as she giggles, reaching for you. “Another full night? You must love Daddy’s house, huh?”

Jack passes you a coffee, and presses his own brief kiss to your hairline.

A new, but not unwelcome development.

It’s easy to pretend that you’re a nuclear family like this. Sure, you and Jack don’t sleep in the same bed, or sleep together at all, but there’s something so terribly domestic about spending almost every waking moment with him.

"She was up at six," Jack says, his voice low and warm, keeping his eyes on Gwen as she tries to eat her own fingers. "But she was an absolute angel. Just cooing at the ceiling until I came in to get her."

"Six is practically sleeping in for her," You say, leaning against the counter and feeling the tension melt from your shoulders.

He pauses for a second, before replying. “Listen, uh… Robby was wondering when he can meet the little lady, but I told him that you were still adjusting to the new job, and-”

“I think that would be nice, actually,” You hum, sipping the coffee - exactly two sugars, a splash of oat milk, just how you like it. “Gwen doesn’t exactly get a huge amount of stimulation from anyone other than us. A bigger social circle would do her good.”

You’ve always liked Robby.

He’d been the first of Jack’s friends you’d been introduced to, and you’d hit it off immediately.

Jack’s face softens instantly, the faint tension in his shoulders easing as he looks at you over the rim of his mug.

“Yeah?” He asks.

Beside you, Gwen smacks both palms against the tray of her highchair with a squeal, kicking her socked feet. One of the little plush carrots clipped to the side swings wildly from the impact.

You reach over automatically, steadying the toy while Jack leans in to wipe a smear of milk from her cheek with his thumb.

“She’s clearly desperate for intelligent conversation,” You deadpan.

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Poor kid. Stuck with us all day.”

“I think maybe we’ve been a little isolated,” You admit. “Not in a bad way. Just…” You glance toward Gwen, who’s now happily gnawing on her fist. “I don’t know. Days blur together sometimes.”

Jack nods once, understanding immediately.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You were surviving though. Doing what you needed to do. We share the load now. But still.” He reaches out, his large hand completely covering Gwen's tiny, flailing feet, holding them still for a second until she giggles and tries to kick him away. “She deserves more than just two tired adults staring at her all day. Even if we are exceptionally good-looking.”

You snort into your coffee. “Modest, too.”

*****

It’s strange seeing Robby again. There was a period in your life where you spent more time with him than anybody else, bar Jack. And now he’s a stranger.

“How are you doing?” He asks on greeting, pulling you into a warm hug as he enters.

“Better,” You nod, managing to conjure a semi-genuine smile. It’s true. You are, categorically, doing much better than you were before Jack came back into your life. Having a partner in all this makes all the difference - as does having a proper mattress.

“I would’ve reached out, if I’d known. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

You worry a little that you’re about to cry, so you nod, and lead Robby to the sitting room, where Jack has Gwen.

Gwen doesn't look up immediately. She keeps chewing her book, completely indifferent to the new presence in the room. Robby chuckles softly and drops down onto his knees on the rug, creeping closer to her level. “God, guys. She’s gorgeous.”

“Yeah,” Jack hums proudly. “She is. You want to hold your niece?”

The moment she’s in his arms, Gwen’s entire demeanour changes. She blinks up at him for three solid seconds, her big eyes studying his face, before her whole expression lights up. She lets out a high-pitched, screeching giggle, her chubby legs kicking frantically against his stomach. She buries her face into his soft flannel shirt with another happy squeal, her little fingers opening and closing as she grabs at his collar.

Jack watches the exchange, his hand still holding the useless rattle. To anyone else, his expression would look perfectly normal - pleasant, even. He has a polite, easy smile fixed on his face. But you know him too well. You see the slight tightness around his jaw, the way his shoulders have locked up, and the fleeting, bruised look in his eyes. It took Jack days of patient, agonisingly quiet handling just to get Gwen to stop crying when he held her, and even longer to make her actually like him properly. Robby has been holding her for thirty seconds, and she’s already treating him like her favourite person.

While Jack makes tea, you and Robby sit on the sofa, talking quietly about how much life has changed since the old days. He shares updates from work, but the focus stays firmly on the present, deliberately skating past the painful year you spent apart from Jack. Gwen stays attached to him the entire time, remaining utterly enchanted by him.

As the hour marks hits, Gwen’s babbles turn into heavy-lidded yawns and fist-rubbed eyes. Recognising the cues, Robby gently hands her over to Jack, giving her a soft pat on the back. He stays just long enough to say his warm goodbyes, pulling you into another tight hug and clapping Jack on the shoulder before slipping out the front door.

When Jack returns from putting her down in the nursery, you’re leaning against the doorway smirking as he drops onto the couch heavily. "You know," You start softly, "it’s a good thing Robby left before you burned a hole through him with your eyes.”

“What? I wasn’t staring him down.”

"Right. Of course not," You tease, walking over and leaning against the arm of his chair. "That’s why you were gripping that tea mug like you wanted to shatter it into dust. You were completely jealous, Jack."

"I wasn't jealous," He grumbles, though he avoids your eyes, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. "It’s just an adjustment. Seeing him with her."

"Jack, she’s five months old. She liked his shirt," You echo, reaching down to gently nudge his jaw with your fingers until he looks at you. "It wasn't a rejection of you."

A muscle feathers in his jaw, but the tight line of his mouth finally cracks into a reluctant, sheepish half-smile. He reaches up, catching your hand in his large palm and pulling you down just enough to rest his forehead against your hip.

“You’ll look back on this and laugh when she’s the biggest daddy’s girl in the world as a toddler,” You insist.

2 weeks until Christmas.

When a crash sounds from downstairs, your first thought is that Jack must have lost balance. Fallen with his crutch, and maybe taken out the coffee table as he went down.

You glance groggily at your phone.

00:04.

Jack’s not on a night-shift tonight, so why the hell is he still up?

Especially when Gwen’s in the habit of being up at six-thirty sharp these days.

You can see on the baby monitor that she’s still sound asleep in her crib, so your mind doesn’t go there, but you do rush down the stairs, pulling a robe tightly around you.

“Jack?” You call sharply, already moving faster. “Jack?”

“In here-” his voice cuts off with a muffled curse, followed by another clatter.

Your stomach drops.

You round the corner into the living room and stop short.

Jack freezes too.

For one long second, the two of you just stare at each other.

He’s halfway up a step stool with one crutch wedged awkwardly beneath his arm, tangled in what looks like three strands of Christmas lights as he balances precariously. There’s a box overturned on the floor beside him, ornaments scattered across the rug, and the coffee table shoved crookedly against the couch like he’d tried to catch himself on it.

“I can explain.”

“You almost died decorating a tree?”

“I was not almost dying. That’s so dramatic.”

“You’re on a step stool at midnight with one functioning leg.”

You blink at him. Then at the garland hanging lopsided over the mantle. Then at the little knitted stockings already clipped carefully into place.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. “Jack…”

He looks suddenly uncertain beneath your stare, one hand tightening around the string lights.

“I know you said not to bother,” He says, quieter now. “Because Gwen won’t remember it.” He shrugs one shoulder. “But I don’t know. I just thought…” His eyes flick around the room. “Maybe we should.”

Your heart aches a little.

The living room is a disaster. There’s tissue paper everywhere, one ornament has apparently rolled into the hallway, and the tree topper is somehow upside down on the couch.

And Jack - stubborn, exhausted Jack - has clearly been trying to do all of this by himself while you slept.

You exhale slowly.

“She’s five months old,” You say, softer this time.

“I know.”

“She’s literally going to chew wrapping paper and fall asleep before dinner.”

“I know.”

“She has no idea what Christmas is.”

Jack’s mouth twitches. “Okay, but in her defence, colours are like her whole vibe right now. And what better way to stimulate her senses than with a huge Christmas tree?”

You fight a smile and lose immediately. “Where did you even hide this stuff?”

“Garage.”

He wobbles a little again, and you reach for him immediately. You feel him tense, very obviously wanting to get down himself, before allowing you to help him down. “You’re such a sap,” You mumble, but you’re still smiling wide.

Your gaze drops to the open ornament box beside him.

There are tiny baby’s first Christmas ornaments tucked carefully between the tissue paper. A little ceramic moon with Gwen’s name painted on it in crooked gold lettering.

Something warm and painful blooms in your chest all at once.

“You bought ornaments,” You murmur.

“Thought it would be nice to have some keepsakes from her first Christmas.”

“You should’ve woken me up,” You mumble, blinking back tears. “I would’ve helped you

Jack shrugs again, smaller this time. “You’ve been tired. Wanted to do something nice.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, staring down at the little ceramic moon. The crooked gold lettering looks so intensely personal, so thoroughly thought-out, that it makes the breath hitch in your chest.

“You’re an idiot,” You whisper, the words completely devoid of any real bite. You reach into the box, your fingers carefully brushing past the tissue paper to lift the ornament. It’s light, cool against your palm. “An absolute idiot. You could have fallen.”

“I didn’t, though,” Jack points out, his voice quiet as he adjusts his grip on his crutches. He leans his weight heavily into the underarm pads, shifting his good foot to find a more stable position on the hardwood floor. The stump of his leg is tucked back, clearly exhausted from spending the last hour navigating the garage steps. “See? Flawless execution.”

He lowers himself to the ground, back against the couch. He carefully lays his crutches down flat beside him, out of the way, before stretching his legs out in front of him.

“Wobbling on a step stool while balancing on crutches is not flawless execution,” You counter, though you sit down on the floor right beside him, the box of ornaments between you. "Since I’m already awake, you’re stuck with me. Hand over the ornaments, captain."

Jack chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates in the quiet room. "I don't know. You have to prove your qualifications first. This is high-stakes decorating. I spent a lot of money on this."

"Please," you scoff, giving him a playful nudge with your knee. "I have two working legs and a much better eye for symmetry than you. You're lucky I'm volunteering my services."

"Fair point," He concedes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He hands you a small box of handmade salt-dough ornaments, and the easy rhythm of the next hour takes over.

You work mostly in a comfortable silence. Jack handles the lower branches, looping the warm white lights through the pine. You follow behind him, meticulously spacing out the red and silver baubles, ensuring the tree looks full from every angle. Occasionally, your hands brush as you reach for the same branch, or Jack makes a quiet comment about how crooked the tree stands. By the time the last glass teardrop is hung, the living room is bathed in a soft, festive glow, and it looks more like a home than ever before.

Exhaustion finally catches up with you, and you drop onto the sofa while Jack steps back to admire the work. He nods in approval, then walks into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two steaming mugs of tea.

"Here," He says, handing one to you before sitting down on the opposite end of the sofa. He rests his elbows on his knees, staring at the tree. "Looks good."

"It does," You agree softly, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic mug and watching the steam rise. You stare down into your tea, watching the amber liquid swirl. "Jack?"

"Yeah?" He turns his head to look at you, his brow quirked.

"I’m sorry," You say quietly.

Jack blinks, caught off guard. "For what? You just did most of the heavy lifting on the tree."

"Not for the tree," You say, finally looking up to meet his eyes. "For Gwen. For how long it took for you to find out."

"I know you blocked my number," You continue, your voice cracking slightly. "And I know now that you didn't actually see any of the texts or get the voicemails. You didn't even know I was pregnant. But back then... I didn't know that."

Jack shifts slightly, his throat moving as he swallows. "I know. I'm the one who shut the door."

"I should have tried harder," You whisper, shaking your head. "I should have come to your house, or called Robby, or done something. But when the messages didn't go through, I didn't think it was a tech issue. I just thought you were ignoring me. I thought you wanted absolutely nothing to do with me."

You look down at your hands, the old feelings of shame creeping back into your chest. "I was just so embarrassed, Jack. The silence felt like a total rejection. I was so humiliated that I just... I stopped trying. I was too scared to keep knocking on a door that felt locked. I didn’t want to get hurt again."

Jack sits completely still for a moment, the steam from his untouched mug rising between you.

“I kept thinking about how you told me you didn’t want to get married again,” You mumble, and Jack visibly cringes. He doesn’t like to think about that night. The terrible, horrible night that took you away from him for a full year. “I-I wanted it so much, that I found myself wanting to hurt you, the way you hurt me. And I think I knew, deep down, that you always would’ve loved Gwen, no matter what. But I was selfish, and I took that from you both - I’m so sorry, Jack.”

"Stop," he says, his voice thick and rough. He reaches out, his large hands gently but firmly taking the warm mug from your trembling fingers and setting it aside. He takes your hands in his, squeezing them tightly. "Don't you dare apologise to me for that. Look at me."

You lift your eyes, your vision already blurring.

"You weren't selfish," Jack says. "I was. Believe me. Everything that happened in that year was my fault. You did exactly what any sane person would have done.” He swallows hard, his eyes shining in the dim light of the Christmas tree. "I caused that humiliation. Not you. I am the one who has to live with the fact that I missed the first ten weeks of my daughter's life because I couldn't handle a hard conversation. Please don't take the blame for my mistake."

A tear finally spills over your lower lid, hot and fast, tracking down your cheek. Once it starts, the dam breaks. A choked sob escapes your throat, and you pull one of your hands from his grip to press it against your trembling mouth.

"It was just so hard, Jack," You weep, the exhaustion and buried trauma finally pouring out. The floodgates are open, and you can't stop the words anymore. "It wasn't just losing you. It was... everything after."

Jack pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, drawing you into his chest. He doesn't say a word; he just holds you, letting you cry into his shirt, his chin resting against the top of your head.

"When she was born," you sob, your voice muffled against his chest, "I thought I was going to die. I got so sick, Jack. It was HELLP syndrome.”

Jack stiffens just a little, fingers stalling their pattern on your back.

"I was entirely alone," You whisper, the memory making your shoulders shake as you cry harder. "I remember lying on that operating table, staring at the ceiling lights, utterly terrified. I thought Gwen was going to grow up without a mother, and that you wouldn't even know she existed to come get her. I kept thinking, this is it. I ruined everything, and now I’m going to die here."

Jack lets out a ragged, shaky breath, his chest heaving against yours. He buries his face in your hair, and you feel the dampness of his own tears soaking into your scalp.

He shifts, rocking you slightly on the sofa while his large hand cups the back of your head, holding you securely against his heart. The steady, rapid thumping of his chest is the loudest sound in the quiet, fire-lit room. He keeps kissing your hair, your temple, his breath warm and shaky against your skin.

"Thank you," he whispers, the words raw and laced with tears. "Thank you for telling me. God, I am so sorry you were alone. I am so, so sorry.”

The remaining distance between you completely evaporates. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down as you bury your face into the crook of his shoulder. Slowly, the heavy stream of your tears slows down to a quiet, occasional hiccup against his chest. Your breathing gradually evens out, falling into sync with the deep, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

Neither of you wake until Gwen surfaces the next morning.

1 week until Christmas.

“And you’re sure you’re okay to take her for a few hours?” You ask, eyebrow arched as you watch Robby bounce Gwen on his hip.

“I’m a doctor. I think I can handle a baby for a few hours,” Robby replies, before turning his attention to Gwen. “Especially one as cute as Gwenny.”

Gwen immediately lets out a giggle, swatting a tiny hand at Robby's nose as if on cue.

“Remember, she has a few bottles made up, and if you need anything we’ll both have our phones nearby-”

Robby rolls his eyes, though there is a soft, understanding smirk on his face. He uses his free hand to gently push Jack toward the front door by his shoulder. "Get out of here, Abbot. Go. Both of you. Do some retail therapy, and don't come back until you've had a proper dinner.”

"Alright," Jack finally concedes, letting out a low breath. He leans down, pressing a quick, tender kiss to the top of Gwen’s fuzzy head before looking back up at Robby. "Thanks, man.”

“Bye bye, Gwenny,” You coo. “Mommy and daddy will be back soon, okay? We just need a few more presents for your Christmas.”

“Don’t tell her!” Jack protests, and you scoff.

“Like she knows what I’m saying. Anyway, thank you, Robby. We owe you one.”

*****

“Alright, target locked,” you say, pulling out a crumpled list from your coat pocket as you stop outside a brightly lit children’s boutique. “We need sensory blocks, a board book that won’t disintegrate when she drools on it, some new clothes, and then we eat. No distractions.”

Jack huffs a laugh, shifting his weight as he looks through the shop window. “You’re taking all the joy out of consumerism. Where’s the festive spirit?”

“The festive spirit is currently at home with an ER doctor who doesn't know her bedtime routine,” you remind him, teasingly nudging his shoulder with yours as you lead the way inside. “We have a ticking clock, Jack.”

When Jack slots his arm through yours, you don’t say anything, just lean into his touch a little.

“What about this?” He asks. You turn around to find him holding up a massive, aggressively bright plastic drum kit. It plays a loud, tinny electronic beat the second he touches it. “Good for the senses, right? Colours and noise are so her vibe right now.”

“If you bring that into the house, you’re on night duty for the next six months,” You say, laughing as you step close enough to snatch the drum kit out of his hand and place it safely back on the shelf. “We are trying to maintain our sanity, not destroy it.”

“Joke’s on you, because that Build-A-Bear we got her is loud as hell when you press on its paw.”

“I specifically requested the standard lullaby chip, and you went rogue with the upbeat pop track,” you point out, rolling your eyes as you guide him down the aisle toward the baby clothes. “That is entirely on you.”

Jack doesn't look even remotely sorry. He tracks behind you as you sift through rows of tiny pastel outfits. Every time you hold up a soft cotton sleeper or a thick fleece sweater to check the size tag, Jack simply plucks it out of your hand and adds it to the growing pile in his arms.

"We don't need five different matching sets," You laugh, trying to rescue a pair of ridiculously small knitted booties from his grasp.

"She gets cold," He says simply, his voice a low, unbothered rumble as he shields the items from you. "And they're small. They don't take up much space."

When you finally make it to the checkout counter, you reach for your purse, but Jack seamlessly steps into your space, his large frame effectively blocking you from the card reader. Before you can even protest, he’s already sliding his card across the terminal.

"Jack, let me split it," You murmur, nudging his hip with yours. "I have a budget for this."

"Not today," He replies without looking at you, typing in his PIN with practiced ease. He grabs the heavy paper bags in one giant hand, then reaches out to slot his empty arm right back through yours. "Consider it a penalty fee for the pop-track bear. Come on. You said no distractions, and I'm starving.”

Arms full of bags, you let him lead you to a Thai place down the street. The hostess gets you seated in a booth in the corner.

"Okay," you say, unfolding your cloth napkin and smoothing it over your lap to give him a second to get comfortable. "New rule for the next hour. No baby talk. No nap schedules, no formula ratios, and no discussing Gwen’s diaper blowouts over pasta."

Jack lets out a low chuckle, picking up his menu. "An hour? That's ambitious. Ten minutes tops.”

"I am a vault," You declare, though you instinctively slide your phone into your coat pocket so you won't be tempted. "We are two independent adults having a sophisticated dinner. We can find something else to talk about.”

And you do. For an hour or two, things go back to the way they were before the breakup.

You laugh until your stomach hurts, the heavy boundaries of 'co-parents' completely melting away.

