Princess

The metallic tang of adrenaline coats your tongue, sharp and cold. One second, a chill creeps up your legs, the next, your heart is a frantic percussion against your ribs. It’s a physical rebellion, a body reacting to a scenario it was never wired to expect.

First of all, you never imagined yourself in this situation, because everything in your life pointed to the opposite. And if we’re being honest, you have a long and lasting history with the word “marriage.”

You grew up in a house where love sounded like raised voices and doors closing too hard. Where you learned to turn Hannah Montana up loud enough to drown out the arguments downstairs. You didn’t need anyone to explain what was wrong, you could see it in the way your parents spoke to each other, like they were always keeping score, like winning mattered more than understanding.

When they separated, people said it would be better. It was supposed to be simple, one weekend here, one weekend there, a rhythm you could get used to. Something stable.

Supposed to be.

Your mother treated new relationships like life rafts, clinging to anyone who could drown out her own silence. Your father took to the open road, chasing the ghosts of a college dream he claimed the marriage had stolen from him.

By fourteen, you had mastered the art of self-sufficiency. By sixteen, you had learned to mourn your first heartbreak in a vacuum, crying until dawn without expecting a hand on your shoulder. 

Independence wasn’t something you chose. It was something that grew around you, like a shell.

Your mother was growing increasingly distant, living the life she had perhaps always longed for. You were just a pawn in her game, one she’d left on the sidelines. You saw your father cry alone in his car after a weekend with him, knowing his life was forever ruined.

And it took many years of therapy and self-care to grow up and break free from the chains that trauma of that magnitude can impose on a human being.

It’s confusing, actually. Even later, in college, when things were supposed to feel different, you carried it with you. Relationships never quite settled. You were there, but never fully. Close, but never close enough. People noticed, like they always do.

For a long time, you wondered if something in you had been built wrong.

It took years—real ones, slow ones—to understand that it wasn’t a flaw. It was a defense. Something that had once kept you safe, even if it kept everything else out too.

That rift only began to heal when you joined the PTMC. A few years of residency were all it took to meet the person who would change your life in irreversible ways.

Everything you believed about love—the idea that it was temporary, something people held onto to soften whatever was missing inside them—started to lose its shape when Abbot came into your life. Sneaky and deliberate, he did exactly what you feared most: reached your heart.

With a tenderness and ease you never imagined possible.

Jack didn’t try to break down the walls, he simply sat outside them until you were ready to open the door. He offered a quiet, steady presence that didn't demand you perform or "fix" yourself.

He noticed things, but he didn’t make a spectacle of them. The way you hesitated before trusting something good. The way you sometimes pulled back without explaining why. He never chased you for answers, you think that’s why you started offering them.

With him, it wasn’t about intensity, it was about consistency. About the quiet, almost unfamiliar feeling of being understood without having to explain everything.

And somehow, without you realizing exactly when it changed, being with him stopped feeling like something you had to manage. It just felt… easy.

That’s why, a year and a half into something you kept mostly to yourselves—built in quiet hours, in late-night walks and coffee left untouched on his kitchen counter—Jack knew.

It wasn’t a realization that arrived all at once. It settled in gradually, until one day it simply felt certain.

It happened on a cold morning in December. The kind of cold that seeps into the windows and lingers. You were in his kitchen, moving around each other with an ease that had become second nature, the sound of something simmering low on the stove, the light outside dimmed by steady snowfall.

You asked him to pass the salt.

Something slid across the marble. You reached for it without looking, already half-turned back to the stove, but what you felt wasn’t glass or metal. It was smaller and smooth. Closed in your hand.

When you looked up, Jack was already watching you.

He stood there in a worn sweatshirt, grey hair slightly out of place, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after running his hands through it one too many times. There was no performance in him, no buildup. Just that quiet, almost careful expression he got when something mattered.

The box in your hand felt heavier once you understood what it was.

For a second, you didn’t move. And it's not because you didn’t know the answer, but because some part of you was still catching up, trying to reconcile this moment with the version of your life where this never happened.

And yet, there you were.

He didn’t make a speech. He didn’t need to. The question was simple when it came, steady in the same way he had always been with you. You said yes with the stove still on, with the wind pressing faintly against the windows, with everything around you continuing as if nothing had changed.

But it had.

It was so ordinary it almost felt unreal. No grand gesture, no perfect timing—just the two of you, in a space that had slowly become shared, choosing each other out loud.

