‘cause she way too major for everything !!!

It crawled into your lungs on every inhale, settled into joints and fingertips until you body either adapted or suffered. 

Most people suffered. 

The hockey team clustered together near the center ice in layers of Briar hoodies and thick jackets, their breath fogged faintly beneath the fluorescent lights overhead.

One of them wore gloveds beneath his hockey gloves. Another kept rubbing his hands together between complaints like he could bully warmth back into them through friction alone. 

You could tell they weren't used to being on the ice without their padding and protection. 

You stood beside Coach Lauren without a jacket at all. 

Black compression fabric hugged your arms from wrist to shoulder, the long sleeves ending in thumb holes worn soft with use. Your leggings flared slightly at the ankle over pristine white skates, your hair slicked back to avoid flyways. 

The cold had barely registered anymore and really it hadn't in years. Three in the morning practices in nearly empty arena had cured you of that weakness before you were old enough to drive. 

Coach Jensen blew he whistle once. The sharp sound cracked through the arena loud enough to bounce off the rafters. Conversations died in uneven waves across the team. 

"That game against St. Anthony's was embarrassing."

Groans answered him immediately, no doubt to argue their side of the events that transpired during last weeks game. You tune most of it out. Excuses sounded the same no matter the sport, you'd come to learn that. 

Coach Jensen folded his arms over his chest. "You lost edge control every time the pressure shifted. That's sloppy work, gentlemen."

"That's bullshit," Garrett Graham muttered. 

You knew who he was before Coach Jensen had even said his name to you earlier that morning. Everybody at Briar knew Garrett Graham. Captian of the schools prized hockey team, campus golden boy. The kind of athlete whose face got plastered across university banners while your own championship medals sat locked inside display cases most student never bothered looking at. 

Not to mention his reputation as an absolute manwhore. So yes, you knew Garrett Graham, but only by reputation because he would never associate himself with someone like you. 

Jensen had insisted Garrett could rally the troopes and get them to listen to what you had to say. Though the look on his face made you think Coach Jensen didn't know Garrett as well as he thought he did. 

“It’s skating, Graham,” Coach Jensen replied flatly. “I can teach you hockey, but I can’t teach you to respect the ice.”

A few players snickered. Garrett rolled his eyes so hard his eyebrows dusted the top of his black beanie, wholly unconvinced. Jensen then jerked his chin towards you and your coach.

“This is Coach Lauren from Briar’s figure skating program and this—” his hand gestured toward you briefly, “—is one of his championship skaters. She’ll be helping with edge control, balance, and overall agility.”

There was a brief silence. Then Dean Di Laurentis, another hockey boy you only knew by reputation, blinked confusedly. "Wait," he said slowly, genuine confusion all over his face. "We have a figure skating team?"

Laughter broke across the group. It didn't matter whether Dean had meant it seriously or as a joke, his teammate had taken it as one. Beside you, Coach Lauren sighed through his nose like a man profoundly tired of hockey players, you knew because you felt his same frustration. 

Garrett shook his head once. "With all due respect, Coach, we don't need skating lessons from some . . . ," he gestured vaguely in your direction, "Ice princess."

You didn't react. Years ago comments like that used to crawl beneath your skin. But by now they mostly just exhaused you. Coach Jensen continued anyway, entirely unimpressed. 

"She has medaled nationally three years running and just returned from internationals."

That quieted them more effectively than the whistle had. 

You hated hearing accomplishments listed out loud like that. They never sounded real coming from someone else's mouth. Just neat little bullet points people could clap for without really understanding the years behind them. 

The six hour practices that you had endured with stress fractures and taped up ribs. The way your skating partner monitored every ounce you gained before competition season like your body belonged more to the sport than it did to you now. 

Garrett tilted his head back, but you didn't understand what was running though his head. But you surmised it was probably a lot of what he'd already said out loud. Dean, however, looked at you properly now for the first time. "Wait, so you're like famous famous?" he asked. 

The question caught strangely against your ribs. You didn't answer in fear that you would say something to harsh. Because really it shouldn't matter if you were objectively famous. Whether or not they listened to what you had to say shouldn't be determined by how many gold medals you had sitting on your shelf. 

So, you began with what you knew, what you understood better than anyone. The ice. "We're starting with outside edges and weight distribution."

Again, Garrett scoffed quietly. You continued anyway. “Hockey players rely too heavily on power skating, which means most of you compensate poorly when your center shifts unexpectedly.”

Dean nodded along with exaggerated seriousness. 

“Ah yes,” Logan said solemnly beside him. “My center.”

Tucker bit down on a grin.

A few more laughs scattered through the group as you kept talking. 

You could feel their attention drifting anyway. Not toward your instructions but lower instead. Toward the curve of your hips beneath thin leggings. The compression top you suddenly wished you’d covered before coming out here.

Garrett crossed his arms over his chest. "Like I said," he drawled, "we don't need this princess. We just need ice time."

Coach Jensen's expression hardened instantly. “She has absolutely nothing to gain from being here,” he said sharply. “You do.”

"Coach—" Garrett started to protest once again. 

“She took time out of her own training schedule to help you idiots after last week’s disaster.” A few players looked appropriately chastised.

Garrett did not. 

Jensen pointed towards the team. "You will give her your full attention and respect. Anyone with a problem can spend next game on the bench."

Without another word, Coach Jensen pushed off across the ice alongside Coach Lauren, leaving you alone with the team in the sudden hollow quiet that followed.

The atmosphere shifted almost immediately.

You brushed your hands together once.

“We’ll start simple.”

Garrett snorted. “No offense, princess, but if we wanted dance lessons we would’ve signed up for ballet.” The team laughed automatically. You didn't.

The laughter thinned awkwardly after that. You tilted your head slightly. “You think figure skating is easy?” Garrett smirked. “I think hockey players don’t need rhinestones and makeup to take to the ice.”

“Oh shit,” Logan whispered under his breath.

You inhaled slowly through your nose.

“Do you even know how much money my competitions bring into this school?”

Garrett’s smirk slipped.

“What?”

“No, like genuinely.” Your voice stayed perfectly even. “Do you know?”

Silence answered you. Of course he didn’t. You nodded once anyway. “Of course not. Because it isn’t hockey and that’s all Briar cares about.”

Nobody spoke. 

“My team doesn’t even have our own rink,” you continued. “Our practice times change depending on your schedules. We train around you. Compete around you. Fundraise around you.”

Garrett straightened slightly now, defensive instinct taking over.

“Okay, hold on—”

“No, it’s alright.” You gave him a small polite smile that somehow felt sharper than anger. “I’m used to hockey players treating my sport like a joke.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

The rink went quiet.

Even Dean looked uncomfortable now.

Garrett glanced around suddenly aware every single person was listening. Embarrassment flashed across his face fast enough to almost miss before irritation covered it again.