"We did it," He finally murmurs, his mouth twitching into a soft smile. "Ninety minutes. Not a single mention of sleep training."

"I told you I was a vault," You say, though your voice has lost its teasing edge, dropping to a breathless whisper.

Jack stretches his hand across the white tablecloth. His fingers don't quite touch yours, stopping just an inch away, leaving a torturous pocket of space filled with the warm, heavy scent of Pad Thai. “I’m glad we did this. Should do it more often. Let Gwen stay with her favourite person.”

You nod, trying to keep from welling up again. “It’s weird, being out without her. Only times I’ve been without her recently have been for work, and you’ve had her then.”

He presses the briefest kiss to your knuckles. “You deserve the break, sweetheart.”

Christmas morning.

Gwen is sitting squarely in the middle of a mountain of crumpled wrapping paper, wearing a red velvet sleepsuit that is slightly too big for her. She is entirely uninterested in the actual toys, preferring instead to crinkle a piece of discarded shiny foil between her hands.

Jack is sitting cross-legged right next to her, looking softer than you have ever seen him in a pair of grey sweatpants and a faded tee. He keeps a steadying hand on her back, his face split into a wide, easy smile as he watches her blow a giant spit bubble at a cardboard box.

He looks ridiculously, unfairly handsome.

You push the thought down.

“Now for your turn,” He finally says, getting to his feet to grab something from behind the tree.

“Jack, you shouldn’t have-”

You’re cut off when you see the distinctly guitar-shaped package in his hands.

"Jack," you whisper, your voice suddenly barely audible. "What is that?"

"Open it," he says softly.

You set the mug down on the coffee table with a trembling hand, dropping to your knees onto the carpet. Your fingers trace the edge of the paper before you carefully tear it away. As the green wrapping falls away, the smooth, polished spruce top and the familiar, dark mahogany back of your acoustic guitar are revealed. It is the exact same model, and almost the exact same instrument you had quietly carried down to the pawnshop four months ago when the rent was short.

He replicated it exactly.

Immediately, your vision is blurred. “I love it.”

“You should never have been in a position where you had to choose between your music and paying for medical bills. I told you, I am fixing my mistakes. This belongs to you. And so… does this.”

This time, an envelope.

You glance at him warily, and open it up with trembling fingers. Inside, sits a cheque.

For one hundred thousand dollars.

“I know, I know, you don’t want the help. But it’s killing me to watch this debt keep drowning you, when I could fix it. And I don’t want you to feel indebted either - there’s not a single string that comes with that money-”

He’s cut off when you close the distance between you both, pulling him in for the tightest hug of his life.

Only when you pull back, can you find the words. “You’re an insane man, Jack Abbot.”

“Does that mean you’ll accept the help?”

You nod, tears trickling down your cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Sweetheart, it’s the least I can do. Really.” He replies, before shifting his weight slightly, sliding closer to you until his shoulder is firmly pressed against yours. The heat radiating off him is comforting, a stark contrast to the chilly morning air nipping at the windows.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, for barely more than a millisecond before he meets your gaze again. Your breath hitches, hands resting on his chest - you can feel his pulse racing beneath your fingers.

"Merry Christmas," He whispers, his voice dropping an octave, becoming entirely too intimate for the living room floor.

"Merry Christmas, Jack," you say quietly, your heart starting to hammer a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

He reaches out, his large, warm hand coming up to rest gently against the side of your neck. His thumb strokes a slow, deliberate path along your jawline, his touch light but completely grounding. You don't pull away. Instead, your eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second, leaning into the warmth of his palm as the boundaries you've spent months building begin to crumble into nothingness.

He leans in, just a little.

You do too.

Then, a sharp, sudden whimper breaks the silence.

Both of you freeze, your lips millimetres apart.

An instant later, the small whimper escalates into a full-blown, tearful cry. The paper she was holding has torn, and the sudden, loud rip has clearly startled her. She collapses backward onto the carpet, her little face crumpling as big, fat baby tears instantly well up in her eyes.

The romantic spell shatters completely. Jack lets out a long, defeated exhale, his forehead dropping forward to rest against your shoulder for a split second with a quiet, rueful groan.

"Perfect timing, bug," Jack mumbles into your shirt, his shoulders shaking with a silent, helpless laugh despite the noise.

You pull back with a breathless laugh of your own, the lingering tension melting into immediate parent mode. "I've got her," you say, scrambling across the floor to scoop Gwen up into your arms. You pull her to your chest, bouncing her gently as her loud sobs turn into ragged, pathetic little hiccups against your shoulder. "Oh, it's okay, sweetheart. The paper just scared you, didn't it? You're okay. Why don’t we try and play with some of your actual toys for a little bit? Instead of the wrapping?”

Just check on her for me and make sure she's okay? Promise?

The last words Robby said to Jack echo through his head as he rings your doorbell. He’d left for his sabbatical 2 weeks ago, and Jack was making good on his promise. You don’t answer right away so he rings the doorbell again. He checks the window that looks into the garage. Robby’s truck is parked furthest from him, your car next to it and the empty spot for Robby’s bike on the other side. He walks back up the steps and rings the bell once more. Maybe you’re sleeping, he’ll call you tonight. He turns to leave. 

Promise?

With a heavy sigh, he finds the spare key Robby gave him before he left, slotting it into the lock and pushing open the door. 

“Hello?” he calls out your name, “It’s Jack. I was just - I wanted to see if you were doing okay.”

He hears shuffling from upstairs for a moment before you come to the landing in front of him. Your eyes are rimmed red and a bit swollen. You stand at the top of the stairs, wearing what he can only presume is one of Robby’s hoodies by the way it drapes over your body. 

“How’d you get in my house?” 

He holds his key ring up, shaking it so they clank together, “Robby gave me a key. Thought he told you, sorry.”

“He hasn’t been telling me much of anything lately,” you sniffle, wiping the corner of your eye with your sleeve.

Jack shakes his head. It’s one thing for Robby not to return his texts, but to ignore his own wife?

“He hasn’t called you at all?” 

You shake your head, “The only reason I even know he’s alive at all is because he sends me one good morning and good night text a day. I don’t even know where he is, he hasn’t told me. Did he message you?” 

You sit down on the top step, patting the one beneath you. Jack follows, climbing up the stairs and sitting next to you with a groan. 

“Nope. But he’s not married to me.” 

“Could have fooled me,” you jest, sniffling again, tapping your knee against his arm. 

He returns the gesture, “Any particular reason why you’re crying or just miss him?”

You pause, pursing your lips, “If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell him, okay?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

You shake your head, “You do TEMS for fun, swear on something else.” 

He’s a little offended, but has no rebuttal, “On Lucille’s grave, I will not tell him whatever it is you’re about to tell me.” 

You take a deep breath, putting your hand in your pocket and pulling out a small plastic stick. You angle it towards him. 

Pregnant - the little stick reads.

“Oh?” he clears his throat, thinking about his next words, “How do…you feel about it?”

You laugh, “Like God is playing some sick fucking joke on me. We tried for years to get pregnant. Finally made our peace with it not being in the cards for us and then, finally it happens when my so-called husband is backpacking through America like an angsty teenager.” 

“Any idea how far along you are?” Jack asks, unsure of what else to say. 

“Period’s always been weird,” you say with a shrug, “and this past month or so I’ve been pulling out all the stops to try and get him to stay. I’ll book an appointment with my OBGYN once it starts to feel real.”

"I’ve got a portable ultrasound in my truck if you want to find out now.” 

You stare at him, “Why the fuck do you have a portable ultrasound in your truck?” 

He stands, offering you a hand, pulling you up when take it, “For when my buddies’ wives need to find out how far along they are in their pregnancies, obviously.” 

About 10 minutes later, you’re laid back on the couch, hoodie rolled under your breasts to reveal your bare tummy along with worn out shorts that have your alma mater’s logo on them. He’s kneeling next to you, angling the screen in your hands so you can both see it. 

“Alright, little bit of cold gel and then let’s see if we can find this guppy.”

Your brows scrunch together in confusion, “Guppy?”

“Yeah, like the little fish,” he says as he starts to move the wand around your abdomen, "technically, this is a veterinary grade ultrasound, but the baby's tiny right now. It’s not chick or kitten-sized yet and a guppy is the smallest thing I can think of right now - stop laughing. I can’t find the baby if your stomach is moving.” 

“Sorry,” you say, unable to stop, “I just didn’t expect you to use your veterinary equipment on me.” 

“Do you want me to find the guppy, or are you going to keep making fun of me?” 

You put your hands up in surrender, eyes falling back to the screen. It takes him a minute - fetuses this small always give him trouble.

“Aha!” he yells out triumphant, “There’s your little guppy.” 

You squint at the screen, “Where?”

He points.

“That’s a blob.” 

He nods as he takes his measurements, “And that blob is your baby. It’s still early so we can only see your gestational sac right now, but guppy is well on their way to becoming a baby. Measurements put you at around 7 weeks, but your OB will be able to get you more accurate information and due dates and all that jazz.” 

Something about the mention of 7 weeks makes a tear spring to your eye, a small smile creeps on your face, “7 weeks?”

“Give or take. This ultrasound’s kinda old, might not be the most accurate.” 

A tear rolls down your face. Jack doesn’t think before he reaches out and wipes it away with his thumb.

“He should be here,” you whisper. 

“You can call him, you know.” 

“No!” your head whips over to him, “You can’t tell him either, Jack. He has to come back for me, not the baby.” 

"I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

And so, Jack ends up in your kitchen, dicing an onion while you sit across from him, sipping on the Shirley Temple he made for you with a bowl of mini pickles that you're crunching on one by one. He'd remember Robby mentioning your love for dirty shirleys while he was he passing by the orange juice and did another lap to get the rest of the ingredients for the mocktail version.

"Taste okay?" he asks.

You nod your head, "It's so good Jack. You really didn't have to."

"I made a promise," he waves a dismissive hand, "How are the pickles?"

"Weird, but I can't stop eating them."

Jack laughs, turning back to his cutting board. With his attention occupied, he misses the way you're entranced by his fingers. The way your eyes narrow as they continue their precise movements to chop it in neat little cubes before moving on to crush the garlic under his thick fingers.

You shake your head, snapping yourself out of your reverie.

"When'd you become a chef?"

"Liked cooking in the army when I had time," he says, moving to turn on the stove.

You scrunch your nose, “I’ve seen army rations, I think I’d rather have my boxed mac and cheese.”

Jack rolls his eyes, sauteing the onions on the pan and turning down the heat when they sizzle with too much intensity, “I can season.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it, white boy.”

Turns out this white boy does have game in the kitchen. 

You moan around your fork as the first taste of his homemade baked mac and cheese passes your lips. 

“Told you I knew what I was doing,” he says with a little smirk as he takes his own bite. 

“I’m sorry for doubting you,” you respond as you shovel another heaping pile into your mouth, “In my defense, when it was Robby’s turn to cook dinner it was usually take out."

Jack huffs, “Well, I’m not Robby.” 

You smile at him as you take another bite, "How's everything at the hospital? Everything implode without him yet?” “The world keeps spinning.” 

You groan, “Don’t you get all existential on me too. If you leave me too then I really am pregnant and alone.” 

“You’re not alone,” he reassures you quickly, “I’m not leaving you. I’ll be here ‘till he comes back.”

“If he comes back,” you say softly.

Jack takes a steadying breath, “Has he said anything to you?” 

“He’s been sending me money every Monday to ‘help around the house’ which isn’t necessary. We have a joint account I have access to and we each have our separate ones too, but part of me of me thinks that he’s doing it so that I’ll know when he…stops.” 

“Well,” Jack clears his throat, “until he’s back, I’ll be here for you.”

Jack yawns, shaking his head to snap out of his post-shift fog as he waits for you at the door. 

You open the door, eyes bright. 

“Hi!” You must have come home and started baking. Your clothes are worn, faded with time and accessorized with flour on the torso, “I hope you’re hungry.” 

His stomach growls as the smells of the kitchen flood his nose.

“You didn’t have to make all of this,” he says, as he piles chicken breast onto his plate trying not to let the drool seep out of his mouth. 

"I was excited when I came home,” you say with an extra bounce in your step, “I was kind of on edge about the whole thing with Robby being gone and also feeling like this might slip away from me, but I have a due date. An actual due date! I’m letting myself be excited about it - I’m not telling anyone else until 3 months, but I’m excited.” 

Your joy is infectious, and Jack is unable to keep his own smile off his face, “Yeah? When can we expect guppy to arrive.” 

“February 14th, mark the date.”

“Valentines Day? That’s fun.” 

"Well, actually it’s the 18th, but I’m hoping maybe she’ll come early.”

“She? You think it’s a girl?”

You tilt your head to the side, “I think that’s the first time I’ve given her a gender. I guess so. Wanna bet on it?” 

“No ma’am,” he shakes his head, “I want whatever you want since you’re gracing me with this delicious meal.” 

“I’m thanking you for the other night. If you hadn’t come over, I wouldn’t have gotten out of bed for at least a week,” you give him a friendly shove as he passes you by on his way to the dinner table, “Save room for dessert. I’ve got chocolate chip cookies." 

Jack grunts as your finger digs into his ribs, waking him with a start. 

“I’m up, I’m up,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “What’s wrong?”

“Easy, soldier,” you say, rubbing a soothing hand along his back, “everything is fine. You fell asleep on the couch. I was just trying to tell you that I’m going up to bed now.”

“Yeah, okay,” he nods, stifling a yawn, “Did I leave my keys on the counter?”

“Jack, stay in the spare room. It’s late and you just worked a full shift.” 

“No, I’m okay,” he shakes his head, “Just give me a minute to wake up properly.” 

“If you die because you fell asleep at the wheel, I would never forgive you for leaving me here alone,” you jest, offering a hand to him, “Come. I’ll get you some of Robby’s pjs.”

He's passed out in the guest bedroom 15 minutes later.

Jack understands why Robby used to complain that he could never lose weight now. Your baking business had really taken off in the last year, and the smell of fresh brownies in the oven will always cause his stomach to rumble. 

"Almost done?"

He can't see you given that half his body is inside of your dryer to figure out why your dryer no longer spins and if he needs to take you out shopping tomorrow.

"Just about," he grunts, trying not to get distracted.

"I have been baking all day and my back is hurting, so I'm ordering pizza. I hope that has enough nutritional value for you, doctor."

"It doesn't," his back cracks as he carefully maneuvers himself out from your dryer and stretches, "But I'll give you a pass because I also don't feel like cooking right now. You free tomorrow? You need a new dryer."

"No, I'm frosting the cakes and the cupcakes I made. They're picking up in the evening, so everything needs to be done by 4 pm tomorrow."

"I get back in 4 days, let me know when you've got time."

You nod, holding up your phone to show the food delivery app, "Any preferences for toppings?"

"I'm not picky."

"Barbeque chicken it is. It'll be here in 45."

By the time Jack finishes gathering his things, you're pulling something out of the oven that smells intoxicating to his empty stomach.

"And chance I can steal a slice of that?" he jokes.

"Not unless you want to ruin a teenage girls life by eating her birthday cake," you say, setting the hot tray down on a trivet before grabbing a pan full of batter and holding it up for him, "These brownies are yours though, they'll be ready soon.

"Oh, you didn't have to. If I'd known you were baking all day, I wouldn't have asked."

"Please, it's the least I could do. You just have to make sure to eat it all."

"If I must."

For the 3rd time in as many weeks, Jack finds himself sitting on your couch in front of the TV as you scroll through movie options.

"What are you in the mood for?" you ask, taking a bite of your pizza.

"I'm not picky," he shrugs.

"Don't do that. If you don't point me in a direction then I'm gonna be looking through the catalogue until midnight."

"Something funny," he says after thinking for a bit.

"You ever seen 'Monsters Inc.'?"

He shakes his head.

"Well, get used to watching kids movies, Uncle Jack."

Halfway through the movie, Jack turns to you.

"I said 'something funny'."

"You were laughing the entire time!"

"Her door is destroyed! He can't go visit her again, what part of that is happy?"

"Just watch the movie, Jack."

He turns back to the screen.

He watches the final scene, Sully placing the last piece of Boo's door, opening it and hearing the little girl scream "Kitty!" before the credits roll.

He feels your hand rub his arm, "See! Happy ending."

"You could have told me it was going to be sad in the middle."

"All kids movies are secretly tragic. This is one of the better ones," you laugh at him.

He looks at his watch, "I should head out before you traumatize me more."

"Just stay. It's late. You can be my taste tester tomorrow while I frost things."

He mulls it over, in his head. With the TV off your the lamplight casts a warm glow over your bronze skin and soft smile. Your thumb skirts along his knuckles, "Fine, but you're not always going to win me over with sweets you know."

"The fact that there is only half the pan brownies left says otherwise."

Jack ignores the insistent buzzing against his thigh while he works on the patient in front of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's worried something has happened to you - you're the only person that really texts him regularly now. But he shoves the rising panic away for now until he can give you his full attention.

He nearly drops his phone at the sheer amount of notifications - all from you. He tells Dana he's stepping out and to refer everyone to Mohan or Ellis for now.

"Hey," he says as soon as the line connects, "What's going on? Everything okay?"

Your sniffle makes Jack contemplate running to his truck immediately.

"Sorry, I-I didn't mean to bother you while you're working but I, um, started spotting a while ago and I googled - which I know I shouldn't have - and now I'm thinking worst case scenarios."

The waver in your voice makes his chest ache.

"How much? And when did you start?"

"Um, about an hour ago. And not a lot - but that's how my other…losses started. Not a lot and then a lot."

"Come in," he says immediately, "Some spotting before 12 weeks is normal and I'm sure everything is fine, but I want to get you checked out anyways okay? I'll send an Uber."

"I can drive," you sniffle again.

"No, I don't want you driving when you're like this. I'll send you the details, okay?"

"Okay," your voice is quiet.

"I'll see you soon. Lupe will send you back as soon as she sees you."

He pulls Samira aside as soon as he sees her.

"I can trust you to be discreet, right?"

She frowns, "That's entirely dependent on the situation. Patient care, of course. Hiding a body, absolutely not."

"That won't be necessary," he chuckles, "Though, I suppose it's good to know not to ask you to help me if I ever commit a crime."

"So what do you need?"she says with a smile.

"Robby's wife is pregnant, about 10 weeks along now, had some light spotting which started about an hour ago. She's had some miscarriages before so she's coming in to make sure everything's okay."

She nods along at the information, "Is Robby also coming? I didn't realize he didn't go on his motorcycle trip around the world."

Jack grimaces, "That's the thing - he doesn't know and she doesn't want to tell him. I'm not gonna get into it, but that's why I'm asking you to keep things under wraps while she's here. And if anybody recognizes her, just don't feed into any rumours."

"Of course."

"And I haven't forgotten about your letter of recommendation yet. I was going to start it tonight, so this is the perfect opportunity to show me your skills for the obstetrics fellowship."

"I won't disappoint," she's about to leave when she turns back to Jack, "Oh, if you're worried about people recognizing her, ask Dana for the new hire nurses. They started last week. They won't know who she is."

