Your alarm goes off a little after the first rays of the sun streak through your curtains. You've already been awake for half an hour, staring at the ceiling as you flip through differential diagnoses that you probably won't see on the exam.

It still twists your stomach to think that after this, only the oral boards stand between you and becoming a board-certified physician. It's even hard to wrap your head around the fact that your residency is over, and in just a few days, you'll officially step into your role as an attending physician. The longest and most challenging years of your life are behind you, just like that.

Maybe you should have decided to do a fellowship instead of taking the offer PTMC gave you—are you even ready to have others depend on you to have the answers?

You have to be.

But first, you need to pass this exam—a condition made by the PTMC when they offered you the position, which only makes this day even more nerve-wracking.

You roll out of bed with a sigh, get dressed and then head to the kitchen. You sit at the island, staring blankly at the piece of toast on your plate. Your mouth feels dry.

"You really should eat something." Jack’s voice filters in from behind you, sounding a bit rougher than usual, probably strained from talking all night. He had convinced Robby to come in early so he could be there to drive you. You didn't even have to ask; he simply made the call, leaving no room for discussion. At this moment, with your hands trembling from nerves, you’re grateful you don’t have to deal with public transport.

You steal a glance at him as he leans against the counter, looking more careful than ever. It’s as if he’s making an effort to ease things between you, despite the unresolved tension that lingers. Ever since that conversation, everything has felt off—hesitant. But this morning, it’s like none of that matters. Or perhaps he’s just getting better at masking it.

He takes a few steps forward and nudges your plate closer. "Toast. Half a banana. Something."

You shake your head, eyeing it distrustfully. "I'm gonna throw up."

"You're not," he says.

"I might."

"Then you'll throw up with food in your system."

Despite your nerves, a weak laugh slips out of you. Jack's mouth twitches like he's relieved to hear it.

He turns to the fridge and places a few things inside a paper bag and then pushes it towards you.

"What's this?"

"Emergency provisions," he says. "A sandwich. Pretzels. Protein bar. Water bottle. Some candy."

Despite everything, despite how far away he feels now, he still does this for you. "Jack—"

"Go finish getting ready. I'll make you a smoothie for the car," he says, tilting his head toward your room.

You slide off the chair, murmuring, "Thanks."

He doesn't answer, just turns and grabs the ingredients. You can hear the blender as you throw the last things in your bag. Then you both head to the car.

The drive is quiet, with only the gentle hum of the radio and the rhythmic tapping of Jack's fingers on the steering wheel breaking the silence in the car. You take occasional sips of your smoothie, the liquid gliding down easier than a piece of toast would have. You sit curled in the passenger seat, rereading the testing confirmation email for the hundredth time, even though you already know every detail.

By the time Jack pulls into the testing centre parking lot, your pulse feels like it's vibrating under your skin. You feel nauseous and dizzy at the same time as you step out of the car. Too much hinges on today going well—what if you fuck it up?

"Hey," Jack says, catching your wrist gently.

You look at him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. He stands closer than he has in days, near enough for you to notice the faint crease between his brows, a mark that's been appearing more often lately. You can’t help but wonder if your own brow mirrors his. Without even realising it, you find yourself following his slow, steady breaths.

Someone passes nearby, and your attention snaps back to the building. Your nerves start churning again.

"You've got this," Jack says.

"Mm," you respond absentmindedly, still not looking at him.

He drops your wrist and cradles your cheeks with both hands, bringing your attention back to him.

"You've got this," he repeats, head tilting to look you deeply in the eye. The way he's looking at you, the softness in his voice, settles painfully behind your ribs. But this is just Jack. He takes care of people. Caring isn't the same as loving.

You nod weakly. His thumbs brush your cheeks lightly, making sure he keeps your attention before it can wander again. He breathes slowly, and you follow his lead.

"Repeat it," he says.

You breathe out. "You've got it," you echo, smirking a little.

"Ha," he huffs, rolling his eyes fondly. His hands leave your cheeks but don't go far, landing on your shoulders instead. "Don’t overthink it. You know what you’re doing."

You don't answer right away, but nod after a moment.

Jack grins and squeezes your shoulders before letting his hands fall down. "Go get them, tiger. I'll see you after."

You hesitate for a second, but then you lean in for a hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, palms rubbing your back gently. You breathe in deeply, letting his scent wash over you, and then you step back.

When you look behind you just before the doors, Jack sends you a thumbs up and mouths another 'you've got this'. You give him a shaky smile, and then you head inside.

After signing in, locking away your phone, and being led to a grey cubicle, the day flattens into hours of clicking through cases—trauma, chest pain, aches—questions that seem straightforward until they aren't.

During breaks, you mechanically chew bites of the sandwich Jack made you.

By the time it’s over, your eyes are stinging, and your brain feels completely drained, running on nothing but adrenaline and sheer determination. Finally, you see it: Exam Complete. It’s a bit underwhelming, really, with no score to indicate how well you did—just an empty screen staring back at you.

As doubts begin to creep in, you step out into the afternoon light, squinting against the brightness.

"Hey, I could use an attending over here," a familiar voice calls. Jack leans against the wall, holding an absurdly large bouquet of flowers, grinning from ear to ear.

You shake your head at him, yet a smile spreads across your face. You're too worn out to put on a facade, and his smile is too contagious. As soon as you reach him, he pulls you into a warm embrace. "Congratulations, sweetheart!"

You pull back enough to look at him. "You don't know if I passed."

He gives you a pointed. "I know. I saw how hard you studied for this." His expression softens as he hands you the flowers. "There's no way you didn't pass."

He gently places a hand on your back, guiding you toward the car. "Now, let's celebrate. You want something to eat?"

"Yes, please!" As the adrenaline begins to fade, your hunger sets in. "Can we get fries?"

Jack chuckles warmly as he opens the passenger door for you. "Of course! We can get whatever you want, honey. It’s your special day."

Jack pulls into a nearby diner, which you pointed out had a sign proclaiming to have 'America's best fries'. The place looks frozen in time—shiny red booths, black-and-white tiled floors, chrome-edged tables, and neon signs glowing softly in the windows despite it still being bright outside. It's perfect.

A sweet older waitress named Ethel seats you in the corner booth and takes your orders. She eyes the presents that Jack has placed on the table with a curious smile—you'd been just as curious when he grabbed them from the back.

"Is it your birthday, sweetie?" she asks.

"Oh no," you shake your head.

"She's just finished her residency," Jack supplies with a proud smile.

"Oh wow," Ethel grins. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," you say shyly.

Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "I'll be right back," Ethel says, spinning around to give your order to the kitchen.

Jack looks at you. "You wanna open your presents first or talk about the questions?"

Your eyes snap to his, unaware that he'd noticed how your mind was already spiralling.

"Go over them with me," he says. "I'm sure you did great."

He really is. And when he chooses the same answers as you did for all of the questions you remember, he knows you did great. With each confirmation, your shoulders go down minutely, until you're fully relaxed as the food arrives.

As you tear into your fries, Jack watches you across the table. Even tired and still slightly frazzled, you look gorgeous. He knows things have been weird, his fault really, but he hadn't expected you to bring up getting a divorce already. He thought he had more time. He clears his throat before the feeling can sit too long.

"Sorry to cut in," Ethel says as she walks by. In her hands, she holds a massive milkshake, whipped cream balancing precariously. "On the house. Congrats, sweetie."

"Oh wow," you exclaim. "Thank you so much." Your fingers curl around the glass, and you take a big sip.

"This is delicious," you say, lips still wrapped partly around the straw, words coming out jumbled. You push the glass toward him. "Wanna try?"

"Sure." He takes a sip and gives you an approving hum. He's not the biggest fan of milkshake, but when you offer it, it's his favourite drink in the world. "Now, I think it's time to open your presents."

You eye the boxes warily. "Does it matter which one I open first?"

He shakes his head and laughs when you go for the big one first. Exactly what he knew you would do.

You eagerly peel back the wrapping paper, and he can't help but grin when your eyes widen in disbelief. "No way." You rip off the rest of the paper, holding the box with your mouth slightly agape. "Jack—"

You turn it over, still in shock. It’s a Littmann stethoscope. Glancing back at him, you say, "This is way too much."

He shrugs, a smile spreading on his face. "You deserve the best," he replies, not at all concerned about the price when it comes to you.

"I can’t take this," you protest, still staring at the box.

"It would be rude not to," he teases gently. "It’s yours, honey. I doubt anyone else would want it with your initials on it."

"What?" You gulp, brows knitted as his words sink in. Your eyes begin to glisten. "Thank you."

He brushes it off, looking pleased. "Now, open the other one."

You carefully peel back the wrapping paper this time, revealing a velvet box tucked inside.

Jack suddenly regrets everything. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe Parker was wrong. Maybe getting something sentimental after weeks of distance was stupid.

As you gently open the box, the moon pendant on the necklace glimmers in the light of the diner.

"It’s the phase the moon was in when you switched to nights," Jack remarks, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. "I thought it was... kind of fitting, you know? With you being an attending on the night shift now."

For a moment, you’re silent, simply gazing at the pendant and then back at him. Your expression softens—vulnerable enough to tighten something in his chest painfully. "Jack…" you murmur softly.

Your fingers linger over the engraving of your nickname on the back as if you can’t help but keep touching it. Your mouth presses into something smaller, tighter. "You really didn’t have to do all this," you murmur, voice wavering around the edges.

He clears his throat. "I wanted to."

You nod a bit too quickly. "It’s really sweet," you say, already reaching for a smile that feels slightly too rehearsed. You look back down at the necklace again, thumb dragging over the pendant.

"I love it," you add quietly, almost to yourself. "Help me put it on?"

Jack swallows hard and nods.

