♡

You wiggle your hips with a satisfied hum, adjusting yourself until your ass is perfectly fitted over the ridge of his zipper. “Why wait?” you giggle, all teeth and honey, shooting him a smirk that could curdle virtue. “Besides… I figured if I’m gonna be sitting on your lap, I might as well dress for the occasion.”

The tie of your bikini top grazes his chin—loose, barely knotted. He could undo it by accident if he breathed too hard.

Wilson shakes his head, warding off all inappropriate thoughts threatening to root in his brain like weeds. It’s just a quick family-friendly car ride. Just a cramped backseat with his friends’s daughter on top. Nothing he couldn’t endure with a dash of self-control, right?

…If only he knew you had no plans to let him survive a much different type of ride.

You stretch to close the car door, arching with feline grace as your breasts lift just enough to threaten full exposure. Wilson sees it, tries not to, but his gaze lingers a second too long.

The engine rumbles to life, and so does the road, a rattling string of potholes and poorly timed stops that turns the backseat into a carnival ride. Each bump jostles you back against his pelvis, eliciting a startled grunt which he tries to disguise as a cough, even as your supple curves ripple over the firm rise swelling beneath you. You pretend not to notice.

Wilson’s breath comes shallow, lips parted around a sound that never quite makes it out. He’s hardening. Fast.

“Dear god,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, a line of sweat beading at his temple as he squirms—futilely, laughably—to keep his raging hard-on from prodding at you. But it’s too late. You’re already molded to him, wedging down with a precise amount of pressure for him to see stars behind those poor, tortured lashes. Your ass cradles him, lush cheeks spreading and nestling onto the growing bulge below.

“Oh?” you chirp, syrup-sweet, sunglasses sliding down the slope of your nose as you glance at him with wide, mock-concerned eyes. “You okay back there? You’re looking a little flushed,” you press down on him for emphasis. “Want me to crank up the AC? Or would that just make things… harder?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The car lurches again, and your tits bounce with the motion, jiggling inside the skimpy triangles of your top. One strap slips, ever so slightly. Enough for a dark flash of nipple to peek out then vanish, like a dare.

You lean back, your shoulder pressing into his clavicle as a whisper feathers the shell of his ear. “Feels like you’re enjoying the ride, Dr. Wilson…”

His hands finally find your hips—not to pull you off, no. Simply to hold you still. As if that’ll stop anything.

His knuckles flexes, tendons knotted under flesh, blanching with dwindling restraint. His grip wasn’t possessive, it’s utterly helpless—the way a man might cling to a ledge with nothing but rocks and open air below. Each shaky huffs stirs the hairs on your nape in staccato bursts, quavering and uneven, fluttering onto your dewy skin with every bump in the road.

Your thighs spread—no pretense of innocence now. Each little wriggle drags your ass across the rigid line of him, his cock now fully erect and caught painfully between your body and the prison of his shorts, swollen tip likely rubbed raw. The fabric must feel like sandpaper. Good. Let him squirm.

“Mmph!- you need to stop. You’re going to get me killed-” he protests weakly, voice thinned to a thread. It reaches for authority and lands somewhere closer to plea dressed up as one.

“I’m serious,” he grits out, low and swift. “Your father is three feet away. Driving. If he so much as glances back and sees this—sees me—he’s swerving us into a guardrail, and frankly? I’d deserve it.”

He risks a peep at the rearview mirror, already bracing for impact—or worse, conversation.

“And just for the record- I’m fairly certain ‘Sorry, sir, I accidentally ejaculated on your daughter’ doesn’t hold up in court.”

Yet despite the full-blown Wilsonian descent into moral panic, he doesn’t push you off. Doesn’t stop you. Because you’re warm, and you’re there, and his cock is practically signing a confession in pre-cum across the front of his slacks.

“Oh calm down,” you wave him off, reaching back to curl your arm around his neck when no one’s looking, fingers threading lazily through a piece of hair behind his ear. “He’s not gonna notice. He never does.”

“Even if he does look back, what do you think he’d see? Me sitting still, perfectly innocent… and you sweating bullets like you’re about to propose.” You snicker, bordering on cruel.

“If anyone’s blowing your cover, Wilson, it’s you.”

You punctuated your words by rolling your hips forward tauntingly, tracing slow, languid figure-eights that stroke his swollen shape through the cotton. It knocked the wind out his lungs, each pass coaxing a fresh tremor from his member. There’s slick warmth oozing from your barely-covered pussy slit, soaking straight through the gusset of your bikini, smearing over his lap in damning streaks. His khakis darken with it. A ruinous little brand. Yours.

Your lips brush close, shy of contact. “…Bet I could make you cum in your pants right now and you’d still smile through dinner like nothing happened.”

He groans, head thumping back against the headrest with a muted, defeated clunk. You hear it—the thick, guilt-laden swallow he tried to suppress, bobbing in his throat like a sob he doesn’t know where to aim.

This is his friend’s daughter. His friend, right there in the driver’s seat, blissfully focused on the road—while his boner was being ground into mush in the backseat by a bikini-clad siren half his age. He felt like every cliche he’d ever pitied—some sad, middle-aged divorcé with a weakness for younger women and no sense of boundaries.

…Well. He was that guy now. Exactly that guy.

His thighs twitch beneath you, muscles jumping involuntarily as his cock kicks, straining against the damp flimsy barrier between you. “This is—god—absurd,” he rasps. “I should be asking for a lawyer, not a… lap dance in the back of a Subaru.” It leaves him in a breathless rush—half-joke, half-defeat. The way his voice frays at the edges on the last word makes it clear: it’s already killing him.

Your pretty lips twists into a pout, one that’s too practiced to be pure. “Where’s the fun in that?” You croon, tone as deadly as silk over blade. “It’s not like your cock’s inside me… yet. So technically?” you trail off as your spine bows deliciously, bikini riding higher between your asscheeks—more string than swimwear now. “No crime. No foul. Just the perfect start to a very dirty little secret.”

You grind again—harder this time—and he hitches, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched tooth-shatteringly tight as his shaft pulses violently under you, practically ready to burst free at the seams of his pants. His hands fly from your hips to the edge of the seat, clutching the hot vinyl as he’s afraid to touch you again. If he does, he won’t be able to stop.

The hushed noise that escapes Wilson is nothing short of pitiful—a strangled gasp snagged in the well of his chest, right above the frantic thrum of his stallion-quick heart. He’s trembling, every nerve sizzling and wound taut. It’s not from the cold—hell, it’s sweltering in here. But the tension you’ve stoked in him blazes white-hot, melting him down to a shivering wreck, knees jittering with no hope of stillness.

He’s flushed to the roots—neck to scalp lit up in a feverish crimson, the tips of his ears flaring cherry red. His dick throbs in his briefs, as if trying to claw its way inside you on sheer instinct alone. “P-Please,” he stammers, the plea nearly eclipsed by the drone of the highway. “This is a catastrophic idea- I’m about two seconds from losing any shred of self-control here.

“Catastrophic?” You echo. “Wilson, you’ve been gagging for it since I sat down. The only thing I made you do was stop pretending otherwise.”

Spurring him on, you lean in and whisper softly. “Come oooon… ditch the good boy act and cum for me already. I promise not to tell daddy…”

“Our dirty secret, remember?”

And just like that, his hips finally betrays him in the faintest disgraceful thrusts, every ghost of a buck into your clothed cunt an apology he’s too far gone to voice. A soft moan slips out of you, part from the friction, part from an unbearable, blistering ache low in your belly—dying for him to finish inside you next time.

However the rest of it? That’s unadulterated satisfaction—the victory of witnessing your long-time crush unravel under you, undone by an act so simple, so obscene.

“Dammit, wait—-” he hisses, louder than he meant to, the curse a tangled braid of guilt and relief. No one reacts. No one knows. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

His frame staggers once, twice—then he’s gone, pleasure cresting through him in a silent, shattered surrender. A white, milky essence seeps through his underwear, drenching the space between your thighs and his lap, slathering across his crotch in trails of sticky shame. It’s filthy. It’s humiliating. It’s also easily the hottest thing you’ve ever felt.

He blinks open, but doesn’t move.

“Oopsie,” you smile so wide it aches, turning to catch a fine sheen glistening over the furrowed lines of his careworn features, turmoil etched deep around those sad puppy eyes.

“I think somebody made a mess.” your stare dips, unapologetically. “Hope you brought a spare change of clothes.”

Wilson exhales hard, hands scrubbing over his face as he kneads the bridge of his nose. He crossed a line. In fact—he obliterated it. And the worst part? He knows he’ll do it again.

Especially if you so much as whisper please.

-------☆-------

You let out a mix of a tiny whimper-sob that caused him to pause. It felt like every blood vessel in his body immediately rushed to his dick. What was wrong with him?

“What is SO wrong with me you can’t even say it out loud?” You scoffed, breaking the silence a desperate voice.

His hand darted to his eyebrows, pinching them as he turned away in an attempt to hide the amount of tears he was about to spill. You even argued like her. Fuck. He wasn’t about to have this conversation on the roof. And on top of that, he did actually feel bad about how he’d been treating you these past few weeks.

“Let me buy you dinner.. or drinks.. or something. Whatever you want. Let me properly apologize... Please.” He whispered, his eyes teary and gentle as he scanned your face for any kind of rejection.

-

Your night ended sleep deprived in an under-stimulating, cozy little diner tucked away in downtown Pittsburgh. And to your surprise, Jack wasn’t mean, or cold. Quite the opposite, actually. He was naturally charming, had a story for just about everything, and he actually listened. He listened to you ramble about how terrifying it is working in the ED and how you were planning to apply for a peds oncology fellowship after knocking out a residency in pediatrics. His heart couldn’t handle how badly he needed you, how unhealthy he was about you. You were so similar yet so different from her.

About four wine glasses in and you basically dropped a conversational bomb.

“So.. What about you, Jack. Wife? Kids? Whats your deal, hm?” You softly asked, genuinely curious about him. By the way his face subtly dropped you knew you might be crossing a line.. but he cleared his throat and decided to let it happen.

“I had a wife.. ‘long time ago. She’s dead. Drunk driver.” He muttered, weak and shakily as he looked down.

You immediately softened up, your heart dropping in fear of ruining his night.

“You look just like her. And it’s killing me to death. Im dying here. You have no idea.” He muttered, letting out a little chuckle at how dumb it sounded, and feeling guilty for even admitting it, because admitting it made all of this too real.

“Aw Jack, I’m sorry. Tell me about her.” You tilted your head, furrowing your brows and softly putting a hand on his.

He shot you a look as if he was telepathically asking if you actually wanted to hear an old man ramble about his dead wife on what was basically a date. You softly nodded.

By the end of the night, you’d learned her favorite flowers, her career, their old plans for a future that was stolen unreasonably early, and the reason Abbot had been avoiding you this whole time. It was refreshing, honestly. He never really talked about her unless it was with his therapist, who got payed to listen so it didn’t really count. As far as he could tell you seemed to actually care. Which only made him feel more guilty for treating you the way he had.

-

Everyone noticed the shift between you and Abbot. The whole ED was gossip central about this. The looks being shot between you two, Jack suddenly being able to pick a case up with you, the way he’d look at anyone who dared to disrespect you in the slightest. You were pretty sure princess and perlah genuinely had a bet going on what was the deal with the two of you.

It was a thankfully slower day in the ER, and naturally Abbot came in for a few hours during your shift to “help out” which was absolutely unnecessary and everyone knew it.

After a code that costed about thirty minutes of constant cpr and constant “He’s a-systole. Resume compressions.” You caught a very prominent bleed that you all missed thanks to an insane arm to neck lac the patient presented with on arrival. His entire pelvis looked distorted and crushed on ultrasound. After paging the or over and over he eventually stopped responding to cpr and unfortunately, you had to call it.

You stepped out of trauma 2, teary eyed and exhausted. It was hour… 12? 13? Who knew. But never a fun way to end a shift.