“Well maybe,” he said, sharper this time, “there’s a reason hockey gets more attention around here.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly. Logan mouthed, holy shit. Tucker physically winced. You stared at Garrett for a long moment.

Then you pushed off the ice without another word, skating toward the exit.

Garrett frowned immediately. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look back. “I have better things to do than hang around trying to teach a bunch of wannabe skaters how to respect the ice. Enjoy warming the bench.”

It crawled into your lungs on every inhale, settled into joints and fingertips until you body either adapted or suffered. 

Most people suffered. 

The hockey team clustered together near the center ice in layers of Briar hoodies and thick jackets, their breath fogged faintly beneath the fluorescent lights overhead.

One of them wore gloveds beneath his hockey gloves. Another kept rubbing his hands together between complaints like he could bully warmth back into them through friction alone. 

You could tell they weren't used to being on the ice without their padding and protection. 

You stood beside Coach Lauren without a jacket at all. 

Black compression fabric hugged your arms from wrist to shoulder, the long sleeves ending in thumb holes worn soft with use. Your leggings flared slightly at the ankle over pristine white skates, your hair slicked back to avoid flyways. 

The cold had barely registered anymore and really it hadn't in years. Three in the morning practices in nearly empty arena had cured you of that weakness before you were old enough to drive. 

Coach Jensen blew he whistle once. The sharp sound cracked through the arena loud enough to bounce off the rafters. Conversations died in uneven waves across the team. 

"That game against St. Anthony's was embarrassing."

Groans answered him immediately, no doubt to argue their side of the events that transpired during last weeks game. You tune most of it out. Excuses sounded the same no matter the sport, you'd come to learn that. 

Coach Jensen folded his arms over his chest. "You lost edge control every time the pressure shifted. That's sloppy work, gentlemen."

"That's bullshit," Garrett Graham muttered. 

You knew who he was before Coach Jensen had even said his name to you earlier that morning. Everybody at Briar knew Garrett Graham. Captian of the schools prized hockey team, campus golden boy. The kind of athlete whose face got plastered across university banners while your own championship medals sat locked inside display cases most student never bothered looking at. 

Not to mention his reputation as an absolute manwhore. So yes, you knew Garrett Graham, but only by reputation because he would never associate himself with someone like you. 

Jensen had insisted Garrett could rally the troopes and get them to listen to what you had to say. Though the look on his face made you think Coach Jensen didn't know Garrett as well as he thought he did. 

“It’s skating, Graham,” Coach Jensen replied flatly. “I can teach you hockey, but I can’t teach you to respect the ice.”

A few players snickered. Garrett rolled his eyes so hard his eyebrows dusted the top of his black beanie, wholly unconvinced. Jensen then jerked his chin towards you and your coach.

“This is Coach Lauren from Briar’s figure skating program and this—” his hand gestured toward you briefly, “—is one of his championship skaters. She’ll be helping with edge control, balance, and overall agility.”

There was a brief silence. Then Dean Di Laurentis, another hockey boy you only knew by reputation, blinked confusedly. "Wait," he said slowly, genuine confusion all over his face. "We have a figure skating team?"

Laughter broke across the group. It didn't matter whether Dean had meant it seriously or as a joke, his teammate had taken it as one. Beside you, Coach Lauren sighed through his nose like a man profoundly tired of hockey players, you knew because you felt his same frustration. 

Garrett shook his head once. "With all due respect, Coach, we don't need skating lessons from some . . . ," he gestured vaguely in your direction, "Ice princess."

You didn't react. Years ago comments like that used to crawl beneath your skin. But by now they mostly just exhaused you. Coach Jensen continued anyway, entirely unimpressed. 

"She has medaled nationally three years running and just returned from internationals."

That quieted them more effectively than the whistle had. 

You hated hearing accomplishments listed out loud like that. They never sounded real coming from someone else's mouth. Just neat little bullet points people could clap for without really understanding the years behind them. 

The six hour practices that you had endured with stress fractures and taped up ribs. The way your skating partner monitored every ounce you gained before competition season like your body belonged more to the sport than it did to you now. 

Garrett tilted his head back, but you didn't understand what was running though his head. But you surmised it was probably a lot of what he'd already said out loud. Dean, however, looked at you properly now for the first time. "Wait, so you're like famous famous?" he asked. 

The question caught strangely against your ribs. You didn't answer in fear that you would say something to harsh. Because really it shouldn't matter if you were objectively famous. Whether or not they listened to what you had to say shouldn't be determined by how many gold medals you had sitting on your shelf. 

So, you began with what you knew, what you understood better than anyone. The ice. "We're starting with outside edges and weight distribution."

Again, Garrett scoffed quietly. You continued anyway. “Hockey players rely too heavily on power skating, which means most of you compensate poorly when your center shifts unexpectedly.”

Dean nodded along with exaggerated seriousness. 

“Ah yes,” Logan said solemnly beside him. “My center.”

Tucker bit down on a grin.

A few more laughs scattered through the group as you kept talking. 

You could feel their attention drifting anyway. Not toward your instructions but lower instead. Toward the curve of your hips beneath thin leggings. The compression top you suddenly wished you’d covered before coming out here.

Garrett crossed his arms over his chest. "Like I said," he drawled, "we don't need this princess. We just need ice time."

Coach Jensen's expression hardened instantly. “She has absolutely nothing to gain from being here,” he said sharply. “You do.”

"Coach—" Garrett started to protest once again. 

“She took time out of her own training schedule to help you idiots after last week’s disaster.” A few players looked appropriately chastised.

Garrett did not. 

Jensen pointed towards the team. "You will give her your full attention and respect. Anyone with a problem can spend next game on the bench."

Without another word, Coach Jensen pushed off across the ice alongside Coach Lauren, leaving you alone with the team in the sudden hollow quiet that followed.

The atmosphere shifted almost immediately.

You brushed your hands together once.

“We’ll start simple.”

Garrett snorted. “No offense, princess, but if we wanted dance lessons we would’ve signed up for ballet.” The team laughed automatically. You didn't.

The laughter thinned awkwardly after that. You tilted your head slightly. “You think figure skating is easy?” Garrett smirked. “I think hockey players don’t need rhinestones and makeup to take to the ice.”

“Oh shit,” Logan whispered under his breath.

You inhaled slowly through your nose.

“Do you even know how much money my competitions bring into this school?”

Garrett’s smirk slipped.

“What?”

“No, like genuinely.” Your voice stayed perfectly even. “Do you know?”

Silence answered you. Of course he didn’t. You nodded once anyway. “Of course not. Because it isn’t hockey and that’s all Briar cares about.”

Nobody spoke. 

“My team doesn’t even have our own rink,” you continued. “Our practice times change depending on your schedules. We train around you. Compete around you. Fundraise around you.”

Garrett straightened slightly now, defensive instinct taking over.

“Okay, hold on—”

“No, it’s alright.” You gave him a small polite smile that somehow felt sharper than anger. “I’m used to hockey players treating my sport like a joke.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

The rink went quiet.