You don’t mean to, but you nod off during the drive home, lulled into sleep by Jack’s soft humming. The adrenaline from earlier fizzled out during dinner, and now that you have food in your stomach, it’s harder to stay awake.

You stir awake as he pulls into the driveway, and with your eyes still half-closed, you stumble toward the front door. Jack unlocks it and motions for you to go in first. The house is dark and silent, the only noise coming from you as you hang up your jacket. Jack trails closely behind as you make your way to the living room. You don’t notice the tension radiating from him or how he’s practically holding his breath.

Just as you’re about to cross the threshold, the lights come on, and a loud chorus of voices erupts—

"SURPRISE!"

You yelp, stumbling backwards into Jack's chest. He catches you immediately, steadying you.

"Fuck," you gasp, one hand flying to your heart while laughter erupts around the room. Your eyes widen as you take in the scene: people crammed onto the couch, filling the kitchen and dining area—residents, nurses, and attendings, all grinning from ear to ear. Several phones point your way, capturing your shocked reaction.

Streamers hang askew from the ceiling, and a banner taped to the wall behind the couch reads, ‘CONGRATS!’

Parker cackles loudly at your face. "Told you she'd scream."

"You assholes," you breathe out. You turn to Jack with wide eyes. "Did you plan this?"

Suddenly, everything falls into place. The way he kept glancing at his watch and checking his phone before you left the diner.

He nods sheepishly. "Maybe."

Something warm spreads through you. He texted everyone, ensured your favourite people came, decorated, and made sure there’d be food and drinks so you wouldn’t spiral into anxiety alone. Your lip quivers slightly.

"Hey," Jack says softly. "Don't cry, sweetheart. You'll make everyone else cry, and then Shen'll start. Trust me, he’s an ugly crier."

"Hey!" Shen protests as people laugh.

You let out a laugh, blending the emotion bubbling inside you into something manageable. You grab Jack in a tight hug.

His arms wrap around you automatically.

"Thank you," you whisper into his shoulder.

His hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. "You deserve it," he murmurs into your hair.

You pull back to look at him, and you swear you see his eyes flicker down to your lips. The space between you feels charged, almost unbearable, but you turn away before you can dwell on it too long. You leap into the crowd, hugging and laughing your way through the congratulations.

Through it all, every conversation, every hug, every congratulation, you keep finding Jack.

He's mostly hanging back near the kitchen island, letting people have their moment with you. Directing gifts and cards to the foldable table he put up in the dining room. Occasionally, someone claps him on the shoulder, offering their congratulations.

After you've greeted everyone, it's been half an hour. Parker supplied you with a drink somewhere in the middle, and a light buzz has started to spread through you. You find your way back to Jack, bumping your shoulder against his.

"Tired?" he asks.

"A little."

"But happy?" he watches your face carefully, like he's ready to throw everyone out if you ask.

You glance around the room, taking in the lively residents engaged in playful banter, one nurse wrestling with Parker to keep her from popping open champagne indoors, and the precariously hanging banner. You turn to Jack, feeling the warmth radiating off him, and step a little closer.

"Yeah," you smile softly. "Really happy."

Jack beams in return, visibly relieved. "Good."

"Did I miss Robby, somehow?" you ask, taking a sip as you scan the room.

"He's not here yet," Jack replies, something almost boyishly excited in his tone.

Your eyebrows furrow, but before you can question him further, you’re swept into another wave of congratulations as more day shift staff arrive.

The front door opens after a little while. The sound barely carries over the music and chatter, but you’ve been wondering what Jack and Robby are up to since your conversation with Jack. Without hesitation, you step out into the hallway.

Robby steps in first, his tall frame ducking slightly as he walks through the doorway, even though it’s more than high enough for him. The moment he spots you, a grin spreads across his face.

"Robby!" you grin, swaying slightly as you step forward. "You made it!"

"Of course, I did," he replies, opening his arms just in time for you to collide into him. "My best resident's an attending now. And soon enough, board-certified, too. Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

"Best resident?" Trinity says as she passes by, squeezing your shoulder. "Rude."

"Talk to me when you stop falling asleep while charting," he shoots back.

"Make it more exciting then," she replies, leaving before he can answer.

There's a light tap on your shoulder. "Do I get a hug too, or are you too good for us ordinary folks now?"

Your body stills as you recognise the familiar cadence. "No way," you breathe, turning to face her.

Olivia grins at you when you nearly smack into her.

"Liv!" you squeal, wrapping your arms around her tightly. The two of you bounce in place, laughing together as Robby squeezes past with an amused chuckle.

"Oh my god," you gasp. "Oh my god, you're here!"

"I am," she laughs.

"How? What? When?" you pull back, but grab her hands immediately.

She laughs. "Jack called me. Paid for my ticket, too."

Your head snaps to the living room, where Jack stands with a beer bottle, watching the entire scene unfold with quiet amusement. "He did?" you ask, still looking at him.

Jack shrugs one shoulder, like flying your best friend into town isn't a big deal.

Olivia squeezes your hands. Because she knows better than you what's going through your head. You have nowhere to put the feeling, so you squeeze back hard.

"Oh no," she says playfully. "You’re not going to start crying, are you? Because then I’ll cry too."

"I'm not," you reassure her, sniffling a little.

"Mm," she huffs, smiling at you.

You laugh shakily and pull her into another hug. "I'm just so happy you're here."

"I’m really proud of you," she whispers in your ear. "Now, enough of the mushy stuff," she says, pulling back and quickly wiping her eyes. "Let’s get wasted!"

After introductions have been made and you've thanked Jack once again, Olivia pulls you out on the terrace. It's a little quieter outside, music humming faintly through the half-open door and laughter drifting out every few minutes.

Someone—likely Jack—has strung warm lights along the fence, casting a gentle glow around the edges of the yard. A few people linger in the far corner, drinks in hand, deeply engaged in conversation. They smile at you but don’t pay much attention otherwise.

As you sink into the lounger, it creaks softly beneath you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over you now that no one is tugging at your attention. The weight of the last few weeks—filled with the adrenaline and stress of the exam, along with all the emotions you’ve been avoiding—settles heavily in your bones.

Olivia sits down beside you, curling one leg beneath her. For a while, you both sit in silence, taking in the pink and gold sky above. You hadn't realised how badly you needed her here until she was.

She nudges your knee with hers. "You good?"

The automatic answer almost comes out. Yeah. Fine. Tired. But since it’s Liv asking, you look down at your drink instead and reply, "…Maybe."

Inside, silhouettes move through the house, and you catch a glimpse of Shen animatedly telling a story, Parker wearing a disbelieving frown nearby. And then there’s Jack—he’s half-listening to someone while refilling bowls and checking if the fridge is stocked. He laughs, his gaze drifting until he finally spots you outside. Something in his shoulders eases when he does.

As his gaze shifts back to whoever he’s talking to, Olivia watches you quietly. "Can I ask you something?"

You turn to her again. "That depends."

A tiny smile flickers across her face. "Are you actually sure," she asks carefully, "that the two of you are having the same conversation?"

You frown at her.

She shrugs. "I know what you said, but from where I'm standing…" Her eyes flick briefly to the window again. "…he doesn't exactly look emotionally detached."

You sigh, fingers tightening around your cup. "That's just Jack."

"He flew me across the country." She bumps her shoulder into yours as she leans back. "He called me, like… three? Maybe four weeks ago?"

"Really?"

"Mm," she hums. "Told me he was planning a surprise and that he wanted me there. He thought it wouldn’t feel right if I wasn’t."

Something warm and painful settles low in your chest.

"And," she adds, "he made Robby pick me up because he said if he left to get me, there was too high a chance that you'd notice something weird."

You blink.

"I'm just saying," she says, "that's a lot of effort."

"He likes taking care of people," you reply with a forced shrug.

"Sure. But this?" She gestures vaguely toward the house. "This feels a little above average."

You fall silent.

"You didn't hear the conversation," you say quietly instead. Heat creeps into your face. You hate it when she says things like that. Because you can't help but wonder if she's on to something.

Olivia’s expression softens. "Okay. But from where I’m sitting?" Her gaze drifts back to Jack, who’s already checking the window again. "That man doesn’t look like someone trying to leave."

Your chest tightens, and your head spins, caught at a crossroads. You want to believe her so badly. You really do. But hope is what led you here in the first place.

"Just..." she nudges your knee again. "Don't make permanent decisions based on assumptions."

The party grows louder as the night settles in. Music drifts through the house beneath the constant hum of overlapping conversations. Empty bottles and half-finished drinks crowd the coffee table and kitchen counters.

You’re standing near the kitchen island with Olivia, laughing at something Robby has just said, when the sharp clink of glass cuts through the chatter. Conversations begin to fade one by one.

Jack stands by the dining table, a beer bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other, looking somewhat embarrassed by the sudden focus on him.

"Oh no," you murmur immediately.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" the crowd chants in unison.

"Don’t encourage him," you warn, shooting them all a firm look.

Jack rolls his eyes, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders as he glances around the room. Public speaking has never bothered him—he can run the Pitt without blinking—but this is different. This is personal.

His gaze finds yours and softens. The room quiets completely.

Jack clears his throat, "Okay. I wanna say a few words about my incredible wife."

Your breath catches a little at how easily he says those words.

The room collectively lets out an exaggerated chorus of 'awws'.

"Shut up, "Jack retorts flatly, though a smile breaks through. "She took her written boards today—which, for the record, I know she passed." He blinks at you, ignoring your head shake, and speaks directly to you. "You’re the hardest-working person I’ve ever met," he says quietly, "—and the most stubborn."

"You can't say that in a toast," you protest, laughing.

"I absolutely can," he replies confidently. "I’ve watched you spend years becoming the doctor people trust on their worst days." His mouth curves slightly. "I've also seen you survive residency fuelled by caffeine, spite and terrifying levels of determination."

Laughter erupts around the room.

