SUMMARY: Soulmates shared everything. Including scars. When Umbridge's detentions begin exposing soulmate pairs throughout Hogwarts, one bloody sentence on the back of your hand changes everything.
A/N: For my lovely, wonderful @obsessedwithceleste. Astra loves Cel and hopes this came out good<3
Tagging: @delulugirl2000
Soulmate AU
The soulmate bond had always been cruel in its honesty.
From the moment you were born, your soulmate’s scars appeared on your skin like quiet promises. A small scrape on your knee at age six. A faint burn on your forearm from some childhood accident. Tiny, whimsical marks that told you somewhere out there, someone was living.
You were both sorted into Slytherin in first year. You and Mattheo Riddle had been in the same friend group since then — you, Mattheo, Theo, Draco, Blaise, Enzo, Pansy, and Daphne.
No one knew who their soulmate was yet. The scars were still small and meaningless.
Until the summer before fifth year.
Voldemort had returned. The world was darker. And one night, you stood in front of your mirror at home, staring in horror at the new scars that had bloomed across your back — thin, angry lines like someone had been whipped or cursed.
You traced them with trembling fingers, heart aching for whoever was on the other end of this pain.
You didn’t know it was Mattheo.
Fifth year brought Umbridge.
The pink toad took over Defense Against the Dark Arts and quickly turned it into a nightmare. Detentions became frequent. Her quill wasn’t just a writing tool — it carved the words you wrote into your skin with blood.
The first time Enzo got detention, Susan Bones showed up the next morning with the exact same cut on her hand. The soulmate reveal spread like wildfire.
You tried to stay out of trouble.
But one afternoon, you spoke back when Umbridge insulted Harry.
Detention was immediate.
That evening, you returned to the Slytherin common room with fresh, stinging words carved into the back of your hand:
I must not support liars.
The common room was nearly empty — most people were still at dinner.
You sat by the fireplace, cradling your bleeding hand, trying not to cry.
Footsteps echoed from the boys’ dormitories.
Mattheo came down the stairs, absently scratching at the back of his own hand with a scowl.
When he saw you, he froze.
His eyes dropped to your hand.
The exact same words were carved into his skin, still fresh and bleeding.
The air left the room.
Mattheo’s face went pale.
He crossed the room in seconds, dropping to his knees in front of you.
His hand reached out, hovering over yours like he was afraid to touch you.
“...It’s you,” he whispered, voice cracking.
You stared at him, tears finally spilling over.
All those years.
The small scars on your knees. The faint burn on your arm. The thin lines that had appeared across your back last summer — Mattheo’s scars.
And now this.
“You’ve been carrying my scars this whole time?” you choked out.
Mattheo looked wrecked.
He gently took your injured hand in both of his, staring at the bloody words like they were a curse.
“I thought...” His voice was hoarse. “I thought my soulmate was someone else. Someone who didn’t have to see all the ugly parts of me. The scars from my father. The ones from... after he came back.”
You lifted a hand to cup the side of his face.
“I saw them,” you whispered. “The ones on your back. The one across your ribs. I’ve had them since last summer. I stayed up all night wondering who was hurting so much.”
Mattheo let out a broken sound and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck.
You clung to him just as tightly, both of you shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry you got stuck with me.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, cupping his face.
“I’m not,” you said fiercely. “I’m not sorry it’s you, Mattheo.”
He stared at you for a long moment, eyes glassy, before pressing his forehead against yours.
“All this time,” he breathed. “I’ve been hating the world... and you’ve been walking around with my pain on your skin.”
You gave him a watery smile.
“And you’ve been carrying mine.”
Mattheo kissed you then — desperate, trembling, full of six years of unspoken everything.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again, breathing you in.
“I'm not hiding anymore.” he whispered. “Not from you. Never from you.”
You nodded, tears still falling.
“I'm not, either.”
He gently lifted your bleeding hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it, right over the cruel words Umbridge had carved.
Then he stood, pulling you up with him.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go clean this up. I’ve got scars to take care of now.”
You smiled through your tears and let him lead you toward the dorms, fingers intertwined.
For the first time, the scars didn’t feel like burdens.
They felt like proof.
Proof that even in darkness, you had found each other.
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Summary: A new med student documents a series of differential diagnoses to your and Jack's relationship as she tries to figure out what exactly the dynamic is.
Warnings: Fluff, Miscommunication
Notes: This was just a fun, silly little fic to write. I hope you enjoy! As always, tysm for reading! :P
It was the first day that interns were able to do rotations through the Pitt during the night shift. In the short time that Amara had been there, she was able to observe a lot of things. So many cases were ones that she had spent years learning about from different textbooks. There was one case that she couldn’t quite figure out though: what was going on with you and Dr. Abbot.
Amara had many different differential diagnoses:
Divorced
Situationship
Enemies
Telepathically Connected
Siblings
Unfortunately, all of the evidence she had gathered supported each of the options equally, which made every moment more confusing than the last.
Hour One
Dr. Abbot seemed nice. His whole “Nightcrawlers” speech was a little weird, but overall endearing; especially for the new interns. Amara walked up to him directly after he was done speaking to everyone and most people had shuffled away.
“Hi Dr. Abbot, it’s my first rotation here tonight, I was just wondering who I should stick with?” She asked.
Dr. Abbot opened his mouth to respond, before you interrupted him.
“I can’t believe you, you know that?!” You almost yelled, shoving your finger in Dr. Abbot’s chest.
Amara jumped at the sudden intrusion with wide eyes, watching the scene before her play out.
He smirked looking down at you as he crossed his arms, “Oh, really?”
“Yeah! Really!” You say, “You ate my fucking leftovers!”
“They were in the staff fridge.”
“You knew they were mine! I put them there!”
“Seems like a design flaw, princess.”
You looked one second away from committing an unethical war crime against Dr. Abbot. He seemed entirely unbothered.
Amara schooled her face as quickly as possible when Dr. Abbot turned back to her to respond as you stormed away with a huff.
Differential Diagnosis:
Enemies
Hour Two
Amara tried to stay out of your way after the first interaction she saw you have with Dr. Abbot. But, the ER was a small place, and it wouldn’t do well to try and avoid you for too long. When a trauma came in from a MVC, she stuck by your side to watch as you ran the entire show.
Dr. Abbot was there too. Amara was in awe. She had studied for years how different kinds of resuscitations worked. The communication each code required from everyone. She had never seen anything like this.
When things started to go badly, the room almost went silent. She watched as you and Dr. Abbot both worked on the patient like one cohesive unit. Neither of you needed words to let the other know what you needed, or where you needed them. It was a fluid procedure, flawless.
Differential Diagnosis:
Telepathically Linked
Hour Three
A nurse had asked if Amara could go grab something from one of the supply closets. It took her a while to find the right one because she was still finding all of the different ins and outs of the Pitt.
Finally, she came across the supply room in question. Before her hand could even turn the handle, the door swung open.
You were there. Cheeks flush, breath heavy, hair tousled. Dr. Abbot was behind you, she saw his neck was pink, and he was in the process of tying his scrub pants.
“Oh! I- uh…” Amara started, too embarrassed to form a complete sentence.
You froze. Jack froze. Amara looked mortified.
Time stood still for one long moment.
Finally, you cleared your throat, “Did you need something?”
“Oh! Yes! Uh…the nurse, she uh…”
You followed her gaze to Jack’s hands, still working on tying his scrubs. You closed your eyes and questioned every moment that had led up to this. You took a deep breath in as you glared at him silently communicating your frustrations.
“What were you looking for?” You asked, trying to refocus Amara’s attention.
She looks at you and shakes herself out of her haze.
“Tape! The tape without the latex…”
“Third shelf back, second from the top.” Jack says coolly.
“Okay,” Amara nodded.
“Okay,” Jack said.
A pause.
“Thanks,” she whispered as she grabbed the tape and scurried away.
Differential Diagnosis:
FWB (Confidence: HIGH)
Hour Six
Six hours into her shift, Amara finally got to use the restroom. It wasn’t unusual that she would be on her feet all day, but nothing could have prepared her for the absolute chaos that was the PTMC’s emergency department. There wasn’t a moment to spare, and as an intern she kept getting pulled in every direction.
When she finally had a moment of peace in the restroom, she gathered her thoughts about the day thus far. Everyone seemed great! Crus was a phenomenal teacher, some of the other students were fun to work with, and Lena seemed to be a great heart at the center of it all.
She still couldn’t work out what the situation was with you and Dr. Abbot though. And that bugged her. She had worked her ass off to get in to med school, she’d be damned if she couldn’t read the room and figure out what the situation was with the two of you by the end of the night.
On her way back from the restroom, she saw the two of you in an empty patient room.
“You forgot to pick her up?” Jack asked.
“I thought you were going to pick her up!” You replied.
“It’s not my weekend! It’s yours!”
“It’s like every weekend is my weekend! You always pick up shifts or volunteer with the SWAT team. How do you think she feels? Huh?”
The wheels in Amara’s head turned. She tried piecing the puzzle together, but it felt like every hour brought forth new evidence that contradicted the last! Now it sounded like a custody battle was happening in room 16. First, she saw you nearly rip Dr. Abbot’s head off, then she saw how flawlessly the two of you worked together, which was promptly followed by what seemed to be a quickie in the supply closet, and now you were arguing about who’s weekend it was for some unknown kid?
Differential Diagnosis:
Divorced
Hour Eight
“Hey are you guys still recruiting?” Lena asks from across the nurse’s station.
You and Jack look up from the chart you’re working on.
“No, we stopped.” You say disappointed.
“Decided it was probably best for us to act normal.” Jack says.
You and Jack exchange a look. One that only comes from years of being bonded together.
Amara’s brows furrow in confusion. What would two doctors be recruiting for? It’s not like they’re the ones who are hiring everyone. There’s managers for that. They couldn’t possibly be part of an MLM, Amara was sure the salary of an attending could let them afford to live comfortably on their own.
As she tried harder and harder to wrack her brain for any more context about the conversation, it hits her. Recruiting. There was really only one option that explained everything she had seen earlier that morning.
The arguing. The silent communication that came from years of knowing each other. The secret supply closet meetings. The custody agreements. The recruiting.
It was so obvious, she wasn’t sure how she didn’t see it all before.
Differential Diagnosis:
Cult Leaders
Hour Eleven
The longer the shift drug on, the more Amara was determined to understand what exactly was going on with you and Dr. Abbot. She didn’t think about the fact that running on only four hours of sleep, sheer determination, and at least 300mg of caffeine was the only thing keeping her going right now. That wouldn’t impair her judgement at all. Right?
She went to grab a granola bar from the breakroom when she saw you and Dr. Abbot in two of the chairs.
“Jack. Give me my jacket.”
Jack looked down at the garment, “This isn’t your jacket.”
“Yes it is. It quite literally has my name on it.”
“It’s our jacket then”
“No.”
“Besides,” Jack starts, “You left it at my house.”
“More like you stole it from me.” You grumble.
“I borrowed it.”
“For eight months? Really?”
“Semantics…”
You huffed.
Amara could practically see the lightbulb that illuminated above her head. Of course! The only way she could possibly believe that either of you could get on each other’s nerves like this, or have access to each other’s houses, or understand each other in the unsettling way it seemed you did, would be to understand that you must be siblings!
She listened in as you continued to bicker.
“Jack.”
“Not happening.”
“Jack, I swear to god…”
“Nope.”
“You are literally fifty years old.” You deadpan.
“All the more reason I should have the Jacket and not you, you spring chicken.”
Differential Diagnosis:
Siblings (DEFINITELY)
Hour Thirteen
The shift ended more hectic than anyone expected. A massive MVC made sure that all hands were on deck until the morning crew was fully ready to take over. Amara had learned a lot in her first day. She just needed confirmation about one final case before going home.
“Uh…Lena? I have a question before I leave.”
Lena looked up from the computer where she was talking to the day shift charge nurse, Dana.
“What’s up, hun?” Dana automatically responded.
“Well I uh, I just was curious about two of the doctors.”
Both nurses' brows furrowed. It was never a good sign when someone started blatantly questioning things on their first day, even if they were ultimately right in the end.
“Go on,” Lena urged.
Amara looked down at her notes before making eye contact again, “I just wanted to know about Dr. Abbot and…” She looked over at you and nodded her head in your direction.
Both Dana and Lena’s eyes tracked toward you.
“What about them?” Dana said with a knowing smirk hiding just under the surface.
“They’re siblings right?” Amara asked.
As Lena took a sip of tea, it immediately sprayed over the keyboard as soon as she comprehended what amara was asking. Dana tried, and failed, to hide the big grin on her face.
The commotion made you look over and walk toward the nurses station.
“Everything okay? Was there something you needed, Amara?” You asked, “You should go home and get some rest. It’s been a long night.”
Dana and Lena both laugh as they look between you.
And in that moment, Amara believed that fate was real. And it had a vendetta against her. Because Jack came up and immediately wrapped his hands around your waist from behind. You instinctively leaned into his touch. He spun you around and pulled you in for a gentle, but knowing kiss.
Amara’s jaw was on the floor. Dana and Lena couldn’t stop laughing. You looked concerned for everyone.
“She thinks you guys are siblings!” Lena howled.
Your eyes widened and cheeks involuntarily turned a shade of pink.
“I didn’t mean-”
You and Jack both break out in laughter now as well.
“I was trying to get a read on you all day and I couldn’t figure it out!” She said.
“Aw, sweetie,” You said kindly, “We’re just married.”
“Yeah,” Jack interrupted, “For too damn long.”
You slapped his shoulder. He smiled down at you.
It all made sense. The fighting, the steamy closet session, the bickering, and silent communication.
No telepathy.
No cult.
No divorce.
Just…marriage. Everything that happened wasn’t pointing to some differential diagnosis Amara had believed to be true at different points in the day. They all pointed to you and Jack, two peas in a pod who apparently were good at confusing the interns.
Dangerous information for the next incoming class.
ANON! I apologize I couldn’t reply to this, for some reason tumblr has no “answer option” on it?? Anyways… here’s your request I hope you love it! Request is in bold below.
Hiya! I dunno if you're taking requests at the moment but if you are I'm in need of a John Shen x Abbot's adoped daughter reader where John doesn't know the reader is jacks daughter, and John is ever the over-sharer 🥹
I think it would be so cute and also hilarious while Jack is kinda uncomfortable listening to Shen pine over his daughter. She definitely works there but i don't think she'd be a doctor maybe a nurse or APRN up to you!
WARNINGS: Reader is adopted, mentions of bio parents being addicted to drugs. Mention of death/overdose due to drug use.
John Shen was never known to keep to himself, he talked too much. He knew it, his friends knew it, his coworkers definitely knew it. For the most part, Jack Abbot tuned him out. He didn’t need to know about any new games John had gotten into, what he had did over the weekend, what he cooked for lunch, but when he heard your name mentioned in one of John’s conversations he was all ears.
There were three people in the hospital that knew you were Jack Abbots daughter by adoption, you, Jack and Robby. Neither of you shared the fact. You didn’t share it for the fact that you had worked hard to get your position of charge nurse in the pediatric unit and Jack didn’t like to tell his coworkers about his personal life. He considered Robby a brother, so when you started at PTMC he had to introduce you as Robby had heard him boast about you for years.
Jack and his wife had adopted you when you were only three. Your biological mother and father struggled with the demon that is drug addiction, your mothers starting when she broke her back doing her job as a CNA and the doctor prescribed her OxyContin. Unfortunately, the pain killers only led to her needing something more. Your father, suffering from PTSD began drinking and was soon prescribed Benzodiazepines. Your mother, offering him an escape from the demons that danced in his mind, led him to the same misfortune as her. The two developed an addiction to heroin, your mother’s addiction claiming her life first. Jack had come over to check in after her death when he saw how bad things really were, dirty diapers and clothes in piles, cans of beer and soda scattered all through the house. The image that burned in his mind through out his life was you siting on the floor playing with cigarette butts, your father crying in the recliner. He remembered picking you up, getting ready to lash out at his friend when he looked at him and muttered the words, “Will you take her?”
Jack was in disbelief, how someone could give up their child so easily. He was angry. He wanted to scream, yell, slap some sense into your father but all he could do was watch the broken man he once fought beside of cry. He remembered your father crying out, saying he wanted to get help. He knew he needed it, now more than ever that your mother was gone. He told Jack him and his wife were perfect to take you in, knowing the two had been trying to have a baby. That was the day he decided to sign his rights over to Jack and his wife, swearing he would get himself in line.
He died six months later on the side of a highway with a needle in his arm.
Jack thought about your father a lot. He regretted a lot. He wished he would have kept in contact with him more after that day, pushed him harder to go to rehab, get himself some help. He wasn’t much for religion, but something out there led to him and his wife being able to adopt you. It was hard to tell where you would have ended up if they didn’t adopt you. Jack and his wife told you about your biological parents when you were old enough, making sure you knew that they were good people. They were good people who were put in bad decisions and made some bad choices, that sometimes what doctors give you don’t always help and to have compassion for those who struggle with addiction. When Jacks wife died, he felt like his whole world had been blown apart. It destroyed him to know that not only was the love of his gone, but you were devastated. As badly as he hurt, he wished he could have took every ounce of pain you were feeling and put it on himself. You had dealt with enough in this life, he would always try to lighten the load if it was possible.
So when he heard John Shen mention your name, he had to listen to every word. He had to listen to make sure he wasn’t spreading rumors about you, telling the ER about anything inappropriate. He hated it, he felt almost like he was intruding on your life, but he also wouldn’t let anyone hurt you and that included the 30 something attending he worked beside.
“So it went great, I planned just for coffee at first cause sometimes first dates are weird, right? So you don’t want to play a whole day and it be weird.” Abbot notices how John is moving, he’s all but bouncing off the walls as he fills in Ellis on his date. Coffee huh? Attending couldn’t spring for something a little more pricey, Jack thought to himself.
“John please don’t tell me you took her to Dunkin’ Donut.” She says, he rolls his eyes and continues.
“No, I am a little more classy than that. We went to the local coffee shop, you know the one that has those paintings on the windows? Anyways, it went great! We talked the whole time. She’s like the nicest person ever, she made me stop the car on the way to the movies cause there was a homeless vet sitting on the side of the road to give him some water and some cash.” Jack smiles listening to the exchange, knowing he did his job well. He judges silently, wondering if Shen would have stopped had you not been with him. He soon gets his answer.
“You weren’t gonna stop for the homeless vet?” Marie, the charge nurse asks. John shakes his head as Ellis laughs.
“Yes, I would have stopped but I’m saying some women I’ve been out with aren’t like that and would have told me to kept driving, that’s not the poin-“ Ellis interrupts before he can continue the story.
“Hold on, movies? You didn’t just get coffee?”
“Uh, yes! If you all would let me finish. We went to the movies, ended up whispering and talking the whole time through that but thankfully no one was there.” Jack hopes this story isn’t going to take a south turn, nothing good ever comes out of two young people in a movie theater alone. He feels like he should quit listening, but he needs to hear the rest of John’s story.
“After the movie,” Jack feels relieved. “We went out to dinner and just talked some more. She told me about why she wanted to be a nurse, about how it was working on the pediatric floor, talked a lot about her dad. She loves that guy.” Jack couldn’t help but smile as he hears the last line. “Apparently he was in the military, so if I ever meet him I am going to have to be on the straight and narrow. No goofing off.”
“Oh so already thinking of meeting the parents huh?” Ellis asks, John smiles, looking down at his pen.
“Just one parent, her mom passed away. I hate it for her. I don’t know. She’s just really cool. I know it was only one date, but I hope there’s more.”
“Jesus Shen, I’ve never seen you act like this. It’s like Cupid came and stuck an arrow right in your ass. It actually makes me not want to make fun of you.” Before Shen can say anything else, Jack decides to chime in.
“Not to butt in Shen, but coming from a veteran with a daughter, don’t put on an act. We can always see through that bull shit.” He says, typing away at his computer. Ellis pushes herself out from the desk in shock.
“You, Jack Abbot who never says shit about his life has a kid?” The three are all turned to Jack now, he shrugs.
“What? Can I not throw a surprise out once in a while? Oh, John you also may want to bring some Samuel Adams when you meet her dad, us military men like that too.” John throws his hands up. Jack mentioning his favorite beer, hoping John brings a case by when he “meets” your father.
“Noted! Jack you’re a life saver. When the time comes, I’ll let you know so you can prepare me some more.” He says as he makes his way to the locker room.
After hearing the interaction Jack hoped things went well between you and Shen for two reasons.
One being he saw himself talking about his late wife when they first met. Although it was strange hearing someone boast about his daughter, he remembered that first feeling of happiness, excitement, love whenever he met his wife. Especially after their first date, he wanted you to be happy, more than anything in the world.
Two being, he couldn’t wait to see the look on John’s face when he met your father.
Park the shark who is a very private person. He is called down to the Pitt for a peds ortho consult only to walk in and it his daughter who broke her arm playing after school soccer. Nobody knew he had a (pregnant) wife and kids much less was a girl dad.
