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Pulling a double sucked. 

Actually—no—pulling a double was quite literally a nightmare carefully curated from hell. While you watched your fellow night crawlers get to go home and sleep, you stayed behind a chart, fingers lagging against the keyboard as your brain stuttered to find the right words. The Dunkin cup that John had so graciously brought you at the beginning of the shift had long since been refilled with literal burnt gas that had been filtered through dirt. No matter how much sweet cream you poured into it, the bitter taste still made you wince with every sip. 

The only silver lining of this whole ordeal was that Trinity and Dennis had promised to bring a fresh cup with them when they arrived in a few minutes for the start of their day shift. Normally, you’d be waiting for them, your belongings ready to go in your bag, to give them both a quick kiss before heading back to the shared apartment to fall asleep in the large bed that the three of you shared. However, with the upcoming weekend somehow being a day off for both Dennis and Trinity, you quickly asked to take someone’s shift so you could be off as well. The three of you hadn’t had time to spend together in what felt like weeks. 

So, if you had to pull a double from hell to spend a few days off with your lovers, you’d do it in a heartbeat, hence why you were pushing through double vision right as they walked in. 

Trinity spotted you and your frizzy hair first, and her small smile disappeared the closer she got. Her thermos clanked against the counter, making you jolt and turn her way with wide eyes. 

“I hate to say it, but you look awful,” she announced bluntly. 

You dragged a hand down your tired face. “You always know exactly what to say to a girl, Trin,” you muttered. 

She snorted before rounding the counter to place her hands on your shoulders. Your right hand lifted and gently rested on top of her hand. Squeezing lightly, your fingers held on as she began to gently massage the tense muscles beneath your scrub. 

“Did you sleep at all?” she asked. 

“Yeah. Abbot made me nap after we handled three overdoses in the span of two hours,” you replied. “It was not pretty.” 

“I bet.” She leaned down and pressed a small kiss to the side of your temple. “How long were you down?” 

“Couple hours . . . I think.” 

“You think?” 

You turned in your chair and stuck your head into her stomach. “Trin, it’s not even 7 yet. Can we not play interrogation today?” 

Even though you couldn’t see her face, you just had the feeling that she was smirking down at you. A quick lean back of your head confirmed your feelings. You breathed heavily against her scrub, the scent of the Tide you all shared filled your nose in a comforting way. The scrub you were wearing probably smelled like sweat and iodine, but you wondered if Trinity even cared going off the way she was holding onto you. 

After a few moments, you felt another presence arrive to your right. You pulled yourself from Trinity and looked up into wide blue eyes. 

“Good morning, Den,” you said with a wide smile. “Please tell me you brought coffee?”

Trinity snorted above you while patting the top of your head. “I think this one might die if you forgot her cup, Huckleberry.” 

“Good thing I packed her two then,” Dennis replied before putting the first cup down by your computer. 

You could have kissed him if HR wasn’t down your throat already. The cons of having both your partners working in the same department. You had also been day shift, but after the meeting, Gloria was quick to switch you over to Abbot’s kingdom of the creepy crawlies. Most days, you enjoyed the slower income of patients, but the lack of getting to see the two of them made you think of switching over to another department’s day shift. 

Dennis eyed you over with a flash of concern. “Did you sleep any last night?” 

“Wow,” you said dryly. “You and Trin should start a support group.” 

“She thinks she got in a couple of hours,” Trinity responded for you instead. “Though with the way she looks . . .” 

Your eyes narrowed up at her. “Again, you really know exactly what to say to a girl. Den, say something nice about me please.” 

The blond looked like he would rather kick a brick. “Um . . . your scrubs bring out your lovely eyes?” 

A loud grown flew from your lips. “I’m doomed. My boyfriend and girlfriend think I look ugly.” 

Dennis sputtered. “N-no. We didn’t say ugly—” 

“You look worn down, hun,” Dana announced behind him, gray eyes glancing your way. “Do I need to tell Abbot to lay off?” 

“No, Dana; last night was just rough,” you responded. You turned in your seat to now look at Dennis and Trinity, who had now sided up next to each other. “But in just twelve hours, we will be out of here and on our way to a relaxing weekend.” 

Trinity smirked. “Can’t believe your dad let us borrow his fucking cabin for the weekend.” 

“Family cabin,” you corrected. “Plus, he likes the two of you. Can’t say the same for my other partners before.” 

Dennis leaned against the counter. “Well, we have to go do handoffs. I’ll put your second coffee in the fridge for you.” 

That had you standing up from you chair and reaching out to hug him. He pulled you in quickly before parting. A stray curl had fallen in front of his eyes, and you were quick to fix it, Dennis’s eyes fluttering at the soft motion and feeling of your fingers in his hair. 

The moment was ruined when Dana started tsking through her teeth. “All right, love birds. Scram before Robby comes stomping through.” 

Trinity gave you one more look. “Are you going to be okay? I know you’re used to staying up during the night, but you normally don’t look this frazzled.” 

Your hands pushed at her in a soft nudge. “I’ll be fine. Imma finish up this chart, and then maybe Dana will be gracious enough to give me the easy cases.” 

“Sure, hun.”

“See? Now, go put your stuff up and stop worrying about me,” you said with a smile. 

They both held up their hands in surrender. 

“It’s our job to worry, though,” Dennis murmured before turning around to head toward the lockers. 

Trinity smiled once at you before following, and you all but swallowed the whine back down your throat as the two left, knowing the chart you had been working on was still unfinished. The chair squeaked under your weight, and the rhythmic sound of your typing almost put you back to sleep if it wasn’t for another tall body stepping in front of you. Your eyes glanced up and over the computer, and a groan threatened to creep up your throat. 

“What can I do for you, Ogilvie?” you asked like a sales person tired of meaningless questions, flat and bored. 

“Still can’t believe they’re both dating you.” 

Oh. So this was how it was going to go. 

“Well, they are. So, you can stop trying to make it make sense in your head.” 

Ogilvie should have taken the silent warning, but when had he ever? His next sentence had you pausing. 

“You know, it kind of makes sense though. You get two partners because obviously you can barely handle the nightshift workload. Especially if you’re looking like that.”

“Ogilvie!” Dana snapped. “Find Robby and get to your patients.” 

He at least had the audacity to look like he got caught saying the wrong thing, but the damage had already been done. For a moment, your ears rang, and a dizzying feeling flooded your body. His comment had been tossed out so casually like he really didn’t know what he was really implying. Suddenly, every mistake from last night felt bigger, every yawn felt like proof, every offer to help felt like you were grasping at straws. 

“You okay, hun?” Dana asked when you didn’t move for a solid minute. “He shouldn’t have said that.” 

You shook your head wildly like that might be enough to cast his words from your mind. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you muttered. “Do any rooms need me yet?” 

She eyed you warily before looking over her board. “Room twelve was just filled. Ten-month-old and dad. Sounds right up your alley.” 

You took the chart without question, already standing to your feet before she had even finished her statement.  “Thanks, Dana.” 

“You sure you don’t want to take a small break? We have more than enough residents to let it slide!” she yelled after you. 

“I’m sure!” you responded, your eyes already scanning the chart in your hand. 

The information taken by the nurse listed the 10-month-old brought in by their parents for feeding concern. It was routine enough on paper that nothing should’ve stood out. But the moment you pushed open the door and stepped inside, you couldn’t shake the strange feeling that was settling low in your stomach. 

_______________________

“Good morning, Mr. Davis,” you greeted, a warm smile spreading across your face as you stepped into the room, letting the door stay cracked opened just a tad. “My name is Dr. L/n, and I will be your baby’s physician today.” Your footsteps were soft as you walked over to the bassinet. “What brings this little one in this morning?” 

As he rattled off the symptoms in a rather frustrated tone, throwing in an I already told the nurse this but whatever, you took the moment to look over the baby, her blue eyes staring up at the ceiling with a detached sort of stillness that made your chest tighten. You gently reached in and started prodding, hoping to get a small reaction, but the baby didn’t even whimper. 

“—and she’s been having trouble with feeding. The thing probably hasn’t had a full bottle in two days—” 

That was concerning. If the baby hadn’t eaten, she should have been screaming, should have been fussing so loudly that someone should have already complained about a headache. 

“Do you remember how much she was able to get down the last time she did eat?” you asked, hands reaching for your stethoscope. 

The cold metal at least made her flinch but nothing more while you listened to her breathing. 

“I dunno. The sitter feeds her.” 

“Does the sitter not write things down?” 

“Fuck if I know.” 

You tried not to side eye him as you slid your stethoscope back around your neck. “When was her last urination and diaper change?” 

The dad looked toward the celling. “Probably yesterday? Look, I have to work to keep a roof over her head after her bitch mother left us.”

A small rash near her neck caught your attention, looking red and very angry like it hadn’t been cleaned properly in a few days. The unsettled feeling reared its head when you scribbled down your findings plus the weight of the baby, which was much lower than expected. You tried to school your face, but apparently the father could find small changes in your expressions rather than pay that close attention to his child. 

“What are you writing?” he asked, frustration already evident in his tone. 

You glanced up from the chart. “We’re required to document what we’re seeing. Nothing other than the standard findings are being written down.” 

His jaw tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It doesn’t mean anything, sir. I’m just doing my job.” 

“You keep looking at me like I’ve done something,” he hissed while rising from the chair in the corner. “And you keep asking all these questions that I’ve already answered.”

You took note of how much taller he was than you. 

“I’m just speaking with you, Mr. Davis. If I can’t get a history, I won’t know how to help your daughter. It’s my job to get her the best care possible.” You kept your voice calm and measured, taking a step back toward the door without trying to make it obvious. 

Unfortunately, he noticed that too. His breathing changed into a rapid up and down motion that sounded like a bull ready to charge. You’d heard this before, and usually it ended with security being called in just in case. But sometimes, it ended worse, and you were scared that the pin was about to drop. You forced yourself to remain steady. 

“Mr. Davis, please understand that I’m just documenting medical information.” 

“You need to stop lying to me.” 

“I’m not lying—” 

“Yes, you are. You’re probably writing down all this untrue bullshit about me that’s going to get my kid taken away from me. Do you really want to try that?” 

You swallowed thickly. “No one is going to take your baby away from you.” 

He took another step forward, and then another, causing you to match him with one backward step, but the door was still too far away. Your hands shook as he continued stalking toward you all red in the face, shoulders heaving under heaving inhales. 

“You think I’m some kind of bad father? Huh?” he spat. 

“Sir—” 

“You think I’m hurting my baby?” 

“I never said anything like that—” 

“But you’re fucking thinking it. Aren’t you?” his voice rose with every word. 

Behind him, the baby finally began to cry, however, it seemed like the sound only made him angrier. One look into his eyes showed you the panic and rage bleeding right through. Faintly, you remembered what training taught you on de-escalation. On the other hand, your instincts screamed at you to get the hell out of the room and find Robby. 

“Sir,” you tried again carefully, “I think we should take a small minute—” 

His hand slammed against the wall beside your head, effectively getting through to your brain that he now had you trapped with no way to slip out safely. The impact made you flinch violently. His hot breath hit your face, and you tried to turn away from the feeling. For one small moment, he didn’t move, and the sound of the baby wailing filled the room before his hands shot out at your neck. The sheer force of it knocked the breath from your lungs as your back hit the wall hard enough to rattle your teeth. 

Pain exploded across your neck and down your spine. You gas[ed instinctively, fingers instantly clawing at his wrist in attempts to get him off of you. He moved his face closer toward yours. 

“What the fuck did you write?” he shouted. “You think I’m hurting my kid? Neglecting her when I’m the only one fucking working to keep a roof over her head?” 

Your vision blurred as oxygen failed to reach your lungs. Through the haze, you at least remembered to plant your feet to create space, trying to keep your airway open under his fingers. He must have realized what you were doing, because the next moment, he tightened his grip even more, thumbs now pressing against your windpipe. A gurgled choaking sound ripped through your throat, and the sound of rushing blood flooded your ears. You tried to push back against him, but he was way too big for the attempts to do any good.  

Straining, you turned your head toward the door, jaw dropping to take any small gulps of oxygen you could so that you could yell. The words barely came out, the sound all strained and broken. 

“Hula—” You coughed violently. 

Under his grip, your face was becoming tight and red. Finally, like an open door, he adjusted his grip just enough for you to scream with every bit of breath you had left—

“HULA HOOP!” 

_______________________

Dennis and Trinity had seen you work exhausted before. 

Really, though, everyone in the Pitt worked exhausted. Long shifts, missed lunches, and enough caffeine to kill a small animal came with the territory. But the two guessed that they’d never seen you that tired, where you looked ready to drop to the nasty ER floor and take a nap there. 

Most of the time, they trusted you to know your own limits. You were stubborn as hell, but you weren’t reckless; you couldn’t be, especially since they knew you were wanting to get into a different department. However, that didn’t mean they could just shake the feeling of seeing you look so run through earlier that morning. 

“You know she’s going to crash eventually, right?” Dennis muttered, leaning against the counter while he held a tablet like he hadn’t actually read the thing through in the last three mintues. “This is—what?—her third double this month?” 

Across from him, Trinity was typing notes into one of the computers. “Yep. I think Robby’s going to deny her next request for one.” 

“Good. I think she’d rather die than actually admit she’s tired.” 

“Sounds like her.” 

“I mean this in the nicest way towards our girlfriend, but she looked awful.” 

“I know.” 

Dennis sighed. “You’re not helping me out here.”

Trinity turned around to look at him. “What exactly do you want me to do, Huckleberry? Chain her to our bed and force her to sleep for more than five hours?” 

“I’d pay money to watch you try. She’d probably kick you.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I’d have you to hold her down.” 

He smiled at that before it dropped. His blue eyes roamed the department floor, desperate to at least catch a glimpse of you, but when you didn’t rush past, he turned toward Dana. 

“Hey, Dana?” Dennis called out toward the blond lady currently rewriting something on her board. “Do you know where Y/n is?” 

Dana didn’t even glance his way when she answered. “Room twelve, but she’s been in there a hot minute. Wouldn’t blame her though.” 

The last bit had been muttered but still loud enough that Dennis and Trinity caught it, their faces pinching in confusion. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Trinity asked. 

“One of the med-students said something to her earlier. Saw the light just go out in her eyes.” 

Something in both of their chests clenched hard. 

“Do you know what it was about?” Dennis questioned. 

“Said she couldn’t carry the workload, and that’s why she’s with the two of you instead of having just one partner. Kid doesn’t know it’s fucking 2026 for goodness’ sake.” 

