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single!mom reader who brings her kid to the pitt and said kid proceeds to out the two of them and their secret relationship.
I tweaked this just a little bit, but it did inspire the next 2.5k
“Hi, my names Dr. Robinovitch, but everyone calls me Robby,” the man who addressed you said as he looked over your son’s admission chart. “What brought us in this morning?” He’s still reading over the notes that the triage nurse had recorded.
“My son, Oliver,” you sounded so exhausted. It wasn’t hard to imagine you’d probably been up for as long as Robby himself had. A sick six-year-old would do that to someone. “I thought he just caught something from school—“ You started, but the words weren’t coming out fast enough. “I’m not so sure it’s just a cold anymore.”
“It’s good you came in,” Robby could sense the hesitation in your voice. The kind of hesitation he hears in most unsure parents' voices when they think a trip to the emergency room is unwarranted or unjustified. “A mother's instinct is usually to be trusted.” He smiled softly as he stepped a little closer to the bedside where your six-year-old lay with teary, tired eyes, a clogged nose and some weird-looking skin irritation.
Robby does a quick visual examination, noting quickly that your son seems to be having trouble breathing. He could practically hear the pneumonia in his little lungs.
“What’s your name, mum?” Robby asked as he shone a small but bright white light into your son's eyes. He wasn’t perplexed about this ailment at all; it had to be pneumonia with a touch of contact dermatitis from something he’d come into contact with. A plant from school perhaps? or a cream you’d used.
“Y/n.” You replied. The name rang through Robby’s ears like a beautiful bell bellowing at midnight. The kind of ring that makes little ideas appear out of thin air. If he were a cartoon character…Robby swore a little lightbulb appeared above his head.
What are the odds? A beautiful woman with a young son who just so happened to have the very same name that not three nights ago, Robby had practically forced out of Jack Abbot's mouth with the threat of a new night shift resident.
“You look a little worn out too? After we draw some blood and get this little guy sorted, I think there’s a cup of coffee with your name on it at the nurses' station.” He smiled, pocketing his pen light.
“Oh,” You sighed out a small chuckle. “These bags are permanent, Dr Robinavitch—“
“Please, call me Robby.” He replied quickly as he walked around the examination room looking for all the bits he needed for a blood draw. “It’s my treat, there’s nothing I can do for the permanent lack of sleep, but a little caffeine is good for the body, brain and soul.”
“That sounds great, thank you, Robby.” You shifted in your chair to move closer to your son's side. His little hand now safely placed in yours.
“I’ll uh, I’ll be right back,” Robby caught the sight of his senior night shift attending heading out at the end of his shift. The very same night shift attending that Robby knew would want more than anything to be informed about this particular patient. “Excuse me.” He held up one finger and was gone before you could even say okay.
“Abbot!” Robby bellowed as he did a hop, skip and jump action past the nurses' station, where Dana was getting caught up to speed for her shift. “Hey—Jack!”
Jack sighed softly to himself before he stopped in his tracks. His old army bag was slung haphazardly over his left shoulder.
“Brother, I am five feet from freedom here, don’t do this to me.” Jack turned with a growl. He was just trying to get home after a long ass night. “I leave this emergency department in your capable hands.”
“Not so fast,” Robby cooed as he clamped his hand down on Jack's backpackless shoulder. “I need a consult, sick six-year-old presenting with possible pneumonia—“
“Nice one, sounds like you already have a clear diagnosis, what the fuck do you need me for, man, I’m off duty till seven!” Jack whisper-hissed through his teeth. His leg had been killing him since three, and Jack could practically smell the bacon and egg roll from Caramels calling his name.
“I’m pretty sure it’s your Y/n and her son, Oliver? Yeah—yeah, I think I’ve diagnosed that too,” Robby spoke as he rubbed the back of his head casually, like he was still trying to fake like he didn’t know it was you from the second he heard your name. “But I thought maybe you’d wanna come suss it out for yourself in case I’m delusional and can’t put two and two together.” Robby smiled as he watched Jack's entire demeanour change. It softened at the mere thought of you.
“You said pneumonia?” Jack followed up as he walked into Robby’s shoulder, making sure to make contact just to get back at the dick-like foolishness he had presented with. “And you're sure it’s Ollie?”
“Oh, you’re already on a nickname basis with her kid?” Robby’s eyebrows raised as he followed his own emergency contact back to the exam room. “I’ll be damned, do I hear wedding bells?”
Jack didn’t reply; all he did was make strides to where Robby had come from. Worry had already begun to take its rightful place inside his chest. Sure, Jack Abbot knew how to keep a calm and collected composure…but not when it had anything to do with the family he’d started to feel a part of.
It was casual. Something new. It wasn’t something that you had considered becoming serious or anything more than just two people spending some casual alone time together.
Casual. It was supposed to be a no-strings-attached thing. No feelings. No baggage. No attachments.
That’s how it started anyway…it didn’t stay that way for very long. How could it when Jack was all in from day one. He made that decision on his own terms. All it took was one date with you to know he was in this for the rest of his overextended life. One leg down be damned.
“Hey,” it was the softest hey Robby had ever heard. “What are you guys doin' here?” Jack asked as he walked in with a proud chest and enough confidence to tell Robby everything he needed to know and more.
This was Jack Abbot's found family. A second chance at all the things he lost when he lost a physical part of himself.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” You started in a near panic. “He’s been up all night. I made an appointment with our primary for Wednesday but—“ you didn’t get a chance to speak before Jack was dropping to his knees beside your chair.
“I’m your damn primary now, alright?”
You knew well enough that when Jack Abbot said something, he meant it with full conviction. All you could do was hold back a small quicker with pressed together lips as Jack placed a hand to the back of your head and drew your forehand to his lips.
Robby was rendered speechless. He’d never seen this side of Jack before.
“Uh, not to interfere, but I should probably continue my work up on Oliver here so we can get some sort of treatment plan in action.”
“I can do that, you go ahead and annoy some other attending for the rest of your shift, I’ve got this handled now.” Jack didn’t let Robby finish, and Robby knew better than to argue. He threw his hand up in surrender as Jack stood and looked around at where Robby had organised the equipment needed for a blood draw.
“How long did you say he’s been like this?” Jack asked as he looked down at the little boy, half asleep in the hospital bed that made him look ten times smaller.
“He was fine yesterday, I thought it was just a cold he’d picked up at school a few days ago, but—“ You paused as panic threatened to burst out into tears; you felt like you’d failed as a mother. “But he just hasn’t been himself since yesterday afternoon; he’s been up all night.”
“Yeah, he’s gonna be alright, I promise,” Jack cooed as he placed a comforting hand on Oliver’s forehead. “We’ll pump him up with some fluids, antibiotics, and we’ll go from there. Good call bringing him in, I just wish you would have called me.”
“Jack—“ You sighed, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to…it was more like you were afraid if you did…he wouldn’t answer.
“Anytime, anything, anywhere.” Is all Jack said as he worked on your son. He was locked in like a madman on a mission. Healing hands that worked miracles on patients all night now worked over your sons like he had something to prove.
And he did have something to prove…he wanted to prove to you that he was head over fucking heals for you. Making sure Ollie got the best care he could was only the tip of the iceberg.
“Alright, Bud, I’m gonna need you to make a tight fist for me so I can take some blood,” Jack told your son what he was doing. “But you’re gonna need to look over at mum while I do that, alright?”
“Isn’t my blood supposed to stay inside me?” Ollie mumbled as he felt the man who’d made him feel safe enough to call family tied off his blood pressure. All Jack could do was laugh as a big grin took over his tired face.
“Yeah, most of the time, but right now I gotta take some so we can run some tests to see what’s making you feel so miserable, alright?”
“Will it hurt?” Ollie asked as he looked towards you.
“A tiny little bee sting, but after that? Nope, plus I can do this with my eyes closed,” Jack looked up at you with a teasing wink of self-reassurance. “But maybe just one eye,” He caught himself flirting as he popped in the butterfly needle. “See? Bet you didn’t even feel that, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Good, now I need to talk to your mum outside in the hall for a few minutes, but Princess is gonna come in and get some fluids set up to make you feel better, sound alright with you?” Jack asked your son as if the kid had any say in the matter.
“Is she a real princess?” Ollie asked as he looked over to where Jack was looking at the small vial of blood.
“Yeah, Bud, only the real deal for you,” Jack replied as he gestured for you to follow him out. You did just that, but not without saying a loving bye to Oliver.
It wasn’t long before the two of you felt the weight of the entire emergency department’s eyes on you. Jack's day shift peers, who saw him as something of a traumatised enigma, all looked over like a mythical creature had just appeared. A rarity that was someone on a personal level with Dr. Jack middle name unknown, Abbot.
“He’s probably going to be admitted for a few days,” Jack started as he eyed down whoever he could lock eyes with. First it was Santos…then Dana. “I can assure you he’ll be fine, but I wanna keep an eye on him for at least twenty-four hours to make sure he’s reactive to treatment.
“Oh,” Your heart sank into your stomach at the thought of your son needing to stay here in the sterile, fluorescent environment. “Um—am I able to stay with him?” You didn’t know how any of this worked. This was all new territory for you. Up until now, Oliver never needed to be hospitalised. Hell, he’d never broken a bone so much as caught a cold.
“Absolutely,” Jack turned to you, recognising the guilt that plastered itself across your face. “But hey, on a more important note,” Jack tried to lighten the mood. “Who’s running the café this morning if you’re here?”
“Adam,” You replied politely as Jack reached for his phone. You caught the background clear as day. You, Jack, and Oliver at the park. “Why? And how is that more important than anything that’s going on right now?”
“Well, I need to know whose handwork I’m gonna fork out the Uber up charge for.” Jack doesn’t look up from his phone. He’s already got Caramels cafe, the cafe you owned, up on his phone. “Two bacon and egg bagels, an iced coffee and a long black coming right up.”
“I guess you haven’t eaten, have you?” Neither had you. How could you possibly eat when all you’d been doing was worrying yourself sick over Oliver’s battle with whatever flu or cold or illness this was?
