Xianna

“Do not laugh at me,” she says, low and sharp enough that even the fridge seems to mind its business.

Banks presses his lips together. His shoulders shake once.

Her eyes narrow. “Banks.”

“I’m not,” he says, which would be more convincing if the words didn’t come out rounded and wet around a laugh. He lifts one hand, palm out, all sloppy innocence and inherited audacity. “I’m not laughing. Sorry, Mom.”

“You’re absolutely laughing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re drunk.”

He blinks at her very seriously, like this is an important legal distinction and he's about to represent himself poorly in court. “I can be sorry and drunk.”

The terrible thing is that he sounds exactly like Rafe when Rafe is wrong and still thinks charm might drag the body out of the water before anyone notices the crime. 

Same blue eyes gone too bright under the kitchen lights, same unfair mouth trying to hide a grin, same broad-shouldered Cameron posture beginning to happen in him like bad genetic weather. 

He’s still soft in places Rafe was never allowed to be at sixteen, still boyish around the jaw and long in the limbs, but there are moments where she looks at her son and sees the precise shape of the man she has loved since high school arriving in fragments: the pride first, the deflection second, the fear buried so far down he may not even know where he put it.

And tonight, because she’s tired and Rafe has been gone for four days and Lila cried at bedtime because Daddy always does the second voice in her dinosaur book wrong but better, it does not move her into tenderness. It moves her toward violence.

“You took the boat,” she says.

Banks’ face changes just enough to tell on him before his mouth can lie.

She exhales through her nose. “Unbelievable.”

“I didn’t take it far.”

“Oh, okay. Thank God. You only stole your father’s boat a little bit while drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk when we went out.”

Her eyebrows lift.

His gaze drops to the counter. “Ish.”

“Ish,” she repeats, and the word comes out so calm it should scare him. It doesn’t scare him enough, because he’s sixteen and male and temporarily possessed by whatever evolutionary defect makes teenage boys believe consequences are a rumour invented by mothers. “You are standing in my kitchen at twelve-thirty in the morning smelling like beer, lying badly, and trying not to laugh while I speak to you. Do you understand how much trouble you’re in?”

Banks nods, too fast and not sober enough to make it respectful. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”

“Don’t yep me.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

There it is again. The laugh tucked behind the apology. Small. Stupid. Careless in the way teenagers are careless when they’re too loved to understand yet that care has weight. 

Her jaw tightens. Something hot climbs the back of her neck, gathering under the loose collar of Rafe’s shirt, and she feels suddenly, dangerously close to becoming the kind of mother who says things like I am not one of your little friends, which is devastating because she’s always considered herself too self-aware for that and also because it would be true.

Then, from the front of the house, the lock clicks. The soft mechanical turn of the front door opening into the cool dark hallway, followed by the low thud of a suitcase wheel catching over the threshold and one tiny, ecstatic gasp from somewhere upstairs that proves Lila Cameron has either been pretending to sleep or was born with sonar specifically tuned to her father.

“Daddy!”

Banks goes still.

It’s immediate. Beautiful, actually. Horrifyingly satisfying. One second he’s loose and drunk and grinning at his mother like he’s negotiating a parking fine; the next, his spine straightens so fast he nearly looks sober.

His eyes flick to the hallway, then back to her, and for the first time all night there is real awareness in them. Not guilt. Not yet. Survival.

She shouldn’t enjoy it as much as she does.

From the stairs comes the sound of small feet hitting wood at a speed that will one day end in urgent care, then Rafe’s voice, rough from travel and smiling through exhaustion. “Hey, hey, slow down– Jesus, Lila.”

A tiny shriek. A deep grunt. 

Then Rafe again, closer now, laughing under his breath as he catches their youngest daughter somewhere near the bottom of the stairs. “There she is. C’mere, baby girl.”

Her body reacts to his voice before her brain has finished resenting everything else. It always has, which is frankly embarrassing after this many years and three children.

Some soft, tired part of her loosens toward the hallway, toward the low scrape of his shoes, the familiar weight of him moving through their house. 

Relief hits first, warm behind her ribs and low in her stomach. Then the smaller, less noble flicker of panic over how much he heard. Then, because she’s learned nothing from building an entire life with a man who still looks like trouble with a mortgage, something far worse and lower when he walks into the kitchen with Lila on his hip.

Rafe Cameron has no right looking like that after a business trip.

He’s still in his button-up from the flight, white with a thin blue stripe, the top button undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows because he knows. He has to know.

There’s no other explanation for the forearms, for the watch, for the faint crease at his waist where he’s been sitting too long, for the buzz cut making every line of his face sharper under the kitchen lights.

He looks tired in a way that only makes him more unfair, mouth slightly rough from the plane, jaw shadowed, eyes cutting across the room with the kind of focus that can still make her stomach drop even when there’s a six-year-old attached to him in unicorn pyjamas and one sparkly sock.

Lila has both arms locked around his neck and her face pressed to his cheek like she’s trying to absorb him through contact. “I waited for you,” she announces, loud and proud and absolutely incriminating.

“Yeah, I see that,” Rafe murmurs, kissing her cheek once, then again when she giggles and shoves at his face.

His eyes flick to his wife first. Always first. A fast, dragging look that takes in her bare legs, his shirt on her body, her tired mouth, the tightness in her shoulders. Something in his face shifts, almost imperceptible. Then his gaze moves to Banks.

The air changes. Rafe doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He just looks at his son, and all the warmth that had been wrapped around Lila stays there, held carefully against her little back, while everything else in him goes still and cold and awake.

Banks swallows.

Rafe kisses Lila’s temple, eyes never leaving him. “Go to your room, baby girl.”

Lila pulls back immediately, offended. “But you just got home.”

“I know.” His voice softens for her without weakening. It does something horrible to her chest, the way he can split himself like that now, the way fatherhood hasn’t made him gentle so much as more controlled about where the sharp parts land. “I’ll come say goodnight in a minute. Gotta talk to your brother.”

Lila looks at Banks, who’s standing by the island like a drunk little defendant. Her nose scrunches. “Is Banks in trouble?”

“Yep,” Rafe says.

Banks mutters, “Thanks.”

Rafe’s eyes cut to him. Banks shuts up.

Lila, being six and therefore a violent little opportunist, kisses Rafe’s cheek with great ceremony before he sets her down. “He smells like outside,” she whispers, not quietly.

Their mother presses her lips together.

Banks closes his eyes.

Rafe gives one short breath that might have become a laugh in another room, another night, with fewer felonies. “Room, Lila.”

“Are you gonna do my story?”

“In a minute.”

“Promise?”

Rafe crouches enough to fix the twisted hem of her pyjama top where it has ridden up under her arm. Even with the anger held in him, his hands are careful. Ridiculously careful. He smooths the fabric down, taps two fingers beneath her chin, and says, “Go.”

She goes, but only after one suspicious look at Banks and a skipping little run out of the kitchen, like she isn’t leaving behind a scene with the emotional temperature of a gas leak.

For a second, nobody says anything. The house holds around them. Somewhere upstairs, Lila’s door clicks. The fridge hums. Outside, beyond the dark glass, the pool lights ripple blue over the patio and the humid night leans against the windows.

Rafe sets his phone and keys on the counter with too much control. His suitcase remains abandoned in the hall.

Then he looks at Banks fully. “What’d you say to your mother?”

Banks’ mouth opens. “I didn’t–”

Rafe’s chin lowers a fraction. “Try again.”

She watches their son work through three separate versions of denial and abandon all of them because, drunk or not, he knows his father. Knows that tone. Knows the precise danger of Rafe calm.

It’s one thing to be yelled at by his mother, who loves him with her whole exhausted body and will still make him eggs in the morning if he looks pale enough.

It’s another thing entirely to stand in front of Rafe Cameron after midnight, smelling like beer and boat fuel, while Rafe has just come home from four days away to find him disrespecting the person Rafe has spent most of his adult life orbiting like a badly behaved planet.

“I was just–” Banks starts, then stops when Rafe’s eyes narrow. He drags a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I was being stupid.”

“Yeah,” Rafe says. “I got that.”

“Rafe,” she says quietly, because she can feel it in the room now, his temper pulling tight beneath the shirt, beneath the rolled sleeves, beneath all the years of trying not to become his father and all the years of sometimes sounding like him anyway.

He glances at her. A brief, grounding look, like her voice puts a hand somewhere inside him. Then he looks back at Banks.

“You can be stupid,” Rafe says, low. “You’re sixteen. You’re gonna be stupid. You can sneak out, and you can lie badly, and you can get drunk with your little friends like every other idiot kid on this island.”

Banks’ jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move.

“But you will never,” Rafe continues, each word placed with frightening care, “stand in this kitchen and laugh in your mother’s face while she’s talking to you. You understand me?”

Banks nods.

Rafe’s expression does not change. “Use your mouth.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Banks’ throat moves. “Yes, sir.”

His wife feels it move through her, which is unfair and frankly inconvenient given the current disciplinary context. The low tone. The rolled sleeves.

The sheer exhausted authority of him standing in their kitchen, furious because he heard enough, careful because the boy in front of him is theirs, protective because there has never been a universe where Rafe knows how to love her quietly. Her body warms under his shirt, a traitor in cotton.

Rafe breathes out through his nose. “You took the boat?”

Banks looks at his mother.

“Don’t look at her,” Rafe says. “Look at me.”

Banks looks back. “Yeah.”

“Were you drinking before you took it out?”

A pause.

Rafe smiles, but it has no humour in it. “Careful.”

Banks’ face flickers. Younger suddenly. “A little.”

She closes her eyes for half a second. Rafe goes very still.

That’s worse than yelling. Banks seems to know it too, because his shoulders lose some of their drunk looseness at last. The kitchen lights catch on his face, and beneath the beer and bravado, he looks scared now.

Rafe steps closer, not crowding but near enough that Banks has to tilt his head up slightly. “You ever do that again,” he says, “you won’t touch that boat, my truck, your car, or anything with a key until you’re thirty.”

Banks nods quickly. “Okay.”

“I’m not done.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologising to make people stop talking.”

That lands. Their son’s eyes flicker. Rafe sees it and, for one strange second, the room folds backward. She can see him at sixteen, at seventeen, at twenty-one, all sharp elbows and swallowed panic, saying sorry like a door slam, sorry like a weapon, sorry like a receipt he could hand someone so they’d stop holding up the wound. His mouth tightens once before he continues.

“You scared your mother,” he says, rougher now. “You put yourself in danger. You put your friends in danger. And then you came in here and acted like she was annoying you by caring whether you made it home alive.”

Banks looks down.

“No,” Rafe says.

His eyes come up again, wet and angry in that teenage way that means humiliation and fear are fighting over the same chair. “I know. I’m sorry.”

This one sounds different. Smaller. Better.

Rafe holds his gaze another second, then nods once toward the back door. “Go get water from the outside fridge.”

Banks blinks. “What?”

“Water,” Rafe repeats. “Then onto the boat.”

The boy’s face empties. “I– what?”

“You took it?” Rafe’s eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re gonna clean it, buddy.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“Then you better move fast.”

“Dad.”

Rafe’s face hardens.

Banks stops, then recalibrates with the visible desperation of a drunk teenager choosing life. “I mean– yes, sir.”

“And before that,” Rafe says, “apologise to your mother properly.”

Banks turns to her.

The change in him almost breaks her. Enough that the tight thing around her ribs loosens by one painful notch. He looks like Rafe and not like Rafe at all. Tall, messy, drunk, ashamed, still with a softness around the mouth that was his before the world got to him.

Her baby, horribly. Her ridiculous, six-foot, beer-smelling baby.

“Sorry, Mom,” he says, and this time the words come without the smirk. “I was being a dick. I love you.”

She stares at him for one second too long because she wants to stay angry cleanly and motherhood never lets anything be clean. Then she lifts her chin. “I love you too. I’m still furious.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Fair.”

He comes around the island and bends to kiss her cheek, awkward and quick and smelling like salt air, beer, and the expensive shampoo he steals from Rafe’s shower because apparently no man in this house can respect ownership as a concept.

Her hand catches briefly at his elbow before he pulls away. A tiny squeeze. He squeezes back, barely, then wanders toward the back door with the tragic dignity of a boy headed to scrub consequences off teak flooring.

Rafe waits until the door slides shut behind him. Then she exhales so hard her whole body bends with it.

The silence he leaves behind is huge for half a second, stretching through the kitchen, over the spilled shapes of their life on the island, across the mail and the marker and the cold cup of tea she forgot to drink three hours ago.

Rafe stands where Banks left him, shoulders still tight, jaw still working, eyes on the back door as their son disappears toward the boat dock.

She looks at him. Really looks now that the immediate crisis has gone outside with a water bottle and a hangover still under construction.

The sleeves are still rolled. The buzz cut is still unfair. His face is tired, older than the boy who used to pull up outside her parents’ house in high school with too much cologne and not enough emotional regulation, but not less beautiful in any useful way. Worse, maybe.

More dangerous to her specifically because every line in him now has history attached. The faint crease between his brows from years of bills and business and children and loving badly, then better.

The hard set of his mouth that softens only when he forgets to guard it. The biceps under the cotton because God and airport lighting had both been committed to her personal ruin.

“Hi, honey,” she says softy.

Rafe’s eyes come to her. Whatever was left of his anger changes shape so fast it almost makes her dizzy. It doesn’t vanish. Rafe isn’t a man anger leaves politely. It just moves aside for her, making room for the thing underneath it.

Relief. Want. The exhausted, private ache of coming home and finding her still there, barefoot in his shirt, holding the whole house together with her teeth.

“Hi, baby,” he says.

That’s all it takes.

She crosses the kitchen like her body has been waiting for permission and pushes up onto her toes, arms sliding around his shoulders. Rafe catches her immediately. One arm locks around her waist, the other spreads hot and broad across her back, pulling her into him with a force that makes the breath leave her in a small, relieved sound she will later deny if questioned by anyone with legal authority.

He buries his face in her neck. For a second, he just breathes her in. His nose presses beneath her jaw, his mouth warm against the side of her throat, and his hands tighten at her waist like he’s checking something. Like four days away have left him with some private, irrational suspicion that she might have evaporated in his absence, replaced by laundry and children and the kind of competence that scares him because it proves she can survive without him even though he would strongly prefer the universe not explore that option.

Her fingers slide over the back of his buzzed head, then down to his neck. “Rough flight?”

“Long,” he murmurs into her skin. “Missed you.”

Her eyes close. The kitchen is still too bright. Her son is outside cleaning a boat as penance. Their youngest is upstairs waiting for dinosaur voices. Their middle child is asleep at Sarah’s, probably sprawled diagonal in a guest bed like she pays property tax. There’s nothing sexy about this moment except her husband, unfortunately, has never needed conditions to be ideal to ruin her.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she says.

Rafe’s mouth moves against her neck. Not quite a kiss yet. Almost worse. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

His hand slides higher up her back, bunching the loose fabric of his shirt. “House still standing.”

“Barely.”

“Kids alive.”

“Also barely.”

He huffs once, and the warmth of it hits her throat. “Banks drunk?”

“Very.”

“Took the boat?”

“Apparently only a little.”

Rafe lifts his head enough to look at her, eyebrows raised.

“I know,” she says. “I nearly became my mother.”

His mouth curves, tired and mean and fond in the way that still makes her stomach flip after all these years. “You’d be hot as your mother.”

“Do not ever say that to me again.”

“What?” His grin deepens. “You’d be hot.”

“I’m ignoring you.”

“No, you’re not.”

She isn’t. Obviously. She has never successfully ignored him a day in her life, not in high school when he used to lean against her locker like an expensive warning sign, not in college when they broke up for three months and she still knew exactly when he entered a party by the shift in her own bloodstream, and certainly not now, married with three children and a mortgage and a teenage son outside reenacting several of Rafe’s worst instincts with worse alcohol tolerance.

Rafe’s gaze drops to her mouth.

Her grip tightens around his shoulders. “Marlowe’s at Sarah’s.”

He nods slowly, like this information has been placed into a private and immediately inappropriate filing system. “Yeah?”

“Sleepover.”

“Mm.”

“Don’t mm me like that. Your six-year-old is awake upstairs.”

“Our six-year-old,” he corrects, already leaning in.

“She adores you and has terrible boundaries.”

“Gets that from you.”

“I have excellent boundaries.”

“You married me.”

“That was charity.”

His laugh is low against her mouth. “Yeah? Feeling generous?”

She answers by kissing him.

It starts sweet, or close enough. The kind of kiss that belongs to the front end of a reunion, the relieved press of mouths after days of bad hotel pillows and solo bedtime routines and phone calls cut short because one of the kids was crying or someone in Charleston needed Rafe to pretend not to be angry in a conference room.

His lips are warm and a little dry from travel. His hand comes to her jaw, thumb settling just beneath her cheekbone with that steady pressure that still makes the world narrow, and when she opens for him, his whole body pulls tighter around hers.

The kiss deepens hard enough to make her fingers curl into the back of his shirt. Rafe steps her back into the island without looking, his other hand low at her waist, fitting her against him like he has been thinking about exactly this in airport lounges and rental cars and whatever polished hotel room he slept badly in without her.

The edge of the counter presses into her lower back. Somewhere outside, a hose turns on, then Banks swears faintly at the dock, which should make this less hot and doesn’t, because marriage is an illness.

Rafe smiles against her mouth when she makes a sound.

“Missed you so much,” he says, low and rough, the words scraped into the kiss rather than set apart from it.