Daddy Shark || B. Park x F!Reader
Dr. Park Masterlist || The Pitt Masterlist || Requests: OPEN
Synopsis: Not much is known about the mysterious Dr. Park until a little girl with pigtails ends up in the ED and calls him "dad"
Note: I might be inclined to turn this into a little mini series. . . let me know :)
There wasn't much known about Brendon Park, besides what people could see on the outside. He was tall. He has broad shoulders and biceps that could probably crush someone's head. He was cocky and rude. He always wore a scowl on his face. "The Grinch personified", a med student once called him.
Brendon was a professional. He didn't have time for his private life to seep into his work life. Orthopedics was a brutal speciality. He crushed bones and rebuilt them for a living. He was the top in his field, and you only became that good and that renowned by making clear boundaries for his work life and private life.
When the elevator doors opened to the Pitt, Brendon could already feel a headache growing behind his eyes. He hated being paged down here. It was loud and unorganized. If people thought that orthopedics was brutal, they should spend a day in the Pitt. Most of the doctors were doing cowboy procedures and hoping for the best.
"I was paged," Brendon's voice was low as he spoke to the charge nurse, Dana. She was one of the few people he could tolerate down here (and it wasn't because she had yelled at him about being snippy with the nurses before).
"Yeah," Dana said, putting her glasses to look through the charts. "South two, little girl with a broken arm."
Brendon's eyebrows furrowed as he took the chart from her. "You paged me for a broken arm?" It was resident work. He knew it and he knew that Dana knew it too. You didn't just page the chief of a department down for a resident's job.
"Mom came in with her, was pretty shaken up. Wouldn't let anyone examine her but you." Dana crossed her arms over her chest. Brendon wanted to roll his eyes as he opened the chart, eyes quickly scanning it. “Little girl's name is Ruby. Mom said her name is Y/N.”
Brendon’s cold hazel eyes snapped towards Dana. There was a flash of fear in his eyes, before he schooled his features. “Thanks,” Brendon nodded at Dana, moving quickly to the patient’s room.
He didn’t bother knocking, pulling the curtain back with enough force to rip it clean off. His jaw was clenched tight.
“Dr. Park?” Santos asked confused at the Shark’s sudden appearance. “What are-“
“Daddy!” The little girl on the exam table gasped, reaching her non-injured arm out to him. Park got to her in two large steps, swooping her up in his large arms.
“Excuse me, what are you doing-“
“You can leave,” Park said to Santos.
Santos scoffs, "She's my patient."
"Not anymore."
Santos scoffs again, even louder and in more disbelief at what was happening. She knew of Park the Shark. Everyone knew of the infamous arthropod who seemed more animal like than human.
"Well, her mother isn't back yet." Santos cross her arms over her chest, a knowing smirk on her face. "I'm not leaving until she comes back." She wasn't about to let this little girl out of her sight with this creature like man holding her. "And I need to finish my exam. So if you can please, put her down." Santos goes to gently touch the little girl and she lets out a loud squeal, holding her arm to her chest and turning into Park's body.
Santos swears she heard Park growl, and turn his body away from her.
"You're done here." His words are deadly as he stares Santos down.
Santos shakes her head in disbelief, concern flooding her body as she steps out of the room. Her eyes search the ED until they land on her boss, in his usual spot by the board talking with Dana. Santos marches up to him, that all too familiar look of determination on her face.
"Dr. Robby, I need your help," She says to the chief attending. "I have a little girl with a broken arm. Her 'father'," Santos uses air quotes to explain the relation, "Just marched in there and took her. Won't let me touch her."
"What?" Robby's eyebrows furrow.
"Santos-" Dana sends a warning look.
"Her mom stepped out and hasn't been back yet. He literally growled at me like an animal," Santos ran a hand through her hair, "I need back up."
"Okay, okay," Robby nods following Santos to the exam room. "Hey, Dana call security." Dana opens her mouth to interject but it falls on deaf ears. When Robby gets to the room, he pushes the door open with his hip, "Hello, I'm Doctor Robinavitch, Chief of. . . Park?" Robby stops in his tracks. "What are you doing?"
Brendon looks up from the little girl to glare at Santos who was standing behind Robby. "Seriously?"
"I don't know your connection to the patient," Santos says, a slight edge in her voice. "I asked you to leave the patient so I can finish my exam and you refused."
Park rolls his eyes. Hard.
"Brendon," Robby says lowly, "I need you to leave the room so my doctor can finish with her exam-"
"Ruby, I couldn't find any. . . Oh!" You stopped in the doorway, looking at all the doctors in the room. "Bren," You sighed, going straight for the daunting surgeon. He hugged you tightly, both Santos and Robby's jaws dropping a bit.
"Are you okay? What happened?" Brendon asked, looking you over for any injuries. "Baby okay?" Brendon's large hand covered the majority of your growing bump.
"We're fine," You said, "It's Ruby. We went to the park this morning. She was on the swings moment and the next she was screaming on the ground. I just picked her up and ran."
"I did a flip, Daddy!" The little girl was all smiles, probably due to the pain medication she received.
"I'm sorry," Robby interrupted the family moment. "Are you related to Dr. Park?"
Brendon scoffed, keeping his arm around your waist. "She's my wife." He grabbed your left hand, showing off a very impressive diamond. "That's my daughter. If you're intern-"
"Resident," Santos corrected.
"Whatever she is-"
"Brendon," You scold. Brendon rolls his eyes again.
Robby runs a hand down his face, trying to find the right words to figure out this mess without setting the Shark off. "I am so sorry, Doctor and Mrs. Park. I am going to be personally overseeing Ruby's care-" Santos lets out another loud scoff, and Robby fights the urge to glare at her, "-We're going to start this whole thing over."
"Good," Park says, crossing his large arms over his chest. Robby nods, shooting Santos a look for her to leave. She rolls her eyes as she walks out of the exam room. Robby gets right to work, slipping on his glasses and sitting down on a rolling stool to be at eye level with Ruby.
An hour later, the little girl's arm is getting covered in plaster. Park called down his top resident to cast Ruby's arm, while he stood over their shoulder, breathing down their neck.
"Daddy, it's purple," Ruby smiled, wiggling her fingers.
"I know baby," Park smiled at his daughter, before turning back to his resident, "The wrapping isn't straight. Are you blind?"
"Brendon," You scold again, not looking up from the magazine you were reading. "They're doing their job. Leave them alone."
"All set, Dr. Park," The resident said, smoothing down the last of the purple cast on Ruby's arm.
"Thank you," Ruby beams, looking in awe at her purple cast.
"You're welcome," The resident says. They glance up at Park, and quickly make a run out the door. You huff, setting your magazine down to see Brendon carefully instructing your daughter's cast.
"It's fine," You say.
"It's thicker in some areas," Brendon mutters. "It's angled to tight at the elbow, could cause the bone to-"
"Brendon," You cut him off, standing up from the chair. He gently sets Ruby's arm down to rush over and help you up. "You can drop the Shark act. We're fine."
Brendon lets out a deep sigh, his hands going to your bump. "She thought I was going to hurt Ruby." His voice was soft as he spoke and it made your heart ache a bit. Brendon was the definition of big and scary on the outside, but a teddy bear on the inside. He was the perfect girl dad, and wore the title with pride. He would walk through a burning building to save his girls. The last thing he would ever do is hurt them, and the thought that someone thought he was capable of it made him sick.
"I know," You gently tilt his chin up with your knuckle. "I should've waited until you came in before going to the restroom. I'm sorry, you were probably worried."
"It's not your fault. You're pregnant, you have no bladder capacity." You laugh at his words. Ruby perks up from watching a video on your phone.
"Can we get ice cream now?" She asks.
Brendon turns around, a his face lighting up as he looks at her. "Ice cream? Who said anything about ice cream?"
"Mommy said," Ruby sasses, putting hand on her hip. You bit back a smile. She was going to test Brendon's patience when she gets older and you can't wait to see how that goes down.
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protective and soft park x reader where she is assaulted by a patient…? tysm!!
"Where is she?" His voice was commanding as he walked into the ED. It was like he was a prophet, a clear path being made for him as he walked right up to the nurses station. If it was anyone else standing there, they would've cowered under his intense glare, but Dana knew how to handle men like Park the Shark.
"Going to have to be more specific," Dana said, taking her glasses off and folding them into her pocket. "I have a lot she's in this department."
Brendon basically snarled at Dana, showing a bit of teeth. "Y/N."
"Trauam One," Dana gestured to the trauma room. He walked away without a sparing glance. Emma, who had been standing behind Dana, look dumbfounded at the interaction. "Orthopod. Tough guy. . . soft as dough for his girl."
When the door to trauma one slid open, Brendon's jaw clenched. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I uh. . ." Whitaker paused, his eyes wide as he looked around the room to where Robby was standing.
You rolled your eyes, groaning at the pain in your head at the action. "He's about to retract my shoulder."
"The hell he is," Brendon sneered, walking over to where the x-ray machine was at. The room felt about twenty degrees colder as Brendon studied the x-rays with perfect practiced precision. He was the best of the best when it came to anything orthopedics. Looking at him, you wouldn't think someone as big and broad as Brendon Park could work with something as delicate as bones, but he was the one you called when you needed orthopedic miracles to happen.
"How did this happen?" Park asked, his hazel eyes cutting right over to Robby.
"A patient-"
"I was asking the chief of the department, med student," Park cut Whitaker off.
"Brendon," You scolded him. "Whitaker is a doctor now."
"Don't care," Park's eyes were still on Robby. "What happened."
Robby gestured to you, "A patient woke up in a postictal state after a grand mal seizure, he was delirious and attacked Dr. L/N. Vitals are stable, lab work is clear, waiting for a CT result. She's got slight tenderness in the back of her head, some photophobia. Obvious laceration to her forehead that's been glued with derma bond. She's got a dislocated shoulder, a couple of bruised ribs."
Brendon nodded, taking in Robby's words, his eyes honing in on you, "Pain meds? She's allergic-"
"She," You cut him off, "is right here, and yes, Doctor Robinavitch knows what I am allergic to. It's on my employee file."
Brendon again, looked right at Robby. "500 milligrams of Tylenol. Wouldn't let us give her anything stronger."
"See! Fine," You said, a smile on your face. "Can we get back to what we were doing? Whitaker?" You looked at the intern, who looked like he was being led to his death, as he shook his head and stepped out of the room. You rolled your eyes, muttering "Coward" under your breath.
"I'm going to give you a moment," Robby said, taking off his gloves. "We'll come back to set that shoulder."
"You're a coward too!" You yell at your boss as he leaves the trauma room. You glare at Brendon as he looks through your chart, not a single care in the world that he had just scared off your intern and chief. "Happy?"
"No," Brendon said, pushing the computer away. He grabbed a pair of gloves, looking at the cut on your forehead. "This needs stitches."
"It's glued."
"It'll scar."
"Since when are you a plastic surgeon?" You challenge, looking up at him. Brendon just gives you that stare that you think is supposed to be an intimidation factor. But to you, it just irritated you. "I'm fine. I don't know why they called you."
"You're not fine," Brendon said, continuing his own examination of you. He gently picks up your arm, and you wince. "Your should is dislocated."
"I know," You whimper. He sets your arm back down gently. He's quiet for a moment, and you can see how tightly his jaw is clenched as he looks at the bruises on your arms from where the patient grabbed you. "Hey," You gently lift his chin with the hand on your non-injured arm. "I'm okay."
Brendon sniffs, looking away. And in that moment you realize. . . he's crying. Or as close to it as Park the Shark can get to. You've been with him for over five years and have never seen him shed a tear. Not even when you forced him to watch "The Notebook".
"Bren. . ." You say softly, guiding his face to look at you. He glances up at you, hazel eyes indeed wet with unshed tears. "I'm okay."
"You scared me," Brendon's voice was barely above a whisper. His hand gently caresses over the band-aid on your eyebrow. You close the feeling of his strong yet gentle hand on you. "Dana paged me. Didn't say what happened just that you had been assaulted, and I thought the worst."
"I'm sorry," You apologize. "I told her not to. It wasn't anything to worry-"
"You're my wife," Brendon cut you off. "It is my job to worry about you."
You smile at him. A lot of your co-workers wondered what drew you into a man like Brendon Park. He was cold, calculated, didn't like to work well with others. His job was barbaric, breaking and setting bones, using saws to cut limbs, jamming metal rods into bones. He was arrogant to the point he was sometimes flat out rude, he hated teaching medical students, worked his residents into the ground.
But he was soft. He cared about his patients, wanting the best possible outcome he could give them. He researched and refined his surgical craft to be able to perform the most up to date medical procedures. He defended his residents and nurses, often becoming the punching bag for disgruntled patients.
He also loved. . . hard. Brendon had fallen in love with you the moment he met you. He knew you like the back of his hand, knew what made you mad, what made you cry, what made you scared. He could tell if you had a bad day from the way you walk into the house. He would jump in front of traffic if it meant that you could walk safely across the road. Hearing that you had been hurt, a few floors down from where he was working, sent him into a spiral. A caveman like part of him coming out as he rushed towards the elevator going down to the Pitt.
"But I'm okay," You said, placing a kiss on the inside of his wrist. You gently grab his hand and place it on your chest, so he could feel your heart beat. "It's just a few scrapes. It's nothing I can't handle."
"Yeah," Brendon let out a deep sigh, "But I don't know if I can handle it."
"Oh c'mon," You smirk, "You're Park the Shark. You eat interns for breakfast. You can handle this." Brendon rolled his eyes.
The door to the trauma room slid open, Robby poking his head back in. "Everything okay?" He asked.
"Yeah," You answered, looking at Brendon who nodded in response.
"Okay," Robby said, walking into the room, Whitaker trailing behind him. "We gotta get that shoulder set."
You sucked in a breath nodding, "Okay."
"I'll do-"
"Ah," You held your hand up stoping Brendon from getting a pair of gloves. "This is a teaching hospital, and a dislocation is something an emergency room intern is supposed to be qualified to do." You look at Whitaker who looked like he'd rather melt into a puddle on the ground. "You got this."
"I really should let-"
"Whitaker," You snap. Whitaker jumped, quickly grabbing a pair of gloves and going to your side. Brendon stepped back to give Whitaker room to work, but the sheer size of him was still daunting.
"You hurt her," Brendon's voice was deadly low as he stared Whitaker down, "I'll dislocate your shoulder." You rolled your eyes as Whitaker turned an even paler color.
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,
“Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage,
“‘M fine.”
“Can I open the door?”
“...Yeah.”
It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.”
“Who taught you to be so sweet?”
“You did.”
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.”
“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.”
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.”
“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.”
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.
“Thanks for all of your help, Li.”
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.”
“You never like my boyfriends.”
“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.”
When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.”
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—
“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.”
“Go to class and learn.”
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.
You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—
No. No.
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.
--
“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!”
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:
“One more time?”
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.
“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?”
It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.
“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin.
“Oh—You want a sip?”
“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.”
“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.”
“Jeez, what time do you start work?”
“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.”
“Explains how big the coffee is.”
“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?”
“Uh—No. Thanks.”
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.
“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Heard a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
“Like what?”
“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.”
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—
“Maybe I was curious about you, too.”
John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.
And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.
But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you.
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.
It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning.
--
“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”
“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.”
“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.”
“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.”
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.”
“...Okay, this is one step below that.”
“Just one?”
The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.”
“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.”
“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.”
“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?”
“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”
“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.”
“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.”
“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.”
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.
“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?”
“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—”
“John!”
--
By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.
It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.
You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now?
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.
“What’s up, Lilah?”
“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.”
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.
“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.”
“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.”
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.
“Whaddaya want, bean?”
“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?”
“Willingly? It would be a first.”
“Are you pregnant?”
The thought nearly triggers another heave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—”
“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—”
“And it’s been a while.”
“...If you’re sure.”
“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.”
“Blegh, okay, we get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.”
“Lilah, for godssake—”
“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.”
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.
“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.”
“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.”
“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.
“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.”
“Lilah—!”
“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.
It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours.
--
“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.”
“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.”
“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.”
“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.”
“What about your parents?”
You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.”
“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—”
“Okay.”
“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”
“Okay!”
“Nice scenery, though.”
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.
“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.
“...John?”
Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?”
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”
“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?”
--
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?”
You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.”
You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.
It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts.
--
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!”
You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?”
“How long have you been on the floor?”
“Did that boy drive you?”
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.”
“Lilah, shut up—”
“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”
“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps.
“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?”
“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!”
--
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General.
Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.
--
“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?”
You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Trying to make plans, actually.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.”
“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.”
“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.
“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—”
“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.”
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding—”
“Not everything is a joke, John.”
--
There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.
“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side.
“We’ve got rebound tenderness.”
“What’s that mean?” You hiss.
“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—”
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.
“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.
“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages,
“I was—She’s my—”
“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—”
And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—
“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.”
“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper.
“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.
“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.”
“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.
“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
“John.”
“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?”
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.
“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.”
“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.”
“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.”
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.
“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.
“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.”
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.
“I’m scared,” You whisper.
“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.”
--
“I like him.”
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).
You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“The punchline.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.”
Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.”
“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.”
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?”
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.
“Just what I said.”
“They were all nice guys.”
“No, they were all assholes.”
You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.”
“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.”
“They were all accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.”
“Right, right.”
“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.”
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.
“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.”
“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.”
“That is not what I mean—”
“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.”
“That was one guy!”
“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.”
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:
“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.
“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.”
“Anytime, generalissimo.”
--
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive?
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—
“Are you snooping through my messages?”
Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little.
“No. Trying to see what time it is.”
“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.
“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”
“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.
“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.
“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—”
“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:
“Did you bring my work laptop?”
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.
“I—No.”
“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”
You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.”
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.”
“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.”
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?”
“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.
“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.”
“You want me to go get her?”
“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.
“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again.
“Mm…You want me to go?”
“No.”
“Then I’m right where I should be.”
And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.
“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?”
“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.”
“Did they do the surgery?”
“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.”
“Oh.”
“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?”
--
It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--
You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick.
You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.
Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out.
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did.
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief.
--
You know those things are bad for you.
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.
“I thought you were gonna die, you know?”
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there:
“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”
“I know.”
“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.”
“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.”
You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in.
“I love you, bean.”
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.
“I love you, too, generalissimo.”
--
“Saw Lilah on the way in.”
“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
“Everything okay?”
“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.”
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.
“How’s the pain been?”
“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.”
“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.”
“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.”
John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.”
“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.”
“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?”
“Not really.”
“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.”
“Okay.”
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens.
“No fever, chills?”
“Nn-nn.”
“Appetite’s back?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?”
“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.”
“Your cramps are that bad?”
“They can be.”
“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.”
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours.
“...What’d your parents say?”
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.”
“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.”
“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.”
“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.”
“I like a plan, remember?”
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?”
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”
“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.”
You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?”
“Famously.”
John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.”
“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?”
“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.”
“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?”
“Oh, all of them.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.”
John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.
“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled.
“There’s that word again.”
“Hmm?”
“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.”
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.”
“When are we gonna talk about it?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—”
“I see—”
“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“Do I get a hint?”
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.
“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.”
You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.”
Pairing: DILF!Neighbor!Steve x Reader
Word count: 3.6k
Warnings: divorce, cheating confrontation, age gap, SMUT (oral - m receiving, unprotected p in v, cowgirl, breeding kink if you squint)
Summary: After Peggy found out Steve cheated, things took an unexpected turn.
+fran: this is kinda what I had unfinished after the last scene of neighborhood watch... its porn with some plot. hope you like it <3
The loud, thunderous confrontation Steve expected when he got home from his run and saw your panties on his kitchen counter in front of his wife never… happened.
Really.
"Peg…" He started, not knowing how to continue the sentence, really. He knew how pathetic he'd sound. How much of a poor excuse for a man he'd look like he'd been.
She exhaled softly through her nose, not even looking surprised. “Don’t,” she says, not sharp—just tired. “Please don’t insult both of us by lying.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening. “I wasn’t going to—”
“You were,” she cut in gently, almost like she understood where he was coming from, finally looking at him fully. “You would’ve said it’s not what it looks like. Or that they’re not yours. Or that there’s some explanation that magically makes this okay.”
Her gaze dropped to the counter again. To the panties. “And I’m telling you right now,” she added, quieter, “I don’t need one.”
Steve set the glass down slowly, like if he moved too fast the whole thing would explode. “You don’t even want to—talk about it?”
Peggy let out a small breath, something almost like a humorless laugh. “Steve,” she said, and there was something almost kind in it. “We’ve been not talking about it for years.”
His throat tightened at that, the bitter feeling of guilt coming up like bile inside his mouth. “You think I didn’t notice?” she continued, tilting her head slightly. “The distance. The way you started going on more runs. The way you stopped even trying with me.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “It wasn’t supposed to—”
“Turn into something?” Peggy finished for him.
He nodded barely, and she narrowed her eyes at him like she was studying a version of him she'd never seen before. Like the man she'd been sleeping next to was a complete stranger.