"You care more than anyone I know,” Jack continues once it settles down. "About your patients. About your coworkers. About doing things right. The Pitt is better with you in it." He pauses, looking around the room. People eagerly lift their glasses, cheering their approval.

Jack shifts his weight, turning back to you. "And now it looks like I have to work with you as an attending."

"Don't say it like it's a burden," you call out.

"It is," he says dryly. "Because you're gonna show us all up."

"Damn right she is," Parker shouts, and the room cheers, prompting a soft laugh from Jack.

"I can’t wait for you to join nights again," he says, directing a pointed look at Robby, "—where you belong—"

You laugh at the grimace on Robby's face.

Jack continues, "—even if you're gonna steal all my favourite nurses."

"They already like me better," you say automatically, letting the alcohol drown any thoughts of Lily.

"See?" he tells the room, "Nightmare coworker."

Laughter fills the space again, but his eyes remain locked on yours. Then, speaking more softly, he says, "I’m really proud of you." He exhales quietly. "I know today was tough. I’m aware of the pressure you put on yourself. But I need you to understand," —his voice drops lower— "you earned this. You’re an amazing doctor."

The tears you had managed to hold back threaten to spill over. Liv subtly hands you a napkin. Your fingers find the moon pendant at your throat without thinking.

Jack's expression softens when he sees your face. And then he says the words he won't ever say in private. "I love you." His eyes don't leave yours. Something in his expression shifts—softer, almost wary.

The room melts around you. You wish, just for a second, that you could believe him. Maybe you would have—if this had been private. If he hadn’t said it with people watching. If it hadn’t come wrapped inside a toast and soft laughter, and the role you've trapped him inside.

He's your husband. Of course, he says I love you. What else is he supposed to say?

Jack looks at you for a second longer before clearing his throat roughly and turning back to everyone else. He lifts his bottle into the air. "To Trouble!"

The room echoes his sentiment. You manage a shaky smile through teary eyes, feeling Liv squeeze your hand.

"Okay, enough of the sappy stuff," he announces. "There’s cake in the kitchen and more drinks in the fridge. Have fun!"

He stops to add, "Oh—and if anybody starts discussing actual medicine tonight, I'm kicking you out!"

The room instantly bursts into noise and movement. You catch Jack’s arm as he walks past you.

"Thank you," you murmur, then step back, reaching for another drink. Jack catches your hand, like he wants to stop you from walking away.

Then he drops your hand again.

A little while later, you've been sent to the kitchen for more drinks by Parker and Trinity. Mel asked you more nicely.

Jack is already there, half inside the fridge, shifting bottles around. "What do you need?" he asks, without turning around.

"Two seltzers and two beers."

"All out of seltzers," he says without looking at you. "I'll go get some more." He shuts the fridge with his shoulder.

You don’t move right away. Neither does he. It stretches for a second too long before he nods toward the door. "You coming?"

You pretend to think about it, grinning slightly. "Do I have to?"

"No," he says, shrugging like it doesn't mean anything to him.

You follow him out anyway and pretend not to notice the smile on his face when you do.

Jack flips the garage light on and steps inside first. There are cases stacked against the wall, a half-open box of cups, and some random folding chairs shoved into the corner. It's cluttered in a lived-in way.

You reach for a case at the same time he does, your fingers brushing against each other.

"I’ve got it," he says, pulling away slowly. He adjusts his grip on the case, then shifts slightly so you can reach the cups.

"Thanks." You grab a sleeve, and when you straighten up, he’s already holding the door open for you. You pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost catches his chest.

Later in the evening, you find yourself sitting sideways on the couch, your head resting against the cushion as you half-listen to the radiologist whom Lily has been seeing. He'd brought a sweet card from her, giving you her apologies for having to work. Parker's vetted him earlier, and after about five minutes of questioning, you also deem him acceptable. He’s nice, sporting a bright smile that rivals Lily's in its brilliance, and he’s funny too—though maybe that’s just the alcohol coursing through your veins. As he recounts a story about misreading a scan, you chuckle into your cup.

"Hey, can I steal you for a second?" Jack’s voice cuts through your laughter, low and tense. His hand lands on your shoulder and slides down to grasp your hand, and before you can respond, he pulls you up and away. Your drink sloshes against your palm.

You glance back at the radiologist, whose name escapes you, offering an apologetic smile, but he waves you off with a smile.

As Jack pulls you through people toward his room, you twist your arm. "What's going on?"

He doesn't answer. He pushes the door open and pulls you inside, shutting it with more force than necessary. For a heartbeat, he stands there with his back to you, breathing heavily.

You wipe your hand on your pants and set the drink down on the dresser. "Jack?"

He turns around, his attempt at restraint already unravelling. His eyes are stormy, darker than usual. "You having fun?"

"Yeah?"

"It looked that way."

You frown at him.

"I know you've already decided how this ends—" he says, voice low and tense, "But don't do that in front of me."

Your brows shoot up. "Do what?"

"Least of all in my house," he continues, taking a step forward.

"What are you talking about?"

He exhales sharply, clearly struggling to rein in his emotions. "You know."

Irritation flares in your chest. "No? Because from where I was standing, I was having a normal conversation until you dragged me in here like I did something wrong."

His voice rises, filled with frustration. "You were all over him."

You step forward defiantly. "I was talking to him."

"You were laughing with him," Jack says, stepping closer. "For forty-five minutes."

"That's how conversations work, Jack. And it wasn’t even that long."

He scoffs, crossing his arms. "You could at least show some decency."

Your brows furrow, incredulous. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "Decency? You're lecturing me about decency? That's rich."

His expression hardens. He’s close enough now that you can smell the beer and cake on his breath. "I don't understand what your problem is. You know what you're doing."

"My problem?" You take another step forward, refusing to back down. "My problem is you pulling me in here like I did something wrong while you’ve been flirting in front of me for weeks."

He blinks, his brows furrowing. "What? I haven't flirted with anyone."

You stare at him, crossing your arms. "Right. So, I've just been imagining things?"

He stares back at you, searching your face, then his nostrils flare. "Are you just trying to change the subject?"

"Are you?" you retort. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, mere inches apart now.

His breath hitches, and his eyes flicker down for a moment. "Jesus, what don't you get? You know I lo—"

Then the doorknob rattles

Your eyes widen as panic rushes across both your faces—the thought of someone walking in would be disastrous. Questions, rumours, explanations that neither of you can manage right now.

But beneath that panic lies something else: the way he stands too close, the jealousy lacing his voice, the realisation that for one fleeting moment, he sounded like he cared. Like he was hurt.

Without thinking, you react.

It's not gentle. Nothing about it is careful. It's frustration, anger, and heat colliding in a motion too fast to stop.

Jack freezes for half a heartbeat, maybe less, as if he can’t believe this is happening. Then something in him gives way. His hand wraps around your waist firmly, pulling you closer, while the other winds into your hair, tilting your head back as he kisses you deeply.

He turns you without breaking the kiss, and you feel your back hit the dresser. Woods digs into your hips, but you don't care. You try to swallow a moan as he licks into your mouth, but it still comes out broken.

Jack groans at the sound.

The door opens behind you—

"Oh shit—sorry!" a voice giggles, and then the door shuts again.

You move to pull back, but Jack simply follows. He crowds you closer, one hand gliding down your thigh and lifting you in one smooth move onto the edge of the dresser. You don't even register it properly—just the shift, the heat, the closeness of him. Your legs part to make room for him.

The kiss is still intense, angry, loaded with everything neither of you has said aloud for weeks. The anger burns hot at first. Weeks of hurt. Silences. Jealousy. Frustration.

It tastes sharp.

But somewhere between one breath and the next, it changes. Not softer. Like neither of you wants to stop long enough to remember why you should.

You let it go on longer than you should have, fingers gliding through the hair at the nape of his neck, brushing against the slight stubble on his cheeks, and then trailing down to his chest again. You soak in the sounds he makes, the softness of his lips, and the faint taste of beer lingering on him.

He mutters against your lips, "Please don’t make this harder—" but the rest fades away as reality crashes back in. You break the kiss, barely pulling away, your breath uneven, your foreheads nearly touching.

"Jack…" you murmur. "We…We shouldn't." You force yourself to resist the urge to lean in again, reminding yourself he’s drunk, and this isn’t what he truly wants.

Jack stills immediately. The air between you, once heated, cools instantly. He pulls back, looking at you with blown pupils, and whatever he sees there makes him falter.

He nods and retreats quickly, like he’s been burned. The sudden gap between you feels worse than if he had stayed angry. "No, you’re right."

"I—" you say as you watch the gap between you grow back again, heart pounding painfully behind your ribs. "Jack—"

"Hey, can I come in?" Olivia's voice floats through the door, slightly muffled and slurred. "I've got beer all over me—I need a shower before I start fermenting."

Jack watches you silently, like he's begging you not to answer.

You wet your lips, forcing your voice to work. "…Yeah."

The door swings open, and she halts mid-step, taking in the scene before her. Her eyes dart from you to Jack. "Should I—" she begins, stepping back.

"I'll go," Jack interrupts and brushes past her.

She stares down the hallway for a moment before closing the door behind her and locking it. "What was that about?"

You gaze at the floor, shrugging awkwardly. "…We kissed."

Her expression shifts immediately. "What?" she asks sharply.

Your stomach twists. "It—" you swallow, trying to push the ache down. "I don't know—" Your voice cracks at the end despite your best effort to remain steady.

"Oh, honey," she says, crossing the room to sit beside you on the dresser without hesitation, pulling you into her non-beer-soaked side. "Hey, hey—look at me."

At first, you can’t. She nudges you gently, then pinches your side until you meet her gaze.

"Everything's fucked," you tell her with a wet laugh.

She doesn’t respond, nor does she try to convince you otherwise. Instead, she pulls you closer, letting you cry it out.