She nods, because talking would require more dignity than she currently has available. “Missed you more.”

“No.”

She laughs into his mouth. “Competitive freak.”

“About you?” His thumb drags along her jaw, tilting her face higher. His eyes are dark now, still blue but nearly swallowed by the kitchen light and whatever he’s been carrying home for her across state lines. “Always.”

Her stomach goes warm and loose. “That was almost romantic.”

“Almost?”

“You were doing so well.”

“I’ll try harder.”

He kisses her again, and this one is worse. Slower. Deeper. His hand on her jaw, his body pressing closer, the familiar shape of him pinning her lightly to the island while her toes lift off the tile for half a second.

She feels the hard line of his watch against her back, the heat of his palm through the shirt, the little groan he tries to swallow when she bites softly at his bottom lip because she knows him and his restraint and exactly where both start to come apart.

Then, from upstairs, Lila yells, “DADDY, WHERE ARE YOU?”

They freeze.

For half a second, neither of them moves. Rafe’s forehead rests against hers. Her mouth is still open beneath his. His breath comes out rough and amused, and then she starts laughing, quiet and helpless.

Rafe’s mouth twitches against hers. “Coming, baby girl!”

“NOW?”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. Now.”

She laughs harder, and he kisses the corner of her mouth once like he can’t help it, then the other corner, then her lips properly but too quick to count as anything satisfying.

“We’ll pick that up later,” he murmurs.

She hooks two fingers in his collar before he can pull away entirely. “Promise?”

His eyes drop to her mouth, then lift again with the kind of look that makes her deeply grateful their oldest child is outside and their middle child is elsewhere and their youngest has the patience of a lit match.

“Baby,” he says, voice low enough to land under her skin, “I’ve been thinking about that since I left.”

Her breath catches. “Go read the dinosaur book.”

Rafe grins, awful and bright and tired around the edges. “Bossy.”

“You love it.”

His face softens so quickly it almost hurts. He kisses her once more, softer this time, like even now, even with Lila beginning to chant daddy from upstairs and Banks probably spraying himself in the face with a hose outside, he has to put the love somewhere before he leaves her.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Then he steps back, dragging his hand from her waist like it takes effort, and starts for the stairs.

Halfway to the hall, he turns around. “Hey.”

She lifts her brows.

His eyes move over her again, slower this time, lingering on his shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, the tired set of her mouth, the bare legs, the whole unruly shape of the life he came home to and still looks at like he cannot believe he gets to touch it.

“You look ridiculous in my shirt,” he says.

She smiles. “That means hot, right?”

His grin cuts sideways. “Stupidly hot.”

Warmth blooms low in her stomach, pleased and familiar and still somehow girlish after all this time. “Go upstairs, Mr. Cameron.”

“Yeah,” he says, backing toward the stairs, eyes still on her. “Don’t go anywhere, Mrs. Cameron.”

She looks around the kitchen – at the markers, the mail, the cold tea, the open back door, the damp footprints Banks has left on the tile, the whole beautiful disaster of what they’ve made together – and then back at him.

“Where would I go?”

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. His smile shifts, something quieter slipping through the heat and humour and fatigue. Something almost young. Almost wounded. Almost the boy who used to ask impossible things badly and the man who still sometimes does.

Then Lila yells, “DADDY!”

He looks toward the stairs and exhales. “Jesus Christ.”

“Your favourite child calls.”

“They’re all my favourite.”

“That’s not true.”

“No,” he says, already heading up, “but it sounds good.”

She laughs, and from the stairs he glances back once more, catching the sound like it belongs to him. Outside, Banks curses again under his breath and the hose clatters against the dock. Upstairs, Lila launches into a detailed complaint about dinosaurs waiting. And in the bright, messy kitchen, with Rafe home and the house loud around her again, she finally lets her shoulders drop.

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You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”

“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.

Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.

“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”

Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”

You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.

God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.

Handsome. Not rugged.

Competent. Doubtful.

Caring. Well, caring enough.

“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.

“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?” 

The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —

“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.

He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”

His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat. 

Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”

“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?

“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost. 

“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.

“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.

Jack huffs. “Just go.”

You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.

Well.

Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.

As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.

“Penlight. Incoming.”

You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.

You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.

The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.

Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him.

Fuck it. Too late for that. 

“So…” the man begins.

“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.

“Nick seems like a good guy.”

“Noah.”

“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”

You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.

“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”

“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”

A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.

“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.

“Yes, you just sai —”

“Only care about yours.”

That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.

Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.

You quickly regain your senses to retort.

“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.

The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”

You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.

Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”

"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."

"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.

"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.

"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."

He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”

“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after. 

“She prefers lattes, by the way.”

2

Bzzzzzzz 

“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”

Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.

Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today. 

“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.

“Yolanda, you listen to music?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”

Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second. 

“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”

Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.

“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.

“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”

Huh, Strange. 

***

The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —

Bzzzzzzzzz.

You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”

The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.

You hate loud. So much.

You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.

Look at you being fiscally responsible. 

“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you. 

Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.

“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys. 

“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.

“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks. 

In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.

You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.

Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”

“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”

Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”

“Only women?”

“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”

“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush. 

In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face. 

You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."

“Oh, I tried.” 

You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”

“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —

“Did he forget his Roblox password?”

You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.

“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.

Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”

You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.

You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.

You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.

You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.

Does he want you to hold…?

“Your phone, nurse.”

Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.

“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”

His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.

“You're not a teenager.”

“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.

Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.

Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.

“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.

He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”

With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.

Kid. 

You need a chair. 

3

“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.

“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.

Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.

You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.

“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.

Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”

“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.

Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.

“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”

You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.

“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.

“How much is a while?”

This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.

“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.

“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.

It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.

You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left. 

“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.

“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.

You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear. 

Is nobody watching this?

You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.

His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.

“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair. 

Oh. Oh. OH.

“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.

Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.

You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.

***

You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.

“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.

“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”

“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.

Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.

“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”

“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”

“Thanks, sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”

“Hm?”

“Where he took you. Nick.”

“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.

“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”

“What?”

He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.

“I'm an anything person, really.”

Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.

“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.

Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.

“I know.”

He says your name.

Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.

Please say my name again.

“I know, kid.”

“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.

You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.

By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.

“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”

Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.

You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though. 

Desperation.

You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.

+1

“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.

You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.

The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”

“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.

Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.

Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.” 

For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.

No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.

You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier. 

Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.

Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?

As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.

Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”

The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.

9 missed calls from Noah.

“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.

“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”

“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.

“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”

You take a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”

“No.”

“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”

That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears. 

When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.

You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”

“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.

You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.

This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!

Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.

You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”

The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.

Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.

“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.

“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”

“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”

“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.

“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.

“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.

In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.

“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”

He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.

“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.

“I know that. Do you?”

“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.

“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.

Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.

Nurse, there's people that are dying.

“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.

“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”

Sweetheart.

“You're killing me.” 

“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders. 

A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.

“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”

You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.

The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.

“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.

Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.

“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.

Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.

“I asked you something, kid.” 

You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes. 

And, oh.

His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.

He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.

“You can continue yelling at me now.”

In and out. Deep breath.

“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.

“As I said —”

“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.

A pause.

“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Jac —”

“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”

His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.

“Me? What about me?”

He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”

You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip. 

He thinks that?

Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.

“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.

He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.

“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.

“What? You're my senior, you're older —”

He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.

“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."

You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.

You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.

You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.

“Why haven't you sent it?”

“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”

Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.

“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”

With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.

His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”

Deep breath. In and out.

You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow. 

Send. 

You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him. 

You did that. You.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.

He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.

But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”

“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.

“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.

“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”

You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.

Fuck.

Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.

Just as you try to move your lips against his —

“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle. 

“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.

His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt. 

“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.

“That's a lot.”

“What can I say? I like paying for things.”

His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.

Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later. 

“One hand, wow.” 

“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”

He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.

He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.

You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.

“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.

“Yes, doctor.”

He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his. 

“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.

“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.

“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.

“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.

“Yes, doctor”

“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.

Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.

Jack almost retreats. His instinct tells him to — to give you your privacy, to close the door, to pretend he hadn’t walked in on such an intimate moment. But something deeper roots him in place; the strange warm feeling swirls in his chest, maybe. 

There’s something strangely intimate, he finds, in watching you when you think no one is looking — when you have nothing and no one to perform for. You look peaceful, completely undone, totally in your own world. 

Jack freezes in the doorway when you shift on the bed, sinking further into the mattress as you adjust the vibrator between your thighs. It seems to hit the spot, as you exhale a whimpered sigh a second later. 

So Jack just decides to watch you — he migrates to the desk chair, in hopes of relieving the strain of his prosthetic, but the old floorboards betray him with a soft creak.

You don’t react immediately, but your expression flickers a bit, as a subtle awareness prickles up your spine. You worry, briefly, that someone may be watching you — you always are, in a way, especially when your headphones are on — but you struggle now to shake the feeling.

Your eyes flutter open, if only to prove to yourself that there’s no one there, and they widen in shock when they land on Jack in the corner of the room.

“What the fuck—?” you exclaim, clicking the vibrator off with one hand and slinging off your headphones with the other.

Jack startles, too. His hands lift in surrender as a laugh sputters from his lips. “Sorry! Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your face burns red-hot. You can feel the heat climbing up your neck and to your ears as your eyes flit to his eyes and away again. “H-How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” he shrugs and crosses his strong arms over his chest. His freckled biceps strain against the sleeves of his black tee, which he wears tucked into his camo fatigues. A crooked smile tugs slow at his mouth as he tilts his head. “Two minutes. Give or take.”

“I thought you weren’t coming home until later— Why didn’t you say something?”

“I tried to,” he quips, brows raised to his hairline. “But then I realized you were having a pretty good time in here, so… I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You bury your burning face into your hands. “That’s so embarrassing…” you groan, muffled into your palms.

Jack’s laughter doesn’t make you feel any better. 

“Why is it embarrassing?” he chuckles as he closes the distance between you. 

You can tell that he’s limping from the quiet scuff in his step. The mattress sinks under his weight as he sits on the edge of it, relieving the ache in his amputated limb that he’s been carrying all day. 

He looks over his shoulder at you, lips curling into a sly smirk when he can still hear your headphones playing from just beside you. It’s a muffled, indistinct humming that he can’t quite make out, but it’s very obviously someone else’s voice.

He nods towards it, silver curls turning golden in the amber light. “What are you listening to over there, huh?”

“Nothing,” you answer, a little too quickly, as you take the headphones back into your hands.

“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “Let me see.”

You jerk them away when he reaches out for them. “Don’t…” you murmur, all shy, like a scolded child.

“I’m not upset, baby,” he assures with a gritty laugh. “I just wanna know what you’re into. That’s all.” 

He eases the headphone from your grip; this time, with little protest from you. He holds your weary gaze with his glimmering one as he slips them over his own ears. He’s met with a bassy, masculine voice: “—God, you’re so sexy… Look at how you’re dripping on my fingers, baby…”

You watch, mortified, as confusion etches across his weathered face — eyes squinting and brows lowering. “Who is this?” he asks.

“No one,” you mutter, gaze averted, as you pick at pills of cotton on the blanket with anxious hands. “He’s just… some guy on the internet. I don’t even know what he looks like, he just makes… You know… Audio stuff.”

“Audio stuff, huh?” Jack echoes with raised brows, before huffing a quiet laugh. “God, I’m old…”

He slides the headphones from his silver curls and passes them back to you with something different etched across his features now, something thoughtful. Curious. Interested, even.

“…You’re not mad?” you wonder in a timid voice.

“Why would I be mad?” he scoffs, then bounces a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I think it’s hot. I like knowing what you’re into.”

He leans in to kiss you, and your stomach does a back flip. His scruff brushes your delicate skin when his lips meet yours. You melt against him with a heavy sigh through your nose, as some of the embarrassment from before slips from your skin.

“C’mon,” he slurs between his kisses. “Keep listenin’ for me…”

You pull back, features screwed. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods once, without taking his unwavering stare off yours.

Your fingers tremble with hesitancy as you go to put the headphones back over your ears. Jack’s hand catches your wrist in a soft, calloused grip — redirecting you with a gentle touch. 

“No,” he says in a gravelly voice, eyes low and lidded. “Let it play.”

He reaches over and taps your phone screen with his pointer finger — once to disconnect the wireless headphones and second to unpause the audio. The voice resumes, sounding a little foreign now as it plays throughout the otherwise silent bedroom.

“—You always get so sweet for me when I kiss your neck,” the masculine voice slurs.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. 

He props his fist beside your blanketed thighs and twists his upper body to lean in closer. His warm breath fans over your jaw right before he plants a wet kiss to your neck. Your jaw tightens as you fight back a shiver.

“See? I can feel your heart racing for me…” the stranger mumbles between mimed kisses. “Let me see if I can find that sweet spot, huh? Right… here…”

Jack’s teeth graze over your pulse point — not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch. You raise your hands to his shoulders, balling the fabric of his shirt into your fists. His mouth curls into a slow smile against you, and you sigh when his scruff brushes your delicate skin.

“You love this, huh?” Jack mumbles into your skin.

“This is…” you trail off in mild anguish. “Both incredibly hot and wildly embarrassing.” 

“Why is it embarrassing?” the older man laughs, as his lips slide over the thrumming tendon of your neck.

“I don’t know…” you mumble, trailing your hands up and over his broad shoulders until your fingers find the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “I feel like… Like you just caught me watching porn or something, and now we’re watching it together— It just feels weird.”

Jack hums against you, as if it were a proposition that needed considering.

“Sounds pretty fun to me,” he hums and pulls off of you with a quiet click. His mouth is softly swollen from his kisses, and his eyes are lidded and glittering with mischief when they lock with yours. “Wanna try that later?”

You swallow hard, features crumpling in distant shame as you squeak out, “Yeah…”

Jack’s grin widens right before he presses it to your mouth — in a lengthier and more languid kiss that pushes you slowly back into the mattress again. You sigh hard through your nose when his tongue licks into you, like velvet in your mouth. Your fingers tug harder at his silver curls, and you smile to yourself when he groans quietly against you.

He follows the direction of the foreign male voice spilling from your phone, and it leads him to your spread legs — where a wet patch has already started to form in the thin cotton of your underwear. You melt into the mattress when his strong arms wrap around your thighs to hug you close against him.

“Look at how wet you are for me, baby… Your pussy’s just begging for my mouth, huh? God, you’re such a little slut for me, aren’t you?”

Jack freezes, mid-kiss on your inner thigh. He flashes you an amused look up your clothed body, clad in one of his oversized t-shirts that’s slipping off your shoulder now.

“Do you like being talked to like that?” he asks.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water for an embarrassing moment. “I… I don’t know… Maybe?”

“Hm… Good to know,” Jack nods and gets back to work.

“I’ll warm you up with my tongue first, okay? Nice and slow…”

Jack takes the instruction in stride. 

He slips his pointer finger in the hem of your panties, slipping the fabric to the side, until your drooling pussy is on display for him — already needy and craving the orgasm it missed beforehand. 

Jack ducks down to lick a fat stripe up the length of your cunt in time with the sound effects of the audio. His tongue slots just perfectly within your silken folds.

Your mouth parts in a silent moan as your head tips back against the pillow. You feel Jack smiling against you when your hips buck instinctively to chase his mouth. 

“You like that?” he mumbles, in time with the foreign voice playing just beside you.

You exhale a breathless laugh that turns into a moan when Jack returns to your pussy, kissing you there like he would your mouth. He groans against you when your fingers twist harder in his curls; the vibrations only add to your sensitivity. Your whine swells within the walls of the quiet bedroom, entwining with the wet sounds from the audio and the realer ones coming from between your thighs.

“Now… How about I suck on the pretty little clit, huh? Get it nice and swollen for me…”

Your face flares at the overtly crude language.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat.

He spreads your velvety folds with his thumb and forefinger, bearing the most sensitive part of you for him. His lips wrap around your clit a second later, and your thighs clench instinctively around his head. His scruff prickles at your delicate skin when you jerk against him. A cry spills from your parted mouth before you can stop it.

“Wait, wait, wait—” you hear yourself say.

Jack pulls off of you with a quiet smack. His eyes are lidded; his mouth is swollen; his chin is coated in a layer of your slick. “Too much?” he asks.

You lift your head to stare down your body at the man between your thighs, nodding until the words catch up to you. “I’ll— I’ll cum too fast if you keep doing that.”

His brows lift as something teasing swims in his heavy eyes. “Isn’t that the point?”

Jack returns to your weeping pussy, licking and sucking you there, with noises far more lewd than the ones spilling from the speaker beside your head. There is no further protest from you, as he drags an orgasm from your trembling body — a much more powerful one than you would’ve gotten with just your vibrator, had he not walked in on you. His fingers threaten to dig bruises into the plush of your thighs as your hips twitch wildly against his face.

“Good girl— Good fucking girl,” the stranger’s deep voice croons throughout the quiet bedroom, coaching you through the orgasm Jack gives you with nothing but his tongue.

He caresses you gently on the comedown, with his calloused hands and his wet mouth, molding you back together again as he kisses his way back up your trembling body. 

The voice on the phone continues while the two of you work with graceless limbs to undress — your fingers scramble with the buttons of his camo pants while he tugs his shirt up and over his body by the neckline.

A heavy sigh grumbles in the back of Jack’s throat when you free his half-hard cock from the confines of his boxers, pulling the hem down beneath his heavy balls. His muscular chest, flushed with need, heaves as you take him into your hand.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” the masculine voice continues to slur. “You don’t have to beg for it, baby, I’m gonna give it to you. I’m gonna give you all of it—” 

Jack reaches for the phone again while you massage his cock the rest of the way hard; he feels like heavy velvet in your fist. He taps the screen to pause it.