A feeling close to rage bubbled through their skin. From the summed-up statement, they could only guess that the med student who ran his mouth to you was probably Ogilvie. Trinity had half a mind to find him, but a shout from across the way had her freezing in place. 

“HULA HOOP!”

Dennis felt ever muscle in his body lock, because under the panic, he could never forget what your voice sounded like. Even though it was distorted by pain, it was truly yours. Their world snapped into motion, and the two took running towards room twelve with security and staff flooding behind them. 

Adrenaline hit them so hard their hearts pounded against their sternums. As they drew closer, the wails of a baby reached their ears. Dennis was first to throw the door open, internally grateful that you had left the door cracked enough so that it couldn’t have been locked at all. For a horrible second, he couldn’t even process what he was seeing. 

Your red face, body desperate for oxygen, and terrified eyes had him halting to access the man holding you against the wall. He didn’t even wait for security before he was tackling the man like a linebacker for the NFL. The two collapsed in a squirming mess on the ground, but years of wrangling farm animals had Dennis pinning the man down before he could retaliate. Like you, the man was definitely twice his size, but Dennis wasn’t going to let him back up in case he went after you again.  

When the man’s grip was finally loosened and gone, you collapsed forward, back sliding down the wall until you were seated on the floor. Violent coughs erupted in sporadic waves, and your hands gently touched your throat before dropping back down to your chest in a mad attempt as if feeling your chest expand would somehow draw in more air. Your head spun, and everything around you went fuzzy. The lights blurred, the sterile scent burned, but somehow, you didn’t flinch when strong hands rested on your shoulders. 

You somehow knew they belonged to the same woman that let you lean on her earlier that morning. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Trinity said, really trying not to bark the words out to not scare you any further. “Look at me.” 

Your eyes refused to meet hers, and every breath you tried to get down felt like glass as your lungs fought desperately to recover from the lack of oxygen. Panic started to crawl through Trinity’s body the longer you were unresponsive. Her hands gently traced from your shoulders and up to your jaw; her fingers gently lifted your face so she could see the damage. 

Behind her, security was finally helping Dennis detain Mr. Davis while a nurse was quick to grab the baby in attempts to quiet her wailing. Another presence dropped to his knees to Trinity’s right. 

“What happened?” Robby asked, pushing his hands toward you so he could also assess your state. 

His brown eyes fixated on the angry mottled bruises already forming around your neck. This time, you did finch when his fingers softly dug into the hurting skin. While he felt for any breaks in your airway, Trinity was already pressing her stethoscope onto your chest. 

“She’s tachypneic,” she called out to the attending. 

You tried to sputter something out, but another coughing fit interrupted you. Robby’s hands stilled around your face. 

“Don’t talk,” he muttered before gently pushing your head down to check the back of your head. “Answer with a nod or a shake. Did you hit your head?” 

A nod. 

“Did you lose consciousness?” 

A shake. 

“Are you nauseated? Dizzy?” 

Another shake. 

Robby looked toward Trinity. “There’s no laceration, and we can probably rule out a concussion.”

You gave him a look that totally said I could have told you that. The fact that Trinity could see some of your personality shining through eased her tension just a bit but still not enough for her to actually relax. 

Dennis finally appeared and crouched at Trinity’s left. Your eyes widened when you spotted a fresh tear in his scrub top, while his narrowed when they settled on the bruising around your neck. In real time, you watched the color drain from his face. 

Trinity noticed the distant look in your eyes and snapped her fingers a few inches away from your face. “Hey, stay with us, okay?” 

You managed the smallest nod, just enough confirmation that you were still there. Behind him, movement caught your eye in time for you to watch security escort the man from the room in handcuffs while the nurse carried the baby out behind them. The threat was gone, but your body refused to loosen. 

Robby stood, knees audibly cracking with the motion. “Okay, let’s get her to a bed. Can someone get me a gurney—” 

He wasn’t even able to finish before Dennis leaned forward and scooped you up into his arms. He hated the way your body felt limp, almost like a rag doll, in his grasp. Trinity followed the two of you as he passed the station, asking Dana what room was open. When he got his answer, he was quick to carry you through and gently place you onto the open bed. 

And throughout the whole ordeal, you kept a hold on Trinity’s hand like a lifeline to keep you stable. Robby followed through, and even though Dennis and Trinity weren’t subject to stay there, the two didn’t seem particularly interested in letting you out of their sight. 

_______________________

When all was said and done, you were finally given an ice pack to hold against the side of your neck as Robby finished documenting his assessment. While he talked, the bruising and swelling had definitely become more pronounced over the last few minutes. Every swallow hurt, and every cough hurt more. Even when he told you that nothing appeared seriously damaged, you couldn’t help but question if he was telling the truth to calm you down or if he was being genuine. 

“Now, I know that you know, but if the pain gets worse, you need to tell someone immediately.”

You nodded, still too scared to speak. 

“Or if your breathing gets to be too difficult.” He sighed loudly. “Now because of this, you’re going to stay in here for the rest of the day.” 

You opened your mouth to answer, but one glare from him had your jaw snapping shut again. 

“Good choice not to argue.” 

You rolled your eyes but winced when the movement made your neck ache. For your sake, they all pretended not to notice. Dennis looked away from where he was sitting in the chair nearest the bed, while Trinity crossed her arms from where she was leaning against the wall by the door. Neither of them had spoken much during the exam, and it made you nervous. Their silence should have been reassuring and not feeling like standing in front of a firing squad waiting for someone to say ready, aim.

Robby gathered the last of his paperwork, and his gaze moved between all three of you. “Keep her in the bed please.” 

Trinity saluted when he passed. “Oh, we’ll make sure of it.” 

Your attending gave you one last look before slipping back into the department. The second the door clicked shut, the room became painfully quiet. You dropped the icepack between your legs and stared at it; Dennis and Trinity stared at you. 

The firing squad had apparently received authorization to begin. 

Fire. 

“I know . . . what you both are thinking,” you managed to croak, finding that talking didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. 

Trinity rolled her eyes with an ease that made you jealous. “Then you should know exactly what we’re going to say then.” 

You stayed quiet, really not knowing. 

Dennis sighed before standing to get closer to you. His hand reached across and took a hold of yours as he looked into your eyes. “What happened?” 

Your tongue ran across your lips. “He got upset.” 

“Oh, really? Didn’t notice,” Trinity snarked sarcastically, earning her a glare from Dennis.

“Trin.” 

“Fine.” 

You shifted slightly on the bed. “I thought I could handle it. He was angry and upset, but people get like that often. I thought I could . . . I don’t know . . . calm him down if I just explained things better.” 

Tears started down your cheeks, surprising you at the feeling. You hadn’t cried when Mr. Davis chocked you out, hadn’t cried during the assessment, hadn’t cried when security wrangled him out of the room. Yet, your vision blurred the moment your boyfriend and girlfriend looked at you with such a profound concern. 

“Was he agitated when you walked in?” Trinity asked. 

“A little.”

She sighed, the sound laced the tiniest bit with disappointment. “Then why didn’t you come get someone? You know better, baby.” 

Your shoulders rose in a shrug. “I just didn’t—” You squeezed your eyes shut. “Didn’t want to seem too needy.” 

Dennis leaned in a bit. “Is this because of what Ogilvie said?” 

Your eyes flew open. “How do you—” 

“That’s not important. I’m asking you if you thinking you could calm down a man twice your size with just words is because of what he said?” 

A flap of skin from around your nail caught under your finger. “Maybe.” 

The single word broke something inside both of them. You’d listened to the false accusation so much that you could have been killed, and they wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it. You, their sweet, loving partner, gone because of someone’s judgmental words. The thought caused anger to rise through their chests again. 

Trinity sat down on the bed. “I’m only going to say this once, so you better listen.” Her hands rose and angled your face so that you’d be looking at her. “We’re not with you because we think you can’t handle anything. We’re not with you because we doubt your abilities as a doctor. We’re not with you because somehow that makes you needy if you only have both of us.” She inhaled sharply. “We’re with you because we love you. We believe in you so much. And thinking that you could have died today because a med student thought it was appropriate to put in his two cents about our relationship makes me want to strangle him.” 

You laughed softly. “What about the Hippocratic oath?” 

“Fuck the Hippocratic oath. No one is going to stand around telling my girlfriend that she can’t handle being a damn good doctor.” 

Dennis nodded along. “And you know that sometimes it is perfectly okay to not have everything handled. We’re dating a human, not a robot. Plus, what are we supposed to do if you don’t need us?” 

You mulled their words over, finally relaxing under their gaze. Deep down, you knew they were right. But through the exhaustion of staying up all night and pulling a double, your walls had been down enough to accept the words to the point they became the truth. But now, with them looking at you and reassuring you like this, you couldn’t help but accept their words instead. 

The two of them noticed the moment your body sagged against the bed as the fatigue you’d been ignoring since they got their returned with a vengeance. 

“So,” Dennis said carefully. 

“Nope. Not doing whatever you’re thinking of,” you said immediately. 

“You haven’t even heard my idea.” 

“I know it’s going to involve me sleeping.” 

Trinity pursed her lips. “Well, Robby did say that we needed to keep you in the bed.” 

You groaned loudly. “Fuck Robby.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” 

Dennis looked at Trinity with a smirk. “I’m amazed she’s still conscious.” 

“Fuck you too, Dennis.” 

He patted your leg. “Just wait for the weekend.” 

A heat rose so quickly through your face at the implication that it made him and Trinity laugh. The sound almost had you falling asleep then and there. Dennis stood and pulled a blanket from a nearby cabinet, and before you could say anything else, he draped it over you with Trinity tugging at the corner to tuck it beneath your chin. 

“You two are so annoying. Can’t believe you’re ganging up on the injured,” you whined. 

“Go to sleep,” Trinity replied. 

“Can’t—” You yawned loudly. “Can’t make me.” 

Dennis hummed. “Yeah, you’ve got about thirty seconds before you pass out.” 

You grumbled but shifted into a comfortable sleeping position anyway, all the fight draining out of you in a matter of moments. Your eyes drifted shut, because, really, the mattress beneath you felt surprisingly comfortable, and the blanket was warm. However, the real reason you were able to drift was the steady presence of Dennis and Trinity hovering by your bed. 

“Love you both,” you managed to slur before going silent. 

Trinity smiled down at your now sleeping figure before leaning over to place a quick kiss to your forehead. “Love you too.” 

Dennis mirrored her action. “Sleep well, angel.” 

Neither of them realized you were still partially awake enough to hear them. But as they stepped out of the room with the light going out, you smiled softly, finally drifting into the much needed nap. 

“Suck on this, Bryant.” 

Sammy barely had time to react before a pile of paperwork was thrown on his desk with the elegance of a herd of cows. The implication of the pile plus your voice meant that the stupid bet he had going on was going south and not in his favor at all. His hazel eyes traced up past the pile, up your dark purple blouse, and settled on the smug grin you decided to bless him with. He reached out and quickly thumbed through the stack. 

“What the hell is this, L/n?” he spat, even if he knew exactly what it was. 

Your hands glued themselves to your sides. “You know exactly what it is.” You leaned down a bit closer to meet his eyes. “But because you have seemed to forgotten, I’ll so graciously remind you.” 

With a saunter of your hips, you walked over to the bullpen’s whiteboard. The black Expo marker made a satisfying squeak and pop and squeal as you added another tally mark to your side of the board, giving you a head lead by two. You capped the marker before turning around with another grin. 

“Like I said: Suck on this, Bryant.” 

Sammy gave a disbelieving chuckle, head shaking behind his hand as something stirred in his gut. The bet between you and him had been going for a month, and it was eating him alive to the point he just wanted it all to be over. However, the winnings were too good to pass up. He’d been wanting to knock you down a couple of pegs, so, if he somehow had more arrests than you by tomorrow, you’d have to do the one thing that seemed to grate your nerves more than your notes getting out of their color-coded perfection: go on a date with him. 

Opposite of that, you had chosen your prize: his ex-wife’s 1967 Chevrolet Camero. Weird request to him, but the vintage car was one thing he’d won in the divorce that he actually wanted to keep since he was the one to put the downpayment on it. If you won that, he could kiss his sunset beach drives goodbye. 

Sammy’s fist curled around his pen while Nate laughed quietly into his hand in the desk. You were good—probably one of the best detectives the LAPD had, but Sammy would rather die than tell that to your face. Ever since you’d joined last year, the two of you had been at each other’s throats in a “friendly” competitive way. In the first few months, Sammy pretty much hated the way you sucked up to the captain with a sweet smile and extensively written paperwork that had everyone cooing and thanking you for making their lives easier all while you’d turn and send him a devilish smile his way when no one else was looking. 

It made him hot and bothered in a way that bothered him immensely. 

You, the newbie, the overachiever, had made him feel things that no other woman—not even his wife—had felt before. Your ways made him want to be a better detective. So, he just had to get up to your level. 

If you brought in a street gang, he needed to bring in two. If your paperwork was pristine, his had to be the neatest most organized paperwork the LAPD had ever seen. If you kissed ass to get your way, you best know that Sammy Bryant was about to kiss ass like no one had ever seen. 

Hence, the bet that he was about to lose. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” he muttered before leaning back into his seat, the leather creaking under his weight. 

Your smirk only widened, and for once, Sammy wished he could kiss it right off your face. 

“Oh,” you pouted at him, tone laced with a tease. “Don’t be like that, Bryant. Losing actually builds more character than winning!” 

His face pinched. “I don’t think that’s how it works.” 

“It a hundred percent does.” You crossed your arms, and Sammy had to rip his eyes away from the neckline of your blouse. “I’d just hand over the keys right now, ‘cause it looks like I’ve got this in the bag.” 

Sammy eyed the whiteboard with faux wonder. “How many am I down by?” 

“A measly two. Honestly, you insult me, Bryant. You’re this close with less than two hours left in the shift, and you’re just sitting here on your ass.” You glanced toward the clock mounted above the pen, letting your gaze linger there for a second to make sure he followed to see how long he had left. 

Sammy let out a long, suffering sigh. “You counting chickens in that thick skull?” 

You tisked at him. “Bryant, sweetheart, my chickens are already hatched and on their way to college by now. They, like me, are positively thriving.” 

“Fuck, I hate when you get like this,” he groaned. 

“Like what? When I’m right, and you aren’t? Pretty much every day of your life, right?” 

That earned you a few giggled from the detectives that seemed more into this bet than either you or Sammy were. All of the female detectives had already asked to take a ride in the car when you won, because in their mind, there really was no competition. 

“No,” Sammy almost whined. “I mean when you’re smug. It’s not a very becoming look on you, detective.” 

