You follow her gaze without thinking.

He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.

He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.

You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.

Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.

At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.

The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.

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

No.

No, no, no.

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

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

He’s taller up close.

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

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

You force your brain to function.

“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”

He nods once, then holds out his hand.

“Jack Abbot.”

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

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

But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.

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

You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”

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

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

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

A silver band on his left hand.

Your entire body goes cold.

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

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

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

Waiting for him.

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

The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.

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

“You’re always busy.”

“Occupational hazard.”

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

Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”

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

Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.

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

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

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

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

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

A FEW MONTHS LATER…

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But through all of it, you had stayed calm.

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

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

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

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

“On my way.”

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

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

“That’s not what I said.”

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

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

“You eat yet?” he asks.

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

“A little of both.”

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

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

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

And you know that.

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

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

TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT

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

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

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

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

You’re already there.

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

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

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

You hate how much that matters to you.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

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

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

The entire department visibly brightens.

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

“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.

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

“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.

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

“I absolutely am not.”

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

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

“You must be Lifeline.”

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

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

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

Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.

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

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

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

“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack ignores her completely.

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

“We did now.”

Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”

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

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

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

“You gang up on me constantly.”

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

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

“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.

“You’re all terrible people.”

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

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

You’re becoming part of their lives.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER

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

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

“That’s healthy.”

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

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

“Rude.”

“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”

“He was wrong.” You pointed out.

“He was technically right.”

“He was spiritually wrong.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

2020, COVID PANDEMIC

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

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

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

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

Through all of it, Jack keeps working.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

Lena moves first.

“Jack—”

“That’s my wife.”

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

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

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

“No, let me—”

“Jack.”

“She’s still warm—”

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

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

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

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

Only Zoom.

Fucking Zoom.

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

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

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

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

You cry with your microphone muted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.

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

Not him.

Never him.

So you stay.

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

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

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

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

Life continued like his world didn’t just end.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

A faint huff of breath leaves him.

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

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

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

Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if he never knew.

2021

YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT

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

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

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

Positive.

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

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

Still—it hits you hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ninety-three? Ninety-two?

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

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

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

Probably the wrong apartment.

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

“Hey.”

Your stomach drops.

No.

Absolutely not.

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

And there he is.

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

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

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

“Lena told me… and Dana.”

Traitors.

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

“That is not comforting!”

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

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

“Jack—”

“Open the door.”

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

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

“Open the door.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine.”

“Temperature.”

“One-oh-one earlier.”

“And oxygen?”

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

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

His jaw tightens, “Okay.”

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

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

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

“It’s not that bad.”

“You almost passed out opening the door.”

Rude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”

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

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

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

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

The thought nearly breaks your heart.

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

"Drink."

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

"Drink." He insists.

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

"That's because it is worse."

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

"Why are you smiling?"

"You care."

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

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

"I have food."

"You have soy sauce and olive oil."

"That's food-adjacent."

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

"So do you."

"I know."

"Have you seen what doctors eat?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I had soup."

"You had olive oil."

"That was one time."

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

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

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

2023

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

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

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

It just did.

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

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

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

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

"No."

"You are literally hiding."

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

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

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

Another impossible night.

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

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

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

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

It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.

Until everyone else does.

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

"Parker."

"I'm serious."

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

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

2024

PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY

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

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

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

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

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

That explains it.

"How'd you get here?"

"Rideshare."

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

Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."

"What?"

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

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

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

"Nope."

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

"You serious?"

"Very."

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

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

"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."

"My reputation was already questionable."

"Fair."

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

You pause.

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

"Lifeline."

"Jack."

"You'll get soaked."

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

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

"That's not remotely reassuring."

"It shouldn't be."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2025

NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT

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

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

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

Waiting for Jack to answer.

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

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

"They're gone."

"Lifeline."

"They disappeared."

"Keys don't disappear."

"They absolutely do."

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

You blink, "Huh?"

"Where are you?"

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

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

"It’s not that bad—"

"No."

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

"Do not leave with anybody."

"Jack—"

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

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

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

"Jack—"

"I'm already grabbing my keys."

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

"So are you."

"Jack."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not an answer."

"I lost my keys."

"You mentioned."

You immediately point at him, "I looked."

"I believe you."

"I looked everywhere."

Jack softens despite himself, "I know."

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

"Where are your friends?"

You blink.

"Oh."

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

You laugh, "They're having fun."

"They look like a liability."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ohhh."

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

"That's the doctor."

"No."

"The hot doctor."

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

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

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

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

You groan, "Stop."

"He likes you."

"He does not."

"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."

"That's called friendship."

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

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

"Apparently not."

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

"My friends are terrible people."

"Fair."

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

"I'm not encouraging anybody."

"Liar."

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

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

"The floor did not move."

"It absolutely moved."

"Lifeline."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

"They were in my way."

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

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

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

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

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

"It definitely wasn't this tall before."

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

"Seatbelt."

"Oh."

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

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

JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT

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

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

"I'm not sleeping."

"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."

"I was thinking."

"You were drooling."

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

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

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

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

Jack groans, "Oh my God."

"You drove all the way there."

“Don’t.”

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

"Don't." 

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

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

"What?"

"Maybe let's not do that."

You frown at him, "Why?"

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

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

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

"Thank you."

"I am smart."

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

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

"Cool."

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

"Jesus Christ."

You blink, "What?"

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

"Why?"

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

"Bathroom," he says.

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

"Correct."

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

"Sit."

You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.

"Drink."

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

"What?"

"You listened."

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

"Drink the water."

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

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

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

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

Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."

"It's literally why we carry purses."

"Pretty sure that's not why."

"It absolutely is."

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

"Your mascara's halfway down your face."

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

"No, I'm not."

"You really are."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The touch lingers slightly.

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

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

He closes his eyes for a second.

A mistake.

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

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

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

JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING

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

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

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

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

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

Drink water before standing up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't."

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

"Jack."

"You accused the floor of moving."

"Jack."

"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."

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

"You absolutely did."

"Oh my fucking God."

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

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

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

"You sound surprised."

"You made breakfast."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."

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

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

"I know."

"You called me."

"I know."

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

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

"You are not imposing."

You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."

"No." His answer comes immediately.

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

"But—"

"It's not a burden."

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

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

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

"Exactly."

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

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

You nearly choke, "What?"

"The eggs."

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

Jack stares at you, then laughs.

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

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

"I'm serious."

"Why?"

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

"Correct."

"And your bed."

"Also correct."

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

"What?"

"I feel bad."

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

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

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

"It happened one time."

"It happened three times."

"Allegedly."

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

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

"I know."

"You sounded doubtful."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.

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

Your eyes immediately dart away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, good."

"They should fit."

"Should?"

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

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

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

You nod, "Okay."

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

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

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

"I know you."

"You wound me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

THREE DAYS LATER…

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

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

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

"She switched."

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

Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I gotta go."

"Lifeline—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

2025

6:00 PM

PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

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

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

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

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

Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"

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

Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jack—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7:00 PM

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His jaw tightens, "No."

"Jack."

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

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

As if love might finally be enough this time around.

PTMC, ICU — DAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack glances up.

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

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

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

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

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

PTMC, ICU — DAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. 

Jesus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It kind of is."

You point weakly, "I got shot."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You absolute idiot."

"I've been told."

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

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

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

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

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

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

End Notes:

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

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

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

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

Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.

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

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

When I first saw the blurb you posted for this story, I already knew it was going to be devastatingly angsty. But more than that, I knew it was going to feel human in its pain. And god, it really did.

I don’t really know how else to describe it, but I was immediately hooked by the idea of someone not being defined by a single Great Love but by multiple great loves. Relationships forged through time, effort, mistakes, grief, and perseverance—people who go through trials and tribulations together and come out the other side irrevocably shaped by all those small moments of trying.

Good lord, I’m rambling at this point, but there were so many moments while reading where I felt viscerally pulled back into my own experiences with grief and trauma through these characters. And somehow, through them, I felt like I understood parts of myself a little better too.

The section about the Zoom funeral absolutely wrecked me. The cold, unfair inhumaneness of it all immediately dragged me back to my own experiences with loss during the pandemic. I remember feeling that same sense of wrongness so vividly. Reading that scene genuinely had me crying hard enough that I had to stop and take a break before continuing.

And then there’s the reader herself—how deeply self-reliant she is after moving across the world. How instinctively she expects herself to handle everything alone, in sickness and in health, because that’s what survival has taught her to do. So watching her slowly realise that she’s actually built roots here, that she has created a support system without fully noticing it? God. That hit hard too.

And beyond the yearning that sits at the forefront of the fic, what really got to me was the growing sense of resignation she carries. That feeling that she has to accept this devastating arrangement as the price of being loved. Like this painful compromise is simply the only way she gets to have the thing everyone else in the world seems entitled to. Yes, “right person, wrong time” is such a strong thread throughout the story, but what really stuck with me was the way the reader keeps trying to move forward with the cards she’s been dealt. Trying to carve out some version of happiness, even if it comes at the cost of herself.

And fuck—Jack’s characterisation.

This is genuinely one of the best portrayals I’ve read of what love lost and love found can look like for a character like him. The way grief has fundamentally reshaped him. The way his life is so clearly divided into a before and after. The care hidden beneath his sarcasm and quips. The way his loyalty turns almost violent the second someone he loves needs him. The fact that he wears his grief openly because he genuinely can’t imagine any other way to continue living with it. These characters are all so deeply shaped by loss, but in completely different ways. They mirror each other while still reacting so differently to the same wounds, the same fears, the same longing.

I’m genuinely obsessed with this entire exploration of the soulmate trope. And honestly? I think you may have ruined future angsty soulmate AUs for me forever 😭

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

“I’m leaving at seven,” he said, already pulling off his gloves, already halfway turned away as if the conversation had ended before it had even begun.

Langdon didn’t look up. “We might need you.”

“No.”

There was a pause, which was brief, almost expected.

“Why?”

Abbot tossed the gloves into the bin with a kind of finality that suggested the answer should already be obvious.

“The missus.”

And then he walked out.

No explanation. No elaboration. No visible awareness that he had just said something that, in any other context, would have immediately shifted the entire room.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Santos slowly lifted her head, like she was rewinding what she had just heard.

“…the what.”

Whitaker blinked, mid-chart, his brain visibly lagging behind the conversation. “His what?”

Javadi frowned, glancing between them. “Wait-”

Mel, who had been quietly organizing supplies with the kind of methodical precision that made it clear she found comfort in structure even in a place that refused to offer it, said simply,

“Oh. He’s married.”

Santos turned to her immediately.

“No.”