“Alright, enough of that,” he huffs as he shifts on his knees. “I need to focus.”

You blink up at him, a little dazed from your lingering orgasm, as a smile curls slowly at your lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at multitasking, Dr. Abbot?”

“Multitasking’s for paperwork, baby,” the older man quips with a smug smirk and a pair of squinted eyes. He takes his stiff cock in his fist and eyes you carefully as you lean back onto your elbows, thighs nice and spread for him. “And this—”

He nudges the drooling tip of his cock against your already sensitive clit and grins wider when your head tips back with a moan.

“This deserves my full attention, don’t ya think?”

He can almost time when you’re about to take a drink, too — the way your fingers fidget around the chilled aluminum, right before your tongue darts out to wet your mouth. You tip your head back with the can to take a quick sip, then lick your lips again when you bring the beer to your lap again.

It’s subtle and mostly unconscious, but Jack can’t help but notice all of it.

The same way he can’t help but notice how flustered you get when he asks, “Did you get that dress I bought you?” 

Your head snaps in his direction. Your eyes widen with a set of owlish blinks. The smile you had before softens slightly as your shoulders tuck in, going painfully shy in a flicker. 

It’s not so much the reminder that Jack scoured the internet for the butter-yellow dress Kate Hudson wore in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days — after a passing comment you made about it during movie night some weeks back. It’s more so the reminder that you didn’t get it because you no longer had a real address to receive it at.

Because you’d rather die than tell him you’ve been sleeping in the PTMC for the past week.

“Uh… No. I-I don’t think so,” you stammer.

Jack’s brows lower. “Really? The e-mail said it was delivered yesterday.”

You glance away again — fingers fidgeting, tongue darting. “Maybe it went to the wrong place?” you shrug and bring the can up to your mouth again.

Jack notices how you shift awkwardly on the bench beside him; how you struggle suddenly to meet his gaze, and how you try and fail to tune back into Whitaker’s rambling. There’s something more going on inside your head, something more you’re not telling him, but he figures prying after a twelve-hour shift probably isn’t the best idea.

“Yeah…” he says slowly. “Maybe…”

There’s a long beat of silence between you thereafter, filled by members of the dayshift exchanging staggered goodbyes. Jack takes a quick sip of his beer. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and turns to you with the sheen of alcohol coating his lips.

“I should probably start heading out to,” he clears his throat. “Want me to walk you home?”

You fake a shy smile, instead of telling him that you have no real home to go to.

“I’m a big girl, Abbot. I think I can get there on my own,” you lilt drily. Jack’s stare hardens into an unwavering deadpan; not mean, just firm. You cave with a roll of your eyes. “You go ahead. I’ll walk with Trinity and Whitaker— They live closer to me, anyway.”

Jack hesitates for a lingering beat. 

He wants to tell you that it makes him feel better when he walks with you, that sometimes he thinks he lives and breathes only to protect you, but he’s self-aware enough to know how insane that sounds. So he just nods with a slow exhale.

“Okay… Just— Call me when you get home?”

You give him a soft smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Of course.”

Jack takes the long way out to give you enough time to pack up your things and head out in the opposite direction with Santos and Whitaker. 

He cuts around the block instead of heading straight out, positioning himself just far enough away from the entrance that he can still see it. When he turns the corner, he spots you brushing shoulders with Trinity and tipping your head back to laugh at something he can’t hear from here.

The sound of your giggling is carried on the summer’s evening breeze, along with your words as you veer suddenly towards the side of the hospital again. “Shit— I left my keys in my locker. You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you.”

You slip inside through the automatic doors.

Jack straightens his back and tightens his hold on the strap of the camo bag slung over his shoulder. He gets a strange feeling in his chest that he just can’t shake and decides to follow you back inside the PTMC. He figures it’s better to be safe than sorry — better to seem insane by following you like a creep instead of risking something bad happening to you, anyway.

He weaves through the noisy emergency department with strong shoulders and a sharp gaze. He checks for you in the locker room first, then the break room second, then doubles back for Shen at the workstation.

“Said she left something up in ortho,” the attending shrugs through a short sip of his iced coffee. Then he jokes,“What do you wanna bet she’s screwing around with Park the Shark?”

Jack's chest flares, but he tries not to let it faze him as he makes a beeline for the elevators. 

He knows you’re lying — you wouldn’t have said something different to Trinity otherwise — not unless you really were sneaking around with Dr. Park, that is. Jack has to shake the thought physically from his head, which Shen had unknowingly planted there, the entire ride up to the eighth floor.

No one goes up there anymore — no one other than you and Jack — and it’s the only other place he hasn’t yet looked to find you. The west wing of the upper floor has been nothing short of abandoned, and is eerily quiet compared to the E.D. below, save for the faint buzzing of fluorescent lights that are bound to die out any day now.

As he passes the old rooms, left clean and untouched, he hears a faint song playing from behind a shut door. One of those old 2000s pop songs you always play in the car when you’re together. He knocks first and, when he receives no answer, pushes it slowly open with a call of your name.

This room, unlike the others, is not abandoned. Not exactly. There are blankets folded neatly on the edge of the bed; a duffel bag tucked in the corner by the nightstand; and a pile of books stacked on the windowsill. A laptop sits open on the pillows, where music spills from its speakers.

“‘Cause every time we touch, I get this feeling; and every time we kiss, I swear I could fly—!”

It’s all so organized, so lived in. Jack feels his chest tighten accordingly. He wonders how long you’ve been staying here, how long you’ve been lying to him.

The drumming water faucet shuts off from behind the closed bathroom door. He hears your voice behind it, singing softly to the music, and freezes when the door clicks open a few moments later.

“Can’t you hear my heart beat so, I can’t let you go! Want you in my—” You cut yourself off with a scream when you find a figure standing in front of your bed. 

Your hand rises instinctively to your mouth to muffle the sound. Your chest deflates with a breath of relief when you realize it’s Jack, then tightens again when you realize that it’s Jack. 

“Fuck…” you huff. “You scared me…”

Your free hand readjusts the fluffy white towel wrapped around your body, still warm from the shower and glistening with droplets of water. As the steam rolls out from behind you, he gets a whiff of your sweet body wash — and, as you shift awkwardly on your feet, he notices that you’re wearing a fluffy pair of house slippers. All of which tells him you’ve been staying here for way, way longer than he initially thought.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jack squints, a little harsher than he means to be.

“What are you doing here?” you retort. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I was worried about you,” the man shoots back, firm hands propped on his hips as he sways slightly on his aching prosthetic. “And obviously for good reason— What is this? Are you living here?”

Your mouth opens to argue, but you hesitate with a wavering breath in. You adjust the towel on your naked form and fight back a shiver as the humming AC cools the water on your skin.

“I’m… I’m just… I’m in between places right now. That’s all.”

Jack lets a short, disbelieving chuckle. His stern stare never wavers as you duck past him for the desk across the room, where your pajamas sit on the back of the chair.

“In between places?” he echoes. “What does the even mean?”

You sigh, gaze averted, and try to get dressed without dropping your towel.

“You remember when I told you about my creepy landlord? You know, the one who won’t stop calling me?” you ramble, sliding on a pair of underwear before reaching for your sweatpants. “Well, I was going to move to a new place, and I had already started the process of moving out, but I didn’t get approved for the apartment I wanted—”

The canvas of your bare back is revealed to him when you throw the towel to the side and reach for the sweatshirt laid out before you. Your voice goes slightly muffled as you shove it over your head.

“—And I can’t go back to my old place, obviously, so I just… Moved in here. You know. For the time being.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack presses. “I would’ve helped you.”

“I know,” you roll your eyes. “Because you’re always helping me. Because I can’t do anything for myself—”

“That’s not what I said—”

“You don’t have to say it,” you snap, flashing him a wide-eyed glare. “That’s just what it is. And I can’t keep going to you every single time I have a problem that needs fixing.”

Jack shrugs, oblivious. “Why not?”

Your face twists at his confusion. 

“Because I can’t just rely on you for the rest of my life, Jack! That’s not— sustainable,” you rant, gesturing wildly with your hands. “I mean, what if you get bored of me? What if this stops— being fun for you, and I become a burden? Then where does that leave me?”

The words hang in the quiet, still, sweet-smelling air between you for several long moments.

Jack’s stern expression melts into something softer as a white-hot feeling sears his chest from the inside out.

“You aren’t a burden to me, honey— You’ve never been a burden to me,” he tells you, closing the distance between you in a few short strides. 

You peek through your lashes to meet his gaze when he towers over you. The corner of his mouth flickers into a smile as he huffs a breathless laugh. 

“I mean, not to sound like a selfish asshole here, kid, but this is more for me than it is for you… I don’t buy you stuff just because you want me to; I do it because it makes me happy. I take care of you because it makes me feel good…” Jack trails off, going foreignly sheepish as he crosses his arms and bounces his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Us being in love with each other is just a… super cool bonus.”

You blink up at him with wide, wet eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “And you know what would make me feel really good?”

You hesitate for a moment, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “…What?”

“If you stopped squatting in an abandoned hospital room, and come stay with me at my place,” Jack says. “And if not with me, then at least in my guest room. That way, I know you’re sleeping in an actual bed. And have access to a real kitchen— What have you been eating, anyway?”

You cower under his squinted stare.

“I don’t know... Uber Eats on a good day. And whatever’s in the vending machine on a bad day…” you answer shyly. “And cafeteria food on a really bad day…”

Jack nods slowly, smacking his lips against his teeth.

“Yep,” he deadpans. “You’re coming home with me.”

Home, as it turns out, wasn’t so bad.

You had been to Jack’s place before, to be sure, but never with the intention of staying long term. It makes the place feel a bit foreign to you as you try to find your footing within it, when you arrive with nothing but a bathroom bag and your haphazardly-packed duffel, ‘cause Jack assured you he’d get all the rest of it for you later.

You leave your things in his guest room while he orders you something for dinner. You eat together in his living room, like usual, and wind up inevitably in his bedroom before the night is over. 

Casino plays on the television, bathing the dark room in its flickering neon glow. You lie on your stomach with your legs kicked up behind you, while Jack slouches against the headboard, legs spread to accommodate your body between them. He holds your right foot against his chest with a pair of wide hands, massaging the ache in the ball of it with his fingers.

“God, I would die for that coat…” he hears you mumble to yourself, as Robert De Niro slides the white fur over Sharon Stone’s shoulders. (He makes a mental note to find that one for you, too, and send an email to recover the dress from yesterday.)

“Isn’t this so much better than a hospital bed?” Jack wonders aloud.

You scoff a faint laugh, lifting your heavy head from your fist to flash him a deadpan look. “I think the floor would be better than that hospital bed.”

Jack chuckles quietly to himself before realizing, “…That’s why you’ve been complaining about your back so much, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know…” You turn away, suddenly shy. “I guess so…”

You feel him shift behind you, bed frame creaking under his weight. Your foot falls to the mattress as he sits between your legs, careful to keep the weight off his amputated limb as he kneels on the mattress. 

His warm, calloused hands smooth under the fabric of your sweatshirt. His thumbs dig into the unrelenting ache between your shoulder blades. You exhale a slow sigh and drop your head between your arms, melting under his touch.

You don’t realize he’s leaning over you until his lips brush your neck. You fight back a shiver when his silver scruff brushes the delicate skin.

“From now on…” Jack mumbles against you, low and quiet and just shy of menacing. “I want you to come to me the next time you need or want anything, alright? Anything.”

Your breath catches. Something warm pools in the pit of your stomach.

“Don’t keep it from me… Don’t brush me off…” Jack continues with a voice like honey as his hands press firmly against your back. “Come to me— directly. That’s my job now. Understand?”

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod in response. Jack can feel it with his lips still pressed against your skin. You can feel his mouth curling into a smile as his hands smooth down the length of your spine, with a tenderness that sends chills pebbling across your skin in his wake. 

You forget how to breathe when his fingers curl in the hem of your sweatpants. 

“Who takes care of you, honey?” he murmurs lowly in your ear.

“You do…” you hear yourself say, half-muffled with your head still bowed.

Jack grins. He pulls your bottoms and your underwear down the curve of your ass in one fell swoop.

“Can’t hear you, baby,” he says in gritty monotone before sitting back on his haunches. 

You lift your heavy head, blinking away the haze of desire clouding your vision when you glance at the man behind you. You find him kneeling there, with a hand shoved down his pajama bottoms, massaging himself the rest of the way hard.

Jack smiles wider when he catches you staring. He feels his cock twitching in his fist at your heavy-eyed and wanting gaze.

“Who takes care of you?” he echoes, more firmly this time, but with a teasing squint in his light eyes.

The corner of your mouth lifts in a mischievous half-smile. “You do,” you repeat, more eager this time.

Jack nods once, almost approvingly so, and sighs as he squeezes hard at his stiffening cock. “Hell yeah, I do…” he murmurs to himself, proud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder. Your tired eyes widen at the sight of your attending sliding in beside you. Jack Abbot is still donned in his scrubs, you find, as he leans against the bar — black uniform, brown undershirt, and navy pants — like he dressed himself in the dark before he came into work. His freckled biceps strain against the short sleeves as he folds them across the polished wood. 

There are two glasses half-full of amber liquid before him. He lifts one in his right hand and eyes you over the top of it. “How long has it been?” he quips with narrowed eyes before taking a quick sip.

You blink away the shock of seeing him here, all casual, like he wasn’t just elbows deep in a trauma with you.

“About…” You lilt and glance at the clock behind the bar. “Half an hour ago, I think?”

His mouth curves with a slow, suspicious smile as his steady gaze refuses to waver. “What are you doing here all by yourself, huh? Gotta hot date I don’t know about?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and turn away, looking down at your untouched glass as you spin it in an anxious hand. “Yeah— If that’s what you wanna call watching Trinity and Mel butcher Alanis Morisette’s entire catalog…”

Your head tilts to your shoulder to flash him a lazy grin, which falters at the edge when you catch his unflinching stare. You clear your throat, remember that you’re talking to an attending, and stammer out, “Uh, what— What about you?”

Jack bounces a lazy shoulder and lifts the glass in his right hand. “This was the nearest place to get a good whiskey, so…” he trails off before taking another sip.

His eyes never leave yours as he peers at you from over the rim of the glass, studying you almost, analyzing you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

Your nose scrunches in protest of his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you wonder through a breathless chuckle.

“I don’t know…” he admits, quieter now. “It’s just the first time I’ve seen you out of your scrubs…”

His light eyes flicker over your form again — from your bare shoulders and exposed chest, to where your dress clings to your ass and stomach. 

“It’s different…” he hums. “A good different…”

Heat crawls up your neck. You turn away on instinct, finding it very suddenly difficult to meet his stare, as a disbelieving laugh slips from your mouth.

“What are you laughing at?” Jack presses with a chuckle of his own.

“Nothing,” you dismiss with a shake of your head. “I just… I think you might be a little tipsy there, Dr. Abbot…”

“This is only my second glass, I’ll have you know,” he argues, playfully offended. “What? You think I can’t handle my alcohol.”

He straightens slightly and takes a step closer. Still leaving several inches of space between you, though it takes a lot of strength from you not to slide off your bar stool entirely.

“No! I just—” You stumble over yourself as the words tangle on your tongue. “I just feel like you probably wouldn’t be talking to me like this otherwise.”

“I talk to you every day,” he scoffs.

“Well, yeah, but you don’t flirt with me every day.”

His brows raise as something short of amusement flickers across his face. “Oh. So you think I’m flirting with you?”

An awkward silence drops like a leaden weight upon you, like an anvil in one of those ancient cartoons. It knocks the breath out of you accordingly.

“…No,” you answer after a few long moments. “Of course not.”

Your grip tightens on your drink as you turn away from him again. You hardly think twice before bringing it impulsively to your mouth, downing two long sips of the watered-down gin and tonic. Your face screws at the bitter taste and at the burning sensation on your tongue, which turns into a dull sparkle when it settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Well, I was, so…” Jack quips, too casual for his own good. “I guess I’m gonna have to try a little harder now, aren’t I?”

His eyes cut to you, expecting you to laugh at him, or to stammer out another one of your painfully shy replies. You forget to respond entirely, though, too focused on the way the alcohol singes your tongue. (You spend a long moment debating whether or not it’s numb or swelling in your throat with a thousand-yard stare.)

Your silence is not reassuring.

“Unless—” Jack’s voice tightens slightly as he clears his throat. His charming resolve slips as he stammers, “Unless you don’t want me to. Obviously. Then I can just, you know, fuck off—”

“No, it’s not that!” you blurt. “It’s just…”

He leans in, just slightly. “Just what?”

You hesitate for a moment, calculating the words, though they seem to slip off your tingling tongue before you can stop them.

“I feel like I haven’t… learned how to be a real person yet, you know?” you confess with a sheepish, lopsided grin. “Like… People my age are supposed to go out for drinks, and sing karaoke with their friends, and flirt with cute guys—”

You don’t notice your slip-up, but Jack does, and he hides his smile behind his glass.

“But I think I’ve just been working so much that… That I don’t know how to do anything but work, you know?”