Even Dean looked uncomfortable now.

Garrett glanced around suddenly aware every single person was listening. Embarrassment flashed across his face fast enough to almost miss before irritation covered it again.

“Well maybe,” he said, sharper this time, “there’s a reason hockey gets more attention around here.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly. Logan mouthed, holy shit. Tucker physically winced. You stared at Garrett for a long moment.

Then you pushed off the ice without another word, skating toward the exit.

Garrett frowned immediately. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look back. “I have better things to do than hang around trying to teach a bunch of wannabe skaters how to respect the ice. Enjoy warming the bench.”

headcannons ⋆ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ₊˚. ‧

⤷ *petnames with bsf!spence ⤷ sfw alphabet with bsf!spencer ⤷ *sweet ( wet ) dreams about bsf!spence ( coming soon )

phase one ⋆ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ₊˚. ‧ observation ( with some textile learning ) aka accidental boners and purposeful ogling

⤷ *biological reactions ⤷ *the twitching hour ⤷ *all of five minutes ⤷ *just one more ⤷ *best friend things

phase two ⋆ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ₊˚. ‧ hypothesis ( evolution into domesticity ) phase three ⋆ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ₊˚. ‧ experimentation ( strictly for science ) phase four ⋆ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ₊˚. ‧ analysis ( full slutification of dr. spencer reid )

The fluorescent lights still hummed overhead with the same dull persistence they had at midnight. The air stilled smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal and the industrial cleaner the day shift janitors liked to use too heavily. 

The prep tables remained clean and pristine despite the three autopsies that you had preformed. It was peaceful for lack of a better word. But upstairs, however, the hospital would be just beginning to wake up. 

The emergency department at six in the morning was an entirely different beast than the morgue tucked neatly beneath it. This place moved fast even when exhausted. 

The whole floor pulsed with motion and noise and overstimulation. 

You hated it. 

Don't mistake your dislike for the environment for the dislike of the people inhabiting it. You wouldn't say you were friends with the ER staff, but you were on chit chatting terms with a lot of them since beginning dating Jack. But the sheer amount of everything put you especially at unease. 

Too many voices, too many bodies darting from one side of the ER to the other, and that meant too many opportunities for someone to accidentally touch you in passing. 

Which is why you usually stayed downstairs until Jack came to get you. That had become your routine somewhere along the line. Most mornings, by the time you clocked out and gathered your things, Jack was already leaning against your desk in the morgue office with that perpetually exhausted look on his face and a coffee in his hand. 

Then the two of you would leave together before either of your brains fully registered another twelve hour shift had passed. 

This morning, however, he hadn't shown. You were a little disappointed but you weren't outrageously upset about it. You knew that Jack got held up all the time and while this meant you would have to brave the ER again, it wasn't his fault. 

Trauma cases sometimes came in unexpectedly, shift hand off lasted longer when it was busier than usual, and you knew that Robby had a tendency to trap Jack into talking about things that didn't have anything to do with the hospital. Like his new on again, off again situationship with Noelle Hastings from social work. 

So after a few minutes, you simply slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way upstairs. The elevator ride alone nearly convinced you to turn around. 

By the time the doors opened onto the ER floor, the department was already in full swing. Phones rang somewhere in the distance. Someone laughed too loudly near the nurses’ station. A monitor beeped insistently from one of the trauma bays, while an exhausted nurse muttered something under her breath about needing a Red Bull.

You immediately regretted coming up here. 

Keeping your head down, you slipped towards the break room near the back hallway, careful not to drift into anybody's path. The last thing you wanted after twelve hours underground was to become collateral damage in the organized chaos of emergency medicine. 

You set your things down carefully on the small table inside the break room before leaning your head just barely out the doorway. To the left sat the employee lockers and a supply alcove. To the right was the command desk, where everyone eventually flocked and housed the patient boards.

Jack stood there with Robby and Dana, one hand braced against the edge of the counter while the other rested loosely on his hip. 

Even from across the department, you could easily see the exhaustion that sat heavily across his shoulders. 

The dark scrub top stretched across his back whenever he shifted slightly, and the dark wash cargo pants he wore instead of scrub bottoms sat low on his hips beneath the hem of his shirt.

You couldn't hear from where you were, but you could see Robby's mouth moving and Dana's wholly unimpressed look. You can only imagine what they were talking about. Jack, meanwhile, looked like a man mentally calculating how quickly he could escape the conversation. 

Whether he saw you immediately when you entered the ER or simply felts your stare, you didn't know, but his head turned after a moment. 

His eyes landed on you instantly and his whole expression changed, annoyance discarded and replaced with pure unadulterated affection. The change was small enough that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But you spent more time staring at Jack Abbot's face than most, so it was easy for you to spot. 

Jack's brows lifted slightly before he brought his hands together in a quick apologetic and his mouth formed the word sorry from across the room. You smiled at him despite yourself. He glanced down at his watch before holding up five fingers. 

You nodded once. His mouth curved with something guilty and fond all at once before his expression returned to what it was before he saw you and he turned back towards Robby. It was almost comical how fast the stoicism settled over his face again like armor sliding back into place. 

You watched him for another moment longer than you probably should've. Long enough to notice the slight tension around his jaw. Long enough that you begun to wonder if his prosthetic was bothering him after being on it all night and then forced to stand there while Robby prodded him for dating advice. 

Long enough that the clap against your back caught you completely off guard and nearly sent your soul directly out of your body. You startled violently. "Oh my god—"

"Morning, Morgie." 

You turned to find Trinity grinning at you like she'd just caught you with your pants down and your hand in the cookie jar. Dennis lingered behind her with the distinct energy of a man who already regretted participating in whatever conversation was about to occur. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your pulse. "Hi, Dr. Santos."

"You headed out?" she asked, a mischievous look in her eye. 

"Trying to," you answered honestly. 

Trinity barely acknowledged the response. She leaned casually against the doorway beside you like the two of you were old friends instead of occasional workplace acquaintances who primarily exchanged polite nods in passing. 

You had known people like Trinity your entire life. Loud people, you mean. People who filled silence immediately and naturally. People endlessly willing to push boundaries just to see what would happen. That wasn't to say you didn't like her. 

If anything, you suspected under different circumstances you could probably even be friends. Unfortunately, friendship required social energy you often did not possess after working nights in basement with dead people. 

Still, you tried. If not for your sake, then for Jack's. These were his coworkers and you were his girlfriend, you were bound to run into them more often than not, so a good relationship was paramount in your opinion. 

"How are you doing?" you asked politely. She had ignored the question entirely, opting for her own line of questioning. "So," she started, eye bright with mischief already, "you and Abbot are like a thing, right?" 

You stomach dropped. "What?" Never in a million years did you think that was going to be her question. 

Dennis looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him whole. Trinity, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted with herself. "Oh, come one," she said. "You guys are not subtle."

You blinked at her. 