“Well, detective,” you sent back his way, “I happen to look my best when I’m winning. And if that means smugness comes with it, then I’m fucking hot right now.” 

The look he sent you should have burned a hole straight through your forehead, but all it did was make your heart flutter. Because in just the same way you didn’t know you made Sammy feel things, Sammy Bryant had your heart from the moment you stepped foot into the precinct. Back then, he’d been married, and all your hopes and dreams had been crushed. However, the day he walked through without that metal band around his ring finger, you swear the sky had literally opened up with angels singing. 

Unfortunately, you’d been too deep in the back and forth that at this point, you believed he hated you, that him asking you out on a date would be the most humiliating thing on the planet simply because Sammy Bryant could never be interested in you. 

You tapped the marker thoughtfully against your chin. “You know, I’ve actually been looking at custom license plates.” 

Sammy’s head snapped up so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t pull a muscle. “No.” 

Your tongue ran across your bottom lip. “Oh, yes.” 

“No.” 

Your head tilted. “I was thinking something that screams that I’m the best detective this side of California.” 

“You don’t even own the damn car yet,” he sneered, though there really wasn’t any heat behind it. 

“Yet, Bryant. But in exactly—” You pushed out your hand, so that your watch flashed brilliantly in the lighting. “One hour and forty-five minutes, I will be the new owner of your car. How does BY3 SAM sound? I think I’m digging that one.” 

This time, Nate actually snorted. Sammy turned to his partner with a glare that could send the man six feet under if he could. There was absolutely no way he was going to let you drive off in that car if he had anything to do with it. He sat in his chair, eyes never wavering from your figure as you stalked back toward your desk. 

“You think you’re funny,” he muttered loud enough for you to hear. 

You looked up with a smile. “I think I’m actually fucking hilarious.” 

When you turned toward Lydia, Sammy took a moment to look back up at the clock. Six-thirty; the time had the corner of his mouth tugging up instead of down. Remember, no matter how high you stepped or how low you stooped, he was always doing the same. The moment you turned back to face him, your stomach dropped at the sight of his small minuscule smirk. If there was anything you knew for certain about Sammy, it was that he didn’t smile when he was losing. 

Sammy didn’t smile when going through his divorce. 

Sammy didn’t smile after arresting the kid he was trying to help. 

Sammy didn’t smile when you took the moment to make sure that he knew you were better. 

But now, with almost an hour left of the bet, he was smirking like he knew how this would end. You hated seeing it and the feeling had you curling in on yourself. Your chair squeaked when you turned his way. 

“What?” 

Sammy hummed before shaking his head. “Nothing.” 

“No; not nothing,” you imitated his deeper voice. “Bryant, what the hell is that look on your face?”

He shrugged and leaned back into his chair, now looking far too relaxed for a man who should have been preparing his five-paper long farewell speech to a beloved vintage car. It had been a cheap shot when you’d first asked for it, and you didn’t even think he would agree at first before he begrudgingly shook your hand. When he agreed, you thought you had this in the bag. Now you weren’t so sure as you were almost an hour ago. 

Suddenly, his smirk grew almost ten times larger. “L/n, do you ever get a feeling like something good’s about to happen?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What the hell are you going on about? You’re acting weird.”

He looked up at the clock and held up a wide-spread hand before tucking in his thumb. A strange tension settled over you to the point it became too impossible to ignore. For a second, your confidence wavered, and it was enough to make you glance toward the entrance. Sammy tucked his pinky under his thumb, and your brows furrowed at the movement. 

“Bryant? What are you doing?” 

His ring finger joined his pinky, and his grin widened. Somewhere in the depth of your mind, a warning bell began to ring loudly. 

“Bryant?” 

His middle went down, leaving only his pointer raised toward the sky. It was only when that one went down too that the bullpen doors burst open so hard they slammed against the wall. You turned so hard your hand whipped your cheeks after you settled. Your eyes widened as a flood of uniforms poured inside at once, escorting suspects in handcuffs, carrying filled-to-the-brim duffels, and shouting over one another as they navigated past your desk like some kind of horrific conga line right out of your worst nightmare. 

“Twenty-three arrests from a gang task force operation. All of them had multiple felony warrants and so happened to have lots of evidence,” one of them announced.

Your smile was wiped off the planet. 

And standing in the middle of the surging bullpen motion, was Sammy Bryant, smirking like a man who had just personally witnessed divine intervention. You knew it was over. The division that these gang members had come from were under Sammy’s belt and not yours. Each one was an added tally to his side, which he seemed to know since he was now stalking toward you, eyes lidded like he’d just bitten into the most decedent cake he’d ever tasted. He only stopped a breath away from you, smirk so sultry that it could make the strongest woman swoon (you included). Not breaking eye contact, he took the marker from your grip and drew twenty-three shaky lines on his side of the betting board. 

He leaned in close and whispered, “I think I just won.” 

You were now full-on glaring. “This is cheating,” you hissed. 

“You made the rules, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck the rules.” 

“Awwwww, but you loved the rules thirty minutes ago.” 

Somehow, your glare deepened. “They weren’t actively ruining my life thirty minutes ago now, were they?” 

For one moment, time stopped between the two of you. The next, the department also seemed to stop as the bet finally ended the clock hit 7 pm. Then, to your absolute horror (or right out of your favorite dreams), Sammy threw an arm around your shoulders and tugged you into his side. 

“Attention, everyone!” he called out while you buried your face in your hands. “As you all know, mine and Detective L/n’s bet is officially over, which means that yours truly will be taking this one out on the date of her life!” 

Your ears burned at the hoots and hollers that sounded out and echoed through the room. 

“You didn’t even ask me out correctly,” you grumbled. 

Sammy gasped loudly and placed his unoccupied hand over his chest. “The horror. How could I?” 

To even further your embarrassment, Sammy rounded to your front and took both your hands. This time, you actually had to look him in the eyes while he spoke. 

“Would you do me the honors of going out with me on a date this Friday, detective?” 

You pursed your lips before nodding slightly. “Fine, Bryant.” You all but ripped your hands out of his and walked away. “But you better be on time!” you shouted over your shoulder. “And in the Camero!” 

_______________________

Sammy had expected you to act like you hated every moment of the time spent with him on Friday evening. He expected you to stay in your work clothes, give him snippy conversation, and threaten him to never speak of the whole ordeal ever again after he dropped you off. 

However, to his surprise, you walked out of your house in a dress that hugged your figure so well that Sammy had to shift his pants just a bit as you got closer. He was now thankful he’d chosen to change out of his work suit and throw on something that hadn’t been worn around a dead body or sweated in while chasing a suspect. Your makeup had even been done different; the eyeshadow was darker, your eyeliner pointier. During the job, he noticed you kept things on the more subtle side, but if this is how you showed up for a date that shouldn’t matter, he honestly never wanted you to go out with any guy other than him ever again. 

He at least headed your warning and opened the passenger door for the Camero. Sammy tried to swallow his smirk when you grumbled a small thank you before slipping into the seat. The second the door shut, however, you tried your hardest not to sneer at him. 

“Don’t get used to that, Bryant. I’m still pissed at you.” 

“Used to what, sweetheart?” 

“My endless gratitude, sweetheart.” 

Sammy chuckled as he started the engine before pulling out onto your street road. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

You let the purr of the car fill the silence that settled after he turned onto the main street. For the first time since the start of the bet, this was the first time the two of you had been alone without your coworkers to act as a buffer. It was just you and the man you’d been silently pining after while actively covering any whiff of emotion toward him with careless teasing and sharp biting. Somehow it was more nerve-wracking than chasing armed suspects. 

To fill the quiet, you reached for the radio, only to have Sammy lightly smack the top of your hand. You pulled your hand back to your chest with a dropped jaw. 

“Um, ow? What the fuck, Bryant?” 

He didn’t even take his eyes off the road when he answered. “I know exactly what kind of music you like, and I cannot be hearing that shit right now.” 

You crossed your arms, strategically pushing your chest together in attempts to distract him. “Oh, yeah? What kind of music do I listen to, asshole?” 

“That sad-girl pop music that teen girls listen to whenever they’re going through their third breakup of the month.” 

You scoffed loudly. “Be aware that you just insulted me and my entire future lineage.”

Sammy laughed loudly, the sound hitting you square in the chest. Because underneath it all, you were wishing that this could have been under normal circumstances, that he had asked you out without having to make a whole bet about it. Not wanting to let him in with a softness of your features, you turned toward the window and gazed at the passing blurred city lights. 

“You look beautiful, by the way,” Sammy said after a moment. 

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t make a motion to look back at him. “Careful, Bryant. I might start thinking that you actually mean what you say.” 

Sammy huffed. “Would that be so bad?” 

“Don’t make it weird.” 

“I’m not making it weird.” 

Your head lolled along the headrest so that you could face him. “You just said that I look nice. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on the way here?” 

“I’m sure. Just thought you’d like the compliment, jeez.” 

Without thinking, you let your eyes linger on his side profile and trail his sharpened jawline. Everyone noticed that he had dropped weight soon after the divorce. Whether it had been not enough time to actually cook meals after getting home or type of self-improvement one wants after a big chance, Sammy slimmed down to the point he didn’t look like an I’ll-make-sure-your-daughter-get-home-safely-sir man anymore and more of a your-daughter-calls-me-daddy-too stud. Where married Sammy was handsome and puffy, single Sammy was about to be eaten by badge bunnies. 

You made yourself believe that was no room for you anywhere. 

The car dived back into silence for a moment before both yours and Sammy’s phones rang loudly. You rolled your eyes as you answered. 

“This is L/n.” You listened carefully before cursing loudly. “Shit. Fine. Fucking whatever.” You hung up and sighed. “Change of plans. Sal wants us on that Ramirez stakeout tonight.” 

Sammy slammed a palm on the wheel before yanking it in the opposite direction of the restaurant. “Guess this just means you still owe me a date, L/n.” 

“In your dreams, Bryant.” 

Twenty minutes later, the two of you were parked half a block away from a run-down apartment building watching a suspected drug runner’s front entrance. The glamor of the evening had long been evaporated back into the atmosphere. Your pointer finger picked at one of the sequins on your hemline as you kept your eyes on the door. Thankfully, your heels had been kicked off the moment Sammy parked. Likewise, his jacket was now draped across the backseat. 

When nothing happened for the next handful of minutes, you leaned back into the seat. “You know, as far as first dates have gone, this somehow isn’t the worst one I’ve been on.” 

Sammy lowered his pair of binoculars to glance over at you. “Somehow I highly doubt that.” 

“Believe me. Boys are stupid,” you muttered. “One time, one of them thought I was lying about being a detective, so I called in his name and apparently, he had a warrant out. I arrested him in the middle of dinner.” 

“Seriously?” Sammy chuckled. 

“Seriously,” you echoed warmly. “I don’t have the best luck with dates. I think this—on technicality—is my first date in almost a year.” 

“Again, I highly doubt that.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He took another glance at you before bringing the binoculars back up. “I mean, with the way you look, there must be a gaggle of guys trying to take you out.” 

The sequin caught in your nail. “The way I look?” 

You were totally egging him on, but for once since meeting Sammy, you wanted to press, wanted to get him to actually look at you without a look of distain on his face. 

“I was being honest when I said you looked beautiful.” 

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “You’re not supposed to hand out compliments to people you hate, Bryant. It gets oddly confusing.” 

Sammy froze for a moment before fully turning toward you. “I don’t hate you.” 

You scoffed. “Sure. Whatever you say.” 

“No?” Sammy’s confusion was clear as day on his face. “I don’t. If anything, I respect the hell out of you. Do you irritate me sometimes? Yes. But I have never once hated you, Y/n.” 

It was your turn to freeze as you stared into his hazel eyes. “But—but every time I bring in a suspect or—or turn in paperwork, you look at me like I pissed in your cheerios!”

“That’s because it’s easier for me to pretend sometimes because the truth I want could never come true.” 

You shook your head. “No, Bryant, you don’t get to spout off this proverb bullshit at me because—what?—you can’t just tell me the truth.” 

He looked back toward the house. “I am not doing this here.” 

A groan of frustration pulled from your chest. “Yes, you are doing this here. Don’t test me, Bryant, I will literally get out of this car and walk home because you can’t man up and—” 

The sentence died instantly when Sammy’s lips pressed against yours. He dropped the binoculars in his lap to allow his big hands to carefully cup your cheeks and hold you steady. With nowhere else to go, you melted against him, lips finally moving against his in reciprocation. Your hands grasped at his sides, and if it wasn’t for the center consol, you would have swung a leg over his lap. When oxygen became too much, you pulled away from his lips, chest heaving in heavy pants to the point he could feel your hot air against his lips. The feeling made him want to pull you right back in. 

Months of bickering, competing, teasing, and pretending to loathe each other more than Elphaba and Galinda in the first act of Wicked all melted away into something desperate, something that made your fingers itch to pull him against you. 

Sammy pressed his forehead against yours. “Does that make you believe me now?” 

You hummed in response. “This doesn’t mean that you’re on my good side, Sammy.” 

He smirked once before leaning back in for a small peck. “I’ll get on your good side soon enough, sweetheart. Might even one day get my own color-coded section in your folder all to myself.” 

“It’s not color coded. It’s alphabetized.” 

“Of course it is.” 