“Yeah…” he hums softly. “Trust me. I know the feeling—”

There’s a distant call of his name. A faint “Abbot,” half-swallowed by the thrumming music and surrounding conversation. Your head turns in the direction of the sound to find Dr. Al-Hashimi appearing from the crowd. Her fluffy brown curls are out of their usual clip, languishing now at her shoulders. Her lavender jacket is gone, too, to reveal her lean body beneath her slim scrub top.

You blink owlishly at her for a few moments, unused to the sight of her outside the white walls of the E.D.

“You were supposed to be bringing me a drink,” the woman quips drily, smiling as she reaches for the touched whiskey next to Abbot. “Not holding it hostage.”

“Shit…” Jack exhales. “I’m sorry. I-I got distracted…”

“Dr. Al,” you greet with a waver in your voice. “I… I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah, well…” she shrugs. “I heard this was the best place to get a glass of whiskey, so…”

You nod slowly, suddenly unsure of yourself — of what to do with your hands, your voice, with Jack. You swallow hard as your eyes flit wildly between the two attendings standing before you. You struggle to shake the feeling that you’ve interrupted something.

“I’ll, uh— I guess I’ll get out of your hair then…”

You muster an artificial smile and abandon your gin and tonic as you slide off the bar stool.

Jack calls your name, but it gets lost in the crowd that swallows you whole as you disappear out of sight.

You stomach through one and a half more songs that Mel and Trinity shout into the void of the private karaoke room. They take a quick break from “You Oughta Know” to sing a strikingly heartfelt rendition of “Head Over Feet” that very nearly brings a tear to your eye. 

It’s not their sloppy singing, exactly, but rather the reminder of how alone you feel just now — the only audience member on the pleather sofa, bathed in the strobing neon glow from the overhead lights, watching the fun from afar while your friends forge an unlikely bond. 

While Jack and Dr. Al laugh over drinks together— 

You rise abruptly and catch them between verses to tell them you’re heading out for the night. Their protests come wrapped in song.

“But we’re having so much fun!” Trinity whines in drunken slurs, then locks in when the chorus hits. “You’ve already won me over, in spite of me! So don’t be alarmed if I fall, head over feet—!”

The song follows you the entire way out of the bar, where the night air outside washes over you like fine silk. You catch yourself humming the tune as you shrug on the brown bomber jacket you borrowed from Trinity’s closet — just in case you felt the need to hide. You falter when your fingers brush something in the front pocket.

You reach in with a pensive twist to your features, surprised to find a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter shoved inside. You stare at it for several long moments and wonder briefly what it would feel like to smoke one. (You’re unable to shake the impulsive thought from your brain until you’ve done it.)

You pull one cig free and stick the orange filter between your lips. You flick the lighter three times before it finally strikes. You hold your free hand over the flame like they do in the movies and inhale when it finally lights.

You regret it instantly. 

Grey smoke billows from your mouth as you cough. You double over on the worn sidewalk like a total loser, eyes watering and chest burning as your lungs rebel against your very poor life choices.

“Those things kill, you know—?” Jack’s voice cuts in again.

(He has a way of finding you in the most embarrassing situations, it seems.)

You blink away the tears in your eyes and turn to find the older man standing just a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He watches you attentively, with something close to amusement twisting his scruffy face.

“I can tell—” you rasp as your coughing fit ebbs. “There’s no way this is enjoyable for people.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”

His sneakers scuff the cracked pavement as he saunters over to you, holding his hand out with a glittering look in his eye. “Can I?”

You don’t think twice before passing him the lit cigarette.

“By all means...”

Jack pinches the stick between his thumb and forefinger. He places his mouth around the filter, inhales once, holds the breath, and exhales through his nose a second or more later. 

You can’t seem to stop staring at the silver hair on his tilted chin; or the tendons in his corded neck; or the singular vein in his freckled forearm when he snuffs the cigarette out on the brick wall. He drops it into the receptacle there when he’s done.

“So…” He exhales the remaining smoke from his mouth, which leaves in grey wisps that hang in the air between you for a few lingering moments. “I guess you’re headed out now?”

“Yeah…” you sigh. “Guess so…”

He observes the empty sidewalk for a moment before wondering casually, “Want me to walk you home?”

“No, it’s okay,” you shrug. “You’re busy, and I… I only live, like, a block down the road, so—”

“So, then, it’ll be quick?” Jack presses with raised brows.

Your eyes narrow. “…You’re not gonna take no for an answer here, are you?”

Jack shakes his head, lips smoothing into a knowing grin. “Not this time, kid. No.”

The walk back to your place feels borderline suffocating, though you can’t exactly place why. The air is made of thick satin as the heat of the day washes away, leaving something silken and breathable in its wake, as the wind ripples in your dress. Everything smells very distinctly of summer — of dewy grass, and gunpowder from distant fireworks, and the faint sweetness of something that’s just been barbecued. 

You can hear the fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance, though you struggle to see them from the buildings overhead. You can feel each thundered boom in your chest, along with the heavy bass of a passing car playing music far too loud as it barrels by.

There’s something oddly peaceful about it. Intimate, even, as your shoulder brushes Jack’s broader one with each step. The silence is not particularly awkward, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should say something. You rack your brain for a conversation starter, and end up blurting out the one thing you didn’t want to say out loud— 

“So…” you lilt, tripping over the conversation like a loose wire. “You and Dr. Al…?”

“…Are very good coworkers, yeah,” Jack nods, silver curls turning gold beneath the amber streetlights. He catches your uncertain gaze and shrugs. “She had a tough first day, you know? Figured I’d treat her to a few drinks.”

“That’s nice…” you murmur with an averted gaze.

“It was nothing,” Jack assures you.

Your apartment building comes into view around the corner, painted a garish canary yellow with vivid orange doors, aptly named Sunset Tower. It used to be a motel, you assume from the layout, probably before you were born; and was renovated into an apartment complex likely not too long after you were born.

You don’t think twice before starting up the rusty staircase to your third-floor apartment — not until you notice the slight hitch in Jack’s step as he follows behind you, favoring his prosthetic limb more than he realizes. It must be hurting him, you figure, after being on it for hours at the PTMC. 

“Shit,” you huff. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

“Told me about what?” Jack scoffs despite his grimacing as he swings his leg another step. “I can handle a few stairs…”

“I can’t make it up on my own, if you—”

“Hey,” he snaps, a little harsher than he means to, as he glances in your direction. A far-off firework glimmers in your gaze, soft and sympathetic around the edges in a way that makes his chest ache. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me, alright?”

You continue the ascent despite your better judgment, despite the way Jack’s steps lose rhythm just beside you. You catch him stumbling in the corner of your eye when he steps up a beat too early. His prosthetic twists unnaturally, angering the already raging skin of his amputated knee. 

You’re at his side without blinking. Your hands reach for his arm, steady him with your fingers cradling his wrist and elbow. 

Jack nearly protests, but stops himself short.

You hold onto him the rest of the way up.

Your place is exactly how he imagined it would be — not that he’d been picturing what the inside of your apartment looked like, of course, because he’s not a total creep. He just finds a very apt representation of you wedged with the quaint walls of the old, old building. It’s cluttered but not messy; with numerous blankets and books and potted plants strewn about. There are half-used candles littered on just about every surface, filling the air with a sweet scent of musky-vanilla-raspberry.

The grass green couch pushed against the wall caves under his weight when you ease him down onto it. It smells like a mixture of your perfume and the side of the road you must’ve pulled it from when you moved in.

“Wow…” Jack hums, if only to conceal his wincing as he adjusts himself on the cushion. “Nice place…”

“No, it’s not,” you scoff an awkward laugh and stand to full height above him, adjusting the skirt of your dress from where it had ridden up. “Do you, uh— Need anything?” 

“No. I’m good.”

“‘Cause I have some first aid supplies if your prosthetic is bothering you—”

“Really. I’m good,” he echoes. “You don’t mind if I take it off, though, do you?”

“Of course not!” you blurt. “I’ll, um… I’ll go get you some water.”

You scurry the short distance to the kitchen. The hissing faucet pervades the silence as you fill two glasses at the sink, along with the soft clanking of the heavy prosthetic as Jack unscrews it from the limb. You find him massaging the scar when you return.

“Do you— Do you need me to call you an Uber, or…?”

Jack tilts his chin to smile up at you. A playful laugh tumbles from his mouth. “Wow… Trying to get rid of me already, huh?”

Your face floods with horror. “No! O-Of course not! I just— With your leg, I— I don’t want you to walk all the way home, you know?”

“I think I can make it, sweetheart,” he tells you, and only vaguely notices his slip-up. “I just needed a second… Thank you—” He nods in appreciation when you set the water down on the coffee table in front of him.

You keep several inches between you on the sunken couches as you sit gingerly at his side — very palpably tense, like you’re a stranger in your own home. You wring your clammy hands together in your lap as a long silence stretches thin between you.

“And I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to… kick you out. Or anything,” you add, softer now.

“I know, kid,” Jack assures.

“Good…” you breathe a sigh of relief. “‘Cause I— I don’t want you to leave… Wait, that sounded weird— I just meant that… I like your company. I’m not, like, trying to hold you hostage or whatever, I swear.”

Another awkward laugh spills from your mouth.

Jack’s lip quirks with a smile as he sits up straight again. “I wouldn’t mind it if you were, to be honest…” he hums, only halfway joking. “But unfortunately, I do have SWAT early in the morning, so… If you could free me around 6 a.m,  that’d be great.”

“Oh, right,” you scoff and bring your water to your mouth. “The side hustle where you get shot at for fun?”

“It’s good to have a hobby,” Jack shrugs and leans back against the sofa, throwing a strong arm around the back of it, as he studies you with narrowed eyes. “What do you do for fun, hm? Outside of work, I mean.”

You think for a long moment, spinning the glass between your fingers. “…I once watched Love Island for thirty-one straight hours. That was pretty fun.”

Jack snorts. “So what I’m hearing is, you don’t have any hobbies?”

“Work is my hobby.”

“So what do you do to… unwind?”

“…Have panic attacks in the supply closet at work,” you confess. “What about you?”

“Get shot at,” Jack quips in the same gritty tone.

“Well, at least you get to do something outside of the E.D…” you monotone with a far-off stare. “This is the first time in months I’ve been somewhere other than here and the PTMC. I mean, I have my groceries delivered now— I’m too boring to even go shopping...”

“What do you mean?” he scoffs. “You’re young— You should be going out every weekend.”

“Well, I don’t…” you huff mournfully and slouch back against the sofa. The thin sleeve of your velvet dress slips off your shoulder, giving Jack a brief glance of the top of your breast before you adjust it back over your collarbone again.

“What about dates?” he presses with his chin to his shoulder. “You don’t go on any of the apps?”

“Well, first of all, no one calls it the apps. And second of all, god no,” you laugh drily, then flash him a sheepish look from the corner of your eye. “What about you?”

“Nah…” Jack shakes his head. “I haven’t been on a date in about… Eight years—”

“Eight years?!” you blurt before he can properly get the words out, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Jesus. How does a guy like you go around without getting hit on for eight whole years?”

(You’re starting to think those three sips of gin from before are getting to you now.)

“Well, it’s a lot easier than you think,” the older man deadpans. ‘Cause it’s not like he was actively avoiding dates; he just wasn’t exactly seeking them out. 

He lost the urge to after his wife died, and then, when the urge to live came back around, he’d catch himself flirting every now and then, but never wanting to do much more than that. Then he blinked, and eight years had passed without him noticing.

Eight years with nothing but his own hand to get himself off — though, it only starts to seem pathetic when you look at it that way.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” you scoff. “The last time a guy showed even a modicum of interest in me was… in med school, probably.”

“Okay, well, that’s just not true,” Jack argues. “That vitrectomy patient from earlier definitely had a crush on you.”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint. “He was drunk. With half a bottle rocket stuck in his eye. That hardly counts.”

“Well, I’ve had… About a whiskey and a half,” Jack calculates. “Do I still count?”

The air thins in an instant, or maybe his words have just knocked it all straight out of your lungs.

Your skin burns red hot beneath the dress that feels suddenly way too tight, ‘cause you think he must be joking — that taking the piss out of your obvious crush on him is his idea of playing around.

“That’s not funny,” you tell him with a wavering smile.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” the man insists with a scoff. “I haven’t been funny since 1994.”

Another laugh sputters from your mouth. A real one this time — not the fake ones you’ve been giving him just to fill the silence, or to try to seem less nervous than you really are. It makes him smile wider than he probably realizes.

“There you go…” Jack hums with a proud nod.

“There I go, what?”

“You’re unwinding…”

You scoff, still grinning wide despite yourself. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he hums. “And you’re doing a great job so far— a solid B-minus.”

“B-minus?” you echo. “I’ve had a 4.0 GPA since I was in fourth grade.”

“Well…” Jack shrugs with a knowing grin. “Better step it up then, kid.”

Something inside you tips in that moment. It’s his teasing, maybe, or just the way he’s looking at you. Either way, you catch yourself leaning forward before your brain has properly thought it through. You close the distance between you in a flicker — brushing a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away just as fast.

You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you quip, “What does that get me?”

Jack blinks for a second, momentarily caught off guard. He fights the urge to lick his lips, to try and actually taste you. “Probably a couple HR violations?” he jokes after a few moments.

Your stomach drops. You find yourself praying that this old couch swallows you whole, or that the world would just end altogether, because even that would be a kinder fate than this.

“Oh. Shit. I-I thought that— I thought we were... Fuck, I totally misread this whole thing—”

You turn away entirely and drop your face in your hands, utterly mortified. 

His laughter doesn’t make it any better.

You feel the sofa caving beneath you as Jack shifts to your side. His hands are warm and softly calloused as they cradle your wrists in a firm and gentle grip, urging them downward so he can see your face again. He ducks his head to meet your wet eyes and flashes you a reassuring smile.

“You didn’t misread a damn thing,” he assures you with a shake of his head, voice lower and smoother than honey. “Of course, I want to kiss you— I always want to kiss you.”

The mournful twist in your features never wavers. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because it’d be wrong,” he shrugs. “I’m your attending. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking that I— that I pressured you into something.”

“Well… We both know you didn’t, right?” you argue softly, eyes glittering with hope as they dart back and forth between his. “And, I mean… It’s not like anyone else would have to know. We’re not getting married, we’re just… unwinding. Right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack hums, softer now, with something mischievous squinting his gaze. “Right...”

You’re not making it easy for him.

Jack’s trying not to cum in his pants before you’ve ever even touched him, and you’re making it damn near impossible. 

He drags you into his lap when you lean in to kiss him again — for real this time, licking sweetly into his mouth so he can taste you truly — and you knee him right in the thigh before you can straddle him properly. You pull away with a smack when he groans in pain against your mouth.

“Shit…” you pant with his spit still on your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Jack shakes his head until the words catch up to him. “It’s okay,” he assures through uneven breaths, knotting his fingers in your hair to pull you into him once more. He kisses you again, hard, like it’s muscle memory for him — from a life he hasn’t let himself live in a long, long time.

He cradles one hand over the crown of your head and the other just over your spine, where your dress dips down in the back. He keeps your warm weight pressed flush against him while the kiss turns languid and heavy, full of tongue and teeth and spit. You curl your fingers into his greying curls to keep him impossibly close all the while.

You feel his chest hitch with a startled breath beneath you when you grind down over his lap. Your velvet dress rises over your hips from the angle as you move down his thighs and up again — you can feel the ghost of his erection hardening beneath his scrubs with every pass. 

There’s a noticeable hesitance in the way you move. It’s not graceful or entirely practiced. It’s laced with a palpable uncertainty, rather, as you struggle to navigate the honeyed moment you’ve stumbled so suddenly into.

And Jack can hardly take it. ‘Cause hasn’t let himself want like this in years; he hasn’t let himself reach out for anything other than his grief or his work. For so long, his life has been defined by restraint and the careful art of not needing anything. And now you’re here, moving clumsily on top of him, completely undoing him.

It hits him all at once, how suddenly sensitive he is, after so long ignoring the touch of another. The friction, the pressure; the smell of you, the taste of you. It’s all too much. He knows he won’t last long if he keeps going this way, so he pulls back.

And he hates himself for it.

“Hey—” He clears his throat when the word comes out a little rough. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His glassy eyes dart back and forth between both of yours as he peers up at you through a layer of honey. “Hey, you… You have condoms, right?”

You blink back at him for a long moment, slightly dazed at the sight of your spit on his rosy mouth. You nod with a stuttered breath. “Uh, yeah. Yeah— I think— Somewhere…”

(There’s an unopened box collecting dust under the sink in the bathroom, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

He mourns your warmth when you slide off his lap, rushing off down the hall with your dress still caught around your hips. The sight of your plain cotton underwear cradling the curve of your ass makes his chest tighten as you disappear down the dim hallway. You toe off your shoes halfway down, and the sound of your padding footsteps echoes in the quiet.

“Jesus Christ…” Jack huffs and slouches further into the couch. 

He drags his hands down his face and tries to regulate his breathing, tries to think of anything other than the aching erection in his pants. He stares up at the ceiling and attempts to will his body into something resembling composure when you return.

Your dress has fallen back down over your hips, but the right sleeve is still slipping down your shoulder when you stand before him. You’re not sure what to do with the condom in your hand, so you toss it to him over the coffee table. Jack catches it against his chest.

“Take that dress off…” he tells you with a voice like honey. “I wanna see you.”

You try and fail to reach for the zipper, which Mel had helped you with at Trinity’s place before you left for the bar. So, instead, you worm your arms out of the sleeves and shove the fabric down your hips with trembling hands. It hits the floor around your bare feet with a dull thud, leaving you in a heart-patterned bra you’ve had since high school and a pair of plain pink panties.

