meg ꕀ

JACK ABBOT

ꕀ

01. Treacherous (neighbor!reader)

Haircuts. Quiet intimacy. Mutual pining.

02. what’s wrong with me (neighbor!reader)

Meditation. Merlot. One worried doctor. One shared couch.

03. long story short (hospitaladmin!reader)

Professional rivals. Sharp banter. Wrong assumptions.

© 2026 @i-knowaristotle. All Rights Reserved.

All original writing published under @i-knowaristotle is protected by copyright. No permission is granted to copy, reproduce, redistribute, modify, adapt, translate, imitate, or create derivative works from these stories. This work may not be used to train, fine-tune, or otherwise develop artificial intelligence or machine learning systems, nor may it be scraped, archived for such purposes, or claimed as anyone else’s original work.

Jack Abbot x female!reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Intern Nazely Toomarian quickly learns that Dr. Jack Abbot has little patience for bureaucracy—and even less for the woman tasked with enforcing it. As the hospital's Director of Quality and Risk Management meets every challenge he throws her way, Nazely can't help but watch as their workshop turns into a war of words.

Warnings: workplace banter, legal discussion, hospital discussion, fluff, no smut, no use of Y/N, reader wears feminine clothing, female pronouns

Disclaimer: Edited with Grammarly. All image credits belong to their respective owners.

It has taken Nazely Toomarian only a week to learn that no one in PTMC's emergency department seems particularly fond of their Chief Medical Officer, Gloria Underwood.

When Nazely was told her rotation in the ED would be with the night shift, she naturally had a few concerns. The first concern, of course, was her sleep schedule. But if she was being honest with herself, she had given up on that just a few weeks into medical school. Her second concern was her attending, Dr. Jack Abbot. Veteran. Intense. No bullshit—except for the dry humor that he let slip through now and then. And the chant. The chant which Nazely hoped was just a rumor. The chant—a celebration of how “weird” and “wild” the night shift can be—was brought to reality just minutes into her first shift.

To her surprise, Nazely has found these concerns manageable. In the face of the insanity that comes through the ED, everything else has been a piece of cake. Not to mention, there was a benefit to being at work from 7pm to 7am: these were the hours that Gloria Underwood did not work. No, the hounding, observing, and prying of PTMC’s CMO was left to the hands of the day shift. One conversation between Gloria and Dr. Robby during handoff, along with plenty of sarcastic and critical comments from residents and nurses—especially the nurses—was enough information for Nazely. She did not want to be at Gloria’s mercy. More than that, she really did not want to witness Gloria at the mercy of Dr. Abbot.

Yesterday afternoon, the entire ED staff received an email from Gloria. Everyone was to attend a workshop on Documentation and Liability. The night shift would arrive an hour early for the presentation, and the day shift would stay an hour late. The email had emphasized that attendance was imperative. Everyone was expected to be there, or PTMC risked being fined. Which is why Nazely now finds herself at work at 5:55pm instead of 7pm, doing her best not to stare at Gloria from her seat in the otherwise empty conference room.

Nazely doesn’t miss how she is the only person—aside from Gloria and another young woman she hasn’t seen before—in the conference room just a few minutes before the presentation starts. She also doesn’t miss how it takes another ten minutes for the entire crew to wander in. Almost everyone seems to drag their feet into the room, faces solemn and already bored of whatever the next hour will be filled with.

When most of the seats have been filled, and it’s nearly twenty after, a throat clears. Standing behind the podium now is not Gloria, but the young woman that Nazely hadn’t recognized.

“Hi, everyone,” she greets the uninterested staff with a smile. Behind the laptop, she looks polished in cream trousers and a sleeveless white turtleneck, a stark contrast to the scrubs filling the room.  “Thank you all so much for arriving early tonight. I know your time is valuable, so we really appreciate your presence for today’s presentation.”

The first thing Nazely notices about this stranger—who introduces herself as the Director of Quality and Risk Management—is her eyes. They are bright, scanning the room, making contact with every person in attendance. Her shoulders are pinned back in pristine posture as she does so. They don’t droop the same tired way Nazely’s do over a chart at the end of her shift, or command attention the way Abbot’s do, years after his last tour. Instead, the Director’s poise feels confident. Prepared and even excited to chat Liability, as terribly boring as it sounds.

“...so with that—oh, wait. We’re missing one. Anyone seen Dr. Abbot?”

As if on cue, the conference room door opens. Dr. Abbot marches through. He pauses at the entrance, clasping his hands behind his back the way Nazely has already seen a million times. He offers the Director a closed-lipped smile and a nod before taking the seat beside Dr. Shen in the front row. No apology follows.

“Glad you could join us, Dr. Abbot,” the Director offers. She smiles again, but something about this one is different. Almost amused.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Robby was tied up, and a construction-site incident came through, so I jumped in,” he replies in that gruff tone of his. “Did I miss anything?”

Nazely is certain Dr. Abbot couldn’t care less if he missed any part of this presentation.

“Nope, we were just about to get started,” another purse of her lips.

“Great, let’s get to it then.”

