Hotch's hoe :)

As the summer winds down and the school year begins, Andrew gradually becomes comfortable with having you around Lena. Soon enough, he’s reaching out to you when he has emergency repair work for his tenants so you can babysit. You get used to picking her up from the skate park to take her home or to the mall or the beach, whatever she wants. It’s nice; she’s kind of your mini-me, always looking to you for things that Pope can’t really help with. His advice for dealing with mean girls was ‘How about you tell me who their dads are and I’ll handle it?’ with his knuckles clenched white around the steering wheel, so your gentler touch is definitely needed.

All the while, you’re focused on nurturing your relationship with Lena, not your crush on Pope. Teaching her what she wants to learn and sneaking in the truths she needs to hear. He tries to do the same because he’s terrified of scaring off the one good female role model Lena has.

The dam of his attraction to you breaks slowly, tiny cracks in his resolve over time. It splinters in every moment that he watches you with Lena, always so gentle and so light, meeting her where she is. It crumbles each time he walks you into your building and then turns on your bedtime livestream on the way back home, listening to your sweet voice talking about him and Lena – who you give nicknames for privacy – and your plans and your job and whatever your followers want to hear. He just likes to hear your voice, a warm thing made of butterfly wings and cotton candy.

The third week of September, Pope can’t ignore it anymore.

SUNDAY

The three of you are at the mall on Sunday afternoon when Lena asks, “Can I get an outfit for Picture Day while I’m here, Pope?”

Tilting his head to the side as he vaguely remembers the eight Picture Days he had before dropping out for good – Smurf never bought the packets they tried to sell because he didn’t smile, anyway – he asks, sounding genuinely curious, “You need a new outfit for that?” But then you glare daggers at him and he quickly corrects, “Of course, Bean. Whatever makes you feel your best.”

“Come on,” you suggest, happy to have a new mission for the afternoon, “let’s go to that little boutique on the first floor where we bought your purple sundress. Something bright and fun like that would be perfect, don’t you think?”

“Exactly,” Lena agrees seriously. As you all take the escalator down to the other side of the mall, Lena tells you, “Maya Jenkins made fun of my picture last year, so I want to make sure I have a really nice one this time.”

“From everything you’ve told me, Maya Jenkins is a rat bitch,” you reply right away, not thinking. Pope snorts out a laugh behind you as you clear your throat and backpedal, “How about this year you show up feeling confident as hell and totally ignore her and take the prettiest picture ever for you? Not for her or anyone else. We can get a cute frame and hang it up somewhere nice. I’m sure your uncle would like to have something to remember what you were like at this age when you’re grown up.” You cut a glowing look over your shoulder. “Right, Andrew?”

“Absolutely.” He shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, which makes it obvious to you just how important it really is. “Wish I had more pictures of me and Julia from when we were kids.”

Your eyes soften as you gaze at him for a moment. Lena looks between the two of you with a satisfied, cheeky smirk.

TUESDAY

You show up at Pope’s house at 5:30 with your hair curler, makeup bag, and manicure kit in tow. You haven’t even gotten yourself ready yet, still in a pair of slouchy shorts and a tee with no bra, hair tucked in a pink silk bonnet and no makeup on your face; ensuring that Lena feels good before Picture Day is more important to you than looking good. That reality makes Pope’s stomach twist around itself. The view of your cute nipples nudging at your pajama top doesn’t hurt, either.

Lena’s on the couch in her PJs eating breakfast (peanut butter banana pancakes, eggs, sausage, strawberries, and fresh-squeezed orange juice; Andrew told you he’s very serious about making sure Lena has enough protein and vitamins). She squeals happily when she sees you and pats the spot on the couch next to her, which you occupy right away.

Before you can say anything, there’s a plate of food in your hands, Andrew silently serving it to you with a knowing look. “I watched your stream this morning; a handful of chocolate almonds isn’t breakfast.”