You’re hardly a thing worth looking at, really, but Jack didn’t seem to get that memo.

He beckons you forward with heavy eyes. “C’mere…” he murmurs.

You take slow, tentative steps towards him.

His calloused hands are warm and slightly trembling when they curl around the backs of your thighs. He leans in to press his mouth to the silk bow in the middle of your underwear, and his mouth waters at the wet spot gathering in the center of the cotton.

His scruffy chin brushes your stomach when he turns to look up at you, lidded eyes glimmering with a desire you didn’t know you were capable of drawing out of a person.

“I wanna make you cum with my mouth,” Jack murmurs. “Can I?”

You nod wordlessly, and can’t shake the feeling that you’re dreaming when his pointer finger hooks through the hem of your panties. You feel a little cold when he slides the cotton to the side, only for him to press his warm mouth there a second later. 

Your knees threaten to buckle when his tongue slots through your silken folds, and Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He braces your ass in one wide hand while his other slips down to the bend of your knee, urging you to prop your foot on the couch beside him. Your moan swells throughout your empty apartment at the new angle, which allows him to lick at your sensitive clit with greater precision.

He forgets to take things slow with you, too busy trying to make up for this time. He drags an orgasm out of you like the world’s soon to end, and the last thing he wants to do on this earth is to taste you on his tongue. 

You cum on his mouth with your head tipped back and with your fingers knotted in his hair. He’s wearing your glittering slick down to his chin when he’s done with you.

You fall gracelessly into his lap when your legs turn to jell-o. You straddle his waist, ball his shirt into your fists, and bury your burning face into his neck — still whimpering as your high is slow to ebb. 

Jack cradles you against him the entire length of your comedown, running his warm hands up and down your spine. His scruff brushes the delicate skin of your shoulder when he presses a chaste kiss there.

“That wasn’t too much, was it?” he pants into your ear.

You shake your head until the words catch up to you. “No… No, it was— It was good…” you stammer through uneven breaths, and pull just far enough away to meet his eyes. “I wanna ride you now… Is that okay?”

And who is Jack to deny you of a damn thing?

You brace yourself on his shoulder with one hand and use your free one to line his bulbous tip at the entrance of your weeping pussy. His cock drools an embarrassing amount of pearly precum — he can feel it all underneath the condom — and he’s momentarily grateful that you can’t see any of it. 

You exhale a wavering, punched-out breath as you sink down over him and take a long moment to get used to the distant stinging sensation.

Jack’s grateful for that, too.

His jaw hardens to choke down the groan that rumbles in the bottom of his throat. He tilts his head against the back of the couch and squeezes his eyes shut to fight away the overwhelming desire to explode entirely. He holds you in place when you try to move again, with fingers that threaten to leave bruises on your thighs.

“You okay?” you pant, eyes darting wildly over the pained twist on his scruffy features.

Jack nods, jaw clenched tight. His words come out half-strangled. 

“Yeah, yeah. I just… I wasn’t lying about the whole eight-year thing.” He exhales a hard breath through his nose that’s supposed to be a laugh, though there isn’t really a smile to accompany it. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna cum too soon, you know? I wanna— make it good for you. That’s all.”

Your fingers brush over his temple and through his silver curls, in a touch so gentle it nearly makes him cum right then.

“It’s already good for me,” you assure him. “I want it to be good for you, too.”

You grind over him with the same hesitance from before, down his thighs and back again, slowly finding your rhythm. Jack’s hands grip hard at your hips, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He can just barely find the strength to keep his eyes open to watch you chase your orgasm on top of him.

His eyes flit from your blissed-out features to where his cock disappears inside of you. The thatch of curls above his cock glistens with your honey — he can feel it wetting the hem of his scrubs from where they’re shoved beneath his heavy balls. You’re bound to cum just as quickly as he is, no doubt. 

He can feel it in the way your pussy flutters around his twitching length — in the way your pacing falters slightly on top of him.

“Nuh-huh. Don’t run away from me,” Jack mutters in your ear as he shifts underneath you, slouching further to hit somewhere deep inside of you. He cradles your head with one hand and grips hard at your ass with another, helping you move on top of him. 

Your whine gets buried in his sweat-slick neck.

Jack smiles into your hair. “Yeah. There it is, honey. There you go…”

He feels a little proud of himself when he manages to hold off just long enough to feel you cumming around him, twitching against his chest and tugging hard at his silver curls. He follows right after — going rigid underneath you a second later as his cock jerks wildly within your fluttering confines.

His groan mixes with your whining as you milk him of his orgasm, in a sinful symphony that swells throughout your silent apartment.

Then the room goes quiet, with only the sound of your heavy breathing to fill it. You rise and fall with each of Jack’s panted breaths beneath you. Your limbs are loose and borderline boneless; tension ebbs from your body like an unwinding thread. You think you’d turn into a puddle on top of him without his hands smoothing up and down your back, molding you back together again.

It’s the only way Jack can stay anchored, really — with his hands on you, and with your weight settled on top of him. It’s foreign and familiar all the same: the strange absence of urgency he feels underneath you. The way his body, usually wound tight with panic, dissolves in time with yours. For the first time in eight years, he feels his heartbeat finally steady.

Until a far-off firework rattles the walls and sends the two of you jerking against each other.

The honeyed moment shatters in an instant. Jack holds you tighter when you flinch on top of him, laughing through a grumbling moan as you clench instinctively around his softening cock. 

“You okay?” Jack mumbles against you, before pressing a brief kiss to your temple.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you nod, half-breathless, as you pull away from him for the first time in several minutes. 

You blink away the haze of your dwindling orgasm while Jack swipes drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You lean instinctively into his palm and exhale a breathless laugh. 

“I just… I don’t know what normal people do in this situation…” you confess through uneven pants. “Like, I feel like we should… high-five or something.” 

Jack scoffs a tired breath but doesn’t say a word.

There’s a fleeting moment, then, where you worry you’re maybe being too much. Your stomach aches with it, too, because you think your stupid half-joke would’ve ruined the moment for anyone else. Anyone other than Jack. His hand slips from your back and lifts lazily for a high-five without a second thought. 

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and clap your palm against his.

Your breathless laughter fills the quiet apartment.

“We make a good team, don’t we, Doc?” Jack hums with heavy eyes.

“Well, you make a good teacher…” you answer sheepishly, pulling at a rogue thread in his scrub top. “You know, helping me unwind, or whatever…”

“Right, well…” Jack trails off, mouth curling into a sly half-smirk as his eyes narrow into thin slits. Your stomach pools with red-hot warmth once more at the look he gives you, then, and at the words that spill from his lips like honey. “I think I still got a few more lessons in the chamber, sweetheart…”

You had always hoped your child would be conceived after a night of romance. Something out of a movie. Perhaps a candle lit dinner followed by passionate love making? Growing up in the age of Nicholas Sparks novels certainly skewed your romantic view of the world. You certainly never expected it to be with your stone cold attending Jack Abbot, in a night of well...alcohol fueled fucking. Jack putting you in positions you didnt know were humanly possible, and having you making noises you didnt even know you could make.

"Thats it baby, give me more." he growled into the crook of your neck as he fucked you through your second orgasm. Slowly stroking in and out of your squelching cunt as your body arched and contorted beneath him. Your moans echoing through his loft apartment. His rough hands anchoring you as he stretched you out, his cock fitting almost perfectly inside of you. He loved watching you lose control, your eyes rolling back with each deep thrust, your toes curling as he hit that spongey spot that made you come undone.

And he wasn't finished. You see, Jack was a gentleman, chivalrous as some would say. He took his time. He didnt dare let himself reach his climax until he was pleased with his work. Until he felt your pussy squeezing and throbbing against him, gasping for breath and beginning for his cum. He fucked slow and deliberate, stretching you out- filling up every single inch. Only when until you demanded he fuck you faster…harder, did he really lose himself in you. Your legs resting in his broad shoulders, him holding onto your thighs, fingers digging into your soft flesh.

The sweat dripped down his forehead as he fought to stay in control. You were so tight, twitching around him with each thrust, it felt euphoric. Just when you thought you had nothing left, his hand traveled down to your swollen clit, drawing circles with his thumb, rendering you breathless.

"Fuck, Jack..." you whimpered. Your breathing was erratic- mouth dry, longing for his tongue to explore yours once again. He knew you were close again, it didnt take him long to discover what made you tick, and what made you lose all control.

"That's it, good girl. Let go." and thats all it took for you to erupt. He fucked you ferociously through your orgasm, the bed crashing against the wall with each thrust until he collapsed on top of you. You both struggled to catch your breath.

No wonder the condom broke.

When you stood the bathroom of the Pitt looking at the two blaring pink lines it felt like you had the wind knocked out of you. You saw your entire residency crumble beneath you. You contemplating not telling him, writing a script for mifepristone and misoprostol yourself. But after work that night, you found yourself at his apartment. Your hand hovered over the door before you heard a voice behind you.

"Y/n?" Jack stood with his backpacked slung over his shoulder, wondering what the hell you were doing at his place. After sleeping together weeks prior not much changed between you. You never spoke of it and carried on like work colleagues. Maybe he stood up a little straighter when you walked by, maybe your cheeks felt flushed whenever he brushed up against you during a trauma.

By the look on your face, Jack knew something was wrong. He fumbled with his keys as you stepped aside enough for him to unlock the door. He pushed it opened and ushered you in first.

"I'm sorry, I know that was a rough shift b-"

"Whats going on? You alright?" he cut you off, kicking off his work sneakers and setting his stuff down by the door. He watched as you fumbled in your bag, searching for the positive pregnancy test that seemed to be buried under your empty snack wrappers and old receipts. You hesitated before pulling it out of your bag.

His hand hovered before reluctantly taking it from you, looking at you beneath his furrowed brow. He had been to war, he had been surrounded by complete destruction, he had seen the worst of humanity, and yet he had never been more scared than in this moment. He inspected it, flipping it over, holding it up to the light, but the two lined were as clear as day. Dark. Blaring. Indisputable.

“I’m sorry. I-“ you couldn’t find the words. Your mouth opened and closed liked a fish out of water as your thoughts faltered.

“Why are you apologizing?” Jack asked, confused, dry and deadpan.

“I don’t know."

"It’s not your fault. I mean I was there too.” He said, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

Your eyes burned as the tears began to well up, blinking ferociously to stop them from falling. However soon one fell, and then another, and another. Before you knew it you were sobbing in Jacks arms. The two of you stood there for what felt like an eternity as he traced circles along your back. It felt strangely comfortable, his arms holding you against him, the smell of sweat and antiseptic on his scrubs filling your nose.

"What do we do?”

“We figure it out. If you want to keep the baby or if you don't, we figure this out. You aren't in this alone. ”

And you did. As your bump grew, so did your closeness and love for each another. You almost missed the first time he told you he loved you. You were cooking him dinner, something you loved to do despite your multitude of food aversions. Hips swaying side to side to a spotify playlist as you glided around his kitchen. He was trying to watch the Steelers game but kept finding his eyes on you.

“I love you.” He called out quietly. You felt your heart jolt.

“Huh? Did you say something?” You asked in disbelief, turning down your music to make sure you heard him right. Jack hesitated, trying to gauge your face and reaction before repeating himself.

“I said, I love you.” And he took you right there on the living room floor, fucking you senselessly as the pasta boiled over on the stove. You ordered takeout that night instead.

However, aside from in the bedroom, Jack wasn’t especially affectionate, especially not in public; and while he tried to make more of an effort, he didn’t say “I love you” often. But it certainly wasn’t lost on him.

You found him reading books about obstetrics in his free time, he instinctively put his hand on your belly when a patient was being especially combative, he signed the both of you up for a childbirth class where he took notes, or he would text you “you craving anything?” on his way home from the hospital on your nights off. All the subtle things he did made you realize he was completely and utterly head over heels in love with you.

The first time Jack felt the baby flutter, you don't think you had ever seen him so happy.

On mornings after a particularly rough shift, and Jack couldn't sleep from the adrenaline, the two of you would watch the morning news until one of you eventually folded, usually you. His hand rested on your swollen bump that you could no longer pass as bloating to your nosey coworkers. Of course Dana was the first the sniff it out. Jack rubbed circles on your belly, it helped calm him, ground him, and have at least something to help keep his head above water. Suddenly he felt a little kick, jumping up so quickly he almost tripped, running his fingers through his hair with the dumbest smile on his face.

"Did you feel that? Was that my baby girl?" he started to pace, unsure of how to process this other worldly experience.

"Girl?" you chuckled, raising your brow, "How are you so sure its a girl?" the two of you decided you wanted to be surprised. You were certain it was a boy, but he shot down all the baby boy name suggestions because, "it didnt matter anyway." He liked the name Grace.

"Yes, my girls are both right here. Hi Gracie girl." he knelt down next to the bed, rubbing and kissing your belly as you rolled your eyes.

But the comfortable bliss of the second trimester was short lived as you entered your third. Growing more and more uncomfortable as the weeks pass and your bump grows. You don’t want to be touched, your back hurts, waking up nearly every night from heartburn, and those damn Braxton Hicks contractions making your abdomen tighten like a vice grip.

After every shift, Jack meets you on the couch to rub your swollen feet, not before checking your blood pressure of course.

“Jack, I don’t have pre eclampsia.” You’d protest and the cuff tightened around your arm.

“You know just as well as I that it can sneak up on you quick… 118/72…”

“See? I told you I was fine. I’m swollen because I was on my feet for the past 12 hours.” You elevated your legs on his lap, kicking his thigh with your foot before he started to rub them.

“Are you sure you’re okay working? You can always go out on maternity leave early.” Jack was particularly protective of you right now, no matter how many times you protested you didn’t need light cases loads at work. He’d make you take frequent breaks, and show up at the nurses station with a water bottle and crackers. You spent more time in the bathroom from all the water he made you drink rather than tending to patients.

“So I can sit at home and go stir crazy? No way. I’m only 36 weeks. I have a month left of this hell.” You threw your head back as he massaged a particularly tender spot. You took a long bath and changed into one of Jacks Army t shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, his clothes were the only things that fit you comfortably at this point. The shirt was ratty and nearly falling apart at the seams, but it was your favorite to wear. His smell embedded into the fabric no matter how many times it’s been washed. The sleeves stretched from his biceps that you loved to bite and nibble on when you two laid together.

You crawl into bed next to Jack who has already pulled down the blackout curtains and turned on your white noise machine you can’t sleep without. He looped his arm around you, nuzzling his head into your damp hair that now smelled of lavender and lemon verbena. It wasn’t long before you felt his breathing slow and his arm grow heavy over your bump.

You tossed and turned, feeling incredibly restless. Unable to settle, you flipped on the bedside lamp and started reading one of Jacks medical journals, hoping your eyes would eventually become too heavy to fight it. That feeling never came. It felt as if though you just ran a trauma, adrenaline coursing through your veins. You decided to go for a walk, your back aching, stopping ever so often to breathe through those damn Braxton Hicks. God you were so over this.

You spent the rest of the day cleaning whatever you thought was necessary. The baseboards, the inside of the freezer, and the top of the fans that you made him dust only last week. Had Jack known you were on top of a ladder, he’d have had a conniption. Soon you heard Jacks alarm go off and him shuffle out into the kitchen, his eyes tired and heavy.

“You get any sleep baby?” He asked, planting a kiss on the top of your head.

“Not really. Just too restless.” You shrugged as he poured himself a cup of coffee. You watched at he changed into his black scrubs and threw some extra things into his backpack. Today was your night off.

There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach, sometime inside screaming for Jack not to leave. You shook it off. Maybe it was just the indigestion. He grabbed an apple off the counter to eat on the way in. He held it in his mouth as he zipped his sweatshirt before taking a bite.

“You need anything before I head out?” He asked, grabbing the keys to his pickup. You watched the clock behind him, timing the minutes between the pains in your lower abdomen.

It’s just Braxton Hicks. It’s too early. You’re probably tired. Dehydrated. No, no, it’s just too early.

“Baby?” Jack called out again.

“Oh no I’m fine. Have a good night, my love.” You walked over, lacing your hands around his waist and planting a tender kiss on his lips, tasting the apple he’d just eaten. Then another twinge in your stomach. How long had it been?

8 minutes.

20 minutes.

5 minutes.

15 minutes.

3 minutes.

Something was happening. These felt different than the Braxton Hicks contractions that plagued you for weeks. Water. You had the primal urge to be in water. You ran another bath, submerging your belly, holding onto the sides of the tub as the surges continued to come, and then a low groan. You were vocalizing now. You had to be in active labor. You sat there for 2 hours, adding more hot water to the tub whenever you caught a chill.

Before you knew it, it was 6 am. You wanted to call Jack. You needed him. But he’d be home soon, God willing.

You no longer could concentrate, low, guttural moans escaping your mouth during peaks of your contractions. You didn’t even have a hospital bag packed. You started throwing stuff into a bag, none of it made sense. A tooth brush, a t shirt, a scarf. What? Why would you need a scarf? The pain was too intense. Why was this all going so fast? This was your first baby. You’d heard horror stories your entire pregnancy of women laboring for 24 or even 48 hours.

When you heard the jingle of his keys and the knob turning, you were hit with the strongest contraction yet.

“Ba-,” As Jack opened the door his eyes widened. He immediately threw his stuff down and rushed to you, who was leaning over the kitchen counter, rocking your hips and moaning. “Baby how long have you been like this? How far apart are your contractions?” The birthing classes immediately kicked in, bracing himself behind you and giving you hip squeezes until the contraction passed. It felt like heaven.