Once your breathing slows, she leans her head against yours. "Did he kiss you back?"

You laugh wetly. "That’s not exactly the problem."

Olivia studies you. “Okay. We’re unpacking this tomorrow when you're not drunk."

For a while, neither of you says anything. Then Olivia heads into the bathroom. The shower runs softly while you shift to sit on the edge of the bed. Laughter and music drift faintly through the door.

Your chest aches in that dull, exhausted way heartbreak settles after it's done tearing through you. You don’t know what tonight meant, what the kiss signified, or what he meant by, “please don’t make it harder…”

You wipe at your face roughly, feeling humiliated.

Olivia peeks out from behind the shower curtain, her face partially visible through the cracked door.

"...Okay," she says cautiously. "I have gossip."

You blink. "What?"

Her mouth twitches. "Important gossip."

Despite yourself, a tired laugh escapes. "Liv, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," she says quickly. "Someone else did something."

"…Who?"

She's silent.

"No way."

She tries very hard to maintain her composure and fails immediately, breaking into a grin. "He spilt his beer on me and then—"

"You kissed Robby?" you gasp in disbelief.

Her grin only widens. "Don’t be mad."

You blink at her in disbelief, once, twice. "Oh my god," you laugh. "I can’t believe you."

"Are you mad?" she asks, biting her lip nervously.

"No!" you immediately reassure her. You're really not. "I just...didn't realise that was a thing."

"Well, to be fair," she laughs, stepping back under the water. "Neither did I until about half an hour ago."

The party thins out a little after midnight. Jack and you cross paths a few times, but he doesn't really look at you, no matter how hard you're trying to catch his eye. You didn't realise how much you'd depended on it before.

For the last few hours, you’ve been drifting through the evening, going through the motions without really being present. You smile through well-wishes, laugh at the appropriate moments without any real feeling, and hum along to the music without actually listening. Even through the blur of everything with Jack, you catch the few lingering looks from Robby in Olivia’s direction, like something has shifted slightly.

It's the only good thing you have to hold on to right now,

You guide a very drunk Olivia into your bed while Jack and Robby are busy clearing bottles off the terrace after saying goodbye to the last few guests. As you head to the kitchen for a glass of water, your steps slow when you hear their voices coming from the hallway. You find yourself pausing near the counter, unable to help it.

"You good?" Robby asks.

There’s a pause—a long one for such a simple question.

"Yeah," Jack finally answers. "I'm fine."

"That's not what it looks like," Robby says.

You hear Jack exhale. "It’s nothing," he says. "I just… I should’ve handled things differently."

You hear the jingle of keys. Robby doesn't respond right away, letting the silence prompt Jack to continue.

"I thought I had more control over it. That I could keep it contained."

"But you can’t," Robby states, not posing it as a question.

Jack emits a broken laugh. "No. I should’ve never agreed to this."

You bite your lip harshly.

"Brother," Robby says, shifting slightly, "That's not true—"

"It's gone too far now and I—"

You hold your breath. A chill spreads through your chest at his words. Gone too far. Deep down, you knew he regretted this. Now, you have it in plain words.

You don’t wait for him to finish. You step back before your body even catches up with the words, pulse roaring in your ears. Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, it feels like everything is about to break open.

But it doesn’t.

Whatever was building just… stalls out. You blink once, then again, waiting for the tears to catch up. They don’t. There's just a dull pressure behind your eyes that never quite turns into anything.

It takes a good half hour before you're able to catch your breath enough to speak. By the time you finally reach for your phone, your lungs are aching from sobbing, your eyes are swollen, and your whole face feels hot and tight. The t-shirt you had under your scrubs is drenched from the number of times you've lifted it to dry your eyes.

Your hands shake so badly that it takes two attempts to tap Olivia's name. As the phone rings, your fingers twist into the duvet, trying to steady yourself.

"Hey, what's up?" Olivia answers, her voice warm but laced with concern. It's not like you to call without warning, and especially not at this hour. "What's wrong?"

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, a shaky breath escapes you, followed by another. Olivia waits patiently through the silence.

"What happened?" she asks gently after a moment.

You press your lips together, trying to compose yourself, but your voice still cracks when you finally speak. "I'm so stupid."

"What?" she says immediately. "No, you’re not."

A sharp laugh escapes you. You wipe roughly at your face, trying to force the tears in again. "You don’t even know what I’m talking about."

"I don't need to," Olivia insists. "You're not stupid."

"I'm not too sure about that." You shake your head even though she can't see it, then stare blankly at the wall. "I was wrong. He doesn't—he doesn't love me, Liv."

The words tumble out, broken and raw, now that you've begun.

"He doesn't even want me. He was just—" Your voice catches. "He was just being nice, and I turned into something more. Something it wasn't."

"Okay, hold on. Why do you think that?"

"Because I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"The way he looks at her," you shrug. "The way he talks to her. He’s so gentle with her, Liv." Your breath shudders as you remember how Jack looked at Lily. The fear in his eyes. The anger when it had been directed at you. "And here I was, thinking he looked at me like that when he doesn't. Hasn't ever." You rub your eyes harshly. "God, I'm such a fool."

Olivia is quiet for a second, trying to keep up. "Okay, who are we talking about?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Lily—she's one of the nurses."

"So... You think Jack is in love with Lily?" Olivia doesn't have to speak her disbelief aloud; it saturates her every word. But she hasn't seen what you have.

"I know it."

"You do not know that," she counters firmly.

"Yes, I do!" you snap, sitting up as if anger might help hold you together. "I saw how he was with her."

"What did you actually see?" she presses.

"Why? So you can explain why I’m overreacting? I'm not overreacting!"

Olivia sighs softly on the other end. "I'm trying to understand what happened," she says gently.

"Lily got hurt, and he looked terrified. He was just—he was so careful with her. And so angry with me because he thought I made it worse."

"And that means he’s in love with her?"

"Yes!" The word bursts out too quickly, too loudly. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to hold yourself together.

"Okay," she says. "But people look scared when someone gets hurt. That doesn’t mean they’re in love."

You let out a hollow laugh that breaks into a half-sob. "You don’t understand. It's not just that."

"Then help me understand," she says. "Because the last time I saw him, he was completely smitten with you."

"Well, you were wrong about that. Because it was never me." Your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought all those little moments meant something, but they really didn’t. I thought..." you swallow. "Never mind what I thought. He asks about her. He laughs with her. He likes her. "

You can hear Olivia shift her position, thinking her words through before she speaks again. "Did Jack ever tell you he has feelings for her?"

"...No."

"Did he tell you he doesn’t want you?"

"...No."

"Then why are you acting like this is a fact?"

"Because she’s everything I’m not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "She’s calm, and kind, and easy to be around. She isn’t trouble, she isn’t messy—she doesn’t complicate everything."

"Honey—"

"And I do," you continue, your voice cracking more with each word. "I make everything harder."

"No, you don't—"

"God, I’m so embarrassed." Your breathing comes out in uneven bursts. "I was crawling into his bed every night, Liv. Every night. And he never even asked me to. I thought he wanted me there, but he was probably just too nice to tell me to stop."

"That is not what this sounds like," Olivia says.

Your voice sharpens. "Then what does it sound like?"

She sighs. "It sounds like you’re hurt and jumping to conclusions. People don't share that kind of space with someone they don't want."

You let out a scoff. "Of course you’d say that."

"Because I know you," Olivia says gently. "And because nothing you’re telling me proves that he doesn’t care about you."

Your eyes fill with tears again, your anger deflating. "He doesn’t care the way I care."

"You don't know that."

"Yes," you reply. "I do."

"Hey, listen to me," Olivia says, her voice growing firmer. "You’re scared, so you’re turning your worst fear into the truth."

Deep down, you know she might be right. But the other part—the louder part—keeps replaying Jack’s face and the panic in his eyes and the tenderness in his hands as he cradled Lily's face.

"I can’t do this," you whisper. "I can’t stay there and pretend I’m okay while he falls in love with someone else."

"Honey—"

Your lips quiver. "And the worst part is, I still want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just don't know if I'm strong enough to pretend that I don't care."

Olivia shifts on the other end, but you continue before she can speak.

"Robby asked me to move to the day shift temporarily, but maybe I'll see if I can stay there permanently."

"He did what?" Olivia's voice sharpens instantly. "Are you serious?" She lets out an irritated breath. "Never mind. Let's hold off on any big decisions right now. You need some sleep, and then we can revisit this tomorrow, okay?"

You bit the inside of your cheek instead of answering. "I wish you were here," you whisper.

"Me too," Olivia replies. "But I’m just a phone call away. Everything will be alright, and I need you to promise me you won’t make any decisions today."

You let out a shaky breath. "I’m not sure."

"Promise me."

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. "…Okay."

"Good," she says softly. "I promise it’ll be fine," she adds. "And I never break my promises. You know that. I still can’t look at pictures from my first year in college—pink hair really didn’t suit me."

You laugh, even though it’s a shaky sound. But it’s a laugh, nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon." You sniffle, wiping your eyes. "Love you."

"Love you more," she says.

The call ends, and the room feels unbearably quiet. You curl tighter around yourself beneath the blankets, staring into the dark. No matter what Olivia says, you know what you saw. You know what it meant.

You're still not asleep when footsteps sound outside the door, but you don't rise from the bed. You won't disturb him anymore because Jack doesn't belong to you any more now than he did when this all started.

Jack walks through the front door nearly three hours later than he was supposed to. Day shift had been short a resident, and when the replacement called to say they were running late, Jack stayed behind to help. A thing he never should have said yes to, because half an hour in, they were slammed with multiple traumas.

And as he moved through them, fully present as he answered questions and guided residents, in the breaks in between, his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Home. With you.

Because the whole shift, one recurring thought had weighed heavily on his chest, a weight that made it harder to breathe: he had hurt you.