When she asked him if he loved you, his hesitation was answer enough.
“Peg—” he stepped forward, arm extended at some feeble attempt to comfort her, and she put both of her hands in the air as a sign to stop him, something frantic finally breaking through. “It’s not like that, I just— I got—”
“Lonely?” she offered.
He stopped, swallowed. “…Yeah.”
She nods slowly. “Me too.” Then Peggy exhaled through her nose, almost amused again, like she was deciding whether to say something she’d been holding onto. "…I kissed Howard.”
It’s so unexpected it takes a second to even register.
“What?”
She shrugs one shoulder, casual in a way that feels surreal given the weight of it. “A few weeks ago. After a late night at the firm. We were going over a case, had a couple drinks, and…” She gestures vaguely. “It just happened.”
Steve wasn't angry. How could he be? It was one kiss, he'd had a whole entire affair — that was still ongoing, by the way — he didn't have a leg to stand on. And he felt relieved. Not angry, not betrayed, just like a weight had lifted off of his shoulder.
Just… surprised.
“And?” he asked, quieter now.
Another deep breath from her, Peggy tried to fight a smile at the memory. “And it didn’t feel wrong,” she said simply. “That’s how I knew.”
She pushed off the counter, smoothing her hands over her pants like she was grounding herself in the moment. “I thought I’d feel guilty. Or panicked. Or like I’d ruined something.” Her eyes met his again. “But all I felt was… clarity.”
Steve let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “Guess we’re a pair, huh?” he mutters.
That earned a real smile from her this time. Small, but genuine.
“Guess so.”
Peggy hummed softly, tapping her fingers against her arm. “I mean, we were good on paper. We always have been. Safe. Predictable.” Her eyes flicked up to him, searching, not accusing. “But I haven’t been in love with you for a while, Steve. And I think… I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to say it out loud.”
It was quiet, the way everything moved.
For any divorces brought on by cheating, this was probably the easiest that Murdock & Sons ever took care of. Everything divided 50/50, Steve took the house since he'd spend more time with Jamie and Peggy wanted to move closer to the firm anyway.
The house felt different after she left.
Quieter.
But not the quiet that suffocates, the quiet that settled. The quiet you'd only find in early mornings when the world hadn't woken up yet aside from the birds outside, and the sky was turning from a deep indigo to a light purple.
He's started noticing things he never had, the hum of the espresso machine, the way the house looked a little more lived in — not messy in the slightest, but like a happy family lived there.
Cause a happy family did live there.
Him, and Jamie, and… you.
It wasn’t immediate. Not officially. There was no conversation about it, no moment where Steve sat you down and said this is what you are to me now.
It just… happened.
You started staying over more often. At first on the nights Jamie wasn’t there—late dinners, falling asleep on the couch, your things slowly appearing in corners of the house. A hair tie on the bathroom counter. A sweater draped over the back of a chair. Your favorite mug somehow becoming the one he always reached for in the morning.
Then it bled into the rest of his life.
The first time you were there when Jamie was, Steve had braced himself for it to feel strange. Complicated. But it wasn’t—not in the way he expected.
You fit.
Too easily.
You moved through the kitchen like you belonged there, barefoot on the tile, talking softly to Jamie while you warmed his bottle, swaying without even realizing it. The baby watched you like he always had—wide-eyed, curious, reaching for you with that same instinctive trust.
Steve stood there, leaning against the doorway, watching it unfold like something he hadn’t meant to build but suddenly couldn’t imagine undoing.
You made the space warmer.
Livelier.
You laughed more than Peggy ever did in that house. Left the TV on in the background. Sat cross-legged on the floor with Jamie, letting him tug at your fingers, your sleeves, your hair. You picked him up when he cried, and while you didn't freak out at every little thing, you grazed soothing circles on his back until he calmed down. You didn’t follow a schedule with him like it was a checklist—you just… were with him.
And Steve felt it.
Everywhere.
In the way the house smelled like your lotion instead of sterile clean linen. In the way there was always something half-finished on the counter because you got distracted mid-task. In the way you’d call out to him from another room like you’d been doing it for years.
It blurred the lines fast.
Most nights, after Jamie was asleep, the house would fall into that softer kind of quiet again—the kind that felt private instead of empty.
What really did him into the abyss of "I left my wife for a PYT" was when he caught himself staring at the crown molding in the ceiling — the one Peggy specifically picked out for their bedroom and it made him feel like an old Victorian man — and he didn't hate it anymore.
Steve had always noticed the intricate trim she had picked out years ago, something she’d been so proud of.
He used to stare at it some nights, lying stiffly on his back, feeling like he was trapped in a life that looked perfect but felt… cold. Like a museum display of a marriage instead of something living.
Because instead of a frigid, frozen marriage suffering from hypothermia in his sheets, he was naked with you on top of him, bare as the days you spent at the bed and breakfast, kissing down his body.
The sheets tangled at his feet, and he tilted his head to look at you instead. Plush, kiss-bitten lips leaving licks, sucks, and kisses down his sternum, the top of his abs, then lower, lower, lower, until you bit the deep V by his hipbone.
Steve sighed deeply, content, eyes locking with yours as you soothed the bite with a kiss. "You're a fucking tease." There was no real bite behind it, the side smile on his face telling you it was all coming from a place of l—
"Don't act like you don't like it." You murmured against his skin, lips brushing closer and closer to the needy length of him.
You kissed the base, making him groan. Then another kiss, and another, and another, as you scooted lower and got yourself comfortable leaning over him, between his spread legs.
A long lick from base to tip before you put him in your mouth, soaking him in your spit, made him hiss and close his eyes in pleasure. Big, warm hands coming to brush your hair out of your face and into a makeshift bun on the back of your head.
"That's it, sweetheart, fuck—" He knew he should feel ashamed. He knew he should feel at least a little bad that he'd be patted on the back for soaking sheets his ex-wife picked out with your slick and sweat.
And he couldn't give less of a fuck when his cock hit the back of your throat and you gagged, and pulled him in even more.
He didn't even have to ask.
Whether it was some sort of people pleasing tendency, or that you just liked it, he really didn't want to know the answer.
Some nights he struggled to keep up with your sex drive, like ovulation had turned you into a ravenous animal who could only be satiated by orgasms.
“Doesn’t it feel nice? To touch someone who wants you?” Yeah, it felt pretty fucking nice.
You hummed around his length, knowing what it did to him, and his hips bucked up into your face.
He watched you slowly bob you head up and down his cock, the only sound in the room being the wet schlick of you taking him deeper and deeper and his moans.
He tried keeping quiet, you had only gotten Jamie down half an hour prior, but every time you swirled your tongue around the head and pressed it to the underside of the tip, he got louder.
The hand that wasn't stroking the parts of his length that weren't in your mouth, was rubbing his balls in delicate motions, every now and then palming a little bit deeper.
Steve felt like he was in fucking heaven.
“Jesus…” he exhales under his breath, voice rough, barely held together. “You’re—”
A sharp cry cut through the moment like glass. The baby monitor alerting you Jamie was definitely up.
You pulled him out of your mouth with a pop, spit all over you lower lip and chin. Steve groaned—actually groaned—his head thumping back harder against the pillow. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
You wiped your chin on the back of your hand, and hopped off the bed, walking closer to him and the bedside table, grabbing his discarded t shirt from the floor and pulling it over your head.
“Relax,” you say lightly, leaning over him and kissing him on the lips. “I’ve got him.” Leaving him there, hard, wet, and leaking.
Steve watched you go.
Actually watched you—like he couldn't quite wrap his head around how quickly you switched, how easily you move from one thing to the next like it’s all just part of the same life.
Watched you wipe your hands on the shirt and disappear down the hall.
Your voice came quietly and sweetly from the monitor next, just over the cries. “Hey, sweetheart… what’s wrong, huh?” gentle, warm, completely different than the teasing tone you had seconds ago.
He heard the cries get less and less loud, and then stop altogether, only the soothing south of your voice coming through the monitor, and the dull shuffle as you swayed back and forth in the room with him in your arms.
Soft glow of the nursery lamp washing over you, Jamie tucked against your shoulder, his little fist curled into your shirt like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t want to lose.
“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, swaying slowly, your cheek resting against the top of Jamie’s head. “You’re alright, baby. Just a bad dream, yeah?”
It shouldn't , but it makes Steve harder knowing that you're just so good with such an important part of his life.
It makes him wonder, if this how it was always supposed to be, if every good and bad decision brought him, brought you here for a reason, in whatever twisted way that was.
And his mind wandered.
Wandered to dangerous places that had you moving out of next door, and into this house for good. Places that had a ring on your finger, and you driving his Bronco. Places that had you on your back under him every night until a belly round with his kid wouldn't let you anymore.
In five minutes, you're back, skipping quietly into the room, taking him out of his daydream when your knees hit the mattress and you crawled to perch yourself on top of him.
Steve groaned at the feel of your bare pussy on his painfully hard length.
"He's good," you ground down onto him, hands resting on the sides of his face to pull him in for a kiss. "He went right back down."
You pulled away, leaning back ever so slightly to reach for the hem of the shirt and take it off, tossing it to its rightful place on the floor next to the bed.
Steve sat up, bringing you down for a kiss again, his beard tickling your face as his hands roamed all over your body, kneading the skin of your thighs and ass between his palms.
You sighed as he pulled away to kiss all over your neck and chest, letting his teeth graze the skin of your breast, making you hiss, followed by a moan when he rocked your hips down against him and the head of his cock bumped your clit.
"Shhh, don't want him to wake up again." He murmured against your skin, using his other hand to tweak the nipple he wasn't swirling his tongue around.
As you rocked back and forth, slicking him up in your wetness, the heat licking up your spine started to get hotter and hotter.
"Steve…" Your nails scraped softly at his shoulders, coming to rest at the nape of his neck playing with his hair that had gotten longer. "Please."
That made him chuckle, turning his face to look up at you from beneath his long lashes with a boyish smile that could've made you cum untouched.
"What d'ya want, honey?"
Taunting you was one of his favorite things to do, and if you weren't so into it, it'd make him feel like a fucking creep.
"Want you." You rocked your hips again, hand coming down to line him up with your entrance.
"Ah, ah, ah," His grip on your hips tightened. "Use your words."
The little huff of air that left your lips would've been adorable if it wasn't for such obscene sight.
"Want your cock, Steve."
God, he'd never get tired of hearing you say that.
He bit his lip, still smirking at you, and pulled you down his shaft agonizingly slow, until you sat flush on top of him, your breath caught in your throat at the first sting of his entire length inside of you.
You sat up, and sank back down until you built a rhythm that had you kissing and sucking all over his neck to stay quiet, heavy ragged breaths from both of you.
"Steve, hah—" His hands tightened on your ass cheeks, bringing you down harder and harder onto him, until it hurt deliciously every time the tip of him hit your cervix.
"So— fuck— so good." His voice was strained, like he was holding back to make it last longer. "Taking my cock so good."
He licked his thumb and brought it down to rub deep circles on your clit, his other hand coming to grab your face and tilt it down to look at him.
"Feel good? Huh?"
Pathetic little "uh huh!"s left your lips, more and more whiny by the second.
"Can feel you clenching around me, honey."
Honey.
He liked to call you honey, it was… domestic.
It got harder and harder to keep the rhythm, your eyes rolling back and your thighs burning, all the while the noise of blood rushing between your ears got louder and louder.
"Gonna keep you here just like this, fuck—" He pistoned his hips up harder to meet your thrusts. "Just leaking, wet, all mine—"
Steve interrupted himself with a deep groan when you reached your peak, riding that high and getting impossibly tight around him.
“Gonna keep you stuffed so full, always.” He thrusted more and more erratically. “Til. It. Takes.” He said it mostly to himself, but you heard it.
He followed suit, biting your chin lightly as he spilled all he had into you until it leaked out onto him.
You just stayed like that for a bit, his fingers grazing your back gently, kissing your temple, until both of you felt ready to clean up.
What woke Steve the next morning was a knock at the door, to no one's surprise.
It was wednesday, it was 7am, it happened every week.
Peggy came to take Jamie until Saturday at noon.
You stirred a little against him, shifting with a small sound, your fingers curling lightly into his chest before your eyes flutter open.
“…what time is it?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
Steve glances toward the clock, then back at you.
“Morning,” he says quietly. “She’s here.” He kissed your forehead. “I’ve got it,” Steve murmurs, already shifting out from under you, grabbing a pair of sweats off the floor.
You sat up in bed, pulling the sheet loosely around yourself, watching him for a second as he moves around the room—familiar, practiced, like this routine has already settled into place.
And maybe it has.
By the time he makes it down the stairs and opens the door, Peggy was waiting at the doorlike she still didn't have a key.
“Morning,” she said, easy.
“Hey,” he replied.
Jamie was already awake, soft little noises coming from the baby monitor clipped to the counter behind him, and Peggy’s eyes flicked toward it instinctively.
“Up already?” she asked.
“Just now,” Steve said. “We were about to get him.”
We.
It slipped out without thinking.
But she didn’t comment on it. Just nodded once, stepping inside like she was passing through, not returning. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll grab his bag.”
Steve turned toward the stairs, but he only made it halfway before he heard your voice—soft, still thick with sleep, drifting down from above.
Peggy’s head tilted slightly, eyes following the sound without looking fully surprised. Steve paused for half a second, then nodded to himself like it didn’t matter.
A beat after he responded.
Then your footsteps.
Slow at first, then more certain as you came down the stairs, one hand loosely holding the edge of the oversized shirt you were wearing—his shirt—like it didn’t even register as something to think about.
Peggy looked at you, somehow without an ounce of animosity. Almost… glad that you opened her eyes to the rest of her life.
The sleep-soft expression. The familiarity in the way you moved. The fact that you didn’t hesitate at all when you reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Morning,” you said, voice gentle.
“Morning,” Peggy returned, just as calm.
Jamie let out a louder sound from upstairs, and without thinking, you turned back toward the stairs.
“I’ll get him—”
“I’ve got it,” Steve said automatically.
But you were already moving.
Already halfway up.
And that—more than anything—made Peggy’s gaze linger.
Not on Steve.
On you.
On how natural it was.
How unforced.
By the time Steve followed you up, you were already in the nursery, lifting Jamie from his crib, murmuring something soft against his hair as he settled into you like he always did.
Steve stopped in the doorway.
Watched.
That same quiet feeling from the night before settling in again—heavy, real, undeniable.
Downstairs, Peggy moved through the kitchen, grabbing the bag she knew exactly where to find, packing a couple things without needing to ask.
Because even now, she still knew the house.
She just didn’t belong to it anymore.
A few minutes later, you came back down with Jamie tucked against your chest, his head resting against your shoulder, half-awake and content.
Peggy stepped forward to take him, and he went easily—but not before his fingers curled into your shirt for just a second longer than necessary.
You smiled faintly, smoothing his hair back.
“See you in a few days, sweetheart,” you murmured.
Peggy watched that, too.
Then adjusted him on her hip.
“I’ll bring him back Saturday,” she said.
Steve nodded. “Yeah.”
She shifted her bag onto her shoulder, pausing just briefly as her eyes moved between the two of you—Steve standing close behind you, your hand still lingering where Jamie had been, the quiet ease in the space.
No chaos.
No tension.
Just… a life continuing.
“Have a good rest of the week,” she added.
“You too,” Steve said.
You gave a small nod. “Drive safe.”
Peggy’s lips curved just slightly—something soft, almost amused, almost knowing.
Then she turned, stepped out, and pulled the door shut behind her.
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
be stillllll my heart 😫🤌🔥 the way this man YEARNS needs to be studied 😭 love jealous!jack like him being set off every time he saw the Dunkin cup had me rolling 👏 also the tags YESSSS 💍 sweet baby wells has very special place in my heart 🥹😂🫶
the gryffindor common room felt warm from the fire crackling softly in the hearth.
most students had already headed to bed, but you and hermione stayed curled up on the couch in your nightgowns.
the boys had disappeared upstairs, doing the stupid stuff boys usually do.
"the yule ball is going to be beautiful," hermione said, tucking her legs under her. "i still can't decide on a color though. what do you think?"
you smiled, playing with the hem of your nightgown. "pink would look lovely on you. by the way, you should go with viktor krum. he's clearly interested, and he's nice. way better and mature than half the boys here."
hermione blushed but laughed. "viktor? i don't know..maybe. what about your dress?"
"navy blue," you said without hesitation. "something simple. and i haven't even thought about a date yet."
the conversation drifted for a bit before hermione's expression turned more serious. she glanced at the dragon necklace still around your neck.
"so..draco. how exactly do you two know each other? it seemed intense at dinner."
you leaned back against the cushions, staring into the fire.
"we've been..we were best friends since we came out of our mothers' wombs, and they're really close, so we grew up together, did everything together ..then my family and i later had to move to newcastle, meaning me and draco couldn't really see eachother. so..i gave him one of these," you pointed to the dragon necklace. "because we were just..that close. it'd be like we were still together.. somehow."
hermione listened quietly, eyes wide.
"we wrote letters for a while," you continued, voice softening. "but after hogwarts started for him, they slowed down. i stopped writing eventually because..i figured he had better friends, a better life with all the magic stuff and quidditch. i figured my letters were probably boring him. i didn't want to be that clingy girl from his past."
"did he ever say that?" hermione asked gently.
you shook your head. "no. but i just..i don't know."
she paused, then asked the question carefully. "did you ever have feelings for him?like, more than friends?"
you felt your cheeks warm. "yeah. even when we were little, i felt something..but- i didn't fully understand it was love back then. now that i'm older and seeing him again..those feelings are coming back stronger. it's scary how fast."
hermione reached over and squeezed your hand. "that explains a lot. he looked completely thrown when he saw you."
── .✦
in the slytherin common room, draco sat in one of the leather armchairs, the necklace visible against his collar.
pansy, blaise, and theo were scattered around him, talking about the ball.
crabbe and goyle? probably already slumped.
"that new gryffindor girl is something," pansy said, filing her nails. "you really knew her, draco?"
draco stared at the floor for a moment, jaw tight. "yeah. we were best friends when we were little. she was the only person who actually liked being around me back then."
blaise raised an eyebrow. "and the necklaces?"
draco touched his without thinking. "she gave them to me the day she left. said it was so we wouldn't forget each other." his voice cracked just slightly.
he cleared his throat, forcing it steady. "she looks...different now. prettier. a lot prettier."
theo smirked. "sounds like someone's got history."
"shut up," draco muttered, but there was no real bite.
he looked away toward the dark windows, eyes stinging. "i thought she'd forgotten about me. her letters stopped after a while. figured she made better friends up there."
he stopped talking, swallowing hard. for a second his eyes glistened, but he blinked it away quickly, turning it into a scoff instead. "doesn't matter. she's a gryffindor now. hanging around potter and his lot."
pansy tilted her head. "you seemed pretty shaken at dinner."
"i wasn't shaken," draco snapped, then softened again. "it's just..- she was my first best friend, and the only real one i had at the time. seeing her after all this time just.. brought everything back."
he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to play it cool even as his chest ached. "whatever. she's probably better off with the gryffindors. they can have her."
but his friends saw through it.
the sadness lingered in his voice.
he missed you more than he would ever admit out loud.
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just let me take care of you — harvey specter x reader
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summary harvey specter is many things. a doctor is not one of them. but when it's you, he tries anyway.
prompt – sick reader, harvey takes care of her, protective harvey, louis litt being louis litt
warnings – none, just soft harvey and a very dramatic louis 😭🎀
word count – ~2.5k
note – soft harvey is my roman empire and i will not apologise. Adding louis was the best decision, hope this is everything you wanted 🫶
requests are open :)
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You'd tried to hide it.
That was the thing — you'd genuinely, sincerely tried. You'd taken paracetamol at seven in the morning, drunk two coffees back to back, and walked into Pearson Specter looking entirely fine. Or close enough to fine. Fine adjacent.
Harvey had known by nine.
You'd felt it the moment he clocked it — that particular shift in his attention, subtle enough that nobody else would catch it but you'd had over a year to learn the difference between Harvey watching a room and Harvey watching you. The way his eyes had moved to you across the bullpen and stayed a second longer than necessary before he'd looked back at his file.
You'd chosen to ignore it. He'd let you, for a while.
By eleven you were at your desk with your third coffee going cold beside you, the same paragraph of a deposition prep blurring in front of you for the twentieth time, and a headache that had quietly graduated from manageable to genuinely miserable somewhere around your ten o'clock.
Donna appeared at your shoulder without sound.
"You look terrible," she said, not unkindly.
"Thank you Donna."
"Medically. How long?"
"Since yesterday."
She nodded, unsurprised. Set a glass of water on your desk. "He texted me at nine fifteen asking if you seemed off to me."
You closed your eyes briefly. "Of course he did."
"I told him you seemed fine." A pause. "I lied."
"Donna—"
"He worries." She said it simply, like it was just a fact, like Harvey Specter texting his secretary about you at nine in the morning was the most normal thing in the world. Maybe, at this point, it was. "He just does it quietly so you won't tell him to stop."