Mel blinked. “He just said—”

“No,” Santos repeated, more firmly now, gesturing vaguely toward the door Abbot had already disappeared through, as if his absence itself proved her point. “That’s not real.”

Langdon, entirely uninterested, added without looking up, “He says that.”

Santos squinted. “He says that?”

Dana passed by, grabbing a chart, her voice casual, almost absentminded.

“He’s married.”

Santos turned to her like she had just been personally challenged.

“No, he’s not.”

Whitaker nodded slowly. “Yeah… that didn’t sound convincing.”

Mel hesitated, her gaze moving between them, clearly trying to reconcile something that did not need reconciling.

“…but he said—”

“No,” Santos said again, already more certain now, like repetition alone could solidify it into fact. “No.”

And just like that, something very real became something they decided was not.

By the end of their first week, it wasn’t even a discussion anymore.

It was a theory.

And, more importantly, a theory they were entirely convinced was correct.

“He doesn’t wear a ring,” Whitaker said one night, leaning against the desk with the quiet confidence of someone who believed he had uncovered something significant.

“No pictures,” Javadi added immediately.

“No name,” Santos finished, folding her arms like she had just closed a case.

Mel, still trying, still holding onto the simplest and most obvious explanation, said quietly,

“…he said he’s married.”

Santos didn’t even look at her.

“That’s not evidence.”

“…it is,” Mel said, softer now.

“It’s not.”

“He’s never brought her anywhere,” Whitaker continued, gesturing vaguely toward the department like the absence of a woman in an emergency room was somehow meaningful.

“No sightings,” Javadi agreed.

Santos leaned back, completely satisfied.

“No wife.”

Mel looked between them, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and reluctant acceptance.

“…okay.”

It became a pattern after that, something that wove itself through their shifts in a way that should have been harmless and somehow wasn’t.

“I’m heading out.”

Santos didn’t even look up. “The missus?”

“Yeah.”

And he left.

Whitaker watched him go, frowning slightly. “…he actually left.”

Mel glanced up. “That’s normal.”

Santos shook her head. “It’s commitment to the bit.”

“She’s in court today,” Abbot said another time, reaching for a chart, not even part of the conversation.

Whitaker paused mid-typing. “…that’s specific.”

Mel nodded. “That’s very specific.”

Santos didn’t hesitate. “World-building.”

And then there were the calls.

Which, if anything, should have ended it. But it didn’t.

Because Abbot didn’t hide them, didn’t step far enough away to be secretive, but also didn’t offer enough context to make anything definitive, which meant they heard just enough to doubt themselves and not enough to actually be convinced.

“…yeah. No, I ate.”

A pause.

“You too.”

Another.

“…I know. Just, don’t stay too late.”

Whitaker froze.

Javadi slowly lifted her head.

Mel tilted hers, listening in that quiet, observant way she had.

Santos leaned back in her chair, completely unmoved.

“…method acting.”

“That sounded real,” Whitaker said later, quieter this time.

“That was a normal conversation,” Mel added.

Santos shrugged. “He’s committed.”

Then there was the food.

Which should have ended it.

Which really should have ended it.

Abbot, who had never once willingly eaten anything from the hospital cafeteria, sat down, actually sat down, and ate something that was very clearly not from there, something homemade, something warm, something that carried the kind of care that did not appear out of nowhere.

Whitaker stared at it for a long second.

“…that’s not from here.”

“No,” Abbot said.

Mel glanced between them. “…someone made that.”

Santos didn’t even blink.

“Fake wife catering.”

“…I think she’s real,” Mel said one day, very quietly.

The silence that followed was immediate.

“Santos,” Whitaker said.

“Santos,” Javadi echoed.

Mel blinked, shrinking slightly. “…okay.”

Even Dana had started to look tired of it.

“They’re not thinking,” she muttered.

Robby didn’t even look up. “No.”

“He literally said ‘the missus.’”

“Yeah.”

Dana rubbed her temples. “…this is painful.”

It might have stayed funny.

It might have stayed harmless.

If Santos hadn’t pushed it.

It was late.

The kind of late where patience wore thin and everything felt sharper than it should, and Santos, already too committed to a conclusion she didn’t want to let go of, let it slip too far.

“The ‘missus’ thing is weird,” she said, not quite joking anymore.

Mel immediately shook her head. “Santos—”

Whitaker: “Don’t—”

Javadi: “Yeah, maybe not—”

But Santos kept going.

“You don’t wear a ring, you don’t have a name, you don’t show pictures—at some point it just sounds like—”

“Finish that sentence.”

The shift in the room was immediate.

Abbot hadn’t raised his voice. Hadn’t moved.

But the way he looked at her—flat, direct, completely unamused—cut through everything.

“Or stop talking.”

And just like that, she did.

The moment lingered longer than anyone wanted it to.

“…that wasn’t a joke,” Whitaker said quietly.

“No,” Mel said.

“No,” Javadi echoed.

Santos crossed her arms, still defensive, but quieter now.

“…he’s just intense.”

But even she didn’t sound convinced.

The shift moved on. Mainly because it had to.

And then, about an hour later, the doors opened.

Dana looked up first and immediately softened.

“Heya, sweetheart.”

That was what made everyone else look.

You stepped inside like the day had finally caught up to you, blazer slightly wrinkled, hair just a little out of place, your phone still in your hand, your entire presence carrying the kind of exhaustion that didn’t need to be explained.

Whitaker blinked. “…who is that?”

Robby glanced up, completely unsurprised.

“Long day?”

You exhaled softly. “The trial ran over.”

Abbot was already looking at you. And something in him shifted.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

“They push back on the motion?” he asked.

You huffed. “Of course.”

“Reynolds?”

“Yeah.”

“He sided with you?”

A small nod. “Eventually.”

Whitaker turned slowly toward Javadi.

“How did he know that?”

You stepped closer before sighing, “I’m exhausted.” 

When you swayed, slightly, barely noticeable, Abbot moved instantly.

One hand at your waist. The other steadying your arm.

No hesitation. No thought.

You leaned back into him like it was instinct.

Like it was familiar.

Like it was yours.

Your eyes closed and your hand slowly found his wrist.

And that was when they saw it. The ring.

It caught the light, how could it not, the thing was massive.

“…oh my god,” Javadi said under her breath.

“…oh my god,” Whitaker echoed.

Santos just stared. “…no way.”

Mel, soft and certain, said, “There it is.”

Your badge shifted slightly against your blazer.

Whitaker squinted.

“…is that—”

Javadi leaned closer.

“…Abbot.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was full, heavy with the quiet collapse of every assumption they had made, every explanation they had built, every certainty they had carried so confidently just minutes before.

You leaned back into him like it was instinct.

Not something you thought about, not something you asked permission for, but something your body did automatically, the same way you might exhale after holding your breath too long, the same way you might reach for something familiar in the dark without needing to see it first. Your weight settled into him fully, unguarded, your head tipping slightly toward his shoulder as your eyes slipped closed, and his hands adjusted without hesitation, without even a second of thought, one steady at your waist and the other bracing lightly along your arm as he shifted his stance to support you more comfortably.

It was so practiced, so effortless, that it didn’t even register to you as something worth noticing.

But to everyone else, it was everything.

Because nothing about it looked new.

Nothing about it looked uncertain.

There was no hesitation, no awkwardness, no awareness of the room or the people in it or the fact that every single one of them had just spent the past several weeks insisting, with increasing confidence, that you did not exist.

You simply leaned.

And he simply caught you.

Like he always did.

Your hand shifted on his wrist, fingers absent-mindedly tracing his forearm without looking, your grip soft but certain, like you had done it a hundred times before and had never once needed to question whether he would still be there.

And he was.

Of course he was.

The ring caught the light again as your hand shifted, the diamond glinting sharply under the fluorescent overheads, impossible to ignore now that it had been seen, impossible to explain away, and for a long moment, no one said anything at all.

Because there was nothing left to argue.

Nothing left to dismantle.

Every piece of evidence they had so confidently dismissed, every explanation they had constructed, every assumption they had doubled down on, it all collapsed at once under the quiet, undeniable reality of you standing there, real and tired and entirely uninterested in proving anything to anyone.

“…that’s—” Whitaker started, and then stopped, because he didn’t seem to know how to finish the thought.

Javadi didn’t even try, her gaze fixed somewhere between your hand and the badge clipped to your blazer, like she was trying to process both at once and failing.

Santos just stared. Not defensive anymore. Not confident. Just staring.

Mel, after a moment, spoke softly, like she was stating something obvious that everyone else had somehow missed.

“That’s normal.”

And it was.

That was the part that settled it.

Not the ring. Or the name printed clearly on your badge.

Not even the fact that Abbot had known, without asking, exactly how your day had gone and who had been involved and what you had been dealing with before you had said more than two words.

It was this.

The way you leaned into him like you belonged there.

The way he adjusted around you like he had always known how.

The way neither of you looked at anyone else, because neither of you needed to.

You shifted slightly, your voice quieter now, softer with exhaustion as the adrenaline of your day finally gave way to something heavier.

“Did you eat?”

It wasn’t a dramatic question. It wasn’t even particularly urgent. It was just a habit..

Care, woven into routine.

Abbot’s hand moved just slightly at your waist, grounding, steady, his thumb brushing once, absentmindedly, against the side of your arm like the contact itself was something he didn’t even think about anymore.

“Not yet,” he said.

You made a quiet, almost disapproving sound under your breath, the kind that didn’t carry any real weight behind it, just familiarity.

“You should.”

“I will.”

And then, after a small pause, softer, quieter, something meant only for you,

“I’ll get you home.”

His grip shifted again, subtle but deliberate, adjusting just enough to support more of your weight as you leaned further into him, your balance tipping fully into his space without resistance.

“You can sleep,” he added, low and certain, like it wasn’t a suggestion, like it was already decided.

You exhaled slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly, your hand tightening faintly around his wrist in response, a quiet acknowledgment, a silent agreement.

Around you, the room had gone still in a way that felt different now.

Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet.

Like something had finally clicked into place.

Whitaker swallowed, his voice coming out softer than it had been all night.

“…you’re married.”

It wasn’t really a question. Abbot didn’t look away from you.

“Yeah.”

Javadi hesitated, like she wasn’t sure she should ask, but couldn’t stop herself anyway.

“How long?”

There was no pause this time. No hesitation.

“Eight years.”

And that was what finally broke them. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But completely.

Because eight years wasn’t new. Eight years wasn’t recent. Eight years wasn’t something you joked about or made up or committed to for the sake of a bit. Eight years meant history. It meant routine.

It meant this: the way you leaned into him without thinking, the way he steadied you without looking, the way your first instinct, even in exhaustion, had been to ask if he had eaten.