You'd assured him it was fine. Had looked him in the eye and said it was over, that it had just been the heat of the moment. But Jack knew better. He knew the difference between your real smile and the thin, careful one you’d given him outside the ambulance bay. He hated that he was the reason for it.

He'd replayed that scene over and over again; you throwing yourself at danger without any fear, how that patient had lunged at you, the violent rush of panic that shot through him when he realised just how close that first had come to your face, and the subsequent relief when you were okay.

A relief so sharp it had made him feel sick. Because the ugly truth was that for that split second, all he could think was: thank god it wasn’t you in that headlock. Lily had been hurt—she had bruises forming around her throat, was coughing and shaken, and needed care—and all Jack could feel was sheer, overwhelming relief that it wasn’t you.

The guilt of that still sat bitter in his stomach.

Then that fear—that sick, helpless fear—had spiralled into anger before he could rein it in. Anger was easier. Easier than admitting his hands had been trembling. Easier than saying: I thought I was about to watch you get hurt, and it would have shattered me.

So instead of telling you how proud he was—how fearless you had been, how quickly you had moved, how you had stepped in without hesitation to protect someone—he snapped at you. Scolded you in front of everyone. He had made you feel reckless. He had made you feel small. And worst of all, he had called you trouble.

The word still echoes in his mind as he drives home, hands tight on the wheel. He'd usually say it in a soft tone to tease you, but it was always fond, never cruel. But tonight, he had thrown it at you like an accusation.

And he hates that. Because you are trouble. But never in the way he’d made it sound. You were trouble because you had somehow made his world rearrange itself around you. Because his pulse spiked when you were close. Because his whole body knew the difference between you and everyone else. Because the idea of losing you hollowed him out.

That was what he’d meant. Not that you were a burden or difficult to deal with. Not that you were something to endure. But the moment the word left his mouth, all that tenderness had turned into something sharp enough to wound you.

Now all he could think about was getting home to you and making things right. He would apologise again. Hell, he’d even beg if that’s what it took. He’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell you exactly what he should’ve expressed in the hallway—that he’d been terrified, that none of it was your fault, that seeing you throw yourself into danger scared him to his core.

He’d tell you he was so sorry. He’d tell you he never intended to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.

But by the time he gets home, the house is dark and quiet. He glances automatically down the hallway. Your door is shut, not cracked open the way it usually is. Jack pauses for half a second, staring at it. Then he tells himself not to read into it. You could still be waiting for him like usual.

He makes a point of stepping down as he walks past your room, letting his feet hit the floor harder than necessary. He waits a second, ears straining, but he hears nothing. Not yet. So he heads to the shower, washing the hospital smell off as fast as he can. Afterwards, he climbs into bed and leaves the bedside lamp on. And then he waits.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Jack glances at the clock. Still nothing. He tells himself you're probably coming soon. Twenty minutes slip by. He reaches for his phone, checks it, then sets it back down. Thirty minutes pass. For one reckless second, he thinks about going to your door—knocking softly, apologising half asleep if he has to. But the thought of waking you, of asking for comfort after being the one who hurt you, keeps him rooted where he is.

He stares at the doorway, the bedside lamp still casting warm light across the empty room, but the sheets beside him stay untouched. There's no soft knock at the door, no sleepy smile, no weight dipping the mattress beside him. Slowly, the awful reality settles over him. You’re not coming tonight.

He sits there for another few minutes anyway, staring at the doorway like he can will you to appear. Maybe you’re asleep already. Maybe you were too tired after the shift to wait for him.

No matter how much he tries to explain it, he just can't shake that awful feeling. And for the first time in weeks, Jack falls asleep alone. Or he tries to.

Jack wakes with an ache in his limbs that he hasn't felt in a long time. But he doesn't have to wonder why, not when he's spent most of the day thinking rather than sleeping. The few hours of broken sleep that he had got weren't enough to dull the pain.

He stares at the ceiling for another minute and then pushes himself upright. He can still fix this. So he dresses and slips out of the house quietly.

The flowers are impulsive. He sees them outside the grocery store—soft pink and white tulips wrapped in brown paper—and buys them without thinking about it too long. Because they feel like something, something that says I'm sorry better than words might.

He's never been good at words.

Then he grabs breakfast. Coffee for both of you. Pancakes and eggs—the kind of breakfast you love on lazy mornings.  

He balances everything awkwardly as he lets himself back into the house, feeling insanely nervous. He tells himself not to be. It was just an argument. People have arguments all the time. He’s just apologising. And yet his pulse picks up when he walks down the hallway toward your room.

He knocks softly, waiting for you to answer before he pushes the door open with his shoulder. You're sitting up in bed, wrapped in the blankets, the room dim except for the afternoon light leaking through the slightly opened curtains.

You turn your head to look at him, and for a moment, relief eases the tightness in his chest—until he sees your face and how puffy your eyes look. A rush of guilt overtakes it so fast it almost hurts and makes the knot even tighter than it was before.

"Hey," he says quietly, watching you carefully.

You glance at the flowers, then at the food, and a small smile graces your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "Wow," you say. "What’s all this?"

Jack steps inside, carefully setting everything on the bedside table. "Peace offering," he tries to smile at you, but it falls flat.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say.

He shrugs, holding out the flowers to you instead of answering.

You take them after a brief hesitation. "They’re beautiful."

Jack lingers at the edge of your bed for a second before sitting down cautiously. "I’m really sorry about last night."

You shake your head immediately. "It’s okay."

The words hit him wrong immediately—too quick, too flat, like you're trying to smooth over something that still hurts.

"No," he says firmly. "It’s not. I was out of line."

You look down at the flowers in your lap. "Jack—"

"I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."

You nod once, still avoiding his gaze. "Okay."

The word makes something twist painfully in his chest because that’s not like you. Usually, you’d argue with him. Tell him he was being a dick or tease him for spiralling. But now you’re just... accepting it.

For one brief second, he wonders if this is about more than last night—if something else is wrong—but guilt crushes the thought almost as soon as it appears. Of course, this is because of him. He did this.

He leans forward slightly, desperate for you to know, to see just how sorry he is. "I was scared," he admits.

That finally gets you to look up, but your expression remains unreadable. "I know."

"No, I mean it." His hands instinctively clasp together as he searches for the right words. He wants to hold yours instead, but he isn't sure you'd let him. "When that guy swung at you, I thought—" He exhales shakily. "I just lost it. That doesn’t excuse what I said, but I need you to know where it came from. Still, I’m really sorry."

You nod again. "I understand." Your voice is calm, and there's no anger or hurt on your face.

Jack studies you more intently now. "Did I make you cry?" he asks quietly. He already knows the answer to that. Can see it in your face. In how tears seem to bead at your waterline again. His hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost unbearable, but he stops himself.

Your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "No."

"Sweetheart—"

Before he can say more, you reach for the book on the bedside table, settling back against the pillows.  "It’s fine, Jack," you say with your eyes fixed on the book rather than on him. "Really." You lift the book slightly. "I need to study."

The sound of paper rustling fills the silence between you.

Jack sits there for a moment, staring at the side of your face. He swallows. "I don’t want this to sit between us."

You shrug slightly, still not looking at him. "It’s not."

But it is. He can feel it—how your body is angled away from him, how you avoid his gaze, how the food sits untouched beside you. He wants to keep pushing—to ask what’s wrong, to make you talk to him, to somehow force the warmth back into the room—but the tension in your shoulders tells him that pressing further would only make things worse.

So instead, he nods once. "Okay."

You don’t answer.

He stands slowly. "Eat before it gets cold."

"I will."

You still don't look up at him. Jack hesitates by the door. Waiting, maybe, for you to call him back. For you to soften. For something. But your gaze stays fixed on the book.

So he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. It's only once he’s in the hallway that he lets out the breath he’s been holding. This feels worse than if you’d yelled at him, because at least anger would mean you were still letting him in.

But this carefulness, this distance—it’s unbearable, and he doesn't know how to fix it.

Later that evening, there's a warm and rich smell of garlic and spices drifting out from the kitchen, filling the house in a way that makes everything feel normal again.

Jack sits on the couch, watching you move around in the kitchen, the TV on low in the background. He'd offered his help, but you'd refused, pointing him towards the couch, telling him to relax before work. You'd pointed out that he was the one in scrubs and not you before he had a chance to argue otherwise. Even though you had rejected him, it had been said lightly with a shake of your head and a gentle 'I've got it', and it hadn't felt like you didn't want him there. The soft pat on his bicep had been the selling point that things might not be as bad as he thought earlier. Maybe you'd just needed a few hours alone for things to be good again.

He sinks deeper into the cushions, breathing out slowly as he listens to the familiar sounds of you in the kitchen—cabinets opening, a pan clinking against the stove, the low hum he doesn't think you even notice you make. It feels so normal that it almost makes him forget how tense everything had felt earlier.

You were okay now. You had to be. You’d even laughed at him. It was just a small thing he said—something he can’t even remember the exact words of now—but you'd laughed. That had to be good.

When you finally step back into the living room, it’s with two bowls in your hands. "Here," you say lightly, placing them on the coffee table.

Jack smiles. "Thank you."

You give him a quick, easy glance, and that simplicity settles him even more. It’s nothing like this morning—the book, the silence, the way you avoided meeting his eyes. This is good. This is you.

You disappear back into the kitchen before he can say anything else, and he watches you go for a moment longer than he means to.

You place a container on the kitchen island. "For later," you call out to him. "You’ll forget to eat otherwise."

"I don’t always forget," he retorts with a smirk.

"You do," you reply immediately, a slight smile tugging at your lips.

Jack grins more genuinely this time. "Okay, fair enough."