You roll your eyes but accept it because Pope is one of those people who make arguing completely futile – and, admittedly, you’re so fucking charmed by knowing he watches your streams to keep tabs on you when you aren’t together. “Thank you. That’s very sweet.”

Lena hums happily, “See, Pope? I told you she wouldn’t think it’s weird.”

As you giggle at him, Andrew rumbles something under his breath and returns to the kitchen to clean up from cooking.

Between bites, Lena tells you, “I’ve got my outfit and accessories and stuff all picked out now.” Then she picks up her phone and opens up Pinterest, showing you some inspiration pictures for her hair and nails, all sunshine and daisies and bouncy curls. “You think we can do something like this? I know we don’t have a ton of time.”

As Andrew joins you back in the living room, flopping onto the closest armchair with his legs spread wide like such a man, you shake your head and assure, “I did a fancy updo and a full set of French tips in an Uber on the way to my cousin’s bachelorette party; we have plenty of time.”

Pope’s eyebrows raise. “Seriously?”

“Mhmm,” you reply, all proud. “We girly girls have a set of skills you could never ever begin to comprehend.”

He chuckles under his breath and then stands, taking your and Lena’s empty plates with a quick, “Go get ready. I’m not gonna let you be late to school just because you wanted to look cute for picture day.”

You scoff, “It’s a need, Andy, not a want. But we’ll be quick.”

Andy.

Andy Andy Andy Andy.

His brain turns to ice cream and his veins fill with hot fudge because you’re so fucking sweet to him without even thinking about it. He’s rendered entirely speechless, wide-eyed and toddler-hopeful, as Lena snatches your hand and drags you into her bedroom suite. He can’t manage a single thought for five minutes straight, simply awestruck by the easy intimacy of your slow integration into his life.

Still floaty with adoration, Andrew drifts over toward the two of you after half an hour, knowing he needs to start corralling Lena for school. When he sees you finishing off Lena’s daisy-inspired makeup look with some soft highlights on her cheeks, he melts. Since losing her mom, Lena’s never had someone be so gentle with her, smiling and affirming and complimenting until she actually feels good about herself.

Once you’re happy with the makeup look, you finally allow Lena to look in the mirror, asking with bated breath, “What do you think, Lee?”

With a smile that actually makes her seem like a kid instead of a mini adult for once, Lena announces, “I look so pretty.”

When you catch Andrew’s eyes in the mirror, he’s absolutely glowing. Yes, for him that means a soft smile and crossed arms. But you can see the smile in his eyes and the innocent blush in his cheeks. He may not get this whole thing, but he’s Lena’s #1 fan, so if all this makes her feel pretty and confident, he’s going to support it with his whole chest. He touches her shoulder, knowing better than to ruffle her hair or even graze her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Bean. Really.”

Her smile grows as she once again checks herself out in the mirror.

FRIDAY

The day Lena comes home with her school pictures, you’re already in the kitchen with Andrew, working on dinner together in a comfortable rhythm with one of his crackly old records crooning through the house. Lena has Art Club on Fridays, so it’s about five when one of her friend’s moms drops her off at the bottom of the driveway. The sound of middle school girls saying enthusiastic goodbyes with talks of weekend plans makes you and Andrew smile to each other, small and intimate.

You hear Lena before you see her, skipping quickly toward the kitchen and loudly announcing, “We learned to draw in two-point perspective today, Pope! You won’t believe how cool this drawing of-” She stops and grins when she sees you there alongside her uncle, quickly tackling you into a hug. “I didn’t think you’d be here today!”

“Andrew thought it’d be fun to surprise you with your favorite dinner and I offered to pick up the groceries and help him out,” you explain with a warm laugh as she lets you go. “Now let’s see that drawing, yeah?”

While you and Andrew finish up dinner, Lena shows off the sketches she did during her club, all with mostly erased perspective lines that show the new skill she’s learning. They’re architectural, inspired by buildings in the neighborhood on the shore, and they really do show some potential. You make sure to ooh and ahh appropriately, knowing how important it is for her to be encouraged.