ꕀ

Documentation and Liability is as boring and tedious as it sounds. Even Nazely, who has been on the job for not even seven days, knows how much of a burden documentation can be. Just hours into her first shift, Dr. Ellis had assured Nazely that the dread that came with charting plagued even the most senior doctors. Most of the staff—if not everyone—had stayed late more than a few times just to catch up on their charts.

With that in mind, Nazely can’t help but feel a little bad for the Director, and even Gloria. The emergency department is rampant with medical cowboys: doctors with all the respect in the world for the art of saving people and none left for the bureaucratic bullshit surrounding it. At that thought, her gaze wanders to Dr. Abbot: the cowboy of all cowboys.

For the entirety of the presentation, Abbot’s focus is trained carefully on the screen (or the presenter; Nazely can’t quite tell). Unlike Mateo—who has been doodling most of the hour in a notebook—or Crus—who can barely keep his eyes open—Dr. Abbot’s attention never wavers. He listens. He nods. He asks questions.

Dr. Abbot isn’t the only attendee to ask questions, but he is the only one to do so respectfully. The rest of the night shift blurts out their comments and concerns. Rather than waiting for a natural pause in between slides or raising their hands, they say what they want to say, when they want to say it. The Director, to her credit, answers flawlessly. To every question directed at her, she has had an answer. Answers that neither Nazely nor her coworkers can argue with. Abbot, on the other hand, does raise his hand. He waits for the right moment to do so. He is articulate and maintains eye contact with the woman through every answer. Nevertheless, behind every question is a challenge. It’s the same tone he uses with Nazely when he asks her what imaging they need or why they should intubate. Direct and demanding, like he already knows the answer, but wants to know if she can answer correctly. While Nazely answers like a student—somewhat anxious despite knowing she’s (probably) right—the Director takes his questions in stride.

Every hit from Dr. Abbot is knocked right back. First, chart priority:

“What if there’s another patient that needs our attention?”

“Then the patient comes first. But delayed documentation has its own risks. Choose your battles, Dr. Abbot."

Then, patient refusal:

“Is it really necessary to provide all that detail when a patient refuses our recommendation? Our medically backed recommendation?”

“If you want to protect both the patient and yourself when they return months later claiming they were never properly informed, then yes."

And a cowboy’s greatest enemy, protocol:

“Twenty-plus years in emergency medicine doesn't earn me any grace if I deviate from protocol just a little?"

“Not even being a white man will earn you any grace when it’s life or death, Dr. Abbot.”

Somewhere in between the punches, Nazely cautiously raises her own hand to ask the Director to elaborate on protocol regarding tests or treatments they don’t move forward with. She mentally prepares herself for the Director to answer with the same tenacity or for Abbot to interrupt. Instead, the Director answers thoughtfully, and Dr. Abbot nods along in agreement.

The tension, of course, picks back up towards the end of the presentation. The Director is emphasizing the importance of the various safety systems in place to protect both patients and physicians when Abbot challenges her. Sometimes, he argues, a doctor doesn’t have time to placate the system.

The woman curls her fingers around either side of the podium. She presses her lips together, throwing what feels like the last dagger in her belt at Abbot. The pair spar as though they're crossing swords in a medieval courtyard rather than standing in a gray conference room behind rows of vinyl desks. Sharp metallic words slice the air while the audience holds their breath, waiting for the finishing strike. Even Gloria looks up from the safety of her corner when the argument has lasted a few minutes too long. Luckily for her, she doesn’t have to intercept as the battle comes to an end.

“The reality of working in an emergency department is brutal. Why should we be blamed for not adhering to the system? Maybe your system should be the thing to change.”

“As I stated earlier, Dr. Abbot, these systems are in place to protect both the patient and you—”

“And how has that worked out for us?”

Something shifts in the Director’s expression as she pauses, considering Abbot’s frankly overbroad question. She lifts her body from the podium—which she is practically on top of now—returning to the place she started: calm, cool, collected. But Nazely isn’t fooled; she can practically see the woman lift her sword for its final blow.

“As some of you are aware, last fall a few of our physicians were named in a lawsuit against the hospital regarding… the alleged effects of a treatment given by our staff on a patient,” she treads carefully. “The physicians involved… they did exactly what they were supposed to. Followed the rules set in place. Yet, the hospital could legally be at fault simply because their actions could be interpreted as circumventing proper procedure.”

Nazely knew what case the Director was referring to. She hadn’t been at PTMC at the time, but she had heard enough. Anti-vax parents. Measles. Dr. Mel King, whom Nazely had heard nothing but praise for.

“The safety systems are not there to stop you from doing your job. The emergency department sees all types of patients, people from all different walks of life. With different intentions. Different stories. The hospital can’t protect you from every weird or aggressive conversation. But it can provide you with a safeguard when those conversations exceed your control.”

Abbot doesn’t respond. He leans back in his chair and smiles.

ꕀ

When the presentation ends, a few people scurry out of the room, but to Nazely’s surprise, most of them linger. Including Vivi, who plants herself in the empty chair next to her to ask about a patient from the previous night. While the two women talk through the case—and said case’s overbearing mother that had brought him in—Nazely notices Dr. Ellis approach the Director. Ellis had been quiet most of the hour, except for a few wry remarks that felt more lighthearted than ill-intended. In her short time in the ED, Nazely had come to like Ellis for that exact reason. She felt steady and confident, maybe even a little unapproachable at first. But as soon as she opened her mouth, Ellis was one of the easiest people to talk to.