You genuinely had not realized that people knew. You and Jack were not actively hiding your relationship persay. The two of you just simply hadn't announced it. You didn't exactly have a social circle to update, and Jack was not the type to stand in the middle of the ER making declarations about his personal life. 

But apparently none of that really mattered. 

Apparently the entire hospital had functioning eyeballs. Before you could figure out how to respond to that, Trinity continued. "But I gotta ask," she said lowering her voice slightly despite the wicked grin still pulling at her mouth, "is he packing? Because that man walks like it's heavy."

Your brain stalled completely. 

Packing? Walks like it, what? Those were only some of the thoughts running through your head. You frowned in confusion. "What?"

Trinity stared at you, disbelieving. "You know," she waved her hands slightly as if that would suddenly make you understand what she was referring to. 

"No," you admitted slowly, "I actually don't."

For one horrifying second, you genuinely thought she was talkng about his prosthetic. You eyes flicked instinctively toward Jack again. He shifted slightly near the desk, probably trying to relieve pressure from standing too long. 

Concern immediately sparked in your chest. Was his leg hurting him?

"Santos," Dennis whisper hissed, scandalized, "you cannot ask people stuff like that."

"What?" she asked. "I've been catching print for the last hour. I'm curious!"

Now you were even more confused. What did that even mean, catching print? Surely she wasn't referring to his prosthetic. You didn't have the greatest view of his leg as it was obscured by the other, but even so it was very difficult to notice it under his cargo pants even under the right circumstances. 

"Catching what?" you asked.

She blinked at you incredulously. Dennis covered his face with one hand. "You don't know what that means?" she asked. 

"Should I?"

In hindsight, the grin that spread across Trinity's face then should have terrified you, but all you felt was embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Okay. Wait."

Before you could react, she stepped closer beside you and pointed subtly towards the command desk. You followed her gaze automatically. Jack still stood talking with Robby and Dana, completely unaware he was currently the subject of discussion. 

"I'm confus—"

"Wait for it," Trinity interrupted. 

Jack shifted his weight to his good leg, trying to relieve some of the pressure. You noticed immediately because you always noticed when he was compensating with his good leg after a long shift. You eyes dropped instinctively toward the prosthetic, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight adjustment of his hips. 

Beside you, she groaned dramatically. "Higher," she muttered. 

Your brows furrowed but you did as you were told and slowly your gaze dragged upward. Past the heavy line of his thigh. Past the dark wash cargo pants that stretched tighter from the weight shift. You finally understood as your gaze landed on his crotch. 

Oh.

Oh. 

Your entire body stilled because now that you saw, there was no way for you to unsee it. The fabric across the front of his pants had pulled taut enough to reveal the unmistakable outline of him beneath. 

It wasn't obscene or at all intentional. But it was incredibly, horribly noticeable once pointed out. Your stomach dropped directly into hell. Which is exactly where you felt you were. Was it getting hot in here?

It wasn't like this was new information to you. It wasn't like you hadn't seen him naked plenty of times before. It was quite the contrary. You knew exact what Jack looked like beneath his clothes. 

You knew the weight of him in your palm, the way his hands gripped your hips when he lost control, you knew the vulgar things that came out of his mouth when he got worked up enough. 

This was different. This was public. 

This was your boyfriend standing in the middle of the emergency department discussing hospital operations while his coworkers apparently conducted active investigations into the outline of his dick. 

Another reason you hated the ER, pointless conversation about topics that were better left unspoken.

And to make matters worse, Jack clearly had no idea. Because you knew that had Jack been turned on right now, his neck would be flushed under his stubble, his fists would flex unconsciously, his shoulders would tense. 

Instead he remained entirely relaxed, still focused on whatever Robby was saying. Meaning that it was simply him. Your face went hot enough to physically hurt. Beside you, Trinity looked seconds away from tears from how hard she was trying not to laugh. 

You couldn't speak. 

You couldn't breath. 

Trinity watched your expression transform in real time and absolutely lit up with satisfaction. Because not only had she succeeded in getting her answer, she had effectively embarrassed the life out of you. 

"There it is." 

Your eyes remained locked on Jack against your will. Because now that you noticed, your brain seemed insistent on replaying memory after memory. Dear God. 

Had it always been that noticeable?

You felt mildly sick and somehow even sicker knowing Trinity was watching you realize it. "I, um, have nothing to say on the matter." She finally broke and a loud laugh burst out of her before she slapped Dennis on the shoulder. 

"Come on, Huckleberry," she cackled, still grinning wildly. "We've ruined Morgie's morning enough." Then she simply walked away. Leaving you standing there in the break room doorway, staring at your boyfriend across the ER. 

You almost didn't answer the door. 

The thought had crossed your mind somewhere between your bed and the kitchen island, sometime after you'd buried yourself beneath your comforter and convinced yourself that if you ignored the problem it would eventually disappear. 

Unfortunately, simply not answering the door wouldn't make everything alright again, because Jack wasn't actually the problem. 

The problem was you. 

It was how Jack made you feel. 

Jack was thoughtful and kind. 

The sort of man who noticed when you skipped meals, remembered your favorite takeout order and worried when you took the bus home when he was supposed to drive you. 

The sort of man currently standing in your apartment hallway balancing enough food to feed a small family. You chewed nervously on your lip for a moment as you stared through the peephole. 

You hesitated opening the door but ultimately unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the heavy door. "Jack?" you questioned. 

The second the door opened, his attention settled on you. "Hey, pretty girl."

The greeting came naturally as if it had been your name forever rather than just for the last few months. His gaze moved over you quickly but it didn't feel invasive or scrutinizing. You could tell he was looking for signs of the sickness you had told him you'd suddenly come down with. 

"Can I come in?"

You didn't really understand why but with those four words, your guilt doubled. Your stomach lurched as you stepped aside without argument. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Yeah, I did," he muttered. 

He leaned his crutches against the kitchen island as he began to pull out the various food items. 

The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him inside it, and it wasn't because his large frame took up most of your kitchen. His broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than physically possible. But more importantly, when he was here, it felt warmer and homey. Jack made your tiny studio feel different simply by existing in it. 

"You look better than I expected."

You could tell the statement was carefully curated. Meant to reassure himself of your state but not as to blatantly say I knew you were lying when you said you were sick. 

So you did what you do best in these situations. You doubled down. "I told you it wasn't serious," you explained. 

"Mhm." The hum could have meant absolutely anything and the different possibilities were making your head spin. 

You watched him continue unpacking the food. Container after container appeared. Then you also noticed the drink carrier and the large water bottle he pulled out from under his arm. 

"I didn't know what sounded good," he explained. "So I got options."

You stared. "Jack . . ," you trailed. 

"Breakfast sandwich. Turkey club, incase you were thinking lunch and chicken noodle, if you're feeling nauseous." Another container joined the lineup. "Hash browns, too."

"Jack, thats too much."