"That's why you're my favourite resident," he chuckles, "don't tell Ellis."

"Your secret's safe with me."

Dana rushes you into a room as soon as you get there, practically ripping Jack away from where he's supervising Javadi's sutures and commanding Mckay to do it instead.

"Why is Robby's wife telling me that she's pregnant and you know?"

"Because she is. And I know."

"Does he?"

"Not my business."

Dana pinches the bridge of her nose,"You didn't think this was the chance to get him back here in one piece."

"What I think means nothing. And you're not telling him either. She's now officially a patient and communication back to Robby becomes a HIPAA violation."

"You gonna report me?" she scoffs.

"No," no point in lying, "But if she doesn't want to tell then she doesn't have to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to attend to my patient."

With Samira in tow, he knocks on the door. You look so small on the gurney. You've already changed into your patient gown, eyes rimmed red as you stare off at the wall.

"Hey," he says quietly, "This is Dr. Mohan, I'm sure you've met before."

"We have," you nod.

"She'll be doing your ultrasound today, if that's alright."

You look at him with glossy eyes, tears threatening to spill more, "You're not going to do it?"

"Technically I'm not allowed to treat you because we're friends," he walks to stand by the bed, "But don't worry. You're in the best hands, other than me of course."

He lets out a small sigh of relief when you roll your eyes at his joke.

"So, Mrs. Robinavitch, I undestand you've been experiencing some spotting. About how much blood loss would you estimate?"

"Um, not enough to fill a pad. But I've had - I've had miscarriages before."

"Any cramping?"

"A little."

"We're waiting for your blood tests, but because of your history, I'd like to do a transvaginal ultrasound instead an abdominal one to get a clearer view."

"Do you-," you wipe the tear that rolls down your face, "Do you think it's ectopic?"

"It could be. And if it is, we want to catch it early," Samira says, voice soft, "It could also be something fixable or nothing at all."

You suck in a breath, taking a moment, "Yeah. Okay, do whatever you need."

Her eyes flick over to Jack before looking back at you, "If you'd like, I can ask Dr. Abbot to step out."

"Oh no," you shake your head, "I'd like him to stay. Just, you know, stay north of the border please."

"Scout's honour."

Samira preps the ultrasound before telling you to put your legs in the stirrups.

"Alright, you're going to feel some pressure. Let me know if you need a break, okay?"

"Okay," you say. Your fingers twitch in our lap as you look blankly at the screen.

Jack reaches out to clasp his hand in yours. It's not until you fidget idly with his wedding ring that he realizes you're not wearing yours, and he tries to remember when the last time he saw you with it on. He doesn't have an answer.

"You feeling okay?" he asks.

"Peachy!" you narrow your eyes at him.

"Just checking."

Jack adjusts the screen ever so slightly and watches with baited breathe. He slumps in relief when the ultrasound shows that your baby is exactly where it's supposed to be.

"There we are!" Samira says with a smile, "Not ectopic. Baby is safe and sound in your uterus."

"Oh thank god," you breathe, "Is she okay?"

"From what I can see, everything looks normal, but we're going to take some measurements and other tests just to be sure. We'll listen to the heartbeat first."

She nods to Jack who reaches over and hits the button. A telltale thumping fills the room. Your eyes start to water.

"That's good," he says, turning back to you, "Strong. Exactly what we want to hear."

After running every test Samira wants - being married to the chief attending does come with a fairly good insurance package - she deems you and baby to be healthy enough to go home. Of course, it comes with strict instructions to come back if anything changes.

"I hope everything goes well with the rest of your pregnancy," she says when she's about to leave, "Take your time getting dressed. And, if you have any other questions, you can ask me or Dr. Abbot."

"Thank you, Samira," you respond earnestly, "Really, I couldn't have asked for a better doctor."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Jack grumbles good-naturedly, "I'm going to stick around here for a bit longer. Think you can keep Dana off my case till I'm done?"

"Of course! You are in charge of my recommondation letter after all."

After she leaves, you turn to him in confusion, "You're writing the letter? I thought she's worked with Robby since she was a med student. Or did he forget to do it before he left? I swear-"

"No, no," he shakes his head, "Her and Robby's relationship kind of…deteriorated towards the end. She felt more comfortable asking me."

"Deteroriorated how?"

"I don't know the full story but on his last day here, there was an incident that involved him…reprimanding her harshly in front of her peers."

You know your husband well enough to know what that means.

"Did he fucking yell at her in front of everybody? I swear to god, if he ever comes back-"

"Stop. Stop. Don't stress yourself out right now," he pauses, "And he will come back."

You pause.

"At this point, I don't know if I want him to," you mutter, "He's missing everything. I didn't get to do a cutesy pregnancy reveal, I have no one to make me hot chocolate at 3 in the morning when the baby won't let me sleep, and I bother his fucking friend when I think I'm having a miscarriage. He's gone, my husband is gone and all I ever get as a sign of life is a lousy text every couple days and a fucking allowance once a week. When I heard the heartbeat, it really hit me - I'm fucking alone."

He wipes the tear rolling down your cheek.

"You're not alone. You did good calling me, okay? You are not a bother, I will answer everytime you call - even at 3 am when all you want is hot chocolate. I'll be there. Okay?"

"Okay," you whisper.

"The machine in the break room is shitty, but I can make a cup right now for you and the little squirrel."

"Squirrel?" you frown.

"Yeah - 10 weeks, guppy's bigger. They graduated to squirrel."

"Little squirrel is sated for now," you say with a tiny smile, "I'd ask you to play her heartbeat again, but I feel like asking you stick that thing in me is crossing a line."

He shrugs, picking up the abdominal attachment, "You're far enough along that we might be able to hear it with this. No need to cross the border."

"Can you tell the gender?"

"Little too early for that."

"Okay good, 'cause I don't want to find out. And you're weak, you'd tell me."

"I am not weak," but he probably would if you asked him more than twice.

A few moments later, he hits the button again, thumping filling the room once more. You lay entranced on the screen, looking at the your little squirrel. He doesn't know how much time goes by before –

"He should be here," you whisper.

"He should."

That night, he doesn't fight back when you ask him to stay over - he even snatched a pair of crutches from work in anticipation. The shower in your guest bathroom doesn't have a tub, thankfully, so he leaves the crutches on the wall as he slumps against the wall and hoses himself down with the shower head.

When he enters the bedroom, clean pajamas are waiting for him. He just barely manages get his shirt over his head before he's falling asleep.

He's always been a light sleeper, only exaggerated by his time in the army. It doesn't matter that you're trying to sneak around the kitchen quietly, he's rubbing sleep from his eyes and starts down the stairs.

"Did I wake you?" you ask, "I was trying not to make noise."

"I would have been up soon anyways. Internal clock's all messed up from switching nights and days a bunch recently. Sit," he nods to the chair.

"You're not wearing your leg. I can make it myself."

"Sit," he repeats, "I told you. I'll be here for you - even at 3 am."

He smells the cinnamon buns as soon as you open the door.

"Surprise!" You open the door with a bright smile, "Happy birthday!"

"Who told you?"

"Dana. She called to ask about me and the pregnancy, and let her know if I need anything and that whole schtik, and she just happened to mention that your birthday is today."

"Sneaky," he teases as he walks into your kitchen.

"How did you celebrate the big 5-0, old man," you give him a playful nudge in the ribs.

"Oh, nothing special. My sister called, and my niece and nephew sung on the phone which is always cute. And then I visited Lucille - got her some fresh flowers and all that."

"That's nice," you say with a smile, "How often do you visit her?"

"Once a month at least," he says, spinning the ring on his finger, "Sometimes more when I miss her."

"That's nice," you trail off.

"Hey," you look back at him, "You're not gonna be me, okay? He's coming back."

"I got my stupid allowance today," you roll your eyes, "So only 6 more days until we find out if I join you in the widows club, I guess."

"We meet Wednesday nights, bring cookies," he says before clapping his hands together, "Besides, it's my birthday and I am ready to dig into those cinnamon buns."

That seems to break you out of your thoughts, perking up at the mention of your most recent creation. You beckon him over to the stove where two trays await him.

"I got a little carried away - this tray is your traditional cinnamon rolls," you point to it before turning to the one right next to it, "but, little squirrel wanted strawberries, so there's also a strawberry cheesecake cinnamon roll fusion thing? I'm not sure how to explain it -just try it and tell me if it's good."

“Strawberry's the new fruit?” Every few weeks, your cravings seem to change. First it was pickles, then apples - Jack is still craving those apple turnovers, especially since the next fruit was raspberries and he’s never been fond of those.

“I guess so. I’m taking it as a good sign though. I had a hugs Sims phase when I was a teen and in that game, if you wanted your Sim to have a girl, you’d feed her strawberries and if you wanted a boy, you’d give her carrots. So far, I haven’t wanted anything remotely carrot related.” 

He pauses, taking in the new information, “I never believed Robby when he said that you’re a bit odd sometimes.” 

He fakes a wince as you slug him in the shoulder, rubbing his bicep dramatically. 

“Fine, don’t eat my odd desserts then.” 

“I never said it was a bad thing!”

Jack groans as the first taste passes his lips.

“Your husband’s an idiot,” he shakes his head, “He could have just sat here and shovelled your baked goods in his face all day for 3 whole months, and he chose to live off diner slop instead of this.” 

The buns are still warm and gooey, melted icing dripping down his hands. He forgets you’re there for a moment, licking the stray drip from his wrist all the way up to his finger, cleaning it off with his tongue. 

You’re staring at him with wide eyes. 

He can feel his face warm. If his mother were here, she’d be appalled by his actions,“Sorry. They’re really fucking good - made me forget my manners.”

“It’s okay,” you clear your throat, “I-uh- have to admit these weren’t entirely altruistic cinnamon buns.” 

“What does that mean?”

“I just booked my 12 week ultrasound for a couple of weeks. And if this too much or if it's crossing a line then aboslutely feel free to say no, but going to those alone really fucking sucks and I was hoping that you'd maybe you'd come with me?" you're swaying nervously on the balls of your feet.

In the logical part of Jack's brain, he realizes that he probably shouldn't. He's not stupid, he knows the lines of your relationship have become a bit blurred these past few weeks and he needs to find somewhere to draw the line between 'helpful friend' and 'surrogate husband'. On the other hand, not a day goes by where he doesn't wish he had this oppurtunity with Lucille.

"12 weeks? They can predict the gender then, but it's not always accurate."

"I told you I want to be surprised," you're absent-mindedly rubbing your hand over your lower stomach. You're not really starting to show yet, but it won't be long now, "So what do you say?"

No. It's not appropriate - you're my buddy's wife and I need to remember that.

"Of course I'll be there. Just tell me what time I need to pick you up."

"Cheetos?" you say with a smile when you open the passanger door to see the chip bag on his passanger seat, "I never thought I'd see this from the man who forces me to eat a pound of spinach."

"Folic acid is imperative for fetal development. You'll thank me when your baby comes out the womb being able to read at a 1st grade level."

You roll your eyes, about to hoist yourself into the truck when Jack stops you.

"Hang on a second, turn to the side."

You're wearing a slightly snug fitting black dress appropriate for the unreasonably warm September. From the side, he can see the starting of a your bump.

"You're showing."

"Yeah?" you perk up, running a hand over your bump, "I wasn't sure if I was just imagining it or not."

"It's there, mama," he pats the passanger seat, "Let's go get baby checked out."

In the car, you're uncharastically quiet. Jack has always found it difficult to start conversations, but he finds it's incredibly easy to talk to you. You'd usually tell him about your upcoming orders, ramble out updates or concerns with your pregnancy symptoms, or ask about his day. You haven't even opened the bag of Cheetos yet - and he specifically bought wet wipes so you wouldn't leave prints in his car.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you respond back, too quickly.

He rolls to stop at a red light and turns to look at you.

"Eyes on the road, Abbot."

"Stress isn't good for the baby," he says, turning back to the road in front of him, "And telling me will make you feel better."

"Robby called."

"Oh? Isn't that good?"

"He called to tell me he's extending his sabbatical. That he doesn't know when he's going to be home and that Gloria's already approved another two months."

"Two months?" Jack shakes his head, thinking about all the different ways he's going to throttle Robby when he sees him next, "What did you say?"

"I hung up on him. Immature, I know. But it was either that or call him every insult I could possibly think of - and I've come up with a lot these past few months. But hey! He sent me double my allowance this week."

Jack nods, sitting in silence for a moment.

"Are you…Do you think you'll tell him?"

You laugh, but there's no joy behind it, "I'm ready to keep him off the birth certificate. He told me he was in Montana - that's all I get after 3 months? I don't know what he's doing or who he's with. He could be calling me while naked in some cowgirl's bed for all I fucking know."

"He is not cheating on you," he reaches out and runs his thumb along your hand, "He just has it in his head that this trip is going to help him. And maybe it is, that's why he's extending his leave."

He turns into a spot in the parking lot of your OB.

"He's just been so different these past few years," you shake your head, eyes welling up like they do everytime you think about your currently estranged husband, "But he won't let me in. I was thrilled when he said he wanted to take 3 whole months off, but then he said he wanted to leave? Without me? I don't know if that's selfish but-"

Jack grabs a tissue from his centre console, lightly dabbing away your tears, "It's okay. You've tried to get him to accept your help; it's not your fault that he won't. Lord knows I've tried too. And it's not selfish to want him here when you need him."

You don't meet his eye, just take the tissue from his hand and check your appearance in the visor mirror. Satisfied, you close it and open the door without another word.

"Oh look, it's so big now," you coo at the screen 30 minutes later, "She actually looks like a baby, not a blob anymore."

"Look at the little chick," Jack chuckles, eyes glued to the screen, "she could fit in the palm of your hand."

"You said she!" You tip your head back to look at him, "You think she's a girl too."

"Or maybe you're just influencing me," Jack shakes his head exasperated but can't fight off the smile.

"So we're rooting for a girl?" Dr. Kaur says from her spot at your bedside.

"Healthy baby first," you say, "I guess I do kind of want a little girl. But I will be fine if it's a boy."

"A little to early to tell anyways," Dr. Kaur says before pointing to the screen, "But we can do our heartbeat check."

Baby's heartbeat is quick, rythmic. Strong. Jack feels his chest swell. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach out and grab ahold of your hand.

"It's louder than last time," you mumble.

"Because her heart is stronger," Jack mumbles before he can start, "she's got all her organs now, her digestive system is going to start flexing its muscles and practicing soon."

You groan, your head slumping against the chair, "Does that mean I'm going to have more heart burn?"

"Not necessarily," Dr. Kaur chuckles, "Though studies have shown that the old wives tale is true - mothers with bad heartburn often have babies with full heads of hair when they're born."

"At least I'm suffering for something then."

"Hopefully, baby gets some of those beautiful curls like you and your husband."

Jack freezes, unsure of what to do. His wedding ring suddenly feels very heavy on his hand.

"Oh, this isn't my husband," you say sheepishly.

"Sorry," Dr. Kaur clears her throat, "I didn't mean to assume-"

"It's fine," Jack barks, face uncomfortably warm, "reasonable mistake."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he's back at your house later mixing up veggie stir fry on your stove, you're still gushing at the ultrasound photos.

"She has my nose, don't you think?" you hold the printed photo up to your face.

Jack looks over his shoulder, "Oh yeah. But those are Robby's eyes for sure."

"I hope not," you shake her head, "you've seen those puppy dog eyes. I'd never be able to discipline her."

"Sucks for you," he says, adding the crispy tofu on top before taking out your plate, "Perks of being the fun uncle: I get to fold and give her everything she wants. Bon appetite."

"Your dryer is supposed to come on the weekend, by the way. I'll be here when they drop it off."

He's already looked ahead in his schedule and swapped some shifts around.

"You don't have to."

He shrugs, "Where else would I be?"

Once again, he finds himself dozing off on your couch at the end of the night, awoken by your soft hand on his arm.

"Jack," you call sweetly, "Let's go to bed, sleepy head."

He cracks open his eyes, stretching on the couch, "I'm up. I think I'll head out."

"C'mon, we don't have to keep doing this - just stay over."

He yawns as he shakes his head, "I gotta shower."

"Believe it or not, there is a shower in your bathroom. You're welcome to use it whenever."

"My shower's all equipped for my leg", he waves his stump at you before reaching to grab his liner off the floor, "I can use yours if I need, but mine's got a bench for me."

"Oh shit, yeah, sorry, I didn't even realize."

"Don't worry about it," he waves you off as he slips his leg back into the socket of his prosthesis, "You'll be okay on your own tonight?"

"I'll be fine," you say, offering a hand.

He takes it, using you to escape the clutches of your stupidly comfortable couch. He grimaces as he takes the first step, leg sore from the day.

"You okay?" you ask, head tilted in concern as he makes his way back to the entryway.

"No need to worry about me, kid, just a little sore is all. I've got all my cremes and salves at home."

"If you ever want to bring them over, I give a mean massage."

"I might actually you up on that."

You're leaning against the wall, watching him get his shoes on. He stands, doing one final stretch before he unlocks the door.

"Jack," he looks back at you, "Thank you, by the way. For today - and for everything really - you've been doing a lot for me. and I don't want you to think I'm taking you for granted or anything. I really don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

"It's nothing, really," he responds. Suddenly, he's very aware of how good your perfume smells when he's standing this close to you, "I like spending time with you."

"You're not half-bad yourself, old man," you say, tipping your head up.

He doesn't know when it happens, but he finds himself leaning in. You're millimetres away from him. He can feel your breath on his lips, the warmth radiating off your body. He wants so badly to pull you in by your waist, to give in and kiss you like you want - like he wants.

"Stop," he whispers, "We can't

Your eyes fly open as you jump away from him like his proximity burned you.

"Sorry," he can see tears welling up, threatening to spill over. His entire body is screaming at him to wrap you in his arms and kiss you until you're both breathless, "I'm sorry. You're married. To someone who's like a brother to me."

"N-no, I'm sorry. You were just being nice and I've been lonely and sad, and I read the signals wrong a-and, " you take a deep breath, "I shouldn't have done that. Can we just forget this ever happened?"

Jack opens his mouth to say that you haven't gotten your signals wrong, that he was just as close to kissing you as you were to him, but he knows that will only do more harm than good at this point.

"Forget whatever happened," He unlocks the door, "I should go."

"Yes, you should."

He sits in your driveway, arms braced on his steering wheel for far too long. He contemplates going back in there - to kiss you or do damage control, he's not sure yet.

He curses himself for being a coward as he pushes the ignition button, making his truck roar to life. Fuck, for the first time in his life he's finding himself lamenting the strict moral code his mother raised him to follow.

because last night he'd learned just how thin the walls at the cody house were.

he'd learned that, yeah, maybe he should've been a little more considerate of his brothers when staying up all night with a new girl in his room every other day.

but, to be fair, there was no way for craig to know that this was what his brothers were hearing through all hours of the night when his promiscuity got the best of him.