“Honey, it feels like I haven’t eaten since March,” Jack teased as he walked with you over to the nurses' station. Dana, with all her bright joy and glee, waited patiently for Jack to introduce you. “Dana, this is—“ He paused for a moment, girlfriend never felt right. It felt like a title reserved for high school lovers. “Partner, my partner Y/n, her son is just about to start a round of fluids and antibiotics,” Jack updated the woman whose eyes never left you. “Make it known, VIP treatment for the kid in room three until peds has a bed.”
“Consider it done,” Dana replied. “I wish I could say I’ve heard all about you,” she continued as she smiled your way. “But Abbot here has an issue with personal and professional.”
“Yeah, I think we both share that same issue.” You replied as you looked around yourself at everyone staring your way. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No, darlin',” Dana chuckled. “It’s just not every day this department gets to see into the private life of Private Ryan here.”
“Oh, eat me,” Jack growled as he motioned the two of you back towards where your son's room was. “C’mon, I don’t want these pariahs giving you the creeps any longer.”
By the time you got back to your son, Princess had started an IV bag of fluids. He looked so small. So tired. But there was a sense of calm that came over you, knowing Jack was taking care of him.
“You guys hang tight, I’ll be back with our food in a moment.” The pain in his leg hadn’t gone away, not for a moment. But the pain didn’t come close to the sheer amount of love that was pumping through Jack's veins.
Adrenaline itself couldn’t compare.
“Hey, Jack?” You couldn’t let him go without a kiss. You reached for his cheeks and danced the pad of your thumb over his greying scruff. “I love you, thank you for being here.”
Jack swore his heart had skipped a beat. It didn’t normally do that. But when he felt your lips on his in view of all the emergency department to see, he couldn’t help but blush.
“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, you know that, right?” He whispered in your ear as he drew you in closer for a hug. One of the hugs he reserved just for you. “And this breaks like three code of conduct rules, fraternising with patients.”
“I’m not the patient,” You clearly reminded him. “I’m your partner.”
some people will be like “I wonder why fanfic writers don’t share their works anymore😔” and then this is them when a writer is kind enough to share something they write — as a hobby, for their own enjoyment — with them for free.
some people really don’t realize how privileged they are that they get fanfics for free. imagine having access to something for free because someone is kind enough to share it with you… and then being rude, entitled and an ungrateful pos to that person who was kind enough to share their creation with you for free
“almost 1 year is a lil too much for me” fuck off. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything. one of my favorite fics was updated after 13 years, and what I did is that I thanked the author for choosing to continue the work, I didn’t act like a spoiled toddler by asking why they didn’t update sooner. and even if a writer chooses to abandon their fic permanently with no explanation, that is their choice, their hobby, their decision. they don’t owe your entitled ass anything.
you people let tiktok rot your brains to the point you see everything as content farm and engagement. not a piece of art created by the artist’s love and passion. it’s dystopian.
I updated a fic a few months ago that I hadn’t touched in about 5 years. Mind you this was a series of interconnected standalones so even if I never went back to it, it is complete and readable as is.
Within the few hours of it being up I got a comment that said “thank god I found this now and not 5 years ago”. Now likely this person was trying to be funny and not mean but man did that hit just wrong when I read it. I haven’t touched that fic since, every time I think about it I think about that comment and don’t want to 🤷♀️
I’m choosing to believe it wasn’t meant maliciously but still it hit wrong and was demotivating. It’s so much easier to just say something nice, or nothing at all.
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I desperately need this app to understand that being in your 50's is not elderly. People in their 50's are still working full time jobs and have active social lives that are not centered around just quiet activities and hip replacements. People in their 50's are going to bars, concerts, hiking, vacationing, adventuring, partying, and doing all sorts of wild and fun stuff as well as staying in and reading or watching their favorite movies. They have hobbies and lives and navigate around their aging bodies with a lot more ease than you would think.
Elderly is basically like 70-75+. Definitely 80+.
Joking is fun and trust that those of us who are older make them more than you do but we hardly have one foot in the grave. I'm 41 and tear it up probably better than you can. But for the sake of realism in your fics, stop writing 50 year olds like they're the fucking Crypt Keepers. (Google it)
A/N: can be read as a standalone but technically a continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); a little drabble while I write the gala scene with Edwards; the crimes I would commit to have a lazy Saturday with this man
Masterlist
—————————————————
“Okay, so don’t be annoyed-“
“You starting a sentence like that annoys me. What.”
You and Brendon are in his living room, working on opposite sides of the couch, while some classical music radio station plays on the television. You’re sitting with your back to the armrest, and your legs are stretched across the empty cushions between the two of you. Your feet are resting next to his hip. So you kick him.
“Ow, you psycho, what is wrong with you?”
“That’s for being mean.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like pain in the ass gremlin. Then he sets aside the medical journal he’s been reading, just so he can fully concentrate on glaring you to death. You smile back. He grumbles something else that’s probably even ruder, then grabs your legs and yanks you closer.
“Bren!” you yelp, just barely hanging onto your laptop.
He heaves the most put upon sigh ever to be sighed and takes it out of your hands. He closes it carefully and sets it on the coffee table, then drags you unceremoniously into his lap. The movement knocks a throw pillow and his phone to the floor, but he pays them zero attention. Instead, he settles his hands on your hips and traps you with that thalassic stare.
“Fine. What non-annoying thing were you going to tell me.”
The sarcasm in his voice is so heavy you feel it like a physical weight.
“It’s so kind of you to ask-“
He pinches your side, and you squeak like a startled rodent.
“I will rearrange all of your books while you’re at work,” you hiss.
His lips curve, and he brushes a kiss to your jaw. You sniff haughtily and continue.
“I forgot my toothbrush, do you have another one?”
A pause.
“Seriously? That’s what you were building up to?”
“Yes.”
“How can you remember a hundred digits of pi but not your toothbrush?”
You don’t say anything, partially because you don’t know the answer, and partially because he’s back to kissing your jaw. Soft, easy brushes of his lips to your skin. There’s no heat behind them, no need for them to lead anywhere. He just trails his mouth down your neck and pauses for a minute with his forehead resting against your shoulder.
You slide your hands into his hair without thinking, running your fingers through the slightly wavy strands. He hasn’t put any product in it since showering this morning, and you like how soft it feels. Really, you just like this side of him that nobody but you gets to see. Relaxed and kind of rumpled, wearing sweats and a faded tee. He’s not Dr. Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS, orthopedic surgeon right now. He’s just Bren. Grumpy and sharp-tongued and yours.
“Yes, I have another toothbrush,” he eventually sighs.
He makes no move to get up though, and neither do you. You probably should start getting ready for bed — it’s nearing eleven, and you promised Chelsea that you’d meet her for her godforsaken sunrise yoga class. Instead, you settle more fully onto his lap and drop your head to his shoulder.
Strains of classical filter from the television, some piece you’ve never heard and he probably has memorized. The air smells faintly of the pasta the two of you ate for dinner, and the soft recessed lighting is turning everything hazy gold. You’re warm and comfortable and absolutely in danger of falling asleep.
“Come on, you have to be up early,” he says right when you start dozing.
“Don’t care,” you mutter petulantly.
“Yes you do.”
Stupid, responsible man.
“Can’t you just write me a doctor’s note saying I have the flu?”
“Could, but won’t.”
“What if I told you I’m meeting Chelsea?”
You barely stifle your laugh at his scoff.
Chelsea has been your closest friend for years. You met her the first week you moved to Pittsburgh, and the two of you have been inseparable ever since. She’s everything you aren’t — bold, vivacious, an absolute force of nature — and she drives Brendon completely, concerningly insane.
The first time they met, he’d been at your apartment when she dropped by to return a pair of your shoes. She’d taken one look at Brendon, laughed, kissed your cheek, and left. She called him a stick in the mud, he called her an overconfident virago. She told him he needed a better sense of humor, he told her she needed a better sense of dignity. Watching them fight had become an unexpected, delightful addition to your life.
“I don’t know why you’re friends with that shrew,” he glowers.
You smile and scratch your fingers lightly over his scalp.
“She reminds me a lot of you, actually.”
“The fucking audacity.”
This time you can’t help but laugh, and you sit back so you can meet his eyes. He looks deeply offended. In fact he looks like he’s considering dumping you off his lap and onto the floor. You know he would do it, too, and you do your best to school your features into something more serious.
“I mean you two are nothing alike,” you amend.
“That’s what I fucking thought.”
A softer laugh this time, and you dip your head to kiss him. He refuses to engage, scowl still in place and hands unmoving at his sides. Then you nip his lower lip just a little too hard, and he makes a dangerous sound low in his throat.
“Reckless,” he mutters.
You smile and kiss him again, and this time he kisses you back. His hands find your waist, and his mouth moves against yours slow and purposeful. Warmth curls low in your belly. You hum in contentment and wiggle closer, happy to give up rest for this. It feels way too soon when he finally pulls back.
“Come on, you need to sleep,” he says.
You make a sound of protest, and his lips quirk.
“Go, you’ll thank me in the morning. Toothbrush is in the second drawer on the left. I’ll be up in a minute.”
You grumble something immature, but eventually hop off of his lap before making a pitstop in the foyer to grab your overnight bag. You spend so many nights here now that you could probably just leave some of your stuff here, but you’re a world champion at overthinking things. Until you receive an explicit, probably handwritten and notarized, invitation, you will be living out of a bag. Maybe even after that.
Sighing, you sling your duffel over your shoulder and head for the stairs.
Brendon lives in an old Tudor Revival in Squirrel Hill, a three bed, three bath on a tree-shaded lane. The previous owners renovated a lot of the house, but the original staircase is still in tact. You run your hand over the heavy oak banister as you climb it. The living room and his office are darker, moodier rooms, but the rest of the house is lighter, and you pass cream walls and exposed wood beams on your way to his bedroom.
It might make you weird, but you think the primary ensuite might be one of your favorite rooms in the house. It’s all white marble floors and faux wood tiling, light oak cabinets and antique brass fixtures. There’s a soft runner in front of the dual-vanity, and the huge shower has an secondary rainfall shower head. It’s modern and earthy at the same time, and you love it.