"I know you forget to eat sometimes and I am almost ninety nine percent sure that's what's making you feel sick." He finally glances over at you. "So please. Eat."

Your chest tightened because there it was again. That awful problem. The caring and the concern. The complete inability to stop looking after people. 

You had spent the entire bus ride home feeling ridiculous. Now you felt ridiculous and guilty. A terrible combination, especially when it came to you. 

"You sure your head's the only thing bothering you?" Your eyes snapped upward. 

Jack had settled on to the couch now, crutches leaned against the coffee table as he pulled off his prosthetic. Then leaned back against the cushions with the exhausted posture of a man who had spent twelve hours standing. 

He tilted his head back and rolled his neck. His legs spread as he shifted further into the couch. Your eyes gravitated towards his thighs and for the first time, you noticed he was wearing gray sweatpants. You immediately looked elsewhere. 

"I'm just tired," you said quickly, averting your eyes by any means necessary. 

"Baby, you've been tired before." His voice remained calm, very matter-of-fact. "This is different," he continued. 

You cursed yourself for letting this silly situation spiral like this. You cursed yourself for letting him in the door and most of all, you cursed yourself for being so damn readable. 

He had been in your apartment for all of ten minutes and he had already noticed the change in your behavior. Very Jack Abbot of him and very much the bane of your existence. 

You groaned loudly, "Oh my god, I'm acting weird."

"A little." You hadn't expected him to agree with you so outright, so your face fell a little when you heard his words. Jack immediately softened. "Not bad weird. Just a little off."

The apartment fell quiet. You looked away. Suddenly finding everything else more interesting. The outside city noises. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The soft hum of your ancient refrigerator. 

"Honey?"

"Hm?" You respond but you definitely don't look towards him.

"Tell me what's going on."

You continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. If you didn't answer maybe he'd forget. At least that's what your were foolish enough to think. Unfortunately for you, Jack Abbot possessed the patience of a man who spent his life talking terrified patients through terrible situations. 

Silence didn't scare him. It merely encouraged him to wait longer. When you sill didn't answer, he sighed. A change in tactics was in store for you. "C'mere." 

You blinked, confused, "What?"

"Your shoulders are practically touching your ears." He tipped his chin towards the couch. "Sit down," he ordered. 

"I don't think—"

"Sit."

His command wasn't malicious or harsh. It wasn't even particularly forceful. Yet somehow you found yourself crossing the room anyway. He shifted immediately to make space for you. The moment you sat down, he maneuvered you until your back was facing him and his hands settled on your shoulders. You nearly folded in half at the feeling. 

"Oh my god."

"I told you." His thumbs worked slowly through the knots gathered at the base of your neck. You hadn't noticed how tense you'd gotten until this moment. How every muscle in your body had tightened up in your fucked up sense of self preservation. 

But as his hands continued to work over the area, the more you relaxed and in more ways than one. The problem was that Jack's hands felt entirely too good. The problem was also that Jack himself felt entirely too good. The problem was definitely not helped by the gray sweatpants and the fact that you were still very much in the proverbial doghouse you had put yourself in. 

"You're tight as hell," he mumbled and a strangled sound escaped before you could stop it. Jack froze, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, seriously. What is going on?"

You immediately covered your face as heat flooded your cheeks. "Hey." A hand squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, baby. We talked about communicating, it's important to me."

You groaned into your hands. "Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I don't wanna tell you."

"Well, now you have to," he teased. "It's just me."

"Exactly my point. It's you." You swear if he lifted his eyebrows any further they'd brush his hairline. "Alright, now I'm definitely confused."

You debated lying again. Considered a different excuse, something wholly more believable. But again, Jack had that way about him, which somehow made honesty inevitable. 

"While I was waiting for you," you finally muttered, "Santos came up to me and she said—"

Jack straightened immediately. "What? If she crossed a line, I'll have a talk with her."

"No." You sat upright and turned to him so fast his hands slipped from your shoulders. "No. That would definitely not help."

"Okay," he conceded, though suspicion still laced his voice. "Can you tell me what she said?"

You sighed. "She was just being . . ." You searched for the appropriate description. "Being Santos."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, I know." You looked down at your hands. "She asked if we were together."

Jack frowned. "Does that make you upset? That people know?"

"No." You almost shout, the answer coming immediately. You softened slightly. "I mean, I know we weren't necessarily hiding it. I just didn't realize how many people knew."

Understanding flickered across his face. Then disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. "Alright," his voice gentled. "Then what's got you so twisted up?"

And there it was.

This was the moment. The point of no return. 

You stared at the wall. Then the floor. Then your hands. Anywhere except Jack. Finally, mortified beyond belief, you mumbled, "she asked if you were 'packing.'"

The silence that followed was immediate.

"What?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally preparing for your next words. "And then she said—and I quote—'he walks like it's heavy.'"

For one glorious second, Jack looked too stunned to react. Then he laughed.

It wasn't a cruel laugh or mocking. Just genuinely surprised. Which somehow made it worse. "Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands. "You're laughing at me. I knew this was stupid."

"No, baby." He was still smiling but he was shaking his head and waving his hands. "I'm not laughing at you."

"You literally are," you said bluntly because he really was still laughing. 

"It's just kinda silly," he confessed.

"Silly?" you repeated. "What about this is silly?"

Jack shook his head. "So what if people noticed?"

"You don't understand."

"No. I do."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "So what if you noticed? Ain't nothing you haven't seen before."

"Jack."

"What?"

His expression remained entirely too innocent. "It's the truth."

"Jack!" Your panicked voice earned another laugh. You groaned dramatically. "Stop laughing."

"I'm trying." He absolutely was not. The smile gave him away. 

"C'mere." His hand found your wrist before you could retreat again. The gesture was gentle and familiar. "Baby." The amusement faded slightly and he continued, "you're acting like this is some terrible thing."

"It is terrible."

"Why?"

"You weren't there."

"No." His thumb brushed across your skin."Sounds like I missed a hell of a conversation though," he joked. 

You glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he looked unbearably fond. “I just—" you exhaled. "I know what you look like, okay? Obviously. But that's private."

Your hand waved vaguely between the two of you. "That's ours."

For the first time since arriving, Jack's smile softened completely. "Then suddenly she points it out and now I'm standing there staring at your pants in the middle of the ER like some kind of pervert."

"Oh."

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean oh?”

The grin returned instantly. "Are you jealous other people noticed?"

"No!"

You stood without really thinking it through. This was how it was with you. Your instinct was always flight over fight. Unfortunately, Jack caught your wrist. "Nope." The grin widened. "You started this conversation. You're finishing it."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

His eyes lingered on your face. "You're embarrassed because Dr. Santos pointed out something you already spend a lotta time thinkin' about."

Your mouth dropped open.

"I do not."

One eyebrow lifted. You immediately looked away. Which told him everything he needed to know.

His laugh returned. "Hey." Your eyes remained firmly fixed on the opposite wall. "Pretty girl."