“They started before you left for work… and uh… 3 minutes now.” His face fell.

“Why didn’t you call me?” He asked, your face in his now shaking hands. Before you could answer you were hit by another contraction that now sent you on your hands and knees. He grabbed a cool rag and placed it on the back of your neck as you roared. The counter pressure he applied to your back no longer offered any relief. He coached you through the contraction that felt like it would never end, and all you wanted was for him to shut the fuck up. Suddenly the lights were too bright. His voice was too loud and your shirt was too tight.

“Off.” Is all you could say and you tried to take your shirt off yourself. Jack helped pull it over your head, the fabric peeling away from your damp sweaty skin.

“Baby, I wanna check you.” He asked, putting on gloves he grabbed from his bag. After giving him a nod, he rested one hand on your back before checking your cervix. He cursed under his breath. “You’re 9cm and 100% effaced. We have to go. Now.”

“But I’m only 36 weeks” you began to cry as you were hit with another contraction. Getting to his truck felt like ages. Stopping what seemed like every 30 seconds to double over through another surge. The second you sat down in the passenger seat you felt a pop and a gush between your legs. Your water broke.

“Thank god I laid those towels down first, huh?” Jack tried to joke through shaky breath as he barreled out of the driveway. You didn’t find it funny.

The hospital was a 15 minute drive, 30 with traffic. Unfortunately for you both, it was morning rush hour. You couldn’t sit, undoing the seatbelt you braced yourself against the headrest. Jack trying to rub your back with his free hand.

“Want your birthing playlist?”

“Fuck you!” Is all you could muster.

And then the urge. The incredible and uncontrollable urge to bear down.

“Jack… I have to push.” And his face went white. He quickly pulled to the side of the road and jumped out, grabbing his go-bag from the back seat before sprinting to open the passenger side door. He could see the baby start to crown and immediately pulled out some gloves, a fresh towel and his stethoscope from his bag. You always teased him about this go-bag. He couldn’t wait to tease you about this later.

“Okay my love, I see baby’s head. She’s almost here. She’s got a head of hair!” He was STILL so set on this baby being a girl. His voice cracked from fear and emotion that he was about to deliver his own baby.

You felt the ring of fire, your legs shook as you tried to push past the burning pain.

“I can’t do this! I can’t fucking do this!” You protested, still on your knees, now leaning over the center console.

“Yes you can baby, listen to your body. You’re doing so good. The hardest part is almost over. We’re gonna have a birthday today.” And you screamed again, pushing as hard as you could, the veins popping out of the side of your neck, your face growing redder and redder. You roared your baby out. Then relief. Sweet, sweet relief.

Jack caught your baby in his hands, his eyes clouded with tears that immediately began to fall. He helped your turn back over and brought your sweet baby to your chest.

“It’s a girl!” Jack sniffled. He was right. He was always fucking right.

“Why isn’t she crying, Jack?”

“Just give her a minute. Rub her back.” he pulled your shirt down again to do skin to skin. He’d by lying if he wasn’t panicking too. “Come on baby girl, let’s hear those strong Abbot lungs.” And then you both heard it. The most beautiful shrieking cry from your little girl. You threw your head back in relief and he rested his forehead against your temple, crying. You’d never seen him cry before.

“I just had a baby in the car, Jack.” You looked at him, in a daze. High on adrenaline and oxytocin.

“And you were a rockstar.” He kissed you before checking you and the baby before continuing to the hospital. You delivered your own placenta as you stared in awe at your little girl. She had his nose, his eyes, his chin… the more the looked the more you realized she was a spitting image of her father. Of course YOU do all the hard work for her to look nothing like you.

Jack pulled into the ER ambulance bay to find Dana already outside smoking a cigarette. He jumped out and screamed for a wheelchair. Snuffing the cigarette out with her foot she rushed over,

“What’s going on, Jack?” She had already paged Robby at the sight of him, looking dazed.

“It’s y/n, she just had the baby in the car. Page the NICU, baby seems fine but she’s only 36 weeks. Placenta delivered and intact.” He gave her the rundown before opened the passenger door to you latching your baby to the breast for the first time. You could not take your eyes off of her. Robby came out once he heard the page to find everyone huddled around the truck, helping me into the wheelchair.

“What’s this?” He asked, a goofy smile on his face.

“How about you don’t tell anyone, and you do the driving?” you propositioned, flashing the man a faux-innocent look from over the top of the rim as you brought the cup to your mouth. The fresh brew singed the tip of your tongue a bit, just enough to jerk your exhausted mind awake.

“Fine…” Jack caved with a slow huff; his first good breath all day. His following words came out slightly muffled as he leaned forward to press a fleeting kiss to your temple before walking on by you. “How much we got left on our sentence, huh? An hour? Two?”

“Sixty-four minutes, but… Who’s counting?”

“Well, that’s plenty of time for something fun to happen.” Jack turned in the doorway to flash you a knowing grin that you met with a tired scowl.

“Don’t jinx it,” you called to his retreating figure.

You’ve given enough of yourself for one night, you think; and after a rather urgent thoracotomy that nearly killed both the patient and you (though mostly in the metaphorical sense), you feel like you’re owed the small break. Now that the day shift is trickling slowly in, you’ve decided to stay hidden until somebody absolutely needs you.

You sink deeper and deeper into the plastic chair, willing yourself into invisibility, until a baby’s cry shatters the sacred quiet. 

The high-pitched whine cuts through everything — your heavy exhaustion, your simmering headache, and the steady hum of the emergency department you’ve learned to tune out over the years. You drag yourself from your seat with a distant groan in the pit of your throat, ‘cause you know you won’t be able to relax until you know someone else has got it handled. 

You trudge to the door and take a peek down the hallway, if only to say that you did, and find the long corridor bustling with an energy much livelier than you are. When the crowd parts, you spot Dana walking your way with something tiny swaddled in her arms — much too small to be as loud as it is now.

Her eyes light up at the sight of you.

“Dr. Abbot— Just the person I was looking for!” the older woman croons in her usual gritty monotone, with a knowing smile sitting crooked on her mouth. “We got a baby Jane Doe, ditched in the bathroom.”

Your features crumple under the weight of your exhaustion. Your head tips back to groan a long and theatrical, “No…” though your sneakers scuff the floor as you trudge her way despite yourself. “I only have one hour left on my shift— Please don’t make me do anything else.”

“Well, I also got a central line placement in Central 13,” Dana deadpans. “You know, if you’d rather not waste time takin’ care of this perfectly nice baby.”

The swaddled thing fusses when it’s shifted in her hold. Your eyes flit from its scrunched face, round and wet with tears, to the wise look in Dana’s eyes. She grins at your obvious hesitation.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You sigh and step forward, like a martyr to the gallows. You trade the clipboard in your hand for the baby in Dana’s. She sets the thing gingerly in your hold — a warm and delicate weight between your arms, fitting just perfectly against your chest.

You had done a rotation in pediatrics before you settled on emergency medicine some years back. You know what it means to take care of a baby in the most technical sense, though none of it ever seemed to come totally naturally to you. 

You move like a robot accordingly, all tense and methodical. The whining baby settles into your hold with a gentle coo anyway, like a switch suddenly flipped.

“Well, look at that,” Dana hums with an arched brow of amusement. “You’re a natural.”

“You’re evil,” you deadpan.

“So they say,” the woman quips drily, patting you on the shoulder with a warm hand. “C’mon. Show my shadow how to do a proper pedes check-up— Dr. Abbot’s not as mean as she looks, Miss Emma, I promise.”

You flash the young, fresh-faced nurse a polite smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes before leading her towards the pediatric unit across the way. She’s made of bright smiles, braided chestnut curls, and sunshine incarnate as she scurries just behind you. She’s got a sparkling look in her dark eyes that you’re pretty sure you lost somewhere around your first week of residency.

You pass the workstation with a sort of tunnel vision zeroed in on the vibrantly painted pedes room. You nearly miss Jack standing there, leaning over the desk with his arms folded and his biceps straining against his scrub sleeves.

The silver-haired man briefs a newly arrived Robby on the morning cases and pauses at the sight of you — his whole entire life, cradling a much smaller one in her arms, with an exhausted frown on your face that you don’t bother trying to hide.

Robby traces the man’s suddenly distracted gaze over his shoulder. His brown eyes follow your form, lighting up at the sight of you the same way Jack’s do. 

“Well…” the older man croons. “Would you look at that—”

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply, and don’t bother slowing your stride as you pass them.

Jack’s quiet laughter follows you across the room. His eyes do, too, as he drinks up every ounce of you and the tiny thing swaddled in your arms. He finds himself getting drunk on a craving he didn’t know he had until that very moment.

Robby’s dark eyes squint. “Why do I have a feeling that you’re mentally siphoning through a bunch of baby names right now?”

“I always liked the name Milo for a boy. And Iris for a girl— but the missus is pretty allergic to pollen, so I’m not sure she’d go for that,” Jack answers without missing a beat, as though the thought had haunted his head at least once before. He only turns to face Robby again once you’re out of view. “What do you think?”

Robby just scoffs out a laugh.  “I think you’re screwed, brother.”

Baby Jane Doe is mostly stable, all things considered. 

Physically, she’s perfect. She had obviously spent the bulk of her little life being properly cared for. And, if you had to guess, she spent most of the time being held — if her immediate protest at being left in the warmer had anything to say about it. Her breathy whines fill the otherwise silent room as you perform a routine evaluation with practiced hands. You pay little attention to her annoyed cries and slip into teaching mode despite your palpable fatigue.

Emma hovers just behind you, with empathy glittering in her dark doe eyes. “Gosh,” she sighs. “How sad…”

“Eh,” you hum with a lazy shrug. Your gloved fingers lift the hem of her tiny white t-shirt to check for any bruising on her soft, pale skin, or for any other markers that might indicate signs of infection. You ramble on, half-distracted, “If you think about it, this baby got pretty lucky— If it really was abandoned, I mean. Better to be left here than with a family that can’t love it properly, right?”

Emma’s eyes widen at your cynicism. She can’t shake the feeling that you’re speaking from experience as she swallows hard and nods once in response. “Right…” 

The door swings open across the room. The noise of the E.D. swells for a brief moment, before muffling when it clicks shut again a second later. Robby steps in first, with Jack following close behind. The former stands on the opposite side of the warmer and keeps his suddenly softened gaze on the cooing baby before him.

Jack migrates to your side the same way he always does — never as close as he’d like to be while on the clock, but never more than a few inches away from you when he can be. 

“What are we thinkin’ here, Doc?” he asks.

“Normal pulse. Normal BP,” you rattle off with an air of indifference. “She’s well-hydrated, too. No visible sign of infection, either — though I guess we can’t rule out a benign virus just yet.”

“Do you think she qualifies for Safe Haven?” Emma wonders from Robby’s side.

You shake your head, lips softly jutted. “No. Either this baby is gigantic, or it’s well past the twenty-eight-day mark for Safe Haven. Worse-case scenario at this point is obviously abandonment. She’ll likely be put in foster care after a full evaluation.”

The young girl’s face falls slightly.

You soften despite yourself.

“But,” you add, if only to make her feel a bit better. “Past experience tells me that her parents might’ve just needed a break. Maybe they— I don’t know— stepped out for a cigarette or something. God knows, I’d need one if I had to take care of an alarm clock twenty-four-seven.”

Robby scoffs a weak laugh and shakes his head. “I’ll get Lupe to make an announcement in Chairs. See if anyone’s looking for her— If you’ll excuse me,” he nods with a polite smile down at the squirming baby below before sauntering out of the room.

The baby jerks when the noise of the crowded E.R fills the room again, startled by Dana’s yelling, who seems to be telling off a rowdy patient down the way. Her wet eyes squeeze shut as her gummy mouth opens to bellow a tiny wail. You reach out to comfort the baby, if only to hear less of the thing, with a methodical palm placed against its frail chest. 

It whines for a moment before softening with a contented sigh.

“Look at that… You’re good with her,” Jack mumbles, taking a step closer to peer over your shoulder — until you can smell the coffee on his breath and the musky cologne lingering on his skin. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth as he watches you with glittering eyes. “Told ya you should’ve gone into pedes.”

You flash him an emotionless scowl. “Don’t patronize me,” you scold.

“Have you guys ever thought about having kids?” Emma wonders with a kind smile, having assumed your marital status from your matching last names and golden wedding bands. She cowers instinctively when your eyes turn to her in sync, fearful she might’ve said the wrong thing. “Or is that super rude to ask? I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s not rude at all,” Jack assures her, reaching to wrap his hands around either end of the stethoscope around his neck. It makes his freckled biceps strain against the black sleeves of his scrubs as his silver head swivels slowly to look at you. Something mischievous swims in his blue-green eyes as he lilts, “We’re just… going with the flow. Right, Dr. Abbot?”

You meet his tightlipped grin with a deadpanned look. The two of you agreed long ago that, while neither of you is totally opposed to having children, you’d also be perfectly happy living a completely childfree life. 

But instead of getting into all of that with less than an hour left on your grueling shift — in front of the newest addition to the nursing team, no less — you just nod with an artificial smile.

“Right. Yeah,” you say, already inching back towards the door. The baby starts to cry again a second later, in a series of revving whines that lead to a sharp shriek. You flash an apologetic grimace over your shoulder from your place in the doorway. “You guys have fun with… all that.”

You spend the next half hour finishing up your already-completed charting. You reword, backspace, and click occasionally at your mouse — pretending to work to keep from being bothered, though it isn’t quite as foolproof as you would’ve liked. Whitaker rushes your way with one of his interns in tow, sporting a worried sort of glint in his wide puppy dog eyes that he only gets when something’s going wrong.

“Hey… Dr. Abbot. Are you— Are you busy at the moment?”

“Nope,” you answer in a monotone, without looking up from the bright-white computer screen ahead of you. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way.”

“Well, uh…” Whitaker falters, shifting awkwardly on the other side of the desk. “We— We kinda need you. In pedes.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Baby Jane Doe hasn’t stopped crying since you left,” the woman behind him says, standing several inches shorter than the boy and sporting a heavy pair of glasses and a glittering silver septum in her nose.

Your eyes dart toward the stranger — Joy Kwon, MS3, the badge on her chest reads.

“That was, like, twenty minutes ago,” you say with an incredulous twist to your features.

“Exactly,” she deadpans.

You huff and lead the duo the short distance back to the pediatric unit. The crying hits you before you’ve even crossed the threshold — a sharp, unrelenting wail that adds to the headache you’ve been nursing all day. 

You find a lanky, blonde-haired man who eerily resembles Whitaker in the vibrantly painted room, though his badge reads James Ogilvie, MS4. The young med student flashes you a wide-eyed look of horror, holding the writhing baby in a visibly awkward hold.

“Please help me,” he pleads.

You don’t bother trying to hide your apathy as you trudge across the room to close the distance between you. You slip the tiny baby back into your hold, where it settles almost instantly, heavying against your chest with another breathy whine. You rock it gingerly in your arms the way you were taught to. Its wet eyes flutter slowly shut as fat tear drops trail down its reddened cheeks.

Whitaker gestures with a dazed smile. “See? Knew it. Total natural.”

You flash the boy a deadpanned look over your shoulder. “Because I’m a woman? That means I’m automatically a natural-born caretaker?”

His light eyes widen with an immediate panic. Joy tries and fails to hide her amused smile as she purses her lips to the side of her mouth. Whitaker, meanwhile, stumbles over himself to get the words out.

“W-What? No! No, not at all! I just—”

“She’s just messing with you, kid.” 

Jack’s voice drifts in as he steps through the door, saving the boy from his own stuttered-out apology. He’s perhaps the only one in Pittsburgh who can decipher your usual monotone from your humorous one, which he was only able to master after years of loving you. 

“Oh…” Whitaker says, deflating with a relieved sigh, though his pink cheeks are slow to lose their newfound color.

“Go check on Mr. Alvarez for me, will ya?” you tell him, jutting your chin back towards the door. “You know, since I have to take care of… this thing.”

Whitaker leaves and takes his interns with him, who trail after him in line like ducklings. They pass by Jack in the doorway, who peers at you over their heads with a pair of wide eyes. 

 “This thing?” he scoffs.

You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’m not getting attached to it.”

“It?!”

You huff and adjust the baby in your arms, with one hand resting on its diapered bottom and your other rubbing gently over its tiny back. You sway gently back and forth, far too sweetly for the following words out of your mouth.

“The entire reason I got into emergency medicine was so I could help people without having to deal with all the— baggage that comes with him.”

“Well, babies don’t have baggage, honey,” Jack laughs as he strolls slowly towards you. “They’re brand new— that’s literally their whole thing.”

“Yeah. That’s because the parents give it to ‘em through… years of psychological torment.”

Jack studies you for a long moment with a pair of squinted eyes. “I think you might be projecting a little bit here…”

“I know I am,” you scoff. “Which is why I’d be a horrible mother. ‘Cause I’d just be a mirror of my mom, and our kid would just be a mirror of me, and it’ll just be a whole cycle of… emotionless, unaffectionate women...”

You trail off with a heavy sigh, lifting your gaze from the calming baby to the man towering over you. You find him wearing a much softer gaze than you expect him to. He tilts his silver head to his shoulder, eyes narrowing and lips curling slowly.

“Our kid?”

Your eyes flick away and back again. “…What?”

“You said our kid,” Jack clarifies with a wider grin.