She patted your shoulder once and disappeared. You looked back at your screen. The paragraph remained impenetrable.
Harvey appeared in your office at half past twelve.
He closed the door behind him — conversation, not a pass-through — and instead of sitting across from you like he normally would he came around the desk entirely, perching against the edge of it beside your chair, close enough that you had to tilt your head up to look at him.
It was a deliberate choice. You both knew it.
He reached down without preamble and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. Not clinical — too slow for clinical, his fingers brushing into your hairline after, a gesture that had nothing to do with checking your temperature and everything to do with the fact that he'd been wanting to do it since nine fifteen.
"You're warm," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You've read the same page for forty minutes."
"I'm—"
"Don't say processing." His eyes dropped to yours, steady and close. "Go home."
"I have the Calloway prep—"
"Mike has it."
"Harvey—"
"I already sorted it." His hand had moved without him seeming to notice, fingers resting lightly at the back of your neck now, thumb tracing a slow line just below your hairline. The kind of touch he only gave when he wasn't thinking about it, when the professional layer had slipped and it was just him underneath. "Go home. I'll be there by seven."
You looked at him. The headache pulsed. He was looking back at you with the expression he'd never once used in a courtroom — the quiet one, the one that only existed here, between the two of you, when there was nobody else around.
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." Simple. Certain. "Go home."
You went home.
Harvey was in the middle of a call when Louis appeared in his office doorway.
He didn't knock. He never knocked when he was worked up about something, and the expression on his face — somewhere between frantic and indignant, which was Louis's natural resting state during any minor inconvenience — told Harvey everything he needed to know about how this was going to go.
He held up one finger. Louis ignored it completely.
"Where is she?"
Harvey kept his eyes on the window, phone still to his ear. "I'll call you back." He hung up. Turned around. "You have thirty seconds."
"I've been looking for her for two hours," Louis said, already at full volume, already pacing the three steps his energy allowed before turning back. "She's not at her desk, she's not answering her phone, nobody knows where she is and I have a client meeting at four that she was supposed to—"
"She went home."
Louis stopped. "She went — why didn't anyone tell me—"
"Because it's not your business."
"It is absolutely my business when I have a client meeting—"
"Which Mike will cover." Harvey's voice hadn't changed. Still even, still controlled, but there was something underneath it — a particular flatness that people who knew him well enough understood meant stop. "She's sick. She went home."
"She can't just—" Louis gestured vaguely, the full weight of his frustration looking for somewhere to land, "—disappear without telling anyone. She has responsibilities, Harvey, and I don't care if she has a sniffle—"
"She has a fever." Harvey said it quietly. The kind of quiet that wasn't soft. "She's been sitting at her desk since eight this morning running a fever because she didn't want to let anyone down. She went home because I told her to." A pause. One beat. Controlled and deliberate. "And if you have a problem with that, Louis, you can take it up with Jessica."
Something in Louis's face shifted. The indignation receding slightly, recalibrating, the way it did when he'd pushed far enough into something to finally feel its edges.
"I didn't know she was actually—" he started.
"I know you didn't." Still flat. Still even. "Now you do."
Louis looked at him for a moment. Harvey held his gaze without expression, without movement, in the way that made him the best closer in the city — not because he was loud, but because he never needed to be.
The silence did the work.
"Is she—" Louis started, differently this time. Quieter. "Is she alright?"
Something shifted almost imperceptibly in Harvey's expression. "She will be."
Louis nodded slowly. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something that might have been an actual apology if he'd been able to locate one, and settled instead for a short, slightly stilted: "Tell her the meeting is covered. She shouldn't worry about it."
"I will."
Another pause. Then Louis, with the particular awkward sincerity he only managed when he'd genuinely overstepped: "I hope she feels better."
Harvey looked at him for one more second. "Close the door on your way out."
Louis closed the door on his way out.
Harvey was already reaching for his jacket.
He was there by six forty.
You heard his key in the lock — his key, on his keyring, where it had lived for the past eight months — and then his footsteps through the apartment, unhurried and familiar. He appeared in the bedroom doorway to find you buried under every blanket you owned, laptop open to something you'd already lost the thread of, looking approximately as awful as you felt.
He took in the blanket situation.
"That's my grey one," he said.
"You left it here."
"I left it here so it would be here when I'm here. Not so you could—" he gestured at the pile, "—hoard it."
"I'm sick."
"I can see that." But he was already setting down the bag he'd brought, shrugging off his jacket, and when he sat on the edge of the bed and reached over to press his hand to your forehead again it was gentler than before. More deliberate. His thumb traced across your cheekbone after, just once, and he let the touch linger in a way he almost never did anywhere that wasn't completely private.
"Still warm," he murmured.
"Still aware of that."
The corner of his mouth moved. "Did you eat today?"
"I had coffee."
"That's not—"
"I know it's not food, Harvey."
He looked at you for a moment with the expression that meant he was deciding how hard to push and landing on not very, because it was you and you were sick and there were certain fights he'd quietly stopped picking somewhere around month four. He reached into the bag instead — soup from the place on 54th, actual medicine, the specific brand of tea you kept at the office that he'd apparently memorised without ever mentioning it.
You watched him unpack it all onto your nightstand with the focused efficiency he brought to everything and felt something tighten in your chest that had nothing to do with being unwell.
"Harvey."
"Mm." Not looking up.
"You got the tea from my desk."
A pause. "Donna got it."
"You asked Donna to get my tea."
"Eat the soup."
You ate the soup.
He sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours, and pretended to review something on his phone while actually watching you in the way he'd been watching you all day — that particular quality of attention he'd never quite learned to hide from you, maybe had stopped trying to hide a long time ago.
"Louis came to find me," you said.
Harvey's jaw moved, just slightly. "I know."
"What did you say to him?"
"Nothing he didn't need to hear."
You looked at him sideways. He was looking at his phone, expression perfectly neutral, but there was something in the set of his shoulders — something settled, something that had been resolved — that told you it had been more than nothing.
"Harvey."
"He was loud," he said simply. "I wasn't."
"Did you threaten him?"
"I suggested he speak to Jessica if he had further concerns."
"That's a threat."
"That's a referral." The corner of his mouth curved, barely. "He said to tell you the meeting is covered and he hopes you feel better."
You blinked. "Louis said that?"
"Approximately."
You were quiet for a moment, turning that over. Then, softer: "You didn't have to do that."
He looked at you then, properly, and the neutrality had dropped entirely. Just him, the real version, the one you'd spent over a year learning.
"You were sitting at your desk with a fever for four hours," he said quietly, "because you didn't want to let anyone down." His hand found yours on top of the blanket, fingers curling loosely around it. "Nobody gets to make that worse."
You looked at him for a long moment. The headache had dulled. The soup was warm. Harvey Specter was sitting on your bed holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, which, after a year, it was.
"You texted Donna about me at nine fifteen," you said.
He didn't look away. "I always notice."
Three words. Entirely unbothered. Completely devastating.
You looked back at your soup so he wouldn't see your face.
When you'd finished he set everything aside and reached over, pushing your hair back from your face with a familiarity that still caught you sometimes — the easiness of it, the way he touched you like it was just where his hands went. He tucked it behind your ear, let his fingers rest at your jaw.
"Sleep," he said.
"You'll be bored."
"I have work."
"You hate working from—"
"I don't hate it when it's here." Simply. Like it cost him nothing. "With you. I don't hate it."
You looked at him for a long moment. Harvey Specter, best closer in the city, sitting on your bed at quarter to seven on a Wednesday with his tie loosened and his walls entirely down and his hand still resting at your jaw like you were something worth being careful with.
"You're surprisingly good at this," you said quietly.
Something moved across his face. Warm and private and entirely his.
"Don't tell anyone," he said.
You laughed, tired and small, and let yourself sink into the pillows. His hand moved to your hair, slow and unhurried, and you heard him settle beside you — the quiet sound of him opening something on his phone, the familiar warmth of him along your side.
He stayed.
Of course he stayed. He'd been staying for over a year. That was the thing about Harvey that nobody at Pearson Specter would ever believe — that behind every wall and every sharp word and every carefully constructed performance, this was what existed. A man who texted Donna at nine fifteen and brought soup from the place on 54th and told Louis Litt exactly where to go and then came home and stayed.
Just stayed.
You were asleep within minutes, and the last thing you felt was his hand in your hair and the weight of him beside you and the particular irreplaceable feeling of being completely, entirely looked after.
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"nobody gets to make that worse" i need a moment 😭🎀 protective harvey fed my soul writing this, hope this was everything you wanted, thank you for the request 🫶
Summary: Jack knows you read smut. What he does not know is that the red tabs in your books are not innocent little quotes or favorite scenes. They are ideas. A whole organized, color-coded archive of things you wanted to feel, things you wanted to do to him, and things you wanted to explore together. When he finds one of those red tabs and realizes a certain throne scene has already made its way into your marriage, Jack has questions. Several, actually. Should he be jealous? Grateful? Offended? You are more than happy to explain.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, sexual themes, spicy book discussion, implied smut, post-sex scene, praise kink references, light restraint references, orgasm control references, semi-public hookup references, body worship, begging/asking clearly, lots of sexual tension, married flirting, Jack being fifty and deeply personally victimized by fictional men with shadows and jawlines, prosthetic mention, emotional intimacy, trust, mutual pleasure, reader owns her sexuality, soft/domestic married sexiness.
Author's Note: This fic is for every woman who has ever been made to feel embarrassed about reading romance or smut. There is no shame here. None. Sometimes books give us language for desire. Sometimes they make wanting feel normal. Sometimes they make asking feel less terrifying. And sometimes your very hot husband finds the red tabs and realizes he has been unknowingly participating in literary adaptation. This one is funny, sexy, soft, and deeply married. It is about trust as much as it is about heat. It is about owning what you want, asking for it clearly, giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, and being with someone who makes desire feel safe. Also, Jack Abbot versus a twenty-two-year-old shadow man? I had to.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.
This was the second kind.
He knew because your breathing changed.
Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.
He knew you read smut.
That was not new information.
You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.
What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.
You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.
The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.
Not enough to be obvious.
Enough to be suspicious.
Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.
You turned a page.
Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.
Jack’s thumb paused.
You bit your lip.
Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.
You did not notice.
Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.
Jack had seen the tabs before.
He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.
You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.
He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.
He was about to find out that he was right.
Just not in the way he thought.
You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.
Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”
Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”
Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.
His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”
You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”
You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”
Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”
Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.
“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.
Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”
You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”
You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”
Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”
You did not hesitate. “Smut.”
Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”
You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”
Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”
You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”
Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”
You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”
You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”
Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”
Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”
Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”
You gave him a look. “Obviously.”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”
You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.
You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.
Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”
You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”
Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”
You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”
Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”
You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”
Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”
Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”
You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.
You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”
Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”
You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”
Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”
You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”
Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”
You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.
Jack waited.
He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.
The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.
Jack looked at the book.
The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.
He reached for it.
Not because he was snooping.
Snooping implied shame.
Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.
This was clinical curiosity.
Marital clinical curiosity.
He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.
Jack glanced toward the hallway.
The kettle hummed.
He opened the book where your finger had been.
He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.
Jack muttered, “Christ.”
You had not been kidding about the smut.
He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.
Red.
Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.
Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.
At first, he smiled.
Then he stopped smiling.
His eyes moved over the page once.
Then again, slower.
A throne.
A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.
A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.
Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.
At the end of that hallway sat his home office.
His chair.
His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.
The one with lumbar support.
The one with the locked wheels.
The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.
Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.
Jack said softly, “Well.”
The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.
He should have stopped there.
He did not.
The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.
Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.
He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.
His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.
Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.
Jack murmured, “Fuck.”
You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.
You stopped in the bedroom doorway.
Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.
Not casually.
Not idly.
Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.
Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.
You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”
Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”
You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”
Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”
You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”
Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”
You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.
You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.
That was the first thing that got him.
Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.
It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.
Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.
Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”
You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”
Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.
The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter.
“That’s what you wanted?”
You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”
Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”
You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”
His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.
He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”
You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”
Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”
You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”
You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”
Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”
You smiled. “You like it.”
Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”
The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.
Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“He’s twenty-two?”
You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”
Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”
You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”
Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”
You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”
He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”
Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”
Jack paused. “That was vague.”
You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”
Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”
You blinked. “Worried?”
Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”
You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”
Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”
You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”
His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”
You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”
His hand stilled on the book.
You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”
Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”
You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”
Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”
You laughed softly. “Noted.”
His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”
You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”
Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.
You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.
In the way his eyes came back to yours.
In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.
You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”
His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”
“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”
Jack went still.
You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”
His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.
You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.
“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”
His jaw shifted.
“That’s part of it too.”
Jack did not blink.
“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”
His thumb moved once at your waist.
You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”
Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.
You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”
His voice came out lower. “No?”
You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Because I trust you,” you said.
His hand stilled at your waist.
You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.
“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”
Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.
Then they came back to yours.
“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”
Jack was silent for a long moment.
Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.
“It’s the trust,” he said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”
You laughed under your breath.
His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”
You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”
Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”
Jack looked toward the book.
His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”
You laughed.
He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”
Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.
His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”
You blinked. “How many what?”
Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”
You laughed softly. “Your problem?”
Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”
You smiled.
He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”
You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.
Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.
You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.
“You really want to know?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.
Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.
You tapped the page. “Start there.”
Jack glanced down at the red tab.
Then back at you.
His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”
You nodded. “The throne.”
Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.
He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.
You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”
You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”
“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”
Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”
“We covered the chair,” you agreed.
His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”
The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.
“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.
Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about worship.”
Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.
But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.
“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”
Jack did not interrupt.
You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”
The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.
His voice had gone lower. “What?”
You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.
“I want to try something.”
Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”
Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.
“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”
Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”
You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”
Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.
You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”
Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.
You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”
Jack had taken one slow breath.
Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.
“Close the door.”
You had.
By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.
“Here?” he had asked.
You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.
Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.
Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.
“You want my full attention?” he had asked.
You had nodded, throat tight.
His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”
And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet.
The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.
But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.
“Look at me,” he had murmured.
You had tried. God, you had tried.
Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.
“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”
And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.
It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.
Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.
Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”
You nodded. “That was the idea.”
His thumb moved once. “The worship.”
You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”
For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
You smiled a little. “Okay?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”
Your chest softened.
You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”
You nodded. “Not the first.”
His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”
You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”
Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”
You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”
His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”
You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”
Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”
You glanced back at him. “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”
You smiled. “Yes.”
You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.
Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”
You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”
Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”
You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”
Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”
You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”
You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.
Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”
You added it to the stack. “That one too.”
His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.
You followed his eyes and smiled.
Jack sat forward. “No.”
You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”
Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”
You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”
His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”
You smiled. “It was.”
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”
You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”
Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.
The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.
Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”
You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”
Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”
You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”
Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”
His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.
Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”
Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”
Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”
You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”
You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”
The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.
His mouth had curved. “You need something?”
You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you.
You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”
Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.
Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”
You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”
Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”
He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.
Jack had checked once. “Like this?”
Your breath had caught. “Yes.”
Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.
His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”
You had tried.
Jack had noticed every second you failed.
Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”
You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”
Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”
You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.
Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”
You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”
Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”
You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”
His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”
You nodded. “The night it snowed.”
Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”
Your pulse kicked once.
You held his eyes. “Yes.”
The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.
He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.
Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”
You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”
Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”
You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”
Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.
You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”
His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”
You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”
You had nodded.
Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”
And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.
In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.
His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”
You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”
Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”
You smiled wider. “A lot.”
Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.
You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”
Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”
You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”
Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.
“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”
You laughed softly. “Mixed?”
Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”
You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”
You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”
Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.
His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”
You smiled. “The sundress.”
Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”
You held his gaze. “No underwear.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.
His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”
You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”
You smiled. “That was for you.”
The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.
Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”
Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”
You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”
Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.
Jack had asked, “You sure?”
You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.
“Bathroom,” he had said.
You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”
His hand had found the small of your back.
Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”
In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.
His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.
“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”
Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.
Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.
You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”
Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”
You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”
You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”
You laughed. “This is not a court.”
Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”
Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.
Jack watched your hand move to it.
His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”
You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”
Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”
You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”
His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.
You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”
Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.
You nodded. “After the double.”
Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”
Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”
The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.
“What?” he had asked.
Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.
His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.
You had nodded.
The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.
“Tell me what you need,” he had said.
You had swallowed.
You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”
Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”
Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”
Jack had gone very still.
Then his mouth had softened against your temple.
“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.
Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.
Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.
His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”
In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.
You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”
Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”
You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”
Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”
You sighed. “Yes.”
Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”
You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”
Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”
You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”
Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”
You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”
Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.
His voice softened. “There.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”
You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”
Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”
You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”
Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”
The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.
“Begging,” you said.
Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”
You nodded. “After your shower.”
The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.
His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.
You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.
Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.
“Ask for what?” he had asked.
Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”
Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.
His thumb had moved once over your skin.
“Then tell me.” Jack had said.
You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”
Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle.
“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”
Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.
“That one mattered,” Jack said.
You nodded. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”
You breathed out. “Because I asked.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”
Your throat tightened.
You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”
You tilted your head. “The begging?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”
You laughed once.
Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”
Your smile softened.
His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”
The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.
You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”
Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.
Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”
You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”
You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”
You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.
“Green dress,” he said.
You nodded. “Green dress.”
The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.
You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.
Completely.
His eyes moved over you once.
Then again, like the first look had not been enough.
“Jack,” you had said.
He had crossed the room without saying anything.
You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy.
Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.
“I want you to help me see it.”
Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.
Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.
For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.
“Look,” Jack had said.
You had started to glance away.
His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”
Your breath had caught.
His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.
You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.
“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.
Your throat had tightened.
His fingers had spread over your waist.
“Beautiful,” he had said.
You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him.
The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.
You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”
Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”
Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.
You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”
Jack covered your hand with his.
You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”
Your smile wobbled. “I know.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.
You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”
The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.
“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”
You nodded. “Mostly.”
Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”
You smiled. “Pool house.”
His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”
“Fireplace.”
He tapped the third. “Risk.”
“Bar bathroom.”
His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”
“Supply closet.”
His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”
“Bedroom.”
Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”
You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“And worship.”
Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”
Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”
You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”
His eyes darkened.
“Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled.
He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.
“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”
You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.
“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”
You laughed, startled and bright.
Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.
You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”
You smiled. “Every single one.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”
You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”
You blinked. “What?”
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”
You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”
Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”
Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”
You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”
Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”
Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”
You laughed. “Obscene.”
Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.
“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”
Your breath caught.
His smile deepened.
“There,” he murmured. “That look.”
Later That Night…
The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.
Face-down.
Spine bent.
One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.
You were going to complain about that eventually.
Probably.
When your lungs worked again.
For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.
Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.
Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.
He had conducted research.
Thoroughly.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.
Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound.
“That was incredible.”
You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.
His eyes were still on the ceiling.
You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”
Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”
Your smile widened. “I heard you.”
Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”
You waited.
His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.
Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”
A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.
Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.
You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”
Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously.
“Yeah.”
Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”
His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.
“Just need a minute.”
You smiled. “Take your time.”
Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.
His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”
Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”
That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”
Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.
“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”
You raised your eyebrows. “No?”
“Wrong word.”
You waited, biting back a smile.
Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.
“Beautiful,” he decided.
Your throat warmed.
Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”
You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”
Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”
You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.
His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”
You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”
You pressed your lips together. “The process?”
He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”
You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”
Jack looked back at you.
His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.
“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”
You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.
Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.
You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.
His heartbeat was still too fast.
You smiled against his skin.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.
Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.
“That was incredible.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”
His eyes shifted to yours.
He looked almost offended by your amusement.
“What?”
“You’ve said that four times.”
Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”
Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”
Jack’s eyes held yours.
For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.
“I liked that you showed me.”
Your chest tightened.
His thumb moved against your back.
“I liked that you asked,” he said.
You swallowed.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”
The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.
When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.
Then he exhaled.
“That was also incredible.”
You burst out laughing.
Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”
His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.
“I’m enlightened.”
You laughed against him. “By smut?”
Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.
“By my wife.”
That stole the breath from your chest.
You lifted your head.
Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.
Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”
Jack nodded once, like that mattered.
Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.
His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”
Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.
“Too late.”
You stared at him.
He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”
You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.
Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.
You hit him with it.
He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.
Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.
After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”
THIS IS A MASTERPIECE ✨😭 ALERT THE LOUVRE 😩🔥 like - Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.” - “Hardcover budget is flexible” I AM ON THE FLOOR 😂😫 and those are only 2 lines !!! There were so many more I could have tabbed !!! The domesticity 🥹 the trust like I know that was the whole point but it really was a feeling that glowed off the page, er scream… this man 😭🫶 I have no more words… just incredible 🙈😩
the great hall glowed under floating candles, the long tables heavy with roast dinners and steaming puddles of gravy.
chatter filled the hall, louder now with the yule ball only weeks away.
you sat next to hermione, still trying to settle into the noise of it all.
ron sat across from you, next to harry, already halfway through his third helping of potatoes. he spoke with his mouth full, waving his fork.