"i swear to god, if i hear one more 'andy-!' i'm going to march in there with a shotgun."

deran could only chuckle into his mouthful of cereal, clearly way less impacted by the noise than his brother.

he was used to it. courtesy of craig himself.

"what, not as fun when it's not a girl screaming your name?"

before craig could answer, the slam of a headboard hitting the wall that separated the kitchen and pope's room began to accelerate once more, interrupting anything he could've said.

and when he opened his mouth after a short pause, he was interrupted once more, except this time by something worse — wails of his brother's name.

"a-andy, fuck! please, fuck, andy—!"

"you've gotta be fucking kidding me," he muttered under his breath before addressing his brother, "no. in fact, sex completely loses its appeal when i'm not the one on the receiving end."

"shit! oh, andyandyandy- don't stop!"

craig rolled his eyes, movements brusque as he took out a few things to make himself breakfast. he could feel a headache coming in.

"hey, be happy it's only her you can hear. i can't even imagine what pope would soun-"

craig grimaced, "don't finish that sentence, man. i don't wanna know what fucking pope sounds like during sex."

deran shrugged, continuing to eat his soggy cereal. nonchalance seethed out of him.

some moments of silence passed between the brothers, with the occasional eye roll from craig and the snicker from deran as the noises came and went. both brothers shared a fleeting thought, which was just how long could the two of you go for?

"i mean, there's no way pope's that good, right?"

"dude, you just said you didn't want to think about pope having sex."

"okay, but listen," craig interrupted halfway through making himself a sandwich, "do you hear that? there's no way she's not faking it. pope can't be that good. he's way smaller than me, his dick can't be that-"

"dude."

"i'm just saying—!"

unfortunately, the hammering at the wall reached its crescendo just then, halting any further conversation that could be had.

your screams increased in volume, and now a few sounds could be heard coming from the other party involved. andrew's pained groans joined your wails, making both guys share a look of terror between one another.

"it's so big, andy! fuck! r-right there—! 'm almost- ffffuck, hnnng, andy, yes!"

and then a very loud grunt from pope was followed by silence.

craig felt some heat reach his neck, but he shook his head in a shudder in order to snap out of it.

meanwhile, deran felt weirdly shocked. he was happy that his brother had found what seemed to be the one and trusted them enough to bring her back home, but this was way more than he'd ever expected to hear from a brother. and this was said with craig's sexcapades in mind.

"okay, i'm gonna kill him-"

"that'll just make him go harder next time."

"fuck, you're right."

and so they found themselves at an impasse.

after the silence began to invade the next room over, it didn't take long for the eldest cody brother to walk into the room, breaking the awkward and defeated silence that had formed in the kitchen.

as expected, be was almost fully nude, with only a tight pair of boxers covering his manhood and a variety of marks adorning his upper body — although craig's nosy eyes noticed a faded trail of hickeys to be found on pope's inner thighs, making him gag internally.

andrew immediately took notice of the weird silence and the shared looks behind his back as he neared the fridge for some cold water.

slowly turning around, he asked, in a somewhat pointed tone, "what?"

settled on opposite sides of the kitchen island, his brothers looked to him with different expressions.

deran seemed mostly incredulous. craig was just frustrated — either jealousy or annoyance, not even he could tell.

"'andy'?" was all craig said.

"got a problem, craig?"

"maybe keep it down next time, yeah, brother?"

deran sighed, continuing to occupy himself with his cereal. pope could be a bit of a ticking time bomb if poked just at the right moment. this was uncharted territory, so he wasn't very sure how much craig could push before making pope blow up.

but craig continued.

his crown had been toppled a little, maybe.

"you're saying that to me?"

with a scoff and an incredulous chuckle, andrew turned back to the fridge, grabbing himself two water bottles before closing it back up and facing his brothers once more. to him, the conversation must've been over.

"i'm just saying, it's a shared space. i don't need to hear your girlfriend, or whatever, screaming your name all fucking night."

pope's eye twitched at the tone in which the word girlfriend was said, but he let it slide.

there was a certain, uncharted, sense of pride he felt at the comment.

his girlfriend screaming his name all night long.

yeah. this could easily become the new normal to him. he had felt a slight surge of confidence upon leaving his room that morning, somewhat aware of how much noise you'd been making, but just completely careless about it. it had been at the back of his mind, but every thrust just buried the thought deeper. up until the point where it became completely insignificant.

(how could he think about decorum when he had you under him, clawing at his back, crying out 'andyandyandy-' in the prettiest voice he'd ever heard, going higher and higher the more he lost himself in your pussy—)

but when he turned around, craig continued to glare at him as if he'd personally offended him.

and normally andrew would've been perfectly fine with decking him, telling him to get fucked, and walking past him. but a very welcome interruption entered the room before he could.

"baby?"

it came from behind craig, leading to the hallway that connected the walls of the kitchen and his room. the soft sound of your voice caused all boys to face you. deran offered a smile, albeit a little forced and awkward. craig scoffed to himself and nodded in semi-polite greeting, hands in pockets as he leaned against the counter in order to create space for you to get to pope.

there you stood, hair disheveled, makeup running slightly down your waterline and donning only one of pope's plain pajama shirts.

with a little extra attention, it would've been easy to spot the matching trail of hickeys up your thighs. and some x-ray vision would've provided the life-ruining sight of your hidden skin filled with marks made by andrew's teeth.

"you were taking too long, what's wrong?"

and, fuck, andrew almost went hard again at those simple words.

pride swelled in his chest, a weird sense of superiority invading him at having his sweet, pretty, gorgeous girl standing in front of his family in such a state.

andrew didn't need to argue with craig any longer. no words were needed as the appearance of his sweet girl said everything that needed to be said.

"sorry, sweetheart, just saying good morning to the guys."

andrew took the few steps that separated you and held onto your hand with one hand as the other held the two bottles of water (swoon), beginning to lead you back where you came from.

at that you smiled at them, sleepy demeanor leaving you a bit as you mumbled 'morning,' seemingly unaware of craig's earlier complaints.

as andrew passed in front of craig, he smirked to himself, twice as much when he noticed craig's annoyed scowl.

"might wanna get some earbuds or somethin'" he mumbled under his breath as he walked away.

once he was gone, craig groaned to himself, speaking up one last time.

"yeah, i guess it's time i moved out."

Pope Cody was in prison for 1.114 days. In that time, he read 158.5 books; he finished the last one — The Book Thief, which he started reading on day 1.112 of his sentence — as a free man. He’s already finished with The Book Thief when he learns about audiobooks, after a well placed ad for Audible on a self-help Youtube video he listened to while on a stake out. 

It takes him another eight books after that to discover audioporn. He comes across the app by accident, and it takes him about seven minutes into the first audio he chose — puppyplay, though he didn’t know what that meant just yet — to realize he’s listening to a porn story. 

Pope sticks with it. The stories he listens to don’t do much for his dormant dick, but it’s nice. He likes listening to women whispering about how good of a boy he is, the dirty little things they want to do to him and the things they want him to do to them— A fantasy, something for him to get lost into during the nights he couldn’t fall asleep; a habit acquired in prison, the sort of ongoing vigilance that he couldn’t grow out of even though he now lives a somewhat safe life. 

And then he finds you. Your account is called Mommy Dearest, which is why he clicked on it at first, but the one audio that sticks with him has nothing to do with mommy kink: It’s a phone call, about fifteen minutes long, that starts with you rambling about your day and ends with you wailing through an orgasm with a loud vibrator between your legs. You edge yourself for a long portion of it, talking about how much you miss his cock and his fingers and his tongue; and then, close to the end of the call, you say you miss him. You talk about how you miss him and how prison isn’t going to keep him from you, and you giggle and say that, on another phone call, you’ll tell him every single perverted thing you’ll do to him when he’s out. 

Logically, Pope knows it’s not real. You’re not talking to him, it’s just a character that you recorded, edited and then posted on a porn app for pathetic men like him but it lands so heavy on his chest he doesn’t even notice he’s hard for the first time in over three years. 

You have a whole series on your ‘convict boyfriend’ — which you name Folsom Prison Blues after the Johnny Cash song and Lord help him if that doesn’t do something for him. — and the phone calls and letters and conjugal visits. You sigh and you moan and you describe in full detail what toy you’re using to get yourself off and, when Pope scrolls through the comment section, he gets so angry at all the men that get to listen to you too that he loses his erection. 

But he doesn’t stop listening. Pope feels some sort of odd loyalty to you and your breathy little sighs, his heart clenching whenever you whine about missing him, and he whispers into the air vows of finding you, of walking through the doors of your home and taking you in his arms and making sure you’re always full of his cock. He comes over and over again at the thought of you, bent over his couch and his kitchen counters and in his shower— He doesn’t really know what your body looks like, your profile photo is a headshot of you with a sultry smile and bright pink hair he’s fairly certain is a wig, but he thinks he can figure it out; it doesn’t really matter how big or small your tits are, because Pope dreams of falling asleep suckling on them anyway, your fingers tugging on his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as you say you’ve waited for him, that you love him and that he’s the only man that gets to see you like that. 

Pope’s not certain at which point he stops thinking of Cath. It happens naturally, either gradually or all at once, and he only notices when he walks into Smurf’s home one evening and Cath is on the couch, her head on Baz’s shoulder, dozing off after what he presumes is a whole day out by the pool. It used to hurt him deeply to see her like that, cuddled up to a man that Pope knows isn’t good enough for her, but this time he… Feels nothing. Not pain, or annoyance, or jealousy. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes he could have that with you; an afternoon together, laying on the couch, watching a nature documentary— You’d interrupt it every five minutes or so to talk about something else, maybe your shift at your day job or the little shiny trinkets you buy with his money. He knows you’d ask about him, too. About his day and his feelings and whether or not he ate; you’d ask and you’d mean it, you’d want to hear everything he has to say unlike Smurf, who asks but never pays attention, never really listens when Pope speaks. 

He’s so lost in his daydreaming that, when he finally hears your laughter, he doesn’t think it’s real. Pope’s eyes fly beyond Baz and Cath cuddling on the couch to find you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor by the pool, a collection of Barbie dolls spread between you and Lena. You’re in short overalls and a brown and orange striped shirt, your natural hair — not pink, so Pope had been right about the wig — pinned away from your face. A gorgeous, heaven-sent angel that laughs exactly like the girl from the app. 

“Who’s that?” He asks, unable to stop himself. His fingers itch to trace the curve of your neck, to spread his fingers over your collarbone. 

“Lena’s new sitter.” Baz answers. Pope makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying very hard to pretend that it doesn’t matter but his brother sees right through it. He squints at Pope. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“I’m not Craig.” He says, but they both know you’re not Craig’s type— Too innocent-looking, verging on the side of boring and not the sort of girl that Craig would look twice at. But Pope would, and he does; he finds a seat in a position where he can watch you from afar while still pretending to pay attention to the TV. You play with Lena until the girl is ready to pass out from exhaustion, and then you bring her inside and settle her on the couch before you finally introduce yourself to him, a sweet smile on your lips as you extend your hand to him. 

If your laughter had been enough to remind him of the girl from the app, the way you say your name cements it to be true. It’s you, the pink-haired girl with the convict boyfriend and an extensive collection of sex toys. 

Pope doesn’t like shaking hands — too many germs, the contact always making his skin prickly — but he takes your hand in his anyway, squeezing it once before he lets go. He wants to keep holding it, feeling your soft skin his against his roughened one, to put your fingers in his mouth and suck on them until you’re begging for him; you don’t seem to notice the way he lingers, you just accept the cash from Baz with a small nod and wave your fingers at them as you leave. 

“I mean it, Pope. Don’t be a creep with the girl.” Baz growls at him later that night, after Cath has already tucked Lena in the backseat of the car and they’re about to go home. “She keeps Lena so busy I get to actually fuck my wife on the regular again. If you fuck this up for me I’ll kill you.”

Pope doesn’t like the way Baz talks about Cath, never has— Like she’s just something for him to get off to, like he needs to rub it in Pope’s face that he’s the one that gets to sleep by her side every night. This time he doesn’t really care, because all he can think about is you.

He doesn’t mean to follow you. He just wants to make sure you get home safe at first, because Baz and Cath make you leave the house later and later each time. And then, when he finds out you’ve been taking pottery lessons twice at week at eight pm, he follows you there because he also wants to make sure nothing will happen— He thinks it’s quite late for a lesson, but you’re always happy when you leave, your face a little flushed from the red wine he sees you drinking from the window. 

Pope learns your schedule quite quickly, and he knows he’ll need to have a conversation with you about that. Keeping such a tight routine is easy for someone to hurt you, even if Pope himself understands the appeal of consistency— It’s all he’s had in prison, after all, and it was quite a comforting change from the violent chaos that is living underneath Smurf’s iron fist. It’s easy for him to come up with excuses to hang around Baz’s house whenever you’re there, and even easier whenever you’re at Smurf’s. 

Although he follows you home almost every night, Pope has never gotten too close. He’s afraid you’ll see him so he stands back, sits in his car for a couple of hours until your lights go out but tonight is different. You have a date. He follows the two of you to the twenty-four hours diner the guy takes you to, and he watches through the window as you almost fall asleep at the table; he can’t hear the conversation but it’s clear that you’re bored, barely responding to the man even though Pope knows you talk a lot when you’re happy. You’re also not a girl to take to a diner of all places and Pope wants to beat the guy black and blue for putting so little effort into dating you, even if he’s glad his competitor is tanking the date— It means he can whisk you away, dazzle you by showing what being truly courted is like. 

You swerve the guy when he tries to kiss you at your front door. Pope is out of his car by then, hiding in the shadows across the street just to make sure the man will leave you alone; he does, even though he speeds off with screeching tires when you deny his kiss for the third time. Pope tells himself that he is only checking in on you, that you’re taking way too long to shut out the lights and maybe something is wrong, as he climbs through the fire escape to your floor— He knows exactly where your apartment is, has watched you open and close your blinds plenty of times before. 

He stares through your window carefully, making sure to stay out of sight, and his mouth goes dry when he sees you sprawled on your bed, fully naked. You have one hand between your thighs, your legs spread apart as far as they can go, but Pope can barely pay attention to it— He’s looking at the dildo you’re holding with the other hand; it’s thick, long, and bright pink. Bigger than Pope’s own cock, the sort of big that he doesn’t think it’ll fit inside of you. And you’re licking it. Long, deliberate strokes of your tongue before you spit on the head, watching as it drips down the silicone shaft; you don’t take it into your mouth, not really, but you lick and spit until the thing is dripping before you collect your own slick to rub on it— You’re using your own juices and spit to lubricate it, and Pope feels like he might come in his pants at the thought of you doing the same to him. 

You don’t take the toy all the way. You push it inside of you slowly, carefully, one hand rubbing furiously at your clit while the other pushes the pink silicone inside; you stop for a moment, chest heaving but the large smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know— You’re edging yourself, stopping to come down from your high before you go back to fucking yourself on the monster cock between your legs. 

Pope’s not even aware of the moment he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans, spitting on his hand and tugging furiously, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself hard and fast— It’s a little clumsy, the angle not quite right, but you’re wailing, shivering and shaking as you shove the toy inside of you as far you can; Pope pictures himself climbing through your window, taking the toy from your hands and fucking you properly with it. He thinks you might let him fuck your ass while the dildo is still inside of you, filling you with flesh and silicone until you’re crying from how full you are, how ruined your pussy and your asshole are. 

He comes first, fisting his cock with one hand and stifling his moans with the other, his eyes still glued to you. You shift positions, desperation all over your face as you bring yourself to your knees, sitting on the dildo instead; you ride it hard, bouncing on the toy and in this position Pope can see the way the entire thing disappears inside of you, the fake balls grinding against your clit when you lean forward, your hips rutting with abandon. You come while meaning loud enough that Pope thinks the neighbors might complain, your tits jiggling hard as you push yourself up and down, riding the toy all the way through your orgasm until you topple sideways, exhausted. 

Pope stays until you fall asleep, the toy forgotten by your side, your naked body sprawled over the bed. And then he stays a little longer, watching you sleep, his denim and hands still stained with his cum.

Pope thinks you’re getting used to his hovering presence the evening he corners you in the kitchen. You’re always incredibly kind to him, talking a lot when it’s just the two of you even though he hardly ever engages in the conversation apart from giving you his undivided attention; he thinks you might like him, even, your smile always brightening up when it’s geared towards him. 

Lena is in bed by then, Cath and Baz gone on a date— Which means Pope has no excuse to stick around after they leave but you don’t seem to mind, swiping up the counter where Lena spilled half of her spaghetti, humming underneath your breath. He’s not sure how to bring it up, how to tell you that he’s been listening and dreaming about you long before you showed up so instead he simply pulls out his phone, opens your profile and slides his phone across the counter. 

You stare at it like it’s something rotten, your hands frozen on the marble counter. “Pope—”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The question is just a formality, a need for you to admit that he isn’t crazy. 

“Please don’t tell Barry.” You beg so prettily, your eyes going wide when Pope rounds the counter. “I really need this job.” 

“I listened to the entire series.” He mumbles, his hand coming up to brush your cheekbone. Your skin is soft, glittering with sparkling make up and it looks so, so pretty beneath his blood-stained hands. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering close before you take a deep breath. “The Folsom Prison one.”

“D’you…” You lick your lips, and Pope needs to use every ounce of whatever little control he possesses to keep himself from kissing you. “Did you like it?”

“I spent three years at Folsom.” He tells you, ignoring your question— He thinks it’s obvious, with the way his fingers drip down to run over the column of your throat. “Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew I had such a pretty young thing waiting for me at home.”

He can see the moment the idea pops into your head; Pope likes to think he can read people pretty well, and he sees the way your eyes fly from his face down to his crotch, his half-hard cock straining through his jeans. He hasn’t gotten hard this easily since he was a teenager, but your smell alone is enough to drive him crazy, let alone the way you blink owlishly at him, your nimble fingers coming up to brush at his belt buckle. 

“Promise me you won’t tell Barry.” You lick your upper lip and Pope doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it, his mouth going dry at the pink that pokes through your teeth. “I’ll give you what you want, but promise me he won’t find out.” 

Pope nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you sink to your knees. He’s terrified that he might lose his erection but his nerves turn into blazing desire when you wrap your hands around his cock, pumping him slowly and brushing your thumb against his slit— It feels so much better than his own hands that his knees nearly buckle, Pope gripping the counter as you look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. You take him slowly into your mouth, tongue circling around the head of his cock before tracing the vein on the underside, your eyes never leaving his face. Your mouth is warm and flooding when you finally take him into it, the flat of your tongue pressing against his shaft, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other grips the base of his cock; your rhythm is slow, teasing, and Pope digs his fingernails into the marble to stop himself from grabbing you by the hair— He likes you, perhaps too much, and he doesn’t want to scare you. Maybe you’d let him fuck your face one day, but this time he wants to do this your way. 

You take him as far as you can, your nose pressing against his pubic bone and Pope’s eyes roll to the back of his head when your throat tightens around the sensitive head of his cock, a whimper escaping his lips that he tries to stifle with gritted teeth. He’s going to come just from that, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes as you pick up the pace, the wet sounds of your slurping and gagging whenever you swallow too much of him bringing him that familiar tightening at his navel. 