Brett Richards

in all his life, Brett didn't think he'd meet the second love of his life in the middle of the cat food aisle at his local pet store. one minute, he was picking between two brands, and the next, he couldn't tear his eyes away from you. thanks be to whoever, you had looked over and asked him what cat food he suggested, and it was like the heavens opened up, angels singing, the golden glow and all that shit. he could have stuttered, but something inside gave him the confidence to spout out whatever brand that his bengals and tabby ate to which you smiled and thanked him. however, brett wasn't about to let you leave, that'd be crazy, so he asked the next important question: what kind of cat do you have? this led the two of you to discuss cats right in the food aisle for a good 30 minutes. and you know what really did it? your cat shared the same name as his late wife. now, brett isn't superstitious, but he took that as the biggest sign of his life. on the other hand, you couldn't hep but coo at this older man who talked about his cats like they were his life's biggest accomplishment. you struck up a conversation about what he did for work, and you swore you melted when he said he was a fire captain. sexy? check. heroic? check. cat dad? triple check. this was your dream man. so, not only did brett walk out with both brands of cat food, but he walked out with your number and a date scheduled for the next week. and if you volunteered to babysit his cats when fires took him away from his house for a week or two, brett doesn't hesitate to give you a spare key, hoping you'll be there (IN HIS BED SPECIFICALLY) when he gets back. Jack Abbot

jack rarely ever did anything outside of the pitt, volunteer swat, therapy, and home. so when he happens upon a farmer's market during a once-in-a-blue-moon day off, he thinks what the hell, sure and turns direction to stop buy. he's really not interested in all the aroma therapy and crystals and essential oils, but the moment his nose picks up on the delicious smell of coffee, he bee lines it. as an attending in emergency medicine, the strongest hot black brew is essential to his livelihood. yet, when he saw the coffee stand being run by the prettiest person ever, he couldn't help but step in line even if he noticed that all the drinks available were fun iced drinks. when it was his turn to order, his brain decided to reboot when you flashed a warm smile at him. he was finally able to spit out that he didn't know what to order, so, in turn, you winked at him and told him that you'd make him something he could never forget. jack has never been more confused than when you handed him this light green drink with fluffy pink foam on the top. you told him to take a sip and that his life would be changed by a strawberry matcha. and lowkey, his life was changed, and he drank the whole thing down and enjoyed every moment of it. a blush creeped up his cheeks when you giggled at this sexy old man slurping down a matcha like it was water. after that, jack makes it a staple in his week to visit your stand. and after ordering the same thing every single time, you manage to surprise him by writing your number on his cup. jack definitely is the type to call instead of text and sets up a date the next time you're not working your stand and he has a day off. Grant Reilly

grant really isn't the type to mingle with the diners of his restaurant; that's why he hired hosts and servers. he runs the kitchen for goodness sake, he doesn't have time to flash a polite smile in hopes that they like his food. if they don't? that's on them, not him. however, when he overhears two of his servers gossiping about how there's a couple on a date, and the man is making fun of how "picky" his date is, he can't help but glance at the ticket from your table. sure, one of the orders has asked for a few differences, but that's the joy of making food to him. everyone has different tastes, and it's his job to make sure it gets to the table perfectly. so, in this occasion, he personally walks out with the food and almost trips when he sees just how gorgeous you are, even though you look upset. he doesn't hesitate to pretty much drop your date's plate right in front of him, while he carefully sets yours down, makes solid eye contact with you, and promises as the head chef that if you don't like he, he will remake it until you do. the wide-eye look you give him makes grant want to get that reaction out of you outside his restaurant. so, when the same two servers tell him that you're wanting to thank him personally, he gets this giddy feeling in his chest. you're smiling so brightly at him with endless praise falling from your lips, that in that moment, grant wants to feed you for the rest of his life. in order to do so, he makes sure to tell you that the next time you show up, your dinner will be on the house. and when you show up by yourself the next time, grant sits in the opposite seat after giving you your dinner and makes a date out of it. Andrew Cody

skating was pretty much the only thing that brought andrew some peace and happiness in his life. sure, he loved watching over lena, but there was something about being by himself, doing his favorite hobby, that just made him let loose. one morning before dawn, he decided to grab his skateboard and head to the beach before the swarms of loud and obnoxious tourists show up. he's surprised when he finds that he wasn't the only one with that idea, hazel eyes settling on you as you're in the middle of trying out a new move. andrew couldn't help but wince when you fall off, knees now bright red. but instead of crying like he thought you might do, you just laughed and loudly said I hope no one attractive saw that (he guesses you hadn't seen him yet). he replied quickly with depends on how attractive you find me. that response had him shaking because he'd never willingly said something goofy like that, but the way you jumped slightly and looked his way with a blush makes him want to be playful. he took the moment to bring his board over and offer you a hand. it barely takes anything to pull you up, and andrew thanks himself for being so on top of keeping up with his workout routine. again, he found himself wondering what the hell he was saying when he offered to help you land the move. and by the time the sun is fully above the horizon, you land it perfectly, andrew laughing softly when you cheer loudly, hands all up toward the sky. he thought you'd leave the minute you were done, but it's your turn to surprise him when you stayed and watched him go back and forth on the halfpipe. now, andrew doesn't have a regular number he can just hand out, but he doesn't leave without asking you to meet him tomorrow morning at the same time. he doesn't hesitate to run to the nearest store to grab a burner phone so that he does have something to give you to contact him the next time he sees you. Titus Danforth

if there was one thing titus hated, it was shopping. why does he need to walk around the stores when he could just send someone to do it for him like every other inch of his life. but no; ursula just asked him to grab an item on-hold while he was out and about doing who knows what. he is, after all, a dutiful brother. however, he doesn't attempt to wipe the scowl off his face as he walks through the store to the front, barely glancing at the clothes until his eyes land on a rather dashing suit coat that he wonders how good it would look like stained with the blood of his enemies. he turns away from his path, and walks right up but pauses when he realizes he doesn't even know his own coat size. but by someone's good graces, you just happen to see this puppy-dog-eyed man looking so confused as he looks at the coat like it's personally offended him for not magically fitting. you're not even a worker at the store, but if there's one thing you know, it's fashion. you're quick to look him over once before reaching around him to hand him the correct size. titus nearly leaps out of his skin because he hadn't even seen you coming. he looks at you and the coat you're holding out before taking it without even a thank you. but you don't take it personally since the man looks like he could cover your student loans without so much as a blink. you now have your sights on him and want to keep him next to you as much as possible. you think he looks like the type to not get his clothes dirty, but you just happen to mention that the style of the coat is best suited for hunting (in your mind you're thinking old money faux-fox hunts) with its flexible sleeves and stretchy material for handling guns without snagging around shoulders. titus can't help but be impressed by your knowledge and blatant talking to him like he's not the most powerful man on the planet. in turn, he asks you if you have any other suggestions for clothes for him, and you don't hesitate to drag him around the rest of the store, babbling about your life and why you know what pants, shirts, shoes, accessories would work best with his life style. he finds it almost endearing to the point that he invites you back to the compound to help him make sure the clothes actually fit (because this man is not stepping into a fitting room no matter how clean it looks). and once you're in his room....well.....there's no telling how much he's going to hold back before he gets his hands on you. Charlie Reid

even though he knew exactly which cops he kept in his pockets, charlie wasn't above doing the dirty work himself. with gang violence, he never knows what he's about to walk into when he gets on scene. but the day he spotted you, a CSI he's never seen, he feels the need to also tuck you inside his pocket. you seem sweet and almost naive to the point that charlie has no qualms getting you compliant in helping him out when he needs crime scene investigators to look the other way. what he doesn't expect is that you're already in the same position he is, already wiping away evidence when you feel the need to, corrupting sd cards, stepping over footprints before anyone could see. he notices the hero complex and corruptness that he has in his own chest. he's put people in the ground without so much as a second look, and for some odd reason, that gets you interested in this old and graying deputy chief. so, the two of you start to work together. when he needs something done, he makes sure you're the first CSI called on scene. when you need something, you don't hesitate to use his personal cell to get him on the case before anyone else. and when charlie ends up being killed in action, you can't help but vow that the people responsible will be brought to light. Terry McCandless

terry has a way of sweet talking that gets him in places he needs to be in order to get swayed evidence to bring to court. between leaking sex tapes and underground counterfeit weapons and sleeping with women for the good of the game, terry never guessed he find himself in your home sharing a sunday afternoon meal with you smiling at him like he hung the fucking moon. how this came to be, he just happened to be at the right place at the right time while some skeezeball thought it'd be a good idea to try to nab your purse. terry was quick to pull his gun out and threaten to shoot the man right then and there, causing the guy to throw your purse back at you, somehow hitting you right in the face hard enough that a bruise started blooming under your eye. your yelp had caught terry's attention to the point he walked over and made sure you were okay. he used that southern panty-dropping twang to talk you out of a panic, and by golly were you gorgeous up close with his hands all over your face. he even slipped in a few good girls and yeah, you're okay and he's long gone, darling, I made sure of it while he's at it, and you can't help the way you just become putty between his palms. when another officer arrives on scene because a passerby saw the whole shebang and takes over helping you out, you panic, thinking that this nice detective is about to leave and you'll never see him again. that has you holding on to him and asking if he'd be willing to come to your house for a meal as a thank you. and when terry pulls up to see that your house is right across from a house he knows belongs to a ring leader, his twisted brain is already thinking of ways to get you, a little sweet thing, under his thumb for however long possible. Sammy Bryant

poor poor sammy has no clue what to do with the $2k camera he finally got back. tammi left him for that stupid photography instructor after manipulating him into thinking she was pregnant with his child, when in reality it wasn't even his. desperately needing the money, his last option is to sell the piece of equipment. he even drops the price almost by half because he doesn't think anyone is willing to buy a second-hand camera for the same amount he bought it. well, low and behold, his ad is somehow found buy you who is actually willing to pay the full price. it does help that you feel like you're giving back because you're buying this from a police officer who is putting his life on the line. when you meet up to buy the camera, you're immediately put into a trance by this handsome, curly haired man that looks downright delicious in his uniform. now, you're nothing close to a badge bunny, but you do have eyes. sammy is also curious as to what you do because you look young and yet you're paying two grand for a camera that's been used AND stolen. he's shocked to learn that you're a software engineer and was wanting the camera to possibly take some business shots in hopes that one day you can open up your own business. he's floored that such a woman, one who holds a good job and has a hobby, exists (because tammi always just said she'd get around to getting a job one day but would barely put any time and effort into anything than her whims of the day). sammy likes the idea of being in your presence that he (rather shyly) asks if you have any other plans for the rest of the day. he's even more delighted when you say no and asks if HE has any other plans as well. sammy ends up taking you to a nicer restaurant (because of your money which is something the two of you laugh about during dinner) and maybe the evening does end very very well.

The chairs had always felt vaguely cursed to you, even on good days. 

On bad days—days where the waiting room smelled too strongly of antiseptic and drying blood, where somebody’s kid was crying near the vending machines, where a grown man was acting like a child as he yelled about missing insurance—it felt like corporal punishment in its purest form. You’d been down there for nearly two hours already, bouncing between triage and lacerations and flu symptoms and a man who had somehow managed to staple his own thumb at work only fifteen minutes into his shift. 

By the third anti-vax mom, your patience had worn thin. And being exiled to chairs now felt less like staffing necessity and more like karmic retaliation. How were you supposed to know Robby was right behind you, listening in on very important Pitt gossip, and that he believed in the whole “if you had time to talk, you had time to work.” 

Thus, you’d been sent off to chairs until Robby deemed you cleansed of your sins. 

Because, unfortunately, chairs happened to be the closest thing the Pitt had to purgatory: the perfect place for hellfire and fractures and a waiting room from hell. People were packed shoulder to shoulder while irritated family members grumbled and complained about the temperature. The television in the corner played daytime reruns at an offensively loud volume, and every few minutes somebody new approached the desk asking how much longer the wait would be for something as simple (or ridiculous) as a cut hangnail. Their questions made you believe they thought you personally controlled time itself. 

Which, if you did, you would have made your shift go by a lot faster. 

But no. You did not control time. Time and a chief attending named Michael Robinavitch controlled you, and you hated every second of it. 

By the time you pushed back through the waiting room doors with another chart in your hand, a mechanical smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes plastered across your face. Your eyes glued to the tablet in front of you with the name Mrs. Hill stuck between your teeth. 

However, the name died in your throat after you glanced up. 

There, in the corner, near the far wall, sat Jack Abbot, all hunched over in one of the molded plastic chairs with his elbows on his knees, body stiff as a board almost as to not touch the chair at all, and hood pulled over his head despite the warmth of the waiting room. Your brows pinched, confusion plastered all over your face. For a second, Jack sitting there genuinely made no fucking sense. 

He was the night shift attending. He could walk through the ambulance bays whenever he needed. He’d be prioritized because the Pitt didn’t just look over one of their own and ban him to the chairs off all places to sit and wait with the rest of the common people. 

Jack also never sat still enough to like a garden statue. Even through exhaustion, even post-shift, you noticed that he carried this restless energy about him, like if he stopped moving for too long, he might actually wither away. 

You stared at him for another beat before walking over, Mrs. Hill be damned. 

“What the fuck, Dr. Abbot,” you hissed, stopping in front of him. “What happened to you, and why didn’t you walk through the back?” 

Jack slowly lifted his head, and a small something snagged uncomfortably in your chest. The feeling wasn’t alarming, and it wasn’t that guy from TikTok running back and forth across a field with an overly large flag yelling Red Flag! Red Flag! either. The cause of this feeling was the small curls peaking below the hood. 

Jack’s hair had always been salt-and-pepper for as long as you’d known him in the Pitt, causing the very serious nickname of a true “silver fox” to be tossed around when he wasn’t listening. But right now, Jack’s hair was dark, richer, and auburn almost. Near his temples, the deep, reddish-brown curls were flat under the fabric. 

But even with the recent hair dye, his face was Jack’s, your brain filling in the gaps automatically to the point you didn’t notice the way he was missing his sun spots and wrinkles that Jack normally dawned in the sexiest ways. 

“Hit my head,” he finally replied quietly. 

Even his voice sounded the tiniest bit off, however, your concern for him outweighed the missing features your Jack normally had. 

You frowned, couching slightly so you could get a better look at him, Robby’s “words of wisdom” about getting on the patient’s level ringing in your head. 

“Okay, that explains why you look like you got dragged behind an ambulance,” you said before reaching up to gently cup his face. 

This time, you didn’t miss the way he flinched under your palms before settling as you tilted his head to find the injury. 

“Did you pass out? Throw up? How long ago did it happen” You didn’t really wait for his answers before continuing, already slipping deep into assessment mode. “Actually, hold on, no, don’t answer all that because your pupils are clearly telling me you’re very concussed, and if you start slurring your words, you and I won’t get anywhere with delayed responses.” 

Jack’s eyes fluttered shut as you talked to him, and the weird feeling bloomed under your skin again. When his hazel met yours again, you let his face go and stood to full height. 

“C’mon, Dr. Abbot,” you sighed, motioning for him to stand. “You’re not sitting out here looking like a murder suspect all afternoon. Let me get you into a room before Robby sees you and starts berating me as to why you’re still out here.” 

His eyes lifted to yours fully, and the intensity almost stopped you cold. Jack looked at people all the time—quick glances, assessing looks, sharp little observations hidden behind sarcasm—but the way he was looking at you now was different. This Jack, looking at least fifteen years younger, looked directly as you with a heavy kind of focus that should’ve felt unsettling, like he was trying to learn your family’s history with once glance. Unlike your Jack (which you were still convinced was sitting right in front of you), he felt almost dangerous in how still he was and how carefully he watched. 

When he didn’t stand up to follow, you asked, “You gonna pass out if I make you walk? 

“No.” 

“Is your leg bothering you? I can get you a wheelchair if you need.” 

“I can walk.” 

“Great. Love your confidence.” 