"Jack, that's not helping."

"You know I like knowing you think about me like that, right?"

Your face somehow became hotter. "Stop."

"What?" His expression remained shameless. "Sweetheart, we've slept together. More than once."

"Please stop talking."

"There is nothin' embarrassing about bein' attracted to me." You stared. Jack shrugged. "Frankly, I'd be a little concerned if you weren't."

Despite everything. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Trinity Santos. Despite spending over two hours making yourself miserable, a laugh escaped.

The moment it did, Jack's expression softened.

"There she is."

You rolled your eyes. The words settled somewhere warm despite your best efforts to resist them.

And the knot that had been sitting in your chest since sunrise finally began to loosen.

The fluorescent lights still hummed overhead with the same dull persistence they had at midnight. The air stilled smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal and the industrial cleaner the day shift janitors liked to use too heavily. 

The prep tables remained clean and pristine despite the three autopsies that you had preformed. It was peaceful for lack of a better word. But upstairs, however, the hospital would be just beginning to wake up. 

The emergency department at six in the morning was an entirely different beast than the morgue tucked neatly beneath it. This place moved fast even when exhausted. 

The whole floor pulsed with motion and noise and overstimulation. 

You hated it. 

Don't mistake your dislike for the environment for the dislike of the people inhabiting it. You wouldn't say you were friends with the ER staff, but you were on chit chatting terms with a lot of them since beginning dating Jack. But the sheer amount of everything put you especially at unease. 

Too many voices, too many bodies darting from one side of the ER to the other, and that meant too many opportunities for someone to accidentally touch you in passing. 

Which is why you usually stayed downstairs until Jack came to get you. That had become your routine somewhere along the line. Most mornings, by the time you clocked out and gathered your things, Jack was already leaning against your desk in the morgue office with that perpetually exhausted look on his face and a coffee in his hand. 

Then the two of you would leave together before either of your brains fully registered another twelve hour shift had passed. 

This morning, however, he hadn't shown. You were a little disappointed but you weren't outrageously upset about it. You knew that Jack got held up all the time and while this meant you would have to brave the ER again, it wasn't his fault. 

Trauma cases sometimes came in unexpectedly, shift hand off lasted longer when it was busier than usual, and you knew that Robby had a tendency to trap Jack into talking about things that didn't have anything to do with the hospital. Like his new on again, off again situationship with Noelle Hastings from social work. 

So after a few minutes, you simply slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way upstairs. The elevator ride alone nearly convinced you to turn around. 

By the time the doors opened onto the ER floor, the department was already in full swing. Phones rang somewhere in the distance. Someone laughed too loudly near the nurses’ station. A monitor beeped insistently from one of the trauma bays, while an exhausted nurse muttered something under her breath about needing a Red Bull.

You immediately regretted coming up here. 

Keeping your head down, you slipped towards the break room near the back hallway, careful not to drift into anybody's path. The last thing you wanted after twelve hours underground was to become collateral damage in the organized chaos of emergency medicine. 

You set your things down carefully on the small table inside the break room before leaning your head just barely out the doorway. To the left sat the employee lockers and a supply alcove. To the right was the command desk, where everyone eventually flocked and housed the patient boards.

Jack stood there with Robby and Dana, one hand braced against the edge of the counter while the other rested loosely on his hip. 

Even from across the department, you could easily see the exhaustion that sat heavily across his shoulders. 

The dark scrub top stretched across his back whenever he shifted slightly, and the dark wash cargo pants he wore instead of scrub bottoms sat low on his hips beneath the hem of his shirt.

You couldn't hear from where you were, but you could see Robby's mouth moving and Dana's wholly unimpressed look. You can only imagine what they were talking about. Jack, meanwhile, looked like a man mentally calculating how quickly he could escape the conversation. 

Whether he saw you immediately when you entered the ER or simply felts your stare, you didn't know, but his head turned after a moment. 

His eyes landed on you instantly and his whole expression changed, annoyance discarded and replaced with pure unadulterated affection. The change was small enough that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But you spent more time staring at Jack Abbot's face than most, so it was easy for you to spot. 

Jack's brows lifted slightly before he brought his hands together in a quick apologetic and his mouth formed the word sorry from across the room. You smiled at him despite yourself. He glanced down at his watch before holding up five fingers. 

You nodded once. His mouth curved with something guilty and fond all at once before his expression returned to what it was before he saw you and he turned back towards Robby. It was almost comical how fast the stoicism settled over his face again like armor sliding back into place. 

You watched him for another moment longer than you probably should've. Long enough to notice the slight tension around his jaw. Long enough that you begun to wonder if his prosthetic was bothering him after being on it all night and then forced to stand there while Robby prodded him for dating advice. 

Long enough that the clap against your back caught you completely off guard and nearly sent your soul directly out of your body. You startled violently. "Oh my god—"

"Morning, Morgie." 

You turned to find Trinity grinning at you like she'd just caught you with your pants down and your hand in the cookie jar. Dennis lingered behind her with the distinct energy of a man who already regretted participating in whatever conversation was about to occur. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your pulse. "Hi, Dr. Santos."

"You headed out?" she asked, a mischievous look in her eye. 

"Trying to," you answered honestly. 

Trinity barely acknowledged the response. She leaned casually against the doorway beside you like the two of you were old friends instead of occasional workplace acquaintances who primarily exchanged polite nods in passing. 

You had known people like Trinity your entire life. Loud people, you mean. People who filled silence immediately and naturally. People endlessly willing to push boundaries just to see what would happen. That wasn't to say you didn't like her. 

If anything, you suspected under different circumstances you could probably even be friends. Unfortunately, friendship required social energy you often did not possess after working nights in basement with dead people. 

Still, you tried. If not for your sake, then for Jack's. These were his coworkers and you were his girlfriend, you were bound to run into them more often than not, so a good relationship was paramount in your opinion. 

"How are you doing?" you asked politely. She had ignored the question entirely, opting for her own line of questioning. "So," she started, eye bright with mischief already, "you and Abbot are like a thing, right?" 

You stomach dropped. "What?" Never in a million years did you think that was going to be her question. 

Dennis looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him whole. Trinity, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted with herself. "Oh, come one," she said. "You guys are not subtle."

You blinked at her. 

You genuinely had not realized that people knew. You and Jack were not actively hiding your relationship persay. The two of you just simply hadn't announced it. You didn't exactly have a social circle to update, and Jack was not the type to stand in the middle of the ER making declarations about his personal life. 

But apparently none of that really mattered. 

Apparently the entire hospital had functioning eyeballs. Before you could figure out how to respond to that, Trinity continued. "But I gotta ask," she said lowering her voice slightly despite the wicked grin still pulling at her mouth, "is he packing? Because that man walks like it's heavy."

Your brain stalled completely. 

Packing? Walks like it, what? Those were only some of the thoughts running through your head. You frowned in confusion. "What?"