Pope grips your hair at last, pulling you away with perhaps a little too much force. 

“Get up.” He says, half an order and half a plea. You stare at him through wet eyelashes, still gripping the base of his cock for a long moment before you comply— Pope is about ready to yank you up himself, but you stand on wobbly knees before he turns you around, pressing your front against the counter. 

The positions change, with now Pope kneeling behind you while you bend over the counter; you’re in a yellow dress, modest enough that you could run around after Lena all day without showing too much— Modest enough that it would never have anyone thinking you’re the kind of girl to fuck yourself with a silicone cock while saying the dirtiest, nastiest things on a microphone but Pope knows better. He feels like he’s the only person in the entire world that truly knows you, and his hands shake in anticipation when he shoves your dress up to your hips. You hold it in place, taking a deep breath and pushing your ass out even more. 

You’re drenched, the gusset of your cotton underwear a shade darker than the rest, your juices starting to run down your thighs. He cusses under his breath, pushing his nose against your core and taking a deep breath. You gasp, surprised, but you still push your ass against his face. Pope leans back just enough to watch as he pulls your underwear down, mouth salivating as the gusset sticks to your cunt, stringy slick connecting the cloth to your skin before he’s letting it slide down your legs. 

“All this just from sucking me off?” Pope doesn’t mean to tease, the words more wondrous than anything else. Your entire body shivers when his breath hits your pussy, making you whine. Pope takes pity on you, using his hands to spread you open before his tongue runs across your cunt. 

You taste even better than he thought you would. The two of you moan in unison, your hand flying backwards to grip his hair, pushing him against you until he’s struggling to breathe but he doesn’t care— Pope would let you use his tongue and his fingers and his cock however it pleases you, his cock throbbing at the fact that he’s the one bringing you pleasure. He suckles on your clit, nose bumping against your entrance and you keen before you bring a hand to your mouth, trying to keep quiet. He pulls back just a little, watching entranced as you clench around nothing. 

“Talk to me.” He asks. “Like you do in your stories.”

“I need your fingers.” You say, voice a little breathy, the pitch just a little higher. It’s the voice you use in the app, still yours, still recognizable, but still different. “Please, Popey, I need it. Been thinking about them for so long, how thick and capable they are—”

The nickname does something to him and Pope whimpers against your cunt, pushing two of his fingers inside of you at once. It’s a snug fit and he can only think about how your pussy is going to strangle his cock, how he’ll stretch you open and leave you leaking with his cum. He moves his fingers slowly but purposefully, crooking them until you’re almost yelling, a string of yesses and his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

The noises you make as you come might be the prettiest Pope has ever heard, your already tight cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your slick dripping down his wrists as he suckles on your clit until it’s twitching, your hips spasming against him; you slump against the cold granite, whimpering softly when he pulls his fingers out of you but Pope’s not nearly close to being done— He hasn’t been this hard in years, the tip of his cock painfully red and leaking, and there’s nothing that can make him feel better than the moment he sheaths himself inside of you with one deep thrust. It’s a tight fit, perhaps a little too tight, your pulsing cunt tightening so hard around him that Pope thinks you might push him out.

“Fuck, you’re big.” You whine, more pain than pleasure— Maybe he should’ve prepped you a little better, and Pope makes a note to do so next time.

He starts rutting slowly against you, only pulling out a little bit before he pushes back in, his hands gripping your hips. Pope watches where he disappears inside of you, entranced by the stretch of your pussy around him, his cock coming out shiny with your wetness. 

“ ‘M so full” You moan, your voice back to the breathy one you use when putting on a show. “You’re everywhere. Biggest cock I’ve ever had.”

His hand tangles on your hair, pulling you back harshly so your back smacks against his chest and you moan. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” Pope growls against your ear, the hand not on your hair digging into the plush of your ass hard enough to bruise. “I saw that toy of yours. Such a naughty little slut, stretching yourself open with a big plastic cock, creaming all over it.” 

Your head whips back at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean you saw it?”

As much as he wants to hear your pretty voice singing for him, Pope doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t think you can understand it just yet, how good he would be for you, how well he can treat you.

“Shut up.” He says, picking up the pace of his thrusts; you squirm a little, mouth open in a way that he knows means another question is coming so he slams his hand over your mouth, holding your jaw tightly closed as he pulls your head back against his shoulder. “Just— Shut up.”

He sets an almost brutal pace, his cock pushing in and out of your cunt with indecent squelching sounds and he can see the exact moment that the hand you wrap around his forearm stops trying to pull it away and holds tightly to him, your moans muffled behind his hand. 

“Are you going to be good to me?” Pope mumbles against your ear, lips twisting into a small smile when you immediately nod. He lets go of your mouth, then, pushing you back against the counter— He would love to see your face when you come for him, but the sight of the creamy ring you leave around his cock is too enticing to look away, your pretty little asshole clenching whenever he hits the right spot inside of you. 

You’re moaning now, hips pushing back against his, your mouth hanging open as you rest your head against the counter. Pope spits, the glob of saliva hitting just half an inch away from your hole and he rubs his thumb against it, pushing just the first knuckle inside of your ass; you’re even tighter there than your cunt and Pope moans, his cock pushing so hard and fast against you that you jostle, your head hitting the marble counter with a loud thud; there’s a small pool of drool next to your mouth, your lips still parted, your moans being punched out of you with every snap of his hips. 

“Cum for me.” He all but begs, his voice shaky. “Please, please, cum for me.”

Your body shakes as you come, your wetness splashing against his cock, dripping down his balls and onto his jeans and Pope can’t stop himself. He comes with a loud whimper, both his finger and his cock pushing deeper inside of you. Pope drapes himself over you, his forehead dripping sweat into the tiny pool of drool you left behind and you raise a hand, fingers raking through his hair as the two of you catch your breath. 

“Clean me up.” You say. “I can’t go home dripping your cum.” 

Pope nods, even though you can’t see his face, and he needs to wait until he stops shivering before he pulls out; he tucks himself and then looks around, trying to find the paper towels. 

“No.” You say, looking at him over your shoulder, still bent. “With your mouth, Pope.”

He’s on his needs before you can ask for it twice, lapping at your cunt, licking his own come from inside of you. Your clit twitches when he tongues at it, making sure every single part of you is clean— It takes longer than he thought it might, his cum leaking and leaking and leaking but he does as you tell him to until you’re shaking, his face smeared with a mixture of your wetness and his, fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread when you try to close them, overstimulated— You come again like that, so lost in pleasure that you’re completely silent, squirting all over his lower face. 

And Pope, because he’s nothing if not great at following orders, swallow every single drop. He keeps licking and sucking until your entire body spasms and you pull him away by his hair. You yank hard enough to hurt, your fingernails digging into his scalp but all Pope feels is pleasure. 

“Now,” You say, smoothing down your dress and leaning back onto the counter. He can see you’re trying to hold some composure but you’re sweating, your lips bitten raw and hair plastered all over your forehead. He notices how badly you’re shaking when you try to push the hair away from your face and Pope interjects, pushing the hair out of your eyes for you. “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what and how you saw anything.”

And he does. The two of you sit down on the kitchen floor, facing each other, and Pope tells you word for word of the night he saw you masturbating on your bed, the way he perched himself outside of your window and touched himself to the image of you. You don’t say anything, silent even when he begs you to say something, sitting on the ground until Baz and Cath come home; you bid them goodnight with an innocent smile as if you hadn’t just squirted all over their kitchen and leave without sparing Pope another glance.

Three days later, Pope gets a notification that you’ve posted a new audio; it’s not an update on the Folsom Prison Blues series but an entirely new one:

Late Night Cravings. It’s the tale of a young nanny that fucks her stalker in the kitchen of her workplace and, in the comments, you promise to soon share another episode.

You had worked hard to make the garden of the biodome a working source of food, and as such, you spent a lot of time tending to the few vegetables and fruits whose seeds you'd salvaged from food on the ship.

"Have you got the watering can?" you asked over your shoulder, bent over some tomatoes. "Could you pass it here for a sec?"

"Sure, sweetheart," Ryland murmured, getting up from his kneeling position with a slight grunt: Erid's gravity hadn't been kind to either of your skeletons in the year that you'd been here.

You began to water the small patch of soil when Rocky wandered in. He made a beeline straight for Ryland.

"Grace! Request from children to teach about earth plants, please," he chimed.

"Hey, Rocky," you smiled over to him. Rocky turned away from Ryland and began to scuttle toward you to greet you, but quickly froze in his tracks.

"What is that? Question."

You paused and lowered your trowel, removing your gloves to wipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand.

"What's what?" you asked, out of breath.

"There is... something inside of you," Rocky asserted, still frozen. "Statement."

Ryland furrowed his brow and walked over to join the conversation, protectively wrapping an arm around your waist.

"Rocky, what?" he laughed, pecking your temple.

Before you had the chance to ask what the hell he was talking about, Rocky scuttled out of the room as quickly as he had come in.

"That guy..." you began. Ryland just rolled his eyes and scoffed at his alien-friend's quirks, soon returning to his strawberry patch.

Only minutes later, Rocky marched back in flanked by his mate, Adrian.

Adrian was one of the most senior scientists on Erid, and she had taken a special interest in the two humans living under their care. She was unusually quiet (for an Eridian), clicking only occasionally to Rocky who would then repeat what she'd said louder so that the synthesiser could translate it.

On this occasion, however, Adrian was clicking and whistling hurriedly alongside Rocky: they seemed...rushed.

"Adrian, Rocky. What's up?" you asked as you stood up to face the pair.

Adrian approached you quickly, coming unusually close; she was usually quite standoffish, perhaps worried she would scare you or hurt you, being quite a bit larger than her mate Rocky.

"Whoa— hey!" you laughed, Adrian nearly pushing you over. She glowered intently at your stomach, standing waist-height with you. The heat radiated through her Xenonite carapace, she was so close.

You felt like she was seeing right through you as the pair begin clicking to one another. It wasn't unusual to feel left out of the loop of Adrian and Rocky's conversations, but, this time, you had the sense that it was about you.

"What do you think?" Rocky said to Adrian, his words being inadvertently translated by the synthesiser.

Adrian clicked something back— something very brisk, what you imagined would be only a few words. She stayed frozen in front of your stomach.

Ryland sighed, wiped his gloved hands on his jeans, and stood up once more to join the group.

“Adrian? You... good?”

Adrian didn’t answer right away. Then she made a low trill and backed away to join Rocky's side. Rocky seemed to look at Adrian for a moment, then repeated what she had said:

"Adrian has confirmed that there is someone inside of you."

You froze mid-motion, a handful of soil slipping through your fingers.

“Someone?” you whispered.

"Inside of you?" Ryland echoed, furrowing his brow so deeply that his glasses slipped down his nose; he tore them off and tucked them into his pocket. "What's that supposed to mean?"

“Very small. Sound coming from heart. Adrian thinks you are... are... oh, I need word!" Rocky began jumping up and down, frustrated.

"Sick? She thinks I'm sick?" You felt like you were playing a game of very high-stakes charades.

"No!" Rocky groaned, continuing to jump.

Ryland's head snapped up, the slight amusement wiped clean off his face, replaced by sheer panic. "Oh. Oh dear," Ryland muttered, looking straight ahead with a hundred-yard stare.

"Ryland?" you peered at him. "What is it?"

"How can that even be possible?" He began to pace, peeling off his gardening gloves and throwing them haphazardly behind you. "...living in space can basically neuter you... and we know for a fact that—"

You could take no more of not understanding. You grabbed him by the wrist and spun him round to face you.

"Jesus Christ, Grace, just what are you on about?"

Ryland stayed in place, staring wide-eyed at the ground. Finally, he raised his eyes to yours and swallowed, shaking his head apologetically.

"Pregnant. Adrian thinks your pregnant."

"Yes! Y/N is pregnant!" Rocky cheered, pleased that someone had guessed the word, then he froze. "Oh... oh! That is digust! That means Y/N and Grace—"

"Rocky! Not now," Ryland hissed.

You looked between the two and laughed a short, cynical laugh. "What? Come off it. There is no way I could still get pregnant after everything: the trauma, the malnutrition, the coma, and— oh, not to mention— the fucking space travel!"

Ryland continued to look at you ruefully despite your obvious outrage. "Eridians see with echolocation, Y/N. They basically just gave you an ultrasound."

You looked on at him incredulously. "But— but I've not had a period in, like, two months! And even before then, it was all over the place because of the malnutrition."

Ryland pinched the bridge of his nose. "How big is the... person... inside of Y/N?" he asked Rocky. You shot him a look for even dignifying the ridiculous suggestion that you were carrying a 'person'.

Rocky and Adrian conferred for a moment, then Rocky raised two of his front legs and emphasised their short distance apart.

"This big."

"What would that be? Like, ten weeks?" Ryland murmured to you, recalling his days of teaching biology to eighth-graders; he knew that at ten weeks, the baby was the size of a lime and had something like an audible heartbeat. Cardiac activity, he had called it when he taught it.

"Cute!" Rocky cheered, obviously not sure why you'd be upset about this.

You felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you: ten weeks; two entirely missed periods.

“No,” you said, voice shaking. “That’s not— I can’t be. Not since... everything.” You turned on your heel, facing away from the group as you clutched your chest.

Adrian made a soft clicking sound; Rocky translated: “Congratulations… question?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Ryland slowly wrapped his arms around you from behind, holding you like he was scared you’d fall apart. His breathing was shaky against your hair. You pressed a hand to your stomach, tears already spilling down your cheeks.

“I thought I was barren,” you scoffed. “I never thought this would be a... a problem.”

Ryland’s arms tightened around you. You could feel him trembling.

“I don’t know whether to be happy or fucking terrified,” he admitted, voice rough. “We don’t have anything here. No obstetrician. No equipment. Just us and a bunch of Eridians who probably think human birth is weird as hell.”

Rocky shuddered: if he'd found the way humans ate to be gross, he did not want to know what birth looked like.

Grace gently turned you around in his arms and rested his forehead against yours. “I’m scared shitless, I know you are too,” he whispered. “But… it’s ours. And God knows we've lived through worse, right?”

You let out a broken sob and buried your face in his chest. Ryland held you tight, one hand gently rubbing your back while the other hovered protectively over your lower stomach.

Adrian quietly clicked to Rocky, and the pair started retreating toward the door. “I will tell the others. We will build equipment. Do not worry too much.”

Once they were gone, Ryland let out a long, shaky breath. “Holy shit,” he whispered, almost laughing through his own tears. “We’re gonna have a baby. On a fucking... alien planet.”

You clutched his shirt tighter. “I’m so scared, Ry.”

“Me too,” he said honestly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But we’ll figure this out— together, okay?" He paused, thoughtfully, wondering what he could say to help. "Think about how smart these guys are: they built us a literal replica of earth in the first week of us being here. I think they'll be well within their capacity to help us with this. Plus, looking after an egg seems way more complicated than regular old pregnancy.”

You laughed wetly. "Yeah. Okay."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand gently resting on your stomach.

chapter one | homecoming

The bass from the speakers rattles through the Cody backyard hard enough to make the pool water tremble beneath floating neon lights.

Bodies crowd every inch of the place. Girls in bikinis drape across lounge chairs. Guys already drunk before sunset. Beer bottles clink together. Somebody shouts over music loud enough to shake the windows.

The party is supposed to be for Joshua. Or J as everybody calls him. Smurf’s long-lost grandson. He moved in shortly after his mom overdosed. From what you’ve heard, Julia never talked much about the Cody family while J was growing up. Probably for good reason.

“Welcome to the family,” you mutter under your breath as you make your way further into the backyard.

At least that’s what the night starts as before it turns into something else entirely.

You spot J almost immediately near the pool. Skinny kid in borrowed board shorts standing awkwardly beside Nikki Belmont while Craig loudly explains something neither of them seems interested in.

The kid laughs too hard at whatever Craig says and tucks her brunette hair behind her ear.

“Kid,” you nearly laugh at yourself for thinking it because in reality, you’re only eight years older than her. That doesn’t sound like much on paper, but in this world it feels different.

Nikki still looks at the Codys like they’re exciting. Untouchable. Like danger is something thrilling instead of something that hollows people out from the inside.

“You’re making that face again,” Chrissy says beside you while lighting a cigarette. “The one where you act like you’re above everybody here.”

“I am above everybody here,” you joke, stealing a drag from her cigarette before handing it back.

Chrissy barks out a laugh. “No you’re not. You’re late on rent.”

She’s right. You’ve been late on rent for almost two months and Chrissy has been covering more than her fair share lately. You lost your diner job almost a year ago after the owner cut half the staff without warning. Chrissy told you you could make decent money dancing at the club where she worked and at first, you did.

But after a while, it became obvious the real money came from what happened after the dancing stopped. Men always wanted more if they thought they could pay for it and eventually you got desperate enough to let them.

Even then, money still disappears faster than it comes in. Everybody is struggling these days. Everybody except the Codys, apparently.

You roll your eyes and lean against the fence with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. The California heat clings to your skin and already you want to leave.

“I told you I didn’t wanna come.”

“And I told you rich criminals tip better than businessmen.” Chrissy says as she takes a drag from her cigarette.

“You see Baz yet?”

Your jaw tightens immediately.

“No.”

“Cath here?”

You don’t answer, which means yes. Across the yard, Cath sits beside Baz near the outdoor kitchen while Lena rests sleepily against his chest. Cath looks at you with a short, knowing glance.

You look away first. You already know Cath knows. Maybe not every detail but she’s smart enough to connect the dots. To be fair, Baz never hid his habits very well and you know damn well you aren’t even close to the only girl he’s slept with behind Cath’s back. Somehow that almost makes it worse.

Baz catches your eye seconds later and grins. You grab a beer from the cooler instead of acknowledging him. Chrissy nudges your shoulder lightly.

“You still mad about Baz?”

“He’s a pig.”

“You liked the pig.”

“I liked the money.”

Chrissy snorts loudly. “Oh, how I love your honesty.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile tugging at your mouth. Then the noise near the gate shifts suddenly. Craig’s voice cuts through the music first.

“No fuckin’ way!”

Heads turn instantly. Deran straightens from his chair near the pool. Baz stands slowly. Even Smurf freezes for half a second before her face lights up. Across the yard, you notice Cath glance down immediately before pulling Lena a little closer against her chest, almost instinctively.

Andrew Cody. Pope. Fresh out of prison.

The entire energy of the party shifts immediately, like somebody dropped a loaded gun into the middle of the backyard.

He just stands there, tall and broad-shouldered beneath a white tank top and an open flannel shirt, with rough-looking hands and a jaw set tight under the dim backyard lights. You’ve only ever seen photos of him around the Cody house before and even those are rare, tucked away between pictures of the brothers and old family memories Smurf likes displaying. Somehow, none of them do him justice.