Nazely watches as Ellis—her arms crossed and back straight—stands in front of the Director, who has moved away from the podium. Although she’s listening to Vivi and too far from the pair to hear them anyway, she holds her breath.

Dr. Ellis says something, and the Director answers without breaking her even expression. A beat passes before Ellis’s entire body relaxes into laughter. She pats the Director’s arm, and the Director finally breaks, laughing with her.

As Nazely and Vivi stand to leave, Abbot calls Nazely over. Vivi raises her brows—as if to say, Good luck with whatever that's about—before slipping past her and out of the conference room. By the time Nazely reaches him, the room is nearly empty. He gives a small nod toward the Director.

“This is Nazely Toomarian, our intern for the next couple of months,” Abbot gestures toward her, and the Director reaches out to shake her hand. “I wanted to officially introduce the two of you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Nazely. You’ve only been here a week, right? How has it been?”

The two women exchange niceties, and Nazely suspects the Director may be just as genuine as she seems when she offers Nazely her card. She assures the intern that she is welcome to call, email, or visit her office anytime for any reason, and Nazely believes her.

As the clock at the front of the room ticks past 7pm, Nazely is sure Dr. Abbot’s next words will be a farewell. But as Nazely offers one last Thank you again, Abbot doesn’t steer her toward the door and back to the chaos of the ED. Instead, his eyes soften at the Director. She lets her clasped hands fall to her sides.

“You headed to pick up our baby now?”

“My mom is picking her up. I get to do this all over again with the day shift, remember?”

“Right. Think Robby would mind if I stick around for round two?”

“I think your staff would mind,” she teases.

“Can’t blame a man for wanting another hour in the day with his wife.”

“Get out of here, old man,” she tries to wave him off. Instead of turning to leave, Abbot leans forward and presses his lips on the Director’s. It’s just a quick peck, followed by a few Love yous and Have a good shift! but it is terribly comfortable. Domestic. Loving.

The intern and her attending stroll out of the conference room. Nazely should be preparing herself for handoff and 12 hours of work ahead of her. Yet all she can think about is Dr. Jack Abbot and the Director of Quality and Risk Management sharing a baby. Getting married at an altar. Sitting down for dinner on a weekday night.

It’s not Nazely’s business. She doesn’t want to pry. She definitely doesn’t want to be known as the gossipy intern. But damn.

Jack Abbot x female!reader

Word Count: 2.1k

You offer to cut Jack Abbot's hair because someone has to. It should be simple—a favor between neighbors, between friends. But somewhere between quiet touches, lingering glances, and hands that say far more than words ever could, the line between safe and something else begins to blur.

Warnings: friends to lovers, mutual pining, caretaking, platonic intimacy, touch starvation, domestic fluff, prosthetic limb, scissors, no smut, no use of Y/N, female pronouns, no physical description of reader

Author’s Note: Inspired by the haircut scene between Chandler and Kathy in Friends. Happy reading!

Disclaimer: Edited with Grammarly. All image credits belong to their respective owners.

If Jack Abbot looks forward to anything on his days off, it’s taking his prosthetic leg off at 7 pm, rather than mentally preparing to stand on it for another 12-hour shift. That’s what he is thinking about as he completes the last task of his Sunday. One more dish to dry, then he can settle onto the couch and enjoy an evening without managing antsy interns or difficult patients.

He places the last plate in the cabinet above him—stacked neatly among the few other dishes he owns—when his neighbor walks through the front door, unannounced. She doesn’t say a word. Rather, she marches to the L-shaped couch, collapsing in the corner where her legs can spread out in front of her.

“I should really start locking that door,” Jack quips at the woman on his couch.

“You should, but you won’t.”

She’s right. He won’t lock it as long as she lives across the hall. Although he would never say it out loud, Jack’s life is exceptionally better knowing she walks through that door as she pleases. He likes seeing her at home and at work. He likes that even on a day like today—when he hasn’t seen or heard from her—he can still expect her to drop into the corner of his couch. He likes that he has a reason to spend his nights off at home, rather than on another SWAT assignment.

“Besides,” she pops her head up from her place on the couch. “I finished the book you lent me. Needed to return it.” She raises it in the air, only to let it fall back to the couch with the grace of a rag doll.

“And when else would you have had the opportunity?” Jack adds, now placing himself on the other end of the couch.

“Exactly.”

Lifting his pant leg, Jack begins to remove his prosthesis. She doesn’t miss a beat, rambling about what she did and didn’t like about the book. A laugh breaks from her, remembering something Jack had said about one of the characters, something she lets him know she vehemently disagrees with. Jack nods along, a smile tugging at his lips with every passionate comment. She doesn’t bat an eye as he folds down the sleeve around his knee or flinch when the suspension system clicks. Once the leg has been removed and placed on the side of the couch, the book rant ends.

“Anyway. That’s what I did today—finished that damn book.” She pauses for a moment. “Do you ever—”

In her own excitement, she had shifted her body to face him, legs now folded under her rather than stretched down the length of the couch. “Do you ever find yourself wanting to be at work? Even on a day off?”