That’s when you felt familiar, warm hands gently find their place on your waist. He shot you a look of sympathy, softly rubbing his thumb up and down in an attempt to soothe you

“Hey pretty girl. Long night..?” Abbots voice was so tender and gentle, knowing you’d just come out of a hard case. You two were in a little hidden corner of the ED.. but certainly not hidden enough.

You let a few tears fall, pressing your back into his chest before peeling his arms off of you. “Jack.. public.”

He scoffed. “Mmmm… don’t care. ‘Need you so bad sweetheart. Miss you.” He softly mumbled, placing a kiss onto of your head before letting you move away. “Your shifts been over. Let’s go home, before I gotta leave. Want time with my girl. Im your attending. Basically an order.” He shrugged, his tone playful and he nudged you.

-

You barely made it fully through the doorway before his hands were all over you, peppering little kisses on your face and neck.

“Need all of you. So bad...” He muttered against your neck, undoing your bra and slipping your scrubs off layer by layer.

“Jackie.. ‘M all gross. Long shift.” You whispered between giggles, trying to push him away before he grabbed both of your wrists up with only one hand.

“Never gross to me. C’mon sweetheart. Let me make you feel good.” He softly pushed you onto the couch, and with muscle memory like reflexes he ended up in between your legs in a blink of time.

His stubble, which he’d being trying to keep as short as possible for you, was so prickly against your thighs and pussy. He sucked you up, gently pushing a thick finger into you, making you yelp.

He was so hard for you, his hips involuntarily buckled into nothing every time you let out a little sound. His pants were so tight against his cock, rubbing just the right places on his tip. That mixed with your taste, your moans. He might actually cum before he was even in you.

“So perfect f’ me. Yea? Feel good pretty?” He mumbled against you, earning a whiny nod and a hand running through his silver curls.

He bucked his hips again, so incredibly needy for any friction against his overly sensitive dick, rutting into the air desperate for release. The closer he got the more intense he got with you, sucking so hard and needy and curling his fingers so deep inside of you. Every time he moaned against you earned him the prettiest sounds from you.

“Oh- mmnhhh- Fuck. Gonna make me cum, ah- s-so pretty. Can’t mngh- Can’t even wait, cutie.” He said, voice heavy and strained as he tried and failed to control himself. Not once did he break rhythm with you though. So focused on making you feel good. He pushed through until you fully came, placing small kisses on you before letting go himself, followed by raspy little whimpers.

He gently smiled, taking in the sight of you all tired out by him. “Gonna have to get some new pants for my shift, hm?”

You lovingly placed a kiss on his forehead, softly cupping his face and giggling.

It was just good luck.  You were a night shift residential counselor at a halfway house for people overcoming traumatic brain injuries.  You had the patience of a goddamned saint, the steel spine of a warrior…but when a patient lashed out, the ambulance brought you to the Pitt one night.

Yours was an easy case, relatively speaking.  A broken nose, a cracked orbital bone, and a concussion.  It had been a quiet night, though, so Jack attended to you.  Looked you over, ordered the x-rays and scans.  He reset the cartilage of your nose, and he bit back a laugh as you—pure sweetness and light up until then—barked out, “oh fuck me, you fucking fucker” at the explosion of pain as he did.

Then he did laugh as you realized what you’d said and apologized profusely to him.

“Not the worst thing I’ve heard this week,” he told you.

It shouldn’t have become a thing.  A hundred cases passed through the doors of the Pitt during his shift each night.  Yet you charmed him in the moment.  He must have charmed you too, because you brought a box of baked goods from Prantl’s a few weeks later as thanks to him and the nursing staff.  While there, you asked for his number.

Jack Abbot was always a sucker for a bold woman who knew what she wanted, and you seemed to want him.

-----

Now, his house is a home again.  The emptiness is filled by the life he’s created with you.  It staggers him sometimes how lucky he is to have found love twice.  He feels like he’s cheated the universe somehow:  first his wife, now you.  Different in some ways, similar in others.  Beloved, both.

Right now, his house is quiet.  His shift ran late, and he only just got home.  He slipped inside, eased out of his scrubs, and showered.  Took off his prosthetic and massaged his aching leg and stump.

Then he joined you in bed.

You’re both night shift, which means your relationship works just a little easier.  There are no ships passing in the night with you; you exist in the same weird liminal space as him.  Vampire-life:  sleeping through the day, waking up at dusk.

Your bedroom is engineered for maximum comfort.  The windows are thick and mostly soundproofed to keep street noise at a minimum.  Blinds and heavy curtains block all light.  Both you and Jack sleep well in the cold, so you keep the room a chilly temperature.

Bonus to that?  Maximum cuddling.

Jack’s running later, so you are already asleep.  He can tell from your snoring, which you claim to not do.  Still, you sound like a small chainsaw when you sleep, and Jack grins when he hears it.  He climbs into bed carefully.  You’re on your side facing away from him, and he scoots closer until he’s curled around you.

Most times, he’d just fall asleep with you in his arms.  He often crawls into bed bone-tired and doesn’t even remember falling asleep—it’s a fast blink, and he’s out like a light. 

Sometimes, though, sleep eludes him.  When the Pitt has a lively night, when certain cases go a certain way, Jack can lie awake and stew.  Sometimes he has a move you call ‘the rotisserie,’ where he spins and spins around in bed until you anchor him by either spooning him or throwing a leg over him to ground him.

But sometimes sleeps eludes him because he’s keyed up in a good way.  Not all cases are depressing.  Sometimes he gets a goddamned win, death forestalled for another day.  Sometimes he stands up on the roof and sees the sun rise over Pittsburgh and he’s hit with such joy at being alive that he could weep.

“I love you,” he whispers against the back of your head.  “So fucking much.”

Whatever dreamland you’re in now, you hear his words.  Your snoring tapers off, and you mumble something in reply.  Which he can’t make out—it’s gibberish—but you also respond by pressing back against him.  Wriggling in his arms, which pushes your ass firmly against his groin…which was very much inert, when he crawled into bed, but now?  The warm, solid weight of you against him, paired with the light scent of the lotion you wear to bed…it makes a pulse of desire move through him, and he starts to grow hard against you.

He doesn’t mean to wake you (not really), but you do wake up by degrees.  First you just press against him, but then you hum sleepily and whisper, “mornin’, Jack.”

“Mornin,’ darlin.’”

“I was having a nice dream.”

“About me?”

You huff out a laugh.  “Don’t be arrogant, Doctor.”  A beat.  “But yes.”

Jack hums, pleased, and brushes the hair from the back of your neck so he can kiss you there.  He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin of your pulse point, then he nips you.  Drags the flat of his tongue over the mark, and he’s rewarded with the breathy little moan you always give when he puts his mouth to you.  The sound goes right to him, and now he’s painfully hard.  He can feel his heartbeat in his dick, and he grinds himself against you for some relief.

You’re still sleepy, but you’re awake now.  You reach your free hand up and back, and you slide your fingers in his damp curls.  You tug his hair, a bit of pain to spur him on, a sign that he can keep going.

Still, he asks.  “You good?”

“You better finish what you’ve started.” 

“Yes, ma’am.  Gladly.” 

It takes no time to undo the tie on his pajama bottoms and push them down enough to free his erection.  Another beat to get your sleep shorts down past your hips and ass, only as far as your knees, but he’s too impatient now.  Too close to you.  Jack gets an arm under your waist and maneuvers you just a fraction for a better angle, and then he’s there:  pressing the tip of his cock against your slick folds, and he wonders if you’re wet because you were dreaming about him or if you touched yourself before falling off to sleep.  Both scenarios make his blood run hotter, so he pushes forward, pushes into you, feels the wet heat of you surround him as he bottoms out.

God, you always feel amazing.  Familiar, like being home, but it still steals his breath each time he slides into you.  Maybe you feel the same because you make the same low moan to feel him inside you, and then your grip on his curls tightens.

“Please, Jack,” you whisper.  Your voice is harsh, punched-out.

He rocks against you.  Pulls out maybe an inch before sinking back into you.  The room is dark and cool, and he’s in this warm cocoon with you.  There are no sharp movements; it’s just the gentle rocking of him against you, his arms tight around you.  It’s sex, sure, but it’s more about being together.  Being joined.  Two halves of a whole.

Jack shifts one arm from where it’s wrapped around your waist, and he touches you.  Starts with your breasts, grasps at the soft fullness of you and pinches lightly at your pebbled nipples.  He kisses the side of your neck as he works his hand lower until he’s touching your clit—swollen and slick with your arousal.  He presses it lightly, rubs a steady circle around it, and he feels the way you tighten around him.  The way you bear down as he pulls out a fraction then thrusts back into you, slow and deep and steady.

“Need you to come for me,” he rasps in your ear.  “I’m not gonna last long, baby.”

It never takes you long like this.  When he wakes you up like this, it’s easy to wring an orgasm out of you because your higher thinking never has time to power up.  You don’t have time to start worrying about your case load at work, or worrying about him and his workload, or worrying about the thousand other things that burden your thoughts usually.  Like this, you’re light on the thinking and heavy on the feeling, and you can just sink into the sensation of him fucking you gently.  Of waking you up, then fucking you back to sleep.

He feels it before he hears it.  You tighten against him, then you come:  the way your cunt ripples against him, twitching and pulling him in deeper.  The hot rush of arousal that coats his cock and slicks your inner thighs.  You trembling in his arms.  You breathing out his name, mumbling fuck, just like that.

Then you breathing out come inside me, Jack, because he loves to fucking hear it, loves being triggered by you begging him to mark you from the inside.  He gets in a few more half-thrusts, then obliges you with a groan.  He pushes into you as deep as he can then stills as he fills you up.

He should get up and get a washcloth.  He should crawl out of bed and help you clean up, but already sleep is nipping at his heels.  He can feel how you are slipping under too, and when he snuggles closer to you, you press back against him too.

“Can I go to sleep like this?” he whispers.  He’s still inside you, still a little hard, and the thought of falling asleep with his cock still buried in you is almost enough to rouse him for a second go.  The medically trained part of him knows he’ll slip out as you sleep, the two of you will move around in bed, and there will be a mess to clean up later.  Sheets to wash.  Showers to take.  But the feeling of being joined to you still…. it’s too good.

You were his pretty little attending, so wide-eyed and sweet. Caring for the patients with such a beautiful heart. So it came to no surprise that Jack Abbot wanted you. Although the myth of vampires enjoying virgins blood was just that, a myth. There was something so enjoyable… about the kind hearted people that roamed the world.

He had courted you slowly, of course. After all he was your attending, one who you believed to be in his early fifties. He had to work you slowly, even if he was keenly aware of your attraction to him by just listening to your heart. Oh how he delighted in how it sped up when he even just glanced at you. Your neediness merely spurring him on.

Once he had you, he was never going to let go. You had learnt that quick, from how his touch burned you in the most delightful ways and how he’d be by your side no matter what’s. As if he had super speed or something…

Even after courting you and earning your heart, Jack would still wish to slowly ease you into his reality. Some selfish part of him wishing to pretend that the two of you were just any couple. But that couldn’t be the truth. And he couldn’t hide it for long.

Within months of dating he had felt his control slip. Worried it was his age or health, Jack had taken a few days to realise the root of his issue. His lovely lovely lover, you. Whether you were menstruating or had pricked your finger, he could feel his fangs begin to elongate. Poking at his lips to be set free so as to be plunged into your blank canvas of a neck. The most devine meal, one that was technically his, but one that he could not have. Not yet.

Once he had finally explained his… predicament, Jack couldn’t ignore how flushed you had become when he explained how badly he needed you. More than you had been able to comprehend, perhaps that was one of the positives of being a vampire. An ability to yearn and long with something no mortal could comprehend. But nevertheless, he had worked himself up to being able to drink your blood. There had been many a time he had wished to drag you into an empty room and taste the nectar that ran through your veins, but he had held off.