He looks better in person. Rougher. Older. The kind of man who carries something heavy in him without ever talking about it. What catches you off guard most is how controlled he seems. Everybody else around him suddenly feels louder, messier and more chaotic while Pope watches the yard in complete silence.

Craig practically tackles him into a hug.

“You asshole! You didn’t call?”

Pope barely reacts. His eyes move over everybody carefully instead, already annoyed by everyone’s presence.

Smurf wraps her arms around him tightly. “My beautiful boy.”

Something uncomfortable flickers across Pope’s face before disappearing completely.

Sometimes after sex, Baz would talk too much. Little bits and pieces about the family slipping out during lazy pillow talk you never really cared to hear. It was enough for you to understand Smurf’s love came with conditions attached to it. She controlled her sons with affection the same way other people used fear.

Baz hands Pope a beer with an amused grin.

“Well,” Baz says casually, loud enough for half the party to hear as he lifts his beer toward Pope, “guess J’s welcome party turned into a homecoming.”

J stands nearby beside Nikki looking completely overwhelmed, staring at his mother’s twin brother for the first time in his life. Pope barely glances at him.

Then his eyes find you and stay there.

The world doesn’t exactly stop, but it slows enough for you to feel the shift. Most men look at your body first. That’s easy to read, easy to manage. Pope looks at you like he’s trying to figure out what you’re doing there, or maybe why you aren’t looking away. His dark eyes lock onto yours without hesitation.

Chrissy leans closer immediately.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“He’s staring at you.”

You keep your expression neutral even though something twists low in your stomach.

“Maybe he stares at everybody like that.”

“No,” Chrissy whispers. “That man looks like he’s deciding whether to kill somebody or I don’t know, something darker.”

You nearly laugh. But you don’t look away and neither does he.

And for the first time since he walked into the yard, something shifts faintly in Pope’s expression. Surprise maybe. Like he expected fear and found none.

Truthfully, you’ve seen men far worse than Pope Cody. Men who smiled while hurting people. Men who cornered girls in apartment hallways. Men who thought money bought affection.

Pope looks dangerous but not cruel. There’s a difference.

**********

As the night drags on, the party slowly empties. Cath eventually takes Lena home after a quiet, tense argument with Baz near the kitchen. On her way out, she pauses beside you for half a second. Neither of you speaks but Cath’s eyes soften slightly, almost tired. Like you aren’t really the problem anymore.

Then she leaves.

By midnight, only the usual stragglers remain. Half-drunk surfers. Girls floating lazily in the pool. Craig disappears upstairs with two blondes hanging off his shoulders. Deran sits by himself in the living room nursing a beer. J and Nikki sit together near the patio steps talking quietly while Nikki leans into him.

Kids, you think again, letting out a small laugh under your breath.

Meanwhile Pope barely says a word all night. But every single time you look up, his gaze finds you again. Like something about you keeps pulling him back.

Inside the house, Smurf gathers her boys in the living room while the muffled bass from outside vibrates through the walls. You stay near the doorway until Baz calls you over.

“Hey, baby.” Baz whistles softly, crooking two fingers toward himself.

You already hate his tone. The way he calls you baby like you belong to him somehow, like money and a few nights together gave him ownership over you. Baz always acts like everything around him exists for his convenience.

Baz lounges comfortably across the couch while Pope sits nearby with his elbows resting on his knees and a beer dangling loosely from one hand. Smurf watches the whole thing with quiet amusement, like she already knows exactly how the night is about to unfold.

“C’mere.”

You walk closer slowly and immediately feel Baz’s hand brush against the small of your back, lingering a little too low for comfort. You shift a step forward before he can touch you properly, slipping out of reach easily enough that his drunk ass doesn’t even notice.

Baz grins wider and tilts his head toward you while looking straight at Pope. “Got a welcome home gift for Pope.”

Pope’s jaw tightens immediately.

“Baz.”

“What?” Baz laughs. “Come on, man. You just spent the last three years locked up. Thought maybe it’s time you got back in the saddle.”

“What I do ain’t your fuckin’ business,” Pope snaps.

The room quiets instantly. You notice how fast everybody goes careful around Pope once his tone sharpens, like they expect him to explode at any second.

Baz looks back toward you with that grin you once found charming. Now you mostly want to smash the beer bottle in your hand over his face.

“Show him a good time tonight,” Baz says as he pulls a few hundred-dollar bills from his back pocket and slides them into the small gap between your shorts and bikini bottoms. You hate how casual he makes it feel. Like you’re part of the entertainment.

Baz always knows exactly which buttons to push on Pope and part of you gets the feeling he’s doing it on purpose now. Baz used to talk too much, little pieces of the family slipping out between cigarettes and half-drunk conversations. He once told you Pope had been obsessively in love with Cath since they were kids, long before Smurf adopted Baz and made him part of the family.

You think back to the way Cath looked the second Pope walked through the gate earlier tonight. Maybe something happened between them before he went to prison. Honestly, after all the shit Baz had put her through, you can’t really blame her if it did.

Pope’s eyes flick downward briefly, catching where Baz’s hand lingers against your skin a second too long. Then he stands abruptly.

“I told you to shut up, Baz.”

You stiffen slightly, but not because of Pope’s intensity. Because Baz is starting to play with fire.

Pope stands there perfectly still, but the tension rolling off him fills the entire room. His eyes stay locked on Baz now, sharp and unreadable in a way that makes even you feel careful for a second.

“Relax,” Baz says with a grin before looking back at you. “Listen, babe, don’t be scared of him. He’s just… intense.”

The joke lands wrong immediately and you see it in Pope’s face. Small enough most people probably wouldn’t notice.

And suddenly, you understand something important. Everybody in this family treats him like a problem waiting to happen. Nobody defends him or softens around him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you step closer toward Pope and tilt your head slightly.

“Come on,” you say casually. “Let’s go to Baz’s room. It’ll already be more worthwhile and probably last longer than when I was with him.”

Craig nearly chokes laughing somewhere behind you.

“Jesus Christ,” Deran mutters with a grin.

Baz points dramatically at you. “See? This is why I like her.”

Even Smurf laughs softly into her drink. And then Pope smiles. Small, quick and gone almost immediately. But real enough for you to catch it. Like nobody has ever chosen his side before.

Pope looks at you another second before speaking.

“We’re not stayin’ here.”

Baz raises his eyebrows cockily. “Atta boy.”

“I got a hotel.”

Smurf nods approvingly. “Suite’s nice and quiet.”

You shrug lightly. “Lead the way.”

The whistles and jeers follow you both all the way out the front door.

**********

The drive to the hotel stays quiet. It’s not uncomfortable but there’s an unspoken weight in the silence.

Pope drives with both hands gripping the wheel tightly while streetlights flash across his face. Every so often at a red light, you catch him glancing at you through the rearview mirror. Quick, careful looks like he thinks you wouldn’t notice.

Even with the windows down, the heat still clings to your skin. Small beads of sweat slide slowly down your neck and you wipe them away absentmindedly before rubbing your palms against your shorts.

When you look up again, you notice Pope’s eyes drop lower this time, lingering briefly on your legs before flicking back toward the road. His jaw tightens slightly after, like he’s trying hard to stay patient. Like part of him wants to forget the drive entirely and pull over somewhere dark just to get his hands on you.

You look around the car and wonder who this belongs to. Baz’s maybe? Or maybe Smurf handed Pope keys before he left. You want to fill the silence. Usually you did. Men usually liked easy conversation and fake intimacy for the right price.

But Pope feels different. Like a man who moves entirely at his own pace. So you stay quiet too.

**********

The hotel suite surprises you. It’s bigger than you expected and spotless. Of course it is.

“Jesus,” you mutter while looking around. “This room’s bigger than my apartment.”

“I like it clean,” Pope says immediately. “Away from my family.”

There’s exhaustion buried deep inside his voice. You understand more than he realizes.

Chrissy always teases you for keeping your apartment “Monica-clean,” which reminds you that before she dragged you to the party, you were perfectly content staying home watching Friends. Even after seeing the show a thousand times, it still comforts you. You remember sitting at the kitchen table doing homework while your grandma cooked dinner and the show played quietly in the background.

Pope’s stare snaps you back to the present. You step closer carefully and reach toward his chest, but his hand catches your wrist instantly. Not enough to hurt, just enough to stop you. His breathing shifts.

“I don’t like being touched.”

You study him quietly for a second before nodding once. No attitude or teasing. Just understanding.

“Okay.”

Something unreadable crosses Pope’s face. Like he expects resistance or mockery and doesn’t know what to do when neither comes. The room goes quiet again.

“You just got out?” You ask softly. “How’s it feel?”

Pope ignores the question and focuses entirely on you instead.

He stands close enough now to feel the warmth coming off your skin. Close enough to smell the cigarettes, sunscreen and lingering heat from outside still clinging to your body.

The room has gone completely silent except for the sound of your heartbeat pounding loudly in your ears.

“Take your clothes off,” he says quietly. “Keep your eyes on me.”

The command slices through the silence. You slowly pull your shirt over your head without looking away once. Then your shorts. Then the strings of your bikini loosen beneath your fingers before the fabric drops to the floor beside the bed.

Pope watches every movement carefully. Not just your body, but your face too, like he’s waiting for hesitation, fear or regret. None comes.

“Get on the bed.”

You climb onto the mattress slowly and sit near the edge while Pope stares at you like he’s trying to understand why you aren’t backing away yet.

Then he leans down and kisses you hard, messy and hungry. Your teeth knock together awkwardly the first time and for half a second you think maybe he’d pull away, embarrassed by it. But then he kisses you again and somehow it only makes the whole thing feel more real.

There’s nothing polished about it, nothing smooth or practiced like Baz.

The comparison slips into your head automatically and guilt twists in your stomach almost immediately after. It feels wrong comparing the two of them at all, especially while Pope was kissing you like this. Baz knew exactly how to touch people. Pope kisses like he was figuring it out as he went, driven entirely by instinct and want and years of loneliness he doesn’t know what to do with.

And somehow, that made it impossible to stop kissing him back. The longer he kissed you, the more difficult it became to think about anybody else at all.

You feel him get harder against you even through his jeans, the tension in him almost unbearable now. Every breath feels heavier than the last.

You want him. All of him. Heat pools low between your thighs and you can already feel how badly your body reacts to him.

His hand moves slowly down your body, dragging from your neck to your chest and lower still, deliberate enough to make you shiver beneath him. You feel your nipples harden at every touch. There’s something almost playful in the look he gives you as his dark eyes lock onto yours while his fingers explore inside of you carefully, like he’s fascinated by every reaction he pulls from you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs softly, voice rough with satisfaction. “So wet for me already.”

The approval in his voice sends another rush of heat through you.

Pope’s hand slowly traces back upward afterward, lingering against your stomach before moving higher, his touch is almost gentler now despite all the intensity in him. Every part of this felt new to him in a way you can’t fully explain. As he moves higher, he stops at your mouth, putting the two fingers he had inside you at your lips, letting you taste yourself on him.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your ear.

Pope sits back slightly and pulls his shirt over his head. Up close, you notice details you hadn’t before. The size of his arms. The freckles scattered across his skin. The light colour of the fine hair along his forearms catching beneath the warm glow of the lamp beside the bed.

Pope undoes his belt impatiently, shoving his jeans down enough before tearing open a condom wrapper with his teeth. There’s nothing smooth about his movements. Everything about him feels tense, restless, desperate.

“Do you want to feel how hard you make me?” he asks.

For somebody who hates being touched unless it happens on his own terms, there was something almost vulnerable in the question. Like even now, with his hands all over you and his body pressed against yours, Pope still needs reassurance that you want him there. He needs to know you want him the same way he wants you. You nod immediately as his hand slides along your jaw.

“Good girl,” he says quietly, the soft praise making you want him more. You’re desperate to keep pulling those reactions out of him for as long as he’d let you.

And when he finally pushes into you, it’s rough and messy just like his kisses had been. You don’t care. You were already aching for him long before he touched you.

Pope moves against you with an intensity bordering on overwhelming, like he’s trying to lose himself in you completely. Beneath all that rigid control, there’s still something frantic in him. Something barely holding together.

He pins your wrists above your head with one hand while the other moves between your breasts and on your waist like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most. Every movement feels intense, almost conflicted, like he’s fighting himself while trying to keep you close at the same time. You moan softly against his neck and feel the way he reacts instantly to the sound, his breathing turning rougher beside your ear.

Then suddenly he shifts, flipping you onto your stomach in one swift movement. His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you back against him with an urgency that makes your breath catch. The sharp sting of his hand spanking your ass makes you gasp and you already know there’d be marks left behind by morning.

Part of you expects this whole thing to be fast. Quick and desperate the way most men were after being locked up for years. But Pope doesn’t seem interested in rushing through any of it. He wants this. Wants you. And if he had it his way, you got the feeling he would’ve kept you in that hotel room all night just to stay wrapped around you a little longer.

Pope lets himself inside of you again, thrusting faster and deeper. Rough and relentless in a way that feels less about control and more about desperation. Like once he touched you, he couldn’t stop. You can feel yourself starting to shake beneath him and instinctively reach back, needing even the smallest second to breathe, but he catches your hand immediately and holds it down against the mattress.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice low and rough. “I want all of you.”

His grip tightens slightly against your hip before he leans closer, breathing uneven beside your ear.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

The possessiveness in his voice makes something tighten low in your stomach and sends warmth rushing between your thighs.

“I’m yours, Pope,” you whisper back immediately. “I’m your girl.”

As he moves against you again, the pressure finally becomes too much and you come loud and hard enough your knees nearly give out beneath you from the weight of him pressed against your back.

You bury your face into the pillow as heat rushes through your entire body and you can feel the aftermath of it between your thighs, sliding down your skin and onto his as he holds you tightly against him.

You try to muffle the sounds leaving your mouth against the pillow but Pope doesn’t seem to care whether anybody heard you or not. There’s something possessive in the way he fucks you, like he wants the world to know you belong to him already.

“What do you want?” he asks, the words strained and uneven as his hand twists gently into your hair, pulling you back just enough so that you’re pressed against his warm chest.

You can feel how hard he was breathing against the back of your neck, like he’s losing control little by little every time you make a sound for him.

“I want you. I want you to come inside me.” You whisper back at him.

That undoes whatever control he still had left. In one final thrust, he comes long and hard inside of you. Even from the thin layer of protection between you both, you feel every sharp, little pulse as he slowly makes his way out of you.

Every movement feels hungry and possessive, like he needs proof you’re still there beneath him. And underneath all of it, you feel the same thing you noticed the second he walked into the party.

Loneliness.

**********

Later, you sit beside him pulling your clothes back on while Pope sits at the edge of the bed near the window, staring out into the parking lot below.

He’s pulled his jeans back on but hasn’t bothered with his shirt yet. Not that you mind. You let yourself take a selfish little look you can save for later.

“You and Baz,” he says finally. Straight to the point.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“On and off.”

Pope’s jaw flexes.

“I stopped after I found out about Lena,” you admit quietly. “She deserves better than that.”

That softens him immediately. It’s a tiny shift but it’s enough.

“I haven’t slept with your other brothers,” you add quietly. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

Pope glances over at you then, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“And J?”

You blink for half a second before realizing he’s joking. Actually joking. A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“I just met him tonight,” you say. “Besides, he’s too young for me.”

You tilt your head slightly and give him a teasing wink.

“I like my men older.”

Something almost smug flickers briefly across Pope’s face before disappearing again. Then his expression shifts more serious as his eyes settle back on you.

“You see other men?”

You laugh again but this time, without humour. “I do what I gotta do to survive.”

His fists tighten instantly.

You notice the tension in his jaw immediately and the way his shoulders stiffen like he’s physically trying to hold something back. Beneath all the calm silence he carries around, there’s jealousy there.

“I don’t like sharing,” he says, low and firm.

You raise an eyebrow. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

Silence stretches between you. Then Pope finally looks at you again.

“How would you feel,” he asks slowly, “if I was the only one you saw?”

You blink.

“You serious?”

“Yes.”

“You got exclusivity money, Pope Cody?”

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches into his pocket and leaves another small stack of cash on the table beside the bed.

“I got enough.”

You look over at the money, then back at him, studying him carefully. He’s a man desperate for softness and terrified of it at the same time. You lean back against the headboard slowly.

“If we do this,” you say carefully, “you don’t own me.”

Pope stays quiet.

“I come when you call. I see only you. But you don’t treat me like property.”

Another pause. Then finally:

“Okay.”

You eye him suspiciously. “You agreeing that fast is kinda terrifying.”

A small crooked smile appears.

“Probably.”

You reach out your hand and Pope silently hands over his phone, your fingers brushing together for the briefest second. The phone is brand new, the thin layer of plastic film still clinging to the screen. Another gift from Smurf, no doubt.

You type your number in before calling yourself so you’ll have his saved too. Pope watches quietly the entire time, his eyes following every little movement like he’s trying to memorize you already.

A sly smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop yourself. Under contact name, you type: Pope’s Girl.

When you hand the phone back, his eyes drop to the screen and something pleased flickers across his face at the sight of it.

**********

A few minutes later, you grab your purse from the floor and slip your shoes back on.

Pope looks over immediately.

“You’re leaving?”

The question comes quieter than expected. Not offended, not angry, just… uncertain. Like part of him genuinely doesn’t think you’ll come back after this.

For somebody who looks so dangerous, Pope carries around an almost painful kind of loneliness underneath everything else. Like he’s always expecting people to leave first.

“You don’t even like people touching you, Pope,” you say gently. “I’m not climbing into bed with you after one night.”

He stays quiet after that and looks at you for a long moment like he’s trying to understand why none of this upsets you. Most women probably either push too hard or get scared and leave.

You walk over slowly and stop in front of him, close enough now to see the exhaustion sitting behind his eyes even after everything that happened between you.

“Get some sleep if you can.”

Pope gives a short, humourless laugh at that.

Neither of you believes it. Even exhausted, there’s still something twitching beneath his skin. Memories that never seem to leave him alone.

You reach for the money Pope left on the table before pausing near the door. Between that and the cash Baz shoved into your shorts earlier, rent will finally be covered for the month. Maybe there’ll even be enough left over for one of those overpriced tubs of ice cream Chrissy always begs you to buy but can never justify.

“You can call me anytime,” you say casually. “Doesn’t gotta be for sex either.”

Pope looks at you sharply, like the idea genuinely catches him off guard.

Nobody offers him things without expecting something back.

You give him one last look before heading toward the door. As you slip into the hallway, you glance back and catch him staring down at his phone, thumb hovering over the contact you saved yourself under.

Chapter One: The Arrangement

You were halfway into your car when your phone buzzed. One foot still on the concrete of the hospital parking garage. Your bag sliding off your shoulder. Hair coming loose from the clip you had shoved it into sometime around four in the morning, when the shift had stopped pretending it was going to be reasonable. You should have ignored it. You were tired. The kind of tired that made your bones feel hollow. The kind of tired that left fluorescent light behind your eyes and the echo of call bells in your ears. Then you looked at the screen.

Jack: 

How tired are you?