Of course, that's what Jack wants to say. Silence and stillness are not Jack Abbot’s friends. When life is silent and still, there is room to think. Think about everything that led to the prosthesis. Think about his late wife. Between therapy and her, he'd learned to make peace with the stillness. Even so, there were days an accident on the news or a call over the police scanner had him reaching for his keys before he caught himself.

“I tell myself it’s an occupational hazard,” he admits.

“It makes me feel like a sadist.”

“Also an occupational hazard. Bad day?”

“No… I just… no. No. I don’t want to talk about it,” she finally decides. “How was your day? What did you do?”

“I had a haircut—”

“It looks great!”

“—but it was canceled.”

“Oh,” she blushes.

“Thinking I might as well grow it out now. Maybe this cowboy needs a mullet,” he winks and clicks his tongue. Her face scrunches, cringing at the suggestion of his calling himself a cowboy or the mullet; he wasn’t sure.

“Like Whitaker?”

“You make a good point.”

She rolls her eyes. “Hey, I could cut your hair.”

“You?”

“My mom was a hairdresser. Besides, when will you have another chance to go? We can’t have your long locks falling into open wounds.”

Jack hesitates—probably not taking as much time to think about her offer as he should’ve—but agrees anyway. She’s right; he hadn’t even bothered to reschedule today’s appointment. He would be rocking a man bun before he made it to the barbershop. How much damage could she do anyway?

ꕀ

The sun has fully set by the time Jack emerges from the bathroom. Once Jack agreed to let her cut his hair, she instructed him to rinse his hair under the sink. Something about hair being easier to cut when wet. A chair from the small kitchen table has been dragged to the middle of the room. Only the faint blue-grey glow from the window and a few lamps scattered throughout the apartment light the room. She is leaning on the arm of the couch now. Elbows pinched together at her torso, comb and scissors practically jut out of her left hand. She holds her phone in her right hand, pulled closely to her face, watching what sounds like a men’s haircutting tutorial.

Jack rubs his nape with the hand towel wrapped around his neck. The tendrils of curls still dripping wet, Jack silently admits that his hair has gotten too long.

When she finally lifts her gaze, she hurriedly turns off her phone and throws it on the cushion behind her. He arches a brow.

“Just needed a quick refresher! I promise you’ll look amazing. Might even quit the barber.”

“Right, and maybe you’ve found your true calling.”

“Just sit down, smartass.”

Jack eases himself into the kitchen chair. She takes his crutch, letting it lean on the kitchen island—within reach, but out of the way.

She stands behind him now, but before she can even lift her hands, Jack turns his head.

“I’m already down a leg, don’t want to lose an ear too.”

“Do you want me to do this or not?”

Jack simply raises his hands in surrender, turning to face forward once again.

A comfortable silence settles between them. Jack wasn’t sure when exactly he realized they could do this, sit in silence without it feeling awkward. Most people felt the need to fill every moment with needless small talk, but her presence—his presence—was usually enough when it came to the two of them. Tonight, however, the comfort quickly dissipates as Jack becomes aware of every movement she makes.

When her fingers begin to move through his hair, Jack has to take a deep breath. The kind of breath a person takes, not because they need it, but to make sure they can still breathe to begin with. He fills his chest with air, doing his best to let it out in a controlled and measured manner. Her fingers sweep through each section of curls, dancing across his scalp. She pulls lightly at the hair on top of his head, then twists it gently, clipping it out of the way. Section by section, the comb glides through his hair, met by the metallic clip of the scissors’ blades. Jack can imagine her face; the way she bites her lip, eyes trained on the matter at hand while she calculates the next step. He's seen that kind of focus a thousand times in the ED, but never directed at him. The realization has him quietly reminding himself to breathe once again.

An echo chamber encompasses the apartment now. No engines whirring by from the traffic outside, no birds singing goodnight. Not even the murmur of Jack’s downstairs neighbors, whose conversations often slipped through the vents. Another snip from the scissors. The light scrape of her nails against his scalp. Her soft breaths. And Jack’s heart pounding at the walls of his chest, willing to be let out. Can she hear the thump, thump, thump against his sternum? Is she wondering if he keeps a stethoscope around? Perhaps she should check his heart sounds, listen for the tachycardic rhythm ringing in his ears. Historically, he realizes, she has lowered his heart rate. His blood pressure. She has brought peace into corners of his mind he didn’t know were at war.

Yet this evening, a fleeting touch across his neck forces Jack to think about something else. Anything else.

Doug. Doug is his barber, a sixty-year-old Gulf War veteran who loves to hear Jack’s war stories and recount his own. Doug’s fingers are weathered and meaty, working from muscle memory and whatever technique his father had taught him. Not like her fingers, slender and graceful. Fingers attached to hands that high-five sick kids and quietly encourage her coworkers between shifts with nothing more than a gentle touch. God, he had never even thought about Doug’s fingers before. But he knows, with embarrassing certainty, he will never forget hers.

Jack is moments away from losing his carefully contained self-control. Every cell in his body is begging him to turn around and remove the scissors from her hands. To take her fingers in his and wrap his lips around them. To tell her to run them through his hair again, to tug and pull while his mouth works somewhere else. While he uses his own fingers to bring even a quarter of the contentment she is bringing him now.