You take your time getting ready — toilet, wash face, detangling your hair. Then you go searching for the spare toothbrush. You open the second drawer on the left of the vanity that has unofficially become yours, wondering if he has floss you can steal, too, then stop dead.
It’s just a drawer.
It’s a wooden box with a handle attached. Common. Everyday. You’ve seen a thousand of them. But you’re looking at the one in front of you right now like it’s the Rosetta Stone. Alien. Indecipherable. Because said drawer is in Brendon’s bathroom in Brendon’s house, and inside is the promised toothbrush, yes. But also a hairbrush, hair ties, tampons, Midol, and a full-sized bottle of the hand cream you’d gotten as a free mini sample and keep on your desk. All of them unopened. All of them clearly meant for you.
“Wha-, when-“
You don’t know who you’re talking to, the room is empty except for you. But your insides are suddenly all tangled up, and your brain is producing nothing but static and a dial tone.
You haven’t dated much, but you’re pretty sure most guys don’t buy their girlfriends organic period products and $125-a-bottle lotion. In fact, you distinctly remember Chelsea telling you that most guys she met online didn’t even want to put the toilet seat down. The bar is in hell she’d told you.
You and Brendon have only been together for a month and a half. Technically, you never even really started dating. He’d kissed you in the ED, informed you that you were going to spend the night at his house, and that was that. There’d been no official conversation. He’d just started kissing you in between insults and criticizing your protein intake. There wasn’t-
“What are you staring at?”
Brendon’s voice behind you startles you enough that you jump. He laughs. You turn to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and you wave your hands uselessly towards the vanity.
“You-, this-“
You trail off, and he arches a brow.
“Yes?”
“Did you buy me this stuff?” you manage.
He rolls his eyes.
“As opposed to the other guy who lives here? Obviously I-, shit, are you crying? Why the fuck are you crying?”
“I’m not,” you protest.
It’s not technically a lie. Your eyes might be tearing up, but none of them have escaped yet. Still, he gives you an unimpressed look and crosses the space between you in two quick strides.
“Speak,” he commands.
Now it’s your turn to roll your one-hundred-percent-dry eyes.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have terrible bedside manner?”
“No. My patients are unconscious. Now speak.”
You hesitate, not quite sure how to verbalize exactly what you’re feeling. Also, what if you’re reading too much into things? Just because all of this is a big deal to you, doesn’t mean it’s a big deal to him. He’s the most detail-oriented, overly-prepared person you’ve ever met. What if all this is just a practical thing for him, not emotional? What if-
“Out loud, imp.”
You stomp on his foot.
“What is with you and violence today, you fucking loon?“
“It’s not my fault you’re being extra you today.”
“Y/n.”
You freeze. He’s using that voice. The one he uses when he expects to be obeyed. The one that makes every instinctual part of you sit up, the one that usually makes you all melty for him.
Cheater.
“I just,” you start hesitantly. “I-, I’m trying to decide…how much this drawer means.”
Silence falls, and you start panicking immediately. You don’t even feel old enough to make your own dentist appointments. Whoever decided you were old enough to have adult conversations about adult relationships was wildly misinformed. You are not equipped for this. In fact, you’re just going to find the nearest cliff and throw yourself off of it. You-
“Y/n.”
He says your name again, somehow softer and sharper all at once. His hands come up to grab your waist, and he pulls you towards him until there’s no space between you. This close, you have to crane your neck to meet his gaze, and you do so tentatively. His eyes are steel-edged ice.
“I bought those things the day after the first time you stayed over.”
Your breath catches at his words.
“The top two drawers in the dresser are empty. I cleared them that week.”
You think you stop breathing altogether.
“I don’t do halfway, imp. I told you that first night — you’re mine now.”
Your breathing resumes, but only so you can start hyperventilating. He watches all this with the faintest hint of amusement underneath his serious expression. He reaches a hand up to brush your hair back from your face, then lets his palm linger against your cheek.
The two of you stay like that for a long time, neither of you speaking. At least out loud. Internally, you’re having three different debates and four different meltdowns at the same time. You were worrying earlier about the implications of leaving behind a spare phone charger, and here he is making space for you in his dresser and filling a bathroom drawer for you.
The longest relationship you’ve had to date was a year in high school, which you’re not sure counts. Besides that, there’d been a couple short situationships with guys in undergrad, but you have no frame of reference for this thing with Brendon. Leaving things at each other’s places after six weeks is probably normal. It’s probably not that big of a deal. But in the three months you’ve known him, you’ve learned that everything Brendon Park does is a big deal.
Every decision he makes, every action he takes is thought out and deliberate. He never says anything he doesn’t mean, and he always keeps his word. Which means if he says he’s all in, then he’s really all in. So even though the tampons themselves aren’t a big deal, the meaning behind the tampons is a big deal. At least you think it is. Does all in mean like…forever? Does it-
“Relax. It’s not a proposal.”
You let out a slightly-hysterical laugh and lean into him. His arms come around you automatically, and you burrow into his chest. His heart beats slow and steady under your ear, and you think briefly that it might be the most comforting sound in the world. Your breathing slowly returns to normal. Then his lips brush the top of your head, and he murmurs something almost too low for you to hear.
I like the idea in fantasy that humans are better at maintaining things long term because they set up societies or professions to do it whereas dwarves and elves and stuff are like “just get bob to do it he’s got a good few hundred years left” and then bob doesn’t teach anyone else how to do it
Human: Wait that’s why there’s ruins of elven cities even though you live for so long? You just keep not asking people how to do things? How do you learn anything?
Elf: There’s a lot of “you’ve got time to figure it out on your own” attitudes floating around in our society that I’m starting to question somewhat.
Elf: Impossible! Those metalworking techniques were lost a hundred years ago!
Human: What do you mean lost? My great-grandmother learned to make these swords from an elven smith, then taught it to her kids.
Elf: That's ridiculous. No elf would give such secrets to a human.
Human: They didn't. Meemaw delivered the metal to the forge, and no one kicked her out when she stayed and watched. She always said they barely acknowledged her even when doing business with her, like she wasn't worth noticing.
Elf: Come to think of it, my great-uncle always was rather single-minded when he started working.
Human: So he wasn't ignoring her, he just forgot she was there?
Elf: Oh, he was definitely ignoring her, too. He was super racist.
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we have dandelions EVERYWHERE, they are basically our State Weed, it is absolutely impossible that my mom has never interacted with a dandelion before, this requires further investigation
So after extensive interrogation I have an update:
my mom is in fact aware that dandelions exist. she temporarily forgot the name and there was some miscommunication.
the truth is actually weirder
she’s aware dandelions look like this
she is familiar with this flower. she knows the name of this flower. she declines to believe, however, that these are also dandelions
she does not believe these are the same plant. I tried to explain, and she thought I was either misinformed or lying. so I asked her what exactly did she think the yellow ones were called?
she answered, with complete confidence: Daffodils.
Summary: Jack has been quietly falling apart for weeks, and you and Tommy are the only ones close enough to notice. When Tommy gently names what everyone else has avoided, Jack finally admits he’s been drowning in work, grief, and guilt. But his breaking point becomes something softer too: the moment he realizes he belongs with you both.
WC: 10K
Tags: autistic character, nonverbal autism, aac user, meltdown depiction, autism acceptance, parenting a neurodivergent child, single mom reader, found family, neighbors to lovers, Jack’s struggling emotionally and physically
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
The first time you notice something is wrong, it’s because Jack forgets to ask about the weather.
Not entirely.
He still comes over for breakfast after his night shift. Still uses the key you’d given him. Still lets himself in without knocking because, by now, breakfast after nights has become routine.
Tommy is already at the kitchen table when he arrives. You’re at the stove. The smell of coffee fills the apartment.
Usually, before Jack has even gotten both shoes off, he’s asking Tommy what the forecast looks like.
But this morning, he steps inside and just… stops.
Only for a second. Maybe two. Long enough for you to notice.
Like he forgot why he walked into the room. Or like he’s waiting for some missing piece of himself to catch up.
His gaze drifts across the kitchen. The table. Tommy. You. Not really landing on any of it.
Then he blinks and comes back. “Morning, buddy.”
Tommy lifts his tablet.
“Good morning Jack.”
Jack smiles. The smile is real. Just tired.
You watch him from the stove while you scramble eggs. “Rough night?”
Jack shrugs out of his jacket. “Little busy.”
That’s all. Little busy.
Then he crosses the kitchen and taps the edge of Tommy’s tablet like always. A moment later, he asks about the weather after all.
Only by then, Tommy has already launched into an explanation about a storm system moving in from the west.
Jack pauses. Frowns faintly. Then lets out a quiet laugh and gestures for him to keep going.
“Don’t let me interrupt.”
Tommy immediately continues.
The routine settles back into place. Weather forecasts. Coffee. Eggs. The familiar rhythm of breakfast after nights.
You let yourself settle into it too. Because sometimes a busy shift is just a busy shift. Even if, for the rest of breakfast, you keep catching yourself watching Jack when he isn’t looking.
—
Three days later, you find him standing in front of your refrigerator.
The door is open, cold air spilling into the kitchen. Jack is staring at absolutely nothing. Not moving. Not reaching for anything. Just standing there.
You dry your hands on a dish towel. “Jack?”
His head comes up immediately, like he’d been somewhere else entirely.
“Sorry.”
The refrigerator door swings shut.
You frown. “What were you looking for?”
Jack looks genuinely confused. His eyes flick toward the refrigerator, then back to you.
Silence stretches just long enough for you to wonder if he heard the question at all.
Finally, he huffs a quiet laugh. “No idea.”
You smile. He smiles. The moment passes. But later that night, lying in bed, you think about it again. Because Jack forgets things sometimes. Everyone does. But Jack usually knows why he’s standing in front of a refrigerator. And he usually answers faster than that.
You tell yourself you’re overthinking it.
The reassurance doesn’t stick.
—
The next week he falls asleep on your couch.
Not dramatically. Not even for very long.
Tommy is sitting cross-legged on the rug explaining a storm system moving in from the west. The Weather Channel glows softly from the television.
You leave to switch over a load of laundry. When you come back, Tommy is still talking. Jack is not. His head has tipped back against the couch cushion. One hand is wrapped around a coffee mug. His eyes are closed.