Leaning against the counter, arms loosely folded, you watch him now. There’s still something subtly different about you if he looks too closely—the way your smile fades the second he looks away, the way your arms stay folded like you’re holding something in. A softness that feels… a bit guarded. But it isn’t sharp. It isn’t pulling away. So he doesn’t question it, afraid to ruin it. Instead, he just nods toward the food. "You didn’t have to do all this."

"I know," you shrug, sliding onto the couch next to him. Your leg nearly brushes his. "Did you talk to Robby yesterday?"

"I did," he says, shovelling a bite into his mouth. "This is good," he points down at his bowl.

You don't answer that but shift in your seat instead, fixing him with a scrutinising gaze. "And?"

"And—nothing?"

"Nothing?"

"Yeah. Things were okay when I left," he says.

"Oh. Okay. Well... That's—that's good."

Your face falls slightly, but he isn't sure why. Maybe you were just reminded of yesterday again.

He hesitates, thumb tracing the edge of the bowl before he finally says, "Hey… about earlier—"

You cut in before he can finish. "It’s fine, Jack. Honestly." You're not dismissive, but you say it with a tone final enough to stop him from pushing.

You look at him, your voice softens, "You don’t need to keep apologising."

He studies your face longer than he should. You still look tired, a little too composed, but there’s no distance, nothing to suggest he should be concerned. So he nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "If you’re sure."

"I’m sure."

And when you smile at him after that—small but normal again—he lets himself believe it. Perhaps he had blown it out of proportion in his mind.

By the time he heads out the door, he lets himself believe the worst of it is over. That whatever had shifted this morning was already settling back into place.

"Hey brother," Robby claps his shoulder as he steps beside Jack at the hub as morning slowly seeps into the Pitt. "I’ve been meaning to catch you."

Jack glances up from the tablet in his hand. "That doesn’t sound promising."

Robby lets out a short breath, but there's clear tension behind it. "I wanted to tell you yesterday, but, you know—" His head tilts as he shrugs. "Yesterday kind of got away from us."

Jack nods as he sets the tablet down, giving him his full attention.

"Just hear me out before you—" Robby starts, hands lifted in the air.

But Jack’s attention catches on movement to his left—you in scrubs.

His entire body goes rigid. You were not supposed to be here until tonight. This ruins his plans to treat you to another breakfast—preferably eaten together this time.

Jack straightens slowly, his eyes fixed on you as he speaks to Robby. "Who called out?"

Robby follows his gaze and mutters, "Shit."

Jack turns back to him, his voice already edged. "Why is she here?"

Robby rubs the back of his neck. "Heather wanted to switch to nights."

Jack stares at him for one long second. "So you traded her."

"It’s temporary—"

"You switched her to days?" Jack cuts in, louder now. He feels like he's been dropped into an ice bath.

Robby glances around at the nurses and residents nearby who are pretending not to listen. "Keep your voice down."

Jack huffs, arms crossing tightly. "No, I don’t think I will. You moved her without even talking to me?"

"It was the easiest fix—"

"The easiest fix?" Jack steps closer, his voice dropping into something sharper. "Out of everyone on this floor, that was your solution?"

Robby lifts a hand. "Jack—"

"No." Jack’s jaw clenches. "Absolutely not. Put someone else on days."

Robby’s expression tightens. "I needed coverage."

"So take Ellis."

Robby shakes his head. "Ellis can't."

"Then Crus."

"Jack—"

"I said no." The words crack out of him hard enough that Dana's eyes flit over, eyebrows raising in shock. She's seen Jack angry before, but never like this.

Robby lowers his voice, trying to contain the situation. "I’m not doing this to piss you off."

"Then what the hell are you doing?" Jack snaps. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided to screw with the one thing in my life I didn’t ask you to touch."

Robby exhales slowly. "Heather needed nights. I needed someone for days. She made the most sense."

Jack’s laugh is bitter now. "She made sense?" He shakes his head. "You had half the damn residency list to choose from, and you picked her."

"Because she agreed," Robby lets slip, his own irritation flaring.

The words hit like a punch. Jack goes dead still. For a second, the anger leaves his face entirely, replaced by something else—something wounded. "...What?"

Robby hesitates, like he knows too late he’s said the wrong thing. "...She already said yes."

Jack stares at him. The rage comes back all at once, but now it’s different—less explosive, more uneven. "She agreed?" His voice drops low. "You asked her before you told me?"

Robby’s silence says enough.

Jack huffs again, a low and furious sound. "Unbelievable."

"Jack, listen—"

"No, you listen." Jack points at him. "You knew exactly what this would do, and you did it anyway."

"I didn’t think—"

"That’s the problem, Robby, isn’t it?" Jack bites out. "You didn’t think."

Jack can’t stop the thoughts slamming into him. You agreed. You said yes. Without telling him. Without warning him. Without even giving him the chance to ask why.

"I'm sorry, man. But it's only a couple of weeks."

Jack’s mouth twists. "A couple of weeks?" he repeats. "You think that makes this better?"

Jack looks away, dragging a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to get control of himself. Because suddenly all he can think is that maybe this was your way out. Maybe you were tired of the arrangement. Maybe you’d realised what this had started to mean to him and decided distance was easier than saying it.

"She’ll still be here," Robby says.

"That’s not the point." Because this means no more quiet drives home. No more slipping into bed beside you in the dark and pretending none of this was temporary. Just hallway conversations. Passing glances. And the worst part—the part clawing at him—is knowing you chose it.

Well, Robby had offered it, but you hadn't said no. His chest burns, each breath scorching on its way out.

"I thought you talked things out yesterday?" Robby asks carefully.

Jack looks back at him. "We did." That's what he thought, but maybe the argument had been the tipping point for you.

Robby studies him for a second too long, then sighs. "Then maybe this isn't what you think it is. Maybe she's just being nice."

Jack isn't sure. Would you really switch to days without telling him if it didn't mean what he thought it did?

"Take someone else," he tries again.

Robby’s expression softens, but he doesn’t budge. "I can't. She's already been scheduled on days."

He breathes out harshly. "Fine," he says flatly. But there is nothing fine about the way his hands are shaking. Nothing fine about the rage burning behind his ribs. Nothing fine about the fact that beneath all of it—all the anger, all the fury—what he really feels is hurt.

He turns and heads for the lockers before Robby can say another word.

You're purposefully slowing down your movements as you place your jacket and bag in your locker, hoping to delay your entry enough that Jack might have already left.

You're a good actress, have been for years, ever since your parents showed their first signs of disappointment in you. You'd learned how to smile through it, pretend it didn't hurt you while the ache worsened inside. It's a skill that proved incredibly useful in navigating interactions with Jack yesterday, trying to convince him that nothing was wrong.

He wasn't supposed to see your puffy face or be able to discern that you were hit harder by seeing him with Lily than you were supposed to—so you mustered all your strength in pretending to be fine. You cooked him dinner. You laughed with him.

But when he told you he was okay with you switching to days, that pretence had faltered for the briefest second. Because you thought or at least hoped that he might have put up a little bit of a fight, tried to convince you not to go, but instead, he had just accepted it.

It only served as reinforcement of your conclusion from yesterday. And during your next phone call with Olivia, she couldn't convince you of anything else.

Jack liked Lily. That was it.

You're not lucky enough to avoid him, though. You hear him before you see him, his familiar stride, quick and purposeful, sounding heavier before he stops in front of you. His eyebrows are drawn together, lips pressed into a tight line.

"When exactly were you planning to tell me?" he asks.

You pause mid-motion, your locker half-open, and turn to face him. "Tell you what?"

"That you switched shifts." The words come clipped, like he’s forcing them out evenly.

You stare at him, brows furrowing. "What?"

Jack's arms cross. "Did you not think I would find out? Or were you just waiting for me to figure it out on my own when I saw you walking in?"

"I don't understand what's going on," you say, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"No?" His jaw tightens. "Let me spell it out for you then. You agreed to switch your entire schedule, and somehow that wasn’t worth mentioning?"

Irritation spikes through you. "You told me yesterday you talked to Robby," you say sharply. "You said it was all good."

"What?"

"You said you talked. That everything was fine," you snap. "How was I supposed to know you meant everything except this?"

Realisation flashes on his face, but your anger is already mounting.

"Jesus, Jack, if you didn’t know, this makes us look suspicious as hell."

His brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean." Your voice drops but sharpens in edge. "If I’m switching shifts and my husband doesn’t know about it, what does that look like to others?"

Jack stares at you for a moment, then his voice lowers as well. "That’s what you think this is about?"

You cross your arms and give him a one-armed shrug. "Then what’s it really about?"

His voice rises before he can rein it in. "It’s about you making a decision that impacts both of us without even telling me."

The force of his words takes you by surprise. You expected relief, not this intensity.

"It’s just a temporary shift change."

"That’s not the point."

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Then what is the point?"

Jack steps closer, frustration spilling over despite his attempts at control. "The point is that you agreed to this without talking it over with me."

"I didn’t realise I needed your permission. Is this my attending talking to me right now?" Like it had been yesterday when he'd yelled at you about protocol.

He rubs his face with a rough hand and mutters, "I knew things weren't fine between us."

"They are, but you're being a dick again."

He places his hands on his hips, exhaling hard through his nose. "I don't understand why this isn't a big deal to you?"

It is. But it shouldn't be to him.

Because if he wanted Lily, then this should make things easier for him. Because you’re trying to give him room to have what he actually wants. But you can’t say any of that. You don't even understand why he feels this heated over it. He's probably just annoyed he didn't know. That this means that how he conducts the night will change.

You're interrupted as a nurse slips into the hallway, glancing furtively at the two of you. You step aside as she hurries to her locker, pushing her bag in and leaving just as fast. The interruption drains the heat from the moment, leaving only the things neither of you can say with someone else in earshot.

Your anger starts to fade into something quieter as you wait for the door to close again.