When he slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were warm, grounding. You noticed, distantly, the way his breath caught, nothing dramatic, but enough to give him away. As if this meant more to him than he had expected it to.

And it did.

Your vision blurred before you could stop it. Not from shock, not from fear, just from the weight of the moment, from the quiet certainty of being there, of being chosen, of choosing back.

And what an irony to find the love of your life where you were least expecting it.

A kind of love that doesn’t try to convince you it exists.

Because that’s what Jack was like—loving him was easy and unquestioning. After a lifetime of wondering if love really exists, if that word, “love,” is actually something that exists, and not just a term rooted in the depths of the human soul to fill the gaps of emotions and paradoxes, you were certain you had found the answer. But there isn’t one. Not a single, clear answer.

What exists are the ways people show up. The small, consistent choices. The things they do without thinking, because it comes naturally to them. And with Jack, the answer revealed itself like that, quietly, without asking for your attention.

In the way he looks at you, soft and focused, like he’s still a little surprised by you. In the offhand “great job” that started as nothing and somehow became everything. In the coffee cups he leaves by your charts, marked with uneven smiley faces that shouldn’t matter as much as they do. 

It’s there when his hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers fitting together like they’ve learned the shape by memory. In the way he pulls you close, firm and grounding, like he doesn’t intend to let go anytime soon. Or how his eyes search for you wherever you are. In the kisses that carry more feeling than urgency, in the quiet confession of I love you that never sounds rehearsed, never sounds uncertain.

Those lazy, golden mornings where he’d pull you back into the covers, his arms a protective circle around you, squeezing just enough to let you know he wasn't letting go. The passionate frenzy that followed when he buried himself inside you, all sweat and lust. It was the ultimate dismantling of your walls. Skin against skin. For the first time, you didn't feel the need to remain distant.

So yes, it was easy to love him and even easier, somehow, to believe that he loved you too.

Jack didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t try to be more than he was.

He was just there. And for you, that was everything.

So, life in the ER was still hectic, and you were trying to find the right moment to approach Robby. You focused on your screen, typing up charts with more force than necessary, pretending your attention was fully there. It wasn’t. Every few seconds, your gaze drifted, tracking Robby as he danced through the room, stopping, answering, adjusting, always in motion.

“If you press any harder, that keyboard might give up on you.” Dana slid into place beside you, already flipping through her own paperwork, glasses perched low on her nose.

You blinked, only now noticing the tension in your hands. You eased your fingers, exhaling quietly, then glanced back toward Robby, who was deep in conversation with Whitaker.

“Is everything alright, dear?” Dana asked, peering at you over the rim of her glasses.

“No. Actually, yes. Maybe.”

She gave you a look. “That sounds promising.”

You hesitated, then let it out before you could overthink it. “I need to talk to Robby. I just—don’t know how to start.”

“Sweetheart, just rip the band-aid off already, whatever it is. That old man likes things straight and clear as day. You might want to do it soon, though. Before his sabbatical.”

You turned to her fully. “His what?”

“Oh.” She shrugged lightly. “He’ll be gone for a while. Didn’t you hear? So it’ll just be us holding things together.”

Something in your chest tightened, not panic, not quite urgency, but close enough.

You pushed your chair back. “Okay. I’ll do it now.”

“Good for you,” Dana murmured, already back to her charts.

The noise of the ER swallowed you again as you stepped away from the hub. You spotted Robby a few feet ahead, catching him just as Javadi stood frozen in front of him, her expression unreadable. Then she turned abruptly, walking off with Whitaker without a word.

Robby exhaled, and only then did you notice it, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, sharp against his skin.

“Um, Robby?”

“Yes?” he replied, the word edged with fatigue as he shifted his attention to you.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

He checked his watch, then reached for a clipboard a nurse handed him mid-sentence, signing it quickly before looking back up. “Did something happen?”

“No, but… could we talk somewhere private?”

This time, he really looked at you. The tiredness in his features was more apparent up close, his white hair only making it harder to ignore. You swallowed, steadying yourself.

After a brief pause, he nodded toward the break room. You moved first, not giving yourself time to reconsider, trusting that he’d follow.

The door clicked shut, and just like that, the noise of the ER dulled into something distant.

Robby crossed his arms, then motioned for you to sit.