Until finally, he could no longer do so. The first time had been euphoric. Jack knew he would never see any heaven, but tasting you was his own form of religion, own holy place. He was your loyal servant paid in merely a taste of your blood.

He soon became obsessed.

But with obsession came an inability to stop himself. Drinking as much as he could without harming you. Even when you said he could take more. He knew you were lying, unable to bring himself to harm you. Trying to ignore the teasing of your heartbeat when at work. Or how your neck covered in bruises begged him for more.

As you stored Mr Hutson’s body, you made conversation with the pretty quiet guy.

“Not a big talker, huh?”

You took a deeper voice as you answered for him.

“Yeah, got pretty silent after my heart stopped beating.”

“I get it. Sorry, it’s a little cold down there.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” you replied to yourself.

“You’re welcome, Mr Hutson! Let me just place this name tag-“

“Sorry to interrupt,” Lena apologized as she entered the morgue.

“You’re not! Or are you?” You joked, making her form a small smile before she rolled a body in the room.

“I got another body. The heatwaves are the worst killers right now.”

“Then arrest them!” You laughed. Alone.

“…Okay.”

“Not a good joke, I presume.”

“Not your best, honey,” she reacted.

You nodded and stayed silent. She was probably waiting for you to continue talking because she didn’t utter a word. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as you ran your fingers through the deceased person’s hair.

“Female, sixty-two. Pronounced dead at 3:41.”

“What’s her name?” You asked as you placed her hair to look a little more kept.

“Caroline Hughes. Hard death…”

“Well… At least she’s not paying taxes anymore!”

The ER nurse looked at you without adding anything else. This stare was enough to make you realize that it wasn’t the right time to say that, apparently.

“It sounded funnier in my head… Sorry…”

“I’ll go back.”

“Okay, see you!”

As the door closed and you were the only living person in the room, you turned to Mrs Hughes.

“Was that this terrible of a joke?”

This time, you used a higher pitch to mimic her voice.

“Yes.”

“I’m just trying to make her like me a little,” you explained as you started the usual routine you had with the bodies.

“She will!”

“I hope so…“

You eventually gathered a pile of documents that needed to be signed by an ER attending physician after receiving a death in the morgue. It made you smile to think about seeing him. Jack Abbot has been your work crush since forever. That pile of work meant having an interaction with him. It was something you never missed. He was kind and gentle with patients. Plus, he wasn’t awkward, which is pretty good when you’re dealing with alive ones.

You walked to his department while humming a song. You smiled at your coworkers without much success and spotted him in trauma 1.

You knew that it was way more important than your boring papers, so you waited while looking at him. He was able to control the room like a professional.

You waited for a moment. The case was long and complicated, so you just stared at him.

“What are you doing here?” Mateo asked as he went from one room to the other.

“I need Dr Abbot’s signature.”

“He’ll get to you,” he simply answered as he left.

“No rush, my patients aren’t the impatient kinds!”

He faked a polite laugh and left.

You waited for a long time without a complaint. Suddenly, he left the room with a sigh. It was a long one, but the patient was alive.

“Hey, Dr Abbot, just needed you to sign this!” You started, with a little too much energy to your tone.

He nodded and signed it without much thought.

As you held the clipboard with the documents, you couldn’t help but make conversation. It’s been a while since you talked to him.

“So… Busy?”

He silently looked at you. He’d normally have a cocky answer to stuff like that, but his mind wasn’t really present after the trauma bay.

“Actually, don’t answer that! It was the dumbest question I could’ve asked.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a night. And it’s not ended yet.”

“I’ve gathered… Because you know… The people here.”

He nodded and looked at the TV. It should’ve been your cue to leave, but you had some sort of invisible force that kept you there.

“I didn’t mean to be sarcastic. It sounded a little sarcastic.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“Oh?”

What did it mean? Did he lie to make you feel better? Maybe that you truly didn’t sound sarcastic.

The silence made you go crazy, so you continued.

“Thanks for the signature.”

“Don’t sweat it,” he awkwardly smiled as you left.

Once you were out of sight, Henderson came with a tablet to present a case.

“What do you got?”

“17-year-old male, found unresponsive in a closed bedroom, no ventilation or AC. Prolonged heat exposure suspected.”

“Where is he?”

“South 2, resus bay.”

They quickly walked toward the room and began the process of resuscitation for forty five minutes. Jack hated to see young patients go. It was unfair that they had to die at such a young age.

He had his whole life ahead of him…

As he left the room with sweat covering all of his body, he took the red phone to call the family. It was important to do it himself. He owed them that.

“I know this is really hard… We’ll take care of everything on our end,” he reassured in a gentle tone.

After the call, he just needed to take a break. One little break to ground himself.

He was safe, he was competent, and he did everything he could.

He was safe, he was competent, and he did everything he could.

He was safe, he was competent, and he did everything he could.

As he sat down with this mantra in his head, you came back. This time, however, it wasn’t to talk to him but to the charge nurse.

“Hi, it’s me again! I was just wondering if we kept Mrs Hughes’s wedding ring on. You forgot to mention it, and I forgot to ask.”

“Oh, right. You keep it on.”

“Are you okay? You look exhausted!”

“Tonight was rough.”

“Oh… At least I know I have job security,” you kidded to relieve some tension from her shoulders.

Lena let out a small chuckle that made you feel proud.

Jack heard you say that. Job security? People were dying, and you joked about it?

He approached you, and Lena wasted no time going back to charting as he started talking.

“You think that’s funny?” He inquired with his arms behind his back in fake confidence.

“What?” You asked, not understanding that he referenced your encounter with the nurse. “Oh, with Lena?”

“Do you ever stop the jokes?”

“It wasn’t-“

“I lost a kid tonight. Stop with your fucking jokes every time someone dies.” He dryly ordered.

“I wasn’t making fun of-” you tried to defend, but he didn’t care and cut you off.

“Then act like it.”

“…Okay.”

It’s not like he was the first one to say things like that. You knew you were a little weird and that your jokes didn’t always land. You weren’t oblivious at that point. However, having Jack say it was hurtful. Very hurtful.

Surely he wasn’t the person you had the strongest connection to, but you didn’t expect him to say it like that.

Lena stood nearby. She didn’t say a word. Perhaps she secretly agreed with him. He said what everyone wanted to say. You would have friends if people didn’t think of you like that.

You left to go back to the morgue. The only people who spent time with you didn’t even have the choice to be there. How much of a loser could you be?

Jack sat on a desk chair to begin his endless charting. Lena quietly sat down next to him.

“That was harsh.”

“She crossed a line,” he argued.

“Did she?”

“People are grieving, and she’s acting like it’s a comedy show,” he defended.

“She just tries to cheer up the mood of everyone. You should see her with patients. She's caring, empathetic… And sometimes she can make a joke land.”

Jack stayed silent, just like the morgue was when you first started working here. You didn’t say anything to Mrs Hughes as you carefully placed the diamond of her ring on the top of her finger.

──୨୧──

“Pretty silent in here,” Lena said as she rolled in a new body some days later.

“Yeah,” you responded with a small smile.

“Ran out of jokes?”

You didn’t answer. Not knowing how to.

“Because of Jack?”

“Maybe.”

“You know he was out of line.”

“Was he?” You asked, making her frown.

“He was.”

“He wasn’t the first one to tell me I’m weird.”

“Then why does it bother you so much?”

“I don’t know… I… I guess I’d like for people to try to understand who I am before jumping to the conclusion that I’m weird and that’s it.”

“Well, I’m no Jack Abbot, but I don’t think you’re only weird if that can help.”

“Thanks… It means a lot, Lena.”

You continued to work until the end of your shift. You had to stay overtime because of a car crash that only caused fatalities.

Jack had to bring the paperwork he’d normally have a med student bring at the end of their shift. With the recent events, you doubted he would bring them himself anyway.

That’s why you were taken by surprise when he actually showed up. He looked exhausted and a little less confident than usual.

“Hey, kid,” he started as he placed the pile of paper on your desk while you were arranging a body.

“Hi.”

“Can we talk for a second?”

“Huh, yeah,“ you nervously replied, biting your bottom lip.

“I was wrong for speaking to you like that. I thought I understood what I was seeing,” he explained before taking accountability for his actions. “I’m sorry for embarrassing you.”

“Okay,” you added as you fidgeted with the blanket of the body.

“Okay?”

“I forgive you… It just stung a bit…”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine… Time heals, right?”

“Right,” he answered as he turned his wedding ring on his finger, making you realize the mess you made.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to bring back old memories.”

“Don’t worry about it; I like having them back.”

You smiled as you stored the body of the woman you were taking care of.

“I get what you mean,” you mentioned, having dealt with a lot of grieving families.

“Guess we’re both carrying more than we let on,” he added with a lighter tone.

“Yeah… Shoulders getting heavy,” you joked as you took off your gloves.

He giggled at your dumb joke and went to the door with you.

“Mind if we walk to your car?”

“I don’t.“

As you walked through the hospital, you noticed how friendly everyone was with him. People never acted like that with you. Not that you were bullied, but you barely got any smiles, even fewer greetings.

Your gaze turned to the man beside you. He had a good reputation. Why would he ruin it by hanging out with someone like you? He must feel very bad to do that to himself.

“So… What happens after I sign?” He asked to make conversation and learn more about what you do.

“We put it in the archives of the hospital.”

“I know that part,” he laughed, making you feel dumb. “I wasn’t clear. I meant: what happens to the body after I sign.”

“Oh, sorry. Well, we identify the body really well. Identification mistakes are absolutely terrible!”

“Must be,” he acknowledged as he continued to walk while looking at you.

“Unless the coroner needs to do an exam, we clean the body really well. That’s my favourite part. We make them look presentable for the loved ones.”

“You like that?”

“Yeah, the whole ‘caring of the body’ aspect is really important. It honors the life of the deceased.”

“And you do it well.”

You turned your head toward him with furrowed brows. He was never there during this step, so how could he know?

As if reading your mind, he explained himself.

“Someone told me.”

“Oh, Lena… She also told you to apologize, I presume.”

“She helped me see what I missed. Your jokes looked disrespectful to me. I understood it’s not.”

“Good. It’s not.”

You arrived at your car and waved him goodbye.

“Seeing you tomorrow?” You asked because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut to save your life.

“Yes, sleep well.”

On the road to your home, you thought about everything he said. It was sweet to see how bad he felt. You’ve been treated worse with little to no remorse.

During your next few shifts at the morgue, you noticed that Jack was coming to your department a little more.

“I brought his belongings,” Jack said as he showed a plastic bag filled with bloody objects.

“Oh, thanks.”

“Where do I put it?”

“Huh… On my desk?” You started before thinking of something funny. “It's not like it has legs to run away from there!”

Jack chuckled and gently placed the bag in an empty spot on your desk.

“So, how’s tonight treating you?”

“It’s fine… Got a kid from peds though… It stung…”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Don’t let it pull you down. They’re all in a better place.”

“Yeah, that’s what I keep telling myself.”

“Good, keep doing that. Do you need a break from work?”

“No, no, I should be done at 7 am. I’ll be fine; it’s pretty soon.”

“Cool, we finish at the same time if you want me to walk you to your car again…?”

“Oh, yeah… Ummm, I mean you already apologized for the whole ‘disrespectful jokes’ thing so you really don’t need to continue feeling bad.”

“I want to walk you to your car. There’s no ‘feeling bad’ there.”

Even if he said that, you had difficulty believing him. It broke too much of his calm and controlled persona for him to be done after a simple apology.

“Are you completely sure?”

“Certain.”

“Okay, fine. Then yes, I’m down.”

When your shift ended, you went to the ER with your bag. Dana was already here.

“Hi sweetie! Long time no see, how’ve you been?”

“Good, still a very… Interactive job,” you joked, even if you searched the attending with your eyes. “Abbot wanted to walk me to my car. Do you know where he is?”