“you’ll get used to it,” he said, small bits of food flying. “hogwarts is brilliant once you stop feeling like the new kid. though with the tournament and all, it’s been mad this year.”
hermione nudged your arm gently. “ignore him when he talks with his mouth full. he’s hopeless.”
you smiled, pushing some carrots around your plate. the castle felt both overwhelming and strangely familiar, like a dream you’d forgotten parts of.
you hadn’t spotted him yet. not that you expected to right away. seven years was a long time.
ron leaned in, still chewing. “just watch out for slytherins. especially malfoy. he’s been strutting around like he owns the place since first year. best to ignore him completely.”
your head snapped up at the name. “malfoy? you mean..draco malfoy?”
ron paused mid-bite, nodding. “yeah, that git. you know him?”
hermione turned to you, curious. “do you? how?”
you opened your mouth to answer, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs, but a sharp voice cut across the hall before you could speak.
“oi, new girl!”
you twisted around on the bench to see who was calling.
draco sat at the slytherin table with that signature smirk, blond hair falling perfectly over his forehead.
he hadn’t changed much. taller now, sharper features, but still unmistakably him.
he clearly thought you were just another target, fresh meat to poke at like harry and the others.
“yeah, you,” he called again, louder, drawing laughs from his housemates. “finally crawled out of whatever hole they found you in? gryffindor? bold choice. or maybe just desperate.”
you froze the second your eyes met his.
draco’s smirk faltered.
his whole face shifted, eyes widening for half a second before he caught himself.
you felt the same shock hit you like cold water.
seven years. and there he was, wearing the same silver dragon necklace you’d given him the day you left wiltshire.
he looked..different. older. prettier in that sharp, pointed way boys sometimes got.
but it was him.
your draco.
draco recovered quickly, masking the softness that had crept into his expression. he leaned forward on his elbows, acting casual, like his heart wasn’t suddenly racing.
“what’s the matter?” he drawled. “cat got your tongue already? or are all the new transfers this slow?”
pansy giggled beside him and blaise raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange with interest. crabbe and goyle was just..eating.
you couldn’t look away. your fingers brushed your own necklace hidden under your colar, the matching dragon charm warm against your skin.
draco’s gaze flicked down for the briefest moment, like he knew.
“draco,” you said quietly, voice carrying just enough across the gap between tables.
his name on your lips made him straighten slightly.
he huffed, trying to play it off, but his eyes had gone softer around the edges.
less cruel.
more guarded.
“took you long enough to show up at a real school,” he replied, but the bite wasn’t fully there.
“newcastle must’ve been terribly dull without proper magic. or did they even teach you anything useful up there?”
ron looked between you two, confused. “wait do you actually know him??”
hermione’s eyes narrowed, studying the interaction carefully.
harry watched with his usual wary expression, ready to jump in if needed.
draco ignored them all, his focus locked on you. he thought it quietly to himself.
you’d gotten prettier. much prettier.
the little girl he once knew had grown into someone who made his chest feel tight.
but he couldn’t say that.
not here.
not with everyone watching.
instead he smirked again, smaller this time. “well? got nothing to say to your old..acquaintance?”
your cheeks warmed, heart still racing as you held his stare from across the hall. “i have plenty to say,” you answered, voice steady despite everything. “but maybe not in front of the whole school.”
you didn’t fully understand why he was acting this way.
he raised an eyebrow, pretending indifference even as his pulse hammered. “scared, are we? gryffindor courage already failing you?”
but his eyes told a different story.
they lingered on your face, tracing the changes seven years had made.
the way you held yourself.
the small smile starting to pull at your lips despite the shock.
crabbe and goyle looked lost, sensing their leader was off his usual game. pansy shot you a jealous glare.
draco leaned back again, crossing his arms. “suit yourself then. we’ll talk..later.”
you remained on the bench beside hermione, fingers twisting in your lap.
ron stared at you with his mouth open, still holding a chicken leg. typical ron.
“how do you know malfoy?” harry asked, voice low.
you touched the dragon on the chain again, glancing across at draco.
he was pretending to listen to blaise now, but his eyes kept drifting back to you.
“we were best friends,” you said simply. “a long time ago.”
ron nearly choked. “you and malfoy? you’re joking.”
hermione looked thoughtful. “that explains the necklaces.”
you hadn’t realized she’d noticed.
across the hall, draco’s hand brushed his own charm again, a small unconscious movement.
he hated how quickly the old feelings rushed back.
based on this request
wc: 1.2k
pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader
summary: jack has always liked privacy, but one of his biggest secrets is revealed one random afternoon.
c.warning: established relationship (married); mentions of minor injury and minor car accident; reader is a mother; no other warnings i think but if i missed something let me know!
a/n: gooooood it's been so long since i last wrote for jack. i missed him so much! i hope you liked this!
masterlist | requests
for years, jack’s personal life has been locked inside a vault. of course he’d mention you, his wife, from time to time. but always in passing and never waiting too long for his coworkers to asks any personal questions. and it’s not because he doesn’t love you, god knows he’s obsessed with you. but a small, overprotective part of him thinks that by distancing himself from you and your kids when he’s at work he manages to keep you away from the hospital.
he has spent a decade building a wall between his grueling work and the life he cherishes waiting for him back home.
but tonight, the universe has different plans for him.
you sit on the edge of the crinkling paper of the examination table in exam room 4, a dull, throbbing ache radiating down the left side of your neck. every time you try to tilt your head, a sharp reminder of the sudden impact flashes through your muscles. a minor fender-bender on the way home from your daughter's hockey practice left you with a stiff, aching neck, but thankfully, nothing more. next to you, your twelve-year-old daughter is swinging her legs off a plastic chair, her hockey gear bag resting by her feet. she’s still wearing her team jersey and, next to her, your five-year-old son is entirely unbothered by the clinical surroundings, happily coloring on a piece of scrap paper. the minor accident had sent your heart into your throat, but as you look at your children, the overwhelming wave of maternal relief keeps you grounded.
"it seems to be nothing more than a little muscle strain," dr shen says softly, his gloved hands expertly palpating the base of your skull, his expression a soothing balm to the lingering adrenaline in your veins. shen steps back, charting something on his tablet with a soft, reassuring smile. "the kids are completely clear, not a single mark or tender spot on either of them. i’m going to order a mild anti-inflammatory for you and then you are free to go home and rest."
"thank goodness," you sigh, reaching down to ruffle your son's hair. "i just wanted to be absolutely sure they were okay."
outside the glass doors of the exam room, jack is walking fast, clipboard in hand, listening to an intern rattle off a patient's vitals.
“send for dr. fitz, he’ll know what to do. and call me when you get the results. what’s the state of the girl in bay one?”
jack turns then towards the intern as she starts listing the latest lab results on the young patient that just arrived a few minutes ago. he is in full doctor mode. focused, distant, and professional.
that is, until he passes the curtain of your bay, a sudden movement catching his eye. it’s a high, dark auburn ponytail swinging back and forth. a very specific, familiar ponytail.
the same one he usually fights with on his days off as he helps his daughter get ready for practice, earnestly trying to avoid any bumps or stay hairs hanging from the ponytail. jack stops dead in his tracks, causing the intern to almost crash into his back.
jack looks through the pale curtain, eyes widening. the clipboard in his hand feels suddenly too heavy. and it only gets worse once he notices a second head poking though the curtain, this time his baby boy. his entire world is sitting right now in exam room 4.
he abandons the intern mid-sentence, pulling the curtain aside, his usual collected demeanor completely evaporating.
"jack?" shen looks up, surprised by his sudden entrance.
but jack isn't looking at him. he rushes straight to the side of the table, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, wide with a rare, raw panic. "what happened? are you okay? are the kids okay?"
"hey, breathe," you say instantly, reaching out to catch his hand. your fingers lace into his, and the grounding touch immediately lowers his shoulders, though his chest is still heaving. "we're okay. i promise. just a stupid little bumper-to-bumper on the way home from the rink. someone short-braked ahead of us."
your daughter rolls her eyes playfully. "mom took the hit like a champ, dad. you should be proud."
"daddy!" your five-year-old chirps, abandoning his coloring page to scramble off the chair and throw his arms around jack’s leg.
jack immediately drops to one knee, wrapping his strong arms around your son, burying his face in the boy's hair for a brief, fiercely protective second. he looks up at your daughter, reaching out to squeeze her knee. "you're sure you're both okay? nothing hurts?"
"we're totally fine, dad," she reassures him, giving him a warm smile.
only then does jack stand back up, turning his attention fully to you, eyes glowing with adoration and relief. his hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone. "and you? your neck?"
"just a little stiff," you murmur, leaning into his touch, completely accustomed to how deeply he cares for his family, even if he keeps it hidden from the rest of the world. "dr. shen was just checking me out. he says we’re good to go."
speaking of which… the room is entirely silent as four sets of eyes turn to the doctor.
you look past jack’s shoulder and notice that dr shen is standing there, his jaw slightly slack. on the other side of the curtain, the intern who had been following jack is staring open-mouthed, and a bunch of other nurses, including lena, have paused in the hallway, completely transfixed by the scene.
the great private dr. abbot is currently looking at you with a softness none of them knew he possessed, his hand resting tenderly on your waist while a local little league hockey player calls him dad.
jack blinks, finally realizing the audience he has gathered. he straightens up, but he doesn't let go of your hand, the other one resting on top of your son’s head. he clears his throat, the faint trace of a rare, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks at his stunned colleague.
"john," jack says, his voice regaining its usual steady cadence, though it's much warmer now. "i believe you've met my wife. and these are our kids."
shen blinks, a massive grin suddenly breaking across her face. "your kids? jack, you have a whole family!”
“i do,” he says, smiling softly.
“and you didn’t think of sharing that information with the group.”
"i like my privacy," jack defends himself. he looks down at his kids, then back to you, the sheer relief of knowing you are all safe overtaking any awkwardness about his secret being out. he leans down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips right in front of the entire observation window. " i'm glad you're all safe."
"we are," you whisper, smiling against his lips. "now, can you sign our discharge papers, dr. abbot? we want to go home."
"consider it done," jack says softly. he turns to the staring interns outside with a mock-stern raise of his eyebrows, and they instantly scramble back to work, whispering excitedly among themselves.
as jack helps you down from the table and gathers your son into his arms, you know his quiet, mysterious reputation at the hospital is officially over, but seeing the proud, contented smile on his face as he walks his family out, it’s clear he doesn't mind one bit.
Summary: After a violent patient attack leaves you critically injured, Jack is forced to confront what it means to almost lose the person he loves.
Word count: 12k+
Warnings: patience violence, severe injury, angst, fluff
A/N:
read part 2 here
hey guys !! i’m genuinely so excited to finally post my first jack abbot fic, and i’m so excited for you guys to read it 😭
because tumblr hates me and this fic apparently exceeded the block limit, i had to split it into two parts <3 but i really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed emotionally ruining myself while writing it.
anyways !!! thank you so much for reading, and please be nice this is my first time writing for the pitt/jack hahahah. if i used any medical terms wrong, my apologies 🫶
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The rain had started sometime before dawn.
By the time you merged onto the interstate, the entire city looked washed out and miserable beneath sheets of gray rain and smeared headlights reflecting across wet pavement. Your windshield wipers moved at full speed and still barely kept up with the storm. The coffee sitting untouched in your cupholder had gone cold nearly an hour ago, though you were honestly too exhausted to care anymore.
The overnight shift had turned into fifteen hours instead of eight after two trauma admissions arrived back-to-back near the end of the night, and now every muscle in your body ached with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep into your bones. You genuinely could not remember the last time you slept more than four uninterrupted hours.
Traffic slowed suddenly ahead of you.
At first you assumed construction or flooding because of the weather, but then smoke curled upward through the rain and your stomach dropped immediately.
Cars sat mangled across three lanes of traffic at impossible angles. One SUV had spun into the median while another sedan looked almost folded around the back of a delivery truck, its front end crushed so badly it barely resembled a vehicle anymore. Hazard lights blinked weakly through the storm while people stumbled across the interstate in shock.
Your body moved before your brain fully caught up.
“Oh my God.”
You were already unbuckling your seatbelt before the car completely stopped.
Adrenaline sliced straight through your exhaustion hard enough to make your hands shake as you reached for the trauma bag in the passenger seat. Rain hit you instantly the second you shoved the door open, cold water soaking through your clothes within seconds while distant screaming echoed somewhere through the storm.
Someone yelled that a driver was trapped.
Another voice screamed for a medic.
A woman near the shoulder sobbed hard enough she could barely breathe, blood running down the side of her forehead while a man beside her stood completely frozen, staring blankly at the wreckage like his brain had stopped processing reality altogether.
You were already running.
“I’m a doctor,” you shouted over the rain. “Move back and give me some room.”
People listened immediately.
The trapped driver looked somewhere in his forties, pinned awkwardly behind the wheel of the crushed sedan. Blood streamed from a scalp laceration down the side of his face while the airbags hung deflated around him. His breathing came too fast beneath the sound of rain hammering against twisted metal, panic beginning to sharpen around the edges of every inhale.
You crouched carefully beside the shattered driver’s side window, ignoring the glass biting through your scrub pants into your knees.
“Hey,” you said, forcing calmness into your voice despite the adrenaline roaring through your chest. “Can you hear me?”
The man blinked slowly toward you, dazed. “Think so.”
“Good. That’s good.” You adjusted the flashlight between your fingers while quickly checking his pupils. “What’s your name?”
“Leon.”
“Okay, Leon. I’m Dr. Y/L/N.” Your voice stayed steady automatically, years of emergency medicine taking over before panic had a chance to settle in. “Don’t move your neck for me, alright?”
A shaky breath of laughter escaped him. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Despite everything, you smiled a little.
“You’re doing great,” you assured him quietly. “Stay with me.”
And he did.
His eyes kept finding yours every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.
Your hands moved automatically after that.
Pressure against the head wound. Monitoring responsiveness. Keeping him conscious and talking while you assessed what you could from outside the vehicle. Rainwater mixed with blood beneath your fingers while traffic backed up for what looked like miles behind you, headlights glowing dimly through the storm.
Leon kept looking at you every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.
“You work at the PTMC?” he asked weakly after spotting the hospital logo embroidered onto your soaked jacket.
“Unfortunately.”
That got a real laugh out of him, brief and pained but enough that relief loosened slightly in your chest.
“You always this calm when you see a car crash?”
You let out a tired breath through your nose. “No. I’m panicking beautifully internally.”
That made him laugh again.
Patients relaxed faster once they laughed. It was something you learned early in residency, fear loosened the second people felt human again instead of helpless.
So you stayed with him.
Even after the paramedics arrived.
Even after they started finishing the extrication, peeling back what remained of the driver’s side door while rain poured endlessly over the wreckage.
You stayed crouched beside him talking him through every step because shock was already creeping in around the edges of his expression, and every time panic threatened to overwhelm him again, his eyes found yours immediately.
“You’re okay,” you kept saying quietly. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”
The interstate blurred around you in streaks of red brake lights and flashing hazards. Rain soaked through your jacket and scrubs completely now, damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin while your hair stuck to the back of your neck. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crash scene was already fading, leaving behind an exhaustion so heavy it felt physical.
An EMT looked up from the stretcher and did a double take.
“Dr. Y/L/N?”
You snapped back into focus automatically.
“Male, approximately forty-two. Restrained driver. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen currently. Complaining of left-sided rib pain. Possible concussion. Neuro status intact for now, but keep an eye on him.”
The EMT nodded once while adjusting the cervical collar. “Got it.”
They moved quickly after that, securing straps, checking vitals, loading equipment through the rain while Leon tracked every movement with the wide-eyed focus of someone trying very hard not to think too much about what had almost happened.
Your knees ached from kneeling on broken glass. Your hands had started trembling slightly now that nobody urgently needed anything from you anymore.
But you stayed beside him anyway.
Leon caught your wrist weakly just before the paramedics closed the ambulance doors.
“Hey.”
You looked up immediately.
His face looked pale beneath the blood and rainwater, eyes glassy with pain and adrenaline, but there was something steadier there too.
Gratitude maybe.
“Thank you for taking care of me.”
The words landed somewhere deeper than they should have.
You swallowed hard before giving his hand one quick squeeze.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Of course.”
For a second, you just stood there breathing.
The interstate still smelled like gasoline and smoke. Somewhere farther down the road another paramedic shouted instructions while tow trucks crawled through the rain toward the wreckage. Traffic in the opposite lanes slowed almost to a stop as people stared through fogged windows at what was left of the crash.
“You riding in with us?” one of the EMTs asked.
You glanced once toward your abandoned car still trapped in unmoving traffic nearly half a mile behind the accident scene. The thought of trying to get back to it right now felt impossible.
“Yeah,” you answered tiredly.
The ambulance doors shut behind you a second later, sealing you inside with the sharp smell of antiseptic, wet clothing, and adrenaline.
Leon talked for almost the entire ride to the hospital.
Nervous talking.
The kind trauma patients did when they were scared enough to fill every silence because silence meant thinking too hard about how close they came to dying. You’d seen it hundreds of times before. Some people cried. Some got angry. Some went terrifyingly quiet.
Leon talked.
So you let him.
He rambled about his job, about his daughter’s soccer game this weekend, about how his wife was going to kill him for wrecking the car because they still hadn’t finished paying it off. Every few sentences his voice shook slightly before he forced another joke out anyway.
You stayed beside him the whole ride, monitoring pupils and vitals while keeping him talking just enough to assess mental status without making it obvious you were doing it.
“You always pick up patients on the highway on your day off?” he asked weakly at one point.
You let out a tired breath of laughter. “Only the lucky ones.”
That earned another shaky smile from him.
The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics already rolling the stretcher down the bay entrance while rainwater dripped steadily from the wheels onto the floor.
By the time the ambulance rolled through the bay doors at The Pitt, you were freezing hard enough your teeth almost hurt. Your scrubs were soaked completely through, your shoes squelching against the floor while trauma staff moved around you in organized chaos.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Santos called across the ER the second she spotted you climbing out of the ambulance bay. “Always a pleasure seeing you this early, Iron Woman.”
You groaned immediately.
You earned the nickname after accidentally mistaking a patient for Robert Downey Jr. during a twenty-hour shift.
To be fair, the goatee had been identical.
“Dana,” you called immediately, falling into step beside the stretcher. “What’s open?”
Dana barely looked up from the nurses’ station. “Trauma Two’s clear.”
“Perfect.” You pushed damp hair back from your face before glancing toward the department. “Whitaker, Javadi, you’re with me. Perlah, can you help set up Two?”
Perlah nodded immediately and disappeared ahead of the group while Whitaker grabbed gloves from the wall dispenser on his way past.
“You look cold,” Whitaker informed you conversationally.
“Thank you,” you replied flatly.
Javadi appeared beside the stretcher while all of you pushed through the trauma bay doors together. “What happened?”
“Restrained driver, approximately forty-two,” you answered automatically. “High-speed MVA during the storm. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen on arrival, complaining of left-sided rib pain and worsening headache. Possible concussion.”
“Vitals stable en route,” one of the paramedics added while helping transfer Leon onto the trauma bed.
Whitaker immediately started attaching monitors while Javadi pulled supplies from cabinets with the frantic efficiency of someone still trying very hard to look calmer than she actually felt.
Then Jack looked up from the computer station.
And somehow, in the middle of the packed emergency department, everything softened slightly around the edges.
You caught the exact moment recognition crossed his face. The exhaustion behind his eyes shifted immediately into concern as his gaze moved slowly over you. Soaked scrubs, blood smeared across your gloves, rainwater dripping steadily from your hair onto the floor beneath you.
Jack crossed the trauma bay almost immediately.
“You okay?” he asked quietly. “What happened? I thought you went home.”
His voice grounded you in a way almost nothing else could anymore.
Maybe it was because he always sounded calm even during chaos. Maybe it was because after years together your body recognized him before your brain consciously caught up. Or maybe it was simply that exhaustion hit harder the second somebody else arrived to help carry it.
“I’m fine,” you answered automatically while stripping off your soaked gloves and replacing them with clean ones. “Probably need a head CT.”
Jack’s expression tightened instantly.
“For you?”
You blinked at him before realizing what you’d said. “What? No. For the patient.”
Behind you, Perlah had already started cutting away Leon’s soaked shirt while Whitaker attached cardiac leads to his chest.
“BP’s holding,” Whitaker called.
“Sinus tach at one-ten,” Javadi added while checking another monitor. “Probably pain and adrenaline.”
“Good,” you answered automatically before stepping back beside the bed.
“Where’s Robby?”
“Overdose in Four,” Dana answered from the doorway.
You nodded once and reached for your penlight again, checking Leon’s pupils carefully while rain continued tapping faintly against the ambulance bay doors behind you.
Santos wandered into Trauma Two looking personally offended. “Why does huckleberry and crash get invited? I can help.”
“You can stand there and look pretty while actual doctors save lives,” you shot back immediately.
Santos gasped dramatically. “Dr. Abbot, your girlfriend is bullying me again.”
“She bullies everybody,” Jack muttered.
But there was no heat behind it.
His eyes lingered on you a second too long.
You knew that look by now.
Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to bury concern beneath sarcasm and exhaustion, but you still caught it every time. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The slight tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The way your shoulders sagged whenever you thought nobody was looking.
“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.
“You are correct. I am freezing.”