Once the three of you are full of Andrew’s supposedly famous fish tacos and your signature citrusy mocktail, the dishes are cleaned up, and Lena’s homework is done, Lena takes out a thick folder from her backpack and hands it unceremoniously to her uncle. “We got our pictures back today. I think they turned out good.”

Andrew sits up straight on the couch and you lean in, too. Quickly and quietly, trying not to make a thing of it, he opens up the hefty envelope of photos – he’d ordered multiples of every size they offered plus a fridge magnet, a keychain, and digital copies inexplicably still stored on a DVD.

A slow, tender smile spreads over Andrew’s lips as he takes them in. Lena’s absolutely beaming at the camera, clearly feeling herself in her cute makeup, clothes, and hair. She actually looks like herself. He pulls her into a tight hug on his lap and tells her seriously, “These are really great, Bean. We’ll go out and get some frames tomorrow; I’ve gotta put one up in my office at the park and one over the fireplace here.”

She perks up and hugs him again, burying her face in his neck. “Really?”

“Of course,” he assures; you can see the familiar pain in his eyes at the idea she’d even question that. “Hell, I’ll get it tattooed if you want me to.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “That might be too far.” Then, still perched on his knees, Lena turns to you with wide, hopeful eyes and asks, “What do you think?”

You look more closely at the largest photo and tell her, “You look so beautiful, Lee, seriously. These could be in the dictionary next to ‘pretty.’”

Her smile only grows as she averts her eyes, embarrassed but thrilled under the praise from everyone. “Thanks for doing my makeup and everything.”

“Any time,” you reply, dipping down to make eye contact so she knows it’s true, “although you’re really coming along as my makeup protege. You won’t need to have me on call soon enough.”

She shakes her head as she stands up. “You still have to teach Pope to take care of his skin.”

You give him a mean faux-glare and cross your arms over your chest. “You aren’t following the routine I built for you?”

He puts up his hands defensively. “I am, I swear.”

Lena grabs his right hand and holds it out in front of you. “His face, yes, but look at these sandpaper hands. He needs more help if he’s ever going to get a girlfriend.”

“I don’t think he’d have any trouble getting a girlfriend if he wanted one,” you reply, hoping your voice isn’t too needy with your crush.

Andrew nods tightly. “Thank you very much.”

But you still wrinkle your nose at the callus on him, taking his hand in yours and inspecting closely. As sexy as they would feel on your soft skin, his hands definitely don’t look well cared for. With a little shrug, you admit, “Actually, though, you really should let me get you a nice heavy cream for these. Repair all these cracks.”

He sighs, thinking about nothing but how good your hands feel on his skin even in this totally platonic way, “Whatever you say.”

You teasingly pat him on the cheek. “That’s what I like to hear.”

After a charged beat where you and Andrew hold eye contact a little too long, Lena interrupts with a tug to your sleeve. “Can you stay for movie night? We always watch something together on Fridays.”

Batting your lashes, you turn back to Andrew. “I’d love to – if it’s okay with Andy.”

He rolls his eyes and shifts his legs to stop himself from chubbing up at how fucking sexy you look when you’re being totally silly with him. All he can picture is how pretty you’d be looking up at him like that and begging for something very different. “Of course it’s okay. What are we watching, Bean?”

“Ten Things I Hate About You,” she says. “Kyra and Kylie’s mom has a picture of Heath Ledger up on their wall and I want to see if he’s actually cute on film.”

You nod, impressed. “Good call. And I promise he is.”

Andrew sighs, ready to strap in for yet another romcom (god, he misses when she always wanted to watch a Land Before Time feature), and orders, “Go get ready for bed first. We both know it’s 50/50 if you fall asleep and I’m not fighting with you over brushing your teeth when you’re half-conscious again.”

She pouts but concedes, “That’s fair. The evidence is there.”