“He’s changing in the bathroom.“

“Oh… Okay. I’ll wait for him.”

She went right back to work, and you sat down while waiting for him. You tried to ignore the strange looks the staff gave you.

“What is the weird morgue girl doing here?” A nurse asked her friend.

They probably thought you couldn’t hear them, so you pretended like it was the case for their sake. It would put them in too much embarrassment if they realized otherwise.

You looked at the weather on your phone to appear as if you had a big social life. You needed to focus on something other than their gossip.

Your intense examination of the weather got cut off by the familiar voice of the attending.

“Hey, are you coming?”

“Yeah, I was busy, sorry,” you lied as you shut your phone.

Why did you say that? Luckily, he didn’t push it and continued the conversation.

“Don’t sweat it. The emergencies weren’t too busy tonight. Finished my charting on time.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, it’s a rare sight in here.”

You walked with a little worry in your head. This evening, when you parked here, your car was acting weird. You’ve already humiliated yourself enough to have issues with it on top of everything.

“Thanks for making me harder to kidnap,” you said before noticing the small chuckle he gave you.

“Happy to help, kid. Get home safe… Without getting kidnapped,” he added as he started to walk away.

You crossed your fingers and repeated a whispered “please” before starting the car.

Just when you wanted it the least, the headlights flickered before eventually dying.

“Fuck!” You complained while hitting the steering wheel.

You always had to fucking embarrass yourself. For what? Could it be at a worse time than this one?

You got out of the vehicle and called out Abbot’s name.

He turned around with furrowed brows. He clearly wanted nothing more to do with you.

You awkwardly walked to him with your backpack on one shoulder.

“I can’t start my car. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ll try to make it work tomorrow. I can call a garage-“

“Slow down. Do you need a ride home?”

“I do. Sorry to ask.”

“I wouldn’t have proposed if I didn’t want to.”

On the drive to your apartment, he asked questions about your issue.

“Did the engine crank?”

“Maybe? I don’t really focus on it that much.”

“Did you see warning lights on the dashboard then?”

“Yeah, but there’s always a new light, so I just ignore them now. I shouldn’t have…”

“Your car’s battery’s probably dead. I’ll check on it later today.”

“What?” You asked, surprised by the kind initiative but also confused.

“Could check what it is and call a mechanic to get it fixed. If you want the help, of course.”

“Yes, I want it,” you answered, a little too quickly, perhaps because he beamed at your enthusiastic response.

“Let’s say 5 pm? I’ll come pick you up, and we’ll get it fixed.”

“Okay!”

You were pleased about the help he was giving you, but it faded when you thought about the fact that he did it to make it up for the incident or whatever you should call it. He didn’t actually want to help you. He just wanted to restore your opinion about him. It was the end of it.

You thanked him for the ride and left for your place.

──୨୧──

Jack knocked at your door at exactly 5 pm. The military punctuality didn’t escape him after all those years. He had two Dunkin’ coffees in his hands and gave you one.

“Shen gave me a Dunkin’ gift card,” he explained before he began to head toward his car as you followed.

“Oh, that’s nice of him,” you awkwardly retorted as you took a sip.

In the car park, he tried to get your auto going without much success.

“Yeah, that’s definitely a dead battery.”

“Okay, well, I can call a guy and get it fixed. I should be fine with the rest then.”

“You know, I got nothing else to do with my day,” he initiated. “And the daughter of a friend got charged extra because they noticed she didn’t know much about cars. Wouldn’t want that to happen to you. They can make you pay for whatever, even if you don’t need it.”

“I bothered you enough. I don’t want to waste your time.”

“I told you I had nothing better to do. It’s your decision, but don’t think about my needs. Think about yours.”

“I want you to stay then… If you don’t mind-”

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

“Good,” he repeated as he typed the number of a repair shop in his phone and called them while you waited.

As he hung up, you realized that a tow truck would need to move your car to its destination and that it would ruin all of the savings you had previously made over the years.

“You okay?” Jack asked as a hand wandered on your back without touching it.

“Mhm,” you lied.

──୨୧──

The battery only needed an hour to fix. Maybe you were a pessimist, but you thought it would be longer. You waited on some chairs in the entry while Jack tried to make conversation.

“How did you end up in the morgue?” He asked as his eyes stared into yours.

“Living patients scare me. I’m a little socially awkward; I don’t know if you noticed. I just preferred dealing with the dead ones. You know, giving them a loving goodbye.”

“That’s really cute of you.”

You couldn’t help but blush at the comment. He was really trying to be kind, and it made you doubt that maybe there was a chance that he liked hanging out with you, but you quickly brushed that thought out of your head and focused on the topic of conversation.

“You? Why are you in the ER?”

He took a deep breath before answering.

“I had to choose a specialty after the military. I needed something that moved like I used to. The emergency is always busy with something to do. You can’t think about much, and you have to focus on the patients, not you.”

“Damn… That was…”

“Sad?” He finished with a small chuckle forming.

“Didn’t come from me,” you replied with your hands up in surrender.

“My therapist said I needed to open up more. I’m trying.”

“That’s good. My therapist and I are working on oversharing. People know too much about my life when I get nervous.”

He sneered as he remembered the moments in which you said a little too much when the conversation could’ve ended there. It was also nice to get to know someone who goes to therapy as he does. With all of his effort, he never convinced Robby to go.

“Do you know why you get nervous? Knowing the cause could diminish the effects.”

“You talk like such a doctor.”

“Sorry,” he said with a laugh.

“I don’t know… I just always felt like everybody had a guide on how to behave in society and I’m the only one who missed it.”

“Do you like to be with people though?”

“I’m not sure. I’m really used to being alone, you know?”

“You should try it out. I’ll bring you to karaoke nights.”

You giggled as he mentioned karaoke so casually.

“Karaoke nights?” You repeated, picturing him singing.

“Yeah, Santos started it. After a terrible shift, the ones who can go to a karaoke bar to relieve some tension. Helps keep the morale up.”

“And do you sing?”

“Tried once with Robby, but Javadi and Joy laughed at us so hard that we drank a beer and called it a night, now.”

“Okay, I’m down,” you agreed, slowly nodding. “As long as the team is okay with it too.”

“Of course they will. They just don’t know you, but you’re sweet.”

“They think I’m weird.”

“So what? Everybody’s weird.”

You smiled at his comment. He was so reassuring that it actually gave you confidence to go in a group full of people you barely knew to get them to know you. It was crazy, but what was the worst that could happen? They already thought you were weird, so it wouldn’t change much if you totally embarrassed yourself.

A mechanic came to announce that they replaced the car’s battery and the price it would be. It was really expensive. Nothing you actually couldn’t pay, but still not in your financial planning. It was so much to cover all at once.

As you took your card to insert into the little machine, you felt a hand on you, slowly pushing your arm down.

“It’s fine, I’ll get it.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’ll pay me back later then,” he brushed off, hoping you’d forget and never actually do it.

He maybe talked like a doctor, but he also had the paycheck to go with it.

“Thank you,” you whispered as he typed his credit card’s code with a smile.

You could go back to your place with your own car as he left for the hospital. He was working, and he still took time to help you out with your stupid issue.

──୨୧──

Your next shift after your short vacation was running smoothly. Unfortunately, there were still dead people in your morgue, but it kept you busy.

As you brushed Mrs Rodriguez’s hair, Jack came in with empty hands, no paperwork, no coffees, nothing.

“Hi… Not that you’re high, but hi as in the greeting. Hello.”

He laughed at your failed attempt at a normal greeting and crossed his arms before placing his hands in his pockets. It was the first time you saw him being nervous.

“Are you okay?” You asked as you sat on your desk chair.

“Yeah, I just came in to grab the paperwork.”

“Jack, you already signed everything you had to sign,” you reminded him before realizing what it was. “Wait, are you trying to find excuses to come to the morgue?”

“No, I just forgot…”

“Dementia getting to you? You and Mrs Rodriguez have more in common than I thought.”

“Were you thinking about the similarities between a dead woman and me?”

“Don’t switch the subject, Dr Abbot,” you playfully demanded.

“I wanted to talk about your car. Do you want to do that after your shift?”

“Oh, okay… Well, yeah.”

Did he want to get reimbursed? Did he discover a huge issue that would make your car implode but didn’t tell you? Did he…

“There’s a good place downtown with a discount for healthcare workers,” he added, cutting off your train of thought.

Somewhere along the way, you missed the part of med school that talked about the importance of paperwork. Sometimes, you felt like a writer with all of the stuff you needed to document for work.

In situations like this one today, you forgot to document a body release exception form for a patient who came in earlier. It was important to note if a body was released under unusual circumstances.

The day shift morgue attendant, James, came in and was eating a snack while you rushed your notes. Contrary to you, he wasn’t doing much and stared at you working.

“So… Excited to leave work?” He teased, wanting to know what got you rushed when you normally didn’t care about spending the day here.

You didn’t have time to answer because the reason showed up at your department.

“Hi, you’re still working?” Jack asked as he came in.

James almost choked on his own saliva when he saw him. He knew more than anyone else the crush you had on him for years.

“Yeah, I forgot to fill in a form. It won’t take long, sorry about it…”

“It’s all good, kid.”

You finished it and signed your name as quickly as you could before giving it to your coworker, who hasn't worked since he came down here.

“Got something to keep you busy,” you said as you happily got rid of the job to clock out.

“Get your man, girl,” he muttered before taking the paper.

You left, and Jack followed you to the elevator in the direction of the parking lot.

“So? Busy?” He asked, assuming a positive answer but trying to make conversation nonetheless.

“Yeah, my to-do list and I are in a toxic relationship. You?”

“Yeah, busy.”

You fell into a comfortable silence as you went in his car to go to the restaurant. He put some music on, and you focused on it in order not to fall asleep.

“If you’re too tired, I can drive to your place too. Doesn’t bother me.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you assured as you struggled to keep your eyes open.

“Listen to your body.”

“I’m fine… Gravity just feels stronger today. Especially on my eyelids, actually.”

Contrary to usual, he didn’t laugh and drove to your address.

“I wanted to spend more time with you,” you confessed as you closed your eyes for the rest of the drive.

“It’s okay, we can go to karaoke night tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that would be nice…”

He woke you up when he was parked in front of your place. You thanked him for the ride, and he smiled at you like he always does.

──୨୧──

“Going to the morgue again?” Lena pondered with a sly expression.

“Yeah, do you need me on something?”

“No, go see your girl.”

“It’s not like that. I wouldn’t betray my wife.”

“Baby, your wife would’ve wanted you to move on. I know it’s difficult, but think about your own happiness. She really looks like she makes you happy. I never got her jokes, but it looks like you do more than me.”

He looked down at the floor when she mentioned his wife.

“How would I know if that’s what she wanted?”

“That’s what we wish on people we love,” she concluded as she went back to charting.

He swallowed with more difficulty than before and headed to the morgue.

He was torn between his loyalty to his wife, whom he could never replace, and his need to busy himself with anything that could occupy his mind. He already tried to jump on more SWAT cases, took overtime at the hospital, practiced yoga, and helped anyone he could, but it didn’t cut it. His therapist recommended finding a hobby, and that’s what he did, so why wouldn’t it work? He did everything to get better, and it was never enough.

Maybe a girlfriend could make his life worth living, but why would he make someone else see what he was really like behind the falsely confident facade he put on?

Jack took a deep breath to compose himself in front of you and entered the morgue. You were talking with a body you treated.

“I’m pretty sure he’s rolling his eyes,” he joked as he heard you talk about how disappointed you were about a couple in a reality show you were watching.

“Stop, we were bonding,” you said between laughs.

“Bonding or complaining? What’s that TV show about?”

“Don’t even talk to me about it. It gets me mad.”

“Wow, didn’t want to infuriate you.”

You actually looked at him and saw how down he looked today.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah… Just thinking about some stuff,” he brushed off as you decided not to push deeper.