Without another word, Jack pulled his hoodie off the back of the nurses’ station chair and draped it carefully around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him, smelling faintly like coffee, antiseptic, and the cologne he only remembered to wear maybe twice a month.
Something in your chest tightened stupidly at the gesture.
Behind him, Santos gagged theatrically. “Oh my God. Romance in the trauma bay. I’m going to throw up.”
“Go chart something,” Jack said flatly.
Whitaker looked up from the monitor leads. “Actually, I think it's very sweet."
“You’re all miserable,” you informed them while pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself.
“No,” Javadi corrected while checking Leon’s blood pressure. “You two are just aggressively in love in public.”
Jack looked genuinely offended. “Aggressively? I don't get it."
Despite yourself, you laughed softly while stepping back toward Leon’s bedside.
Leon noticed the interaction immediately.
“That your boyfriend?” he asked weakly from the trauma bed.
“Husband to the emergency department,” you corrected while snapping fresh gloves on. “Boyfriend in real life.”
Jack rolled his eyes while typing orders into the computer. “Don’t encourage her, Leon.”
Leon grinned despite the pain. “You guys are disgustingly cute.”
Under the brighter trauma lights, bruising had already started blooming dark purple across his ribs beneath the rain-soaked skin.
“Headache worse?” you asked while checking his pupils again.
“A little.”
“You nauseous?”
“Not yet.”
“Good,” you answered. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Javadi palpated carefully along his left side while Whitaker adjusted the blood pressure cuff.
“There’s something strangely comforting about you people,” Leon admitted weakly after a moment.
“You say that now,” Javadi muttered.
That earned another tired laugh from him before he winced sharply afterward.
“There it is,” you said softly. “Still joking. Good sign, buddy.”
There was something oddly comforting about patients who stayed conversational. After years in emergency medicine, you learned to appreciate moments where humanity still existed between procedures and bloodwork and trauma assessments.
Sometimes those tiny conversations mattered almost as much as the medicine itself.
Jack stepped beside you while reviewing Leon’s vitals, his shoulder brushing yours briefly in the cramped trauma bay. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, damp fabric, and rainwater now that Leon’s soaked clothing had finally been cut away.
“You should change,” Jack murmured quietly while adjusting one of the monitor leads. “I got this, baby.”
You barely glanced at him, still focused on the chart. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”
A tired look crossed his face immediately.
“That’s usually what people say right before passing out.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, though exhaustion dulled most of the energy behind it. “You’re dramatic.”
“You’ve been awake how long now?”
“Eighteen hours.”
Jack stared at you flatly. “That’s not comforting.”
“You stopped at a major accident scene after an eighteen-hour shift?” Javadi asked incredulously.
You shrugged slightly.
And that alone made Jack’s jaw tighten, because that was exactly the kind of thing you always did.
The adrenaline carrying you through the crash scene had almost completely faded now, leaving behind exhaustion so heavy it felt physical. Your wet clothes clung coldly to your skin beneath Jack’s hoodie while every muscle in your body ached now that the immediate crisis had passed.
Jack exhaled softly through his nose before lowering his voice.
“You don’t always have to run yourself into the ground trying to save everybody.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
You focused instead on adjusting Leon’s blanket over his chest, smoothing the fabric carefully just to give your hands something else to do.
Jack knew you too well by now to push after saying something like that.
That was part of what made loving him dangerous sometimes. He noticed things you worked very hard to hide from everybody else.
He noticed the way your hands trembled after bad trauma calls once the adrenaline wore off. How you skipped meals without realizing it during difficult shifts. How every patient death stayed with you longer than you ever admitted aloud.
Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to compartmentalize just enough to survive it, which somehow only made him better at recognizing when you weren’t doing the same.
His hand brushed briefly against the small of your back as he moved toward the monitors again.
“Don’t worry, Leon,” Jack said easily while checking the cardiac tracing. “You’re in good hands.”
Leon looked toward him before his gaze drifted back to you.
“I figured that out already,” he said softly. “She stopped on the interstate for me.”
You glanced up from the chart, slightly surprised by how steady his voice sounded now despite everything.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” Leon continued quietly.
You shrugged lightly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “Part of the job.”
“Maybe,” he answered softly, still watching you carefully. “But most people would’ve kept driving.”
Something warm and uncomfortable settled low in your chest at that.
Most patients never saw the moments in between all of this. They saw calm voices and steady hands. They saw competence because that was what they needed from you in moments like these.
They never saw the aftermath.
The exhaustion. The panic doctors swallowed in real time just to keep functioning. The way people occasionally locked themselves in supply closets for thirty seconds after bad cases just to breathe before walking back out like nothing happened.
But Leon had seen you kneeling beside twisted metal in freezing rain with blood on your hands while traffic screamed past only feet away.
He’d seen the human part too.
And somehow that felt far more exposing than expected.
Before you could answer, something shifted.
Subtle.
Small enough most people in the room probably would have missed it entirely.
But after years in emergency medicine, your body noticed changes before your brain consciously caught up.
Leon’s breathing changed.
One second it was slow and uneven with postictal exhaustion.
The next it caught strangely in his chest.
His eyes lost focus somewhere over your shoulder while every muscle in his body tightened beneath the blankets all at once.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
“Leon?”
Jack looked up from the monitor station at the exact same moment Leon’s entire body stiffened violently against the mattress.
“He’s seizing!”
Everything exploded into motion.
The seizure hit hard and fast, violent enough that the entire trauma bed rattled beneath him. His back arched sharply while his arms convulsed uncontrollably, knocking equipment sideways as monitors erupted into sharp screaming alarms throughout the room.
“Clock started,” Perlah called immediately.
“Two minutes on the seizure pads,” Whitaker added while grabbing suction.
“Turn him,” you ordered.
You and Javadi moved together automatically, carefully rolling Leon onto his side while his body continued jerking violently beneath your hands. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten through his tongue while every breath came in horrible choking gasps between convulsions.
“Airway’s clear,” Javadi said quickly, though her voice still sounded tight with adrenaline.
Across the room Jack was already pulling medication from the crash cart while Dana called CT from the doorway ahead of transport.
Then finally, slowly, the seizure broke.
Leon’s body slumped heavily back against the mattress drenched in sweat while ragged breaths tore unevenly from his chest. The room fell briefly into that strange silence that always followed emergencies, where everybody still moved quickly even though the worst part had passed.
For now.
“Let’s get a CT stat,” Jack said immediately.
You nodded once, trying to ignore the tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline spike was crashing again.
“I’ll stay with him until transport.”
Jack hesitated.
Only briefly, but long enough for you to notice.
Something unreadable crossed his expression while his eyes flicked from Leon back toward you.
Concern maybe.
The same quiet tension he always carried after particularly violent trauma cases.
“You sure?” he asked softly.
You frowned slightly. “Yeah.”
Whitaker glanced briefly between both of you like he noticed something too, but before he could say anything Dana appeared in the doorway again.
“Trauma Three needs help now.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist before he stepped away toward the hallway, disappearing almost immediately back into the noise and chaos outside the trauma bay.
The room quieted afterward.
Machines beeped steadily while rain tapped faintly against distant ER windows somewhere down the hall. Whitaker and Javadi had already been pulled into another room, leaving you alone beside Leon while he lay motionless in exhausted postictal confusion.
You dimmed the overhead light slightly before adjusting the blanket higher over his chest.
“Hey,” you said gently when you noticed him beginning to stir. “You’re okay. You had a seizure.”
No response.
His eyes stayed fixed upward, unfocused and confused.
Postictal.
You had seen it hundreds of times before. Disorientation. Confusion. Agitation sometimes. Patients waking terrified because their brains had not fully caught up to reality yet.
Your shoulder ached dully now that exhaustion was settling deeper into your body again. You reached absentmindedly for the chart at the foot of the bed, mentally running through differentials and imaging priorities while waiting for CT to call back.
You missed the shift in him by less than a second.
One moment Leon lay motionless against the mattress, the next his eyes sharpened violently.
Not recognition.
Fear.
Pure terrified instinct.
Your stomach dropped.
“Leon—”
He surged upright before you could finish the sentence.
His hand closed around your throat with terrifying force, slamming you backward into the cabinet hard enough to knock the air violently from your lungs. Pain exploded across the back of your skull as your head cracked sharply against metal.
“Leon!”
The sound came out broken and strangled.
But he wasn’t seeing you.
That was the horrifying part.
His eyes looked completely wild now—unfocused, terrified, empty all at once. Pure neurological panic stripped entirely of recognition.
For one terrible second, training overrode fear.
“Leon,” you gasped desperately, grabbing his wrists instinctively instead of striking him. “Listen to me. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
Nothing reached him.
His grip tightened harder around your throat.
Air stopped.
Panic slammed through you instantly now, sharp and animal and overwhelming in a way you almost never allowed yourself to feel. Your vision flickered violently while you clawed uselessly at his hands, trying desperately to drag in even one full breath.
You needed help.
Safe word.
Your mouth opened automatically.
“H—”
Nothing came out except a rasp.
Leon shoved you backward harder, your skull slamming against the cabinet again hard enough that white exploded across your vision.
The hospital safe word.
You just needed to say it.
“Hula—”
The sound collapsed into another strangled gasp as his fingers crushed tighter against your airway.
Your lungs burned.
Tears blurred your vision from pain and lack of oxygen while movement echoed faintly somewhere outside the trauma bay. People were still moving through the ER completely unaware of what was happening behind the curtain.
Your body was weakening fast.
You forced one shredded breath into your lungs and screamed:
“HULA HOOP!”
The entire department reacted instantly.
The trauma bay doors burst open hard enough to slam against the wall while voices shouted over each other.
Hands grabbed Leon, trying to drag him backward while he fought wildly in blind confusion and terror.
But before anyone could fully pull him away, he shoved you violently across the room.
Your shoulder struck the edge of the cabinetry with a horrible crack before the rest of your body collapsed hard onto the tile floor.
Pain tore through your arm instantly, sharp and wrong enough it barely felt real.
You couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
The room blurred violently while alarms screamed overhead and people shouted your name somewhere nearby.
And through all of it, through the pain and chaos splitting apart around you, your brain found one thing instinctively.
Jack.
You thought about the way he always found you in crowded trauma bays without even trying. The way his hoodie still smelled faintly like coffee and antiseptic around your shoulders. The quiet brush of his hand against your back only minutes earlier.
You wondered irrationally if he was going to blame himself for leaving the room.
That thought hurt almost as badly as the pain itself.
Your eyes slipped closed just as the world dissolved completely into noise.
Jack was halfway through finishing a chart when he realized he had not seen you in several minutes.
He looked up automatically, scanning the department for you out of habit more than anything else. Usually he could spot you immediately no matter how crowded the ER became. You moved quickly when you worked, sharp and focused and impossible to miss once he knew what to look for.
But you were nowhere.
“Hey, Javadi,” he called while signing off medication orders. “Have you seen Dr. Y/L/N?”
Javadi looked up so quickly, like she was a deer caught in headlights. “Uh… no,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “I haven’t seen her since I left Leon. Sorry.”
Then she disappeared almost immediately toward another patient before he could ask anything else.
He pushed himself upright from the workstation, the familiar ache radiating faintly through his prosthetic. Long shifts always made it worse. The socket rubbed raw after enough hours on his feet, especially during busy trauma nights when he barely sat down.
Normally he ignored it.
Right now he barely felt it at all.
“Dana,” he called, already moving toward the nurses’ station. “Have you seen Y/N?”
Dana barely looked up from the chart she was reviewing. “Pretty sure she’s still with Leon. Why?”
Jack turned the iPad slightly toward her. “They haven’t gone to CT.”
That got her attention.
Her eyes flicked quickly toward the tracking board before settling back on him. “They’re probably backed up upstairs.”
“Maybe.”
But something still felt wrong.
Dana sighed softly. “Jack, she’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”
He knew that.
God, he knew that better than anybody.
You were one of the strongest people he had ever met. Smarter than most attendings twice your age. Calm during trauma activations that made residents freeze completely. You handled combative patients, pediatric codes, catastrophic MVCs, and grieving families with a steadiness that still amazed him after all these years.
But that feeling in his chest would not go away.
Dana pointed down the hallway. “I actually need you in Central Fourteen. Chest pain rule-out and Dr. Garcia wants another set of eyes before she calls cards.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, still staring at the tracking board.
“Right,” he muttered distractedly. “Yeah. Okay.”
He turned reluctantly toward the direction of Central Fourteen, adjusting his pace automatically as the prosthetic clicked softly against tile beneath his scrub pants. Fatigue had settled deep into the joint hours ago, making his gait slightly uneven now that the adrenaline from earlier trauma activations had worn off.
Then he heard it.
“HULA HOOP!”
Everything in his body stopped instantly.
The voice was barely recognizable.
Raw. Ragged. Strangled around obvious pain and panic in a way that made every hair on the back of his neck stand upright immediately. For one horrible second his brain refused to process it properly because it did not make sense. Not your voice. Not like that.
And then recognition hit him all at once.
The hospital safe word.
Trauma Two.
Jack’s heart dropped so violently it almost hurt.
No.
The thought hit him before anything else.
No no no.
Adrenaline detonated through his bloodstream hard enough to make him dizzy.
Then instinct took over completely.
“No,” he breathed aloud, already moving before the word fully left his mouth.
He pivoted so sharply pain shot violently through his prosthetic, the sudden turn grinding pressure through the socket hard enough that under normal circumstances it would have staggered him. But right now he barely felt it beneath the sheer overwhelming panic flooding his system.
Fear swallowed everything else whole.
Not the controlled fear he knew from trauma medicine. Not the clinical kind that sharpened your focus during codes and mass casualty calls.
This was different.
This was personal.
Jack shoved past a stretcher hard enough that the wheels screeched across tile while people all around him started reacting at the exact same time. Nurses turned toward Trauma Two instantly at the sound of the safe word. Dana’s head snapped upward from the nurses’ station. Santos was already running before half the department fully understood what was happening.
But Jack got there first.
The curtain outside Trauma Two jerked violently as shouting erupted from inside the room. Monitors screamed overhead loud enough to echo through the entire department while equipment crashed hard against the floor somewhere beyond the drapes.
“Get him off her!”
The words barely registered through the roaring in Jack’s ears.
His pulse was so loud now it drowned everything else out.
He hit the doorway hard enough that the curtain ripped halfway off the track as he shoved inside.
And then he saw you.
Lying on the floor.
Motionless.
For one horrifying second his brain simply stopped functioning.
You were crumpled unnaturally against the tile beside the cabinets, one arm twisted wrong beneath you while blood streaked across the side of your face from where your head had struck something hard enough to split skin open. Jack noticed everything all at once in the brutal hyperclarity trauma doctors developed after years in emergency medicine.
The bruising already forming around your throat.
The abnormal angle of your shoulder.
The way your chest barely moved.
And somehow that was the part that terrified him most.
You were not moving enough.
Leon was still screaming somewhere nearby while Ahmed and two nurses fought to restrain him against the opposite wall, his face wild with postictal confusion and terror. Somebody was yelling for sedation meds. The entire trauma bay had dissolved into complete chaos.
But Jack barely registered any of it.
Because you were on the floor.
And you were not getting up.
Something inside his chest seemed to cave inward violently.
“Oh, honey.”
Then he said your name, and the sound that came out barely resembled the steady, composed voice Jack used during traumas and codes and every impossible shift the hospital threw at him.
This was different.
There was no clinical calm left in him now.
Only fear.
Pure terrified fear.
He dropped beside you so fast pain tore sharply through his prosthetic as his knee hit tile, but he ignored it instantly. His hands shook hard enough he almost missed your carotid pulse the first time he checked.
Then finally.
There. Weak, but there.
Relief hit so hard it almost made him nauseous.
“Oh my God,” he whispered shakily, one bloodstained hand cradling the side of your face carefully while the other pressed against your neck searching for injuries. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. Come on.”
You did not respond.
Jack’s stomach turned violently.
Training forced itself back online in fragmented pieces despite the panic threatening to choke him alive. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Neuro. He assessed automatically even while his brain screamed at him that this was you beneath his hands.
His eyes flicked instantly toward your throat again and rage flooded him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath.
Finger-shaped bruises were already darkening against your skin.
He hurt you.
The realization nearly made Jack physically sick.
“Jack,” Dana’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as she dropped beside him. “We need to move.”
But Jack could barely hear her.
Your eyelashes fluttered faintly for half a second before falling closed again and something inside him broke completely at the sight.
“No no no,” he whispered frantically, brushing damp hair away from your face with shaking fingers. “Stay awake. Baby, stay awake for me.”
His voice cracked hard on the last word.
That terrified him almost as much as the sight of you bleeding on the floor.
Because Jack Abbot did not lose composure.
Not during traumas, not during mass casualties, not while pronouncing deaths.
But right now panic was tearing straight through him so violently he could barely breathe around it.
And for the first time in years, he had absolutely no idea how to separate being a doctor from being the man who loved you.
“What the hell happened?”
Robby’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as he pushed into Trauma Two with Mohan directly behind him, but for half a second, both of them stopped cold.
The room looked catastrophic. Leon was still fighting violently against security near the far wall, his movements frantic and disorganized while Santos shouted for more sedation. Equipment littered the floor around the trauma bay, overturned trays and scattered supplies crunching beneath people’s shoes as alarms screamed overhead loudly enough to make the entire room feel claustrophobic.
And in the middle of all of it, you were lying motionless on the floor with Jack kneeling beside you.
Blood streaked down the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of his hoodie still hanging around your shoulders. Bruising had already started darkening visibly around your throat, ugly fingerprints blooming beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while your left arm rested at an angle that made Mohan’s stomach immediately drop.
“Jesus Christ,” Mohan breathed.
“Security’s got the patient,” Dana snapped, already dropping beside you with Santos. “Probably postictal aggression after the seizure. He went after her.”
Robby moved instantly after that, years of trauma medicine overriding shock the second he reached your side. “Get her on a gurney now. C-spine precautions. Santos, I need vitals. Dana, page CT and tell them we’re coming immediately. Mohan, get me neuro and ortho on standby.”
Everybody moved except Jack.
He stayed frozen beside you on the tile floor, one hand still cradling the side of your face like he physically could not force himself to let go.
“Jack,” Robby said.
No response.
Jack was staring at you with an expression Robby had never seen on him before. Not panic exactly. Worse than panic. Helplessness, maybe, like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between doctor and boyfriend and now could not figure out how to function as either.
“Jack,” Robby repeated more firmly.
That finally seemed to pull him back enough to blink.
“She isn’t breathing right,” he said hoarsely, voice rough enough it barely sounded like him anymore. “He had her by the throat. Her head hit the cabinet, probably. Possible LOC. Shoulder’s definitely dislocated, maybe fractured too.”
The words came out clipped and automatic, pure trauma assessment forced through panic, but his hands were still shaking.
Dana and Santos carefully slid a backboard beneath you while Mohan cut away the remains of the hoodie around your shoulder to assess the injury better. The second the fabric moved, Jack saw the full extent of the bruising spreading across your throat, dark purple already beneath your skin.
“He squeezed hard enough to leave petechiae,” Santos muttered quietly while examining your neck. “Shit.”
You stirred weakly then, letting out a broken sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as Dana stabilized your shoulder. Jack moved instantly at the sound.
“Hey,” he said, voice softening so fast it almost hurt to hear. “Hey, don’t move. You’re okay.”
Your eyes fluttered halfway open for barely a second before unfocusing again.
“She’s awake,” Jack breathed.
“For now,” Robby answered grimly while checking your pupils with a penlight. “Possible concussion. We’re not ruling anything out yet.”
Jack knew that tone. It was the same one they all used when things might be much worse than they looked initially.
Around them, the room was finally beginning to settle into controlled chaos instead of outright panic. Security had Leon restrained now while Santos pushed sedatives through an IV line with tight, controlled movements. Leon’s terrified shouting dissolved into confused, exhausted mumbling as the medication began taking effect.
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Mohan said quietly, mostly to fill the horrible silence hanging over the room.
Jack did not answer. Rationally, he already knew that. Postictal aggression, neurological confusion, severe agitation after seizure activity. They had all seen it before. But none of it mattered right now, because every time Jack blinked, he saw your body hitting the floor again.
“On my count,” Santos said firmly while positioning herself near your head. “One, two, three.”
They lifted you carefully onto the gurney, and the second they moved your shoulder, a sharp cry tore from your throat despite your barely conscious state.
Jack physically flinched.
Robby looked at him immediately. “Jack, I need you with me here.”
But Jack still looked frozen. His prosthetic locked slightly as he stood too quickly, pain shooting sharply through the joint while exhaustion and adrenaline crashed violently together inside his body. Normally, he compensated automatically for it. Years of physical therapy had taught him exactly how to move through pain without thinking.
Right now, he barely noticed it. All he could see was you strapped to a trauma gurney instead of standing beside one, and somehow that felt profoundly wrong in a way his brain could not fully process yet.
Dana squeezed his arm briefly as she passed him. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, firmly enough that it sounded almost like an order. “So stay with us.”