You roll your eyes at him despite the way your cheeks blaze beneath his unwavering stare. “Well, we are married, you know? Who the hell else would I be having kids with— Robby?”

“God, I hope not— Poor kid,” Jack quips drily before leaning in to press a soft, fleeting kiss to your temple. His silver scruff brushes our delicate skin when he pulls away, far sooner than you would’ve liked. “And, just for the record, I think you’d be an amazing mom.”

Something warm flickers in your chest at his words, like embers stoked suddenly to flame. You recoil physically from the foreign feeling, with a grimace twisting your features.

“Eugh…” 

“What?”

You shake your head in response, parting from him to set the now-slumbering baby into the warmer at your side. You lay it gingerly onto the blankets before stepping away with your hands splayed out, as if it had burnt you in some way.

“It got too real for a second there,” you mutter with a look of disgust on your face. “I started feeling all… warm and… and fuzzy— I didn’t like it…”

Jack laughs. 

“Yeah, that’s what they call happiness, Dr. Abbot,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan. “And I’m glad you’re finally getting to experience it after three whole years of marriage.”

Jack can’t get the sight of it out of his head. You, in the rocking chair in the corner, with the pedes room dimmed to a dull lamplight, cradling a sleeping baby to your chest and looking half-asleep yourself. 

“Thought you weren’t getting attached?” he whispered into the serene silence from his place in the doorway.

“’M not,” you mumbled back, head lolled to your shoulder, eyes half-closed. “‘M just using this as an excuse to shut my eyes for a second.”

Something about it all catches him off guard. Not the baby, exactly — he’s seen a thousand babies before — held them, handed them off, charted them like any other patient in a sea of a hundred different patients. They were always temporary things to him, always someone else’s. 

But then he sees you — his future, his eternity — with someone else’s baby tucked to your chest as if it had always been there. You had one hand instinctively supporting the weight of her head while your other smoothed up and down her back. And your voice, often edged with sarcasm dry enough to sand wood, had softened into something warm and low and honeyed. And the seemingly orphaned baby, who could cry loud enough to rattle glass, goes instantly still in your arms like it finds sanctuary in you alone. 

It does nothing more than pique his curiosity at first — the idea of having kids with you, of how great a mom you would be — which isn’t a completely rare thought, but one that is typically fleeting. But then the thought lingers. Festers. Settles somewhere in the pit of his chest until he can’t breathe without thinking about it. 

By the time you’ve settled in the empty cabin, six hours away from the PTMC, the desire has rooted itself somewhere far deeper than he’d like to admit.

Jack, freshly showered, reclines on the clean sheets of the familiar bed, smelling of detergent and time gone by. The bedroom settles slowly into a lamplit darkness in time with the late night. Fireworks crackle faintly in the distance, in mere echoes rolling across the midnight-colored lake outside. The quiet feels borderline suffocating compared to the never-ending chaos of the E.D. 

You move through the space as if you had always been there. Jack watches you from his spot on the bed, which gives him a perfect view of you in the adjacent bathroom. 

Your hair is still slightly damp from the shared shower, dripping onto the t-shirt swallowing your body whole. Your bare feet pad softly along the tile as you complete the last steps of your skincare routine; your attention flitting between your reflection in the mirror and the video playing on your phone.

It strikes him somewhere deep — swells from his stomach, to his chest, to his throat, until he gets the very sudden urge to cry.

“Should we have a kid, you think?” Jack blurts, as if the question were as simple as asking you if you wanted pizza for dinner.

You still in place in the golden-lit bathroom. Your fingers freeze on your cheeks, mid-swipe of moisturizer, as you flash him a deadpanned glare from the doorway.

“…Do you hear that?” you wonder in a monotone.

“The sound of my sperm dying?” Jack jokes

“The sound of quiet,” you correct before turning away to continue your work in the mirror. “Which doesn’t exist when you have kids. I mean, think about it— We wouldn’t have even been able to come here today if we had a kid. We wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

“Well, that’s just not true,” Jack scoffs, folding his arms behind his silver curls until his biceps strain beneath the sleeves of his black undershirt; the hem rises just enough to reveal the tuft of light brown-blonde hair trailing down into his sweatpants. 

His silver scruff brushes his freckled skin when he turns his head. “Parents take their kids places all the time— or alarm clocks, as you so lovingly called them.”

“Yeah, well, not mine,” you murmur distantly as you chuck your crumpled cotton pads into the bin beside the sink. “They always told me that I was the reason we couldn’t afford to do anything. ‘Cause apparently feed and clothing me was such a burden to them— as if I asked to be here.”

“Your parents were just assholes, babe.”

“The crazy thing is, they were actually pretty nice…” you sigh, bare feet padding softly across the floor as you trudge to bed, plugging your phone into its charger on the nightstand. “Just not to me. Like I ruined them or something.”

Jack’s chest flares with a white-hot warmth that makes his eyes sting. “You know that’s not your fault, right?”

You don’t answer him with words. You just bounce your brows and tilt your head, though he struggles to tell if it’s an agreement or not. He shifts on the mattress when you pull the fluffy comforter down to slide into bed beside him, brows lowered as he keeps his unwavering stare locked on your face.

“Is that why you don’t want kids?” he wonders gently. “Because you think you’ll end up like your parents?”

You scoff, kneeling on the mattress until you settle into place next to his reclined form. “Isn’t everyone terrified of ending up like their parents?”

“Sure, but… You’re nothing like them. I mean, I saw you with that Jane Doe today— You were perfect.”

“Well, you have to say that.”

“No, I don’t,” Jack scoffs. “If I thought any differently, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. But I know you’d be a great mom because I saw that today— Saw the rest of my whole goddamn life in that place…”

He trails off with a faraway look in his eyes.

You watch him with a suspicious glint in yours. 

“…You really mean that?” you murmur, halfway shy, picking at pills of cotton on the blanket thrown over your legs. “The part about me… You know, being a good mom, I mean?”

“Of course I do,” Jack laughs like it’s obvious, eyes glittering as he peers up at you. “And it’s not like I expect you to change your mind right now— or ever, if that’s what you want. It’s just… Something to think about, you know?”

“Well…” you tilt your head and trail off with a mischievous sort of lilt in your voice. “They do say the best part of having kids is trying for one.”

Jack grins up at you, brows raised to his hairline. “Do they?” he hums lowly.

“Mhm,” you nod.

“Should we test that theory out, you think?” he teases, all giddy like a teenage boy.

You shrug lazily, t-shirt sleeping off your shoulder, pretending to remain uninterested despite the excitement flaring red-hot in your chest. “Well, what the hell else are we gonna do?”

Something about your indifference makes Jack ravenous. It always has. It makes him feel like he’s got something to prove. And there’s nothing he loves more than watching your mask slip, than watching all your attempts to tease him fade into moans you couldn’t hold back if you tried. 

You melt for him first, when his long fingers slide your pretty panties to the side, dragging an orgasm from you with an expert hand — and then further when he presses his mouth to the wet spot in the thin cotton, drinking the honey you leak from him until he licks another twitching orgasm from your buzzing body.

Jack’s wearing your slick down to the silver scruff on his chin when he crawls back up your trembling form, massaging his stiff cock through his boxers. “You’re not too sensitive, are you?” he wonders gently despite the proud smile sitting crooked on his face and the honey still coating his tongue.

Your hips buck on their own accord, chasing a pleasure you’re not entirely sure you can take.

“Fuck a baby into me,” you plead in a half-drunken slurs, etching scratch marks long his back in an attempt to ground yourself. “Wanna make you a daddy, Jack— Want feel you leakin’ outta me…”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack huffs, like you’ve just punched all the air out of his lungs. “You can’t talk like that, baby— I’ll cum before we’ve even started.”

He knows it’s just the previous two orgasms talking, ‘cause you’re still on the pill after all —  having a baby now is pretty much out of the equation even if you really wanted to. But Jack isn’t in the business of depriving you of what you want. So he gives you all he has for the time being.

He folds your knees to your chest with a pair of wide, calloused hands, keeping your drooling pussy spread for him as he pierces you slow. The head of his cock, glowing red with need, disappears inside your pulsing confines. His throaty groan entwines with your quiet whimpers as your cunt suckles him further in. Once he’s sheathed fully inside, he stills just against you, with the greying thatch of coarse hair above his cock nestled against your sensitive clit.

“Yeah, you feel that?” Jack croons with a breathy laugh, which turns into a moan when your nails rake down his muscular chest. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you, baby?”

Your heavy head nods lazily against the pillow, eyes bleary and wet with desire. They squeeze shut a second later, when Jack’s hips drag back, until only the head of his cock is left inside you. Then he slides back into you, slow enough that you feel every ridge and vein of his cock, and smiles when your back arches off the mattress.

“I’ll give you a baby one day, honey, I promise,” the man babbles, choppy between his measured thrusts. “Fill you up so much it’ll be leakin’ outta you for days—”

You whine, hips bucking into and away from his cock all at once.

“Yeah, that’s it… I’ll get you all round and full… ’Til you’re walking around the E.D… Showin’ everyone what I did to you— how good I make you feel…”

“Please,” you whine.

“Yeah?” Jack coos sympathetically, beneath the wet schlick, schlick, schlick sound of his thrusts inside you. “That what you want?”

You nod, head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut, though the pathetic “please, please, please”’s continue spilling from your kissed mouth.

“Take it then, baby— Take it.”

He buckles down over you, punching into you with shallow thrusts that slowly start to lose their rhythm. He talks you through every inch of your orgasm, which hits you so hard it makes tears swell in the corners of your eyes. 

“That’s it, honey. Let me have it,” he murmurs in your ear as your body starts to twitch beneath his muscular one. “Give me all of it, baby. That’s it.”

Your stomach pools with heat a second later when Jack tenses on top of you, burying his groans in his neck as his jerking cock spits thick ropes of warm cum inside of your pulsing confines. He deflates on top of you when he’s finally spent, sticky body melting with yours, until both of you are melting into the tousled sheets below.

“You okay?” Jack asks through panted breaths, muffled into your sweat-slick neck. 

You nod wordlessly, swallowing hard as the high fades, and shoving lazily at his bare shoulder. “Get off— I gotta go to the bathroom,” you huff. 

Jack slides off your body and falls heavily onto the other side of the mattress. He watches with lidded eyes as you hurry to the bathroom with your thighs clenched together. You clean yourself up inside and return some minutes later to Jack having wiped himself off and tucking his soft cock back into his grey boxers.

“Do you wanna… talk about all that?” he asks with a knowing squint in his eyes.

“Remind me tomorrow,” you sigh, feet heavy as you trudge back into bed. 

Jack scoffs a laugh, knowing you’ll likely tell him the same exact thing tomorrow, and flips off the lamp on the nightstand. The golden bedroom delves into a midnight-blue darkness.

His limbs entwine with yours on nothing short of muscle memory when he slides back into bed with you. His long legs slot with yours beneath the covers as he throws a heavy arm over your stomach, folding his free one beneath his head.

Quiet settles over the dark bedroom like a blanket. 

“Actually,” you blurt into the silence, catching Jack right before he falls asleep.

“Yeah?” he mumbles, warm breath fanning over your shoulder.

“It’ll probably take about— I don’t know, three or so days for all the results to come back. You know, for Baby Jane Doe’s workup,” you murmur, half-shy. “And we’ll be back to work by then, so… I was thinking maybe we could… Never mind, it’s stupid.”

Jack lifts his head before you can shrink back into yourself, eyes flitting across your shadowed profile. “No, what is it?”

You roll onto your back to meet his darkened gaze with a far more sheepish one. “Maybe we could take her, you know? Just foster her on an emergency basis until we can find her family. Or someone who can foster her long-term. Like a…”

“A trial run?” Jack finishes for you with an audible grin. “Yeah, that’s definitely one way to pitch it, honey.”

You grimace, hiding your burning face behind your hands. “I told you, it’s stupid,” you whine, muffled behind your palms.

“It’s not stupid,” Jack assures you with a quiet laugh. He pries your hands from your face with gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist. “I think it’s a great idea. We can, you know, taste the waters about the whole baby thing and help a kid in need at the same. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

“Yeah?” you hum with a soft wince.

“Yeah,” he nods. “We can look into it when we get back.”

Your chest swells with a sunshine sort of warmth when he settles back into bed beside you, tossing a muscular arm over you to tuck you back into his bare chest. It’s a pure, unadulterated feeling of overwhelming happiness that weirdly makes you feel like crying. ‘Cause only Jack would agree to foster an abandoned baby you found at work not even a day ago; only Jack would see all of you and still love you completely, for a reason you still can’t name.

“I hate when you’re supportive,” you grouse on instinct as you bury your head back into the pillow, even though you mean the exact opposite.

Jack knows this, too, so he just grins into your hair and jokes, “Yeah, I know. It’s definitely my worst quality.”

You blink the fleeting shock away and force yourself to keep typing when Jack’s steady hand never wavers on your spine. “Are you sure about this?” you hear yourself ask.

“Of course I am,” he shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You glance back at him with an expectant gaze, wide eyes glimmering with worry. “Because we could get in trouble if someone found out— serious trouble.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose in place of a laugh, because this wasn’t the first time he’s low-balled a few measurements to help a patient get an abortion they want, and it probably won’t be the last. 

His mouth flickers upward in a soft smile, but his eyes stay stern as he tells you in a calm and unwavering voice, “Well, I’m the attending here, right? So, technically, I’d be the only one getting in trouble.” 

“That’s worse,” you agonize in a sharp whisper, fingers trembling over the keyboard. “I don’t want any of us getting in trouble— not her and especially not you.”

“Good thing no one’s gonna find out then, huh?”

Jack arches an expectant brow.

Your eyes soften around the edges with apprehension.

Robby’s gritty voice cuts through the never-ending noise and the tension between you as he drops off a clipboard at its assigned rack. “What are you two whispering about over here?” he quips drily.

You flounder instantly at the simple question.

Jack takes it in stride. “Oh, nothing— Just, you know, conspiring against you. Figuring out the easiest way to overthrow your authority. That’s all.”

“If you wanna take over, then by all means…” Robby jokes with his hands splayed in surrender before stalking off in the opposite direction. “Put me out of my misery.”

You exhale a wavering breath when he’s gone and turn back to the computer in front of you. You adjust the girl’s gestational sac and biparietal diameter measurements to meet the mandated eleven-week cutoff. 

Jack’s warm hand never leaves your back.

You fail to notice that your fingers no longer shake.

Trauma 2 swells with heat — both from the increasing temperature of the unconscious burn patient rushed in by the EMTs, and from the rising tension as the young man’s sats begin to plummet without warning. An unrelenting beeping noise fills the tense air, along with the sound of shuffling as you all scramble to throw on disposable PPE.

You fumble with a pair of gloves like it’s your very first day in the ER, while Jack helps tie a paper gown around your neck and spine.

“What’s your call, Doc?” he asks from behind you.

“I-I don’t know,” you stammer breathlessly. “Maybe a— a lung injury from the fire?”

“Explains the sudden respiratory distress,” Jack nods affirmingly, warm fingers brushing the base of your neck. “But doesn’t explain the high peak pressure or the low tidal volume.”

“Okay… Uh…” you waver and swallow hard. It takes a long moment for your brain to finally click. “Then it’s a— A restrictive pattern. The burnt skin is losing elasticity. The chest wall’s getting too tight.”

You miss the proud smile Jack gives you in response. 

“That’s right,” the older man praises as he finishes knotting the tie in your gown. He turns to announce to the rest of the room: “Let’s get these dressings off and prep him for an escharotomy, shall we?”

A nurse readies a medical tray. You freeze when Jack passes you the scalpel in a gloved hand. Your wide eyes flit wildly between it and him.

“I… I’ve never done one of these before. I wouldn’t know how to—”

“That’s okay,” Jack nods, with a voice much softer than the chaos surrounding you. “You hold the blade. I’ll cut. We’ll take it slow. I promise.”

When he steps in behind you, you can smell the musky cologne on his skin and the coffee on his breath — beneath the bitter scent of charred skin and antiseptic. His right hand rests firmly on top of your smaller one, warm like a furnace, and guides your fingers to the man’s blistered side.

“Start at the lateral clavicle…” Jack instructs lowly in your ear. “And then down the anterior axillary line…”

“How much pressure?” you ask, fighting off a shiver.

“Just about… this much.” He applies the slightest bit of guidance. The scalpel pierces the skin. Fatty tissue blooms underneath, tainted by the deep scarlet blood that spills out. “Now just go around to the lower rib margin…. Yep, that’s it… You’re doing great…”

Your chest warms at his praise.

The rapid beeping quietens shortly thereafter.

“Peak pressure’s already down in the thirties,” Ellis comments from the opposite side of the room, dark eyes steady on the monitor. “And tidal volume’s already coming up.”

“See?” Jack lilts in your ear, a smile audible in his voice. “There we go.”

You exhale a wavering sigh; a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Jack finds you in the break room afterward, when the patient is finally stable again. Your back is facing him as you make yourself a coffee, all slow and methodical — ‘cause this is the only place in the PTMC where you’re truly allowed to take your time.

“Hey…” the man greets gently to keep from startling you. He smiles when you glance over your shoulder to look at him. His chin bows in a nod of approval. “You did good in there.”

You shake your head and turn away, ripping open three square sugar packets in one fell swoop. “No. That was… That was all you, Dr. Abbot…”

You tap the pink wrappers with your pointer finger. White granules come spilling out, dissolving instantly in the steaming liquid — a little like you do, when Jack towers suddenly at your side, leaning back against the counter with his arm brushing yours. 