“…eight,” Whitaker repeated faintly, like the number itself didn’t quite make sense in his head.

“…eight,” Javadi echoed, still staring.

Santos let out a slow breath, her voice quieter now, stripped entirely of the certainty she had carried before.

“…eight.”

Mel nodded once, small and satisfied, like something had finally aligned the way it was supposed to.

“That makes sense.”

Your eyes were still closed, your voice drifting somewhere between awareness and sleep as you murmured, barely audible,

“…these are your people?”

Abbot didn’t even glance up.

“Yeah.”

There was a brief pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to feel intentional.

Then, softly, “That’s embarrassing.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped someone, Whitaker maybe, but it didn’t break the moment, didn’t disrupt the way it had settled into something softer, something warmer, something that no longer needed to be questioned or picked apart.

Because there was nothing left to prove.

He had said it. Over and over.

In the same tone, with the same certainty, without ever feeling the need to justify it or explain it or make it make sense to anyone else.

And they had decided not to listen. Until now.

Until the evidence was standing right in front of them, leaning into him like it had always been that simple.

Like it had always been that obvious, written quietly in the space the two of you shared, in the way you leaned into him without thinking and the way he held you like it had never been a question.

You were always so patient. Always waiting for him, ready to pick up the pieces. 

Shit, where were you? He hadn’t seen you since the beginning of the shitshow everyone had just endured. 

He slid up against the nurse’s station, leaning against the desk as he gained Dana’s attention. “Know where my girl is?” he asked casually. You two had given up keeping it a secret months ago, specifically after Shen had made a powerpoint about how perfect you two are for each other and left it playing in the breakroom for a full night and day before either of you noticed. It had an AI image of you two kissing which looked far too real.

She let out a sigh, leaning in closer. Alarm bells went off in his head, but he kept calm. It’s probably fine, he told himself. She’s alright. “She’s getting some air, apparently,” She raised an eyebrow, putting a hand over his. He stiffened. He hated how often you followed his tradition of going up there for some air. Mostly he contemplated what the fuck he was doing with his life. You went up there to stop him. “Brought her phone, it was ringing. She answered it.” She shrugged and let go of his hand. That terrifying expression on her face, the one that meant she was worried. Not many things can make a charge nurse worried. More alarm bells than he’d enjoy to admit started ringing. You hated phone calls, it was just a thing with you. You texted, you listened to voicenotes, but you didn’t pick up your phone. It used to piss Jack off because calling is so much easier than texting, but he slowly understood it’s just something you didn’t enjoy, and he adapted. 

The elevator was never fast enough for him, and neither was how long it took him to get up the stairs. The cold air hit him as he walked out onto the roof, your figure on the safe side of the railing. He let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. Slowly, he approached. He caught words. No. Can’t. Mom. Sugar. Carm. Bear. Sydney. Tiffany. Frank. He didn’t pry. He leaned against the railing, and he waited. 

“Rich, I’m not going,” you rolled your eyes as he kept fucking talking. “Yes! Yes, I fucking understand, thank you so fucking much for reminding me of what a terrible child and sister I am, I’m well aware, thank you!” You scoffed and the voice on the other side just got louder. “Is that Neil? Neil’s listening to this? Are your fucking joking me right now Rich?!” You gripped the railing with your free hand, a bruising grip around the cold metal. “Yes, hi sweetheart, I-I’m good… alright thank you sweetheart, bye. Fuck you Rich, no, no, seriously, fuck you. Get fucked, genuinely,” you sighed, eye closing, shoulders tense. Jack didn’t think he’d ever heard you curse so much. You rolled your shoulders and spoke again, brow furrowing. “What? I know she’s your ex-wife, but seriously? Fuck the wedding! I’m not driving for 7 hours to attend a wedding of a woman I literally don’t fucking know! Oh wow! That’s really fucking mature Rich, yes I know I’ve been living in Pittsburgh, thank you so much for fucking reminding me…- oh my god are you seriously still not fucking over that?! I had to leave! Oh, I’m so sorry did Donna try to kill you? Exactly, you fuckin’ jag-off,” you shouted over the phone, and finally made eye contact with Jack, realising he’d been standing there. Your voice evened out. “I have to go- I get it, alright, I fucking get it! Jesus, good-fucking-bye! Yeah fuck you too, alright? Love you Rich, I’ll think about it- alright, bye.” You were both quiet for a moment, just letting the energy of that call dissipate. 

You pushed yourself off the railing, and turned to him. You let out a breath. “How much of that did you hear?” 

“Who’s Donna and why did she try to kill you?” He asked, amusement laced in his tone. It quickly faded when that sad chuckle left your lips. You shook your head and pushed your phone into your pocket, then walked over to him and fell into his chest. 

“She’s my mom and she hates me,” you shrugged as he wrapped his arms around you. He had to find out how fucking insane your family was eventually, right? “You alright?” You asked, pulling back to look at him. “Shouldn’t you have gone home already?”

He tucked a bit of hair behind your ear and shook his head. The fact that you’d glossed over the fact that you mom hates you made his heart hurt a little bit. You never talked about family or how you grew up, all he knew was that you were from Chicago, you had a sister and two brothers, and you never wanted to go back. He didn’t push, much like you didn’t push with his upbringing after he’d told you about it. “Waiting on you,” he smiled softly. “You did great today,” he cooed. “I’m proud.” 

You nodded and offered him that tired smile he’d grown so used to, and he just had to lean in and kiss you. Soft lips meeting his, a gentle kiss, and a real smile on both your faces as you walked back into the ED. Dana sent you a look that you ignored, and you slipped away from Jack for just a moment to find Gloria. 

But you didn’t tell him that. 

The drive to Chicago was miserable, it always was. Nearly 7 hours of open road, an empty car, and a playlist that no matter how loud you turned the stereo, you still couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your chest and the thoughts in your head. You had told Jack you were sick and to avoid your apartment lest he felt the need to be consumed by the flu. He seemed to be staying away effectively, so you were going to be homefree for the weekend. The fucking wedding though, that stupid guilt trip Richie had somehow convinced you to attend, just for him. You’d see Sugar, and Carmen, and Richie, and your Mom, and everyone else you wanted to forget. You’d notice the space where Mikey should be. You’d see the empty glass that should be in his hand. You’d see the lack of floppy brown hair and stupid jokes that should entertain you all night long, and act prouder than anyone ever had. Well, maybe Mikey’s pride in you was rivaled by Jack’s, but you didn’t want to admit that to yourself. 

A phone call came in, and you rolled your eyes. Still, you answered it. 

“Where are you?” Jack’s voice was harsh, annoyed, angry. You fumbled with your phone for a second, debating on whether to crash into another car, or just tell him the truth.

“The highway,” you finally answered, deciding that maybe vehicular manslaughter is a bad idea, and insurance fraud is just stupid to go to jail for. “I’m going home for the weekend.” 

He huffed out a sigh, and you heard something thump down on a table. “I’m at your apartment. Was going to take care of you this weekend,” he admitted, and your heart squeezed. That voice in your head that sounded a little bit like your mother’s chimed in. God, you don’t deserve him. You’ll never deserve him. Why would you think he’d ever stay with you? Not when you’re this broken. “How far are you?” 

You took in a sharp breath and started. “Jack, I’m so sorry, I just didn’t want to rope you into this shit and seriously, you’d thank me if you knew them-”

“How far are you from your apartment?” He asked, enunciating every single word with that terrifyingly calm voice. The one he used with combative patients and med students, the one he’d never used with you. 

“45 minutes.” You gulped. 

“Turn around, come get me, I’m coming with you.” He said finally, and he hung up. The pit in your stomach only grew. You turned around. Maybe it was the selfishness of not wanting to be alone this weekend, maybe it was the fear that you would lose him if you didn’t, maybe it was just because he’d asked you to. 

You were parked up outside your apartment in 35 minutes thanks to quick traffic. Jack was waiting on the curb, a suitcase, crutches, and his waterproof prosthetic beside him. With that hardened look on his face. Determination. You had seen it so many times before. Boyfriends insisted they wanted to meet your family, despite what you’d told them. You would just have to watch as the night went on. They’d go quiet, sorry, not quiet, fucking silent. They’d shrink, become less and less enthused by the idea of a future with you as they watched the past you’d had to deal with play out in front of them. A week later, you’d get some excuse about why it wasn’t working. Sometimes they were brave enough to admit it was the family baggage. Others ghosted, and others just didn’t give a reason. He opened the boot of your car, shoved his things beside yours, and walked around to the driver’s side of the car. You stared at him, and he stared back at you. 

“Well you’re not driving,” he said it like it was obvious. It was to him, considering driving had never been a favourite pastime of yours. You rolled your eyes but jumped out of your seat and swung around to the passenger. So, he wasn’t completely livid with you, that was good, right? Well, he had every right to be, you had lied. “I’m not mad,” he explained as he started the car and drove off for Chicago. “I just want to understand why you felt like you couldn’t tell me. Or… bring me.” He cleared his throat after that last part, but his vulnerability had been visible anyway. Your heart sank, he couldn’t really think you didn’t want to bring him because of him, god no. 

You turned to him, putting a hand over his. “God no, Jack. Please don’t think I was trying not to bring you because of anything other than the fact that my family is fucking crazy,” you practically begged, squeezing his hand. He didn’t glance in your direction. You let out a sigh and cleared your throat. “Jack, fuck, my mom’s an alcoholic, my dad died, my eldest brother blew his brains out in 2022, my twin brother is like the most mentally unwell but functioning human being, and my sister just had a baby. My cousin who’s not really my cousin-” you tried to explain it as best you could, hoping he didn’t notice the wobble in your voice. “His ex-wife is getting remarried and he’s showing up for her and their daughter, and he asked me to come, and since I haven’t been home in ages, everyone is going to be on my ass, including everyone from the Bear, and all the fucking Faks, and it’s just- it’s going to be a shitshow!” Thankfully, you were stopped at a redlight, and he could finally look at you. Notice the lip-bite that was stopping you from losing it. Notice the quick breathing. Notice the fear in your eyes, the kind that screamed ‘please don’t leave me now’. 

“What’s a Fak?” He questioned, and the genuine confusion in his tone made you laugh. He was always good at that, giving you moments of light in your darkest times. Like that time you had to code a little boy who eventually didn’t make it. He’d brought you up to the roof and made some dumb joke about something Robby had done, and you laughed. You laughed until you cried, and he held you. He didn’t complain, just stroked your hair and back, and held you. Like you were precious and worth-it, and not a complete burden. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him. “And what’s the Bear?” 