Albeit, one last snip, one more sweep of the comb through his hair, and she sets the tools down on the table behind her. He is trying to find the words to ask if she’s done when she removes the towel from his neck.

His neck is now cold and barren. She leans forward. The heat of her face warms his nape for a moment before her even warmer breath feathers across his skin. Jack is certain his shoulders touch his ears.

“Relax,” she chuckles. “I’m just getting the hair off your neck.”

“I’m relaxed,” he lies.

“Right.”

She comes around his chair now. Lowering herself to the ground, her knees softly meet the wood floor. Jack clears his throat, willing away another thought from his mind. Her hands come up to the sides of his face, grabbing yet another lock of hair in each, and tugging. Her baggy sweatshirt hangs from her body, her sleeves brushing his shoulders. Then she leans closer, her torso now pressing against his knees.

“Is this part of the treatment?”

Her eyes dart back and forth, from one side of his head to the other, assessing her work. This focused expression is different from the one he sees in the face of an urgent case at the Pitt. This expression is proud, joyful even. Gone is the silent desperation to do her job right. Standing in its place: guiltless pride. Her lips curve into a smile, amused at Jack’s procedural questioning.

“I’m checking to see if it’s even.”

Her gaze falls to his, hands slowing in his hair.

“Looks… good.”

The same fingers that have haunted Jack tonight now graze his head, not quite ready to let go. He wonders if their faces have ever been this close. There have been so many times their bodies overlapped in a trauma, only in the most urgent sense. Only with their hands in the body of a patient, bloody and focused. But not like this. Not when only the warm yellow glow of a lamp lit a room. Not with both of them in their sweats, Jack’s hair still damp from his shower. Her focus is not on a wound somewhere in the Pitt. Her focus is on him.

She swallows.

His eyes wander over her face, memorizing every inch of it. Maybe, just maybe he should—

A buzzing from the couch breaks the moment. What now feels like an illusion shatters like glass. She drops her hands from Jack’s face as if she’s realized she was touching something she wasn’t allowed to. A few more inches are between them, but they haven’t broken eye contact. Jack nods towards the couch, breaking her out of the trance. She scrambles toward it, clumsily picking up the phone and answering.

A few words are enough to tell Jack that Leah is the caller. She nods, agreeing, insisting that, yes, she’ll be in soon. The call ends, and she lets her arm fall, her phone hanging at her hip.

“That was, um, Leah. Bad pile-up on the highway. All hands on deck.”

Jack’s phone buzzes from the kitchen now. He reaches for his crutch.

“Go. I’ll meet you in the hall in a few?”

She nods, darting out of the apartment to change. Jack doesn’t immediately stand. The gravity is too much. In a few minutes, they will leave the apartment building and head to the ED together. They will leave the moment behind. Jack knows he should let the apartment absorb it like a memory worth forgetting. He slips his prosthesis back on.

Jack Abbot x female!reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Meditation, a bottle of wine, and a night out with friends should be enough to distract you from the strange ache you've been carrying around all week. After all, the doctor insists you're perfectly fine. But when your best friend and attending, Jack Abbot, unexpectedly shows up to take you home, you're forced to consider that maybe your symptoms were never physical to begin with.

Warnings: female pronouns, no physical description of reader, intoxication, vomiting, medical themes, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, age gap, friends to lovers, mutual pining, caretaking, platonic cuddling, no smut, no use of Y/N

Author’s Note: This is my first fic on Tumblr—wow! This scene was originally part of a much longer, multi-chapter story that I'm currently restructuring. Even so, I loved how this moment turned out, and it felt like the perfect place to start sharing. Happy reading!

Disclaimer: Edited with Grammarly. All image credits belong to their respective owners.

I pry an eye open at the sound of something buzzing nearby. From my place on my yoga mat, legs folded beneath me, I decide to let the buzzing go and close my eye. Sure enough, as soon as the buzzing stops, it begins again. A frustrated sigh escapes me, and both eyes open now. My phone screen lights up from the kitchen counter, and I roll my eyes at my own stupidity. First step before attempting to meditate: turn off your damn cell phone.

Pressing myself up from the yoga mat, I swipe my phone off the counter and answer the FaceTime request. I couldn’t be less surprised that Trinity Santos is the person interrupting my meditation session. Trinity’s face flashes on the screen as I plop back down onto the yoga mat.

“Are you sick?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I admit.

“Dana said you called in sick tonight. Don’t tell me it’s because Colonel Scary is out too?” I fall back onto the yoga mat now, officially giving up on meditating at the mention of Abbot.

“No,” I insist. “It’s not because of him, I’m just… I don’t know. I feel terrible. I had Ellis work me up last night, but she said I was fine. Besides, I never end up using all my sick days. Might as well use one.”

“Right, well, it’s okay if you miss your elderly boyfriend, just saying.”

“He’s not my—whatever.” I roll my eyes, not wanting to have this conversation again. “Are you just now leaving work? It’s almost 8 o’clock.”

From my tiny screen, I could see the hospital’s parking garage behind Trinity’s head. Her shift ends at 7 pm. She’s usually good about leaving on time—we both are—so there is never a good reason for leaving late.