His freckled biceps strain against his scrub sleeves when he crosses them over his chest. His scruffy chin ducks softly to flash you a stern sort of look.

“You did the left side and the horizontal incision,” Jack reminds you. “So just take the win, kid.”

You peer up at him from beneath your lashes. A reluctant smile tugs at the edges of your mouth. “Thanks…”

His kind eyes drop to the mug in your hands. “Though, to be honest, I’m not sure how much of a good idea that caffeine is. I know your adrenaline’s spiked— always happens when you get to do something new in here.”

“I know. I just… needed a second to breathe,” you confess. “I was actually making it for you…”

Jack’s brows lower in a dubious look. “…Really?”

You nod, smiling quietly but still wider than you realize. “Two creams, three sugars, right?”

His expression softens as something red-hot burns through his chest. He nods once, with a shy smile, and with calloused fingers that brush yours when he takes the mug from your hand.

“Yeah…” he hums, breathless for a reason he can’t name. “That’s right.”

The MCI hits the PTMC like a tidal wave. 

The emergency department turns into a blur of blood and bustling bodies and bellowed commands as a series of GSWs are rushed in from a shooting at a local concert. The day shift is called in despite the late night for extra hands, while the rest of the bottom floor is cleared out to make room for incoming patients.

A young boy is carried in, limp and bloodied. His concert tee is two sizes too big and ripped at the stomach from where a bullet had torn through his skin and wedged into his abdomen. 

You’re reminded immediately of the boy who was rushed in the same way, some months back, with differing injuries but on the brink of death all the same — Barry, who now lives with his grandmother, and had just celebrated his fifth birthday, and is going to start kindergarten in the fall.

You don’t have time to think about all that now — not about the child from before, or how the sight of this one reawakens a trauma you thought you’d gotten over. You just move. 

Your hands move fast and steady despite your racing mind. You’re wrists-deep in the boy’s small, round stomach when sudden intestinal failure causes his sats to drop. You work fast to stop the hemorrhaging and to repair the rupture in his small intestine before he’s taken to the OR for more intensive monitoring.

“Sats are stabilizing,” you hear Crus say from beside you, as the rapid beeping of his monitor begins to slow. “Heart rate’s normalizing. Blood pressures trending upwards— Let’s get him to the OR.” 

You don’t realize Jack had been with you the whole time until the room is cleared out. 

You remain in place, covered in bright red blood that isn’t yours — with your gloved hands limp at your sides and your glassy gaze focused on the crimson footprints smudged on the linoleum below.

Jack steps into your tunnel vision then, silver head bowed and light eyes swimming with concern behind his safety glasses. 

“Hey…” he coos. “You with me?”

You blink hard, trying to clear the haze of adrenaline from your vision. You nod on muscle memory, until the words catch up with you, “Yeah. Y-Yeah, I just—” 

Your voice breaks, betraying you instantly.

“It’s okay,” Jack murmurs. “You did good, kid. You did everything right— He’s okay…”

He reaches out for you, weathered hands tense with hesitancy. Your wide eyes are filled with lingering fear as you watch him inch towards you, but you don’t stop him when his fingers brush your wrists. 

He peels your bloodied gloves from your trembling hands with a warm and steady touch. Your paper gown goes next, and then your glasses. You stay still, letting Jack take care of it all, while your brain struggles to catch up to the current moment — still stuck somewhere in the chaos from before.

“I thought—” Your breath stutters in your chest. You struggle to tear your eyes off the blood on the floor. “I thought he was— that he was going to—”

“I know,” Jack hums, more distant now. “I know. But he’s okay. That’s what matters.”

Your head swivels over your shoulder. You find him standing at the bin across the room, chucking away your PPE gear before tossing in his own — his gloves, then his gown, then his glasses. The two of you are left in your heavy black scrubs, unstained, but still smelling of the heavy metallic blood in the room anyway.

His eyes are narrow and attentive as they flit across your face — the beads of sweat on your forehead, the glazed-over look in your eye, the bite marks of worry etched into your mouth. He hasn’t seen you like this since the day he found you on the roof.

“Go ahead and take a breather, kid— I’ll come find you in a second.”

Any other time, the thought of a break would’ve terrified you. But now, you catch yourself nodding before you’ve even really considered it. 

“Okay…” you hear yourself waver in a faraway voice. “But can you, uh— Can you check— Make sure he’s… that he’s okay in the OR—”

“Yeah,” Jack nods instantly. “Of course.”

His words hang in the quiet, heavy, blood-soaked air for several long moments — the weight of them more so — the notion that no one has ever cared for you in your whole life the way Jack Abbot has cared for you in the past few months. 

You feel your feet moving before your brain has truly processed it. 

The steps you take towards him are not planned; they’re not all the way thought through, either. You gravitate towards him with all the same instincts as the tides to the moon. You don’t even realize you’re hugging him until your arms are already wrapped around his waist — until your warm cheek is pressed to the soft fabric of his scrubs, until you can hear his heart beat thudding in your ear.

You hold him tight — scared that he’ll sleep away, or maybe that you will.

Jack freezes for half a heartbeat. Because, even though he’s made a habit of being next to you in every room he’s in, it isn’t lost on him that this is the very first time that you’ve touched him without him initiating it first.

Once the fleeting moment of shock has passed, his strong arms wrap just as tight around your form — one hand firm between your shoulder blades, and the other cradling gently at the back of your head. He keeps you close while you bury your nose in his chest, breathing him in, grounding yourself in his warmth.

“You’re okay…” he coos. “I got you, kid. You’re okay…”

You can feel the words humming in his chest.

And for the very first time, you start to believe them.

The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway. 

The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.

“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.

Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.

“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”

“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.

Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”

You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.

“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta—  buy him some time till we get him a room.”

“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”

Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.

You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”

“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”

Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him. 

So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.

Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.

“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”

You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.

“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.

“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”

You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”

Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”

You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”

“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”

“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”

“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”

“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”

Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.

“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”

“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”

“On?”

“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”

“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.

“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”

“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”

“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”

“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”

You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”

“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.

“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”

His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”

“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.

“And what happens if I pass?”

You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.

A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”

The glass door across the room swings open without warning. 

Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.

His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.

“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”

“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.

Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.

Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”

The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.

The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.

You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender. 

His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant. 

“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”

The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room. 

Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.

“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”

Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”

“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”

“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.

You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.

“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”

“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”

“Then let me do something about it—”

Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.

“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”

“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”

The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.

A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”

“I said— tell her— to stop!”

His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click. 

“I can’t!” you hear yourself whimper. “I can’t stop, Jack— He’ll die.”

“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”

“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”

Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”

The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.

“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”

“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief. 

“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”

The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood. 

Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.

“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”

Another step forward.

“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”

Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.

The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop. 

“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”

The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.

Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.

“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?” 

Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.

Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.

Two shots ring out.

You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.

The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.

Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.

It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.

And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.

The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!” 

None of it feels all the way real. 

It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.

Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.

“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.

Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”

Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room. 

You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.

You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.

The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.

“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.

“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.

“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”

“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.

“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”

The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.

He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.

Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.

“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”

He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.

He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”

You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”

“That I’d make a good case…” 

Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”

“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps. 

His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”

You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder. 

You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you. 

The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness. 

“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”

“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”

“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”

Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”

Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.

“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”

“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”

“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”

You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”

“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”

Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.

The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment. 

“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.

Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.

“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”

The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.

Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”

Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.

The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.

Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.

You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling. 

You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.

The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.

You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.

“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.

Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.

You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.

Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR. 

His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.

“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”

You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time. 

“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist. 

Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.

“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”

“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.

“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”

You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.

“You sure?” he presses.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”

He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him. 

“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”

You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors. 

You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.

Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.

Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”

“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”

“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”

You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”

“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”

You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.

Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”

You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”

“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”

“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.” 

Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.

“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”

“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…” 

Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.

His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.

Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.

“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”

“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”

“Want me to go grab her for you?”

He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”

“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”

The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip. 

The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.

The door creaks softly open.

Something tightens in his chest.

You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief. 

The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.

Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.

“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.

“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”

You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.

“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.

You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”

“Fair point…” he nods.

“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”

Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”

That almost gets a real laugh out of you. 

“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”

You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. 

Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.

He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.

“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.

“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”

His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.

“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”

Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.

“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”

“No.”

His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.

“I guess I was just thinking about you…”

The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall. 

Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.

“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”

“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”

Your breath hitches.

Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.

“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”

His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”

“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”

Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?” 

You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”

That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.

You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.  

“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”

Your features screw, hardly convinced.

“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”

You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”

“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.

“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."

"Hey, earth to Ben." Your voice catches him off guard, pulling him from his dark revere.

He's not in Russia anymore.

He's not even in the same year as he had been when abducted.

Ben stares at you for a moment. That vacant stare of his has you going on guard just in case something triggered his PTSD.

You're older than 18 now. A full grown woman standing in a rundown, shitty little motel kitchenette. The pan you were using was set aside and you turn off the burners of the stove before facing your dad.

"You good?"

Blinking once, Soldier Boy shakes off whatever spell was cast over him. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?"

You understood the moments of displacement you 'd feel when you realized your father was alive and right in front of you. He hadn't aged a single year since his supposed death that Stan Edgar convinced you happened. It was just so fucking weird.

"I was saying that I need to run out for an errand. Hughie and Butcher will be here if you need anything."

The usual Soldier Boy returns with a roll of his eyes. He exchanges a glance with Butcher who was intently watching Vought News in the armchair near the motel window. Butcher merely offers him a shrug.

You doubt he would actually need anything. The Boys hooked up your dad with several pounds of weed, alcohol and cigarettes that would last a normal person a lifetime. This was nothing to Soldier Boy. He would demolish it within a couple of days.

Hughie leans in to whisper in your ear "Are you sure you want to go back to Vought? Annie said she had everything under control over there."

Watching Soldier Boy eat his breakfast and taking a swig of some good old fashioned morning whiskey, you lower your voice so only Hughie could hear. "I love Annie and respect her, but I HIGHLY doubt even she has control in regards to Vought and the Seven."

Before leaving, you shoot the three of them a menacing look. "Behave. All of you."

You'd lied to Hughie though.

When Butcher returned from Russia with Soldier Boy and after the incident incident with Crimson Countess, you thought of the brother you used to know frequently. It wasn't long ago that Homelander had been your best friend. You hoped beyond all hope that you could bring that brother back.

You'd purchased a burner phone and, memorizing Homelander's personal number, called him. His immediate reaction was to curse you out, naturally. You let him before reminding him of the bond both of you built through years of surviving Soldier Boy's home together. Making something of yourselves without the looming shadow of your father. You'd told him that if there was any chance of reconciliation that he should meet you at a disclosed area. Just the both of you. There was guarded refusal. You could be luring him into a trap. Finish him off once and for all. And like the rest of the world, Homelander didn't believe you when you finally told him that Soldier Boy was alive.

That was enough for Homelander to agree.

One might consider you paranoid by the many times you'd looked over your shoulder as you flew to the top of Vought Tower. A semi-public place where if a struggle ensued, many people would be tipped off below. You'd also have more options of escape in the open air.

The door to the top of the roof opens. You stand taller and square your shoulders off.

Homelander lets the door fall closed behind him. His strides to you are slow and calculated, imitating a predatory animal circling a scrumptious morsel of meat. Blue eyes dart around you, assuring himself you didn't bring any unwelcome visitors.

"He's really alive?'' Was Homelander's greeting.

You toss him the cheap burner phone that was capable of taking subpar pictures. Homelander eyes you before leaning down to pick up the flip phone. His lower lid twitches when he makes out Soldier Boy in the picture sitting across from Butcher at some small table.

Adam's apple bobbing, Homelander's expression difficult to read. "How?"

"Apparently the Russians had him. Payback was working with them as well as Vought to get rid of Soldier Boy." Would he believe you?

Scoffing, he tosses back your phone but there's no point in keeping it anymore. You crush it in your grip, fingers opening to let the crumbled remnants be carried away by the wind.

"John, please. I miss my brother." The man in front of you was a stranger wearing your brother's face.

He tilts his chin up. "You're the one who ruined us. YOU fucked right off to join William Butcher and his band of miscreants. And its you who has no one to blame but yourself."

"John-"

He's fast, his hand inches away from grabbing your face before you dodge out of the way, deftly avoiding him. His temper has grown worse, you observe, since you left the Seven. Homelander was already on a rapid decline mentally after killing Madelyn Stillwell. Your abandonment was simply icing on top of the shitty cake.

You had to tread VERY lightly around him.

What was your aim for this interaction? Homelander would never leave Vought or the Seven nor would he want to join you and the other vigilantes. Hell, the Boys would never accept him.

You wanted to see for yourself if there was any piece left of your childhood within him.

Starting into his red rimmed eyes, you saw nothing of the boy who held your hand as the both of you crossed the street to get to school. He was gone.

"You" He points a red gloved finger in your direction "betrayed me."

He won't listen to reason.

"I didn't want to." You whisper, recalling the moments when Homelander actually made you feel unsafe just before you made the decision to leave. How he'd started to stare at you for an uncomfortably long time. His simple, innocent gestures and caresses were becoming. . . worrisome.

You'd thought it was just you imagining things. Homelander was just like that with you. He practically raised you after all. Homelander was the one to make your sack lunch for school. The one who got you ready, choosing your clothes for the day and braiding your hair.

His touches had changed though. They lingered and tightened on you, becoming possessive with each passing day since Stillwell's murder.

There was an instance when he'd captured your face in both his hands. You'd thought maybe there was something on your face, remnants of lunch, but no. He'd nearly kissed you full on the lips. For once you're grateful for the Deep popping up out of nowhere. It was the only thing that had Homelander dropping your face and returning to a semi-normal facade.

You see that Homelander right in front of you. The one that made your stomach curdle and goosebumps prickling upon your arms.

"I never thought you'd become an ungrateful bitch." With each step he took closer to you, you took another one back. "You're mine. You have always been mine from the moment Soldier Boy brought you home, you've been mine." His hands kept clenching up as if he was trying to will restraint in himself.

You're ready for a fight.

What you aren't ready for was Homelander being faster in grabbing your arms so you couldn't escape and smashing his lips against your's. You feel yourself scream as a struggle begins. He's trying to keep you in his arms, pull you down to the ground. His kiss turns aggressively desperate with teeth biting down on your lower lip when you try to turn your face away.

Heart rate freaking out, you go by pure animal instinct to get out of Homelander's hold. Your teeth sink down into his forearm, tearing cloth and skin alike. Letting out a howl, Homelander throws you to the ground, reeling back to examine the sizeable bite mark you gave him. He wasn't used to seeing his own blood.

He forgot that he should have been just as fearful of you as you were with him and his own powers.

The stickiness of his blood covers your mouth as you glare at him.

Since the brother you once loved was no longer present in Homelander, you weren't afraid anymore of pulling punches.

You stand up to your full height and feel the heat of your lasers burn in the back of your eyes.

Homelander seemed to match your feelings as his heated glare literally shines from his eyes. "I'm not letting you get away to go back to him."

"That's unfortunate. I've got no plans on staying here." You snarl and just as you levitate off of the ground, Homelander is grabbing you by the ankle and tries to slam you back down.

He could easily rip your leg off.

Your panicked jerking manages to free you from his grasp.

Like a bullet you take off across the sky. Looking back every so often just to make sure he wasn't following you. He wouldn't dare to make a scene where civilians can easily spy the both of you from the ground.

You're certain you've broken a few records by how fast you flew across the city to get back to the hideout.

Nearly ripping the motel door of it's hinges, you startle the men in there. Hughie gapes at the actual bruises developing on your face and the red smear across your mouth. Everything about you must have looked a horrifying mess.

Soldier Boy stands from where he'd been sitting on the bed. Eyes wide as he takes you in. "What the fuck happened to you?" He's the first one to take action and go to you.

Looking at him now, the feelings you'd tried pushing back start trickling forth. You realize Homelander had not just physically assaulted you, but it had nearly turned into a sexual assault too.

You damn the tears that well up your eyes, distorting the image of your father. "I. . . John. . ."

"John? John did this to you?" The words felt hollow coming out of his mouth as he stood in a daze. Homelander had harmed you? That didn't sound right. Then again, a lot had changed.

Mentioning Homelander's birth name caught the others' attention.

You touch your mouth where Homelander had kissed you. You realize the blood around your lips may not just be Homelander's blood. Where he'd bitten your lower lip is a tender gash that is also leaking red.

"Sit down. You're shaking." Soldier Boy, taking on the role of a caring father (and surprising everyone with his gentle tone) pushes past Butcher and Hughie who helplessly watch. Using your shoulders to guide you to the arm chair, your dad sits you down. He kneels in front of you to get a good look at the wounds all over you. "Tell me what he did."

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you're focused on your hands and the specks of red on them. "He tried- I don't know. . . He. . ."

Gently, Soldier Boy uses his index finger to raise your face up. "Tell me, baby girl."

That got you. The tears were now freely rolling down your face when you meet similar blue eyes. "I wanted to see if there was anything left of the brother I knew." You whimper, voice warbling. "Dad. . . he didn't try to kill me. He tried doing something worse."

Ben's eyes widen, as if dots were being connected. His soft demeanor which he'd revealed just to you hardens into something ugly. You didn't like how quiet the motel room had become.

You flinch when Soldier Boy attempts to hug you. He stops and not wanting to upset you further, didn't try again. You're the one who wraps your arms around him.

Fiercely, Soldier Boy returns the embrace.