Up close, the nerves were harder to ignore. This wasn’t just any conversation. The man in front of you had been there at the beginning, when everything felt uncertain, when you were still learning how to stand your ground. He had steadied you more times than you could count, sometimes without even realizing it.

There was a kind of respect there that went beyond hierarchy. Something quieter and lasting. 

“Should I be worried?” he asked.

“No—no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just… something else.”

He nodded once. “Alright. I’m listening.”

You drew in a breath, holding onto it for a second before letting it go. “You know that Jack and I… we’re together.”

Robby’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of confusion passing through his expression.

“I promise this is going somewhere,” you added, almost smiling. “I just—I wanted to say that I’m really grateful. For everything. Since my first day here. You’ve… you’ve done more than you had to, and I don’t think I ever said that properly.”

He watched you quietly, not interrupting.

“And with Jack,” you continued, “I know it hasn’t exactly been… simple. So thank you for letting us have that space. For not making it harder than it already was.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, something softer settling in his features. “You’re a good doctor,” he said. “I did what anyone in my position should do.” A brief pause. “Is everything alright between you two?”

“Yes,” you said, and this time it came easier. “It is. That’s actually… why I’m here.”

You let the next words come without overthinking them.

“We’re getting married.”

For a moment, he didn’t react. Not in any obvious way. Then it caught up to him slowly. A small smile, a quiet breath that turned into something close to a laugh as he ran a hand over his face.

“Well,” he said, looking back at you, “congratulations. I’m glad to hear it.” His expression softened further. “I hope you both are happy.”

“I am. We are!” you answered, and meant it. “But there’s… one more thing.”

That made him pause.

“I’ve never really talked about my parents,” you began, your voice steady but quieter now. “It’s… complicated. They’re not… involved. And they won’t be there.” You let out a short breath, something between a laugh and an exhale. “I think I always knew that would be the case.”

Robby didn’t interrupt. He just listened.

“So,” you went on, the words coming a little faster now, before you could second-guess them, “I was wondering—only if you’d be comfortable with it, and it’s completely okay if not, but it would mean a lot to me if…”

You faltered, then shook your head, a small, nervous laugh slipping out.

“If you walked me down the aisle.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. Robby stands frozen. He just looked at you, like he was trying to understand if he’d heard you correctly.

“It’s really okay if you don’t want to,” you added quickly. “I just thought—”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“Do you want me to do that?”

There was something in his voice now. Something closer to disbelief.

“Yes,” you said, more firmly this time. “I do.”

“Me?”

And then it settled.

“Robby,” you said gently, “you’re very important to me. There isn’t anyone else I would ask.” You hesitated for only a second. “When I picture it… you’re there.”

That did it.

His expression shifted, slowly at first, then all at once. His eyes glossed over, not dramatically, but enough to give him away. For a man who carried so much without showing it, the reaction was quiet and unmistakable.

It took him a moment.

Then he stood, closing the distance between you, hands coming to your shoulders before pulling you into an embrace.

“Of course,” he said, his voice lower now. “Of course I will.”

You nodded against him, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. When you stepped back, you both took a second, like you needed it.

“Thank you,” you said, softer this time.

He gave a small nod, still collecting himself.

You turned toward the door, your hand already on the handle, ready to step back into everything waiting outside.

“Oh—” you added, glancing back, “you’ll be back in time, right?”

“For what?” he asked, a trace of confusion returning.

“Your sabbatical. Dana mentioned it.” You shrugged lightly. “You’ll be back for the wedding?”

There was a flicker of something in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible.

“Yes,” he said. “I will.”

You smiled, something lighter settling in your chest now.

“Good,” you murmured. “Thank you, Robby.”

“Look at you,” Robby said, reaching up to straighten Jack’s bow tie. “All sharp and polished, didn’t think I’d see the day.”

Jack didn’t laugh. He was too aware of everything, his hands, slightly damp, the tightness in his chest, the way his heartbeat refused to settle into anything steady.

“Fuck off,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead as he adjusted the tie again, even though it was already straight.

Especially Jack, who’s a bundle of nerves with his heart practically in his throat. Outside, the scene is set: rows of white wooden chairs occupied by a handful of friends and Jack’s few relatives. All gathered for a small, intimate celebration at a house in the countryside, a place you found at the last minute when Whitaker—who freaked out when he discovered the whole thing—let you know it was available and not too far from the city.