“Ugh, yes, I will tell you about it later. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. You. Me. Dennis. Alcohol. Tonight. I need to catch you up on all the bullshit with Garcia.”

I grimace, knowing whatever is happening between Trinity and Yolanda Garcia can’t be good. Or healthy. Besides, I may not be sick, but something is wrong with me. Even if I “couldn’t be healthier,” as Ellis had put it.

“Come on, Kid,” Trinity begged, using Jack’s nickname for me that has caught on with seemingly everyone at PTMC. “I haven’t seen you in ages. The ED’s not the same since you left us for the night shift. I won’t even bring up how unfair it is that Abbot gets you across his hall and at work. Please?”

I sigh like I feel guilty for saying no, but I am going to say yes. Trinity’s endless teasing about Jack is unfortunately rooted in something real. Something I have been forced to face since this pit in my stomach formed when Jack left town days ago, and stopped responding to my texts.

The almost-empty glass of wine next to the yoga mat catches my eye. What the hell, I’m halfway there anyway.

“I can be ready in 20 minutes.”

ꕀ

The pint glass in my hands has already started sweating when I slide into the brown leather booth across from Trinity and Dennis. Our favorite dive bar—ten minutes from my apartment and just across the street from PTMC—seems to attract a different kind of crowd on Friday nights. Monday through Wednesday—the nights of the week I apparently had been frequenting the bar before I switched shifts—the bar was significantly sparser. Solo old men nursing beers at the bar top, the occasional first date, and exhausted doctors were the typical crowd. But tonight, everyone in Pittsburgh between 28 and 35 seemed to be here.

While Trinity buzzes across from me, her shoulders tense and her knee bouncing against mine under the table, Dennis is much more stoic. He eyes his drink as if could drown himself in it, he would. I decide the Wonder Twins’ relationship woes will be more of a fantastic distraction than sitting at home pretending to meditate ever would have been.

“Okay, Trin. I’m ready. What did Garcia do this time?”

Trinity doesn’t hold back as she recounts, once again, how, yes, she agreed that this relationship was a casual hookup thing. And no, she doesn’t need it to be more than that.

Trinity's inability to admit she wants more from Garcia and Garcia's refusal to consider that she might actually want a real relationship will either become a hilarious story they tell one day when they're married or another chapter in Trinity's long, complicated romantic history. I hope it's the former. I desperately want it to be the former.

When Trinity has finished her rant, we cheers to “not giving a fuck.” I turn to Dennis, ready to move on from angry sex buddy to lovesick puppy, but Trinity catches my gaze and stops me before I can ask.

“Anyways,” Trinity announces, turning my attention back to her. “Has Colonel Scary really not confessed his love to his precious ‘Kid’ yet?”

I huff, leaning back in my seat, second—no, third—beer in hand. “Trinity—”

Dennis pipes up now too, “No, no, she’s right. Aren’t you guys like neighbors too? You’re telling me you’ve never—”

“No. I don’t know where this is coming from, he’s—” He’s at least 15 years older than me. He’s had the great love of his life. He’s this amazing doctor. Veteran. The most intelligent person I know. Ridiculously hot. Why would I ever think he would be interested in me?

“—he’s my friend.” Trinity and Dennis look at me, waiting for me to explain.

“That’s all. I’m serious. Yeah, we spend some time together outside of work. We see movies,” I roll my eyes. “We go to the grocery store. We go on runs. Sometimes he makes me dinner. Okay, yeah, he’s like my favorite person to spend time with. Isn’t that what friends are?”

My eyes move back and forth between the roommates across from me expectantly, waiting for them to agree. Instead, they look at one another like they don’t know how to respond. The pit in my stomach that I have been so desperately trying to cure this week reappears. My phone feels heavy in my purse, texts still left unanswered. Trinity opens her mouth to finally respond when a server walks by, and I wave at her hurriedly.

“Could we get another round? Thanks.”

ꕀ

A red glow illuminates the slivers of Trinity’s face I catch as we both half-headbang to No Doubt blasting on the speakers around us. I don’t remember moving from our booth to the dance floor—and now the bar top—but I feel as light as a feather. Not sleepy drunk, not sad drunk, but carefree, happy, zero-thoughts drunk. Dennis has stayed nearby, eyes glued to his phone, tapping away all night. I know he knows he could leave the bar, but he stays to keep an eye on his roommate and me. Trinity, on the other hand, has matched me shot for shot and flirt for flirt. I can’t remember the last time I did this—drank my body weight in alcohol and flirted with whatever man piques my interest. Certainly not since my twenties, when I had more energy and time to spare.

I can’t help but notice the crowd has started to thin out a bit, but I still don’t care to know what time it is.

“Kid,” Trinity yells. “I think we need another drink.”

“Trin!” I yell back. “I think you’re right.” We both explode into a fit of giggles at how ridiculously bad that idea is. Before Trinity can step off the bar to properly order a drink, Dennis walks up to our makeshift dance floor, still looking like Eeyore.

Dennis offers a hand to Trinity, “Our rides are here.”

Trinity’s shoulders slump, but she takes his hand and steps down from the bar.