“Oh… Okay…”

“Do you think I should date again?” He blurted out.

This time, you were the one who was surprised by the question. You were known to be out of the blue from time to time, but seeing how random that was made you feel less alone.

“W- What?”

“Sorry, I just talked to Lena, and I don’t know if I should date again. Am I too old for that?”

“No, you’re not too old. It’s more of a ready or not thing, I guess.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” he confessed.

“It probably means that you’re not.”

“Good to know, thank you. I should go back up, but are you still down for the karaoke session today?”

“Always,” you confirmed with two thumbs up.

It was a little painful to advise someone you had a crush on for so long that it was better not to date anyone, but it wasn’t like he liked you romantically in the first place, so it helped you tame your feelings. Repeating again and again that it was useless to want a relationship because it was one of those things that wouldn’t happen to you was weirdly a very soothing message. It kept you true to yourself. You weren’t trying to change to impress anyone. You just lived.

Your shift ended, and you went to see Abbot. He was still working on something, so you sat on an empty chair. Mateo came to see you with curiosity plastered on his face.

“Waiting for Jack?” He asked as he sat on the edge of the desk in front of you.

“Did the ghost tell you?” You bantered as he forced a smile to act polite.

“He’s always going to the morgue now.”

Victoria came in to gossip with the nurse.

“Oh my god, are you waiting for Abbot?”

“Why is everyone asking me that?”

“Because we’re betting-” she started before getting cut off by Mateo.

“We were just wondering,” he explained.

“Wait, what are you betting on?”

Javadi looked at her man with an apologetic look before explaining herself to you.

“People here are often betting about stuff. Nothing crazy though! It’s just like… Who is gonna date who and things like that. We were just thinking, with all of the time Abbot spends down in your department, that there was maybe something worth betting on. Like you and him…”

“Oh… I don’t think he likes me like that,” you trailed off.

“But do you?” Mateo wondered, getting as nosy as his girlfriend.

“Yeah- I mean, I don’t know!” You tried to correct yourself, but it was too late.

The two of them were already getting their wallets and leaving you alone.

At the same time, Jack came to see you. He was fidgeting with his wedding ring.

“Hey, are you ready to go sing?”

“Mhm, you?”

“I wasn’t going to sing… Unless you want me to?”

“I want you to! I’m not going to sing alone!”

He laughed and nodded as he said his goodbyes to everyone who stayed. You went in his car as you talked about your day to him. He was a great listener, so you just ranted while he drove and occasionally nodded in agreement to what you said.

“We’re there,” he announced as he parked the car.

You noticed some nurses and doctors talking outside the building.

“I’m a little scared,” you admitted while fidgeting with your fingers.

“Why?” He asked as he opened your car door.

“I don’t know these people.”

“You know me. If it doesn’t work out with them, you can just stay with me.”

“Okay… Yeah, I’ll do that.”

You entered the almost empty bar with him and saw more people from the hospital. Mel was singing with Parker, which surprised you considering that she’s normally on day shift.

Jack placed a hand on your back to guide you toward the bar.

“What do you want to drink?”

“Something sweet,” you said, unsure of what to take.

“I heard that their Ameratto Sour was good.”

“Okay, yeah, why not?”

As the drinks continued to come, you felt pretty dizzy, but you wanted to sing a song. That’s when you searched for something good on your phone.

“Do you know Love On The Brain by Rihanna?”

“I do,” he confirmed. “Is that what you want to sing with me?”

“Yes,” you replied as you went to the worker who controlled the playlist.

You walked onto the scene with him and sang. Both of you were awful singers, but it was funny, and you were too drunk to feel embarrassment. You saw Ellis film you while she was laughing.

Once you finished singing the song, you left as Abbot held your waist to make sure you weren’t falling.

“Wow, I’m winning that bet,” Parker said to Mel, who got confused. “I’ll explain later.”

—

You don’t remember much of the rest of the day, but when you got back to work the next night, your head was hurting really bad.

You saw Abbot come in without a scrub. His hands were holding a paper cup.

“What’s that?” You asked with a raspy voice from singing.

“That’s tea for your hangover.”

“You’re the best,” you praised, drinking from the hot liquid.

It was sweet, just like you loved. He remembered your sweet tooth from your cocktail choice at the bar.

“Why don’t you wear a scrub?” You pointed out as he stayed there while you signed documents.

“I have a day off.”

“Are you held against your will? Should I call the cops? You never take days off.”

“Gloria’s the guilty one,” he blamed. “Insurance policy. Can’t work every day or we risk a lawsuit.”

“And you come to work on your day off?”

“Got a therapy appointment. And I figured you’d need some help with the headache.”

“I did, thanks.”

Your conversation got cut off early by Lena, who came in to give you a body.

“Hi, sweetheart. Got a seventy-year-old man who died from sepsis shock.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hector Granger. We don’t have much information except for his wallet,” she informed you, placing the object on your desk.

As she left, she took Jack’s arm and pulled him with her. You were left alone to take care of Mr Granger.

“What are you doing?” Lena questioned Abbot once you were out of sight.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She likes you, Jack. Leave her alone or actually do something about it. It’s not fair for her.”

He suddenly looked everywhere, but at the person he was talking with.

“I can’t do that to my wife.”

“She’s not there anymore. Think about what you want for once. Do you like her or not?”

“I do, but-”

“Then do something about it. You can’t play with her feelings forever, and you know that as much as me.”

He nodded and looked to the ground in shame.

“Hell, my first husband kept doing that, and I ignored it. Let me tell you that my divorce wasn’t ignored much. You date her, or you don’t, but don’t make people wait for their money.”

“God, I thought Robby was joking about the betting board.”

“Oh no, baby. It’s the most popular bet in a while.”

He smiled and headed to the elevator with her. She left on the ER floor while he went on the psychiatry floor for his therapy session.

“Good evening, doc,” his therapist said as he opened the door to let him in.

During the appointment, he talked about his PTSD and how it gets better when he keeps himself busy.

“Is there something else on your mind, Jack?”

Even if he didn’t want to, he learned over time that being honest with him was the best option, so he nodded.

“Yeah, I’m thinking about dating again, but it’s hard.”

“What are you afraid will happen if you date again?”

“I’ll feel like I’m replacing my wife.”

“Would your wife think that?”

Jack didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to. He yearned for an actual answer, one from his wife, not the hypotheses people made up in their heads. The problem was that he could never have this answer.

“I think I’ll just stay away from the dating pool. I need more time, clearly,” he trailed off.

──୨୧──

For the next few days, you didn’t see Jack. You knew he was working. You saw him in the hospital but never in your morgue. He didn’t stop by anymore.

You thought you finally made a friend in that fucking hospital just for him to disappear once he got to know you. How is that fair? Why can everybody make friends? Even the mean girls from your high school have bigger social lives than you. It’s not fair; it’s never fair. You’ve never insulted anyone; you've always tried to understand their actions rather than judge. Just for you to get betrayed like that? Fuck it.

Lena came by as you typed on your keyboard like it personally offended you.

“He’s avoiding you?” She asked knowingly.

“I thought I made a friend. I’m not dumb enough to think it was something more like everyone in your department thinks. I didn’t even care that I liked him. I was just happy with a friend, and I can’t even have that!” You ranted with a lot of anger in your voice.

She listened and let you rant, so you continued because you felt more heard than with the bodies you cleaned.

“I kept replaying everything in my head. I was like ‘maybe the karaoke was embarrassing’ or ‘maybe I talked too much’. Whatever, I was just too much. I’m always too much apparently. I don’t even know what is much, so how would I know what’s too much?”

“Honey, I’ve worked with Abbot for years.”

“So? People don’t usually leave without a reason.”

“And people don’t usually feel as much as he does,” she started. “I’ve worked with Jack Abbot for years. I know when he’s running away.”

“From… Me?”

“From himself, honey. But let me tell you this: if he wanted nothing to do with you, he wouldn’t have spent weeks coming down here.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t really know how to anyway. You just continued typing on your keyboard but with less strength this time.

She smiled and left you with a pile of paper that Jack signed. That same pile of paper that would’ve been given by him some days prior.

Your shift ended, and you went to the elevator. When the doors opened, and you saw Jack, you tried to act normal and just did like everything was fine.

You clicked on the first floor and dreamt about your empty car.

Right as the doors closed, you never felt this awkward in your whole life, and you were literally known as the weird girl in the hospital. The elevator’s light flickered for an instant and suddenly stopped working. Contrary to the normal elevator that restarted instantly, the staff elevator took more time.

That’s it. You were officially in hell. Your first straw was being in an elevator with him, but your last was certainly being stuck in an elevator with him.

“It’s fine,” he reassured as he clicked on the emergency button. “It’s the rainstorm after the heatwaves. The generator will work in a couple of seconds.”

Maintenance answered and said they’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes stuck with him. You knew you should've prayed with your grandma when there was still time. Hell was really bad.

“I always knew elevators were plotting against me…”

He snorted at your comment, and it made you angry. How could he express joy when he made you feel so much confusion recently?

“Did I do something?” You finally asked.

“What?”

“You’ve been avoiding me. If I did something, I’d rather know. I can fix awkward; I can apologize too. I just… Need to know what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he brushed off as he avoided eye contact.

“Tell me how to be better, and I will do it. I just need you to tell me, Jack.”

“You didn’t do anything, I swear.”

“Then what happened?”

“I’ve been trying to figure myself out.”

“Oh…”

Lena was right… It wasn’t about you but about him running away from himself. You heard him take a deep breath, and you felt guilty for having brought that shit up.

“Can we start over?” He asked as he looked you in the eyes for the first time since the beginning of this conversation.

“Yes, of course we can.”

As if on cue, the elevator started to work after your words.

──୨୧──

Since this moment in the elevator, you saw Jack a little more. He realized that avoiding you was hurting you, and that’s all he needed to change his behavior.

“Want to go take a bite after?” He asked as he went to your department.

“I would love to, but I’ve been craving ramen for days, and I have some at my place.”

He nodded in acceptance, and you felt guilty for letting him go like that when you wanted to see him more.

“Do you want to come? I could make some ramen for you too,” you suggested as you stored a body in its place.

“I’d like that, yes. Langdon and Mel recommended a good boba place. We could take our drinks there too.”

“Oh my god, your brain,” you praised as you gathered your belongings to leave.

He drove you to your place, and you looked at him while he drove. You were feeling comfortable where you were. You were actual friends. He wasn’t trying to apologize for anything or avoid you. He was just hanging out with you because he wanted to, and that was what was comforting. You had a real friend.

As you ate, you watched Criminal Minds on your couch and corrected the medical errors they said.

When he pointed to the TV, you noticed that he didn’t have his wedding ring on.

“Her wound wouldn’t look like that if-”

“You took off your wedding ring,” you bluntly acknowledged before immediately regretting it.

He took a moment to look at his ring, to remember how empty his finger was.

“Huh… Yeah. I haven't touched it for a whole shift, and I went home and took it off.”

“How did it make you feel?”

“I cried… Then I moved on.”

“I’m proud of you,” you praised as he smiled.

“Thank you, kid. It means a lot.”

After a short silence, he suddenly blurted out what he’d been keeping in his head for so long.

“Do you want to go on a day someday?”

“Like a friendly date?”

“No, like a romantic date.”

“...With me?”

He chuckled at your disbelief.

“Yeah.”

“Why? Is that because we hang out more? I’m fine with just being friends if that’s the issue.”

“Kid, I have a lot of friends, and I never feel that way with them. I can’t just be friends, and I think I’m finally ready for something more.”

“Are you sure? Like it’s not because I feel any type of way towards you, right?”

“It’s not.”

The darkness of the Danforth timberland was thick, damp, and ancient. It smelled of rotting leaves, wet pine bark, and bruised moss. Tonight, as it had been on so many nights since you took the Danforth name, the forest wasn't just a backdrop, it was an arena.