For a second, your chest hurts. Not because he’s sleeping. Because he looks exhausted.
The kind of exhausted that settles into someone’s bones. The kind that makes him look older somehow. Less like the man who always seems capable of carrying everyone else.
You cross the room quietly and touch his shoulder. His eyes open instantly. Too fast. Years of training compressed into muscle memory. Alert before he’s fully awake. For a fraction of a second he just stares at you.
Blank. Then recognition settles in.
“Sorry.”
“You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t.”
You raise an eyebrow.
From the floor, Tommy immediately presses a button.
“Jack was sleeping.”
Jack closes his eyes briefly. You laugh. Tommy looks pleased with himself.
Jack points at the tablet. “Traitor.”
The tablet says nothing. Tommy’s smile is answer enough. Eventually Jack laughs too. But it comes a second late. Like he had to remember why everyone else was smiling first. And somehow that bothers you more than if he hadn’t laughed at all.
Because for that split second before recognition returns, you don’t know where he went. And the thought follows you long after the joke is over.
A few minutes later, Tommy goes back to explaining weather patterns while you carry the empty laundry basket toward the hallway.
“Jack.”
“Hm?”
“Go home and sleep.”
He looks up from the couch.
You try to make it sound casual. “You worked all day.”
“I’m fine.”
“You literally fell asleep sitting up.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Allegedly.”
“Jack.”
His gaze drops briefly to Tommy sitting on the rug. Then back to you.
“I’m okay.”
The answer comes easily. Too easily.
You fold your arms. “Your apartment is twenty feet away.”
“Mm.”
“You have a bed.”
“Last I checked.”
“You should use it.”
For a second, you think he might actually listen.
His eyes drift toward the window. Toward the wall that separates your apartment from his. Then back toward Tommy. The tablet is still talking. Something about wind direction now.
Jack’s shoulders soften almost imperceptibly. “I’ll sleep later.”
You frown. “Why?”
The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
Jack looks surprised by it. Like he doesn’t have an answer ready. For a moment he just watches Tommy. Then he shrugs.
“Wanted to hear the rest.”
Tommy immediately lifts his tablet.
“Wind shear.”
Jack points at him.
“See? Educational.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite make yourself smile. Because maybe he really is interested in wind shear. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to spend another afternoon alone in a dark apartment with nothing but his own thoughts for company.
—
A few days later, you’re eating dinner when you mention Tommy’s therapy appointment.
“The one next Thursday?”
Jack looks up from his plate. “What appointment?”
You pause. “The therapy appointment.”
His brow furrows. You wait. Jack waits too. His gaze drifts briefly past you toward the living room. Then realization flickers across his face.
“Oh.”
Too quick. Too rehearsed. Like he doesn’t want you looking too closely.
“We talked about it yesterday.”
Jack nods. “Right.”
His fork scrapes softly against the plate.
You watch him. He takes another bite. The conversation moves on. A few minutes later, Tommy mentions next Thursday again, and you catch Jack glancing toward him with the same faint confusion before he smooths it away.
Later, when you’re loading the dishwasher, you realize he barely touched his dinner. And what unsettles you most isn’t that he forgot. It’s how hard he seemed to work to hide it.
—
That becomes the other thing.
The eating. Or not eating.
You’ll hand him a plate and he’ll thank you. Sit down. Take a few bites. Then spend twenty minutes pushing food around while Tommy discusses radar patterns.
At first, you think he just isn’t hungry. Then you start noticing how often it happens.
One evening, you place a bowl of pasta in front of him. Twenty minutes later, it looks almost exactly the same.
You lean against the counter. “Jack.”
He doesn’t look up right away. His fork has gone still halfway to the plate.
“Jack.”
He glances up.
“When did you eat last?”
His mouth opens. Then closes.
You wait.
Jack rubs the back of his neck. “Today.”
“Jack.”
Just his name. Nothing else. A corner of his mouth twitches. You don’t smile back.
Eventually, he sighs. “Breakfast.”
You stare at him. It’s nearly eight o’clock.
“Jack.”
“I’m fine.”
The answer comes immediately. Automatic. Like breathing. Like instinct. Something in your chest twists. Because you’ve said those exact words before. And suddenly you understand why he always looked at you the way he did when you said them.
Not frustrated.
Scared.
—
Then there are the nights.
The ones you don’t see. Only feel around the edges.
You wake up at three in the morning and find a text waiting on your phone.
Jack: Can’t sleep.
Sent at 1:47.
No explanation. No follow-up. Just those two words. You stare at the screen for a long moment.
Then type back:
Come over.
The reply doesn’t come immediately. You wait. Watch the screen. Wait some more. Long enough that you start wondering if he fell asleep after all.
Then:
Jack: No it’s okay.
Your frown deepens. You type back before you can stop yourself.
Why not?
Several minutes pass.
Finally:
Jack: Didn’t want to wake you.
You stare at the message.
The apartment is dark around you. Tommy is asleep down the hall. Jack is twenty feet away. Twenty feet. And somehow it feels farther than that.
You type back:
Jack it’s 3 in the morning. I’m literally texting you.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Jack: Fair.
You wait. Eventually another message comes through.
Jack: Just having trouble sleeping.
The understatement of the century. You close your eyes briefly.
Then type:
Come over.
For a moment you think he might actually come. The typing bubble appears again. Stops. Appears. Stops.
Then:
Jack: I’ll be okay.
Your chest aches. Because lately that answer sounds less convincing every time he says it.
You stare at the message for another minute before finally setting the phone down beside you. Sleep doesn’t come easily after that. Not when you can’t shake the feeling that Jack is sitting awake in the dark on the other side of the wall, carrying something he refuses to put down.
And not when you know, with uncomfortable certainty, that if you’d walked across the hall and knocked on his door, he would have opened it.
—
The next morning there are coffees sitting outside your door.
One for you. One hot chocolate for Tommy. No note. No explanation. Just Jack apologizing in the only way he seems to know how lately.
Not just for the text. For worrying you. For refusing to come over. For leaving you awake at three in the morning staring at your phone and wondering if he was okay.
You know him well enough by now to recognize it for what it is. A peace offering. An apology. And maybe that’s the part that bothers you most. Not the text. Not the sleepless night. The apology.
Because somewhere along the way, Jack had decided that needing someone was something he should feel sorry for. That struggling was an inconvenience he inflicted on other people. That reaching out at one forty-seven in the morning required repayment in the form of coffee and hot chocolate.
You wish he didn’t feel that way. You wish he’d just knocked on your door. You wish, for once, he’d let somebody take care of him without feeling like he owed them something afterward.
Tommy accepts the hot chocolate with immediate approval.
You wrap both hands around your coffee and stare at the closed apartment door across the hall.
Jack’s apartment. Dark. Quiet. Sleeping. Hopefully. The thought lands heavier than it should.
Because lately you’re never entirely sure what “hopefully” means.
—
The hardest part is that none of it feels like proof.
Not on its own.
Every individual thing has an explanation. A bad shift. A rough week. Too much coffee. Not enough sleep. Anyone else might miss it completely.
But you’ve gotten used to Jack.
To his routines. To the way he moves through your apartment. The way he greets Tommy. The way he reaches for your hand while you’re cooking. The way he always seems fully present when he’s here.
And lately…
Lately he isn’t.
Not completely.
He’s still showing up. Still coming for breakfast. Still making dinner. Still listening when Tommy explains weather systems. Still kissing your forehead when he walks through the door.
But sometimes you catch him staring at nothing.
Sometimes you have to say his name twice. Sometimes he takes a second too long to answer. Sometimes he starts to ask Tommy about the weather, then stops halfway through as if he’s lost the thread. Sometimes he looks at a room like he’s surprised to find himself standing in it. Sometimes he looks tired in a way that sleep won’t fix.
And every time you ask, he gives you the same answer.
“Jack.”
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
His hand settles at your waist. Warm. Familiar. Steady.
“Yeah.”
You lean back against him. Feel his forehead rest briefly against your shoulder. Just for a second. Like the weight of holding himself upright has become heavier than usual.
The contact should reassure you. Instead it makes something tighten in your throat. Because he feels real. Solid. Present. And somehow that only highlights all the moments when he doesn’t.
“You sure?”
Silence. Not long. Just long enough. Long enough that you feel him come back to the conversation.
“Yeah.”
You close your eyes. You want to push. Want to turn around and make him look at you and tell you what’s happening. Want to ask why he keeps drifting away in the middle of conversations, why he looks exhausted all the time, why every answer sounds a little more practiced than the last.
But he’s here. His arms are around you. His heartbeat is steady against your back. And there’s a quiet desperation in the way he holds on that makes the questions die before they reach your mouth.
So because it’s Jack, because he’s still showing up, because he’s still trying, because he keeps smiling and keeps reaching for you and keeps asking Tommy about the weather, even if sometimes he forgets first, you let yourself believe him.
Not because you’re convinced. Not because the unease has gone away. But because the alternative has started to take shape at the edges of your thoughts, and you’re not ready to look directly at it yet.
So you nod. You lean into him. You accept the answer he keeps giving. And beneath that decision, beneath the trust and affection and hope, something cold remains stubbornly lodged in your chest.
Waiting.
At least for a little while.
—
The first time Jack misses dinner, you tell yourself there’s a reasonable explanation.
Traffic.
A coworker got held up.
An emergency.
One of the hundred things that can keep a doctor at work longer than expected.
Dinner is already on the table when you glance at the clock.
Seven fifteen.
Not late.
Not yet.
Tommy is halfway through explaining a weather advisory, and you nod in the appropriate places while checking your phone.
No message.
By seven thirty, Tommy has started glancing toward the door between sentences.
By seven forty-five, he stops pretending he isn’t.
“Jack is late.”
You force a smile. “A little.”
Tommy looks at the clock, then the door.
“Jack coming.”
Not a question. A statement. Because Jack always comes.
A small pressure gathers beneath your sternum. You unlock your phone again even though you checked it less than a minute ago.
You send a text.
Dinner’s ready.
No response. You tell yourself he’s busy.
At eight, you send another.
Everything okay?
Nothing.
The food grows cold.
Tommy keeps looking at the door.