He stood slowly, hands never touching the handles, body towering over you once he straightened fully. Again, another disjointed feeling washed over you. Jack was tall, yes, but he was now carrying himself so opposite of how he normally did. Here, he seemed disconnected from the room, like feeling the air was inconveniencing him. Now standing, you caught another glimpse of bruising near the edge of his jaw as you guided him through toward an empty room down the hall.

His silence was starting to get uncomfortable, so you found yourself talking just to fill the unusual quiet between you, even if talking had gotten you banished to chairs in the first place. 

“You know, Dr. Abbot, most people with concussions demand to be sent through immediately even if they aren’t an attending. Please tell me this isn’t you trying to not look weak in front of everyone? I bet they would rather you come through walking and talking than someone giving you a wellness check and finding you dead because you didn’t follow concussion protocol.” 

Behind you, he stayed silent. 

You busied yourself by pulling gloves on, still talking as he sat on the very edge of the exam bed, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists on his thighs. 

“Seriously though, Dr. Abbot, you scared me for a second out there. You looked half-dead sitting in that chair, which, honestly, kind of impressive for you because you usually can’t keep still. I guess that’s why you do SWAT and stuff, huh? One of these days you’re going to find out you’re not actually immortal even though people talk like you are. But what would I know, I’m just a nurse while you spend your free time getting shot at.” 

Finally, like broken pottery, the smallest smile cracked through his face. You blinked at him while his eyes refused to move anywhere but your face. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “You are being deeply weird today. Are you okay?” 

His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face. “Head hurts.” 

“That would be your concussion talking.” 

You stepped closer, gently tilting his head toward the light to examine the molted bruise near his temple. Unlike in the chairs, he didn’t flinch under your fingers this time. Up close like this, Jack’s differences stood out more. The lighting in the waiting room made everything seem worse under shadows, but the direct light washed away the wrinkles and lines around his eyes. 

And still, he kept staring at you with an unwavering intensity that made your knees go weak and made a warmth creep up your neck. 

“You’re very stare-y today,” you murmured distractedly while checking his pupils. 

“Sorry.” 

Your hands paused for a half a second at his promptness for an apology. 

As far as you knew, Jack never apologized that fast. 

However, the though slipped through your mind before you could stop it, but again, the concussion explained enough that you ignored every strange feeling creeping higher in your chest. Head injuries changed behavior sometimes. Personalities softened, reactions slowed, and people became emotional, subdued, clingy, and disoriented. You’d seen it first-hand countless times. 

Still. 

You moved back slightly to jot something onto the chart. “Any nausea?” 

“A little.” 

“Blurred vision?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Memory issues?” 

His eyes stayed on you. “Maybe?” 

“Can you tell me where you are?” 

“Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital.” 

You snorted softly. “Using the full government name. I see you Dr. Abbot. I’ll give you a gold star for incredible patient participation.” 

He didn’t laugh or smile at that this time. You continued to fill out his chart: name, birthdate, allergies. Thankfully, most of it was already in the system. Your eyes rose back to his when you finished up, chart getting tucked under your arm as you pulled the gloves off. 

“Okay, let me go get Robby since I highly doubt you’d want anyone else in here—” 

“Can you not tell anyone I’m here?” 

You cocked your head. “What?” 

His jaw tightened slightly, gaze flickering briefly toward the closed door before returning to you. “Don’t want people knowing.” 

Concern replaced every single weird feeling. Embarrassment after injuring wasn’t uncommon, especially with doctors, and even so more with attendings who weren’t used to being the ones under care. God knew Jack hated appearing vulnerable in front of his coworkers. 

“You do know they’re not going to make fun of you for getting a concussion. Robby might poke fun, but you are like his best friend.” Your eyes glanced toward the door. “Okay, maybe his only friend,” you added on with a mutter. 

He didn’t answer right away. 

You leaned against the counter, studying him for moment. The intensity was still there in the way he watched you, but his eyes held a sadness you’d never seen before. The hazel hues dripped with a scarcity that made your heart clench.

After a moment, you conceded. “Okay. Fine. Your secret is safe with me, Dr. Abbot.” You pointed at him with your pen. “But only because you’re looking at me like that. Special privileges are frowned upon here.” 

The faintly cracked almost-smile appeared again. 

And God help you, it looked surprisingly pretty on him, making you want more of it. 

_______________________

Purgatory had ended the moment you stepped out of the room and went diving head-first into the incoming trauma after Robby grabbed you by the shoulders and physically steered you into Trauma Room One. The entire department had gone from irritatingly busy to borderline catastrophic after a minor highway pileup flooded intake with a dozen patients and emergencies that clogged up the CT scan because their necks felt “a little weird.” 

Softened and concussed Jack Abbot fleed from your mind as you called out BP’s and administered correct dosages. You’d spent most of the last hour speed-walking between rooms with granola bar shoved into the pocket of your scrub jacket, half-finished notes beneath your arm, and a headache steadily building behind your eyes by the sterile light that never gave up buzzing for even a second. 

At one point, Dana moved you toward the break room and ordered you to eat something before you passed out in front of a patient. 

At another, Whitaker had nearly stepped into a pile of vomit while reading a chart, which honestly might have been the funniest thing you’d seen all week.  

Through it all though, you kept thinking about softened and concussed Jack. Every time you passed through the hallway leading toward his room, your eyes drifted toward the closed door, checking without meaning to whether he was still there. And honestly, you were surprised Robby hadn’t yelled at anyone—you—for taking up a room and not having a resident check in. 

When you finally nudged the exam room door open again with your shoulder, two awful vending machine coffees balanced carefully in your hands, the room was dimmer than before. He must have lowered the lights while you were gone, and you silently cured yourself for not doing that on your way out. 

To your surprise (or horror) he was sitting exactly where you’d left him on the exam bed, shoulders straight, back even straighter, hands still glued to his thighs like he didn’t know he was allowed to touch the bed beneath him. 

His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, hitting you with that look before you could even mentally prepare for it. 

Most people only half paid attention after hours in an ER room. Patients looked tired, distracted, and uncomfortable; doctors were worse. Jack especially had always operated at a hundred miles an hour, his attention split between six different thoughts at once even when he focused on you. Here in the exam room, he looked at you completely like he was tracking every little expression crossing your face the second you walked into the room. 

The familiar warmth climbed embarrassingly fast into your chest and sat there. 

“Oh, good,” you said quickly, mostly because the silence suddenly made you self-conscious. “You’re still alive. I was starting to think you’d turn into a statue or died sitting up in here. That would really make my paperwork worse, so I’m very glad you’re still breathing.” 

His gaze dropped to the coffee cups in your hands before dragging up back to your face. 

“You brought me one.” 

The way he said it almost made it sound like he couldn’t quite believe why the hell you’d go out of your way to get one for him. 

You shrugged, cross the room toward him before holding one out carefully. “I use the word coffee loosely here, because I’m pretty sure the machine actually dispenses motor oil, but you looked miserable earlier, and caffeine fixes at least eighty percent of human suffering.” 

His fingers brushed yours when he took the cup. The contact lasted maybe a heartbeat, but it sent chills ripping up your arms. You turned away before he could possibly notice, pretending on the monitor beside him while taking a sip of your own coffee and instantly regretting it.

“Damn,” you muttered. “That’s genuinely horrific. I change my mind; this only fixes about 30 percent of human suffering and adds to the other percentage.” 

A faint hint of amusement crossed his face, and the sight made you beam. 

“You look handsome when you smile,” you blurted before you could even stop it. Your hands clapped over your mouth to the point it hurt. “I don’t know why I just said that.” 

Jack cocked his head, eyes still burning into your face. “Do I not normally?” 

Your heart clenched as you lowered your hands. “Um, I mean you do? But normally it’s when you’re about to say something so sarcastic it makes me want to pull my hair out.” 

His brows pulled together slightly at that, like he was trying to remember through the lingering fog of his concussion. 

You kept talking before he could say anything, words spilling naturally into the quiet space. “Actually, let me rephrase that. Usually you do smile, and it’s very nice, but it’s not normally after something I say. Also, is your head still hurting? You’re still staring at me like I’m a dessert you just want to eat, and that’s so unfair because I normally look at you like that and—” 

Another hand slap to your mouth. 

“Please ignore everything I’ve said in the past fifteen seconds. Or better, I’ll just stand here and wait for the floor to swallow me up. I’m talking way too much.” 

You found yourself fidgeting under his stare before stepping closer, coffee cup placed gently on the counter. “Is your head any better? Or still hurting?” 

“Hurting a little.” 

“Have you gotten dizzy?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Still feeling nauseated?” 

He nodded once instead of answering, and you wondered if he had hit his word limit for the hour. You sighed sympathetically while typing notes onto the chart. 

“If I had to spend hours in a chair listening to daytime TV and screaming children, I’d probably feel that way too. Your concussion doesn’t help either.” 

Another tiny smile quirked his lip even though he didn’t say anything else. You “allowed” him to stare at you while you finished updating the chart, his silent presence settling under your skin as you worked. The way he looked at you should have made you reach out for Robby the minute Jack started acting this way, but the intimidating way his droopy eyes never left your figure felt strangely calming. 

Which probably said concerning things about your taste in men, but the whole ER was pretty much putty in Jack Abbot’s hand. You were the white sheep in the flock, and you’d follow Shepherd Abbot anywhere. 

You turned away from the chart and leaned against the counter. “You know, Dr. Abbot, you’re allowed to talk in here. I know I tend to carry the entire social interactions, but this is kinda exhausting for me. Usually, I can barely get a sentence in around you.” 

His mouth twitched faintly. “Why’s that?” 

Your cheeks burned. “Well, um, medically that’s not important.” 

His eyes lingered on your face and the small area around your mouth longer than necessary, and once again you felt like melting and dramatically draping yourself across a Victorian fainting couch to blubber about your feelings for the concussed attending. 

To compensate for these feelings and the sterile quiet, you started talking more. 

“So chairs officially became a nightmare while you were hiding her, by the way,” you told him. “Some guy tried convincing triage he needed immediate treatment for a paper cut, which would’ve been annoying enough on its own except he kept trying to squeeze blood out of it like he was in a Victorian tuberculosis ward. Then Dana yelled at me for skipping lunch again, which, in my defense, I fully intended to eat until somebody—probably Ogilvie, that fucker—stole my yogurt from the fridge. Again. At this point I think he’s specifically targeting me.” 

The entire time you rambled, Jack listened without interrupting. He watched you pace while talking, energy buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin from the nonstop pace outside. 

“And then this woman asked if I was old enough to be a nurse, which somehow turned into her husband asking if I were single while she was standing right here! Emergency medicine should qualify as psychological warfare.”

The last tidbit made a quiet laugh escape, and the sound pulled your attention back toward him. 

“At least you think I’m funny,” you said, pointing at him with exaggerated triumph. “Robby never thinks my jokes are funny. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think someone’s swapped him with a robot or AI engine that’s trying to convince everyone he’s a functioning person under all that brooding trauma.” 

His face softened, and for some reason that affected you more than the laugh had. The warm in your chest spread outward before you realized you’d been talking almost nonstop for several minutes. 

“Oh fuck,” you groaned, dropping your head briefly into your hands. “I’m doing it again.” 

Jack sat up a bit straighter if somehow possible. “Doing what?” 

“Talking too much.” You laughed awkwardly. “You’d think after enough years in medicine I’d learn when to stop speaking, but apparently not.” You looked down at your hands, suddenly embarrassed by how much space you’d filled with your own voice. “Sorry. You probably have a splitting headache and want to nap, but I’m over here narrating my entire day.” 

When you finally looked back up, his gaze was still resting on you with steady attentiveness. 

“I don’t mind it,” he admitted, tone close to a whisper. 

You blinked rapidly. 

“Your talking.” 

Something about the way he said it in the sincerest and honest way made your chest tighten. He glanced down at the coffee cup in his hands before looking back into your eyes. 

“Room’s less quiet when you’re here.” 

A bright smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you for listening then.” 

_______________________

The night shift always arrived like a storm rolling through the Pitt. 

While the ER was the ground, and the day shift staff floated around with enough caffeine to possible kill a small animal, the night shift trickled in like the rain, refreshing and very much welcomed to take over the atmosphere. The residents, including you, handed over your charts with sluggish movements, desperate to go home and sleep the day and loss of patients away. 

Normally, somewhere in the middle of all that transition, you and Jack inevitably found each other. Sometimes it was purely by accident; others it absolutely wasn’t. He’d appear beside you while you were finishing your charts just to bother you. You’d steal his coffee when he stopped paying attention. Always, there was some running commentary between the two of you, whether it be playful arguing or just an update on how social life outside the Pitt was going. 

Tonight, though, you barely noticed the shift change happening around you since you’d ended up back in his room again almost without realizing. Through the last few hours, checking on him had stopped feeling entirely professional. You still used plenty of legitimate excuses, of course; his concussion needed monitoring in case his symptoms changed. You were also technically responsible for him until discharge, but if you were being honest with yourself, looking after him had become dangerously easy. 

While the rest of the Pitt felt loud in comparison, his room felt quiet. 

You’d sit perched sideways on the rolling stool near the exam bed, updating charts while absentmindedly talking through how your shift was going. He listened quietly from where he sat on the raised bed, legs swishing back and forth now, his hoodie abandoned sometime during the last hour. 

Still, every now and then, your brain caught onto his staring and stumbled. 

“You know,” you said while typing notes, “Dana threatened to physically drag me into the break room earlier because apparently surviving on caffeine and spite isn’t medically advisable. Which honestly is very hypocritical considering more than half the staff here are one inconvenience away from cardiac arrest.” 

You looked up from the chart in time to catch a small smile. 

“I’m glad you still think I’m funny even with brain damage. The cryptic staring can only last for so long.” 

His eyes stayed steady on you. “Maybe.” 

You giggled. “Still terrible at conversations, though. Truly tragic.” 

While you were keeping him company, across the department, Jack Abbot had just walked into the Pitt, dressed in his scrubs and already talking. 

“Tell me somebody restocked trauma two, because if I have to hunt down another chest tube tonight, I’m filing a formal complaint against humanity.” His voice carried easily across the department. 

He shrugged out of his jacket while walking, salt and pepper curls slightly windblown from outside, already grinning at something Dana said near the nurses’ station. 

“Four minutes late, by the way,” Dana informed him when he got closer. 

“Still counts as on time in emergency medicine.” 

“For an attending, you sure are incredibly wrong some of the time.” 

“Key word being some and not all the time.” 

Robby looked up from a chart with visible exhaustion. “I need you both to come down from a level eight to a level zero.” 