You huffed, sitting back in your seat, groaning. “The Faks are more cousins, kind of, and the Bear is my brother’s restaurant. It used to be my older brother’s sandwich spot, but he’s turned it into this fine-dining fuckery thing,” you scoffed, and he sent you a look. “I curse when I go home.” You shrugged. 

“Noted.” He nodded. 

It was past midnight by the time you and Jack pulled into the Berzatto-Kasinsky home. Ringing the doorbell seemed risky, so you just texted Pete that you were outside. The door was open in a matter of seconds, with a very happy looking Pete.

“Hey Doc-! And…?” He searched for his name (which you’d never told anyone back home). 

“Jack,” you filled in. “Jack Abbot, Peter Kasinsky,” you introduced them and they shook hands. You skillfully evaded Jack’s eyeline as you both walked in. “Is Sug up?” 

Pete smiled, nodding. “She’s just with the baby.” He was glowing with pride for both of them, you could tell. When Natalie first introduced Pete to the family, you’d been so confused. You were just a med student back then, but you had been so shocked that she’d picked someone so outside of the norm for Berzatto women. Now, you could see exactly why, because you had your own Pete, who yeah, maybe was a bit more rough and tumble occasionally, but he was soft. Soft when you needed him to be, kind always, and constantly there. It was nice. 

“Fucking finally back in Chicagoland?” God, she sounded too much like your mother sometimes. It gave you chills. “Where have you been, Doc?” She pulled you into a hug before you knew what was going on, and you just accepted it graciously, hoping it would be over soon. “Oh my god, is this the boyfriend? I thought you were never going to bring him home?” She stared at Jack, who just waved, poorly concealing an awkward smirk. “You do know mom is going to be there tomorrow, right? She’s going to have something to say-”

You gently pushed her off. “Yes, Sug, I know. She always has something to fucking say. This is my boyfriend, Jack Abbot, meet my sister, Natalie Berzatto.” You introduced them, and she shook his hand graciously before turning her attention back to you. 

“Everyone’s going to be looking for you tomorrow-” “I know.”  “Have you heard about what’s been happening?” “No, Sug.”  “Have you updated mom or Carm on anything recently? Because you know they think you’re mad or dying, or both-?” 

“Obviously fucking not, Sugar,” you scoffed, dropping your bag on the ground (probably far too loud for the current audience). “And as you can see, I’m alive. Jack takes great fucking care of me, and as for Bear and Mom, I plan on avoiding the fuck out of both of them, all fucking weekend. Thank you for the questionnaire, but we’re both completely exhausted, and we’d love to get some sleep before tomorrow’s shitshow begins. Thanks.” You took Jack’s hand and led him downstairs to their basement guest room, and shut the door of the bathroom without a word. 

You put a hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds of your sobs as you showered the day off you. God, you hated Chicago. You hated how much Mikey haunted everything. You hated how little everyone talked about him. You hated that Jack was here, getting a front row seat to your slow breakdown, and the insanity of your family. You hated how you already felt like you were losing him. 

Knock knock. 

The door was unlocked, but of course he would give you that space, give you a chance to refuse. You didn’t. “Come in.” 

He was in the shower and holding you before you really knew what was happening. The tears came unexpectedly too, but he held you through them anyway, taking his time as he washed your hair, and washed your body. The words started falling from your lips. Might as well tell him now so when he breaks up with you, he’ll have all the facts. “I did some of my early residency at Rush hospital. It’s a 13 minute drive from State Street Bridge. Mikey shot himself in the head on the State Street Bridge. Someone had reported a body in the water, and when his body was fucking fished out they brought him to our coroner. I was on my second round of placement, and it was my first week of mortuary. He got wheeled in, and I knew right away. I didn’t even have to lift the sheet, I just felt it. He was meant to be picking me up from my shift, but he hadn’t been calling me to come out like he usually did when I was finished my shift, fuck Jack, he used to call me all the time,” you sobbed into his chest as he held you. “Then I had to call my mom, and Nat, and then I called Carmen but he was in New York, and when I told him, he just hung up. He just fucking hung up at me, and he didn’t fucking come to the funeral, and he’s all fucking great now, and that’s awesome. But I’m not great. I’m fucking awful, and I miss my brothers!” Your sobbing had become uncontrollable, and your words unintelligible, so he just let you cry into him, held you up when your body nearly gave out, and helped you into some pyjamas and into bed. 

He was quiet. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it without it being a big deal. He was just surprised you’d never told him before, not exactly hurt, but not exactly alright with it. He’d told you everything, his war stories, his wife, his family. He’d unloaded everything of his, and yet you hadn’t so much as skimmed the surface with yours. He wasn’t mad, he just… wanted to be there for you in the way you were for him. It was only fair. 

You took his silence as regret, as it had been with every other boyfriend. You lay, staring up at the ceiling, and debating how your life would look without him in it. How you two would work together despite the breakup. It filled you with a sense of rage. Not even at him. Just… at the situation. You’d grown up in a terrible home, and you had to subject him to it, then watch him leave. You lost him in every fucking scenerio. Your brain turned that idea of him leaving (idea without any probable cause) into a certainty. Then turned it into his ‘ploy to break up with you’. Your brain convinced you, in a matter of moments, that Jack had really been using this trip to break up with you. “Fuck, this is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” you let out in a hoarse voice. “A fucking reason to end things.” 

He shot up from his spot on the bed, confusion pulling at his features. Even in the dark you could see how offended he was. “What?” 

You scoffed, turning over. “Just forget it.” You brushed his hand off your shoulder and tried to just focus on getting some sleep for tomorrow. 

“No, I will not just forget it, what are you saying?” He challenged, exasperated. He turned you over forcefully, making you meet his eyes. “I love you. I love you. I don’t give a fuck if your family are crackheads, or fucking murderers. I’m not here for them, I’m here so you don’t have to go through this weekend alone. That’s all I care about. I care about you getting back to Pittsburgh in one piece. I care about you being happy. I don’t care about your sister, or your twin, or your mother. I care about you, because you’re mine to protect, alright?” He affirmed, hands cupping your face like you were the most important thing to him. He brushed away the few stray tears that had slipped out. “Alright?” 

You nodded, surging forward and capturing his lips in a ;ess than gentle kiss. You were pouring all your gratitude and apologies into it, as he poured all his affection and care. You pulled back, nodding. “Alright.” 

He smiled. You fell asleep against his chest. 

You woke up with a bang. A literal bang. Well, a car horn. Richie’s stupid fucking car horn. Beside you, Jack stirred and tightened his grip on you. You groaned into your pillow and wrapped a hand around Jack’s wrist. “I’m sorry about today.” You frowned. He cracked a smile. 

“It hasn’t even happened yet.” He chuckled, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth. He peppered kisses along your skin in that effortlessly romantic way he did everything. Sometimes you wanted to throttle him for it. 

“Exactly, have to get it in early,” you gave him a grim smile, and got out of bed, though not without a struggle. The noise of the front door opening filled your ears. “Don’t come upstairs for a while, wait till I call you. Or wait till I start screaming.” You called after yourself as you climbed the stairs. 

“Whatever you say, boss,” he nodded sarcastically, rolling back over in bed, pulling on his reading glasses, and turning his phone on. “It’s fucking 9am. Crazy people” He said to no one in particular before opening up the Wordle. 

Upstairs, you were already being inundated with information from Sugar about what was going on with the wedding, hearing from Neil about how the restaurant is going, watching as Sammy Fak fumbled with the fridge door, staring as Teddy Fak tried to work the kettle, trying to understand the quiet introduction coming out of Sydney's mouth, and holding a baby. Somehow, still more chill than the Pitt. You continued on your journey for coffee as you introduced yourself to Sydney, while Sugar screamed at Neil. 

“No, you fuckin’ bitch, I fuckin’ told you not to fuckin’ invite her and me to the same fuckin’ thing, and you fuckin’ invite her!” Sugar groaned as Neil stood there looking far too guilty. “She’s a backstabbing bitch!” 

“It’s not my wedding!” He argued, faking innocence like a toddler caught with his hand in a cookie jar. You finally reached the coffee machine. Richie was already trying to talk your ear off about the wedding. Both Sammy and Ted sent you a very enthusiastic hello, swallowing you up in a too-tight hug that you barely peeled away from.  “Look, I’m glad you came, thank you, cousin. Means a lot,” He smiled tentatively. You nodded, acknowledging his gratitude. “I don’t know how I’m goin’ to fuckin’ do this.” You realised you’d mistaken anxiety for tentativeness while you watched him play with his tie. Shit, since when did Rich wear suits? 

“You wear suits now?” You questioned, pouring yourself a mug with one hand. You bounced the new baby in your other arm and smiled down at the sack of soft bones, and even softer skin. If you hadn’t been an ER doctor, you would’ve been an ob-gyn. You like kids, but you love taking care of them when they’re newborn and can’t talk back. To your left, Sammy nearly opened a door in his face, but you reached out a hand to stop him, as Sugar called Francine a cunt repeatedly. 

“Yeah, I do,” Richie nodded. “Y-you look good. Happy. Healthy. Y’know?” 

You smiled. “I know,” part of you wanted to spill it right then and there. Tell him that the only reason you looked healthy at all was because your attending-turned-boyfriend made sure you took breaks at, and from work. Tell him that days spent at overpriced farmer’s markets and in his apartment were your favourite days. Tell him that a guy you jokingly called grandpa was your favourite person. Tell him that Jack was your first real piece of happiness since Mikey passed. Tell them that while you weren’t over it, you were finally starting to build on top of it, and realise that grief doesn’t go away, it just gets less loud. You shook it off. “Who’s she talking about?” You questioned, taking a sip of your coffee and looking to Pete for an answer. He grimaced. “Don’t tell me it’s Francie-?”

Sugar whipped around faster than lightning. “Do not speak that name in my fuckin’ house!” She pointed a vicious finger at you, and you held up a hand in mock surrender. Pete offered an apologetic smile which you acknowledged, then handed his baby back. Sugar continued on her rant as Richie watched, and Sydney pretended that she cared to be there. 

“Hey, I know we haven’t met before, but I’m Sydney,” she held out her hand to be shook and you took it. You quickly told her your name, and turned your attention back to the coffee. “I’ve heard so much about you.” 

You grimaced. “Oh yeah? Did Carmen tell you about the time I shaved his head in his sleep or…?” You asked, afraid of the things he’d said about you. Granted, there was much worse, but still, over a decade later, the last time you checked he was still butt-hurt about the fact that you’d shaved his head in his sleep. 