You keep turning your phone face-up beside your plate whenever you hear a sound from the hallway. Neither of you says what you’re thinking.
At eight twenty-two, you stand.
“Stay here.”
Tommy immediately frowns.
You point toward the table. “I’ll be right back.”
The key Jack gave you sits in the junk drawer beside spare batteries and takeout menus.
You stare at it for a second before picking it up.
The hallway is quiet.
His apartment is dark.
You knock anyway.
Once.
Twice.
No answer.
The silence on the other side stretches too long, and your fingers tighten around the key.
You unlock the door.
“Jack?”
Nothing.
The apartment smells faintly like coffee and laundry detergent. The television is off. Everything is off except the lamp beside the couch.
Jack is asleep.
Still in his scrubs.
Still wearing his shoes.
One arm thrown across his stomach, the other hanging off the edge of the couch.
His phone sits on the coffee table.
Dead.
For a moment, you just stand there. Looking at him. At the deep crease between his brows that’s still there even asleep. At the way his shoulders seem to have collapsed inward. At the way he didn’t even make it to bed.
The relief that he’s here and breathing lasts only a second before something heavier settles in behind it.
He looks less like a man taking a nap and more like someone who simply ran out of fuel.
You cross the room quietly.
Jack doesn’t stir.
The throw blanket draped over the back of the couch catches your eye. You pull it free and spread it gently over him.
His brow furrows slightly before smoothing out again.
Still asleep.
You crouch beside the couch and reach for one shoe. Then the other. The laces come loose beneath your fingers.
Jack shifts once when you slide the first shoe off, but nothing more.
The second follows.
You set them neatly beside the couch and look back at him. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that he usually never lets get this far.
You can’t remember the last time you saw him sleep this deeply.
The realization lands with a strange weight. Jack is usually alert before anyone else has fully entered a room. Usually answering a question before you’ve finished asking it.
Because this is Jack. The man who notices everything. The man who wakes up when floorboards creak in the hallway. Now he’s sleeping through all of it.
You pull the blanket a little higher over his shoulder.
“Jesus, Jack,” you whisper.
His breathing never changes.
Steady.
Deep.
Exhausted.
For another minute, you stay where you are, listening for any sign he might wake. Waiting for his eyes to open. Waiting for him to grumble about you fussing over him.
He doesn’t.
Eventually, you straighten and head for the door.
The apartment feels strangely empty as you step back into the hallway.
You find yourself looking back at the closed door before crossing to your own.
You tell yourself it’s ridiculous.
Jack is sleeping.
That’s all.
People get tired.
Doctors work impossible hours.
None of this is unusual.
By the time you let yourself back into your apartment, you’ve almost convinced yourself.
Then Tommy looks up from the table.
“Jack?”
The uneasy pressure returns immediately.
You set the key on the counter. “He’s asleep.”
Tommy blinks.
“Asleep?”
“Completely.”
His gaze shifts toward the apartment door.
“No dinner?”
The disappointed little downturn of his mouth hits harder than it should.
You kneel beside him. “Not tonight.”
Tommy thinks about that for a moment.
“Jack is tired.”
Your eyes drift toward the wall separating your apartment from his.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Jack’s tired.”
Tommy accepts the answer more easily than you do. He nods once and goes back to eating.
The rest of the evening settles into its usual rhythm.
Dinner.
Dishes.
Shower.
Tommy’s weather report before bed.
The familiar routines that normally quiet your mind. Tonight they don’t. Every time you pass the apartment door, you picture Jack exactly as you left him. One arm hanging off the couch. Dead phone on the coffee table.
By the time Tommy is tucked into bed, the image has lodged itself somewhere you can’t quite shake.
You tell yourself Jack is probably awake by now.
Probably showering.
Probably eating something.
Probably charging his phone.
The word probably does a lot of work.
Eventually, you find yourself making another plate anyway. You tell yourself it’s practical. That he’ll be hungry when he wakes up. That doctors forget to eat all the time.
The explanations sound thin even in your own head.
You cover the plate with foil. Cross the hallway again. And let yourself quietly into his apartment.
The lamp beside the couch is still on.
The blanket is still in place.
Jack is still asleep.
Exactly where you left him.
You stop in the doorway. Your grip tightens on the plate.
Hours.
He’s been asleep for hours. And he hasn’t moved. Hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t woken up.
The blanket rises and falls with each breath, the only sign he’s changed at all since you left.
You carry the plate into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. The refrigerator light spills across the shelves.
A takeout container.
An unopened yogurt.
Half a sandwich wrapped in plastic.
Your eyes catch on the sandwich. One bite missing. Nothing else touched.
You set the plate carefully on the middle shelf and close the door. The click sounds too loud in the quiet apartment.
Jack shifts slightly from the couch.
You glance toward him.
Wait.
Nothing.
Still asleep.
Your gaze lingers for another second.
The blanket.
The scrubs.
The faint shadows beneath his eyes even from across the room.
Then you switch off the lamp and leave the small light above the stove on instead. Just enough that he won’t wake up in complete darkness.
You hesitate with your hand on the switch, struck by how naturally the thought comes. When you finally step back into the hallway and pull the door shut behind you, your attention stays fixed on it for a moment.
Because Jack is sleeping.
He’s safe.
He’s resting.
Those facts should settle something inside you.
Instead, all you can think about is how unfamiliar he looked on that couch, still, unreachable, worn down enough to sleep through a door opening and someone taking off his shoes.
A detail so small you should be able to dismiss it. A detail you know you’ll keep turning over long after you go to bed.
—
The next morning, the lock turns at seven fifteen.
You already know it’s Jack.
A moment later, he steps inside with a cardboard drink carrier in one hand and a paper bag from the bakery in the other.
Coffee, pastries, and an apology.
Of course.
“Morning,” he says.
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Morning.”
You don’t move away immediately. Instead, you step closer and reach up to cup his cheek.
Jack blinks. Caught off guard. Then you lean up and kiss him.
Soft.
Brief.
The kind of kiss that says hello more than anything else.
For a second, he just stands there. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly.
Not gone.
Just less.
When you pull back, his forehead drops briefly against yours.
“Sorry about yesterday,” he says quietly.
There it is. You knew it was coming.
Your thumb brushes across his jaw. “You fell asleep, Jack.”
“I missed dinner.”
“You were exhausted.”
His eyes close for a second. Like those two things aren’t the same in his mind.
Then he exhales and straightens.
The moment passes.
“Morning,” he says again, a little helplessly.
This time, you smile.
“Morning.”
Tommy looks up immediately from the kitchen table.
“Hello Jack.”
“Hey, buddy.”
Jack sets the drinks on the counter, then looks at Tommy. Really looks at him.
And before anyone can say anything else, “I’m sorry I missed dinner.”
The words come out immediately, like he’s been carrying them across the hallway.
Tommy blinks.
“Jack missed dinner.”
“I know.” Jack rubs the back of his neck. “I should’ve called.”
Tommy watches him for a second, then lowers his eyes to the tablet. His fingers move across the screen.
“Jack was tired.”
Silence settles over the room. Not awkward. Just still.
Tommy looks up.
“It is okay.”
The words land softly, and you feel something in your chest loosen. Because of course that’s Tommy’s response.
No anger.
No disappointment.
Just a simple acceptance of the facts.
Jack was tired.
Jack slept.
That’s all.
But when you look at Jack, you realize he isn’t reacting the way you expected.
A smile appears. Small. Brief. Then disappears again. His eyes drop toward the table. Toward the tablet. Anywhere but Tommy. And suddenly you understand.
Tommy forgave him immediately.
Jack hasn’t forgiven himself.
Because in Jack’s mind, being exhausted isn’t an explanation. It’s a failure. A promise broken.
People waited for him and he wasn’t there.
It doesn’t matter that he’d fallen asleep sitting upright in his scrubs. It doesn’t matter that he’d worked all night. It doesn’t matter that Tommy isn’t upset.
The guilt is already there, settled deep.
Tommy presses another button.
“Sleep is important.”
Jack lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“Yeah.” His voice comes out rough. “Guess it is.”
But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten. Because it sounds less like agreement and more like surrender. Like someone repeating a fact they know is true but don’t quite believe applies to them.
And for a moment, before he looks away, you catch something in his expression.
Not embarrassment.
Not annoyance.
Something heavier.
The same thing you’ve been seeing in flashes for weeks.
Guilt.
Like he’s apologizing for needing something as basic as rest.
Breakfast settles into something close to normal after that.
Tommy launches into a detailed explanation of an approaching cold front. Jack asks questions. The pastries disappear. Coffee gets poured.
For a little while, the knot in your chest loosens.
Then the television changes stories.
You barely notice at first.
Some local human-interest segment plays quietly in the background while Tommy explains wind speeds. Something about a school fundraiser. Kids running through a field. Teachers handing out water bottles. Parents standing along the sidelines.
The sound is low enough that you don’t really hear the reporter.
Just noise.
Background.
Until Jack goes completely still.
The change is so small you almost miss it. His coffee mug pauses halfway to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the television.
Not blinking.
Not moving.
Just staring.
You follow his gaze.
Children.
That’s all.
A dozen laughing kids on a screen.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing upsetting.
“Jack?”
The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
He blinks, and the spell breaks instantly.
His head turns toward you. “What?”
Too quick.
Too normal.
The same easy expression. The same steady voice. As if whatever crossed his face never happened at all.
“You okay?”
There it is. The question you’ve been asking for weeks. The question he’s been avoiding for weeks.
Jack glances at the television.
Then away.
“Yeah.”
The answer comes automatically.
Tommy keeps talking. Neither of you listens. Because Jack looks perfectly fine again.
Relaxed.
Present.
Ordinary.
But for a split second, you saw something underneath. Not exhaustion. Not distraction. Something wounded.
The conversation shifts before you can decide whether to press.
Tommy moves on to rainfall totals, then wind speed, then a lengthy complaint about why weather forecasts should be updated more often.
Jack listens. Or at least he tries to.
You catch it twice.
The first time when Tommy asks him a question and has to repeat it. The second time when Jack reaches for his coffee and simply… stops. His hand settles around the mug, but his gaze drifts somewhere over Tommy’s shoulder.