"It’s only for a few weeks," you murmur. "Night shift will survive."

Jack shakes his head immediately. "No, we won’t."

You give him a tired look. "You managed before I switched to nights."

"No," he insists, more firmly this time. Almost like he's trying to goad you back into arguing with him.

But your frustration has evaporated, and you just feel drained. "It’s temporary," you repeat, your voice calmer. "Heather wanted nights. I know day shift. It makes sense."

Jack stares at you as if your explanation only makes things worse. "Why wouldn’t you tell me?"

You shrug, trying to sound neutral. "I thought you knew." You hesitate for a second. "And... I didn’t think it mattered that much."

His expression shifts, as if your response hit him harder than you intended. You realise you’ve given him the wrong answer, but you have no idea what he wanted to hear.

"It’s only for a couple of weeks," you repeat, moving to step around him.

As you near the door, his voice halts you. "It matters to me."

Your chest tightens. For half a second, you almost turn back. For half a second, hope surges so suddenly it makes your chest ache. Maybe he doesn't want the distance. Maybe he meant—

No.

You shut the thought down before it can fully form. You can’t let yourself hear more—not when you know none of this means what you wish it did. Because this only matters in terms of the schedule and what he needs to do as your attending. Not because he's hurt that you're switching. Not because it means more like it does for you.

So, you keep your back turned to him. "You’ll be fine. Robby already sorted out the schedule. You don’t need to do anything."

He doesn't follow you when you step out.

Day shift welcomes you back like you'd never left. You fall back into the pace easily, picking up charts, checking orders, moving room to room without having to think too hard about where you need to be next. Still, there's a nagging pit in your stomach that won't fade.

Because every time there's a slight lull, a moment where your mind can wander, it circles back to Jack standing in front of your locker this morning. With a clenched jaw, eyes sharp, demanding to know why you hadn't told him.

Demanding like it mattered. Demanding like the decision hurt him.

You hadn't expected it. Not when he, the previous night, had seemed indifferent. That look on his face when you told him it didn't matter lingered in your mind, and if you dwell on it too long, it makes you second-guess everything.

So you don’t.

You focus on your tablet. On your patients. On the familiar pace of day shift. You do not think about Jack.

"So..." Princess appears beside you so suddenly that you nearly jump.

You glance up from the tablet in your hands. "So?"

She leans one hip against the counter, grinning in that way that means she’s about to pry into something that is absolutely none of her business. "Heard you and Abbot got into a fight yesterday."

Your stomach drops. Of course, she heard. Nothing happens quietly in the Pitt, and yesterday had been many things, but subtle was not one of them. Jack had snapped at you in front of half the department, and you’d snapped right back. It had been brief, but the tension afterwards had been impossible to miss. And given your relationship, people were more than curious to know what was going on. Even if they had seen you being 'fine' at the end of shift.

You force your face into a neutral expression and look back at your tablet. "It was nothing."

Princess makes a sceptical noise. "That's not what I heard. Also, you're here."

You tap through a chart, pretending to read. "We disagreed about protocol. Then we moved on."

"Really?" she asks, drawing the word out. "Because from what I've heard, it looked a lot less like 'professional disagreement' and a lot more like 'married couple about to throw hands.'"

You let out a dry breath through your nose. "Princess."

"What?" she says innocently. "People noticed."

You finally look at her. "There is nothing to notice. And I'm here because Heather wanted to switch to nights. It's only temporary."

She studies you for a second, clearly deciding whether to dig deeper. You know that look. Princess thrives on details, a thing you normally don't mind; you just don't like it when it's directed at you.

She leans in a little closer. "So you’re saying you and Abbot are fine?"

"Yes."

She sighs dramatically. "Wow. You are no fun."

"Sorry to disappoint," you murmur.

She tilts her head, still watching you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"

The question is lighter than the last few, but the impact is greater. Because the honest answer would be not really. The honest answer would be that your chest still feels tight from the look on Jack’s face this morning. The honest answer would be that you don’t know whether he was angry because you apparently blindsided him, or because putting distance between you hurt him.

And that second possibility is a treacherous path to wander down.

So you give her the easiest answer. "I’m fine."

Princess squints at you like she doesn’t believe it for a second. With visible reluctance, she decides to let it go. "If you say so."

She glances around before leaning in again, brightening instantly. "Oh! Did you hear about Smith?"

"What about Smith?"

Princess grins, leaning in to murmur. "Robby put her on probation."

Your eyebrows lift. "For what?"

"Apparently, she tried to kiss him in the supply closet."

You stare at her. "What?"

Princess nods, delighted by your reaction. "That’s what I heard."

You let out a startled laugh. "No way."

"I swear."

"Smith tried to kiss Robby?"

Princess shrugs. "Guess she has terrible judgment."

You shake your head, still half laughing in disbelief. "That cannot be true."

"I mean, I didn’t see it happen," Princess says, "but the rumour is she cornered him, and he reported her."

"That's insane."

Princess laughs. "I know."

"Ladies." Robby steps up to the hub, stethoscope in his hands, sliding in beside you like he hasn’t just walked into the middle of a gossip session. "Working hard or hardly working?"

Princess straightens, smiling brightly. "Working hard. Obviously"

Robby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't chastise you. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely," she replies before backing away.

Robby shakes his head, pulling up the nearest computer to log in. For a second, neither of you says anything. You focus on your tablet. He pretends to focus on the screen. Then—

"So..."

You don’t look up. "No."

Robby glances over. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."

"You’re going to."

He huffs a laugh under his breath. "Probably."

You tap through another chart. "Then no."

He still shifts slightly in his chair, giving you his full attention anyway. "Did something happen between you two?"

You keep your eyes glued to the screen. "Me and Princess?" you reply lightly. "No, we're all good."

Robby gives you a look. "You know that’s not what I mean."

You shrug one shoulder. "Then I don’t have anything to tell you."

He studies you for a moment, then lets out a quiet sigh. "I know you two fought yesterday."

You let out a short breath. "We disagreed."

He rubs his beard, looking apologetic. "I didn't know when I asked you."

You shrug again. "Doesn't matter. I would have said yes, anyway."

Robby’s gaze stays on you; he hums unconvinced. "Mm."

You look back down at the tablet.

Robby is quiet for a second, then says in a gentler tone, "Whatever’s going on, it’s getting to him."

The words make your throat tighten. Because that isn't what you need to hear. Because it makes it harder to believe letting go is the right thing. But Robby doesn't know what you know.

You keep your expression blank. "It's just temporary."

Robby’s voice softens further. "Is it?"

That question almost cracks something open. For one dangerous second, you feel the sting behind your eyes. But before you can answer, Victoria appears at the counter, a tablet in her hand and an eager smile on her face. "Hey, can I present my case to one of you?"

You look up, grateful for the interruption. "Sure," you say, already stepping away.

Robby watches you go, and you can feel it. But you don’t turn around. If you do, he might offer some words of kindness, and right now, that would sting worse than judgment.

You know where you stand. You don’t need to hear it from Robby, too.

You follow Victoria toward the room, forcing your mind back to medicine, to facts, to anything that makes sense, away from Jack. You make it through the presentation on autopilot, nodding in the right places, asking the right questions, checking Victoria's conclusions.

The second it's over, you slip into the nearest supply closet. Try to breathe normally and fail. Your hands shake. You press them against the shelves. Try to still them like you do in a trauma.

It doesn't work.

Your breath catches hard enough to hurt, one hand flying to your mouth to smother the sound when the first sob breaks free. You allow it for a second, and then you wipe your face fast. Brushing away the tears and fixing yourself. Then you re-enter the E.D.

"Hey, you good?" Perlah asks as she passes you, concern glinting in her eyes.

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

It's true, so you're not exactly lying to her.

Perlah hesitates like she might say more, but then she nods and keeps walking. You exhale slowly, forcing your hands to stay uncurled at your sides and straighten your shoulders again. Tucking the hurt somewhere deep enough to ignore as you grab a tablet, heading for your next patient.

It's a quarter to nine when Parker walks over to the hub after getting caught in back-to-back examinations. "Where's Trouble?" she asks, scanning the space with a frown. She hasn't seen you since you tossed her a protein bar after rounds. "Is she in triage?"

Lena looks up, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "Didn't you hear?"

Parker pauses, squinting at her. "Hear what?"

"She switched to days."

Parker blinks in disbelief. "What? She wouldn't do that."

Lena shrugs, then her gaze finds Collins in the middle of a trauma. She nods in her direction, "Collins wanted nights before she leaves."

Parker stares blankly at Lena, connecting the dots, then her gaze snaps towards Abbot. Suddenly, his pissed-off expression makes sense. She’d thought his mood was fallout from yesterday—from the argument, from Lily getting hurt on his watch—but this was worse. She still remembers how he acted when you were sick—this could only be worse. "Oh shit."

"Abbot?" Shen strolls over, coffee in hand, following her line of sight and grimace.

She nods resignedly.

"Ah, yeah," Shen sighs, taking another sip. "It's gonna be a rough couple of weeks."

"Weeks?" Parker shakes her head. "We're doomed."

The three of them watch Abbot for a second—the clenched jaw, the ramrod posture, the way he taps relentlessly at the tablet like it offended him.

"Yeah," Shen comments dryly, "looks like the honeymoon phase is over."

Parker groans, resting her forehead on her arms. "Great."

"If by great, you mean excruciating," Lena chimes in, then ducks her head down as the man in question walks over.

"If you’re done chit-chatting, there are patients waiting. Or have we forgotten why we’re here?" Abbot asks, voice flat.

"No," Parker murmurs.

"Then what are you waiting for?" He doesn't even stop to see if she moves, just walks away, tablet clutched tightly in his hands.

Parker closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Jesus."

Shen raises his brows. "We might not make it through this."