Your hand went still on the car door. It was not sweet. It was not romantic. It was not even subtle. Still, heat moved low through your stomach, slow and traitorous. You glanced back toward the hospital entrance, even though you knew he had gone out the staff exit five minutes before you. Same shift. Same twelve hours. Same ugly fluorescent night bleeding into pale Pittsburgh morning. He knew exactly how tired you were. That was the point. You typed back before you could talk yourself into being smarter.

You: 

A little.

His reply came almost immediately.

Jack:

 Come over.

You stared at the words. Two of them. That was all it ever took. No please. No explanation. No promise waiting underneath it. Just come over. Your thumb hovered over the screen. You could go home. You should go home. You could drive back to your own place, shower off the shift, crawl into your own bed, and sleep like a responsible adult who did not let Jack Abbot ruin her circadian rhythm and her common sense in the same morning.

Instead, you got into the car and started the engine.

Jack’s townhouse was twenty-two minutes from the hospital if traffic was kind, twenty-seven if Pittsburgh decided to make every bridge and side street someone’s personal test of patience. Not that you were counting. The morning had gone pale and wet by the time you pulled up outside his place. Rain slicked the brick fronts of the narrow rowhouses, turning the street soft and gray. His porch light was still on even though the sun had come up, glowing faintly over the black iron railing and the front steps you knew too well. That was the problem. You knew this house. You knew the third step dipped slightly beneath your shoe. You knew the door stuck when the weather changed. You knew the little brass mailbox beside the frame had a dent in one corner. You knew that if Jack texted come over, the porch light would be on. You sat in your car for one second too long, hands still on the steering wheel. Then you got out. The rain was light enough to be annoying instead of dramatic, misting over your hair and the shoulders of your jacket as you crossed the sidewalk. Your body felt exhausted and awake at the same time, all leftover adrenaline and want. You barely got your knuckles to the door before it opened. Jack stood there in a dark T-shirt and worn sweatpants. There was a shadow along his jaw. His eyes were tired.

They moved over you once. Slow. Deliberate. Your stomach tightened.

“Hey,” he said. It was barely a greeting.

“Hey.”

He stepped back. You crossed the threshold, and the door shut behind you with a solid click. For half a second, nothing happened. Then your bag slid off your shoulder. 

Jack caught it before it hit the floor, set it mindlessly on the narrow entry table, and put his hands on you. Your back hit the door. His mouth was on yours before you could take a full breath. The kiss took the rest of the shift out from under you. The hospital smell, the ache in your lower back, the grit behind your eyes, the sound of monitors and wheels and voices layered over voices, it all vanished beneath the heat of him. 

Jack kissed you like he had been waiting hours to do it. Like every clipped exchange across the nurses’ station, every almost-brush in the med room, every time his eyes had found you and then moved away again had been held tight in his body until now. His hands went to your waist. You made a small sound in his mouth.

Jack pressed closer. “Hey,” he murmured again, rougher this time, the word breaking against your lips.

Not a greeting now. Something closer to a warning. His fingers found the hem of your scrub top and paused. Even like this. Especially like this. He pulled back just enough to see your face. His breathing was already uneven, but his eyes stayed sharp on yours, checking. Asking without making you answer out loud. You nodded.

His jaw shifted once.

Then he lifted your scrub top over your head and dropped it beside your shoes. The air touched your skin for half a second before he did. His hands moved over your ribs, your waist, your back, warm and sure and familiar enough to hurt if you let yourself think about it. So you did not think. You hooked your fingers into his shirt and pulled him back to you. Jack came willingly, mouth finding yours again, harder this time. Your shoes were barely kicked off, one heel catching against the mat, the other abandoned somewhere near the umbrella stand. He did not seem to care. You did not either. His hand slid up to your jaw, angling your face as he kissed you. The other settled low on your spine, keeping you pinned between him and the door.

You felt him everywhere.

His chest against yours. His thigh between your legs. His breath at your mouth. His restraint, fraying. “Been thinking about you all night,” he said.

The words were low. Rough. Almost dragged out of him. Your fingers tightened in his shirt. There was no answer you could give that would not expose you, so you kissed him instead. Jack made a sound deep in his throat, and something in you went loose and hot in response. This was why you came.

This was why one text could reroute your entire morning. Why two words on a screen could turn your car toward his townhouse instead of your own apartment. Why you kept telling yourself this was physical, casual, and clean enough to survive.

But when Jack touched you, nothing felt casual.

He moved you away from the door, still kissing you, still holding you, like letting go was not an option yet. You thought, distantly, that you were supposed to be going upstairs. That was usually how this worked. Entryway. Stairs. Bedroom. Curtains half-drawn. His bed still unmade from whatever sleep he had managed before the shift.

But his hand slid under the waistband of your scrub pants, and your knees almost forgot the purpose of stairs entirely. You caught at his shoulders. Jack stopped. Not long. Not enough to break the heat. Just enough. 

His forehead hovered close to yours, breath warm against your mouth. “Still with me?”

Your answer was your hand sliding beneath his shirt, palm dragging over the hard warmth of his stomach. His eyes darkened. That was all. The last of his control shifted into something sharper. He kissed you again and walked you backward through the narrow front room. The old hardwood creaked beneath your feet. Rain tapped against the windows. Morning light washed pale across the couch, the coffee table, the blanket folded over the arm like this house had no idea what you kept doing inside it.

 He tugged the drawstring of your scrubs loose and shoved them down in one rough pull, taking your underwear with them. His hands were already sliding up your thighs as he walked you backward. The couch caught the back of your knees, and you dropped onto it, scrubs kicked free. Jack followed you down, one knee braced between yours. One hand at the side of your neck. His mouth on yours like he had finally stopped pretending he was patient. You pulled at his shirt. He broke the kiss just long enough to drag it over his head and toss it aside. Then he was back. Heat. Weight. Hands. The shift disappeared. The morning disappeared. Everything narrowed to Jack above you, around you, against you. The way he knew where to touch. The way he knew when to slow down just enough to make you chase him. The way his voice went low and wrecked near your ear, all restraint and hunger and the kind of praise that made your whole body answer before your pride could catch up.

You loved it.

God help you, you loved it.

You loved how badly he wanted you. You loved how focused he became, how the rest of the world seemed to fall away from him, too. You loved the rough edge in his voice when your name slipped out of him. You loved that he remembered things you had only ever told him once. You loved that his hands felt certain even when everything else about this arrangement felt like a lie waiting to happen.

You loved too much.

So you stopped thinking again.

You let him pull the rest of the morning out of you.

You let yourself have him.

His mouth was hot on your stomach, open and hungry as he worked his way lower. You could feel every pause. Every breath. Every place his control caught and thinned. Jack was usually so careful. So contained. Even like this, even with your scrubs on the floor and the couch digging into the back of your thighs, there was still that last thread of restraint in him. The part that watched your face. The part that listened for every change in your breathing. The part that knew your body too well for anyone who still wanted to call this casual.

Then his mouth slipped lower, and the thread snapped. His tongue dragged through slick heat, and the sound he made against you was low, filthy, almost involuntary. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice scraped raw. His fingers tightened against your thighs like he had to hold himself there. “Taste so good after a night like that.” Your head tipped back against the couch cushions. The words hit almost as hard as his mouth did. There was something obscene about it, not just what he was doing, but how focused he was. How completely he gave himself over to it. Like this was the thing he had been holding back every time he passed you under hospital lights. Every time his hand brushed yours at the nurses’ station. Every time his eyes found you across a trauma bay, and left too quickly.

His hands shifted and spread you open.  He licked deeper, his tongue working in tight, urgent circles. You gasped, hips jerking, your breath caught sharp in your throat. Jack noticed. His eyes lifted briefly, dark and intent, checking your face before his mouth returned to you. Then his tongue worked deeper, slower for one devastating second, like he wanted to feel the way your body answered him.

You did.

Fuck, you did.

Your fingers twisted in the couch beneath you, searching for something to hold onto as he pushed two thick fingers inside you. The stretch dragged a gasp out of you before you could stop it, your hips jerking toward his mouth.

Jack’s palm came down firm and broad over your lower stomach, pinning you with just enough pressure to make your whole body go hot. You gasped, “Jack!”

“That’s it,” he said against you, rough and low. “Let me hear you.”

You tried to breathe. It came out broken. Jack’s fingers moved with the same devastating certainty as the rest of him, not rushed now, not careless, but purposeful. He knew the angle. Knew the rhythm. Knew exactly when your thighs started to tense, when your breath went thin, when you were trying to stay quiet because daylight was pressing pale against the windows and the whole thing felt too exposed.

Too real.

He dragged his tongue over you again, tight and urgent, and your hand flew to his hair.

“Jack—” His name left your mouth like a warning.

He groaned, the sound vibrating through you, and the hand on your stomach flexed once.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

That was worse. The filth you could survive. The heat, the hunger, the way he looked at you like he had spent all night thinking about exactly this, you could survive that.

It was the care underneath it that ruined you.

The way he held you down without making you feel trapped. The way he watched you fall apart as it mattered. The way he gave you exactly what you needed and made it feel like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

You loved it.

You loved it so much it scared you.

Jack’s mouth moved again, and the thought shattered.

He stayed there until your thighs shook. Until the couch cushions were twisted under your hands. Until your breathing stopped sounding like breathing at all and became something broken, helpless, dragged out of you by his mouth and the rough press of his fingers.

 Jack did not rush. 

That was the thing. 

He had been all hunger at the door, all hands and heat and barely contained want, but here he slowed just enough to ruin you. Just enough to make you feel how focused he was. How completely he had narrowed down to this. To you.

His voice moved against you between licks, low and wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this.”

Your hips jerked.

His hand pressed firmer over your stomach, holding you there, making you take it, making you feel how badly he wanted you without ever making you feel like you could not stop him.

“Been wanting my mouth on you since shift started.” The words tore through you since shift started. Since hours ago. Since fluorescent lights and charting, and clipped professional glances across the ER. Since you had passed him near the med room and pretended not to notice the way his eyes dropped for half a second to your mouth before he looked away.

He had been thinking about this there.

In the hospital.

Under all that control.

Jack dragged his tongue over you again, and the thought disappeared beneath the heat of him.

“Come on,” he murmured, rough and coaxing. “Give it to me.”

You broke against his mouth.

Hard.

Your fingers fisted in his hair, his name caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea, and Jack groaned like he felt it too. Like getting you there did something to him. Like he could pretend this was casual all he wanted, but his body had already chosen a side. He stayed with you through it, mouth slowing but not leaving, one hand firm at your belly, the other spread against your thigh while your body shook beneath him.

Only when you went loose against the couch did he lift his head.

His mouth was wet. His breathing was unsteady. His eyes were darker than you had ever seen them outside this house.

You barely had time to register the look on his face before he moved.

He did not give you time to drift.

Your remaining clothes came off in quick, practiced tugs, his hands sure on every place they touched. He knew where fabric caught. Knew how to get you out of your bra without fumbling. Knew how to touch your hip afterward, thumb dragging once over skin he had uncovered like he could not help himself. Then he was over you again, pants shoved down just far enough, body hot and solid between your legs. He caught your mouth with his. You tasted yourself on him.

Your breath hitched, and Jack heard it.

Of course he did.

He reached into the side-table drawer without looking. The small square packet flashed silver in his hand, and something about the practiced ease of it made your stomach twist. Not because it was cold. Because it was familiar. Because this was a routine now. Your body on his couch. His hands were shaking just enough to betray him. Protection tucked within reach like he had planned for you, without ever admitting he planned for you.

Jack rolled the condom on, breathing hard, then braced one hand beside your head. “Still with me?”

You slid your hands up his back. “Yes.” You answered by yanking him closer. Your legs hooked around his hips, your hands dragging down his back, and the sound that left him was almost a curse.

Then he pushed inside.

One thick, desperate thrust that stole the air from your lungs.

For one suspended second, neither of you moved.

Your body needed the beat. Jack gave it to you, breathing hard against your mouth, every muscle in him held tight with restraint. His hand found your thigh and gripped there, grounding you, grounding himself.

His eyes searched your face.

You pulled him closer.

That was all it took.

The rhythm snapped into place like muscle memory.

You moved like you had done this a hundred times, because you had. Bodies already fluent. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just heat and breath and the obscene familiarity of knowing exactly how the other person broke.

Jack braced one hand on the back of the couch, the other gripping your thigh as he fucked into you with post-shift hunger, all the restraint from the last twelve hours burning out of him in sharp, ragged breaths.

There was no room for softness.

Not then.

Not with your nails dragging down his back, not with his mouth at your neck, not with the wet sound of his hips meeting yours and the couch shifting beneath you. Not with the rain against the windows and daylight slipping over the floor like the world outside had no idea what you were letting him do to you.

And still—

Still, he knew.

He knew when your breath caught wrong. Knew when to change the angle. Knew when your hand tightened at his shoulder because you wanted more, and when it tightened because the feeling was too much. He knew your body with a precision that made the whole casual arrangement feel like a joke neither of you had the courage to stop telling.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His head dropped, mouth close to your ear. “I know,” he said, rough and ruined. “I know.”

He did. 

That was the problem.

He knew how to take you apart. He knew how to hold you through it. He knew how to make you feel wanted so completely that for a few minutes, you could almost pretend wanted was the same thing as chosen.

You clawed at his back and pulled him deeper. He gave it to you. Both of you pretending the only thing between you was this raw, physical need. Both of you pretending the way he fit against you did not feel like memory. Like habit. Like something that had already made a home in your body without asking permission.

The heat was easy.

The wanting was easy.

It was the familiarity twisting sharp beneath your ribs that made it dangerous.

Jack’s rhythm started to fracture.

Not all at once. Not messy, not careless. He fought it the way he fought everything, jaw clenched, breath ragged, one hand braced hard on the back of the couch like control was something he could hold onto if he just gripped tight enough.

But you knew him.

You knew the moment it started to take him.

The rough catch in his breathing. The way his forehead dropped closer to yours. The way his hand tightened on your thigh, not hurting, just needing somewhere to put the force of it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking low against your mouth.

Your name followed, rough and almost helpless.

That did something to you.

Not the sound alone. The loss of him inside it. Jack Abbot, who could stand steady through a twelve-hour night shift and three traumas back-to-back, coming apart over you like holding back had finally become impossible.

His mouth dragged against your jaw. “I’m close,” he rasped.

Your fingers dug into his back.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours, dark and wrecked, his restraint barely holding.

“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice lower now, almost a warning. “Need to hear you.”

Your breath caught.  There were safe things to say. Physical things. Easy things. Things that belonged to the arrangement and would not ask for anything after. 

But Jack was above you, shaking with restraint, looking at you like the last twelve hours had been nothing but waiting to get his hands on you again, and your body answered before your pride could stop it.

“Jack,” you gasped, “Please. I want you.”

His face changed. Just for a second.

A flash of something too raw to name.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking against your throat. “Say that again.”

Your nails dug into his back. “I want you.”

Jack’s control snapped. He came with a rough, helpless sound, hips driving deep as his whole body went tight over yours. You felt him release. Felt the hard pulse of it, the shudder that tore through him, the way his grip tightened on your thigh as if he needed somewhere to put the force of losing control.

“Fuck,” he breathed, wrecked and low. “Love having you like this.”

The words hit somewhere they should not have.

Because they were filthy. Because they were hot. Because his voice was broken against your skin and his body was still shaking above yours.

But also because, for one stupid second, you let yourself hear only the middle of it.

Having you.

Like you were something he wanted to keep.

Jack’s forehead dropped to your shoulder as his breathing slowly started to even out. His hand softened on your thigh, thumb dragging once over skin he had gripped too hard a moment before.

And that was the part that ruined you.

Not the heat. Not the filth. Not even the way he lost control.

It was how easily he could say something that sounded like wanting, and make you ache as if it meant choosing.

Afterward, the room slowly came back. First, the rain. Then the old house settling around you.

Then Jack’s breathing  uneven against your shoulder. Your own pulse was still everywhere.

In your throat. Your wrists. Low in your stomach. Under every place his hands had been. For a while, neither of you moved. That was the dangerous part.

Not the sex.

The sex had rules, even when it felt like breaking them. Want was easy to categorize. Want could be blamed on exhaustion, adrenaline, chemistry, the strange unreality of coming off a night shift while the rest of the city started its day. Want could stay temporary if you were careful.

This was not temporary.

Jack’s hand rested at your hip, heavy and warm. His thumb moved once against your skin, slow and absent, like he had forgotten there was any reason not to touch you afterward.

Your eyes closed. There it was. The part that always got you. Not the way he took you apart. The way he stayed while you put yourself back together.

Jack shifted carefully, reaching over the back of the couch for the throw blanket folded there. He pulled it down and settled it over you before the morning chill could raise goosebumps across your skin.

He did not make a thing of it. Of course, he didn’t. Jack never made a thing of anything that mattered.

He just did it.

Covered you. Got you water. Bought the creamer you liked and acted like it had appeared in his refrigerator through divine intervention. Kept your shampoo in his shower after one offhand complaint about his. Left your hair tie on his nightstand instead of throwing it into a drawer. Let your toothbrush stay in the cabinet beside his, like it had earned the space.

He cared as if it were muscle memory.

Like tenderness did not count if he never said it out loud.

You stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe normally.

Jack sat up first.

The couch shifted beneath his weight, and cold air slipped in where his body had been. You hated that you noticed. Hated more that he noticed you noticing, because he reached for the blanket again and tucked it higher over your chest. Then he stood. You watched him pull up his sweatpants and run a hand through his hair, and disappear toward the kitchen without saying anything.

A minute later, the sink turned on. Glass against counter. Water. Your throat tightened before he even came back. He returned with two glasses, one in each hand. He set yours on the coffee table within easy reach, then sat on the edge of the couch near your hip.

Not too close. Close enough.

You pushed yourself up against the arm of the couch, keeping the blanket gathered against you. “Thanks,” you said.

Your voice sounded rough. Jack looked at you for a beat longer than necessary.

Then his gaze dropped to the glass. “You always forget after nights.”

It should have been nothing.

It should have been practical. Clinical, even. Hydration. Fatigue. Post-shift recovery. Nurse and doctor, both aware of what twelve hours under fluorescent lights could do to a body.

But he said it like he knew you. Because he did. That was the problem. You reached for the glass and took a sip just to give your hands something to do. 

Jack leaned back, one forearm resting on his thigh. There was a red mark low on his neck that you had left there. His hair was a mess because of your hands. His mouth was still flushed from yours.

He looked like evidence.

You looked away.

Rain ticked softly against the front windows.

The townhouse felt too quiet now. Too lived-in. The couch beneath you was worn in the middle, one cushion softer than the other. A pair of Jack’s shoes sat near the front door. There was a book facedown on the coffee table, a receipt tucked between the pages as a bookmark. His house smelled faintly like coffee, rain, and him. You knew this room too well. You knew what the kitchen looked like from here. The dark cabinets. The chipped mug on the second shelf. The coffee maker that sounded like it was actively dying but somehow refused to quit. The place beside the sink where Jack left his watch after work. You knew the stairs. The bathroom. The bedroom. You knew the route through his life in bare feet. And still, somehow, this was supposed to be casual.