Gone again.
Not asleep.
Not distracted.
Somewhere else.
The moment lasts maybe three seconds. Then Tommy says his name. Jack blinks. Comes back. Answers the question. Nobody comments on it.
Except Tommy is watching him now too. You notice that. The way Tommy’s eyes linger a little longer than usual. The way he pauses before returning to his tablet.
Observing.
Recording.
The same way he watches weather patterns.
Looking for consistency.
Looking for change.
Looking for anything that doesn’t fit.
A familiar unease settles low in your stomach. Because Tommy notices things. Sometimes before anyone else does.
A few minutes later, Jack stands and carries his empty mug to the sink. You watch him rinse it out. Watch him stare into the running water for a second too long. Watch him blink and shake himself out of it.
Again.
It’s becoming impossible not to notice. The problem is that you still don’t know what you’re noticing.
Exhaustion?
Stress?
Grief?
Something happened. You know that much now. You just don’t know what.
Jack dries his hands and turns back toward the kitchen, catching you looking. His eyebrows lift slightly. A silent question. You force a smile. He returns it automatically. And for a second, you hate how easy it is.
How easy it is for him to give people exactly what they need to see.
A smile.
A joke.
An “I’m okay.”
Whatever keeps them from asking questions.
Whatever keeps the attention away from him.
Tommy presses a button on his tablet.
Both of you look over.
“Jack thinking.”
The room goes quiet. Not because the observation is strange. Because it’s accurate.
Tommy looks between the two of you, then presses another button.
“Too much thinking.”
Jack lets out a startled laugh. A real one this time. Short. Unexpected.
You smile despite yourself.
But even as the moment passes, your eyes stay on him. Because for a second, just before he laughed, something flashed across his face.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Like Tommy had accidentally landed closer to the truth than either of you realized.
The moment passes. Or at least everyone pretends it does. Tommy returns to his weather report. Jack returns to drying the coffee mug. You return to watching him.
A few minutes later, Tommy disappears down the hall to brush his teeth. The apartment falls quiet. Not silent. Just missing the constant rhythm of Tommy’s tablet.
Jack sets the dish towel aside.
You take a sip of coffee.
Neither of you says anything for a moment.
“You’ve been doing that a lot.”
The words leave your mouth before you can talk yourself out of them.
Jack looks up.
“Doing what?”
“Spacing out.”
His brow furrows.
You gesture vaguely toward the living room. Toward the television. Toward nowhere in particular.
“Just…” You struggle for the right word. “Checked out.”
Understanding flashes across his face. Gone almost immediately.
“I’m tired.”
The answer comes so fast it sounds rehearsed. You stare at him. Jack sighs. Not annoyed. Just tired.
“I’ve been working a lot.”
“I know.”
His jaw tightens slightly. You see it. The same way you see the way his shoulders tense. The way his eyes drift toward the window. Looking for an exit. Not from the apartment. From the conversation.
“Jack.”
His gaze returns to yours. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then you ask the question that’s been sitting in your chest for weeks.
“Did something happen?”
The room goes still. Not dramatically. Not the kind of stillness that comes before an argument. The kind that comes when someone asks the right question.
Jack looks at you. Really looks at you. And for one awful second, you think he’s going to answer. You think whatever he’s been carrying is finally going to make it past his defenses.
Instead, his eyes drop.
A small shake of his head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
The lie isn’t convincing. The worst part is that he knows it isn’t convincing. You both know it. But neither of you says it out loud.
Jack rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “You know how it is.”
The words land heavily between you. Because you do know. The long shifts. The bad outcomes. The things doctors carry home whether they want to or not. The things they never talk about because talking about them makes them real.
You understand all of that. The problem is that this feels different. Bigger. More personal. And somehow that makes it worse.
Tommy comes back before you can decide whether to push.
The conversation ends as quickly as it started.
Jack smiles at something Tommy says.
Tommy launches into another weather fact. The moment disappears. But not really. Because now you know something you didn’t know before. Something happened. Jack just isn’t ready to tell you what it was.
So the morning moves on.
Tommy finishes his weather report. Jack finishes his coffee. You pack Tommy’s lunch and pretend you don’t notice the way Jack goes quiet again while standing by the sink.
He catches himself faster this time. Or maybe he knows you’re watching now. Either way, by the time Tommy’s backpack is zipped and his shoes are on, Jack looks normal again.
Almost.
He crouches near the door while Tommy adjusts the strap of his tablet.
“Cold front after school?” Jack asks.
Tommy pauses, then nods.
“Rain later.”
“I’ll keep a jacket on me.”
Tommy studies him. Not the tablet. Not the door.
“Jack.”
The look lasts long enough that Jack notices. “What?”
Tommy doesn’t answer right away. His fingers hover over the screen.
Thinking.
His fingers hover over the screen. Thinking. Then he lowers his hand again.
No answer.
Jack’s brow creases faintly, but he doesn’t push.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Have a good day, buddy.”
Tommy lifts his tablet.
“Jack home later?”
Jack glances at you.
You nod once.
“Dinner,” Jack says. “I’ll be here.”
Tommy accepts that with a small nod, but his eyes stay on Jack for another second before he turns toward the door. You notice. Of course you notice. You spend the rest of the day trying not to think about it. It doesn’t work.
By the time dinner rolls around, you’ve checked your phone more times than you want to admit.
Jack texts at six twenty-eight.
On my way.
Two words. A normal text. A normal promise.
Still, your whole body loosens when you see it.
—
Dinner is quieter than usual that night.
Not bad. Not tense. Just quieter.
Tommy has a science project now, which somehow turns into a full explanation of cloud formation, severe weather patterns, and why the local meteorologist was wrong about Tuesday’s rain chances.
Jack listens. He asks questions when Tommy pauses for breath. Tommy lights up every time.
For a while, everything feels almost normal. Then you see it again. Not dramatic. Just a moment.
Tommy is halfway through explaining atmospheric pressure when Jack’s fork stops moving.
His eyes drift. Not toward the television. Not toward his plate. Just somewhere else.
Gone.
For a second. Maybe two. Then he blinks. Comes back. Nods as if no time has passed.
“What happens if the pressure drops too fast?” he asks.
Tommy answers immediately, pleased to be asked.
You look down at your plate. You don’t say anything. Neither does Tommy. But when you glance up again, Tommy is watching Jack. Not typing. Not eating. Just watching.
The way he watches radar maps. Studying. Tracking. Trying to understand. The feeling settles heavily in your stomach because Tommy has always noticed more than people realize.
Dinner moves on. Plates are cleared. Jack stands at the sink washing dishes while you dry. Water runs. The dishwasher hums softly beside you.
Tommy stays at the table with his tablet. Quiet. Unusually quiet. Every now and then, you catch him looking toward the sink. Toward Jack. Then back to the tablet. Thinking. He starts typing something. Stops. Deletes it. Types again.
Your stomach tightens.
Jack doesn’t notice. He’s staring down into the sink while he rinses a plate. For a second, his shoulders slump. Only for a second. Then they straighten again. The moment disappears.
Tommy sees that too. You know he does.
Eventually, Jack turns around with a dish towel in his hands and catches Tommy staring.
“What’s up?”
His voice is gentle. A little tired.
Tommy freezes.
Jack smiles faintly. “You keep looking at me.”
Tommy lowers his eyes to the tablet. Types. Stops. Deletes. Types again. The room feels strangely quiet. Even the water seems louder.
Jack waits. Patient. Tired.
Tommy presses the button.
“Jack is thinking.”
Jack’s smile flickers. A little surprised.
“A little,” he says.
Tommy watches him. Not satisfied. His fingers move again.
You stop drying dishes without realizing it. Jack notices. You notice him noticing. Nobody says anything.
Then Tommy presses another button.
“Jack is tired.”
Jack lets out a breath through his nose. “Yeah, buddy.”
Silence stretches.
Tommy looks down again. Types. Deletes. Types. Deletes. Like he’s searching for the exact words.
Jack leans back against the counter.
Waiting.
You can feel your own pulse in your throat because suddenly it feels like Tommy is standing in front of something neither of you has been willing to say out loud.
Finally, he presses the button.
“Jack is sad.”
The voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. No different than if he’d announced rain.
The room goes still. Jack doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at the tablet. Then at Tommy.
His fingers tighten briefly around the dish towel. You almost miss it. Almost.
The thing that gets you isn’t that Tommy said it. It’s that Jack doesn’t correct him. Doesn’t brush it aside. Doesn’t say, “I’m okay.”
For weeks, that’s all he’s done. Deflect. Redirect. Minimize. Now he’s just standing there. Looking tired. Looking caught. Looking like he’s trying to decide whether to tell the truth.
The silence stretches long enough that you start to wonder if he’s going to answer at all.
Then Tommy presses another button.
“I have question.”
Jack blinks. The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. Just a reaction.
“A question, huh?”
Tommy nods.
You don’t realize you’ve stopped drying the dish in your hands until water drips onto your wrist.
Jack notices.
His eyes flick toward you. Then away again. Back to Tommy. Back to the words on the screen.
“Jack is sad.”
Finally, Jack lets out a slow breath. His gaze drops to the floor. Then lifts again.
“A little, buddy.”
The words come quietly. So quietly that for a second you think you imagined them.
Tommy doesn’t look surprised. He just nods once. Like that makes sense. Like he’d already known.
Your chest tightens. Because that’s the first honest answer you’ve heard from Jack in weeks.
Not, “I’m fine.”
Not, “I’m tired.”
Not, “Long shift.”
Just—
“A little, buddy.”
Jack looks away almost immediately after saying it. As if the admission itself cost him something.
Tommy watches him for another moment, then lowers his eyes to the tablet again. His fingers move across the screen. Slowly. Carefully. Searching.
You see Jack notice it too. The way his attention follows Tommy’s hands. The way his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. Waiting to see what comes next.
Tommy presses the button.
“Stay here.”
The words land softly. Almost gently. And somehow they hit harder than everything else.
Jack’s eyes close. Only for a second. Then open again. His jaw shifts like he’s trying to swallow around something.
Nobody says anything. Not you. Not Tommy. Not even Jack. The room simply sits with it.