“What the hell, Huckleberry? Don’t tell me he’s picking us up?” Dennis’s eyes widen then narrow at Trinity as if to say Yes, please shut up, before turning to me.

“Abbot just got here. He’ll take you home.”

Even Trinity is surprised by that revelation, and suddenly doesn't care that Dennis is cutting our fun short. Why would Dennis even have Jack’s number? And I thought he was out of town?

“Dennis, how—”

The lights flicker on now. The red party lights fade away, and warm yellow light illuminates the room. A bartender yells for last call, and the crowd is looking much sparser than I thought just a few minutes ago.

I don’t have a chance to finish my question because my gaze shifts to the entrance of the bar. Trinity and Dennis follow my line of sight to see Jack Abbot sauntering toward us. I can tell he is trying not to smile at the sight of me standing on the bar as he gets closer. He’s wearing a navy T-shirt and blue jeans, walking with a slight hitch in his step. The same subtle hitch, only I seem to notice when he has had a particularly bad day on his prosthesis.

The Wonder Twins swing their heads back toward me at the same time.

“Well—”

“Guess that’s our cue! Good luck, Kid.” Trinity moves toward the door, and Dennis follows, but not without an apologetic nod first. I roll my eyes to say It’s okay.

Now Jack is directly in front of me, and I cross my arms.

“You ready to go?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Does it look like I’m ready to go?”

“It looks like the bar is ready for you to go.”

“I’ll leave when they ask me to leave.”

He looks around as if a bartender will appear at that moment to escort me out. The place is almost empty now, and the employees are busy cleaning up the mess left behind. Jack turns back to me, and I have a feeling that this is my last chance to comply. Neither of us says anything. Yet somehow, without even moving, my foot slips. My heart drops, and every drunken patient that has come through the ED flashes before my eyes.

But I don’t fall. I don’t crack my head open on the bar or the floor. No scalp lacerations or CT scans tonight. I catch myself and stay standing. I feel the smug smile on my face and instinctively look back down at Jack, but now he’s moving.

He wraps his arms around my legs, and before I can react, my hips are slung over his shoulder, my upper body draped down his back.

“Jack!”

He doesn’t answer; he just makes his way out of the bar. I feel his arm raise and salute whatever grateful employee is watching him remove a strangler from their establishment.

“You can’t just pick me up and decide where I go!” I’m banging my fists on his back now. The humid summer air hits my face, and I’m drenched in the dark once again. Luckily, the walk to his 4Runner isn't far, and he eventually plops me into the passenger seat. He even dares to reach for the seatbelt, but I swat him away, insisting that I can buckle myself in.

I spend the drive home grieving the last few hours of bliss I spent not thinking about Jack Abbot. Now, I can’t help but wonder how we went from talking every day to not talking at all, only for Dr. Knight-In-Shining-Armor to show up and make sure I get home safe. I feel sick again. Dyspnea. Nausea. Dry mouth. Misery. I am totally going to have Ellis check me again during our next shift. 

Jack lets the silence settle between us in the car and up the stairs where our apartment doors sit across from one another. It takes all my willpower not to look behind me as I walk up the stairs, knowing that Jack’s hands are likely hovering behind me, ready to catch me when I fall. Again.

I let out a breath when I reach my door and pull the keys out of my purse. He stands a few feet behind me while I fumble with the key fob. Why do I have so many keys? What sorts of locked places do I have access to that aren’t my home or car? Whatever. I stick a key in the lock, only for it to not budge. I try another one. That one doesn’t work either. I move my fingers through the mess of keys once again, but somehow they fall out of my hands. I let my head fall back and cry out in frustration. Jack—hell, I forgot he was here—leans down swiftly and picks up the keys.

“Someone changed my lock while I was gone,” I pout.

“I highly doubt that.”

“It’s true. None of those keys work.”

The lock clicks, and Jack pushes open the door, gesturing for me to walk in.

“Doctor Knight-In-Shining-Armor, my ass,” I mumble as I shuffle inside.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I kick my shoes off in opposite directions by the door and collapse onto the couch. “You can go now. Thank you for escorting me home.”

I hear the faucet running from my spot on the couch.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Jack.”

The air around me thickens, and my dyspnea begins to settle. Something woodsy with a hint of laundry detergent lingers nearby. I know he is standing next to me now. It’s the same way the air shifts when he finds me in the break room at work or when he comes over for dinner.

The sound of a glass being set on the coffee table rings in my still living room, and I squeeze my eyes as I’ll accidentally give in and open them.

“Water. Shower. Bed. Come on, Kid,” he lightly pushes his knee into my thigh.

“Nope. Sleeping here. Shower tomorrow.”

“You can’t sleep here because I’m sleeping here.”

My eyes snap open. “And why would you do that?”

“Someone should probably be here when you start choking on your own vomit.”

I scoff, “I am not that drunk.”

“A few minutes ago, you thought someone changed your lock.”

I’m sitting up on the couch now, swinging my legs over the side.

“Whatever, I’m taking a shower… not because you told me to. But, because… Trinity spilled like every drink she ordered on me.”

I turn around before walking through the bathroom door: “You better be gone when I’m done.”

“I won’t be.” Ugh.