Jack chose to ignore him, eyes already scanning around the room. When he didn’t find who he was looking for, he frowned slightly. “Where’s she at?” 

Dana smirked before Robby could respond. “Interesting that you looked for her before your patients.” 

“She’s less mean to me,” he replied without thinking, tossing his bag onto the counter. 

“She’s been in one room half the afternoon,” Dana responded casually. “Concussed male.” 

The minute her words ended, something subtle shifted in Jack’s chest. It probably wasn’t noticeable to people who didn’t know how Jack Abbot ticked, but Dana noticed, and her smirk turned downright evil. 

“Aww,” she drawled. “Somebody jealous?” 

Jack scoffed a tad too quickly to sound convincing. “I’m not jealous; I’m concerned.” 

“Sure you are.” 

Jack rolled his eyes hard enough to qualify as a medical even before pushing away from the counter. “I’m going to make sure she hasn’t adopted another emotionally damaged patient.” 

Even as he said it, irritation had already begun creeping unpleasantly under his ribs. 

One room all afternoon.

He knew how you got with certain patients; you were too soft-hearted for your own good sometimes, despite how hard you tried to pretend otherwise. But something about imagining you tucked away somewhere for hours giving another man the kind of attention you usually guarded carefully made something territorial and irrational bubble under his skin. 

Back inside the room, you were still smiling down at your chart when you finally pushed yourself upright from the stool. 

“All right,” you sighed. “I should probably go check whether the Pitt has fully descended into anarchy without me.” 

His eyes followed you as you moved toward the door. “You’ll come back?” 

You stopped for half a second, turning lightly and fully surprised enough by the quietness of his question that warmth spread through your being. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come back.” 

Your stomach flipped when his expression changed from a tight, worriedness to a soft, placated expression. Needing to escape before you could embarrass yourself further, you swung the door open and stepped into the hallway, holding the chart to your chest while talking over your shoulder toward him. 

“Seriously, though, if you try sneaking out before I get back, I’ll actually—” 

You voice cut off when your eyes landed Jack standing halfway down the hallway staring directly at you. It was almost like your brain hit the power mode and shut down completely, because Jack Abbot—your Jack Abbot was standing right in front of you. 

Alive. 

Healthy. 

Definitely not concussed unlike the Jack—now not-Jack—you had spent hours sitting beside. 

Your pulse dropped so hard it almost hurt. 

Behind him, Robby slowed slightly, noticing the way all color drained from your face. Jack’s teasing grin faded into confusion as he took in the way you stared at him like you’d just seen a ghost. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said slowly, concern beginning to edge beneath the nickname. “You okay?” 

You couldn’t answer as your eyes darted toward the closed room behind you, then back to Jack, then back again, then back to Jack one more time. Him standing there was impossible, so entirely impossible. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat. 

Jack took another small step closer when you failed to answer. “Hey. What’s wrong?” 

You blinked once before bolting back into the room. 

“What the hell—” Jack muttered, following after you without hesitation while Robby moved right behind him. 

He was the first through the doorway and stopped right as he went in. The air dropped almost noticeably. The man sitting on the exam bed had lifted his head slowly at the sound of the door opening, and for one disorienting second, it genuinely looked like Jack was staring at another, younger version of himself. 

The man’s auburn hair caught warmly in the lighting while bruising shadowed one side of his face. He sat completely still on the bed, one hand loose around a cup Jack knew you had brought him at some point, his expression unreadable as he stared back at Jack. 

Jack didn’t move, and you stood frozen near the corner, chest rising too fast while your brain desperately tried to recover from the fact that somehow—somehow—you had spent nearly an entire shift accidentally flirting with a completely stranger wearing Jack Abbot’s face. 

Silence stretched painfully. 

Behind Jack, Robby pinched the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not,” he muttered under his breath. “Secret twins are above my pay grade. My sabbatical cannot come sooner enough.” 

And before any of you could stop him, he turned around and walked directly back out of the room, letting the door click shit behind him, leaving only you, Jack, and the stranger sitting on the exam bed staring at one another in stunned silence. 

_______________________

Nobody moved. 

You still stood frozen near the corner clutching the chart so tightly your knuckles were white, while across the room Jack remained rooted just inside the doorway staring at the man like he genuinely could not process what he was seeing. 

The resemblance was worse with both of them in the same room. They weren’t identical, but close enough that your brain kept trying to overlap them anyway with their same eyes, same mouth, same build. The now-stranger looked like someone had taken Jack and stripped ten years off him, softened the gray from his hair, and carved away some of the sharpness age and multiple years as an ER attending had left behind. 

And suddenly you felt violently aware of every single thing you’d said over the last several hours. Heat flooded your face so quickly you thought you might actually die from humiliation right then and there. 

To break the cursed silence, Jack finally spoke first. “What . . . the hell . . . is this?” 

The stranger’s gaze shifted toward him calmly. Unlike you, he didn’t seem particularly unsettled by the situation. If anything, he looked mildly tired. The concussion probably wasn’t helping matters, but even beyond that there was still the same strange unwavering presence about him. You found yourself staring at him helplessly. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you blurted, voice climbing in disbelief as you looked at him. “I spent like almost twelve hours calling you Jack.” 

He looked back at you for a moment before answering. “My name’s Andrew.” 

Jack let out a sharp disbelieving laugh. “Andrew?” 

You shook your head. “Okay, no. You had so many opportunities to correct me, and you’re just now telling me your name?” 

Andrew’s expression shifted slightly into something more apologetic. “Tried to.” 

“You absolutely did not!” 

“A little.” 

“You said maybe four words all day!” 

“You talked fast.” 

You dropped your face into one hand, mortification crashing over you in waves now that the shock had worn off enough for your brain to start replaying the day in horrifying detail. “I told you that you were handsome.” 

Jack’s head snapped toward you so fast it was almost comical. “You what?” 

“Not talking to you Jack,” you shot back. 

He stared at you in open betrayal. “I walk in here and find out you’ve been flirty with my concussed doppelganger all day?” 

“I DIDN’T KNOW HE WASN’T YOU! HE’S LITERALLY WEARING YOUR FACE! WHAT WAS I SUPPOED TO DO?” 

“Um, I don’t know, sweetheart, check first that it was actually me? 

Andrew watched the entire exchange quietly, and to your absolute horror, there was the faintest hint of delight on his face. 

You looked between the two men. “This is actually my worst nightmare.” 

“Mine too,” Jack muttered before his eyes narrowed slightly when he looked back toward Andrew. “Hold on. You seriously never corrected her?” 

Andrew was quiet as he kept looking at you. “I liked listening to her.” 

Something fluttered in your chest. His words weren’t necessarily romantic, but he said it with such earnest that you couldn’t help but melt a bit. Jack clearly felt something too because his mouth pinched in irritation. You recognized it as the look he got whenever another one of the radiologists flirted with you for too long at the nurses’ station. 

Jack Abbot was reeking with actual jealousy. 

He looked away first, jaw tightening slightly before he exhaled through his nose and pointed vaguely toward the hallway. “Sweetheart.” 

You tore your gaze from Andrew to look at him. “What?” 

“Go do your handoffs.” 

Your brows lifted. “Jack—” 

“Go,” he repeated, still watching Andrew instead of you. “Before Dana starts a manhunt.”

You hesitated, sensing the almost openly hostile vibe Jack was giving off. It was certainly heavy enough that you suddenly felt like you were standing in the middle of something private. Andrew sat watching Jack with the same unreadable stillness while Jack looked back at him with visible suspicion. It genuinely felt like watching two wolves silently size each other up. 

You pointed between them uncertainly. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” 

“No promises,” Jack muttered. 

Your eyes rolled back deeply. “You are unbelievably exhausting.” 

Then, after one last glance toward Andrew and a silent wave goodbye, you slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you. 

Jack crossed his arms slowly over his chest, leaning back against the closed door while studying the man in front of him more carefully now that the initial shock had worn off. Up close, the differences stood out more clearly, but enough resemblance lasted to make the situation deeply irksome. 

Andrew continued to stare, though his lips had quirked up well before you had left the room. 

Jack exhaled sharply and shook his head. “You know, most people would correct someone after the fifth time they got called the wrong name.” 

Andrew’s gaze drifted over his shoulder like he could almost see you through the wooden door. “She was nice. Didn’t want to upset her. She looked like she was enjoying the idea of getting to take care of you.” 

An unpleasantly possessive feeling twisted deep in Jack’s gut at the quiet sincerity of his answer. He understood why the man in front of him had gotten such a reaction from you. Andrew didn’t deflect; he said simple truths in a low steady voice that was somehow worse than flirty in his eyes. 

Jack rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Did you flirt back?” 

Andrew considered the question for a moment. “Didn’t have to since she did all the talking.”  

And to his credit, he didn’t smirk afterward or act smug about it. If anything, he almost looked sad as he stood slowly from the exam bed. Even concussed, he carried himself with a height that made Jack very aware of the man when he moved. Jack puffed his chest out without meaning to, an instinctive reaction to the man who had held your attention for an entire day. 

Andrew stepped close enough that now they both could look each other in the eye at the same height, making Jack almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. 

“You have a good girl,” Andrew said quietly, never looking away from hazel eyes that mirrored his own. “Don’t let someone else get to her first.” 

The fact that Jack could picture you getting swept off your feet by another man felt like a punch directly to his chest. He’d been hiding behind teasing remarks and heavy sarcasm and blatant flirtation because it was easier than admitting how badly he wanted you. He couldn’t fathom the idea of someone, much softer and gentler than he might ever be, taking the chance he was too scared to. Andrew was an example of that man, someone who sat still long enough and quiet enough to let you feel seen and heard without interruption. 

Because while he was falling behind, some concussed stranger who happened to share his exact face had managed to make you blush just by listening carefully. 

Jack stared at Andrew for another long moment before muttering, “You know, I really don’t like this.” 

“Do you not like this because I’m making you uncomfortable? Or do you not like this because I’m finally a wakeup call?” Andrew answered before stepping past him toward the door. 

Jack whirled around. “Where are you going?” 

Andrew opened the door with one hand. “To get discharge papers. Even though I enjoyed hearing her talk, I do not want to sleep in a hospital bed.” He paused. “You could probably go talk to her. Never know if another one of us might waltz through that door.” 

The door swung shut behind him a second later, leaving Jack standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet room. For maybe three seconds, he stayed there staring at the empty doorway before he swore softly under his breath and headed out after you. 

He found you near the nurses’ station halfway through handoff, leaning over a chart while Dana talked beside you. The second you noticed him approaching, your entire expression shifted somewhere between lingering embarrassment and outright panic. He didn’t slow down. 

“Dana,” he interrupted the blond charge nurse mid-sentence. 

She stared at him over her nose. “What?” 

“I need her for a second.” 

Her eyes tracked between him and you for a beat, and disappeared, though not before throwing you a deeply interested look over her shoulder. The moment she was gone, silence settled between you and Jack in a rather awkward way. 

You looked down at your hands. “So.”

“So,” he echoed. 

A soft groan pushed through your lips while your hands covered your face. “I cannot believe I spent an entire afternoon thinking your doppelganger was you with a concussion.” 

“I can’t believe you called him handsome and still thought it was me when he didn’t do anything.” 

“Hey,” you whined, lips jutting in a pout. “I was under emotional distress because I thought you had a severe concussion!” 

“You know he liked you,” Jack teased with a smirk for half a second before his face dropped into a more serious look. “I don’t blame him, though.” 

You swallowed once. “Jack—” 

“I’m serious. And honest? I’m jealous as hell that he got to spend an entire shift with you.” 

Warmth rushed to your face. “You’re jealous of your own face?” 

“I don’t think that was my point, sweetheart.” He stared down at you. “I think I’ve been screwing this up for a while and seeing him just made me very aware of it.” 

Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” he said slowly, “I keep joking around with you because if I actually said what I’ve been feeling, I’d probably mess it all up.” He ran a hand through his curls, almost frustrated by the lack of words to describe his feelings. “I like you,” he admitted finally. “Like . . . really like you.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh softly under your breath in disbelief. “It took your twin from another universe getting a concussion for you to finally say that?” 

“Apparently, yeah.” 

Your smile widened helplessly, and Jack’s gaze briefly dropped to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

The fact that he asked nearly ruined you on the spot. You nodded once before your brain could catch up enough to overthink it. But apparently that’s all Jack needed because the next moment, his warm hands slid carefully against your waist as he pulled you closer. Unlike all the teasing flirtation that existed between you for months, the kiss itself felt so intensely severe your knees almost buckled. 

There were no games, no smug comments, just Jack kissing you like he’d wanted to for a very long time, his concussed double finally being the last straw to do so. 

By the time you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling a little stupidly. 

And somewhere down the hallway, you were almost certain you heard Dana yell, “FINALLY!” 