She laughed. “No, surprisingly, but I have heard you’re an ER doctor?” You nodded. “Great! Cause’ I’m seriously going to need you to sedate me today or something, considering how bad everyone is making it sound.” She chuckled awkwardly. You smiled. She was sweet. A little awkward, very funny, and calm. You had no idea how she got into business with Carmen, but you hoped she had good mental health resources. 

“Whatever you’ve been told about these things, people always get better with age. Some of us are still reeling from the disaster of the seven fishes from a few years ago, so don’t expect anything like that. I seriously doubt Tiffany would take it-” It was pretty hard to have a conversation over the sound of the coffee machine, Sugar’s breakdown, and whatever song Pete was humming to the baby, but you two somehow did it. You watched as Pete blessed himself when you mentioned that seven fishes dinner. Fucking forks man. 

“Oh, so now you know Tiff, huh?” Richie scoffed, crossing his arms. “Where was this energy two weeks ago?” 

“I don’t know her. I just know she didn’t put up with your shit, so I seriously doubt she’s putting up with the family’s.” You shrugged before picking up another mug to fill it for Jack, when Richie practically barked. 

“Two mugs?” He questioned, eyes wide. Everything in the kitchen stopped. Sugar was the only person you’d told about Jack. You knew anyone else would’ve spilled it to your mom, and it would only be a matter of time before she started calling you and begging for you to bring him home. Even the thought alone made you shiver. You sucked in a deep breath. 

“Two mugs,” you nodded. “I brought my boyfriend with me.” 

You would’ve thought you’d just told the room you had gained the ability to fly. The three Faks dropped their jaws, and Neil started yapping, Teddy started complaining, and Sammy started congratulating. Sugar stopped her rant to watch the reaction coming out of Richie, which, granted, wasn’t great. He stared at you for a minute. 

“Shut up- shut up shithead!” He shouted at the Faks, who complied pretty easily and went back to their pottering. “Boyfriend? Since when have you had a boyfriend?” He gawked. 

“Since a year and 2 months ago,” you admitted. His jaw didn’t drop into a long lecture about lying (like you would’ve expected from him a year ago), it set back, genuine shock filling his features. “He’s an ER doctor like me, and he’s here to meet everyone and support me. And possibly save Francine’s life if Sug decides to kill her.” You tried to sneak in the joke to break the ice, but Richie’s face just hardened. 

“You kept that for a year and 2 months?” He questioned.

You nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

“Carmy know?” He had that dangerous look in his eye, the one where you really couldn’t tell if he wanted to run out of there and never look back, or hang onto you and never let go. Fuck, his eyes were piercing through you. Still, you stood tall, firm in your choice. Jack was your one good thing. Jack was your everything. 

You scoffed. “He doesn’t know anything about my life. I don’t even think he knows I live in Pittsburgh.” Not the greatest thing to admit, but it was the truth. Carm didn’t reach out and neither did you. 

Richie swallowed the lecture he wanted to give you about sand and stones, and nodded. “Where is he?” 

“Downstairs, in bed. I’ll bring him up when we’re dressed, alright?” 

You didn’t wait for an answer before running down the stairs, seriously wondering if you’d made the right choice by coming home, and moreover, bringing Jack. Some of the anxiety settled as you watched Jack pull on his suit jacket, the one he filled out so well, with a little bit of a grumble.

“Alright there, old man?” You teased, dropping his coffee on the dresser in front of him. He grunted in response, taking a sip. He loved this, the quiet back and forth you two were so accustomed to. Though, there were still things to be addressed from last night. You’d gone nearly three years without admitting that your brother killed himself. Even more, you’d gone nearly three years without asking for his help. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into him as you let out a small laugh. He buried his head in the crook of your neck, and you raised a hand to run through his hair gently. You two fit together, more than anyone else had.

“You wanna talk about last night?” He asked, his breath hot against your skin. There it was, the simple, no nonsense question. But this was nonsensical. It was emotional, it was unregulated, and it was a lot. It was too much for you to deal with most of the time, and Jack had his own baggage that he had to worry about, he didn’t need to start taking yours on. As if by magic, he opened his mouth again and gave you exactly the reassurance you needed. “Don’t worry about this being ‘too much’. I’m here for you. Literally, I’m in Chicago for you, but also emotionally. And I’m not leaving you.” He smiled, proud of his little unintentional pun. 

You let out a half-huff, half-chuckle, and nodded. His arm around you fell as you pulled away to start getting ready for the wedding ahead of you. “It’s a lot.” You admitted. He nodded. 

“So was my stuff. Neglectful parents, war, dead wife, PTSD, anxiety, etc,” he shrugged, crossing his arms as you started on your makeup in the mirror. God, he looked handsome. If it were any other day and you hadn’t just spent 10 minutes being surrounded by Faks and Berzattos, and Richie, you would’ve jumped his bones. “I’m also an emergency medicine doctor who has a habit of taking on too much from a patient perspective.” 

You chuckled. “Molly tell you that?” You questioned, asking about his therapist. You and her were pretty friendly, especially after the few months of sessions where Jack asked you to join him so he could explain a bit about his past without shutting down. She was great for him, and he really liked how their work together made him feel. You were happy for him, glad he could work through it. He nodded with that ‘trying not to smile’ smile, and walked over to you, placing a hand on your shoulder. Immediately, you could feel the heat of his hand through your (his) hoodie, and it just drove you insane. He waited patiently for you to start talking. “My mom used to drink a lot. My dad didn’t care, and he drank worse, and then he died, so I guess it wasn’t much different. We weren’t close, he was always off with Mikey. Everyone loved Mikey,” a teary smile invaded your features, but you pushed it down. You wanted Jack to understand. You wanted to be vulnerable. You wanted him to stay. “My mom drank more. She got more uncontrollable. More upset. More… rageful. I was 9 when she threw a plate at the floor that shattered and a piece lodged into my arm,” you pointed out the scar with an almost disinterested gaze, and he noticed. Of course he did. His lips pursed into a line, the thought of a little 9 year old you, just playing on the floor, getting a piece of fucking ceramic in your arm for no good reason, just because someone else couldn’t control their temper, it boiled his blood. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, so instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the raised skin. You stiffened under him, but kept speaking. “Richie got mad at her, started shouting, she shouted back. Carmen got the piece out. Sugar cleaned it up. Mikey just watched it all play out. Sometimes he got like that.” You shrugged, trying to keep the wobble out of your voice. 

“Like what?” He asked, continuing to press soft kisses to your shoulder and neck. He knew how to calm you. First, just letting you talk. Second, he’d kiss you all over. Third, he’d start running his hands up and down your sides. It was weirdly comforting. 

You knew the medical definition for it. He dissociated. You knew the full definition, able to read it off like a script from your week long stint in the psyche ward when you were still choosing a specialty. Dissociation is a mental process where a person disconnects from their thoughts, feelings, memories or sense of identity. He’d just sit there, staring off into space. Now, you knew there were other things going on in his head, but then, you just thought your big brother didn’t care, and you got angry. You’d ice him out for days, sometimes a full week. Now, that thought made your stomach turn. “He’d…” You still couldn’t say it. It felt too impersonal to diagnose him post-mortem. 

“Dissociate?” Jack filled in. You nodded. “I see.” 

“My mom only got worse. More passive aggressive. More regular-aggressive,” you rolled your eyes, shaking off the emotion from before. “Everyday there was a fucking fight, and it was always my fault. When family came over, things got worse. She’d shout at us in front of people, and they wouldn’t stop her because they felt bad. She’d married an abusive drunk, and they couldn’t fault her for being upset. Got worse again when Mikey left home. He was only living in the city, and we were in the suburbs, but God, you’d think he’d moved to fuckin’ Hong Kong. She talked about him like he was dead. She’d be on her best behaviour when he was coming around, so that was good. Carmen was a real anxious kid though, and everyone just told him he needed to toughen up. He used to draw. He’d draw these incredible pictures at lunch in high school, and some dickward would just come over and rip it up. Drove me crazy,” you shook your head, remembering the fear in Carmen’s eyes, and the pride in the bullies. “I got in so many fucking fights for him. Nearly got me kicked out of school. When I couldn’t deal with the kids, Rich and Mikey would. They’d scare the shit out of them, fake jump them or something. Carmen and I used to be super close.” You explained almost dreamily, finishing off your makeup and moving onto your hair. 

“What changed?” he asked, helping you with the straightening iron. He’d made you teach him how to do various hair tricks with it so he could help you if needed. It took a bit of trial and error, and a lot of being burnt with the iron, but he got the hang of it. It nearly made your ovaries explode, watching him brush your hair. 

You sighed. “When Mikey died, I kind of… lost it, just a little. Mikey was my big brother and I was taking care of him, trying to get him clean, using all my spare time, which was barely anything, to help him with the restaurant, or with anything he needed. I obviously was the first one to know, and I had to call everyone. I called Carmen. I told him. He hung up. I call him a hundred times, left him voicemails until his was full, and he didn’t fucking call me back. I begged him to come to the funeral, or at least text me back so I knew he was alive. I spent 4 nights calling New York ERs to check that he wasn’t dead. Mikey's funeral came around, and I was alone. Carmen didn’t come. My mom was on the verge of losing it every five seconds. Richie was still trying to fix his marriage. Sugar had Pete. I had no one. I expected him to be there, because he always promised me that if I asked him to do something, he’d move heaven and Earth to get it done. He let me down. So, I flew to New York, called him a bad brother, a coward, and a selfish bastard. I ambushed him outside of his work, and all he said was ‘I have to get back inside’. No sorry. No dropping everything and coming back home to help pick up the pieces. Nothing. He just walked back inside. He came home four months later, and by then I was already in Pittsburgh.” 

Part of him wanted to just crawl into a hole and die. His heart broke for you. Everything you’d endured, everything you’d kept silent for so long, everything you’d swallowed. He cleared his throat and made eye contact with you through the mirror. “I’m sorry.” He practically whispered, but you heard it. It hit you square in the chest, and squeezed your heart. He was good at that.

“My mom doesn’t like me in general, but she specifically can’t look at me because I look the most like Carmen and Mikey. You’ll probably see her there today, wine glass in her hand, spewing nonsense,” you laughed, but it wasn’t funny. He nodded, pretending he didn’t notice the tremble in your shoulders. “And you’ll see Carmen.” 

“I can introduce myself, if it makes it easier?” He offered, finishing off your hair. 

You shook your head. “Ideally, I won’t leave your side today.” You admitted, standing up and kissing his cheek, before heading into the bathroom. 