Shutting the door behind me, my brain recalibrates. In the quiet of my bathroom, the alcohol catches up to me. I can’t stand still without swaying a bit. I should have chugged that water before I came in here. And I could use some saltines. God, I am tired. I still have no clue what time it is.

The pressure of the water grounds me a bit, but I do my best to quickly wash my body and hair so I can get to sleep. After changing into some sleep shorts and a T-shirt, I’m about to check to see if Jack did, in fact, leave when it all comes back to bite me.

I barely make it to the toilet in time to empty my stomach. Every beer, every tequila shot, every fruity cocktail I drank tonight passes through me. I am swearing never to drink again when hands start pulling my hair back. The bathroom is still humid from my shower, and sweat begins to form on my forehead. I am as uncomfortable as I could be, but he is there. He is putting my hair in a scrunchie and rubbing soft circles on my back.

When I am done, I try to stand up, but opt to take a breath on the closed toilet instead. Jack kneels in front of me, gently moving my damp hair out of my face and letting his hands linger on my cheeks.

“Are you okay, Kid?”

No, not really, is what I want to say. I realize he must have left and come back while I was in the shower, since he is now wearing a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. My eyes scan his worn, freckled face, searching for the right words. I want to know where you went. I want to know why you didn’t text or call.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Being gross.”

“You could never be gross.” I offer him a weak smile.

“I want to go to bed now.”

“Okay.”

He takes my hand and walks me to my bedroom. Like a lizard looking for a warm rock to scurry under, I crawl under my comforter. Resting my head on my pillow, I turn on my side, toward the edge of the bed. He crouches in front of me once again, resting one hand lightly against my cheek.

“Get some sleep, party girl.”

“I’m not a party girl,” I mumble. He’s walking toward my bedroom door now as my eyes flutter close. In my sleepy haze, I hear the following words tumble out of my mouth, but I don’t retain consciousness long enough to think about them.

“I was just trying to get over someone.”

ꕀ

Jack's prosthetic leg feels a little heavier tonight, lying on her couch, unable and unwilling to fall asleep. As soon as he saw her standing on that bar, he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Still, he removed the obscene amount of multi-colored, tasseled throw pillows from the couch and laid down. Although a basket filled with rolled quilts sat nearby, he didn’t bother with a blanket. He could barely fall asleep in his own room—carefully curated with blackout curtains and a white noise machine—so he left the leg on, just in case she did actually start to choke on her own vomit.

Of course, he knows she is frustrated with him for being M.I.A. this week. The two of them were usually so seamlessly attached at the hip—so constantly aware of the other’s presence—that Jack was shocked she hadn’t said anything tonight, especially in her drunken stupor. Where his shock ended, gratitude began because he wasn’t sure what he would even say to her.

The creak of her bed in the adjacent room catches his attention, but he doesn’t move. Old military instincts kick in, and he can’t help but log every sound: another creak, the glass he left being set down, sheets shifting, feet padding toward him.

Without moving from his place on the sofa, Jack’s gaze lifts to see her standing above him. Her face is wet. She hovers there for a beat—wrapped in her plush, white comforter. It cocoons her, enveloping the back of her head and hanging right below her knees. She starts moving toward him carefully, like something newly born into its limbs. But she stops at the edge of the couch and sputters out, “What the hell, Jack?”

He sits up now, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow like he doesn’t know what she’s asking. She wipes her face with the back of her hand.

“Where were you all week? Why didn’t you call me?”

Jack brings his hands to his face, rubbing it like some blood flow will conjure the right answer.

The day before leaving town, Robby had found Jack alone on the roof of the hospital. Jack was leaning against the railing, getting some air after a particularly difficult shift. After a few niceties, Robby got straight to the point. He needed to know—first as Jack’s friend, before he would have to ask as his Chief Attending—if anything was going on between him and his senior resident.

Jack, of course, said no. She was his neighbor. His friend, even. Robby had nodded his head in understanding, and Jack thought—no, he hoped—he would let it go, but he continued.

“I had to ask, brother. Friends aren’t usually our coworkers. Or fifteen years younger than us,” Robby warned.

And they aren’t usually the center of our universe, Rob.

“I’m here… to talk. You know that.”

“I know.”

Jack removes his hands from his face, shaking the memory away, not quite ready to face Robby’s implication or her.

“I was in D.C. for a reunion. With some veteran buddies.”

She doesn’t react, just sniffles.

“I just… I don’t understand why you couldn’t just tell me that. Why you couldn’t even like one of my messages. I thought you were upset with me.”

Jack sighs, shaking his head, his gaze dropping to his lap.

“No, no. I—I am sorry. I got caught up with the reunion. I wasn’t upset with you.” He looks back up at her now, pained, knowing he made her feel this way.

“I’m sorry, Kid. You didn’t deserve that.”

She sits down on the edge of the couch now. Without thinking, Jack reaches up and brushes a tear from her cheek. He hadn’t noticed that she had put on one of his old Army T-shirts, soft shorts peeking out from beneath it.

He could tell her everything. That one conversation with Robby had shaken him more than he’d like to admit. That he'd spent the last week trying to imagine his life with less of her in it, only to realize the thought left it completely unrecognizable. But her hair is still damp from her shower, and her eyes are still heavy with sleep. This was not the right moment.