Brett Richards takes care of the pets like they're royalty.

the man loves his cats (and reader) probably (definitely) more than he loves himself. He is all about using Chewy.com to get food, toys, medications, whatever he wants to get, to be delivered to the house so reader doesn't have to lift a finger. however, he likes when reader gets them small stuff, because their reader's fur babies too, but he's the type to have a list--an actual LIST--of every cat item in his house to make sure that he doesn't buy double. You also know he has the top dollar water dishes (the ones that are basically mini fountains) and beds and scratch pads only for the cats to drink from the sink, sleep on the counters, and use his sofa to claw their little nails into the nice fabric. Jack Abbot plans trips like it's the army.

as an er doctor, he knows that reader misses him lots since they work during the day and he works nights, so taking off time to spend with his loved one is no joke to him. he plans these small trips (or even a sabbatical) months and months in advance. call him type a, make fun of him for his spreadsheets he prints out to read with his glasses, he does. not. care. every moment down to the second is planned. he understands the need for downtime yes, but between him needed action (because this man had ADHD) and reader's boring job, the two enjoy doing lots of activities they normally can't do in Pittsburgh (hiking in Hawaii, markets in Greece, humane safaris in Africa). best know this man is taking reader to places they've always wanted to see and visit. and on top of it all, he's the one paying for it Grant Reilly grocery shops like a middle-age coupon-ing mother.

now, I know what you're thinking, it seems too on the nose for the chef in the house to also buy his groceries, but imagine grant actually prefers reader'"comfort meals" when he gets home. all day he's in a kitchen, and for once, he'd like to be the one to sip on wine and lightly "help" while reader is cooking up a storm. so, because he would rather eat than cook at home, he wants to be the one to buy the things reader needs for their recipes (including new kitchen equipment because if reader thinks they're getting an ordinary pan think again). also, he has to physically go inside the store. there's no such thing as produce pick-up for him. if he can't get his hands on the veggies and fruits to see their freshness, he doesn't want it. Andrew Cody makes playlists like they're personal diaries.

the man spends his time driving get away cars, punching bags till his fists bleed, and cleaning ever inch of his and reader's house. the man's brain has to get too quiet at some point. so when reader complains about never finding the right music, he gets right on carefully selecting songs that go with each task he needs to do. cleaning has to be something upbeat, sunset drives are old school songs, working out happens to be southern gospel music....he literally might even have a playlist that's entirely one song because he needs the repetition to keep pace. he also has one specific one for reader that's compiled of songs that remind him of them. whether the song was on the radio when he was with them or reader mentions they like a song, it's automatically added to the list. he likes to listen to that one when he's away on jobs. Titus Danforth reads like he's auditioning for an audiobook.

titus has pretty much the entire world at his feet, so why would he need to do mundane things when he could just pay (or threaten) someone else to do it for him. however, after he hunts or controls business rooms or argues with Ursula that puts him in a terrible mood, he can always count on reader to be in bed by the end of the day and just listen. he also enjoys reading words that he doesn't have to come up with himself. his brain is on 24/7 and it needs to be, so having something already "written for him to read," he likes the small rest. (and he especially likes it when reader asks him to read the smuttiest books out there which means his nights might end very well iykyk). Charlie Reid handles taxes like unwelcomed business.

the man is a corrupt officer, what else do you expect him to do. if there's one thing he's NOT going to get arrested for, it's tax fraud. he won't let anyone touch his or reader's taxes as long as he lives and breathes. when it's tax season, he specifically takes a day off to make sure everything is in order. is the insurance paid? did it two weeks ago. is the ledger he keeps for purchases up to date? don't you know it. reader specifically likes it because they don't have to pay extra for TurboTax to do it (also because charlie would combust before he let that happen.) all tax documents are already put in weeks before the due date, and he is very happy to get a large tax return (because he made sure all W2 and 1099 forms were submitted correctly) so he can take reader on a special date. Terry McCandless drives like his mother taught him to.

he will rarely ever let reader drive anywhere. if he's going the same place, he will be in that driver's seat. call it southern hospitality or southern manners, he's the man in the house, so his spot is behind the wheel while reader's spot is being a passenger princess no matter what. even if reader works somewhere different, he's going to drive them in his cruiser before work even starts and picks them up during a shift. rain, snow, or shine, he will be at their house on time (again, southern manners that his mom probably beat into him, even if he forgets all good morals while he's on the force). Sammy Bryant brews coffee like an at-home barista.

The first time Jack had seen you read the morning paper after staying over, he thought that might have been a poke at his old age. 

But what else was he supposed to think when you literally stepped outside, grabbed the plastic covered paper, brought it over to the table, and actually opened it, your eyes scanning the lines with careful precision. Every so often, you’d pick your mug up and take a sip of your straight black coffee before going right back to the paper. 

He bit his lip, either to stifle a laugh or stop him from blurting out something so sarcastic it might sound mean.

Instead, he settled on, “You know you don’t have to do that?” 

The paper crinkled as you folded it in half, your sleepy face pinched slightly in confusion. “Do what?” 

“Read the paper,” he responded, running a nervous hand through his curls. “I get that my age is showing, but you don’t have to read the paper.” 

“Oh.” You looked down at the paper before looking back at him. “Um, no, I actually read the paper, honey. It slows my morning. Less phone time, less eye strain, yada yada yada.” 

His eye brows lifted. “Okay.” 

You covered a giggle. “Surprised?” 

Jack shook his head, mouth pulling to the side. “A bit. Just didn’t know people over the age of sixty-five read the paper.” He walked over with two plates full of breakfast food and placed them on the table. 

A hum rumbled through your chest when he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “It’s fine. I know it’s a bit out of the blue, but—” 

“No, sweetheart, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered, groaning as he sat in his chair next to you. “It’s cute; you’re cute.” 

“Thank you.” 

He’d never say it out loud, but he enjoyed seeing the hint of blush rise through your cheeks as he cut through the first bite of pancake. You had been right after all, he though while sitting there. The quiet morning was indeed nice and slow. Without the noise of a doomscroll or messages buzzing, he felt a sense of peace he hadn’t in a long time. He didn’t even care if he couldn’t see your face throughout the breakfast. 

When you finally placed the paper on the table, you smiled over at Jack, leaning in to plant a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for letting me read your paper, honey. My apartment canceled the paper sub two weeks ago.” 

And if Jack Abbot started hoarding his newspapers for the next time you slept over just to see you in your cute oversized glasses wearing just his shirt during breakfast? That was between him and the kid who threw the paper at his door at 6 a.m. 

_______________________

Now, the morning paper had been one thing, but Jack seeing you pull out a flip phone of all things was another. He couldn’t possibly comprehend the hot pink bedazzled thing you took from your scrub pocket and held between your fingers. Hell, he didn’t even know the last time he used a flip phone. 

And he guessed he wasn’t the only one to noticed since Trinity stopped a few steps away and gawfed loudly, causing you to look up at her. 

“What?” you asked. “Never seen one of these?” 

Trinity rolled her eyes. “Only in movies that got released in like 2000-something. Why are you using that?”

You sighed rather loudly. “My iPhone fell in a puddle, and I needed something quick and easy. This bad boy was less than two-hundred bucks at Walmart, and I had a few rhinestones hanging around and thought why not.”  

The resident stepped closer and rounded your body, now peering over your shoulder. “How do you even type with that?” 

“You just push the button until you get to the letter you want.” Jack watched you demonstrate. “And then send it off. See, not that hard. Rotary phones are kind of the same way—” 

“Rotary phones?” Trinity giggled. “What are you, fifty-two?” 

Jack caught the way you glanced at him. 

“Nah, I’m sixty and some change.” 

Trinity followed your eyes. “Hear that, Dr. Abbot? You got yourself a cougar.” 

He chuckled softly and shook his head. “Basically a cradle robber at this point.” 

The flip phone shut with a click before it disappeared back into your pocket, and for some reason, Jack was sad to see it go. Not that he was happy your iPhone was broken (he was already planning to upgrade it for you), but seeing you with something so simple and personalized, it was almost healing to his soul in a way. 

His late wife had had a flip phone. 

It wasn’t sparkle-ified like yours, quite the opposite actually. He remembered the black, scratchy feeling of the plastic whenever he needed to use it. If he thought long about it, he would remember that the same phone is sitting dead in his bedside drawer. The phone that was now in your pocket must have been a sign for something.

When Trinity walked away, he took the opportunity to side up next to you, arm brushing yours in a soft, controlled motion. “Am I going to have to ask you for your number again?” he teased. 

You scrunched your face in mock contemplation. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around since I robbed your cradle?” 

His arm raised and wrapped around your shoulder tightly, bringing you into his side. “My favorite cougar. What’s next? Am I going to be your sugar baby?” 

“Ew, Jack!” you squealed. “Not when you practically beg me to use your credit card all the time.” 

“What can I say, baby. I like taking care of my girl.” 

_______________________

In the middle of a massive cyber-attack after getting shot at was not the time for Jack to be so endeared by you to the point he wanted to squeeze you like one of those squishy dogs where the eyes pop out of socket. 

He handled the newspaper well, the flip phone even better (he thinks). However, nothing—and he really means nothing could have prepared him for the utter glee on your face when Dana hauled a fax machine out of nowhere. 

The machine had made a booting up noise, to which the newest shadowing-nurse Emma had questioned what it was. 

Dana, in all her spare sarcasm and patience, responded with, “UFO landed. Aliens are invading,” as she placed a paper into the slot. 

Jack had pointed at it with a large smirk. “That is a fax machine.” 

Joy, one of Robby’s new daytime residents, peered over it at like it personally offended her. “They still make those?” 

You giggled slightly. “I love fax machines.” 

Jack had barely heard you say that over the chaos of everything, but he still turned toward you with a questioning look. “When on earth did you learn to run a fax machine?” 

“Probably around the same time you were still writing charts by feathered quill and candle light.” 

That earned a snort from every person born before 1990 in the room. Even Robby looked surprised by the quip that had flown out of your mouth. Jack at least looked a bit stunned before he shook it off. 

“Careful, dear. I think I just heard your newspaper quiver.” 

“And I think I just heard your heated blanket frizz out.” 

Joy blinked over at you before looking at Jack. “I like her.” 

By the time Jack glanced over at you, you were already moving to help Dana run the fax machine, your hands carefully placing papers in the top to run through. He couldn’t help the smile that formed across his face. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

_______________________

Some days, life was just hard. 

Jack knew that better than most. His shift had been filled with loss after loss after loss to the point he wanted to leave halfway through just to catch a break. Thankfully by sunrise, the Pitt wasn’t his problem anymore, but then his mind remembered that Robby was still on sabbatical, and his mood dropped even further. 

However, the moment he stepped inside and the smell of a plethora of baked goods hit his nose, he almost melted right then and there at the threshold. He paused, taking in the sight of his crutches that definitely were by the bed he left last night. You must have moved them for him with some supernatural ability to sense that he’d want his prosthesis off immediately. He couldn’t even hold in the groan that rumbled through his chest the minute his stump was free to hang in the air. 

“Jack?” you called out. 

“Yeah, baby,” he grunted. “It’s me.” 

His crutched clicked against the flooring in rhythmic sounds. The closer he got to the kitchen, the sweeter the smell got. His hazel eyes widened at the sight of his counter. Small loaves, cookies, and even a pie rested against the granite. He wondered how early you’d been up, because one glance to the clock on the oven told him it wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet. 

“What’s all this?” he asked, crutching closer to you. 

You gently smiled and wrapped your arms around his middle, not caring that he still smelled like hospital and sweat. “Woke up antsy. Needed to get my mind off stuff.” 

Jack carefully leaned his crutches against the counter and held you close. “Wanna talk about it?” 

A sigh pushed through your lungs. “My grandpa died around this time a few years ago, and I always miss him a lot.” You sniffed quietly. “He practically raised me. Guess he’s the influence as to why I do a bunch of old people stuff.” 

He stayed quiet while you talked, absorbing every word carefully. 

“He always drank his coffee black; said the frou-frou stuff wasn’t necessary when you knew how to make a good cup of joe.” You laughed softly, the sound full of fondness. “He never knew how to use a smart phone, and I’d always want to play with the buttons on his.” Your cheek pressed into Jack’s chest so hard you could feel his heartbeat against your skin. “Fax machine too. Could never get a computer to work, so I started faxing things over when I wanted to talk to him, especially when it got really bad, and he couldn’t move much.” 

Jack felt your shoulders raise just a bit before falling back down. 

“I miss him a lot.” 

Tears pricked your eyes when he kissed your forehead before leaning down to press one to your lips. When he pulled back, you were startled to see tears in his own eyes. 

“He sounds like a good man,” he whispered. “And I am so glad for the little things that you do.” 

The next sound out of your mouth sounded like a watery chuckle. “Yeah? You don’t care that I act like I’m thirty years older than I actually am?” 

Jack shook his head. “Just means you got an old soul, sweetheart. And there’s nothing wrong with that.” He hugged you tighter. “Absolutely nothing.” 

The bullpen was unusually quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, the kind of lull that settled over the station when everyone was either out chasing leads or buried beneath enough paperwork to make conversation feel like extra work. The overhead lights filled empty spaces while phone calls and distant voices drifting in from another room. You sat at your desk with a half-finished report open and front of you, through your attention had long since wandered elsewhere. 

Namely, to Sammy Bryant. 

He, like your other fellow detectives, sat across the room hunched forward as he stared at a case file. His tie had been loosened hour ago, sleeves rolled up his thick arms, and there was a deep crease between his brows that hadn’t left all day. You weren’t even sure he’d touched the lunch he’d brought that morning. 

It wasn’t necessarily unusual for him to be this way. Lately, nothing about Sammy looked easy, especially when his phone rang and rang and rang and rang and—

The flip phone next to him started buzzing loudly on his desk, and you watched the change happen before he ever reached for it. 

A minute earlier, he’d been laser focused on the report in front of him, distracted enough that he’d nearly missed the call altogether. Then his eyes narrowed, almost like he knew exactly who was calling—he did—and whatever small amount of peace he’d managed to find over the course of his afternoon disappeared completely. Tension returned to his shoulders so quickly you almost winced as it settled like a familiar weight. You noticed that he didn’t look annoyed, because you of all people had seen Sammy annoyed way too many times. An annoyed Sammy usually came with a sarcastic comment, a muttered complaint, and a dramatic roll of his eyes that had always been capable of drawing a laugh from your chest. 

Annoyed Sammy never looked as exhausted as the one across from you did as he answered the phone. He had the kind of expression people wore when they already knew how a conversation was going to end before it had even begun. 

You lowered your gaze back down toward your report, not wanting him to catch you watching, though your ears remained turned toward the other side of the room. Eavesdropping was never intentional; at least that was what you told yourself. 

But you were a detective. 

Being nosey was part of the job description even if it wasn’t explicitly written in the fine print of your contract. It was simply difficult not to pay attention when Sammy spent so much of his day carrying the weight of everyone around him and so little time allowing anyone to carry any of his. 

“Hey, Tammi,” he said after opening his phone, voice gentle like it always was. 

You never understood how he managed to do it. 

The response that crackled through the speaker wasn’t loud enough for you to make out every word, but it was loud enough that you caught the tone: sharp, frustrated, and accusatory. Whatever was going on, it clearly wasn’t any good. 

Sammy listened for nearly thirty seconds before speaking again. “No, I know.” He paused, sighing quietly away from the speaker. “I know.” His eyes squeezed shut tightly, and the fingers of his free hand drummed once against the desk before curling into a fist. “No, that’s not what I said.” 

Around him, the station continued moving as if nothing was happening, as if Sammy arguing with Tammi was a normal part of the schedule (which, in a way, it was). Nate looked unphased as he flipped another page of whatever he was looking through. Behind you, the printer whirred to life and spat out a few pages. The normal rhythm of the day continued uninterrupted while Sammy sat perfectly at his desk, absorbing every word coming through that receiver like a man standing in the rain with no intention of finding shelter. 

You hated that. 

People got upset; Tammi got upset. Relationships, romantic or not, were always known to at least have a few complications down the line. 

What you hated was that their conversations never sounded like two people solving a problem together and always sounding like one person apologize for existing. 