The tightness in his chest had eased, and the insecurity had subsided. You had opened up, even though it was hard, and you’d told him. You explained a fair bit of what happened before he knew you, and he almost felt a little giddy that you trusted him, but any happiness was soon crushed by the realisation of what happened to you. He couldn’t help but think of a younger you, with smaller features and less medical knowledge. That scared little girl he caught glimpses of occasionally, much like the glimpses you caught of the boy he used to be. The skinny one with freckles and bruises all over his skin. He liked to think you two could’ve been friends, if there wasn’t the age gap, or distance. Maybe he would’ve helped you fend off Carmen’s bullies, and you could’ve held him when he cried like you were so talented at doing now. 

“What do you think?” You asked, stepping out in a gorgeous blue dress. The corners of his mouth rose, and he felt his boxers get a little tighter. You quickly spun around, and he captured your waist in his hand. God, you constantly took his breath away, whether it was the shitty scrubs from the machine, or a beautiful dress like this, or just lying in bed in one of his hoodies, he had no idea how he got so lucky. 

“Beautiful.” He whispered before swallowing your lips in a kiss. 

Walking upstairs was slightly awkward. Everyone was waiting, staring at you and Jack as you emerged from the basement. RIchie clenched his jaw, Sugar smiled a little too strangely, Pete was just Pete, Neil was already rushing over to introduce himself, Sammy had an eyebrow raised, Teddy was simply staring (and whispering to Sammy), and Sydney just gave you that awkward smile. 

“Neil Fak.” He smiled, holding his hand out. Jack took it, and smiled. 

“Jack Abbot.” He nodded. Neil kept shaking his hand, unrelenting as he stared at the man in front of him. Jack pretended it wasn’t awkward. 

“Wow, you’re handsome,” Neil blurted out before he could stop himself, and you literally faceplanted as Jack tried not to laugh. Richie finally walked over and put everyone out of their misery, moving Neil out of the way as he tried to explain himself. “I mean like, objectively, he’s a very handsome guy-!?” 

Richie ran a hand over his face and sighed. “Yeah, yeah Neil, we fuckin’ get it. Richie Jeromovitch, nice to meet ya,” next, he shook Jack's hand. He fell into his easy ‘italian’ charm, cracking jokes immediately. “Doc here treatin’ you good? She can be a real fuckin’ handful.” 

Jack smiled and squeezed your hand harder. “She’s stubborn but so am I.” He beamed, and you rolled your eyes. 

“Alright, since all the introductions are introduced, let’s go,” you led the charge to the front door with Jack trailing behind, and the rest of the group followed. “God, they are so fucking embarrassing.” You sighed as you started your car. “It’s actually painful to be around them.” Jack laughed. “I like them.” He shrugged, fiddling with the radio. 

You rolled your eyes again. “You ‘like’ them because Neil called you handsome.”

He chuckled. “Definitely helped.” 

You scoffed, and focused on driving. These streets you hadn't seen in so long but knew so damn well. Millenium Park. Your old college campus. Your old hospital. All those silly little restaurants your parents would drag you out to. All those streets you’d walked a thousand times before, Mikey by your side making some wise-ass comments about anything. God, you missed it, missed him. Even the suburbs reeked of him, and he rarely lived at home for much of your remembered childhood. The sidewalks you played on, the playground he chased you in, everything. It was all Mikey and Carmen and Sugar and Mom, and you wanted to puke. 

Thankfully, the drive ended rather quickly, and you were outside Tiffany’s new home. 

Unfortunately, Richie started spiraling. 

Sydney stepped in, standing with him while you made Jack walk in with Sugar and Pete, then you came right back out to help. So much for not leaving his side. “Just… take your time,” she instructed as he chain-smoked like a fucking train. “You’re good.” Shit, so much had changed. Richie was actually starting to get in-touch with his emotions? Unheard of. Maybe Mikey dying had done something good. 

He let out a weird strangled groan. “It’s gonna be fine.” He said it like he was trying to convince himself too, which he clearly was. You nodded. 

“It’s gonna be fine.” Sydney parroted, nodding her head along with yours. Richie turned to the both of you. 

“Is it, right?” He asked, taking yet another drag of his cigarette. 

She jumped in before you could make a joke about a meteor hitting the house, or that nothing could be as bad as February 22nd and the week that followed. “Think so.” She offered him a soft smile. God, you almost forgot that some people hadn’t been told to push everything down until you explode. 

“Everything in life is just for a while.” You added, trying to be of any assistance. Both their heads snapped to you. 

“Says who?” Richie asked, offering a cigarette to you, which you took despite the voice in the back of your head (Dana’s voice) insisting that it would kill you. 

You faltered for a moment, lighting the cigarette with shaky hands. “Philip K. Dick.” You explained, taking a drag. God, you knew it was awful for you, but you missed smoking, especially on days where everything is going wrong in the ED and you have to just keep going. A smoke on the roof would surely fix all your problems. 

Sydney nodded and shrugged. “Well, he’s right. Y’know everything… ends, eventually.” 

“That’s the truth,” Richie pointed a finger at you, and you just nodded, enjoying the cancer stick between your lips. God, Jack would fucking lose it if he saw you smoking this. Richie doubled over, trying to get more air into his lungs. “God- fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me?” He questioned, standing back up. “God,” he breathed out. “What the fuck?” He stared at the building to his left, the tall redbrick structure in the nice part of town. It must’ve at least cost a million, or close to it. Richie turned back to Sydney. “How’s your dad?” he asked, desperately trying to distract himself from the ongoing anxiety attack he was clearly having. “That’s real shit, I’m being a little fuckin’ asshole.” 

You looked to Sydney. “He’s much better. Thanks. Resting. Got five days off of work which he’s loving and also kinda hating.” She explained. You guessed he probably had a heart attack, you had a weird knack for guessing heart attacks. She seemed relieved that he was alright, which you always love to see from patients' families. 

“Good, that’s good. Fuck!” Richie groaned. “Fuck! Fuck guys, everythings…” He trailed off, starting into this half-groan, half- cry thing that made you violently uncomfortable. You’d held parents when their children died. You’d held mothers when their baby died coming out of them. You’d held siblings and friends who watched their sibling or friend die. You’ve held husbands who lost their wives, and  wives who lost their husbands. You’d held husbands who’d lost their husbands, and wives who’d lost their wives. You’d held children who were orphans. You’d held your own fucking friends and family of the Pitt when people were lost, or people were hurt. Yet, you couldn’t fathom being there for when anyone here broke down. Everyone here was meant to swallow it, and let it fester until they either died of old age, or blew their brains out off the side of a bridge. 

“Hey,” Sydney had such a soothing voice. “It’s okay to be… nervous.”

“Good, ‘cause I am.” Richie breathed out. You puffed out another cloud of smoke. 

“I get it,” Sydney let out. Richie asked if she was nervous too. “I mean, not about this, obviously, but…” 

“What are you nervous about?” He asked, his voice trembling despite the way he was trying to keep himself calm. She looked like she was trying to make a decision that seemed impossible. You let out another puff of smoke. 

She smiled softly. “Tell you later?” She offered. 

“Promise?” “Promise.”  

“Fuck, Doc, will you hold my cigarette for a second, I think I’m about to throw up,” he announced, doubling over again. Sydney started to back away, repeating no over and over again. “Please?” He pushed it in your direction, and you sighed and took it. 

You knelt down to meet his eyes. “Richie, I am fucking terrified to walk into that house because I know what I’m going to find. Bitchy comments and strange looks from people who used to know me, yeah?” He nodded along, spitting out some saliva at your feet. “But everyone in there knows you. They love you. Even if they don’t, there’s at least one person in there who does, and that’s Eva. She needs her dad in there, because everything in her life is fucking changing, and she needs you to be a constant, alright?” You cupped a hand on his cheek as he nodded. “Also both me and Sydney are wearing open-toed shoes, so, don’t fucking vomit.” You stood up again, dropping his cigarette to the floor and crushing it under your heel. 

He stood back up, flailing his hand for a second. “I think all this shit is really fuckin’ me up and that’s why my pre-service speeches have been such fuckin’ shit, they-fuck-suck-SHIT!” He spoke almost too fast to be understood, but both you and Sydney called his name a few times to bring him back down. “I’m just a fuckin’ man! Being a fuckin’ baby!” Sydney called out his name one last time, and he finally looked at her. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth a few times, and he copied her. Hell, you fucking copied her. 

“Let’s just get through this, yeah?” She said, not expecting anything. You were already impressed by her. Completely calm nature, logical thinking, and emotional intelligence? She must hate herself to have gotten into business with Carmen Berzatto. 

Richie walked up to her and pulled her into a hug. “Thank you for coming with me,” he breathed out. He then turned to you. “Thank you for coming with me,” he hugged you too, and you almost pushed him away because he reminded you of Mikey. Same bone-crushing hug, same fucking coglone, same fucking cigarettes. You didn’t. You hugged him back and nodded. “Let’s do this shit.” 

“Fuck yeah.” She breathed out, following behind him. 

You wanted the Earth to swallow you up as you walked in behind them, discarding your cigarette just outside the door. The house was beautiful, immaculately decorated with clean white walls and artistic wall hangings on every fucking flat surface. You hated people who had their life together. Your and Jack’s apartment had paint-test strips on the wall and pictures on the floor neither of you had even thought about hanging yet. You sought out Jack first, seeing him standing beside Pete as he recounted another old law story that Jack was half-listening to. 

Fuck, he did look handsome. Crisp baby blue shirt with an even paler blue blazer and matching pants. He looked stunning. You caught his eye almost immediately and he smiled as you walked up, inserting yourself beside him. 

“Richie alright?” Sugar asked, coming up beside Pete, interrupting him. 

You nodded. “He’s fine. Sydney calmed him right down. She’s great, by the way, I really like her.” 

Sugar smiled. “Everyone likes Sydney,” she rolled her eyes. “Have you seen-?”

“Not yet.” You gritted out. Jack squeezed your waist, a common sign of affection from him. It says everything. I’m here. I’m sorry. I care. You loved it. Just then, because of course you’re that lucky, Carmen walked in the door in a blue shirt and navy blazer, eyes wide with anxiety, and he hugged Tiff. You thought back to the last time you’d seen Carmen. 

You’d made a rash decision and booked a flight to New York, planning on making him explain himself. It was the least all of you deserved, you just couldn’t understand why no one else saw it like that. He’s grieving in his own way, everyone told you. Yeah, so were you. You stayed up late and sobbed for hours. You had a panic attack any time you walked by the morgue in your hospital. You picked up emergency medicine. You researched hospital residency programs hours away. You stopped eating sandwiches. Carmen was functioning just fine, especially if you were going off of the fucking New York Times article that had just been released about him. He was the biggest up-and-coming chef in the world, and everyone clearly wanted a piece of him. You wanted to shove his head into a vat of acid, hopefully it would wake him up from whatever stupid fucking trance he was in. 