Andrew snickers, “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Once Lena’s disappeared into her bedroom suite, Andrew stands up hastily, beelines to the kitchen, and rummages around in a way that makes it clear you’re supposed to follow him. First, Andrew removes last year’s school picture from his wallet and hands it to you. In it, Lena’s barely forcing a smile, her eyes full of insecurity and her lips pressed in a tight line. “She wouldn’t let me put up any of these. None from the year before, either. She said she looked ugly.”

Instinctively, you rub his back between his shoulder blades. “Nobody deserves to feel that way, especially not such a good kid.”

Placing a wallet-size of the new picture, where she’s glowing and confident, in the plastic sleeve in front of the old one, Andrew swats a tear from his cheek and whispers roughly, “This is the first school picture where she’s really smiled.” Another tear falls and this time he lets it, trying to breathe deeply and steady himself in your hand on his back. “God, she’s got the most beautiful smile, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, she does.” You slide your arm across his shoulders and squeeze him. “I’m so glad she felt good about herself.”

Then Andrew Cody does something you’d never expect from him: He hugs you. Tight. His strong arms wrap around your back and he kisses the side of your head. Without questioning the moment, you bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and breathe in his brisk cologne. In a shaky vulnerable voice, he murmurs, “That’s because of you. I can’t thank you enough.”

He pulls away abruptly because he knows he could get lost holding you. There’s more he has to do. While you stand there, still a bit breathless from his strength and his scent, Andrew opens up a high cabinet – one nobody but him could reach – and removes something you can’t quite see. “Here,” he mutters as he shoves a thick envelope into your hands, “just a thank you. For all the time you spend with Lena. And everything else. Don’t make it weird; just take it.”

You peek suspiciously inside the envelope and find two brand new bundles of hundred dollar bills, fresh from the bank. Closing it immediately, you press it to his chest and reply, “Andrew, I can’t take two thousand dollars from a single parent.”

His eyebrows pinch together and he pouts adorably. Voice gravelly and low, he insists, “I said don’t make it weird and just take it. C’mon, be good for me.”

Well, that goes right between your legs. He didn’t necessarily mean to phrase it that way, but he also definitely doesn’t miss the way you choke out a nervous breath/giggle and flick your eyes away from his. After swallowing thickly, you tell him, “Okay, fine, but I’m going to get you and Lena presents and you can’t stop me.”

Finally, he cracks that lopsided smile you’ve only gotten out of him a handful of times. “You’re not the kind of girl I could stop from doing anything you wanted to. I like that about you.”

“That I’m stubborn?”

“That you’re sure. You don’t question yourself. It’s-” you can hear how he wants to say ‘sexy’ in his tone and the way his words hitch “-an attractive quality in a woman.”

Before you can respond, Lena emerges from her bedroom with her teeth brushed, her pajamas on, and her hair braided. You squeeze Andrew’s bicep briefly, your eyes communicating more emotion than he could ever understand, and tuck the money in your purse before joining Lena back in the living room. Andrew sits in the middle and it strikes him that he could get used to this – his girls on either side of him, an easy domestic life spread out for the taking.

Within an hour, Lena’s snoring, her head on Andrew’s lap, before Heath Ledger’s even delivered his iconic serenade. You hum along to it under your breath, nudging Andrew at your favorite moments, and try not to wake Lena with your happy squeals at the best scenes. It’s no surprise to him that romcoms are your favorite. Toward the end, you give him a sleepy smile and then rest your head on his shoulder like it’s nothing. Normal. Where your cheek touches his shoulder, it feels like lightning.

That settles it.

This isn’t a crush or some fleeting attraction.

He’s falling in love with you.

Now what the fuck is he supposed to do about it?

When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.

He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”

Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”

“You like dark and dreary.”

She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”

Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.

Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.

He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.

—

The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.

First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)

Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.

Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.

But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.

Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.

Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.

And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.

Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.

And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.

Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?

Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.

Just not directed at you.

He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.

Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.

“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”

Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)

“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

You level her with a look, but she just groans.

“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”

Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.