Jack swallowed hard, then finally nodded once.
The second the gurney locked into place beside the trauma bed, the room shifted fully into trauma mode. Controlled chaos. Fast hands. Sharply clipped orders. Monitor alarms blending into the constant noise of the ER outside while everybody moved around you with the kind of practiced coordination that only came from years of emergency medicine.
“BP dropping,” Santos called from the monitor station. “Ninety-two over fifty-six. Heart rate one-forty. Pulse ox ninety-four.”
Robby swore quietly under his breath before stepping beside the gurney. “Dana, I need another large bore IV. CBC, CMP, coags, type and screen, lactate. Full trauma panel.”
Dana was already moving before he finished speaking.
Mohan carefully stabilized your cervical spine while Perlah adjusted the collar more securely around your neck. Blood stained the side of your face now, dark against pale skin beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while bruising continued spreading visibly across your throat.
“She’s tachycardic from pain and adrenaline,” Mohan said quickly while palpating carefully along your ribs and clavicle. “Left shoulder deformity obvious. Could be anterior dislocation, maybe proximal humerus fracture too.”
“She hit hard,” Dana added grimly while cutting away the sleeve of your scrub top completely. “Look at the swelling already, poor baby.”
Jack forced himself closer finally, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop looking entirely.
Your shoulder looked wrong. Not subtly wrong, catastrophically wrong. The joint sat visibly displaced beneath skin already darkening with bruising while your arm rested protectively against your torso in unconscious guarding. Even barely responsive, your body was trying to protect the injury.
“Y/N?” Robby called firmly while shining the penlight into your eyes again. “Hey, stay with me.”
Your eyelids fluttered weakly, and your lips parted slightly before a small broken sound escaped you, more pain than words.
“There you go,” Dana said softly. “That’s good, hey sweetie.”
Jack swallowed hard. Normally those words would have sounded clinical. Routine. Hearing them about you made him feel sick.
Robby’s fingers moved carefully along your scalp before stopping near the back of your head. “She’s got a laceration here. Probably where she hit the cabinet.”
“How bad?” Jack asked immediately.
Robby looked up briefly. “Needs staples. I’m more concerned about intracranial bleed.”
Jack felt the room narrow sharply around him as his brain supplied every possibility instantly. Subdural. Epidural. Contusion. Diffuse axonal injury. Years of trauma medicine suddenly felt less like a skill and more like torture because now he knew exactly how bad this could become.
“BP’s still dropping,” Santos called sharply.
“Hang another liter.”
Dana connected fluids immediately while Mohan checked your abdomen carefully for rigidity and tenderness.
“She guarding?”
“Little bit.”
“Could just be pain response.”
“Or internal injury,” Robby answered grimly.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. Only twenty minutes ago, he had been teasing you for refusing to change out of wet scrubs. Twenty minutes ago, you had been standing beside him alive and exhausted and rolling your eyes at him. Now you were strapped to a trauma gurney while your coworkers discussed possible brain bleeds.
The trauma bay doors pushed open again.
“What do we have?”
Garcia entered already pulling gloves on, clearly expecting another routine consult before her eyes landed on the gurney. Then she froze.
“Is that...?”
Nobody answered immediately because suddenly saying it aloud made everything feel horrifyingly real.
Garcia moved closer automatically, surgical instincts taking over even while shock still flickered visibly across her face. Her eyes swept quickly across your injuries, taking in the bruising around your throat, the unstable shoulder, and the blood matted into your hair.
“Oh my God.”
Jack looked away sharply at the sound in her voice. He could handle panic, trauma, blood, failed resuscitations, and catastrophic injuries. But he could not handle hearing pity directed at you.
“What happened?” Garcia asked quietly.
“Postictal assault,” Robby answered while reviewing your vitals. “Patient seized after MVC. Became combative during recovery.”
Garcia’s jaw tightened immediately. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Jack, and somehow that made everything worse. Everybody in the hospital knew about the two of you. Not because either of you talked about it much, but because some things became obvious after enough years working together. The way Jack unconsciously searched for you in crowded rooms. The way your voice softened around him even during impossible shifts. The way both of you somehow always ended up side by side during difficult traumas without discussing it first.
And now everybody was watching him try not to fall apart while you lay bleeding in front of him.
“Y/N,” Garcia said gently while stepping closer to assess your airway. “Can you hear me?”
Your brow twitched faintly at the sound of your name.
“Good,” she murmured softly. “Stay with us.”
Jack finally moved closer again until he stood directly beside the gurney. For a second, he just stared at you. Really stared. At the bruises darkening beneath your jaw, at the trembling rise and fall of your breathing, at the blood drying against your temple.
Then very carefully, he reached down and took your hand.
Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm almost immediately.
Tiny movement. Huge relief.
“Okay,” Robby said firmly, forcing the room back into focus. “Let’s move. I want CT angio head and neck immediately. We’re ruling out intracranial bleed and carotid injury.”
Garcia nodded once beside him, already assessing your airway with practiced hands. “Neck swelling’s getting worse.”
Jack saw it too now that she said it aloud. The bruising around your throat had spread darker beneath the fluorescent lights while swelling gathered visibly beneath your jawline. Every breath you took sounded wrong now. Wet. Shallow. Strained enough to make every survival instinct in his body start screaming.
“Pulse ox is dipping,” Santos called sharply. “Ninety-one.”
“Jaw thrust,” Garcia ordered immediately.
Dana repositioned carefully at your head while Garcia leaned closer, studying the bruising around your airway with growing concern. “She may need to be intubated before CT if the swelling progresses.”
The word hit Jack like a physical blow. Intubated. His brain immediately supplied images he did not want. Ventilator settings. Sedation drips. ICU monitors. Neurological checks every hour.
“No,” he said automatically before he could stop himself.
Everybody looked at him.
Jack swallowed hard immediately, realizing too late he had said it aloud.
Robby’s expression softened slightly. “Jack.”
He hated the way Robby said his name right now. Carefully. Like he was one bad second away from falling apart completely.
“I know,” Jack muttered quickly, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I know.”
But he didn’t. Not really. Because his brain kept splitting violently between two impossible realities. One side of him catalogued injuries automatically. Airway trauma after strangulation. Possible cervical instability. Hypoxia. Concussion. Internal bleeding. Shoulder fracture-dislocation. The other side could barely process the fact that you were lying here at all.
Your breathing suddenly hitched sharply.
Jack’s head snapped toward you instantly.
Your eyes fluttered weakly before opening. Confusion crossed your face immediately while you tried weakly to move, but pain flashed across your expression so fast it made Jack physically tense.
“Don’t,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Baby, don’t move.”
Your gaze drifted slowly around the trauma bay like you were trying to understand where you were. The bright lights. The people surrounding you. The monitors beeping overhead. Then finally, your eyes landed on Jack.
Relief flickered there instantly. Small. Barely there. Enough to nearly destroy him.
“Hey,” he said softly, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it. “Hey, I’m right here.”
Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out at first except a weak breath.
Jack leaned closer immediately. “What?”
Your brow pinched faintly in confusion.
“...Leon?”
The room went quiet for half a second.
Even now, barely conscious and injured and terrified, your first instinct was still the patient. Something inside Jack cracked painfully at that.
“He’s restrained,” Robby answered gently before Jack could. “You’re safe.”
Your eyes shifted again, slower this time.
“Hurts,” you whispered faintly.
Jack looked immediately toward your shoulder. “I know,” he said quietly, voice finally cracking despite how hard he tried to control it. “I know, sweetheart.”
Garcia’s eyes flicked sharply toward him at the sound. Jack almost never lost composure at work. Not like this.
Robby swore quietly under his breath. “We tube here or risk losing it in CT.”
The room shifted instantly again. More movement. More urgency. Dana reached for airway equipment while Santos prepared sedation meds with visibly tighter movements now. Mohan adjusted oxygen flow quickly while Garcia moved toward the head of the bed.
Jack felt suddenly frozen all over again.
Your eyes moved back toward him weakly, panic beginning to flicker beneath the pain now that you were awake enough to understand pieces of the conversation around you.
“Jack,” you whispered hoarsely.
His chest tightened violently. “I’m here.”
Your fingers curled weakly against his hand.
“Don’t...” Your breathing hitched painfully. “Don’t leave.”
That finally broke him.
Because you sounded scared. You, the person who stayed calm during pediatric arrests and mass casualty incidents and catastrophic traumas that made residents physically sick afterward.
Jack leaned down immediately, pressing his forehead briefly against yours despite the blood and chaos surrounding both of you. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered shakily. “Okay? I’m right here.”
Then your heart rate spiked sharply.
“One-fifty,” Santos warned.
Your oxygen dipped again.
“Eighty-eight.”
Garcia looked up instantly. “That’s it. We’re securing the airway.”
Panic flashed visibly across your face, and Jack felt your hand tighten weakly around his.
“Hey,” he said immediately, brushing damp hair carefully away from your forehead. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Your unfocused eyes found his again.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, even though his own heart was pounding hard enough to make him nauseous. “Just keep breathing for me.”
Garcia stepped beside him carefully. “Jack,” she said quietly. “I need room.”
And suddenly he realized there was nothing else he could do. No medication to order. No procedure capable of fixing this himself. No trauma protocol separating him from the overwhelming terror flooding his chest.
All he could do was let go of your hand and watch other people try to save you, and somehow that felt worse than anything he had seen in his entire career.
And somehow that felt infinitely worse than any injury he had seen in his entire career.
The intubation blurred together afterward in fragments Jack knew would probably stay with him for the rest of his life.
Garcia’s voice turned sharp and clinical the second she stepped fully into procedure mode. “Etomidate ready?”
“Ready.”
“Succinylcholine?”
“Ready.”
“Pulse ox?”
“Eighty-seven and dropping.”
The room moved quickly around you after that. Packaging tore open, monitors screamed softly overhead, and Santos pushed medications through your IV with controlled precision while Dana stabilized your cervical spine at the head of the bed.
Jack stood rooted beside the wall, feeling completely fucking useless.
He had watched hundreds of intubations in his career. He had performed them himself during impossible traumas, with blood filling airways and families screaming outside the room. Usually, the procedure grounded him. Medicine always grounded him because medicine made sense. Algorithms. Protocols. Airway, breathing, circulation. Find the problem and fix it.
But this was you, and suddenly none of it felt clinical anymore.
Your eyes found his one last time before the sedatives fully took effect. Fear still flickered there beneath the exhaustion and pain, but so did trust. Complete trust. The kind that made his chest ache violently because you were still looking at him like he could somehow fix this.
Then your body relaxed beneath the medication.
Garcia moved immediately. “Going in.”
The room fell quieter for a second except for the ventilator alarms and the sound of Jack’s own pulse hammering violently in his ears. He watched Garcia guide the laryngoscope carefully while Robby monitored your vitals from beside the bed.
“Visualized.”
“Tube.”
“Advancing.”
Jack swallowed hard enough that it hurt.
You looked so small suddenly. That was the thought that kept repeating in his head while he stared at your motionless body beneath trauma lights that suddenly felt much too bright. You had always seemed larger than life somehow. Loud when you wanted to be. Brilliant. Sharp-edged. Impossible to intimidate. The kind of doctor residents followed instinctively because even during disasters, you carried yourself like you could handle anything thrown at you.
Now you were lying completely still while somebody else breathed for you.
“Tube’s in,” Garcia confirmed.
Relief swept through the room instantly, subtle but collective.
“End tidal color change confirmed.”
“Breath sounds bilateral.”
“Secure it.”
Dana taped the ET tube carefully into place while the ventilator connected with a soft mechanical hiss. Your chest finally began rising in slow, controlled breaths afterward, steady and artificial and horrifyingly impersonal.
Jack hated the sound immediately.
The ventilator transformed you from injured into critical in a way his brain could no longer avoid.
Robby was already moving again. “Okay, we transport now. I want CTA head and neck, cervical spine imaging, chest CT, trauma series. Somebody call ortho and tell them she’s likely got a fracture-dislocation.”
“She’s still hypotensive,” Santos warned while adjusting fluids.
“Pressure?”
“Ninety systolic.”
“Hang another liter.”
Everything continued moving around him after that, but Jack could barely process any of it fully anymore. The room had narrowed into snapshots burned violently into his memory. Blood staining the collar of your scrub top. Finger-shaped bruises spreading darker around your throat. Your hand slipping weakly from his when they rolled the gurney toward the doors.
He followed automatically beside the bed while they rushed you toward imaging. His prosthetic protested immediately beneath the sudden pace, sharp pain radiating through the socket with every uneven step, but he barely registered it now. His entire body had narrowed itself into one singular instinct.
Stay close. Do not lose sight of her.
Hallway lights blurred overhead while the gurney rattled violently across tile. Nurses moved aside instantly when they recognized who was lying on the stretcher, and somehow that silence hurt worse than panic would have.
People stopped talking when they saw you.
A respiratory therapist physically froze near the elevators before whispering, “Oh my God.”
Jack looked away immediately. He could not handle watching other people realize how bad this was.
Then suddenly, he was left standing alone in the hallway.
The silence hit him all at once.
He stared numbly at the closed doors for several long seconds before finally turning back toward Trauma Two because he genuinely did not know what else to do with himself.
By the time he returned, the room was mostly empty again. The chaos was over. Only the aftermath remained.
One overturned tray still sat abandoned near the wall where it had been kicked over during the struggle. Wrappers and syringes littered the floor beside shattered plastic packaging while a monitor continued beeping pointlessly beside an empty bed.
And blood.
Your blood was still everywhere.
Jack stopped walking.
For a second he just stood there staring at it. Tiny streaks across the tile floor. Smears against the cabinets where your head had hit. Dark fingerprints dried against the bedrail.
His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might actually throw up.
Because the only thing left of you in this room now was blood.
Not your laugh echoing across the nurses’ station during overnight shifts. Not your sarcasm when Santos annoyed you on purpose. Not the warmth of your body curled against his after impossible shifts when both of you were too exhausted to even speak properly anymore.
Just blood.
Jack looked down slowly at his own hands. There was still dried blood caught beneath his fingernails from where he had held your face trying to keep you conscious. More stained the sleeves of his scrub top in dark rust-colored smears that made his chest tighten painfully every time he looked at them.
You were intubated upstairs while trauma surgeons searched your brain for bleeding.
The thought cracked something open inside him.
If he had stayed. If he had trusted his instincts. If he had checked sooner.
“Jack.”
Dana’s voice came softly from the doorway behind him.
He did not turn around immediately. For a second, neither of them spoke while she took in the scene around him. Dana had worked in emergency medicine long enough to understand what trauma aftermath looked like, not just physically, but emotionally too.
Jack looked wrecked. Not outwardly hysterical. That almost would have been easier. Instead, he looked hollowed out from the inside.
“You should sit down,” she said gently.
“I’m fine.”
The answer came automatically, immediate and empty.
Dana almost sighed because they both knew it was complete bullshit. She stepped further into the room slowly, careful with him now in the same way people approached trauma patients who had not realized how badly they were injured yet.
“You’re shaking.”
His hands were trembling badly now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, small uncontrollable tremors moving through his fingers no matter how tightly he clenched them into fists.
“I left her,” he said quietly.
Dana’s expression softened immediately. “Jack.”
“I left her alone with him.”
The guilt in his voice nearly hurt to hear.
Dana moved closer. “You could not have predicted postictal aggression escalating like that.”
“But I should’ve checked sooner.”
Jack laughed once under his breath, but there was absolutely no humor in it. Just panic and exhaustion and guilt twisting together so tightly he could barely breathe around it anymore.
“She sounded scared,” he whispered roughly. “Do you know how bad it has to be for her to sound scared?”
Dana’s chest tightened painfully because she did know. Everybody in that hospital knew how terrifyingly calm you usually were under pressure. You were the person comforting other people during disasters. The doctor residents looked for during bad traumas because your voice never shook.
But tonight it had.
Dana stepped directly in front of him then and reached up without hesitation, gripping the back of his neck firmly enough to ground him.
“Listen to me,” she said softly but seriously. “She is alive.”
Jack swallowed hard. “She squeezed my hand before CT.”
“Then hold onto that.”
His eyes burned immediately at the words.
For a second, he looked terrifyingly close to falling apart completely.
“She was looking at me like she thought she was dying.”
Dana’s face crumpled slightly at the crack in his voice because Jack Abbot almost never sounded fragile. Not after everything life had already put him through.
But this was different.
This was you.
“You know her,” Dana said quietly. “You know how hard she fights.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly because somehow that made this hurt even worse. He did know. He knew the exact stubborn determination living inside you, the way you worked through exhaustion and grief and pain because your body physically did not know how to stop caring about people.
And suddenly, the idea of losing you felt so catastrophic he genuinely could not imagine surviving it.
When you woke up, the first thing you felt was pain.
Not sharp at first. Not localized enough to understand. Just heavy.
A crushing ache spread through your entire body like every bone had shattered somewhere deep beneath your skin. Awareness dragged itself slowly upward through layers of medication and exhaustion while fluorescent hospital light glowed faintly red through your eyelids. For one blissfully empty second, your brain stayed blank enough that you did not remember anything at all.
Then your chest tightened violently around the ventilator tube lodged in your throat.
Panic hit instantly.
Your eyes snapped open as your body reacted on pure instinct, trying desperately to fight the foreign object forcing air into your lungs. The movement sent agony ripping through your throat and jaw so violently it nearly knocked you unconscious again. A horrible choking sound escaped around the tube while pain exploded across the side of your head hard enough to blur your vision immediately.
The monitors beside your bed erupted into sharp alarms.
Then suddenly Jack was there.
He moved so quickly the chair beside your ICU bed nearly tipped backward onto the floor. One second the room felt empty and terrifying and unfamiliar, and the next his hands were hovering carefully near your face like he wanted to touch you everywhere at once but was terrified of hurting you more.
“Hey, hey, don’t fight it,” he said immediately, voice low and urgent. “You’re okay. Breathe with it.”
You could see his mouth moving. Could see panic written all over his face.
But you could not hear him properly.
Everything sounded distorted beneath the ringing in your ears, voices muffled and warped together like you were trapped underwater. The ventilator hissed rhythmically beside you while your chest rose mechanically against your will, and the sensation was horrifying enough to send another wave of panic crashing violently through your body.
Jack kept talking anyway.
You recognized the cadence of his voice more than the words themselves. Calm. Steady. But underneath it there was something rawer now, something desperate he usually hid much better than this.
Your entire body hurt.
Your throat burned every time the ventilator pushed another breath into your lungs. Your jaw ached violently from the intubation while your left shoulder throbbed with deep nauseating pain that radiated all the way down your arm. Even breathing hurt despite the machine doing most of the work for you.
Then memory came back all at once.
The trauma bay. Leon seizing. Hands crushing around your throat. Your head slamming violently against the cabinet. The floor.
You started crying before you even realized it was happening.
Tears slipped silently sideways into your hair while panic clawed straight up your chest hard enough to blur your vision again. You could not stop shaking. Every instinct in your body still screamed danger even though logically you knew you were safe now.
Jack’s entire expression broke the second he realized you were crying.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered hoarsely.
At least you thought that was what he said.
He sat carefully on the edge of the chair beside your bed before reaching for your hand, avoiding IV lines and bruises with practiced gentleness. The second his fingers touched yours, you grabbed onto him desperately enough that pain shot violently through your injured shoulder again.
You did not care.
Jack was here.
And somehow that meant alive. Safe.
Your grip tightened harder around his hand while your breathing turned ragged around the tube again. Jack immediately leaned closer, his thumb brushing shakily across your knuckles while he tried to calm you before you exhausted yourself further.
“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Only then did you really look at him.
And God.
He looked awful.
Dark bruising sat beneath his eyes like he had not slept once since this happened. His hair looked messy in a way that suggested he had spent hours dragging anxious hands through it, and there was something hollowed out in his expression now that made your chest tighten painfully.
You mouthed the question anyway despite the ventilator.
What happened to you?
Jack watched your lips carefully before understanding finally crossed his face. His throat worked once visibly while emotion flashed so openly across his expression it almost scared you more than the pain itself.
He still looked terrified.
Even now.
Instead of speaking, he carefully turned your hand over in his and began tracing slow letters against your palm with his thumb.
Patient attacked you.
The memory crashed back completely after that.
The pressure around your throat. Leon’s empty unfocused eyes. Your body hitting the wall. The terrifying realization that he genuinely did not recognize you anymore.
You jerked violently on instinct before you could stop yourself, panic surging through your bloodstream so fast your vision blurred instantly while the cardiac monitor erupted into another wave of alarms beside the bed.
Jack reacted immediately.
“Hey, hey, look at me.”
You could not fully hear the words, but you knew his voice. Knew the shape of it. The desperation underneath it.
Your breathing turned frantic around the ventilator while terror clawed violently through your chest again. You remembered thinking you were going to die. Not abstractly. Not distantly.
Really die.
And for one horrifying second, lying in this ICU bed unable to speak or breathe on your own, that feeling came rushing back all over again.