Jack’s hand moved near your ankle, then stopped. You noticed the restraint. The way he caught himself. The way he always caught himself after.  

Your chest ached.

He looked toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”

One word. A normal word. A safe word, probably, in his mind.

You almost laughed. Coffee was not safe anymore. Coffee was the chipped blue mug he never used but always set out for you. Coffee was the creamer in his fridge, even though he drank his black. Coffee was standing in his kitchen, wrapped in his blanket, while Pittsburgh rain blurred the windows, and pretending that none of this meant anything because neither of you had been reckless enough to name it.

You should have said no.

You should have gotten dressed. Found your scrub top. Put your shoes back on. Driven home before the morning had any more chances to ruin you.

Instead, you took another sip of water and nodded. “Yeah,” you said. “Coffee would be good.”

Jack stood. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he walked toward the kitchen. You stayed on the couch for a moment, blanket pulled to your chest, body still warm from him, skin still remembering his hands. The dangerous part was never that Jack wanted you. The dangerous part was that afterward, he made room for you. And you were starting to want to stay there.

He made it halfway to the kitchen before he stopped. You saw it happen in the shift of his shoulders, the slight turn of his head. His gaze moved back to you, quick and assessing. Observant in a way that made you feel seen before you were ready to be. “You’re shivering,” he said.

You looked down at yourself, still wrapped in the throw blanket, goosebumps covering your skin. “I’m fine.”

Jack gave you a look that said he had heard that exact lie from too many patients, too many nurses, too many people trying to make themselves easier to manage. Then he turned toward the stairs instead of the kitchen.

“Jack—”

“I’ll be right back.” He disappeared upstairs before you could decide whether to argue. A drawer opened somewhere above you. Then another. The old floorboards creaked under his weight, familiar enough now that you knew exactly when he crossed from the bedroom into the hall.

You hated knowing the sounds of his house.

You hated more that they comforted you.

When Jack came back down, he had a dark gray sweatshirt in one hand and a pair of clean black boxer briefs in the other. He crossed the room and held them out like this was nothing. Like it was only logistics. Like handing you his clothes after taking you apart on his couch was not one more impossible thing you would have to pretend did not matter.

“It’s comfier than post-twelve-hour-shift scrubs,” he said.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket. The sweatshirt was soft from too many washes. The boxers were folded once over his hand. Both of them were warm from upstairs, from his room, from the life he kept accidentally letting you step into.

You took them carefully. “Thanks.”

Jack’s gaze flicked over your face, then away again. “I’ll make coffee.”

Of course. Clothes. Coffee. Water. Care lined up in a row, each piece small enough to deny on its own. Together, they were starting to look like something you did not know how to leave.

You stood, keeping the blanket tucked around you. “Can I use the bathroom?”

Jack nodded toward the hall. “You know where it is.”

You did. That was another problem.

You knew the short hall off the living room, the old brass knob that stuck if you turned it too fast, the bathroom light that flickered once before settling. You knew the white towels were folded in the narrow cabinet beside the sink, and the blue towel on the hook was Jack’s because he used the same one until laundry forced him into being reasonable. You knew the floorboard outside the door creaked if you stepped too close to the wall. You knew the lock only caught if you lifted the handle first.

That was the problem.

You stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind you, his sweatshirt and boxers clutched against your chest. For one second, you just stood there. The room smelled like him. Soap. Clean cotton. The faint sharp edge of aftershave he never seemed to actually put on and somehow always carried anyway. 

Your reflection looked wrecked.

Hair tangled. Mouth swollen. Eyes too bright. The blanket slipped off one shoulder, revealing the skin Jack had marked in small, private ways, you would feel later when your scrubs brushed against you.

You looked like someone who had been wanted.

That was easier to face than looking like someone who wanted back.

You set the clothes on the edge of the sink and turned away from the mirror. It was too much, seeing yourself like this in Jack’s bathroom, with his towel on the hook and his toothbrush beside the sink and your own toothbrush tucked in the medicine cabinet because one morning you had made a joke about morning breath and he had silently bought a spare. You had laughed when you found it. You should not have.

Laughing had made it easier to pretend it was nothing.

You cleaned up quickly, moving with the quiet efficiency of a nurse who could make herself functional in any bathroom, anywhere, under almost any circumstances. Then you pulled on his boxers, soft and loose around your hips, and the sweatshirt after that. The sleeves fell past your wrists. The hem reached low on your thighs. The collar was stretched from years of being yanked over his head, and the fabric smelled faintly like detergent, warm skin, and Jack.

You stared down at yourself. It should have felt ridiculous. It should have felt practical.

Instead, your chest tightened so quickly you had to look away.

You rolled the sleeves once. Then again. It did not help. They still covered half your hands.

His clothes did what his house did. Made room for you without asking permission.

You opened the bathroom door before you could think about that any longer. Jack was in the kitchen. He had put on a shirt, which felt both merciful and deeply unfair. His hair was still a mess. The coffee maker sputtered on the counter with the determination of a machine that had survived several near-death experiences and intended to keep making it everyone’s problem.

Two mugs waited beside it. His black one. And the chipped blue one.

Yours.

Not yours.

You stopped in the kitchen doorway. Jack looked up. For half a second, his eyes moved over you in his sweatshirt. Not slowly. Not obviously. Jack was too controlled for that.

But enough.

His hand paused on the coffee pot. His jaw shifted once. Something hot and quiet passed over his face before he buried it again.

You felt it anyway. The room changed around you. Not enough to call it anything. Enough that your pulse answered.

Then Jack turned back to the counter. “Creamer’s in the fridge.”

Like he had not just seen you standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing his clothes. Like his voice had not gone a shade rougher. Like this was normal. Like any part of this had ever been normal.

You crossed to the fridge because apparently self-preservation had abandoned you somewhere between the hospital parking garage and his front door. The tile was cold under your bare feet. You opened the fridge. Second shelf. Your creamer was there. Unopened. Waiting.

You stared at it.

For some reason, that was what almost did it. Not the couch. Not his mouth. Not his hands. Not the way your body still felt warm and unsteady from him.

Coffee creamer. A stupid bottle of vanilla creamer sitting in Jack Abbot’s refrigerator like it belonged there.

Like you did.

Jack moved behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before he reached around you for the carton.

“You complained about the other one,” he said.

Your fingers curled around the refrigerator door. “Once.”

“It was a memorable complaint.” His arm brushed yours as he took it from you.

Barely.

It still lit through your skin.

You closed the fridge and turned around. He was already pouring coffee into the blue mug, adding creamer without asking, stirring once before sliding it toward you across the counter. Exactly how you liked it. You looked at the mug. Then at him. Jack leaned back against the opposite counter with his own coffee, black, because of course it was. His expression gave almost nothing away in the gray morning light.

Almost.

“What?” he asked.

You shook your head and wrapped both hands around the mug. “Nothing.”

But it was not nothing.

It was the sweatshirt. The boxers. The toothbrush. The creamer. The blue mug. The water he had brought without being asked. The blanket pulled over you before the chill could settle. The way his voice had gone rough when he told you he had been thinking about you all night. It was every tiny thing he kept giving you and refusing to call anything.

You took a sip of coffee. It was perfect. Of course it was.

Jack watched your face over the rim of his mug, and for a second, the kitchen felt smaller than it was. His townhouse was quiet around you, rain whispering against the windows, the rest of Pittsburgh fully awake now while the two of you existed in the strange private hour after a night shift, when morning did not belong to anyone who had been working since dark. His gaze dropped lower, to his sweatshirt on your body. 

You looked down at the mug. “You’re staring.”

Jack’s gaze lifted. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.” You replied

He sips his coffee, “I’m making sure the coffee’s not terrible.” 

“That’s not where coffee is.” You reply, brows raised. 

The corner of his mouth moved. Barely.

You saw it.

You hated how much you liked seeing it.

He took another drink, then set his mug down. “You working tonight?”

“No.” You answered. 

His hand stilled on the counter, just for a second. You noticed because you now noticed everything about him.

Jack nodded once. “Me neither.”

The kitchen went quiet around the words.

Not an invitation.

Not technically.

But both of you knew what happened when your days off lined up after a night shift. Coffee turned into sitting down for a minute. Sitting down turned into his bed. His bed turned into sleep, then waking up, tangled together at some impossible hour of the afternoon. Waking up turned into his hands on your hips, his mouth at your neck, food ordered because neither of you had the energy to cook, and the whole day disappearing behind drawn curtains while you kept pretending it was only sex.

You should have put the mug down.

You should have gone back to the bathroom, changed into your scrubs, collected your bag, and left before the townhouse could get any more familiar.

Jack did not ask you to stay.

That would have made it easier, maybe. If he had asked, you could have said no. You could have named the danger and blamed him for it.

But he only stood there, tired and warm and carefully expressionless, one hip against the counter, waiting without looking like he was waiting. Making room without saying the word. You took another sip of coffee. Then you stepped around him and sat at the small kitchen table, tucking one bare foot beneath your leg, his sweatshirt falling over your hands.

Jack watched you for one beat. Then he reached for his mug and sat across from you. Neither of you said anything for a while.

The coffee maker clicked off.

Rain blurred the kitchen window.

Your scrubs lay somewhere in the front room, abandoned evidence on the floor of his house.

And you stayed. Not for coffee. Not for a nap. Not even for the reasonable handful of hours you could have explained away later as post-shift exhaustion and bad judgment.

You stayed the rest of the day. Then the evening. Then most of the next. It happened the way it always happened when your days off lined up: without either of you saying what you were doing. 

Coffee went lukewarm on the kitchen table. Sleep waited upstairs. Jack pulled back the blankets on the side you always took, then looked away like he had not just admitted, silently, that you had a side. At the edge of the bed, he sat and removed his prosthetic with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything else. No performance. No pause for your reaction. Just the practiced pieces of his life set carefully within reach before sleep.

You looked away for a second, not because you were uncomfortable, but because it felt private.

Like being trusted with something, Jack did not make a thing of it. So neither did you.

You climbed into his bed wearing his sweatshirt and his boxers, and he got in beside you a moment later, careful not to crowd you. Careful not to make anything out of the fact that you were there, in his clothes, in his bed, while rain pressed soft against the windows and the rest of Pittsburgh moved through a day neither of you had to join.

For a while, you slept.

Then you woke to his hand at your hip. Slow. Warm. Questioning. Low afternoon light filtered through the blinds when he pulled you back into him. His body curved around yours in the warm sheets, his mouth at your shoulder, his chest against your spine. There was no rush that time. No sharp edge. Just Jack moving into you with slow, languid thrusts, each one unhurried and deep, his hand stroking your hip like he had all the time in the world to learn you again. Your soft sighs filled the quiet room. He heard every one. Of course he did. His mouth brushed the place beneath your ear, and you felt him breathe you in like waking up next to you had always been the plan.

That was the first mistake.

The second came later, when takeout arrived, and both of you pretended to be interested in dinner. Jack set the bag on the kitchen table and started unpacking containers with the kind of quiet focus he brought to everything. Noodles. Rice. Plastic forks. Napkins, he would have forgotten if the restaurant had not thrown them in the bag for him.

You stood on the other side of the table in his sweatshirt, bare thighs brushing the hem, watching his hands move. You should have been hungry. 

You were.

Just not for food.

“Jack.”

He looked up. That was all. One word, and he knew. His hands stilled on the takeout container. His gaze moved over your face, then lower, taking in the sweatshirt, your bare legs, the way you were looking at him like you had already decided to ruin dinner.

The room changed. Jack came around the table without a word. He did not ask what you wanted. He knew. That was part of the problem. One look at your face, one breath of silence between you, and he knew exactly where the want had gone. His hands found your waist, then your hips, lifting you onto the edge of the kitchen table with a rough, practiced ease that made your breath catch. One of the takeout containers slid dangerously close to the edge. Jack caught it without looking and shoved it aside.

Then he pulled out the nearest chair and dropped into it. The sound of it scraping against the floor went straight through you.

“Jack,” you breathed again, but it came out differently this time.

Less like a request. More like surrender. His eyes lifted to yours once. Checking. Always checking. You nodded. Jack’s hands slid beneath the hem of his sweatshirt, dragging it higher over your thighs as he pulled you closer. He settled you against the edge of the table, one hand firm at your hip, the other spreading warm over your thigh.

The sight of him there nearly undid you before his mouth even touched you.

Sitting in his kitchen chair, looking up at you with tired eyes gone dark, his mouth inches from your skin like dinner had never stood a chance.

Then he leaned in.

His mouth found you with no patience left.

You gasped, one hand flying behind you to brace against the table, the other tangling in his hair. The kitchen vanished around the heat of him. The rain. The takeout. The fork still sitting uselessly beside your hip. All of it blurred beneath Jack’s mouth, his rough breath, the low sound he made like tasting you was the only thing he had wanted from the second you said his name.

He did not make it gentle. He made it good. Focused. Hungry. Devastating.

He knew exactly how to pull sound out of you. Knew when your thighs started to shake. Knew when your hand tightened in his hair because you were close and trying not to fall apart too fast. Jack looked up at you once, eyes dark, mouth wet, expression stripped of every careful thing he wore at work. Your body clenched at the sight. He noticed. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady, and he went back down with a rough sound that made your spine arch.

You came with your hand in his hair and your name breaking in his mouth.

He stayed with you through it, not rushing you, not letting you tip too far away from yourself. One hand slid to your hip, grounding you against the table until your breathing started to come back in uneven pieces.

Then he stood. Slowly. Your legs were still shaking when he stepped between them, his mouth finding yours before you could recover. You tasted yourself on him, and the kiss went filthy almost instantly. He turned you carefully, but there was nothing soft about what followed. His body was behind yours, hot and solid, and whatever restraint he had been pretending to have disappeared.

This time was rougher.

Harder.

An itch being scratched down to the nerve.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips as he pulled you back against him, each thrust sharp and powerful enough to leave you gasping. The table creaked beneath your hands. Heat gathered between your bodies, sweat-slick skin sliding together, the room full of ragged breath and the obscene rhythm of him taking exactly what you had asked him for without needing you to say the rest. There was nothing gentle about it.

And still, Jack noticed everything. The shift in your breathing. The way your knees trembled. The moment your hand slipped against the table, he covered it with his own, anchoring you there. Even rough, he was careful. Even like this, he made you feel held. That was the part you did not know how to survive.

The food went cold.

Late the next morning, steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror white, turning the tile slick beneath your feet. Jack sat on the shower bench, water streaming over his shoulders, his head tipped back when you sank to your knees between his thighs. There was nothing soft about the way he looked at you then. Nothing distant. His fingers tangled in your wet hair as you took him into your mouth, his breath catching hard enough that you felt it move through him. The water ran hot over both of you, over your face, your shoulders, his hands, while his control thinned under your tongue. He groaned your name once. Low. Wrecked. Almost warning. His hips rocked in shallow, helpless thrusts, his fingers tightening and then loosening immediately, careful even when he was losing it. You looked up at him through the steam and thought, stupidly, dangerously, that you liked being trusted with his undoing. When he came, his head dropped back against the tile, one rough sound torn out of him while his hand stayed in your hair like he needed something to hold onto.

By afternoon, Jack said he had to check something for work. You told yourself that was good. Space was good. The distance was good. A closed door between you and Jack Abbot’s hands was probably the only sensible thing either of you had done in twenty-four hours. You lasted nine minutes. His study was narrow and quiet, tucked at the back of the townhouse with one tall window looking out over the wet alley and a desk that looked exactly like him: medical journals stacked in uneven piles, a legal pad covered in blunt handwriting, a pen uncapped beside his laptop, coffee gone cold near his elbow. He looked up when you appeared in the doorway. You were still in his sweatshirt.

Nothing else.

Jack’s hand stilled on the keyboard. The room changed. Not slowly. All at once. He said your name once, low and warning, like he already knew what was about to happen and was giving both of you one last chance to be reasonable. You crossed the room instead. The office chair rolled back beneath him when you climbed into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, his hands coming to your thighs like his body had been waiting even while his mind tried to pretend otherwise. The laptop stayed open behind you. Whatever he had been checking for work remained unfinished. You sank down onto him inch by inch, slow enough to watch the restraint leave his face. His jaw clenched. His hands tightened on your hips. His eyes stayed on yours until you started moving, slow rolling hips that turned frantic when his head fell back against the chair, and his breath broke. The chair creaked beneath you. You braced your hands on his shoulders and took him deeper, chasing the way he looked at you when he lost control. Jack’s hands slid to your ass, guiding you, pulling you down to meet every upward snap of his hips until the rhythm stopped being careful and became nothing but need.

You shattered against him.

He followed right after, one hand locked at your hip, the other pressed between your shoulder blades like he could keep you there through sheer force of want.

That was how the hours went.

Bed. Kitchen. Shower. Study.

Sleep in between. Food, when one of you remembered, bodies needed more than each other. Water because Jack kept handing it to you. Coffee in the blue mug. His prosthetic beside the bed. Your scrubs folded over the armchair because, at some point, he had picked them up off the floor without comment. Sex was the easy part. That was what you kept telling yourself. The wanting. The heat. The way your body knew him before your pride could get in the way. That could still be explained. Desire was simple enough if you refused to look at it directly.

But the rest of it—

The sleeping. The showering. The food. The way he handed you water before you asked. The way he woke and reached for you, like forgetting you were there, would have been stranger than finding you beside him. The way his townhouse kept making room for you in daylight and evening and the strange, quiet hours in between. That was harder to survive.

By the time you finally stood in his front room the next evening, searching for your shoes, your body was sore and loose and too aware of every place he had touched you. Your hair smelled faintly like his shampoo. Your skin smelled like his soap. His sweatshirt lay folded on the arm of the couch because giving it back felt safer than leaving in it.

Jack came from the kitchen with a glass of water for you. Of course. You took it because refusing would have felt like admitting it mattered. He watched while you drank, expression unreadable except for the tired softness around his eyes.

“You good to drive?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He did not look convinced. That warmed you in a place you wished it didn’t. He helped you into your coat at the door without saying anything. His hand brushed your shoulder once, brief and practical, but your body remembered the last thirty-six hours and answered anyway.

The porch light was on when he opened the door.

Outside, Pittsburgh smelled like wet pavement and evening traffic.

“Text me when you get home,” Jack said.

Practical. Reasonable. Safe.

You looked at him, standing in the doorway of the townhouse that knew too much about you now. “Okay.”

For one second, you thought he might say something else. He didn’t. That was the arrangement.

Heat and silence. Want and restraint. Come over and then text me when you get home. You walked down the front steps, body still carrying him, chest still carrying everything worse.

Behind you, Jack stayed in the doorway until you reached your car.

You did not look back until you were inside with the door shut.

He was still there. Watching. Waiting.

Making sure.

The dangerous part was never that Jack Abbot wanted you.

The dangerous part was that he kept acting like you were something worth taking care of.

And every time he did, it got a little harder to remember you were not supposed to stay.