“Should I talk to him?”

She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”

“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”

“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.

Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”

The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.

Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?

You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!

But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.

It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.

What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.

The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.

Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.

You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.

You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.

It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.

But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.

Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.

Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)

(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)

Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:

“Here, give me that.”

And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”

“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”

Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”

“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”

“So? I know your type.”

You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”

“Hate sex is a thing.”

“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”

She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”

“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”

“You’re not helping.”

Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”

“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.

He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”

“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“

“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.

She’s right.

You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.

Easier said than done.

—

It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.

Damn.

So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.

He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”

He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.

“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”

Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.

Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.

“You hate confrontation.”

Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”

“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”

You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”

“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”

“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.

“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.

“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”

“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”

Jack just hums.

“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.

He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.

Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.

—

If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.

He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.

When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.

Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…

…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.

But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.

Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”

Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.

So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.

So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.

Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.

“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”

‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’

Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.

“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”

It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.

Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“

“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”

You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”

She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”

You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”

You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.

Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.

You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.

Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.

Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.

You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“

Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.

“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”

“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”

Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.

He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.

Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”

The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.

You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”

“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”

Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.

“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“

“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.

Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.

“You’re nosy.”

If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.

He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”

You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”

“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”

You scrub a hand down your face.

“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.

The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.

“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.

“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.

“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”

You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Okay.”

You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.

—

Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.

(“You can’t send me home.”

“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”

“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”

“…”

“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)

The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.

So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.

It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.

Jack. Again.

He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”

Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.

“How long until your bus gets here?”

You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.

“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”

He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.

“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”

Jack just sighs.

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”

You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.

Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.

Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.

Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”

“What would I even be writing you up for?”

“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”

Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:

“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”

The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.

You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.

It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”

“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”

“Yes…?”

“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”

Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.

“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”

The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.

He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”

“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”

Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?”

“Read your book.”

“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”

You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.

“How did you even know I like diner food?”

“Because I pay attention to you.”

You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.

Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”

It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.

"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.

“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”

She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”

“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”

“No it doesn’t!”

It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.

Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.

"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"

"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.

"Yeah, after an MCI."

What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.

"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."

It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.

Not that she needs to know that.

"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"

You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.

Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.

Your phone vibrates again.

“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”

Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.

“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”

“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”

You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.

There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”

“What!?” You screech.

You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.

You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.

(It was funnier at the time.)

Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”

He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“

“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.

hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”

“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.

Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me

Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal

Who?

if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?

Yes.

Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.

then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.

this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls

Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.

You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.

“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”

“He said what?”

—

You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.

Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?

“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.

“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”

“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”

You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”

“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”

You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.

When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.

The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.

It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.

You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.

“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”

“Mm.”

“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”

“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”

“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”

“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”

Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.

“Like what?”

Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”

“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.

“Get going then.”

You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.

—

The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.

It’s bad.

Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.

“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”

“Mel asked.”

Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.

By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.

Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.

It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.

You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”

Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.

“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”

Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.

“What’d you do that for?”

The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”

Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“

“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.

He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.

“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”

It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.

You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.

“Yes.”

Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”

The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.

“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”

What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.

“I know.”

“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”

It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.

“You like being told what to do.”

Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.

“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.

“Makes sense.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.

Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.

He starts pulling back.

It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.

But then you realize what he’s doing.

Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.

He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.

It feels more intimate than sex.

After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.

But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.

—

It’s the card that does him in.

Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.

He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.

He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.

He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.

He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.

And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.

He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.

He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.

Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.

Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.

Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.

So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.

You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.

“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”

“No one’s heard from you in three days.”

You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”

His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”

“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.

Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.

“Do you have headache relief?”

You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”

While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.

“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”

“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”

“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”

“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”

“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.

“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”

The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.

“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.

(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)

He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.

You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.

You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.

“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”

“Of course you can.”

After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.

He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.

And then he gets to work.

Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.

He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.

You’re crying.

He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”

You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”

“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”

“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”

“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.

“This is romantic, right?”

He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”

He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.

“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”

You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.

You’re both right where you want to be.

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.

Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.