You showed up at his job (probably not the greatest choice), and you waited by the back door, cigarette box in hand. You smoked the whole pack before he came out, twitching and blinking like he was on heroin. For a moment, you accepted that as an answer. You felt guilty for the messages you’d sent him about how he always ran away from things the second they became difficult. How he constantly let people down and ran away because he was scared of actual communication and confrontation. How he’d broken his promise of protecting you, and always being there when you’d call. Then you remembered his deathly fear of needles, and all your sympathy was gone. 

“You fucking prick!” You screamed, shoving his chef-whites-wearing ass against the back wall, dumpsters to your left. For a second, his hands went to your throat, eyes wide and almost ready to fucking kill you. Then you saw the recognition, the adrenaline still there, but aware of the lack of threat. His hands dropped. “Where were you!?” You shouted, completely uncaring of what would happen if someone found you out here with him, with him like this. 

His mouth parted like he was going to say something, but nothing came out. Those stupid fucking blue eyes you shared, the ones you’d grown up beside, wild and uneasy. “Doc, come on-”

“Don’t fucking ‘Doc’ me, not now, you fucking coward!” You shouted, slamming your hand down on the metal dumpster beside you. “Explain yourself. Make me understand why you couldn’t show up for Mikey, or Mom, or Sugar, or Richie. Explain to me how you couldn’t even show up for me. Even after all the fucking times you begged me to believe your promises. After all the other times you didn’t show up.” You couldn’t hide the way your voice was breaking. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t start crying, that you couldn’t give him that. But of course you did. The image of Mikey in a fucking hospital gown with no back of his head. The image of tagging him, with your residency friends holding you up so you wouldn’t collapse. The image of his fucking funeral, him lying in that stupid fucking casket, completely lifeless. No more smart jokes or stupid fucking points about shit that didn’t matter. Just nothing. The image of your mom’s house the day you’d told her. You and Sugar had swung by, and the place was in shambles. Pictures torn down off the walls, plates broken in the kitchen, Donna curled up in his bed, holding a picture of her baby, and sobbing. You thought you would lose her too. 

He didn’t have an answer. He showed up, but he couldn’t walk in there. He could believe Mikey would do this, and put him in this position. He loved his brother. He loved his sister. He loved you. He didn’t have the answer you were looking for, so he didn’t speak. His mind snapped back to the kitchen, back to Chef David, and how fucking behind he already was. The words left his mouth before he thought about them. “Doc, you have to get out of here, I’m at work-” 

A hand met his cheek. In hindsight, you shouldn’t have done that, but it felt damn good in the moment. “Work is always more fucking important than me, right? You and dad are the same selfish bastard in a new fucking skin, y’know that? Y’know what I’ve had to deal with for the past fucking three weeks? Mom, calling me at all fucking hours, drunk out of her mind, and just crying until I go or Sugar goes and finds her, completely inundated with grief. Sugar has been fucking impossible to fucking talk to, because she just sees Mikey when she looks at me. She just sees you when she looks at me. And you didn’t show up,” you sniffled, tears streaming down your face. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t break. He didn’t do anything. He just… stood there. Acting like this wasn’t the end of the world. Acting like your life hadn’t completely fucking changed. So you accepted it. Not prettily. Not happily. But you accepted it. “You’re a coward, a bad brother, and a fucking selfish bitch, Carmy. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t fucking come home. I won’t be there.” You pushed off him, and walked away, breaking for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Sorrow and grief swallowed you for a night in the city that never sleeps. You found a bench somewhere, and you just questioned why any of this had to happen. 

He should’ve reached out and begged for forgiveness. He should’ve grabbed onto your arm and asked what you meant, making sure you wouldn’t do anything stupid. He didn’t. He straightened out his chef whites, and he walked back inside. He didn’t think about what you’d said. He didn’t think about Sugar back home, inconsolable. He didn’t think about Richie drowning his sorrows and ruining his marriage. He didn’t think about you or your residency program or how hard you were trying to hold things together when they were crumbling. 

He turned inside, and he went back to the kitchen. 

Your mind snapped back to the party in front of you, the sight of Jack explaining something medical to Pete, while he listened intently, and the hilarity of Sugar’s terrifying glare being used on Neil. You didn’t look at Carmen again. You didn’t want to. You smiled at the man who made you happy everyday. The man who carried your favourite protein bar in his car, jacket pocket, and cargos. The man who made you take breaks and openly admitted you were his favourite. The man who loved you, wholley. God, you hoped you weren’t losing him. 

Carmen looked up from his conversation with Tiff, and he stared. His heart stopped, he was sure of it. You were back in Chicago. Since that night in New York, he hadn’t heard from you, or even about you. He didn’t know where you were. He didn’t know what you were doing. He didn’t know if you wanted to talk. He didn’t know anything. Quickly, he started to walk. Not away, not like he used to. No. He walked towards you, until he was in front of you. 

You and Carmen always had the same piercing blue eyes. It used to unsettle people, how bright they were. He cleared his throat, stopping the conversation happening between Sydney, Jack, and Pete. Sugar had her eyes set on the two of you. His tunnel vision had blocked out the rest of them, just focusing on you. You looked different. Different hair, different clothes, different you. You looked older. Prettier. Happier. “You’re… here.” 

You nodded slowly, face unchanging. “I am.” God, since when was conversing with your own twin awkward. This was so awful. 

Carmen fiddled with his fingers just a bit, straightening his spine. “You left.” He said it like he still didn’t believe it, like it hadn’t been the truth for years. 

You nodded again, hand gripping your glass just a little tighter. “I did.” 

He tried to steady his voice, and Sydney started her deep breaths beside you, which you followed, trying desperately to hold onto any semblance of calm you had. Think nice thoughts, you told yourself. Takeout with Mel on a Thursday during shift change. Drinks out with Trinity and Yolanda, dragging an unimpressed Jack with you. Friday night date night where you got fucked into oblivion in your bed. Heads Up in the break room during slow moments with Ellis and Shen. Making saves. Helping people. He opened his mouth again. “W-where did you go-?” Just then the fucking Faks burst in, stealing Pete from the situation, trying to convince him to fund yet another one of their terrible ploys. The commotion was just enough for you to slip away, pulling Jack behind you. 

Once you’d made your way outside of the main house, you pulled Jack by his collar, and smashed your lips against his. This wasn’t a nice kiss, it wasn’t kind either. It was serving its purpose, grounding you, reminding you that there was a world outside of Chicago, and that you lived in it every other day of the year. He pulled back gently, warm hands on your waist, and a raised eyebrow. 

“Don’t,” you sighed, pulling a cigarette out of your bag (you might’ve stolen Richie’s pack inside). “And don’t fucking lecture me right now.” You pointed a finger at his chest, then turned back to lighting your cigarette. You could feel the disapproval from his fucking breath, but he didn’t lecture. 

He just ran a hand up and down your back, sighing. “It’s pretty full-on in there, eh?” He questioned, pressing a kiss to your neck. You nodded as you let out a puff of smoke. “Can I do anything?” He asked, like he fucking always did. God, you didn’t deserve him. He was so good, so kind. He was always asking you what he could do for you. It drove you insane because he was so thoughtful. 

You shook your head. “Don’t leave me?” You added, a pitiful attempt at humour. His jaw clenched and he physically turned you to look at him. 

His heart broke, you thought he’d leave you? Insane. I couldn’t ever. “I’m not leaving you. You hear me?” He asked, a hand cradling your jaw as he stared at you with those impossibly brown eyes. You nodded. “You’re too fucking important to me, alright? I can’t live without you, yes?” He asked, forcing eye contact. You had no idea how he fucking did this, saying the most vulnerable things and keeping (forcing) eye contact. 

“Yes.” You agreed, even if you didn’t believe him. You brought the cigarette back up to your mouth, but he snatched it before you could take another drag. He threw it on the floor, crushing it under his shoe. You rolled your eyes, and he gave you that look. 

A voice you knew all too well came up behind you. “Can’t hide from me forever, can you?” Claire. 

You both went into emergency medicine at the same time. She stayed in Chicago, you went to Pittsburgh. You lost contact mostly, sometimes she’d comment on your instagram, or you’d send her some ER meme. 

“Claire,” you whipped around, smiling at her. “How are you?” She looked good, a little older, a little wiser, just as beautiful as before. 

She swallowed you up in a hug. “Jesus Christ, it’s been so long!” She beamed. “I’m good, thank you. How are you?” She asked, pulling back. “And who is this?” She turned her attention to Jack, who smiled back. 

“I’m good, thank you. Really good, actually,” you were lying through your teeth, but she didn’t seem to notice. When you were home, back in Pittsburgh with a few days off, you were really good. Right now, stuck in shitty Chicago with all your ghosts, you were feeling terrible. “This is Dr. Jack Abbot, my boyfriend.” You introduced and he shook her hand. She sent you a wink, and a mouthed ‘he’s hot’ that Jack definitely didn’t miss. He stifled a laugh behind his hand as you and Claire just looked at each other. 

“I read one of your papers, actually,” she admitted, rocking back and forth on her heels. “The one on gender disparity in the ER and how women are often misdiagnosed?” He nodded. “It was great,” she smiled giddily. “I showed it to all my colleagues. They all loved it.”

“Well, thank you,” he smiled. “You should really read Y/n’s newest paper on-” you cut him off by literally covering his mouth with your hand, making both him, and Claire giggle. 

When would this hellish conversation end? “Enough about me!” You announced. “What about you? Anything new for you? Friends, boyfriends, family?” 

She smiled, laughter easing. “Well, yeah, actually. Carm and I actually dated for a little while,” she confessed, messing with a ring on her index finger. “Nothing serious, a-and we broke up pretty quick. Nothing much since then. Well, until a few nights ago when he came to my house and told me he loved me, which was kinda… a lot,” a nervous chuckle left her lips, as your own jaw was close to being on the ground. Claire and Carmen. What the fuck? She was logical, she always had been. Methodical. Clean. Calm. He was completely the opposite, and not to mention, she was entirely out of his league. “But we’re good now. Over, for sure.” She clarified. 

You didn’t know if you were going to be sick, or reach over and shake her. How did she end up with Carmen? How? “Oh. You and Carmen-?” You were going to explode into a very long lecture, and subsequent questionnaire, when Neil came up, jabbering about needing you for something to do with Eva. You turned to Claire before setting off. “We will revisit this.” Claire nodded, holding a thumbs up as you and Jack followed Neil

“Is she alright?” Jack asked, trailing behind the two of you. “Did she fall? Did she hit her head? Is she on fire?” 