You had run through the brush until your lungs burned, the hem of your velvet dress torn to ribbons by brambles, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Behind you, breaking twigs and heavy, rhythmic footsteps tracked your every move. Titus was stalking you. He didn't chase you like a lover playing a game; he hunted you like quarry, his heightened senses catching the heat radiating off your skin, the scent of your sweat, the frantic cadence of your pulse echoing through the quiet woods.

When he finally caught you at the base of an ancient, gnarled oak, it was a collision of bone and muscle. He tackled you into the loam, the impact knocking the breath from your chest in a ragged gasp.

Before you could recover, Titus was over you, his muscular frame heavy and burning with heat. His silvery hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his jaw tight and twitching with that feral, electric intensity that made everyone on the estate flinch in his presence. He growled, a low, guttural vibration in his throat, his hands tangling into your hair to pull your head back, exposing the long, delicate line of your throat.

"Found you," he rasped, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His fingers dug into your hips, anchoring you to the damp earth as his body crowded yours, burning through the thin, ruined layers of your clothing.

You slammed your palms against his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering thud of his heart beneath his ribs, pulling him closer, dragging your nails down his back until you felt him shudder against you. You were just as starved for the violent, dirty thrill of it as he was.

Titus shoved your skirts up to your waist, his rough, calloused hands sliding up your bare thighs, leaving streaks of black mud against your skin. He moved with a desperate, frantic cadence—jerky, fast, and entirely unyielding. When he drove himself into you, it was a sharp, searing intrusion that tore a loud, shameless moan from your throat, echoing out into the empty timber.

The loam pressed cold against your bare back while Titus brought the heat, grinding you into the soil with relentless, heavy thrusts. Above you, his face was a mask of dark, obsessive ecstasy. His eyes were unblinking and wide, locked onto yours, reading every twitch of pleasure on your features. You arched your spine to meet every frantic strike, your fingers clawing into his shoulders, sinking into the leather of his jacket, pulling his mouth down to yours in a bruised, messy kiss that tasted of pine resin and sweat.

He hooked one of your legs over his hip, driving deeper, his chest heaving as his pace grew wilder, almost animalistic. The rustle of pine needles beneath you merged with the wet, harsh rhythm of your bodies clashing together in the dirt.

"Look at me," Titus demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, commanding purr as his hand shot up to pin both your wrists above your head into the damp soil. He leaned down, his sculpted chest crushing yours, his hips slamming into you with relentless, brutal rhythm. "Look at me, my love. Tell me you’re mine."

"Yours," you gasped out, your voice breaking as a wave of intense, dark pleasure washed over you, making your inner muscles clench tightly around him. "Always yours, Titus—"

That drove him over the edge. With a guttural snarl, his control snapped entirely. He buried his face into the junction where your shoulder met your neck, opened his mouth, and sank his teeth deep into your flesh.

Sharp teeth cut straight through skin and tendon. You screamed into the night air—a sound split between pain and filthy euphoria—as your body trembled violently around his. Warm, thick blood welled up instantly, spilling over your collarbone and slicking his lips and chin.

Titus groaned into the wound, sucking greedily, lapping at the copper warmth pouring from your vein, drinking you in while his hips drove hard and fast to complete his release. He shuddered violently over you, his whole body locking tight as he emptied himself inside you, his lips still pressed tight against your bleeding neck.

He stayed there for a long moment, breathing heavily, his nose buried in your skin as he licked the fresh wound clean. He breathed in deeply, his acute sense of smell taking in the scent of your sweat, the mud, the raw metallic tang of your blood on his tongue—

Suddenly, his body went rigid as stone. The frantic heave of his chest hitched.

Titus pulled back slowly, his mouth smeared crimson, his dark eyes wide and vacant with a sudden, twitching panic. His mouth opened, his jaw working as his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, tasting the red smear on his lips again.

The metallic tang of your blood—a flavor he had tasted a hundred times, a signature he knew better than his own name—had altered. The iron was heavy, thick, underscored by a strange, velvety sweetness that smelled of turned earth, milk, and blossoming heat.

"What is this?" he rasped. The raspy pitch of his voice dropped into a dangerous, erratic register. He touched his stained bottom lip with trembling fingers, staring down at you like he was looking at a ghost. "Your blood... it tastes wrong. It’s changed."

He scrambled off you in a sudden, panicked flurry, hauling you up from the dirt by your upper arms with reckless speed. His eyes darted around the dark forest, his pupils dilated so far the brown had vanished entirely.

"Who has been in the pantries? Physician!" Titus roared into the black tree line, his voice echoing off the massive trunks like a gunshot. His jaw ticked wildly. "I will skin the old bastard alive! Someone has poisoned you! Someone brought something into the house—"

"Titus, stop," you breathed, reaching out and wrapping your fingers firmly around his twitching jaw, forcing him to look down at you.

"Do not tell me to stop!" he snarled, a vein bulging on his neck, his silver hair plastered across his sweat-slick forehead. "Your blood is tainted, and if anyone on this cursed land has dared put something in your cup—"

"Titus," you cut him off softly, taking his hand—the heavy, calloused one that was shaking with murderous intent—and dragging it down from your neck, pressing his broad palm flat against the small, barely noticeable, firm swell of your lower belly.

You looked up into his manic, dark eyes, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your lips. "I was waiting to tell you tonight. There is no poison."

Titus froze. His thumb twitched against your skin through the mud-stained fabric of your dress.

"I'm carrying your child," you whispered.

The frantic, twitching terror in his face shattered. His features worked for a second, catching up to the words, before melting into an expression of unadulterated, triumphant euphoria. A jagged, breathless laugh tore straight out of his throat. He didn't just smile; his whole face lit up with a terrifyingly bright, psychotic joy.

He seized you around the waist, lifting you completely off the forest floor and spinning you in the moonlight, burying his bloody mouth into the crook of your shoulder while laughing like a madman into the quiet night, his laughter echoing wild and free through the ancient trees.

By sunrise, the atmosphere inside the Danforth Residence was brittle enough to snap.

The servants moved through the wood-paneled corridors like terrified shadows, flinching every time a floorboard creaked beneath their own feet. Lord Titus was whistling down the grand gallery. He was humming to the dusty oil portraits of his ancestors. To the staff who maintained the estate, a furious Titus was a known danger—a man who might lash out with a crop or a blade; but a giddy, smiling Titus was a harbinger of total ruin. They kept their mouths firmly shut, their eyes glued to the hardwood floor, knowing the absolute law of the estate: whatever blood, madness, or miracles occurred within the Danforth grounds stayed buried in the dirt, lest they end up fertilizing the estate's grounds themselves.

Titus immediately plunged into an obsessive, smothering regime.

He dragged ancient, dusty leather tomes from the family vaults, obsessing over archaic Danforth pregnancy rites recorded centuries ago. By your second month, he personally presented you with a heavy crystal goblet every single morning, filled to the brim with warm, rich blood drawn from a newborn goat—a dark tradition meant to grant the babe unmatched vitality.

"Drink it all, my love," he would murmur, standing over your armchair, his thumb gently brushing your lower lip as he watched you swallow every drop. You savored the heavy, iron tang, leaning into his touch, loving the twisted, reverent worship burning in his eyes.

By the seventh month, however, his devotion had become a gilded cage.

He forbade you from riding. He wouldn't let you wander the forest alone. He barely wanted you walking down the grand marble staircase without his hand anchored firmly to your waist, treating you as if you were made of spun glass, despite knowing the violent nature that lived inside you.

"If you keep me cooped up in this mausoleum for one more day, Titus, I will tear your throat out while you sleep," you snapped one evening, picking up a heavy pewter platter from the sideboard and shattering it against the stone hearth. It hit with a deafening CRACK, denting the metal and scattering hot embers across the rug.

Titus didn't even flinch. He just leaned back against the dark mahogany desk, a slow, wolfish smirk spreading across his face—that signature, dangerous lopsided grin. His dark eyes sparkled with filthy delight.

"You look breathtaking when you threaten my life, my sweet beast," he said, his voice a low, raspy purr. He sauntered across the room in three quick, deliberate strides, crowding your space until you were backed up against the mantle, his oppressive heat washing over you. He grabbed both your wrists, holding them tight against your sides, leaning down so his mouth was an inch from yours. "You are carrying the future of this family. You stay where I can guard you."

"I am not a glass trinket!" you hissed, sinking your nails deep into his leather-clad forearms until you felt him tense. "I need to kill something, Titus! I am suffocating in here!"

He chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound in his chest, and leaned down, kissing you hard enough to press your lip against your teeth. "Fine," he murmured against your mouth. "Tomorrow, we go into the woods. You keep a silver blade in your belt, and the minute your legs tire, I carry you. Deal?"

The labor came on a night when a winter storm tore through the valley, howling against the heavy window shutters.

It was a gory, grueling affair in the master suite. Titus refused to leave the room for a single second. When the terrified local midwife tried to push him back, he shoved her aside so hard she nearly fell, taking his place on his knees beside the bed. He held your hand in a crushing grip, soaking in every scream, every drop of sweat, loving you deeper for the sheer, bloody violence it took to bring his child into the world.

When the final scream tore from your throat, a sharp, piercing wail cut through the heavy, blood-scented air of the room.

The midwife, her hands trembling violently, wrapped the infant in a strip of black velvet and held her out with bowed head. "A... a daughter, My Lord..."

Titus took the bundle. He looked down at the tiny, writhing creature covered in slick red, squalling with an absolute, vicious fury.

The man who had carved a swath of terror across the countryside—the man who had murdered his twin sister Ursula’s in cold blood—stood completely frozen.

Ursula had been born three minutes before Titus. Yet, because of the decrepit, patriarchal Danforth rule, she had been denied the title of head of the family purely for being female, fueling a bitter, bloody war between the twins that had only ended when Titus killed her.

As Titus looked down at his newborn daughter, a single, thick tear tracked through the dried sweat and grime on his cheek.

He sank slowly to his knees beside your bed, laying the baby gently against your bare, exhausted chest. His hand shook—a rare, incredible thing—as he brushed his thumb over the infant's wet brow.

"She is the firstborn," Titus whispered, his voice thick, rough, and trembling with an unholy resolve. He glared up at the high ceiling beams as if challenging every ancestor buried beneath the floorboards. "She will never fight for what is hers. She will never be passed over, nor forced to tear her way to the top through a sibling's flesh. The Danforth bloodline bends to her."

You reached out weakly, your fingers tangling in his dark, unkempt hair, pulling him down until his forehead rested against yours. "Our little monster," you murmured.

Later that night, after the midwife had been given a heavy purse of gold and escorted off the property with a silent, deadly glare, the storm outside settled into a quiet snowfall. The hearth crackled warmly in the master bedroom.

The baby slept soundly in an iron-forged cradle carved with ancient family runes beside the bed.

At the small mahogany table set near the fire, Titus pulled out your chair with quiet, formal grace. Resting on two polished silver platters—prepared precisely according to the oldest, most sacred Danforth tradition—was the roasted placenta, expertly seasoned with bitter herbs over oak coals.

Titus poured two heavy goblets of dark, blood-red wine. He sat across from you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that burned hotter than the hearthfire beside you.

He raised his goblet, his voice quiet, raspy, and overflowing with devotion.

"To our daughter," Titus said softly. "And to the beast who bore her."

1. Robby

Dennis Whitaker isn’t what most would consider a private person. His coworkers know about his brothers and his hometown and his nieces and nephews, he just never mentioned a love life of any kind. They had assumed it was because his love life didn’t exist. It’s typical with med students, focused on school and their internship. Too busy to find time for another person in their hectic lives. No one judged him. Really, they understood. Then, a few weeks after his graduation, Dennis walks into work with a gold band shining on his left ring finger. 