Trinity stared at you, disbelieving. "You know," she waved her hands slightly as if that would suddenly make you understand what she was referring to. 

"No," you admitted slowly, "I actually don't."

For one horrifying second, you genuinely thought she was talkng about his prosthetic. You eyes flicked instinctively toward Jack again. He shifted slightly near the desk, probably trying to relieve pressure from standing too long. 

Concern immediately sparked in your chest. Was his leg hurting him?

"Santos," Dennis whisper hissed, scandalized, "you cannot ask people stuff like that."

"What?" she asked. "I've been catching print for the last hour. I'm curious!"

Now you were even more confused. What did that even mean, catching print? Surely she wasn't referring to his prosthetic. You didn't have the greatest view of his leg as it was obscured by the other, but even so it was very difficult to notice it under his cargo pants even under the right circumstances. 

"Catching what?" you asked.

She blinked at you incredulously. Dennis covered his face with one hand. "You don't know what that means?" she asked. 

"Should I?"

In hindsight, the grin that spread across Trinity's face then should have terrified you, but all you felt was embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Okay. Wait."

Before you could react, she stepped closer beside you and pointed subtly towards the command desk. You followed her gaze automatically. Jack still stood talking with Robby and Dana, completely unaware he was currently the subject of discussion. 

"I'm confus—"

"Wait for it," Trinity interrupted. 

Jack shifted his weight to his good leg, trying to relieve some of the pressure. You noticed immediately because you always noticed when he was compensating with his good leg after a long shift. You eyes dropped instinctively toward the prosthetic, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight adjustment of his hips. 

Beside you, she groaned dramatically. "Higher," she muttered. 

Your brows furrowed but you did as you were told and slowly your gaze dragged upward. Past the heavy line of his thigh. Past the dark wash cargo pants that stretched tighter from the weight shift. You finally understood as your gaze landed on his crotch. 

Oh.

Oh. 

Your entire body stilled because now that you saw, there was no way for you to unsee it. The fabric across the front of his pants had pulled taut enough to reveal the unmistakable outline of him beneath. 

It wasn't obscene or at all intentional. But it was incredibly, horribly noticeable once pointed out. Your stomach dropped directly into hell. Which is exactly where you felt you were. Was it getting hot in here?

It wasn't like this was new information to you. It wasn't like you hadn't seen him naked plenty of times before. It was quite the contrary. You knew exact what Jack looked like beneath his clothes. 

You knew the weight of him in your palm, the way his hands gripped your hips when he lost control, you knew the vulgar things that came out of his mouth when he got worked up enough. 

This was different. This was public. 

This was your boyfriend standing in the middle of the emergency department discussing hospital operations while his coworkers apparently conducted active investigations into the outline of his dick. 

Another reason you hated the ER, pointless conversation about topics that were better left unspoken.

And to make matters worse, Jack clearly had no idea. Because you knew that had Jack been turned on right now, his neck would be flushed under his stubble, his fists would flex unconsciously, his shoulders would tense. 

Instead he remained entirely relaxed, still focused on whatever Robby was saying. Meaning that it was simply him. Your face went hot enough to physically hurt. Beside you, Trinity looked seconds away from tears from how hard she was trying not to laugh. 

You couldn't speak. 

You couldn't breath. 

Trinity watched your expression transform in real time and absolutely lit up with satisfaction. Because not only had she succeeded in getting her answer, she had effectively embarrassed the life out of you. 

"There it is." 

Your eyes remained locked on Jack against your will. Because now that you noticed, your brain seemed insistent on replaying memory after memory. Dear God. 

Had it always been that noticeable?

You felt mildly sick and somehow even sicker knowing Trinity was watching you realize it. "I, um, have nothing to say on the matter." She finally broke and a loud laugh burst out of her before she slapped Dennis on the shoulder. 

"Come on, Huckleberry," she cackled, still grinning wildly. "We've ruined Morgie's morning enough." Then she simply walked away. Leaving you standing there in the break room doorway, staring at your boyfriend across the ER. 

You almost didn't answer the door. 

The thought had crossed your mind somewhere between your bed and the kitchen island, sometime after you'd buried yourself beneath your comforter and convinced yourself that if you ignored the problem it would eventually disappear. 

Unfortunately, simply not answering the door wouldn't make everything alright again, because Jack wasn't actually the problem. 

The problem was you. 

It was how Jack made you feel. 

Jack was thoughtful and kind. 

The sort of man who noticed when you skipped meals, remembered your favorite takeout order and worried when you took the bus home when he was supposed to drive you. 

The sort of man currently standing in your apartment hallway balancing enough food to feed a small family. You chewed nervously on your lip for a moment as you stared through the peephole. 

You hesitated opening the door but ultimately unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the heavy door. "Jack?" you questioned. 

The second the door opened, his attention settled on you. "Hey, pretty girl."

The greeting came naturally as if it had been your name forever rather than just for the last few months. His gaze moved over you quickly but it didn't feel invasive or scrutinizing. You could tell he was looking for signs of the sickness you had told him you'd suddenly come down with. 

"Can I come in?"

You didn't really understand why but with those four words, your guilt doubled. Your stomach lurched as you stepped aside without argument. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Yeah, I did," he muttered. 

He leaned his crutches against the kitchen island as he began to pull out the various food items. 

The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him inside it, and it wasn't because his large frame took up most of your kitchen. His broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than physically possible. But more importantly, when he was here, it felt warmer and homey. Jack made your tiny studio feel different simply by existing in it. 

"You look better than I expected."

You could tell the statement was carefully curated. Meant to reassure himself of your state but not as to blatantly say I knew you were lying when you said you were sick. 

So you did what you do best in these situations. You doubled down. "I told you it wasn't serious," you explained. 

"Mhm." The hum could have meant absolutely anything and the different possibilities were making your head spin. 

You watched him continue unpacking the food. Container after container appeared. Then you also noticed the drink carrier and the large water bottle he pulled out from under his arm. 

"I didn't know what sounded good," he explained. "So I got options."

You stared. "Jack . . ," you trailed. 

"Breakfast sandwich. Turkey club, incase you were thinking lunch and chicken noodle, if you're feeling nauseous." Another container joined the lineup. "Hash browns, too."

"Jack, thats too much."

"I know you forget to eat sometimes and I am almost ninety nine percent sure that's what's making you feel sick." He finally glances over at you. "So please. Eat."

Your chest tightened because there it was again. That awful problem. The caring and the concern. The complete inability to stop looking after people. 

You had spent the entire bus ride home feeling ridiculous. Now you felt ridiculous and guilty. A terrible combination, especially when it came to you. 

"You sure your head's the only thing bothering you?" Your eyes snapped upward. 

Jack had settled on to the couch now, crutches leaned against the coffee table as he pulled off his prosthetic. Then leaned back against the cushions with the exhausted posture of a man who had spent twelve hours standing. 