The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.

"Don't."

You'd frozen mid-motion.

"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".

That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.

But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.

One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.

The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.

"I can carry—" you start to say.

"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.

You press your lips together, then follow him.

The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.

Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."

You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.

With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.

Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.

"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.

He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.

It's the longest elevator ride of your life.

Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.

You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.

Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."

"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.

Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.

Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.

"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.

"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."

You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.

Two more days and he's free.

Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.

"What?"

He shrugs stiffly.

"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"

Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.

The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.

Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.

Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.

Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.

Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.

And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.

The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.

The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.

By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.

He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.

You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.

You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.

It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.

This couldn't be farther from that.

Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.

"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"

Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.

"Jack!"

His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.

"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"

She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."

Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."

Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.

"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"

"Jeremy?"

"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.

"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.

Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.

Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?

"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"

"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."

"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."

You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—

He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.

"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.

But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.

Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.

"Yeah, we met in med school."

"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."

Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.

"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.

"I did."

"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."

"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.

You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.

And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.

"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.

"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.

Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.

Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.

"Oh, I've already been there."

Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."

Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"

Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.

"Uh—"

"We dated," Turner says.

Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.

"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."

"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.

You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."

Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.

You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.

"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.

"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.

Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"

He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.

"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."

You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"

Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."

"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.

Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."

Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."

"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.

"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."

"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.

"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.

You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.

For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.

Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."

"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.

Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.

He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.

The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.

When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.

You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.

By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.

You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.

A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—

A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.

Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"

Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."

You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."

Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."

You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"

He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."

"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.

Jack stills next to you.

Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."

"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."

He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."

He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.

"...Goodnight, Jack."

Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.

How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—

God.

The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.

You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.

Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.

The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.

Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.

Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.

Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.

He doesn't.

A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"

Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.

You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.

"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.

But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"

You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.

He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.

Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.

You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.

"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.

"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.

Jack frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.

The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.

You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.

You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.

When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.

The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.

You stride over to him.

"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.

You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."

Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.

He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."

Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."

"What—"

You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."

Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.

Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.

It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.

Your words replay in his head.

Text me if you need the room.

Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—

His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.

As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.

He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"

You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.

"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.

"To Warren. Or whoever."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."

Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."

"I told you. Nothing."

"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.

"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"

Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."

"No," he says. "I really don't."

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."

Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."

Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"

Your expression twists instantly. "What?"

"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.

Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."

Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?

Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"

You shrug.

"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.

"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."

Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"

You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."

You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.

"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."

"What?"

"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."

"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.

"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."

"Pretend what?" He steps closer.

"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."

"What are you talking about?"

"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"

"That's not true!"

You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"

There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.

"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.

You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."

The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"

You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."

His brows pinch together. "Who?"

"Lily."

Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"

You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don’t know."

"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"

"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."

His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"

"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"

"Yes, because that's insane."

"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."

"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"

Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."

Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."

His mind is spinning. You love him.

"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.

"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.

You love him.

"Jack," you interject.

He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“

"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.

His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"

You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."

"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?

"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."

"You think this is pity? After everything?"

"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."

"No."

"Jack—"

"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.

You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.

"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.

"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."

"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."

Doubt still flickers across your face.

"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."

You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."

"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.

You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."

You still look doubtful.

Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.

You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.

His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.

All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.

You love him.

It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.

Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.

"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."

Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.

Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.

"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.

His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.

"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."

He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.

You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.

"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.

"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.

He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.

He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."

It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.

He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.

You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.

"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.

You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"

"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."

"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.

"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.

"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."

"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.

He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.

"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."

Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.

You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.

Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.

"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.

He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.

What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?

You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.

You don't regret it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.

"For what?"

"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."

You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."

Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"

"In the hallway. With Robby..."

He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."

"I do—"

"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."

He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."

He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.

"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.

He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."

You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."

Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."

"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.

"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.

"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.

He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.

Jack had still been half asleep when you left the house, one arm hooked lazily around your waist while you sat at the edge of the bed and tried to tug your shoes on.

“Tell Jake if he gets arrested I’m not bailing him out,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

“You like Jake.”