Stay here.
Two simple words. A request. An instruction. Maybe both.
And when Jack finally looks back at Tommy, there’s something in his expression you’ve been catching glimpses of for weeks. Not exhaustion. Not distraction. Something hurt. Something lonely. Something trying very hard not to break.
“I’m not going anywhere, buddy.” His voice is steady. But only just.
Tommy studies him. Making sure. Then nods. Satisfied. For him, the conversation is over. For you, it feels like it’s only just begun.
For a while, neither of you mentions it.
Tommy moves on. The weather forecast becomes more important than feelings again. The dishes get finished. The evening continues.
On the surface, everything returns to normal. Underneath, nothing does.
By the time Tommy is in bed, the apartment feels quieter than usual.
Jack is sitting on the couch when you come back from Tommy’s room. The television is on. Muted. Neither of you is watching it.
You settle beside him. Close enough that your knees touch. For a minute, neither of you speaks. Jack stares at the silent television screen.You stare at him.
Eventually, you lean your head against his shoulder. He immediately shifts closer. Automatic. Instinct. The movement makes your chest ache. Because even now, even like this, he still seems tired.
Not physically. Something deeper. Like exhaustion has settled somewhere behind his ribs.
“Hey.” His voice is quiet.
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
The question almost makes you laugh. Of course he’d ask you.
You lift your head just enough to look at him. “When’s the last time you slept through the night?”
Jack goes still. Not dramatically. Just enough. His eyes stay on the television. The silence stretches.
“That’s a weird way to answer my question.”
You don’t smile. Neither does he. Because neither of you is really talking about sleep. A long breath leaves him. His hand rubs slowly across his jaw.
Thinking. Buying time.
Finally—
“A while.”
The honesty catches you off guard. Because it’s more than he’s given you in weeks.
“How long is a while?”
Jack shrugs. “Don’t know.”
A lie. Not a malicious one. Just the kind people tell when the real answer feels too heavy. You let it go. For now.
The room falls quiet again. Jack leans forward. Forearms resting on his knees. Staring at the floor.
You watch him and wait. And for the first time, he doesn’t immediately try to fill the silence. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t redirect. Just sits there.
Like he’s tired of carrying it. Whatever it is. Not ready to share it. But tired. Very, very tired.
The apartment settles around you. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. A car passes somewhere outside. The television flashes silently across the dark room.
Jack doesn’t look up. You don’t push. For once, the silence doesn’t feel like something that needs to be filled.
It just sits between you. Heavy. Patient. Waiting. Eventually, Jack leans back against the couch cushions. His head tips back, eyes closing briefly.
You watch the tension settle into his face the moment he stops pretending. Not disappear. Just become visible. The line between his brows. The tightness in his jaw. The exhaustion he carries so carefully during the day.
“Tommy’s smart.”
The words come unexpectedly. His eyes are still closed.
You smile faintly. “Yeah.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Little terrifying.”
That gets a real smile out of you. “A little.”
“He notices everything.”
The smile fades. You glance at him. Jack is staring at the ceiling now. Not looking at you. Not looking at anything.
“He gets that from you.”
A corner of your mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
The answer comes immediately. Automatic. Certain. For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then Jack swallows. You see it. The way his throat works. The way his jaw tightens afterward. Like he’s arguing with himself.
You know that look now. It’s the look he gets when he’s standing on the edge of saying something and can’t decide whether to jump.
“I had a kid a few weeks ago.”
Your breath catches. Not because of the words. Because of the way he says them. Flat. Controlled. Like he’s repeated them in his head a hundred times already.
You don’t speak. Don’t interrupt.
Jack’s gaze stays fixed on the ceiling. “He was seven.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. Jack laughs once. A short, humorless sound.
“He liked dinosaurs.” His eyes close. Just for a second. “We worked on him for almost forty minutes.”
The sentence lands heavily. You don’t need him to explain what happened. Not really. You know enough. Forty minutes means hope lasted longer than it should have. Forty minutes means everyone tried. Forty minutes means it still wasn’t enough.
Jack’s hands clasp together. Tight. “Told his mom we’d do everything we could.” His voice stays calm. Too calm. “And we did. But he still died.”
There it is. The thing underneath everything. The sleepless nights. The missed meals. The thousand-yard stare. The exhaustion. The guilt.
Not because Jack made a mistake. Not because he failed. Because somebody trusted him with the most important thing in their world. And he couldn’t save him.
You reach for his hand slowly. Giving him time to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. The second your fingers touch his, something in him softens. Like he’s been holding himself rigid for weeks and suddenly doesn’t have the energy anymore.
“You know that’s not your fault.” The words are quiet. Careful.
Jack lets out a long breath and stares at your joined hands.
“I know.” He swallows. Then, even quieter, “Most days.”
Your eyes burn. Because that’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. Maybe all month.
You squeeze his hand. Jack stares at your fingers tangled with his for a long moment before he speaks again.
“The kid was part of it,” he says.
Your chest tightens.
“But it wasn’t just him.”
You stay quiet.
Jack leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, your hand still caught loosely in his.
“We’ve been getting killed lately.”
His voice stays quiet. Matter-of-fact. Like he’s discussing the weather.
“Short staffed. Overflowing. People waiting forever because there aren’t enough beds.” His gaze drops to the floor. “Residents asking questions. Nurses pulling me in six directions. Families demanding answers I don’t have.”
His jaw tightens. “People yelling because they’ve been waiting six hours.” His voice drops. “People yelling because they haven’t.”
You squeeze his hand again. This time, his fingers tighten back. Barely. But enough.
“I keep showing up earlier,” he says.
You think about all the mornings he came over for breakfast looking exhausted before his shift had technically even started.
All the times he brushed it off.
“Half the time I walk in and we’re already behind.” He gives a faint, humorless laugh. “And then I stay late because there’s another patient. Another family. Another resident who needs help.”
His gaze drops.
“One more thing turns into thirty minutes. Thirty minutes turns into two hours.”
The words settle heavily between you. Because you’ve seen that too.
The texts.
Running late.
Still at work.
Be there soon.
And every single time, he showed up anyway. No matter how tired he looked. No matter how long the day had been.
“I kept thinking it would settle down,” he says.
His mouth twitches.
“It didn’t.” Jack rubs his thumb once across your knuckles. “I stopped sleeping right.”
The confession comes quietly. Almost casually. Like it shouldn’t matter. Like it isn’t the thing you’ve been watching happen in pieces for weeks.
You stare at him. “How long?”
His eyes drift away. “Couple weeks.”
Your stomach drops. Couple weeks. Not nights.
Weeks.
“Jack.”
“I know.”
The answer comes immediately. Like he’s already had this argument with himself a hundred times.
You study him. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The exhaustion. The way he’s been disappearing in the middle of conversations. Standing in front of refrigerators. Forgetting appointments. Missing dinner. All the little things suddenly line up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jack goes still. The question sits between you. Quiet. Simple. Harder than all the others.
His voice is softer when he answers. “I didn’t want it in here. I didn’t want Tommy worrying.”
Your throat tightens. “Jack.”
“I didn’t want you worrying either.”
That one hurts. Because that is exactly what happened. He carried everything alone trying to protect the two of you from it. And in the process, you spent weeks watching him slowly disappear.
Jack rubs both hands over his face. Exhaustion finally winning.
“I just wanted one place where I wasn’t bringing that stuff through the door.”
The confession settles heavily between you. And suddenly every piece falls into place. The missed meals. The sleepless nights. The apologies. The way he would rather sit on your couch exhausted than be alone in his apartment. The way he kept insisting he was fine.
Not because he believed it. Because he wanted you to. And somehow that breaks your heart more than if he had told you the truth from the beginning.
Your hand tightens around his.
“Jack.”
He looks at you. Tired. Guarded. Already bracing.
“No.”
His brow furrows. “No?”
“You don’t get to do that.”
Confusion flickers across his face, but you can tell he understands before he says anything.
You keep your voice low. Steady.
“You don’t get to spend weeks carrying all of this by yourself and then tell me you were protecting us.”
Jack looks away.
You let out a slow breath. “Look at me.”
His eyes come back to yours. Reluctantly.
“You know what I’ve been doing for weeks?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Worrying.”
The word lands softly.
“I’ve been watching you forget things. Stop eating. Fall asleep sitting up.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’ve been asking if you’re okay, and every time, you told me you were fine. Do you know what you would’ve done if this was me?”
Jack goes still.
“If I stopped eating? If I stopped sleeping? If I kept disappearing in the middle of conversations and telling you I was fine?”
His jaw tightens.
“You would’ve been at my door every day until I talked to you.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
“Jack, I knew something was wrong.”
The truth sits between you. Quiet. Heavy.
“And Tommy knew too.”
That gets him. His eyes flicker.
You keep going, gentler now, but no less firm.
“He’s been watching you all week. Longer than that, probably.”
Jack swallows.
“He noticed when you weren’t listening. He noticed when you got quiet. He noticed when you missed dinner.”
Your voice catches.
“He asked if you were tired because he was worried about you.”
Jack’s face changes. Not dramatically. But enough. Enough that you know it landed exactly where it needed to.
“You didn’t protect us from worrying,” you say. “You just made us do it without knowing why.”
His eyes close. Your chest tightens. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you needed him to understand.
“How many times have you told me to talk to you?”
His eyes open again.
“How many times have you told me I don’t have to carry everything alone?”
You swallow hard.
“How many times have you sat at my kitchen table and listened to me talk about work, or Tommy, or bills, or school meetings, or whatever else felt too heavy that day?”
Jack doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
“You tell me all the time that we’re a team.”
Your voice shakes, but you don’t look away.
“And then the second you’re the one struggling, you decide you have to handle it by yourself.”
His gaze drops to your joined hands.
“That’s not fair.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be.
Jack stares down for a long moment.
“I know.”
His voice is rough.
You shake your head. “No. I don’t think you do.”
He looks back at you then.
“You keep acting like letting me help you is some kind of burden.”
Something moves across his face. Pain. Recognition. Shame.
You soften, but you don’t back down. “You show up for us every day.”
Your thumb brushes over his knuckles.