He tilted his head back and rolled his neck. His legs spread as he shifted further into the couch. Your eyes gravitated towards his thighs and for the first time, you noticed he was wearing gray sweatpants. You immediately looked elsewhere. 

"I'm just tired," you said quickly, averting your eyes by any means necessary. 

"Baby, you've been tired before." His voice remained calm, very matter-of-fact. "This is different," he continued. 

You cursed yourself for letting this silly situation spiral like this. You cursed yourself for letting him in the door and most of all, you cursed yourself for being so damn readable. 

He had been in your apartment for all of ten minutes and he had already noticed the change in your behavior. Very Jack Abbot of him and very much the bane of your existence. 

You groaned loudly, "Oh my god, I'm acting weird."

"A little." You hadn't expected him to agree with you so outright, so your face fell a little when you heard his words. Jack immediately softened. "Not bad weird. Just a little off."

The apartment fell quiet. You looked away. Suddenly finding everything else more interesting. The outside city noises. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The soft hum of your ancient refrigerator. 

"Honey?"

"Hm?" You respond but you definitely don't look towards him.

"Tell me what's going on."

You continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. If you didn't answer maybe he'd forget. At least that's what your were foolish enough to think. Unfortunately for you, Jack Abbot possessed the patience of a man who spent his life talking terrified patients through terrible situations. 

Silence didn't scare him. It merely encouraged him to wait longer. When you sill didn't answer, he sighed. A change in tactics was in store for you. "C'mere." 

You blinked, confused, "What?"

"Your shoulders are practically touching your ears." He tipped his chin towards the couch. "Sit down," he ordered. 

"I don't think—"

"Sit."

His command wasn't malicious or harsh. It wasn't even particularly forceful. Yet somehow you found yourself crossing the room anyway. He shifted immediately to make space for you. The moment you sat down, he maneuvered you until your back was facing him and his hands settled on your shoulders. You nearly folded in half at the feeling. 

"Oh my god."

"I told you." His thumbs worked slowly through the knots gathered at the base of your neck. You hadn't noticed how tense you'd gotten until this moment. How every muscle in your body had tightened up in your fucked up sense of self preservation. 

But as his hands continued to work over the area, the more you relaxed and in more ways than one. The problem was that Jack's hands felt entirely too good. The problem was also that Jack himself felt entirely too good. The problem was definitely not helped by the gray sweatpants and the fact that you were still very much in the proverbial doghouse you had put yourself in. 

"You're tight as hell," he mumbled and a strangled sound escaped before you could stop it. Jack froze, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, seriously. What is going on?"

You immediately covered your face as heat flooded your cheeks. "Hey." A hand squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, baby. We talked about communicating, it's important to me."

You groaned into your hands. "Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I don't wanna tell you."

"Well, now you have to," he teased. "It's just me."

"Exactly my point. It's you." You swear if he lifted his eyebrows any further they'd brush his hairline. "Alright, now I'm definitely confused."

You debated lying again. Considered a different excuse, something wholly more believable. But again, Jack had that way about him, which somehow made honesty inevitable. 

"While I was waiting for you," you finally muttered, "Santos came up to me and she said—"

Jack straightened immediately. "What? If she crossed a line, I'll have a talk with her."

"No." You sat upright and turned to him so fast his hands slipped from your shoulders. "No. That would definitely not help."

"Okay," he conceded, though suspicion still laced his voice. "Can you tell me what she said?"

You sighed. "She was just being . . ." You searched for the appropriate description. "Being Santos."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, I know." You looked down at your hands. "She asked if we were together."

Jack frowned. "Does that make you upset? That people know?"

"No." You almost shout, the answer coming immediately. You softened slightly. "I mean, I know we weren't necessarily hiding it. I just didn't realize how many people knew."

Understanding flickered across his face. Then disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. "Alright," his voice gentled. "Then what's got you so twisted up?"

And there it was.

This was the moment. The point of no return. 

You stared at the wall. Then the floor. Then your hands. Anywhere except Jack. Finally, mortified beyond belief, you mumbled, "she asked if you were 'packing.'"

The silence that followed was immediate.

"What?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally preparing for your next words. "And then she said—and I quote—'he walks like it's heavy.'"

For one glorious second, Jack looked too stunned to react. Then he laughed.

It wasn't a cruel laugh or mocking. Just genuinely surprised. Which somehow made it worse. "Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands. "You're laughing at me. I knew this was stupid."

"No, baby." He was still smiling but he was shaking his head and waving his hands. "I'm not laughing at you."

"You literally are," you said bluntly because he really was still laughing. 

"It's just kinda silly," he confessed.

"Silly?" you repeated. "What about this is silly?"

Jack shook his head. "So what if people noticed?"

"You don't understand."

"No. I do."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "So what if you noticed? Ain't nothing you haven't seen before."

"Jack."

"What?"

His expression remained entirely too innocent. "It's the truth."

"Jack!" Your panicked voice earned another laugh. You groaned dramatically. "Stop laughing."

"I'm trying." He absolutely was not. The smile gave him away. 

"C'mere." His hand found your wrist before you could retreat again. The gesture was gentle and familiar. "Baby." The amusement faded slightly and he continued, "you're acting like this is some terrible thing."

"It is terrible."

"Why?"

"You weren't there."

"No." His thumb brushed across your skin."Sounds like I missed a hell of a conversation though," he joked. 

You glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he looked unbearably fond. “I just—" you exhaled. "I know what you look like, okay? Obviously. But that's private."

Your hand waved vaguely between the two of you. "That's ours."

For the first time since arriving, Jack's smile softened completely. "Then suddenly she points it out and now I'm standing there staring at your pants in the middle of the ER like some kind of pervert."

"Oh."

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean oh?”

The grin returned instantly. "Are you jealous other people noticed?"

"No!"

You stood without really thinking it through. This was how it was with you. Your instinct was always flight over fight. Unfortunately, Jack caught your wrist. "Nope." The grin widened. "You started this conversation. You're finishing it."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

His eyes lingered on your face. "You're embarrassed because Dr. Santos pointed out something you already spend a lotta time thinkin' about."

Your mouth dropped open.

"I do not."

One eyebrow lifted. You immediately looked away. Which told him everything he needed to know.

His laugh returned. "Hey." Your eyes remained firmly fixed on the opposite wall. "Pretty girl."

"Jack, that's not helping."

"You know I like knowing you think about me like that, right?"

Your face somehow became hotter. "Stop."

"What?" His expression remained shameless. "Sweetheart, we've slept together. More than once."

"Please stop talking."

"There is nothin' embarrassing about bein' attracted to me." You stared. Jack shrugged. "Frankly, I'd be a little concerned if you weren't."

Despite everything. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Trinity Santos. Despite spending over two hours making yourself miserable, a laugh escaped.

The moment it did, Jack's expression softened.

"There she is."

You rolled your eyes. The words settled somewhere warm despite your best efforts to resist them.

And the knot that had been sitting in your chest since sunrise finally began to loosen.