Neil looked horrified. “No! NO! Nothing like that! God, is that where your mind went? Jesus Christ. No, she’s just… she’s under the table, and she doesn’t want to leave. And now Frank and Richie are freaking out, like on the verge of a panic attack-” 

“She’s the fucking cunt-!” “No she’s the fucking cunt!” 

“Is that Sugar?” You questioned, eyes wild as you searched the room for her blonde hair. You found it, screaming at Francine. “Shit, alright, umm… Jack, you stay here and try to talk Richie and Frank out of their fucking panic attacks, I’ll be right back,” you decided, walking off to try and pull the women away from each other. Jimmy was standing beside them, looking like he would rather be slingshotted to the moon than be between them. You stalked over, trying to have your voice heard over theirs. It was times like these you wished you had the capacity for volume that Robby did. “Ladies! Let’s just fuckin’, no, Francine, I swear to fuck I will rip your hair out of your head if you so much as try to bite me one more fuckin’ time. Sugar- Sug- Natalie! Stop acting like fuckin’ schoolgirls- ohhh, do not fuckin’ piss me off right now. Is this how adults act-? No! I didn’t fuckin’ think so! Francie, lovely to see you, stay in the fucking house. Sugar, lovely to see you, stay in the fucking tent. Problem solved!” You clapped your hands together definitively, one of the Faks taking Francine away as Sugar stood in her place, rage radiating off of her. You grabbed a glass of champagne from a table nearby and handed it over to her, irritation rushing through your veins. “Grow up,” you scoffed before cheersing your glasses together. “Cheers!” You fake smiled before rushing off back to Jack and the boys. God you hated this fucking family. If you weren’t already so frazzled, you would’ve noticed the three people trailing you. You didn’t, you only stopped when you found Rich and Frank standing beside a table, with the hilarious image of Jack’s legs sticking out from under the table. 

Behind you Stevie, Carmen, and Tiffany all stood. You genuinely jumped, tripping over Jack’s prosthetic leg, and falling on top of him. “Oh shit, sorry baby,” you sighed, rolling up his trousers and reattaching his leg the way you’d done a thousand times before. “You alright in there?” you practically whispered. 

“All good.” He responded as you stood up, turning back to the trio in front of you. 

“Is he a pirate?” Stevie smirked, that stupid smirk you’d always wanted to slap off his fucking face. You sent him that look, the one Dana called your ‘scary dog look’, and he nodded. “No jokes about the leg, got it. So, how are you?” 

“Great, thanks Stevie,” your voice was dripping with sarcasm, mostly because that was the only language he understood. “How’s your lavender marriage?” You shot back, smoothing out your dress. 

He laughed. “Hoo-ho! You got me there! Maybe we should ask Carmy here how many times he heard me and Michelle fuck while he was staying with us in New York, shall we?” He turned his head to Carmen, who was just staring at you. 

He shook his head. “No, we shall not.” 

You changed your focus to the beautiful bride in front of you. “Hey Tiff, congratulations,” you smiled, pulling her into a hug. You didn’t know her well, but you knew Richie, and when they started going out, he beamed. Even when they got married and things got hard, he was so fucking in love with her. “This place is beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” she smiled. She was always so sweet. “How are you? How’s Pittsburgh?” 

“Pittsburgh,” Carmen parroted. “You moved to Pittsburgh?” 

“Yes, Carmen, PTMC had a great residency program,” you sent him a death glare, then turned back to Tiff. “I’m good thank you, yeah, Pittsburgh’s great. My boyfriend and I-” you pointed out Jack, who was still under the fucking table. “-are living together now so, yeah, it’s great.” 

“Boyfriend, wow!” She beamed, holding your hands in hers. “That’s amazing, I’m so happy for you.” 

“Thank you, and yeah, I’m so happy for you too,” you smiled. “And thank you for inviting me, that was more than kind.” You added, still feeling Carmen’s eyes on you. 

“Oh, of course. We’re still family, right?” She smiled. 

“Right,” you agreed. “So what’s going on with you-”

Carmen stepped in closer, eyes wild. “You moved to Pittsburgh and you didn’t tell me?” He asked, voice cracking like it did when he was upset. Everyone was quiet for a moment. Stevie smirked at the sight in front of him, he loved getting to watch the drama unfold. Tiff just watched, then took a silent step out, mouthing a ‘good luck’ in your direction. Frank and Richie were too busy bro-ing it out to realise the shitshow in front of them. 

“You didn’t seem to care about me in New York,” you shrugged, crossing your arms. “And PTMC had a great residency program. I was thinking about my future-”

He let out a strangled laugh. “S-so you can show up to my work, my future, and scream a-at me to come home, but you didn’t fucking tell me where you went, and what, I’m just supposed to fucking take that becuase it’s about ‘your future’? What bullshit is that, Doc?” 

You let out a sharp breath. “I’m sorry I did that, it wasn’t the right thing to do. I was just hurting, and I wanted you to understand but I didn’t know how to say it, so I just… I had to hurt you too. In hindsight, I’ve no doubt that you were grieving in your own way, I just… I couldn’t see it, and I’m sorry.” You fiddled with your dress, wishing all of this could just be over, that you could just teleport back to your apartment in Pittsburgh with Jack. 

He stared, eyes fixed on your face. He nodded, quickly. He blinked. “T-Thank you, for apologising. I-I’m sorry too.” 

You were shocked at that. Your eyebrows jumped up into your hairline, mouth dropping open slightly. You just nodded, mouth dry and throat burning with unshed tears. 

“I think she just doesn’t want to dance,” Jack shrugged, standing up. “I think you need to be okay with that,” he explained to Frank. He stood up to find Carmen and Stevie in front of you, your shoulders clearly trembling. He wrapped a hand around your waist, and pulled you into him, squeezing your hip. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice gruff and low. 

“Yeah, I’m-”

“Wow,” Donna’s voice cut through the noise in your head, and your heart dropped into your stomach. She sounded dreamy, like she was remembering a young set of twins that she hadn’t yet ruined. Stevie fell away, not wanting to be anywhere near Donna and you together. “Both my babies are right here.” She smiled, pulling Carmen into an awkward looking hug, and then turning to you with open arms. You couldn’t do it. You ducked out, rushing out of the tent as you felt bile rise in your throat. You sat in the garden for a while, train-smoking some cigarettes as you waited for the inevitable bomb to explode in your face. 

Inside the tent, Carmen was staring at Jack Abbot like he didn’t know what to do with him, and Donna was looking at him like she had a thousand questions to ask. 

Carmen cleared his throat. “You’re her boyfriend?” He asked, his voice wavering. Jack nodded his head with a soft smile. He decided to give you a bit of time on your own, especially when he could ensure you wouldn’t be bothered by your twin or mother for at least a little while. “How is she?” 

Loaded question, he thought. He pursed his lips together. “She’s the best doctor I have on my staff, she’s one of the kindest people I know, and she misses you,” he shrugged. “She loves her job and she dedicates almost too much of herself to it. She’s the most popular doctor in the Pitt, and she deserves every piece of praise that she gets.” 

Carmen nodded, then walked off, his breaths erratic and shallow. Jack cleared his throat, taking another sip of his water. 

Donna smiled at him, a curious glint in her eye. “Do you like working there? At the Pitt with her?” She asked. 

He broke out into a proper smile thinking about all the time you two had shared there. From your first day where you performed a perfect crike and central venous catheterization within 30 minutes on your first shift, to the day he kissed you for the first time on the roof, to the days now, where the only good thing in that building is you. “I do, very much so.” he grinned. She nodded. 

“I always wanted to be a nurse, y’know,” she smiled that tight-lipped smile he was getting more used to. He saw the similarities in features, just when she tilted her head the right way. 

“Oh really?” he coaxed, wanting her to talk more so that he didn’t have to. 

“Yeah, I did. I did a course back in high school about CPR and everything, and I was… wow, it was a lot,” she chuckled. “I have no idea how you guys do it.” 

He nodded, a goofy grin on his face. “Yeah, it’s… it’s still a lot sometimes, even for us.” 

“I don’t think that ever changes,” she shook her head, playing with the ring on her finger. “So, she’s… she’s good?”

There it was, the question he was waiting for. “She’s… yeah. She’s great. She’s an attending now, she did her exams a few months ago, so… yeah. She’s great. I love her a lot,” he confessed, trying to keep a little bit of the pride out of his tone. “She’s so smart, and so quick, and… she was just made for it. She really cares about the people who walk in everyday, and she, she always knows what to say. She’s always trying to make things better for everyone else, including our staff. She just… she cares a lot. She’s nice to med students and new interns which is shockingly rare,” he chuckled, thinking of your relationships with Whitaker and Santos and Javadi, and how close you got with Mel. “She’s just… she’s so special. All her patients rave about her, all her collegues rave about her, hell, I fucking rave about her. What she does is special. Obviously, there’s moments where it’s hard, especially because she’s so hard on herself, but she’s incredible at what she does, and half of that is how she speaks to people. She just… she cares,” he shrugged, his heart swelling with pride. “She is just incredible and we are more than lucky to have her. I’m more than lucky to have her.” 

She let out a fond laugh. “Really?” She pleaded, hoping what he was saying was true. He nodded. “That’s wonderful! I always knew she would be a doctor. She always wanted to fix things, that’s why we all call her Doc, because she was always bandaging scrapes and helping out Carmy with his…” she trailed off. “And how did you two meet?”

“I was her attending at the same hospital while she was finishing out her residency and we became friends, and then it just turned into more,” he shrugged. He knew this would come up, especially with the age difference and everything. She nodded. “We live together now, which is great. She's, unsurprisingly, a great cook.” He chuckled. 

She was quiet for a moment, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Wow. You really… you really see her, don’t you?” 

“I try to,” he breathed out. “She doesn’t always want to be seen.” 

She shook her head, covering his hand with hers. “You see her, just like Mikey did. You understand her,” she smiled, one stray tear falling down her cheek. “That’s special.” 

He smiled back at her, and nodded. 

“Take care of my girl, alright?” she asked, voice breathy and full of emotion. He nodded, a solemn promise he’d made over a year ago, to himself. “Thank you.” 

And she left. So he left and found you outside with a half-empty cigarette box, and tears streaming down your face. He helped you up, warm hands on your waist as he guided you through the party to your car, forgoing any and all proper goodbyes or thank you’s. You needed space. You needed time. He buckled you up into the passenger seat of your car, and set off for Sugar’s house. 

“Thank you.” You whispered out, eyes already droopy after your very emotionally draining day. 

He shook his head, squeezing your thigh in his hand. “Always.” That was it. He’d always be there for you.

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