“For Tommy. For me. You come to dinner exhausted. You sit through weather reports when all you want to do is sleep. You make him feel seen. You make me feel like I’m not doing this alone.”
His throat works.
“And we would do the same thing for you.”
The words land. You see it happen. Because suddenly this isn’t about what he gives. It’s about what he refuses to receive.
You reach up and cup his face, guiding his eyes back to yours.
“I don’t need you to be okay all the time.” Your voice softens. “But I need you to tell me when you’re not.”
Jack’s eyes shine. For the first time all night, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t give you an automatic answer. He just sits there, exhausted and vulnerable, like a man who has spent so long being the person everyone leans on that he forgot he was allowed to lean back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You believe him. Not because he’s apologizing for struggling. Because he’s apologizing for shutting both of you out. And those are two very different things.
The fight drains out of the room after that. What’s left is quieter. More fragile.
Jack sits beside you, shoulders rounded, your hand still tangled with his. Not arguing. Not defending himself. Just there. Breathing.
His thumb brushes the back of your hand once.
You look at him.
The dark circles beneath his eyes. The exhaustion etched into every line of his face. The man who showed up for dinner every night even when he could barely keep his eyes open. The man who listened to weather reports when all he wanted was sleep. The man who spent weeks quietly unraveling and still made sure Tommy felt seen, understood, and loved.
Your chest tightens. “Can I tell you something?”
His voice is quiet. “Always.”
Your hand drifts into his hair, slow and gentle.
His eyes close for half a second before opening again.
“I knew you were different the first day I met you.”
His brow furrows. “The cookie day?”
A small laugh escapes you. “Yeah. The cookie day.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“You know what I remember?”
“What?”
“Waiting.”
Jack watches you, confused.
“Waiting for you to get uncomfortable.”
The faint smile disappears.
“I’ve spent most of Tommy’s life watching people change the second they realize he uses an AAC.”
Jack’s mouth flattens.
“They don’t mean to.” Your fingers move carefully through his hair. “But they do.”
You glance down.
“They talk to me instead of him.” Your throat tightens. “They look at the tablet instead of his face.”
Jack looks away, jaw working.
“I remember standing there waiting for it.”
Your forehead brushes his. “But it never happened.”
Jack goes still.
“You looked at him.” Your voice drops. “You introduced yourself.”
You move closer, your hand sliding from his hair to the side of his face.
“You listened.” Your voice catches. “And then he started talking about weather and you argued with him.”
That earns a real laugh. Warm. Low.
You smile with him.
“But you never looked at him like he was strange.” Your nose brushes his. “You never looked at me like I needed to explain him.”
Jack’s hand settles at your waist. Not pulling. Just holding. Grounding himself.
“You just treated him like Tommy.”
His fingers flex against your side.
“I think that’s when I started falling for you.”
Jack inhales sharply. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
Your pulse drums in your ears.
“I love the way Tommy looks for you at the door.”
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Jack closes his eyes.
Your thumb brushes along his cheek.
“I love that you learned about weather because he wanted someone to talk to.”
His fingers tighten at your waist.
“I love that you make him feel safe.”
Neither of you moves away.
“I love that you make me feel safe too.”
Jack’s head dips. A shaky breath leaves him. Without thinking, you move closer. Slowly. Giving him every chance to stop you. One knee settles beside his hip.
You pause.
His eyes never leave yours. Then the other knee follows. Jack’s breath catches. Still, he doesn’t move away.
The second you settle into his lap, his hands slide to your waist automatically. Like they’ve always belonged there. Your forehead presses against his.
The room narrows until there’s only the warmth of him.
Only this.
“I love that you show up.” Your fingers skim the back of his neck. “Even when you’re tired.”
Your lips brush his cheek.
“Even when you’re hurting.”
His hands tighten on your waist.
“I love that you stay.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth.
Soft.
Brief.
Jack’s eyes close.
“I love that you make ordinary days feel less lonely.”
Another kiss. Closer this time. His breath catches against your mouth.
“I love that you became part of our life so quietly I didn’t notice until I couldn’t imagine you anywhere else.”
Jack’s forehead presses harder against yours. Like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Your hands slide down to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palms.
“And I love you, Jack.”
The words come quietly. Certain. Terrifying. True.
Jack stills. His grip tightens almost imperceptibly at your waist. For a second, he just looks at you. Like the words don’t make sense. Like they’re too much. Like he never thought he’d be given something this gentle and real and meant for him.
Your hand cups his cheek again. “You don’t have to earn it.”
His eyes shine.
“You don’t have to be perfect for it.” Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. “You don’t have to save everyone to deserve it.”
His face crumples. Just enough.
“I love you because you’re you.”
Jack lets out a breath that sounds almost broken. His hand slides up your back. Holding you closer.
“I love you too.”
The words come out rough. Immediate. His forehead stays pressed to yours.
“I love you so much it scares me.”
Your breath catches.
Jack’s voice drops lower.
“I didn’t think I got to have this.”
You go still.
He swallows hard.
“I didn’t think I got to come home to somebody waiting for me.” His hands flex at your waist. “I didn’t think I got to have a kid looking for me at the door.”
Your eyes burn.
“I didn’t think I got to be loved like this.”
The confession breaks something open in your chest.
You kiss him before you can answer. Slow. Deep. Full of everything neither of you has known how to say.
Jack makes a quiet sound against your mouth, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck as he kisses you back. Not desperate. Not rushed. But with a kind of aching relief that makes your whole body soften into his.
When you pull back, your forehead stays against his. Your breathing unsteady. His hand is warm at the back of your neck.
“You do,” you whisper.
His eyes open.
“You get to have this.” Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt. “You get to have us.”
Jack’s eyes shine brighter.
You smile through your tears.
“And I need you to understand something.”
He watches you.
“You are not a guest here.”
His breath catches.
“You are not some temporary piece of our life.” Your voice trembles. “You belong here, Jack.”
Jack’s jaw shifts.
“You are loved here.”
His eyes close.
“And when things get hard, I don’t want you across the hall trying to survive it alone. I want you here.”
He pulls you closer then. Both arms around your waist. Face turning into the side of your neck.
You hold him immediately, fingers sliding into his hair. For a second, neither of you speaks. You just hold on.
Then his voice comes muffled against your skin. “I love your laugh.”
Your breath catches.
He lifts his head slowly. Eyes bright. Wrecked. Honest. “I love hearing you in the kitchen.”
A small, shaky smile pulls at your mouth.
“I love movie nights.” His thumb moves slowly against your back. “I love breakfast after shifts.”
His voice breaks slightly. “I love that your apartment feels more like home than mine.”
That one steals the air from your lungs.
Jack looks at you like the truth hurts to say, but he’s saying it anyway.
“I love the way you love Tommy.”
Your tears spill over.
“I love that Tommy never has to wonder if he’s enough with you.” He took a breath. “And I love that somewhere along the way, you started seeing me too.”
You kiss him again. Because there isn’t anything else to do with all of that. This kiss is deeper. Warmer.
His hand at your neck. Your fingers in his hair. His chest rising hard beneath yours. When you pull back, it’s only because you both need air.
Jack’s lips brush yours once more. Then again. Like he can’t quite stop. Like now that he’s allowed to have this, he doesn’t know how to let go.
You smile against his mouth.
“I didn’t think I’d get this either.”
He stills.
You open your eyes.
“For a long time, I thought it would just be me and Tommy.”
His gaze softens.
“And I was okay with that.” Your thumb brushes over his cheek. “I had him. I had a good life.”
Your voice wavers.
“But I didn’t think I’d find someone who would look at both of us and stay.”
Jack’s eyes close. Like that hurts in the best possible way.
“I didn’t think I’d find someone who loved Tommy exactly as he is.” Your forehead rests against his. “I didn’t think I’d find someone who made room for both of us without making it feel like work.”
Jack’s breathing turns uneven beneath you. You kiss him once. Soft.
“I didn’t think I’d get you.”
His eyes close. Not immediately. Not like the words hurt. Like they reached somewhere he hadn’t known was still waiting.
For a moment, neither of you moves. His hands stay at your waist. Yours stay tangled in his shirt.
The apartment is quiet around you. The television hums softly. Somewhere down the hall, Tommy sleeps.
Jack opens his eyes. They’re bright.
“You really mean that?”
The question is so quiet you almost miss it.
Your heart breaks a little. Because he isn’t asking for reassurance. He’s asking because some part of him still can’t quite believe it.
You brush your thumb across his cheek. “Every word.”
Jack laughs. A small sound. Shaky around the edges.
His gaze drops briefly before finding yours again. “I keep waiting to wake up.”
Your breath catches. “Jack—”
“No, seriously.” A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “I keep thinking eventually somebody’s going to tell me I imagined all of this.”
His hand slides up your back. Slow. Careful.
“You.” He swallowed. “Tommy.”
His eyes drift toward the hallway. Then back to you.
“This.”
The single word carries everything. The dinners. The weather reports. The keys. The mornings. The life that somehow became his without him realizing it.
You lean forward and press your forehead against his again.
“You know what I think?”
His mouth curves faintly. “What?”
“I think you’re an idiot.”
A surprised laugh escapes him. Real this time.
You smile. “I think you’ve spent so long taking care of everybody else that you forgot people are allowed to love you too.”
The laugh fades. Not because he’s upset. Because he doesn’t know what to do with that.
Your hand settles over his heart. “You don’t have to earn your way into this family, Jack.”
His breath leaves him slowly. Like he’s hearing it for the first time.
“You’re already here.”
Silence. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just full.
Jack stares at you for a long moment.
Then his forehead drops against yours. “Good.”
The word is barely above a whisper.
Your throat tightens. “Good?”
His eyes close.
A tired smile pulls at his mouth. “Yeah.”
His arms tighten around you. Just enough.
“Because I don’t think I know how to leave anymore.”
And that one gets you. Because somewhere down the hall, Tommy is asleep. The television is still humming. The apartment is warm. Lived in. Home.
And for the first time in a long while, neither of you is wondering if he’ll stay.
I put other because while technically my middle name is the same middle name as my paternal grandmother has, my father spelled it wrong when he was filling out my birth certificate. So I share a middle name with her but it’s different.
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