Jack kept one hand wrapped tightly around yours while the other hovered uncertainly near your face. He looked like he wanted to pull you against him and protect you from everything all at once but knew touching you too much would only hurt you further.
Your eyes darted weakly around the ICU room instead. Machines. IV poles. Bandages. Your leg elevated and immobilized beneath blankets. Soft restraints loosely secured around your wrists so you would not accidentally pull the ventilator tube out while disoriented.
You felt trapped inside your own body.
The panic became unbearable.
Then your eyes landed on the PCA pump beside the bed.
Jack noticed immediately.
His entire face fell.
“Baby…”
You reached weakly toward the button anyway with trembling fingers.
Jack looked absolutely shattered watching you press it. Not angry. Not disappointed.
Heartbroken.
Because he understood immediately what you were doing.
You could not stop the fear. Could not stop the pain.
So you were choosing unconsciousness instead.
Medication flooded slowly through your bloodstream almost immediately afterward. Warmth spread outward in gradual waves, softening the sharp edges of panic first before the pain finally began loosening its grip around your body. The terror still lingered somewhere deep beneath everything else, but it no longer felt sharp enough to suffocate you alive.
Your grip weakened slightly around Jack’s hand as exhaustion dragged heavily at your eyelids again.
Jack stayed exactly where he was.
You could barely keep your eyes open anymore, but you still saw the way he looked at you while the medication slowly pulled you back under.
Completely devastated.
Like watching you choose sedation over consciousness hurt him almost as much as the attack itself.
Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm before your eyes finally slipped closed again.
The last thing you felt before unconsciousness dragged you under completely was Jack lifting your hand carefully toward his mouth and pressing one shaking kiss against your bruised knuckles.
The second time you woke up was somehow worse because this time you stayed conscious long enough to understand what had happened to you.
Pain existed everywhere now.
Not sharp anymore. Not even severe enough in one specific place to focus on. It had settled deeper than that, heavy and constant, wrapping itself around your entire body until even breathing felt exhausting. Every inhale pulled painfully against bruised ribs while your jaw throbbed in slow aching pulses that spread all the way into your skull. The medication dulled the edges enough to keep panic from swallowing you whole again, but not enough to make you forget.
Nothing let you forget for very long.
Garcia stood beside your ICU bed when your eyes finally opened again, flashlight moving carefully across your pupils while monitors hummed steadily around the room. The overhead lights had been dimmed sometime while you slept, leaving everything washed in pale blue-gray shadows that made the hospital feel strangely unreal.
“Hey,” Garcia said softly the second she noticed you were awake. “Welcome back.”
Your hearing still came and went in fractured bursts after the concussion. Some sounds arrived painfully sharp while others disappeared completely beneath the relentless ringing inside your ears. Voices felt warped and distant, like everybody speaking stood underwater somewhere far away from you.
You blinked slowly toward the doorway and spotted Santos hovering there awkwardly holding a bouquet of flowers that looked aggressively stolen from the hospital gift shop. Half the stems bent sideways beneath crinkled plastic wrap while one of the price tags still dangled visibly from the bouquet.
You stared at them for a second before a weak breath of laughter escaped you despite the pain immediately punishing the movement.
Santos looked so relieved at the sound she nearly seemed close to crying herself.
“You scared the absolute shit out of us,” she said quickly, like humor was the only thing keeping her from saying something genuinely emotional instead.
The ghost of a smile tugged weakly at your mouth.
Garcia stepped back after finishing the neuro assessment while Santos moved a little closer to the bed, still clutching the flowers awkwardly against her chest.
“Abbott threatened like six people,” she muttered after clearing her throat.
Your eyes shifted toward her slowly.
“He almost went through security trying to get back to Leon.”
Your stomach twisted instantly.
Leon.
For one horrible second you saw him again exactly as he looked before the attack happened. Pale and exhausted beneath ambulance lights while rain hammered against the windows around both of you. Laughing weakly through pain. Asking if you were always that calm. Looking at you like you were safe.
You swallowed hard against the sudden nausea crawling into your throat.
“What happened to him?” you asked quietly, each word dragging painfully through the ache in your fractured jaw.
Santos’ expression changed immediately. The sarcasm disappeared first. Then the humor.
“He’s okay,” she answered after a moment, voice softer now. “Physically, I mean.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
Santos hesitated before continuing more carefully. “He doesn’t remember anything after the seizure started. Robby thinks it’s the postictal state mixed with the head trauma.”
The room fell quiet after that.
Not awkward quiet.
Heavy quiet.
The kind that settled directly into your ribs and stayed there.
Because the worst part was that you believed her completely.
You knew exactly what postictal violence looked like. You understood the neurological confusion, the blind panic, the total loss of recognition that sometimes followed severe seizures. Rationally and medically, every part of your brain understood exactly what had happened inside Trauma Two.
But emotionally, it still hurt in ways you did not know how to untangle yet.
A strange grief wrapped itself around the fear sitting inside your chest because less than an hour before the attack, Leon had been sitting beside you in the back of an ambulance talking about his daughter and his wife and soccer games and stupid jokes while rain pounded against the windows. You remembered thinking he seemed kind, the sort of patient who apologized too much for being in pain.
You had liked him.
And then suddenly he became the person who nearly killed you.
Emergency medicine was cruel like that sometimes. One second somebody was human to you. The next they became trauma.
Santos stepped closer quietly before squeezing your foot gently through the blanket. “We’ll come back later, okay?”
You nodded weakly.
After they left, the ICU room felt unbearably quiet again. Machines hummed softly around you while rain tapped faintly against distant windows somewhere beyond the hallway. Pittsburgh looked gray outside the narrow ICU window, the city blurred beneath another storm rolling slowly across the skyline.
You drifted in and out for hours after that.
Sometimes nurses came in to check vitals and neuro responses. Sometimes transport arrived to wheel you toward imaging. Sometimes you only woke long enough to register pain before medication dragged you under again.
Then sometime deep into the night, consciousness returned slowly enough that you realized somebody was sitting beside your bed.
Jack.
At first you thought he was asleep.
His head rested bowed carefully against your hand where it lay on top of the blanket, broad shoulders slumped forward like exhaustion had physically crushed him downward into the chair. The dim ICU lighting softened the edges of him enough that for one brief second he looked strangely fragile.
Then you noticed he was shaking.
Your heart cracked instantly.
Jack was crying.
Quietly. Almost silently. But hard enough that his shoulders trembled every few seconds beneath the dim blue ICU lights.
The sight hurt worse than any fracture in your body.
You had seen Jack exhausted before. Angry. Burned out after impossible shifts and mass casualty nights and pediatric codes that left entire departments emotionally gutted afterward.
But you had never seen him like this.
Very slowly, ignoring the pain shooting through your ribs and shoulder, you lifted your fingers weakly toward his hair.
The movement alone was enough.
Jack lifted his head immediately.
His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed beneath exhaustion so deep it looked painful. There was stubble shadowing his jaw now like he had not even thought about himself since this happened, and the healing cut near his cheekbone stood out harshly beneath fluorescent light.
Destroyed.
That was the only word your exhausted brain could find for the way he looked.
Jack Abbott was always the steady one. The person everybody else leaned on during disasters because he never seemed to break no matter how catastrophic things became around him.
Until now.
“I should’ve stayed.”
The words came out rough enough they barely sounded like him at all. Raw. Torn open somewhere deep inside.
You frowned weakly despite the pain. “No.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“You couldn’t know.”
“I did.”
Jack stood abruptly then, pacing once across the small ICU room before turning back toward you like he physically could not force himself to stay still anymore. His prosthetic clicked sharply against the tile beneath his scrub pants while one trembling hand dragged hard through his hair again.
“I left you alone in there.”
“Jack.”
His face crumpled so suddenly it stole what little breath your bruised ribs could manage.
“When they pulled him off you...” His voice broke completely for one horrible second before he forced himself to continue anyway. “You weren’t moving.”
Your own eyes filled instantly.
Jack pressed shaking fingers hard against his mouth, trying desperately to regain control of himself and failing anyway.
“There was so much blood,” he whispered finally.
The confession hollowed the entire room out around both of you.
You reached toward him carefully despite the pain.
Jack moved back to your bedside immediately this time, like he physically could not tolerate distance from you anymore, and leaned down slowly until his forehead rested carefully against yours.
For a long time neither of you spoke.
Machines hummed softly around the room while rain tapped gently against the windows again. Jack’s breathing still shook every few seconds no matter how hard he tried controlling it, and you realized with sudden aching clarity that he had been holding himself together by force ever since the attack happened.
Probably for everyone else.
For the department.
For you.
Until now.
Finally, through the ache in your jaw and throat, you whispered softly, “You saved me.”
Jack closed his eyes immediately like the words hurt almost as much as the memory itself.
For a long moment he did not say anything at all. His forehead stayed pressed carefully against yours while his breathing shook unevenly every few seconds, and you realized suddenly that he was trying very hard not to completely fall apart in front of you. The effort of it sat visibly in every tense line of his body, in the way his fingers curled tightly around yours like letting go might physically destroy him, in the way his shoulders remained rigid even now like some part of him still expected another disaster to happen the second he stopped bracing for it.
“You almost died.”
The words came out so quietly you nearly missed them beneath the hum of machines surrounding both of you.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you again, and the expression on his face made something ache deep inside your chest because he looked terrified still.
Not panicked anymore. Not frantic.
Just deeply, genuinely terrified in a way you had never seen before.
“I couldn’t get to you fast enough,” he admitted roughly, eyes fixed on your face like he needed constant proof you were still here. “I heard the safe word and I ran, but by the time I got there...” His throat tightened visibly. “You were on the floor.”
You swallowed painfully.
Bits and pieces still came back in flashes more than complete memories. Leon’s hands around your throat. The cabinet slamming against the back of your skull. The overwhelming certainty that your body was beginning to give out beneath you.
Then Jack.
Your eyes drifted slowly across his face now, taking him in properly for the first time since waking up. The exhaustion. The fear. The sleepless hollowing beneath his eyes. He looked like somebody who had been surviving on adrenaline alone for far too long.
“You did get to me,” you whispered carefully.
Jack laughed once under his breath, but the sound cracked painfully in the middle. “Barely.”
“That’s not true.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
You knew that look. The same one he got after bad outcomes. After losses he carried around long after everybody else moved on. Jack had always been harder on himself than anyone else could ever be, especially when the people he loved were involved.
And God, he loved deeply.
Even when he pretended not to.
You shifted your hand weakly against his, ignoring the ache radiating through your shoulder and ribs.
“Jack.”
His eyes lifted back to yours instantly.
“I’m here.”
Something inside him seemed to break completely at those words.
Jack lowered his head again, pressing one trembling kiss carefully against your bruised knuckles before holding your hand against his chest. His heartbeat pounded hard and uneven beneath your fingers, fast enough that you could still feel the leftover adrenaline vibrating through him.
For a while neither of you spoke again.
The ICU remained dim and quiet around you while rain continued tapping softly against the windows outside. Nurses’ footsteps echoed faintly somewhere down the hallway, distant enough that it almost felt like the rest of the world existed somewhere very far away from this room.
Your eyelids had started growing heavy again by the time Jack finally spoke.
“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.
The confession sounded small somehow. Honest in a way that made your chest ache more than the injuries did.
You looked at him for a second before squeezing his hand as tightly as your exhausted body would allow.
“I know,” you whispered.
Jack nodded once, eyes never leaving your face.
Then very carefully, like he was handling something impossibly fragile, he leaned closer and pressed a kiss against your forehead while exhaustion slowly began pulling you back under again.
This time, when sleep finally took you, Jack’s hand never left yours.
I’m SOBBING right now, this was so beautifully written like I felt transported amd so immersed that I swear I can smell the sweat and cleaning solution of the er 😩🤌🔥 this was AMAZING like my heart is broken but gahhhh 😭🫶💐
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You weren’t supposed to hear it.
You’d come to the manor to surprise Jason after a long patrol — cookies you’d baked earlier still warm in the container, his favourite hoodie of yours draped over your arm like a peace offering. The boys were in the cave, voices carrying up the stairs. You’d paused at the top, smiling, ready to head down when you heard your name.
“…and her,” Jason was saying, voice tight with frustration. “She keeps trying to fix me. Like I’m some broken project. I don’t need her worrying about me every night. It’s exhausting.”
Dick’s voice was calmer. “She cares about you, Jay. That’s not a bad thing.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want someone who looks at me like I’m one bad night away from falling apart again. I’m not her charity case.”
The words landed like punches.
You stood there, frozen on the stairs, the container of cookies suddenly too heavy in your hands. Your chest tightened, breath shallow. You weren’t supposed to hear that. You weren’t supposed to know that’s how he saw you — as exhausting. As someone trying to fix him when he didn’t want to be fixed.
You turned around quietly and left before anyone could see you.
The next few days were quiet.
You didn’t text him back right away. You didn’t show up at his apartment like you usually did. When he called, you let it ring. You needed space. You needed to stop feeling like you were a burden he tolerated because he felt guilty.
On the fourth day, he showed up at your door.
It was pouring rain. He was soaked, leather jacket dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide with something close to panic.
You opened the door in your pajamas, arms crossed. “What are you doing here?”
He looked at you like you’d stabbed him. “You’ve been avoiding me. What did I do?”
You stepped aside, letting him in. Water pooled on your floor as he stood there, dripping, looking lost.
“I heard you,” you said quietly. “In the cave. Talking to Dick. About how I’m exhausting. How I treat you like a project. How you don’t want me worrying about you.”
Jason went very still. The colour drained from his face.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“Yeah,” you said, voice cracking. “I know.”
He ran a hand through his wet hair, looking wrecked. “I was angry. At myself. At the mission. At everything. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just… venting. I didn’t mean you were exhausting. I meant that I hate making you worry. I hate that I come home bloody and you have to see that. I hate that I can’t be the guy who makes your life easier instead of harder.”
You hugged yourself tighter. “It still hurt.”
“I know.” He stepped closer, hands hovering like he wanted to touch you but was afraid you’d pull away. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m not a project. You’re the best thing in my life. You make me want to be better. You make me want to come home. I was an idiot. I was scared. I push people away when I feel like I’m too much. And I took it out on you. I hate myself for it.”
His voice cracked on the last words. He looked so small suddenly — the big, scary Red Hood reduced to a man standing in your doorway, dripping wet and terrified he’d ruined the only good thing he had.
You swallowed hard. “I love you, Jason. All of you. The angry parts. The broken parts. The parts that come home bloody. I worry because I care. Because losing you once was enough for a lifetime. I don’t want to fix you. I just want to be with you. Even on the bad nights.”
He let out a shaky breath and crossed the distance, pulling you into his arms. He held you tight, face buried in your hair, body trembling slightly.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice rough. “So much it scares me. I don’t know how to do this right. I get angry and I say shit I don’t mean and I push you away because I’m terrified you’ll finally see how fucked up I am and leave. But I don’t want you to leave. I want you here. I want you worrying about me. I want you baking cookies and leaving notes and making my apartment feel like home. I want all of it. Please don’t go. Please.”
You held him back just as tightly, fingers threading through his wet hair. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. Then he kissed you — desperate and soft all at once, hands cupping your face like you might disappear. You kissed him back, pouring all the hurt and love into it until the ache in your chest eased.
When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing shaky.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll do better. I’ll talk to you instead of shutting down. I’ll stop pushing you away. Just… don’t give up on me. Please.”
You smiled, small and teary. “I won’t. I love you too much to give up on you.”
He held you tighter, chin resting on your head, arms wrapped around you like a shield. “I love you more. Even when I’m an idiot. Especially then.”
The rain kept falling outside. In your apartment, with Jason’s arms around you and his heartbeat steady under your ear, the hurt started to fade.
He wasn’t perfect. Neither were you.
But you were choosing each other anyway.
a/n : I was gonna last this a few hours ago but I’ve been reorganising my comics. gulp.
It wasn’t a daily occurrence, and yet you treated it like a ritual. Sitting on the balcony of your apartment- that was more coat closet than livable. It had a perfect view of the bustling morning streets of the city. Men in suits, women in workout sets, teens on their commute to school- and him. Like clockwork, he passed your apartment between the times of 6:45 and 7AM every morning. If you were lucky, he’d be stopped by the orange glow of a neon hand on the street post, causing him to jog in place and allowing you a longer moment to create a fuller picture of his face.
You couldn’t put a finger on why he intrigued you. Maybe it was the permanent line etched between his brows, like he was thinking about all the other things he could be doing besides running. Maybe it was the unnerving stare at the pavement, like he was afraid to be distracted if he looked at anything besides the cracked sidewalks and shoes of the people he avoided running over. He always wore the same font of clothing: a dark colored hoodie and sweatpants. Though, they never looked to be made of a normal running material. Maybe he was trying to keep his skin heated on purpose. Like how people attending hot yoga enjoy being tortured with every suffocating breath. Maybe he enjoys how he feels afterwards. Being able to feel the coolness of the water deliciously run over his overheated muscles. Maybe it eases more than tension, maybe it makes him feel like he’s won.
However, this day something different happens. Instead of keeping his head down, he glances up. Suddenly your place of idle sanctuary and mystery was discovered. He cocked his head just subtlety- you almost missed it. Then, he smiled. The smallest upturn of his mouth. He didn’t wink, he didn’t smirk, he didn’t wave. He just stared back. It was as if you had both been exposed. What you thought was a moment to yourself was suddenly and silently shared. You watched as he left- blending in with the fellow street crossers. You felt the smallest flutter in your chest and realized you had never seen the man’s eyes until then. A honeyed brown with a filmed sincerity. Like a secret he couldn’t share. Like a heart that doesn’t want to trust so it doesn’t have to break. You might understand him, you thought. Curiosity killed you. It was like the allure of Eve’s forbidden apple, you wanted to know him. His stories, his secrets, the things he kept hidden. Maybe you’d work your way down to street level. Wait for him by the street post that bides your time. Maybe you could catch up to him, but you’re not much of a runner.
The next morning is different again. This time he doesn’t just look up, he searches. When his eyes find yours again it’s practiced- calculated. It’s your turn to wonder, to analyze the small crease between his brows and the circles under his eyes. He’s more tired today, you thought. Yet, he smiles. His shoulders deflate slightly. You wonder if he needed you here, right in the place you always were. Predictable. He didn’t like things that weren’t as they seemed- unstable. Then you wave. A small lift of your fingers in acknowledgment, I’m here and I see you. He stares back, eyes a little wider, like he hadn’t expected something so soft and subtle to be directed right at him. This time his smile was more full, like he was relieved.
You didn’t second guess the next morning. You pressed your back against the cold metal of the street post and waited. This time you could see him coming. His eyes were glued to the ground, and then lifted slowly to your balcony. He’d been waiting for the moment when he’d see you again- feel seen by you again. Except this time you weren’t there. He frowned, eyes almost cloudy. Your curiosity grew even more. He was taller than you expected. His shoulders were broad with a shaky power in them, like they were tired of having to be pushed back all the time. You pushed yourself off the street lamp and approached, his eyes already downturned and tracing cracks on the sun scorched pavement.
“Hi,” you said with as much grace as you could muster. He looked up then and something in his eyes might’ve melted- like chocolate chips after 10 seconds in the microwave.
“Hi,” he replied. His voice broke as if it was the first thing he had said that day. Like he was saving his first breath for you and this moment.
“I’ve noticed you,” you said plainly. He smiled fully at that, a puff of breath escaping like a half baked laugh.
“I’ve noticed.” His eyebrows parted slightly and your fingers twitched to smooth them out completely. Soemthing tells you he wouldn’t stop you. “I’m Harvey.” The name felt foreign coming off his tongue. It was his name, but it felt like he was giving away more- and it scared him.
“Harvey,” you repeated in your own voice. He looked at you then like you were something made for him. Like he drafted up the perfect scenario and God had hand delivered it to him on a gold-gilded platter. The street post had flicked through two light cycles, but he didn’t turn. Suddenly the heat beneath the polyester wasn’t from the pound of muscle on pavement, but from the beating of heart against ribcage. He felt compromised, like someone had just outed all of his tells in front of a jury waiting to sentence him. He was figured out in just a glance. You followed his earbuds to the phone in his pocket and motioned towards it. “May I?” You asked sweetly. He pulled it out and placed it in your palm without a flinch. As you typed your phone number he took his opportunity to watch. Lashes kissing blushed cheeks with every blink and nervous twitch of your nose. Fingers shaking at the edges like you were both excited and terrified. Were you always this bold or was it him that made you feel like you could do anything? You had sleep lines on your cheek- subtle, but there. He wanted you to have woken up just to meet him. Not even needing an alarm because your body knew the importance of the moments to come. Because that’s what this moment felt like: important. Like the start of something.
He looked down at his returned phone and smiled. His fingers would soon memorize the spaces of the keypad after the number became like a second nature. After your voice became like a persistent melody stuck in his mind. Your lips a soft crashing wave against pebbled banks. He didn’t know it then, but you would become someone that could tear down his walls. The one that made him feel safe being open. The one that stayed.