“Damn! Looking good, Dr. Abbot!” Santos practically shouted as she entered the house, where you were getting ready.

Jack let out a low, disapproving sound under his breath, which only made Robby chuckle.

“They don’t know when to stop,” Jack said.

“No,” Robby replied, glancing over with a faint smile, “they really don’t.”

Then they looked at each other, an exchange that said so much—a partnership of years, a recognition that only two people who’ve been through hell on earth can share. There was history there. Years of it. The kind that didn’t need to be explained, only recognized. It passed between them in a glance—everything they had seen, everything they had carried, side by side.

Jack had been trying to hold back the tears in his eyes all morning, besides having his nerves on edge, he wanted to stay composed and save all his tears for when you walked down the aisle.

“I’m happy for you, brother,” Robby said, pulling him into a firm embrace, his hand coming up to pat his back twice.

Jack nodded against him, swallowing hard before stepping back.

“Yeah,” he managed, a small smile breaking through. “Thanks for coming back.”

Robby hesitated for just a second as he let go. And when he did, it was devastating. With a heavy heart, he gave Jack’s shoulder a light squeeze, acknowledging the gratitude and sincerity behind it.

“You look…” Javadi paused behind you, her eyes widening at your reflection. “You look amazing.”

You smiled, a little shy under the weight of it. “Thank you.”

“Good thing you didn’t go with the other dress,” Santos added from across the room, adjusting her suit. “You would’ve looked like a wedding cake.”

You laughed, smoothing your hands over the fabric. The dress was simple, no excess, no effort to impress. It fit you the way something chosen carefully does. It felt like you.

“Shen’s about to lose it, saying everyone’s freezing their butts off out there.” Ellis rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. “We’ll go when you’re ready, bride-to-be.”

You turned to the mirror one last time. Everything seems to come crashing down like an avalanche—all the fear, all the insecurity, all those beliefs and doubts that seemed to terrify you your whole life—they’ve vanished.

What remained was something steadier. A version of yourself you hadn’t always known how to reach.

“I’m ready,” you said.

“I’ll get Robby,” Javadi replied, already heading for the door.

Your bridesmaids followed, leaving only Dana behind.

She stepped closer, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Can I say something?”

“Of course.”

“I’m really happy for you,” she said, her voice warm, certain. “Truly.”

You nodded, your throat tightening just slightly. “Thank you.”

She held your gaze for a second longer. “You chose well.”

Yes, you did.

Outside, the air was colder, sharper against your skin. The sun had begun to dip, casting everything in that soft, fleeting light that makes things feel suspended in time.

Robby was waiting near the entrance.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.”

The music started as you stepped forward.

People stood. You registered it in fragments—Santos lacing her fingers with Garcia’s, Javadi beside Samira and Mateo, Dana already dabbing at her eyes. It all blurred together, because your attention found him almost immediately.

Jack.

Jack's at the small makeshift altar, surrounded by white and yellow flowers. You catch his expression, his eyes welling up, and how his lips curl into a small pout, trying to hold back the tears. Those gentle eyes are all on you. He paces, almost restless, counting down the seconds until he can finally hold you in his arms and call you his wife.

He was looking only at you.

And just like that, everything else fell away.

Step by step, the distance between you closed. You felt Robby beside you, steady and grounding, until you reached the end.

When he placed your hand in Jack’s, the gesture was quiet but full of meaning. Jack nodded to him, something unspoken passing between them, before his attention returned to you.

Your hands meet and everything else ceases to exist except him.

His hands are on yours the whole time, caressing, stroking, making sure that this moment is real and that you are there. From that point on, the ceremony moved forward, but it felt distant, almost secondary. His eyes smiling with the small wrinkles around them, his pupils dancing as a way of saying he loves you, without verbalizing.

It’s a devastating love, the one you feel.

By the time the final words were spoken, there was a quiet shift in the air, like something had settled into place.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Jack touches your face as if it were the first time, a gentle touch, but this time he isn’t hesitant like the first time he kissed you in the car at your front door. No, this touch is certain, firm. His eyes wander over your face, committing every detail and feature to memory for the thousandth time, because he wants to remember this moment—even fifty years from now—when he took you in his arms and kissed you for the first time as his wife.

And you feel deep in your heart, in your very core, the most bittersweet and gentle feeling a person could ever feel.

Jack is yours. You are his. Just as it should be.

And this time, there was no reason to look for answers...