“He’s still an asshole sometimes.”

You laughed quietly and leaned down to kiss him anyway. Jack barely opened his eyes for it, just pulled you closer with a rough hand against your hip and kissed you slow enough to make you consider calling out sick from life entirely to be in this moment forever.

“You staying in bed all day?” you asked against his mouth.

“Mm, absolutely.”

“Jealous.”

“Should be, but I wish you were here with me.” His thumb brushed once beneath your jaw. “Text me when you get there, sweetheart.”

You texted Jack, and then you forgot your phone existed for the next two hours.

PittFest is chaos in the way all music festivals are chaos. Sticky floors. Warm beer. Suncream and sweat and bass vibrating through your ribs hard enough to feel sick with it. Jake and Leah disappear into crowds every five minutes only to reappear holding different food.

You mostly just watch them. Young and stupid and happy. Leah keeps taking blurry pictures of Jake while he complains about it dramatically, which only makes her laugh harder. She slips easily into your space too, arm linked through yours while she talks over the music about gossip you barely follow.

It feels normal. God, it feels painfully normal.

Jake’s midway through telling you both some ridiculous story when the first gunshot goes off.

Nobody reacts properly at first. A sound too sharp to belong there. Then another follows. Then screaming. The crowd shifts all at once.

Panic spreads faster than fire. One second people are dancing and laughing and filming videos on their phones, the next they are shoving each other hard enough to fall trying to get away. Your stomach drops instantly.

“No,” Leah whispers.

Training is ugly sometimes. Instinct before thought. Your brain already cataloguing exits and cover and casualties before the fear even catches up.

“Down,” you snap.

Jake grabs Leah instinctively. Another gunshot cracks through the air, too close for comfort. People are crying. Running. Somebody slams hard into your shoulder trying to push past and you nearly lose your footing.

Then Leah jerks violently beside you. For one hopeful second you think that she just tripped. Then you see the blood, and Jake screams her name, and everything narrows.

You hit the ground beside her so fast your knees crack painfully against concrete. Leah’s staring at you in confusion more than pain, hands shaking as they press instinctively against her abdomen. You don’t need a medical degree to know that there’s too much blood already.

“Oh my God,” Jake chokes. “Oh my God.”

“Pressure,” you order immediately. “Jake, pressure now.”

He freezes. Completely freezes.

You grab his wrists and physically force his hands over the wound. Blood spills between his fingers instantly.

“Look at me.” Your voice sharpens hard enough to cut through panic. “You do not move your hands.”

Leah makes a soft, terrified sound. “It hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Your chest feels tight suddenly as you smooth a hand over her hair, trying to offer comfort in an impossible situation. “I know.”

Gunshots still sound somewhere nearby. Your pulse pounds so hard it makes you feel sick. Jake is breathing too fast. Full panic and shock setting in right in front of you.

“She’s gonna die she’s gonna die—”

“No.” You catch his face hard between both hands. “Not happening. Stay with me.”

People keep running past. Nobody stopping to check if you need anything, if the girl on the floor who is far too young to be in this position is okay. You understand why. Fear makes people cruel without meaning to.

Your phone vibrates against your hip in your pocket. You answer immediately.

“What’s wrong? Is something happening over there? I heard something but didn’t get the details. Are you okay?”

“There’s a shooting.”

Silence. Not real silence. You can hear the hospital behind him faintly. Voices. Movement. A monitor somewhere. Still, something inside him goes absolutely still.

“Where are you hurt?”

You blink hard. “I’m not—”

Another gunshot. Closer. You duck instinctively over Leah. Something tears through your upper arm. The pain arrives hot and brutal a second later. You suck in a sharp breath.

“Sweetheart?”

Your hand flies to your arm automatically and comes away slick red.

“Oh,” you say faintly.

Jake stares at you in horror. Jack’s voice changes instantly. Lower. Controlled in that terrifying way he gets when something is catastrophically wrong.