"Whoever gets Trouble back gets out of the next ortho consult with the shark," Parker proposes, looking over at Shen.

"You're on."

Parker doesn't care who wins as the shift drags on—she just hopes one of them is able to succeed because this is hell. Every interaction with Abbot is terse, every question he asks tinged with annoyance. He catches mistakes before they occur and looks furious for having to correct them. He moves through the Pitt like a tempest—cold, sharp and impossible to ignore.

And the worst part of it is that he's exceptionally good. Hyper-focused to the point that he misses nothing. Charts get corrected, incomplete labs still ordered on time, and the resident who hesitated for a second too long gets reprimanded for endangering a patient. Everything gets caught, and each correction comes with that same biting edge.

By eleven o’clock, the tension in the night team is palpable. Parker watches Abbot from the corner of her eye as she charts. She only turns her head enough to murmur to Lena, careful not to catch his attention again. "Is he really this upset just because she switched shifts?"

Lena glances up briefly, weighing whether to share what she heard from Dana. "No."

Parker frowns. "Then what is it?"

Lena sighs. "He’s upset because she didn’t tell him."

Parker winces. "Oh."

Across the room, Abbot mutters under his breath as he yanks off a pair of gloves with excessive force. Parker studies him for a moment longer, then quietly mutters, "Why in the world did she agree to switch?"

Lena shrugs.

Whatever happened between the two of you is written all over Abbot—in the clipped orders, the rigid posture, the way every word cuts.

Whatever it is, it’s bleeding into everything, and Parker doesn't think she can survive weeks of it.

Robby catches Jack on the rooftop after a trauma-heavy night. He leans on the railing, watching Jack's back, who hasn't looked back even though he'd clearly heard him enter. He tries humour first, "Rumour has it you've been terrorising the night shift."

Jack doesn't answer.

Robby continues when that doesn't work, "I know this is about her switching shifts." He breathes out slowly. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know it would hit this hard."

Jack huffs under his breath, sharp and bitter. He still doesn't answer him

Robby softens slightly. "Talk to me. Yell at me. Whatever might make this better."

"There’s nothing to say," Jack finally says.

"Bullshit."

Jack lets out a long breath. Robby waits.

Finally, Jack says, "She’s pulling away. She figured it out."

Robby frowns. "Figured what out?"

Jack laughs, a hollow sound. "That I’m in love with her."

The words sit there between them longer than either of them moves. It's the first time he's heard Jack say it aloud. State it plainly. Robby blinks, then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

And because the situation is awful (partly his doing, or so he's been told multiple times by Olivia) and because Jack looks like hell and because Robby genuinely cannot believe what he’s hearing, he says, "You think that’s what this is?"

Jack turns to him sharply. "What else would it be?"

Robby stares at him for a second. Because from where he’s standing, Jack has somehow taken a bad week and built an entire tragedy in his head. "She switched shifts after a fight," Robby says carefully.

Jack shakes his head immediately. "No."

Robby raises an eyebrow. "No?"

Jack laughs bitterly. "She was fine after the fight."

Robby doesn’t buy that, but he lets it go. Bites back a comment and watches as Jack drags a hand through his hair.

"She started pulling away after that. She barely talks to me. She won’t look at me. She changed shifts." His voice roughens. "She knows."

Robby folds his arms. "And your evidence is... what?"

Jack stares at him like the answer is obvious. "All of it."

Robby lets out a breath through his nose. "Jesus Christ."

Jack’s jaw tightens. "Robby." He says it like a warning.

"No, I’m serious." Robby shakes his head. "You think she found out you have feelings for her and decided to rearrange her life to avoid you?"

Jack looks away again. "Yes."

Robby stares at him, huffing a disbelieving laugh. "You are unbelievable."

Jack laughs once, a humourless sound. "Glad you find this entertaining."

"I don’t," Robby says sharply. "I find it insane. I see a sleep-deprived idiot making assumptions instead of having one honest conversation."

Jack doesn't answer him, just crosses his arms.

Robby rubs a hand over his mouth, clearly seeing that Jack isn't hearing what he's saying. "Okay," he says carefully. "Let’s say you’re right. Then ask her."

Jack’s answer is immediate. "No."

Robby blinks. "No?"

Jack shakes his head once. "No."

Robby stares. "If you think that’s what’s happening, why the hell would you not ask her?"

Jack’s voice drops quieter. "Because if I’m right, saying it out loud makes it real."

Robby studies him for a second. "And if you’re wrong?"

Jack laughs bitterly. "I’m not."

Robby tilts his head. "You don’t know that." He leans against the railing when Jack doesn't answer. "For what it’s worth, I think you’re dead wrong."

Jack gives a tired shake of his head. "You don’t know that."

"No," Robby says. "But I know what she looks like when she sees you."

Jack glances over.

Robby shrugs. "And I know what you look like right now."

Jack looks away again.

Robby presses on. "If you won’t talk to her because you’re afraid she’ll confirm this," he gestures between them, "then this spiral is on you."

Jack's shoulders tense. "...I can’t."

Robby exhales. "Then at least stop punishing everyone else." Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to confess. But for the love of God, just talk to her."

Jack stares out at the city again. "Maybe."

Robby heads for the stairwell after a moment, then glances back once. Jack hasn’t moved. Still staring into the city like the answer might be written there—and refusing to look anywhere else.

Jack knows he's spiralling, but he can't understand how one argument has created this much distance between you. Every thought feeds the next one. Every unanswered question breeds ten worse possibilities. He tells himself he’s being irrational, that there’s an explanation, that if he could just hold on for another day, everything would make sense again—but the hours keep passing, and nothing makes sense.

He thought you were fine. That you just needed a little bit of space—he didn't realise you needed so much that you would switch to day shift. And it's not like he can even ask you because he only sees you at shift change. Only gets a brief moment of respite during his day, where he gets to spend time with you. But it's never alone.

You don't linger at the lockers. You don't have time for a quick break with him, always stating that patients are waiting. So all he has are the few moments, where he gets to feel your arms around his midriff when you greet him, and the few minutes he's breathing the same air as you as you do rounds.

And then he's alone again. He drives home alone. He eats alone. He sleeps alone.

Well, he tries to. The nightmares have come roaring back—violent and vivid and relentless. Every time he closes his eyes, something drags him under. He wakes sweating, heart pounding, gasping into the dark, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed only to find cold sheets. He’s lucky if he gets three hours. Most days it’s less.

And with the sleep deprivation comes the rest of it—the buzzing under his skin, the restlessness, the inability to sit still. The police scanner seems to be calling his name louder and louder with each passing day. Like it’s reminding him that there are easier things to deal with than this. Gunshots. Car wrecks. Overdoses. Those things make sense. Those things are simple: someone is hurt, and he knows what to do.

Because this creeping, gnawing fear that he is losing you and doesn’t know why—he has no idea what to do with that.

So his mind fills in the blanks. At first, it’s small. Maybe you’d just been kind when you agreed. Maybe you'd just been tired every time he'd caught your eye, and your smile didn't seem genuine. Maybe you just needed a little more space before things go back to normal. Maybe he's just overreacting, and you're fine.

But then the thoughts get darker. Maybe you’d realised he was too much. Maybe you’d seen how badly he’d fallen, and it scared you. Maybe all this distance was your way of telling him to let go.

Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe all of this distance—all the clipped words, the changed shifts, the careful professionalism—is because you finally realised what he’s been trying so desperately to hide. What he'd only just recently stopped doing because he thought you might like him back.

Because he does like you. God, he likes you so much it makes him feel sick. He likes the way you nudge his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. He likes the way you steal fries off his plate. He likes the way your voice softens when you’re tired. He likes the way your face lights up when you laugh. He likes the way you know how to steady him when the world gets too loud. He likes the way being near you makes the noise in his head quiet down.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe you saw it in the way he watches you. Maybe you felt it in the way he holds onto hugs half a second too long. Maybe you noticed the way he finds excuses to be near you.

And maybe you didn’t like it.

Maybe you’ve been pulling away because the truth makes you uncomfortable. Because whatever arrangement the two of you created, it wasn’t supposed to become this. It wasn’t supposed to become feelings. And maybe now that you know, you’re trying to put the walls back up. Easing him out of your life without having to actually say it.

And the thought destroys him. Because if that’s true, then every day that passes is another day you’re proving to yourself that you don’t need him. Another day of learning how easy it is to breathe without him there.

A whole week passes in a blur, and that almost makes it worse—how fast time moves when he wants it to stop. Every shift ends before he can gather the nerve to ask what’s wrong. Every night comes before he’s slept enough to think clearly.

And all the while the clock is ticking. He can't help but be scared, even if he knows you're coming back to the night shift soon. But he also knows that means you'll be an attending, and with that, the arrangement you'd created also soon comes to an end. The strange little life the two of you built—the blurred lines, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments, the comfort of pretending this was more than it was—ends.

You becoming an attending means he'll stop being your husband and go back to just being a coworker. He stops being whatever he has been to you. Stops being the person you come home to. Stops being the one you curl up beside after a brutal shift. Stops being the person who hands you coffee when your eyes are half-closed after waking. Stops being the one who feels you tuck cold feet against his legs in bed.

You becoming an attending means you'll move out again.

Maybe the move to day shift wasn’t just about work. Maybe it was the beginning of goodbye.

Still, he dissects every word, every glance, every pause. Trying to find proof. Trying to find hope. He keeps smiling when he sees you. Keeps pretending he’s fine. Keeps taking those few scraps of closeness like they’re enough. Because if he asks and the answer is yes—if you tell him outright that you’ve been distancing yourself because of his feelings—then the fragile hope keeping him upright shatters.

As long as no one says it aloud, he can pretend. Pretend the shift change is temporary. Pretend the distance isn’t deliberate. Pretend you aren’t already halfway gone.

Pretend that this doesn't have to end.