Most of his coworkers didn’t even notice it at first. The ED is a place where people wear gloves more often than not. Bare hands are rarer than covered ones. Robby is the first one to spot it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just shakes Dennis’ hand and shoots him a quiet congrats, kid. It’s not until Trinity spots the new jewelry that everyone finds out. Because Trinity Santos cannot keep her mouth shut to save her own life.

“You’re married!”

“Um, yeah?” Dennis rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He’s not sure if it’s always been a habit of his or if he picked it up from Robby. What he is sure of is that he hates the way every single doctor and nurse within earshot turns to study Dennis. Like he’s their newest toy. The grin on Princess’ face almost makes him wish he had stayed in bed with you this morning. (He wishes that every morning, though.)

“When did that happen?” It’s Mel’s voice this time. No judgement. No gleam in her eye. Just genuine curiosity that makes Dennis want to hug her. 

“After I graduated. We, uh, we’ve been dating since high school.” And Dennis hates how much his voice shakes. He should be able to boast about you to anyone who will listen because you’re the most amazing person he knows. But his cheeks are hot and his throat feels just a little tight. Dennis can see Trinity open her mouth, no doubt about to make fun of him for marrying his high school sweetheart. Then Dana is stepping in front of him, shooing away nosy residents with a wave of her hand and a single noise. Robby’s hand is on her shoulder again. 

“If you ever want to bring her with you after work, feel free.” Robby’s voice is soft and deep, a smile on his face that says nothing except pride. Dennis nods slowly and Robby squeezes his shoulder once before pulling back.

Dennis practically stumbles through the door. It’s late. A bit later than he wishes it was. The shift ran long because of a multi-vehicle crash on the highway. They didn’t lose anyone, but it was a hard-fought battle. Dennis can still smell blood in his nostrils. 

“Denny? That you?” Your voice is like a balm on the exhausted open wound that is Dennis Whitaker. He makes his way toward the living room of your tiny shared apartment to see you sitting on the couch. The television plays some nature documentary that he’s sure you’re not watching. You look over the back of the couch and smile so warmly that Dennis thinks he might melt. “Welcome home, baby. Dinner is staying warm in the oven for you.”

“I love you so much.” He can’t help muttering as he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You just laugh, reaching back to pat his hip before pushing off the couch. 

You follow Dennis into the kitchen, sitting at the rickety dining table with exactly two chairs at it. He pulls out the food you left in the oven, carrying it over to the table, just short of collapsing into the chair. You watch as he eats, crumbs falling back onto his plate, unable to hold back a smile. You’ve known the man for two decades and he still doesn’t know how to eat without making a mess. 

“So…how did it go?” You reach out to run a finger over Dennis’ wedding band. The gold is scuffed and scratched in a few places. You bought your rings together at a thrift store, old and used but no less loved. He flips his hand over, intertwining your fingers.

“Trin was loud. But Robby said you’re invited to our after-work hangout. If you ever want to.” Dennis pauses, running his thumb over your knuckles with such gentle reverence you would think he’d studied you in undergrad instead of theology. “They, uh, they want to meet you.”

“Do you want me to meet them?” You ask quietly, keeping your eyes on Dennis’ hand in yours. He squeezes slightly and you already know the answer. As much as Dennis loves his coworkers, there’s something about you being his and only his. Not having to combine his home and work lives. It gives him an escape. You just squeeze back, finally meeting his eyes. “Wanna wait a little longer?”

“I’m sorry.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. You just smile, running your free hand through his curls. He lets out a breath you’re sure he hadn’t known he was holding. “You are the most amazing wife ever, Mrs. Whitaker.”

“And you are the best husband I could ever want, Dr. Whitaker.” You pull back, standing from the chair with a creak of the old wood. “Now, come on. Shower, then bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

2. Dana

“What d’ya got there, kid?” Dana’s voice cuts through Dennis’ thoughts and he looks down at the large foil pan in his arms. Like, so big he needs both arms to carry it. He smiles that signature shaky smile and awkwardly readjusts the pan in his hold.

“Treats. From Mrs. Whitaker.” He can’t help the way he straightens up a bit when he says it. He loves that he gets to call you that now. Dennis told you at least five times the night before that you did not have to bake anything for his coworkers. You steadfastly ignored him as you carefully measured out the ingredients. He only stopped after five because you looked so cute with flour on your nose. Dennis peels back the lid to reveal chocolate and caramel and oats in some kind of layer bar, already cut and carefully arranged in the foil pan. Dennis doesn’t know what exactly went into them. He’s no chef. If it were up to him, Dennis would eat strictly fast food, takeout, and frozen dinners. “They’re carmelitas, I think?”

Dana reaches in and grabs one, taking a bite before Dennis can even say anything. She lets out a noise that Dennis really doesn’t want to hear from his coworker and shoves the rest of the square in her mouth.

“Whitaker, tell your wife that if she ever wants to divorce you, I am more than willing to take your place.” Dana mutters, grabbing another bar as she continues chewing. “Seriously, these things are gonna kill me and it’ll be worth it.”

“Aren’t you married?”

Dana just laughs, turning away without another word. Dennis can only shrug, continuing his journey to the staff break room to place the foil pan on the small counter by the fridge. He pulls the little paper sign you made out of his bag, placing it next to the tray before heading toward his locker. 

It takes about thirty seconds for every single nurse and doctor in the Pitt to realize they’ve been offered a sweet treat. Even the night shift stops by the break room on their way out. Dennis personally gets pats on the back from Dr. Abbot and Robby and about ten other people who he’s not sure he’s ever met before today. It feels…nice? A bit strange, to be thanked and congratulated for something he didn’t even do.

The day is dreadfully slow. As much as Dennis hates the idea of people in pain, it's starting to grate at him by the end of the day. Only two ambulances came in, one of which was from the nearby old folk’s home. And most of the people in the waiting room either ate something bad and are overreacting or are straight-up rude. It’s trying, but Dennis supposes it’s better than losing patients.

By the time he finally makes it around to the break room at the end of the day, hoping for a bite of the sweet treat you made, only crumbs are left in the bottom of the foil pan. He smiles. Not the shaky one he gives when people ask him questions (even when he knows the answer), but something soft and solid. Mostly because he knows how happy you’ll be when you find out that the staff of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Emergency Department are, on most days, hungrier than a pack of wild hyenas. 

“I think our grocery bills are about to go up.” Dennis murmurs against your head as he places his customary greeting kiss there. You look over the back of the couch to see him empty handed and you grin.

“Are you telling me I’m required to bake for your coworkers now?” You tease, turning to lean forward against the back of the couch. Dennis just raises a brow, grinning down at you. You two know each other better than you know yourselves some days. “I’m not complaining, baby. They can be my guinea pigs when I try new recipes. And you know me. I have no idea how to cook for less than twenty people.” Dennis laughs and you think it’s the most wonderful sound you’ll ever hear. “Plus, I’m not the one who pays for groceries.”

“About that—” Dennis tugs his phone out of his back pocket, clicking open the bank app. He grimaces at the Loans tab and focuses on his Checking. “I got my first paycheck. I thought I could help out with rent this month.”

You smile softly, reaching out to play with the longer curls at his nape. “Dennis, we agreed. I graduated and got a job so you could focus on your student loans. I pay rent and bills, you get groceries and my own resident fix-it man.” You press a kiss to his cheek.

“I want to help you out.”

“I know, baby. But I want to help you more.” Your eyes close as you tug Dennis’ forehead against yours. He hums out a long sigh and you laugh softly. He’ll bring it up again and it’ll go exactly the same. You think that’s okay if it means you get to hold him like this.

3. Trinity

Around an hour before his shift ends every day, Dennis starts counting down the minutes. It’s a bad habit. He knows. It disappoints him more often than not. When the shift handoff goes long or there’s some kind of last minute trauma. So, yeah, it’s a terrible habit to have. But he can’t help it. He’s not counting down until his shift ends. He’s counting down until he can see you again.

“Hey, Whitaker!” The voice that comes from behind Dennis is unmistakably Trinity’s. He’s honestly surprised she actually used his name. “The residents are going to the bar on Grant.” 

“Uh, good for you?” Dennis murmurs, glancing back at the clock. 6:52. He’s probably only got thirty minutes before he can leave if handoff goes well. Not likely, but he can hope. That means no more than forty-five minutes until he can see you again. Dennis loves his job. He just hates how often it keeps the two of you apart. 

“Huckleberry.” Dennis turns away from the clock, back to Trinity. She has the most unimpressed look on her face that Dennis has ever seen. “All the residents.” Dennis just tilts his head, nodding along slowly. Trinity sighs as he doesn’t answer and reaches out to grip his shoulders. “That includes you, Doc.” 

She says it like it’s obvious, but Dennis hadn’t actually considered the idea that he would be invited along. That he would go. He sees these people almost every day for over twelve hours. Does he really want to spend even more time with them?

(Yes. Dennis loves the people he works with. It took Dennis almost ten years to feel as comfortable around you as he does around his coworkers friends. Probably something to do with trauma bonding in a place where horrid sights outnumber the people who can help them.)

“Oh. Uh, sorry. Can’t. My wife is expecting me at home.” Dennis says, maybe a bit too quickly. It sounds like an excuse even to his own ears and Trinity has never been one to give up.

“C’mon, invite Mrs. Huckleberry along then. I, for one, would love to meet the woman who agreed to marry you.” She grins, jabbing at Dennis’ ribs with her shockingly sharp elbows. He can’t help smiling.

“I know. I’m lucky.” Dennis looks back over at Trinity to see her pretending to gag, fist in front of her mouth. He rolls his eyes and swats at her arm. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wife. Don’t worry, it only took me twenty years.”

“Twenty—I thought you were high school sweethearts.” Trinity stares at Dennis with wide eyes, brow furrowed tight as she looks him up and down.

“Well, yeah. But we’ve known each other since forever. I mean, there was only one school. And our year had a really small kindergarten class. It just…took me a while to finally ask her out.” Dennis smiles fondly at the memory. He had been continuously tripping over his words when you grabbed his—admittedly very sweaty—hands and said you’d love to go on a date with you, Dennis Whitaker. It was like his entire world paused for that single moment, captured in your warm gaze. Not that Dennis could ever tell Trinity that. She teased him enough already. 

“Nevermind. I don’t want to meet her if this is what I have to put up with.” Trinity actually shoves at his face with her hands, groaning as he laughs. 

“Do you really want to meet my coworkers?” Dennis asks, lights off as you both lay in bed. His warm chest is pressed against your back as he holds you against him. You always have trouble sleeping when he gets home late.

You shift, turning to face him. Light from the city outside your apartment illuminates his face. The window has curtains, Dennis just hasn’t gotten around to hanging them up yet. Always busy with work or spending time with you. Things that are more important than a piece of fabric. You don’t mind if it means you can see his face like this. 

“I mean, you seem really close. And it’d be nice to put a face to a name.” You lift a hand, running your fingers through his curls. He showered when he got home and his hair is still wet. He’ll wake up later, complaining about the damp spot on his pillow and move even closer to share yours. You’ll pretend to be annoyed. “But if you’re not ready for that, I can wait.”

“God, I don’t deserve you.” Dennis’ voice vibrates against the back of your neck, humid breath warming the skin. He wraps his arms tighter around your waist, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You let him, even though you would never leave. You think that even if Dennis tried to push you away, you would stay glued to his side. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Those were the vows you made when you married Dennis Whitaker. You had been practicing them in your head for almost a decade. 

“You’re stuck with me anyway, love.” You lift one of his hands to your lips, kissing the back softly. Sheets rustle as you tug them up over your shoulder. You press back against Dennis’ chest and hum softly. “Now go to sleep already.”

Dennis doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you impossibly closer and lets his eyes fall shut. Approximately three hours later, he shifts you both on the bed so his head rests on your pillow, murmuring something about how his pillow is wet. You pretend to be annoyed.