Sammy huffed. “Tammi, I was working a homicide. I let you know that I’d be late hours earlier to make sure that you were aware.” A pause. “No, I can’t just up and leave in the middle of a case just because you made dinner for once! Why would you even make that when you knew—” 

His voice remained calm even if there was a detection of strain beneath it. He had the careful balancing act of a man choosing every word with surgical precision because one wrong phrase would turn an argument into a war. For the next several moments, he didn’t speak at all, simply listening to her go on and on while his expression grew tighter and tighter. When he finally leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face, you found yourself wondering when the last time had been that you’d seen him look genuinely happy. 

The answer disturbed you because you couldn’t remember, and it made things worse when you were sure Sammy probably didn’t remember either. 

His gaze drifted briefly across the room, hazel eyes landing on nothing in particular, and for just a second, you caught a glimpse that washed over into defeat. It made your heart hurt. 

Sammy Bryant was one of the better guys you knew. He was polite, never throwing around crude remarks about women like the rest of the men of the LAPD seemed to do. He was loyal to a wife that seemed to loathe his existence while your boss was running around with another woman behind his wife that actually loved him. And while he might not have been the dictionary definition of hot with his stomach pudge that spilled over his belt and puffy cheeks that grew when he ate, you found him endearingly handsome, someone you wouldn’t mind taking to meet your parents. 

Your lips tugged into a frown at the thought. 

He remained frozen in place; eyes fixated on some invisible point on his desk. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his chair backwards, hand now rubbing the back of his neck in smooth motions, his skin bunching under his thick fingers. A beat later, he pushed himself to his feet and disappeared toward the break room. 

“I don’t know how he deals with her,” Nate muttered after briefly glancing up at you. 

Your pen caught between your teeth. “He loves her.” 

He snorted in response. “I think love flew out the window a long time ago. He deals with her cause she’s familiar. He needs to go find someone for a night.” 

Your eyes rolled far into your head. “Sammy’s not that kind of guy, Nate. He’s loyal unlike the rest of you pigs.” 

Across from you, Russell coughed your name loudly. “Tell us how you really feel.” 

“Oh we’d be here all day if you let me,” you said with a large smirk. 

“Amen, sista,” Lydia called out as she passed. 

Nate finally looked at you for more than a second. “So, you’re saying you’d rather have our Sammy boy here miserable for the rest of his life with that woman?” 

“That’s not what I said,” you shot back, eyes going back down to your report. 

By the time Sammy returned, he was carrying a fresh cup of coffee; you’d lost count if that was his third or fifth. The cup joined his growing collection of bad coping mechanisms as he settled heavily into his chair once more, fingers reaching for a case file despite the fact that he hadn’t even finished the last one. 

“You’re gonna give yourself a stomach ulcer,” you called out, eyes still cast downward.

He blinked up at you. “What?” 

You pointed your pen toward the coffee. “That.” 

“Oh.” A tired laugh bubbled. “Pretty sure I’m already past that point.” 

“How’s the missus?” Nate asked, earning him a glare from you. 

Sammy shrugged indifferently. “Same old, same old. Feels like lately everything I do pisses her off.” He started listing with his fingers. “I’m working too much, but if I’m home, I’m not helping enough.” Another finger. “If I’m helping, I’m doing it wrong.” Another. “If I miss a call because I’m working, it’s because I’m shaking up with woman; or, if I answer the call while I’m working, she gets mad because I should be more focused.” 

You truly wondered if he was going to run out of fingers. 

Nate let out a low whistle. “If you’re shaking up while I’m driving, let me know next time, man.” 

At least his partner was able to paint a small smile on Sammy’s face, his cheeks pushing up to partly hide his eyes. 

“You ever try not trying so hard?” you found yourself asking before you could stop yourself, and even Sammy looked shocked that you had. “Don’t give me that look, Bryant.” 

He shook his head. “I’m not giving you a look.” 

“You’re definitely giving me a look.” You pushed back slightly from your desk. “Look, if trying so hard gets you in trouble, what will not trying look like? Instead of giving your all to a woman who seems to not appreciate it, why not put that energy into yourself?” 

“You always hand out life advice like a shrink, L/n?” Nate asked before you threw him a middle finger. 

Sammy stayed quiet, almost as if were mulling over your advice. He clicked his pen a few times before setting it down. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asked, a bit quieter. “What if it all just stays the same.”

You tilted your head. “Then I guess it’s time for a bigger change until something sticks.”

“Did you ever have to change?” 

A loud snort flew from your nose. “How do you think I ended up here in this dump?” 

“Hey!” 

“Shut it, Moretta,” you snapped. “LA is a dump, and you know it.” A sigh pressed from your lungs. “My last job wasn’t doing too much for me, so I tried a bunch of different things until I found something that worked.” 

Sammy looked entirely unimpressed. “Being a homicide detective in Los Angeles was it for you?” 

“It was.” You went back to scribbling something on your report before standing from your chair. You lightly tapped him with the stack of papers as you passed. “You’ll find yours soon enough.” 

You didn’t know, but Sammy’s eyes tracked you until you disappeared around the corner, his chest blooming with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. When he looked over to Nate, the man was already wiggling his eyebrows at him. 

“Think that’s her signal man. She wants youuuuuu,” he teased, eyes alight with humor. 

Sammy scoffed. “She does not. Knock it off.” 

Nate held up his hands in surrender. “Whatever floats your boat. Just saying she won’t be available for much longer. Not when she looks like that.” 

Before Sammy could really think about it, Nate’s phone buzzed. His partner jumped to his feet and nodded his head toward the door. Sammy scrambled to his feet, hands grabbing at his suit coat on the way out. 

But even as they rushed down the freeway, your words were stuck in his head. 

_______________________

The call was nothing special, and by the time you arrived on scene, patrol had already secured the area, the initial statements had been collected, and all that remained was the tedious process of sorting through details. You knew this was going to be the kind of case that filled far more paperwork that excitement, and as you climbed out of your car into the hot California sun with your badge clipped to your waist and a clipboard tucked under one arm, you found yourself mentally calculating how long it would take before you could reasonably justify grabbing lunch from the Mexican stand on the way back to the precinct. 

Sweat trickled down your back and made your blouse stick slightly to your skin as you approached the cluster of officers gathered near the patrol cars. Most of the officers loitering around were unfamiliar faces since enough transfers and promotions had shuffled people around that it felt like every week brought someone new in during the past several months. You barely glanced at them, wanting nothing more to do than get this case translated into paperwork to do at your desk with decent AC. 

But then, your attention snagged on a familiar laugh, and the sound stopped you before your brain caught up. For a second you simply stood there, gaze searching through the gaggle until your eyes landed on the source once before looking away. 

Every muscle in your body went tense because there was absolutely no way that the man laughing was Sammy Bryant. You took another look, and then another before you finally let your eyes roam over him. 

That was definitely Sammy Bryant, with the same brownish-red hair, the same crooked-toothed smile, the same easy way he carried himself when talking to people. That man was the same man you’d spent years knowing and silently pining after. 

Yet, at the same time, somehow, he wasn’t the same man at all either. 

You stared at him all dressed in his uniform. 

The sight wasn’t that jeering; you knew he’d transferred to patrol almost a year ago. But it was the fact that it fit him differently than his suits ever did. Where his button-up shirts always pushed out across his stomach before disappearing into his pants, the blue fabric ran almost loose and straight down below his utility belt, soft plush around his hips completely gone. His face also looked leaner; jaw more defined every time his neck stretched just slightly. His arms bulged in places that hadn’t before, and instead of fat around his biceps, your eyes traced the distinct muscle lines instead. Even his skin held a darker tint from being outside more, a large comparison to the whiter shade he had while the majority of his time had been spent at a desk. 

In simple terms, he looked absolutely delicious. 

However, that wasn’t what kept your attention. 

Plenty of people lost weight; plenty of people changed how they looked; plenty of people seemed to be happier after a big change. 

The thing that nearly knocked the breath out of you was how happy he looked. 

Long gone was the crease that you used to trace when it showed between his brows. His shoulders weren’t hunched. His smile actually reached his eyes. Even standing under the hotter-than-hell sun in a patrol uniform dealing with a tedious call, he somehow looked mentally lighter than you’d ever seen him, like somebody had finally removed a weight he’d been carrying for years. 

“And then, I told him to drop the gun, and you know what he did? He fell to the ground and then dropped it,” Sammy’s voice boomed through the small group, earning a few chuckles from his fellow officers. 

“Hey, Bryant, you gotta bomb ass snack detective staring at you,” one of them said. “Did you get a girlfriend and forget to tell us?” 

Sammy’s brow pinched in confusion, and his head snapped over in your direction. Unfortunately, you weren’t fast enough to look away in time and continued to stare right at him. For a split second, you wondered if he’d pretend to not notice and go back to joshing with his friend. But then, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. 

He said your name so loudly and genuine that your heart literally fluttered. “Hey!” 

He excused himself from the group without hesitation and started toward you; the officers sent out a few cat calls and jumbled garbage, but Sammy looked like a man on a mission. The closer he got, the more your cheeks flushed under his sunglasses-covered eyes. 

The patrol uniform should not have been doing whatever it was doing. His sleeves were tight around his biceps. His radio rested against his shoulder and wavered with every step. His hand—left hand you noted was missing a silver band—reached up and tugged the sunglasses off his face and tucked them in a slat between buttons. 

Above all, your brain stopped functioning when Sammy stopped in front of you, arms raising like he wanted to bring you in for a hug before dropping back down to his thighs. 

“I didn’t know you’d been called,” he said, grin still wide as ever. “Thought this’d be handed off to Gil or Ben.” 

When you failed to say anything, still staring up at him with intense eyes that made him want to melt, his smile dropped a bit. “You okay? Did someone say anything to you?” His eyes glanced over toward the group. “Those guys were just joking—” 

“Bryant.” 

He blinked rapidly. “Yes?” 

You raked your eyes over him for good measure. “When did you get so fucking hot?” 

As the world slowed down around you, for one second you seriously considered throwing yourself into traffic during busy hour. An officer who had hear chocked on his coffee. When Sammy seemed stunned before he burst out laughing. His head dropped back, and the noise was loud enough to draw attention from half the squad nearby. 

“That’s one way to say hello,” he snickered. 

You shoved weakly at his shoulder, briefly feeling the tight muscle underneath. “Just wasn’t expecting Sammy Bryant turned Adonis. I’m guessing patrol has been good to you?”

He smiled shyly. “Just doin’ what you told me to. Did a lot of changing before I found something that stuck.” 

“I’m glad,” you breathed through a wide smile. “You look good, Sammy.” 

He tisked and shook his head. “I think I recall you saying hot specifically?” 

“I think you recall incorrectly, officer. Maybe need to get your hearing checked if you want to continue field work.” 

From behind you, someone shouted your name, causing you to turn away from Sammy for a split second. Your partner waved you over with a head tilt toward the body on the ground. You held up your pointer before looking back at Sammy. 

“Duty calls, I guess,” you muttered. “But it was good to see you.” 

You took one step back before Sammy’s hand jutted out and caught your forearm between his large fingers. He had a nervous look on his face, tongue peeking out to wet his lips. 

“We both have work, but uh, would you want to argue over what you called me during dinner?” 

Your head bobbed before you could stop it. “Hope your phone still has my number. Call me when you’re off shift.” 

A blush crept up his neck. “I will.” 

“Then I will see you very soon, Officer Bryant.” 

Sammy couldn’t help but laugh softly as you sauntered away, hips swaying under your dress pants that—in his opinion—hugged your figure in the best ways. When he turned back toward his buddies, the whole lot hooting and hollering at him, he couldn’t wipe away the smile that spanned his face entirely. 

He’d missed you during this season of finding himself, your words always ringing in his ears as he stopped arguing, as he signed the divorce papers, as he chose to leave detective work and join patrol, as he walked over to say hi after not seeing you for close to a year, and finally as you blurted you thought he was hot even if you denied it right after. 

Sammy missed out on a lot of things, but this time, he wasn’t going to miss out on you.

_______________________

“Fuck, Sammy,” you whined as his lips pressed deeply into your neck. 

Dinner had been a wonderful ordeal; almost right out of a dream you’d almost given up on. Sammy had picked you up, brought you flowers, paid for the meal, and offered to walk you back up to your door. 

Which, in hindsight, you should have known it wouldn’t take long for you to invite him inside or even longer for him to crowd you into the nearest wall and have his way with you. 

Your fingers shook as they unbuttoned his shirt one by one before they tentatively grazed across his now-visible abs. The sound you pulled from his lips—a small whimper—made you crave him even more. While you were busy mapping his body under your palms, Sammy was busy attacking your jaw and neck, tongue lapping to taste your perfume you’d sprayed hours earlier. 

“Do you wanna give up and say that you think I’m hot now?” he teased in a hot breath. “Or should I cuff you and get my confession that way? Would you like that? Couldn’t ever do this when I was a detective.” He groaned loudly when your hands squeezed his pecks. “Didn’t imagine I could have you like this.” 

The idea of him placing the cold, metal bracelets around your wrists shouldn’t have turned you on as much as it did, but just thinking of Sammy that way had you tightening your legs around his hips. 

Drunk on the feeling of him, you couldn’t help the next sentence that flowed from your loose lips as your head thunked against the wall. 

“Could have,” you panted. “Wanted you even back then, but you were married, and I’m not a homewrecker. Always thought you were handsome, Sammy.” 

He froze against you; his face tucked into your shoulder. You took the moment to lower yourself back down to the floor and place your hands on his face, fingers gently pulling him away so you could look into his confused eyes. 

“What?” he asked. “What do you mean you wanted me back then.” 

You licked your lips. “Sammy, you were happy, and I—” 

“I wasn’t happy,” he interrupted. “Far from it. Only fucking time I was happy was when I got to see you at work, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes fell down to your shoes. “Sammy.” 

He pressed his forehead against yours. “Thought about you all the time,” he whispered. “You were always there. Been kicking myself for letting you slip through my fingers. I really thought that when I could get in shape and get in a better place, I could have you; I could deserve you.” 

That had you looking back up at him with a frown. “No, Sammy, no.” Your hands dragged down his front and settled under the flaps of his shirt against his warm skin. “That’s not—that was never it. I was never going to overstep, but Sammy, please understand it took everything against myself to not jump you in the bullpen.” 

In that moment, a wave of humiliation washed through you, but Sammy looked absolutely delighted at your confession. He dipped back down and pressed his lips back against yours. You quickly reciprocated it and opened your lips to let his tongue dive into your mouth. Air was sadly a necessity, causing you to pull back panting. 

“So,” you gasped. “You said something about handcuffs.” 

Sammy smirked wildly, and in the next moment, you were squealing as he hoisted you over his shoulder, stalking to your bedroom with intent. 

Time for naked twister you reasoned. The plot thickens.