4. Mel

It’s a quiet day in the ED. Not that Dennis would ever say that out loud and risk incurring the wrath of whatever deity watches over the hospital. If any. So he keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the charts he’s been avoiding. Dennis prefers to chart by notepad, so he always ends up transcribing for hours on end. It’s a great way to practice his typing, he supposes. 

“Hey, Whitaker?” 

Dennis glances over to see Mel at the computer next to him, wringing her fingers nervously. He hums in reply, folding his notes away. Any excuse to avoid charting. His eyes feel like they’re about to slide out of their sockets.

“Why didn’t you tell any of us you were getting married?” Mel’s voice shakes slightly in that way Dennis has learned is low-level anxiety. The kind that builds the more you ignore it. In the half second before Dennis can speak, Mel is opening her mouth again, ears pink. “I just—I mean, we were all so surprised. And…well, I’ve never been to a wedding.” Dennis can’t help the tiny smile that grows on his lips, just barely quirking up. “Sorry, that was probably rude.”

“No, it’s just…” Dennis has to think for a moment. He loves you. He wants to show you off, let everyone know that you’ve already been snatched up. But, at the same time, he doesn’t want you to be connected to this part of his life. He doesn’t want the blood on his hands to stain his time with you. You’re his oasis from the world of antiseptic and death that he lives in every day. Compartmentalization, he’s heard it called before. It feels ugly to call it that. He doesn’t want to keep you hidden away in a box. But how the hell does he say that out loud? “Do you have someone that makes you just forget about all the bad things?”

The ED feels like it stops. Mel doesn’t answer for a moment, but her face is easy to read. She’s thinking about it. Like she wants to consider her answer before responding. Like it’s important. It makes something warm bloom in Dennis’ chest. 

“Becca. My sister. She, uh, yeah.”

“My wife, uh,” Your name rolls off his lips and he realizes that Mel is the first person he’s said it to. It’s always been my wife or Mrs. Whitaker. To define you as an individual, not simply an extension of Dennis, loosens something in the tense muscles of his shoulders. “She’s like, a break from it all? I just guess I don’t want to expose her to all this, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Mel’s voice is soft as she rolls closer. Her hand hovers near Dennis’ arm like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch him. Dennis leans to the side just enough to make contact and Mel’s hand presses against his bicep. “I understand.”

And it’s that easy. 

The two don’t speak after that, silently typing away in a never-ending attempt to catch up with charting. Keys clack as doctors and nurses alike scurry by, busy with their own tasks and patients. It creates a pattern of background noise that lets Dennis fall into a rhythm in his charting. He glances over at Mel once. She smiles like she understands. 

“I think you should meet my coworkers.” 

He says it suddenly as you curl against him on the couch. The television buzzes quietly in the background, forgotten as you shift to look at your husband. (Oh god, he’s your husband. That fact still amazes you sometimes.)

“What?” Your voice wobbles a bit as you hold back a surprised laugh. Dennis moves underneath you, something nervous rumbling in his chest. You run a hand up his neck, carding your fingers through his curls. He leans into the touch “Hey, you mean that?”

“Yeah, I—” Dennis breaths in slowly and releases his breath with the same careful consideration. “Mel asked today. About why, y’know? I was explaining it to her and it felt…like an excuse? I don’t want to keep you in a box. Like I’m ashamed of you or something—”

“Den, Dennis. Look at me, baby.” You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes shine wetly in the soft lamplight. The shadows on his face flicker as the TV continues to play, forgotten across the room. No matter how beautiful your husband may look in this moment, you hate to see him anything but happy. So you smile and press a soft kiss to one of his cheeks. “I know you’re not ashamed of me, Dennis.” You press a kiss to his other cheek. “And I get why you’re hesitating. It’s just been us since we moved here. It’s hard to change like that.” Another kiss, this one to his forehead. “But nothing will ever change that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are the love and light of my life.” Dennis’ lips press to yours softly and you both laugh into it. This is exactly how you think it should always be. By Dennis Whitaker’s side, both of you smiling like idiots. 

+ 1

Your phone rings while you’re at work. It’s not uncommon. What is strange is that it’s Dennis that’s calling you. He doesn’t call while you’re both at work, one of the many unspoken rules the two of you have. So when you see his smiling face light up your screen, you immediately answer it, panic growing in your chest. 

“Denny? What’s up?” You try to keep your voice even, taking long, deep breaths. 

“Mrs. Whitaker, this is Dr. Robinavitch at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m calling about your husband.” The voice that comes through is deep and rough. A voice that wasn’t made for yelling but has adapted to it nonetheless. The panic writhes around in the pit of your stomach now, like a living thing. 

“Is Dennis okay? Did something happen to him?”

“Whitaker is fine. He was hit by a gurney and fell. He hit his head on the floor and has a mild concussion. We’ll probably keep him overnight just to make sure there are no complications.” The voice is stern and straight to business, but there’s a softness to the edges of his words. You hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “Dennis will be fine.”

You take a deep breath. Then another. The phone digs into your fingers as you grip it tightly. You take another breath and force your fingers to relax. Dennis is fine. He’s okay. Breathe. “Can I come see him?”

“Of course.”

Dr. Robinavitch quickly gives you directions to the hospital, even telling you which parking lot is closest and would have the most parking this time of day. You jot it all down as he speaks, messy handwriting you probably won’t be able to decipher later. Not that you need to. You call a cab to pick you up. Dennis had to get to work early, so you let him take the shared car and you took the bus. 

The line in the waiting room is long and the more you wait, the more panic grows up your throat. You scratch nervously at your neck as you glance around. It smells like metal. Red is everywhere. Drops on the floor from a kid with a bloody nose. Staining the towel of an older man as he holds it against his wrist. Blooming across a woman’s blouse as she cradles bruised knuckles. You look away. It’s not that you’re a stranger to blood, you just…prefer to be far away from it. 

“How can I help you, hon?” You hear. The woman behind the glass looks you up and down once. Then again. Makes sense. You’re not obviously injured. You feel your cheeks heat.

“Hi. Um, I’m visiting a patient. Dennis Whitaker? He works here.” 

“Mrs. Whitaker?” The woman brightens just slightly, the customer service mask slipping just enough for you to see a glint in her eye. It disappears just as quickly and she points toward the double doors. A young woman steps out, dark hair pulled back. “Santos! Mrs. Whitaker!”

Santos turns toward you immediately. Yeah, that’s definitely a glint. You suddenly know that this is Trinity. It’s the shirt under her scrubs that gives it away. Dennis has always liked that Trinity wears them. He always calls her in for pedes cases when Trinity’s shirt has a cartoon on it. Today you can see the tuft of Tweety Bird’s feathers atop his head.

“Mrs. Whitaker.” Trinity’s voice has a lilt to it that you recognize from Dennis’ brothers when they would tease the two of you. She seems to stalk closer and you meet her eyes slowly, anxiety still quietly simmering in your chest.

“You must be Trinity.” You hold your hand out for her to shake, offering up your first name. Trinity’s grip is solid, hard. Like she’s testing you. The thought makes you smile. Dennis’ oldest brother had done the same thing when the two of you announced your engagement. “Everyone keeps calling me Mrs. Whitaker. Must be confusing. You can use my first name.”

Trinity just shakes her head as she leads you toward the double doors. They buzz open as she scans her badge and it’s just as chaotic as it had been in the waiting room. More, even. Trinity swiftly guides you down a dizzying series of turns until you’re stopped in front of a room. You can feel eyes on you from the large desk in the middle of the open area. You try your best to ignore them, focusing on Trinity.

“That’s what Huckleberry calls you, so it stuck.” Trinity shrugs, pushing the door open. Another woman sits at his bedside, blonde hair braided back and glasses perched on the long ridge of his nose. Mel, maybe? Then, you turn back toward Trinity, one brow raised high. 

“Huckleberry?”

“Hey, baby.” Dennis’ voice comes from the cot on the other side of the room. You immediately turn toward him, surprised at the slow thickness of his voice. Your name rolls off his tongue and it sounds so sweet that you’re almost embarrassed. This is a mild concussion?

“Hey, Den. How’re you feeling?” The woman in the seat next to Dennis’ bed stands, letting you sit. You read the nametag, Dr. Melissa King. She smiles wide and bright. The chair is plastic and probably designed to be uncomfortable, but as you grab Dennis’ hand and he smiles up at you, you know this is where you want to be. 

“Been better. Why’re you here?” There’s a dinosaur bandage on his forehead, just above his brow bone. You reach up to soothe it softly, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the shiny plastic. Dennis leans into it, giving you that familiar soft smile. You can’t help smoothing back his curls.

“Dr. Robinavitch called me. Said you fell.”

Dennis just hums. You glance around the room and realize it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure when Mel and Trinity left. You think you can remember seeing Mel drag the younger woman quietly out of the room. But as your gaze sweeps across the window, you can see a few people gathered around what seems to be the main desk. They occasionally glance over at the room. At you two. 

You can name some of them. The older blonde is obviously Dana. You look down at Dennis to see him following your line of sight. You grin. “Dana, right? I don’t know, Denny…I might just have to leave you if she asks.”

“Don’t even joke about that. She’d probably take you up on it.” You both laugh softly, Dennis squeezing your hand softly. The door clicks open quietly and an older man steps inside. He’s wearing glasses that you can only assume are readers with how far down his nose they are. “Dr. Robby.”

The man steps closer, tablet held under one arm as he looks Dennis over carefully. “Whitaker.” His voice is fond. Soft and warm like a parent. Or maybe just a teacher who cares too much. Robby turns toward you, holding out a hand. You stand and take it. “Mrs. Whitaker. Nice to finally meet you. Michael Robinavitch, we spoke on the phone.”

“You as well.” The chair is just as uncomfortable the second time you sit in it. “Thanks for watching out for Dennis. He’s told me all about you. Really admires you and the work you do.” Dennis groans on the bed, cheeks red. You grin, squeezing his hand tighter. Robby smiles as he watches the exchange. You don’t notice, too busy watching as Dennis tries to hide his face with a pillow. You pull it away before he can suffocate himself. “It’s the truth, Den. Did you want me to lie to your boss?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Robby smiles easily, typing something on the screen in his hands before turning back to Dennis. There it is again. That glint. “Ready for visitors, Whitaker?”

Dennis groans yet again. 

The night is spent with you never leaving Dennis’ side. He groans and grumbles as his coworkers share embarrassing work stories with you that he had purposefully not shared. You respond in kind, telling them about his sweaty hands when he asked you out and how he somehow managed to get a calf to imprint on him. Dana proposes to you twice, grin sharp. You only blush a little. 

You think you get it, why Dennis is already so close with these people. You loved Broken Bow. Still do. But the people there were always pretending to be perfect, putting up fronts so the neighbors wouldn’t know their dirty secrets. Here, in this hospital, everyone is just themselves. They laugh loudly, bully each other playfully, smile wide. You think you get it. Why Dennis has never brought up moving back to Nebraska. Why he wants to stay here. You do too. With him. With this new family the two of you have created. 

“Hey, Mrs. Huckleberry. You’re comin’ with us next Tuesday. That place on Grant. Whitaker knows where it is.” Trinity says as she files out of the room. Something about patients and how every single doctor in the ED cannot be visiting with Dennis. It’s not a question. Not even a request. You laugh.

“Sure thing, Trin.”

Extra

“My sister just texted me. Her wedding is next September.” You mention casually. Dennis nods, pulling out his phone calendar and jotting down the dates he’ll need off. You grin as another text pops up. “She wants to know when you’re gonna put a ring on my finger.”

Dennis doesn’t even look up from his phone as he responds. “After I graduate. You should marry a doctor, not a med student.”

Your eyes widen just a fraction and you smile so sweetly it feels like your teeth are already rotting. You can’t help grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to the rough palm. 

“Yes.” You murmur against his palm. He tilts his head and you grin. “You can ask me again when you graduate, but I promise my answer will be the same. So, yes, Dennis Whitaker. I will marry you.”