“You’ve been hit.”

“Just my arm.”

“How bad.”

You press hard above the wound, vision swimming unpleasantly for a second.

“Through and through, I think.”

“Listen to me carefully.” Every word clipped precise now. Doctor mode. “Can you move your fingers?”

You flex them. “Yeah.”

“Good. Keep pressure on it.”

Leah cries out suddenly and your attention snaps back to her. Blood soaking through Jake’s hands faster now. You shrug your jacket off one-handed and bunch it hard against Leah’s abdomen to reinforce pressure. Jake’s shaking so violently he can barely keep hold.

“Jake.” Your voice softens despite everything. “Need you to stay with me, honey.”

“I can’t lose her.”

The fear in his voice cuts straight through you.

“You won’t.”

“I’m sending units your way now,” Jack says through the phonee. “Stay on the line with me.”

You know he’s already moving while he talks. Already taking over. Organising. Commanding. The image of him striding through the Pitt with that expression on his face flashes painfully through your mind. You want him here so badly your chest aches with it.

Another scream sounds somewhere nearby. Leah’s skin is turning grey. Jake looks close to vomiting.

Your own arm throbs violently. Blood slipping steadily between your fingers no matter how hard you press. You promise yourself that you won’t pass out, not here, not while they still need you.

“Sweetheart.” Jack again, quieter now somehow. “Talk to me.”

You swallow hard. “She’s losing too much blood.”

“How’s her breathing?”

You check automatically. Wet. Uneven. Bad. Your stomach twists.

Jake sees your face change and immediately starts panicking harder. “No, no, no, tell me what to do!”

“You keep pressure there,” you say firmly. “You keep talking to her.”

Leah’s eyes find yours. Terrified. You smile anyway because people always look less frightened when medics smile at them.

“You’re alright, angel, I’m here.”

It feels monstrous saying it while blood pools beneath her body. Sirens finally echo somewhere in the distance. Too far away, too slow.

Your vision flickers strangely at the edges. Adrenaline only carries you so long before the body starts demanding payment. Jack must hear something in your breathing again.

“How much blood are you losing?”

“I’m okay.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

You almost laugh despite everything. “I’m fine,” you insist weakly.

“Sweetheart.” Warning this time.

You press harder against your arm. Your hand is slippery with blood. Leah’s or yours, you genuinely cannot tell anymore.

Jake suddenly grabs your sleeve hard. “There’s blood on your face.”

You touch your forehead automatically and come away red again. Your hearing feels distant for a second. You know that feeling. Jack knows it too apparently because his voice sharpens immediately.

“Stay awake.”

“I am awake.”

“You’re fading.”

“No I’m not.”

It’s a lie so obvious that even you hear it. The world tilts unpleasantly. You force yourself to focus on Leah instead. On Jake. On pressure and breathing and survival. Easier than thinking about the fact your husband is listening to all of this happen over the phone while trapped miles away.

“Baby,” Jack says suddenly, very soft now. Dangerous soft. “Listen to me, please.”

Your throat tightens painfully at the desperation in his voice. You can practically see him in your head. Jaw locked. Hand pressed against the back of his neck. Fury and fear buried underneath clinical calmness.

“I need you to stay conscious until the paramedics reach you, okay? You know the drill.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. “I’m trying,” you whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m really trying, Jack.”

Then Leah stops responding properly, and everything gets worse.

“Leah?”

No response.

Jake says her name again, louder this time, voice cracking apart so badly it barely sounds human anymore. Your stomach drops.

“Jake.” You force steel back into your voice despite the dizziness crawling steadily through you. “Talk to her.”

His hands are drenched red now. Blood pushed deep beneath his fingernails. He keeps looking at you like you might be able to undo this through sheer willpower alone.

“Leah, baby, c’mon.” His breathing stutters violently. “Please.”

You press trembling fingers against her throat again. Weak. Too weak. Your own pulse pounds hard enough to make your injured arm throb in time with it. Every heartbeat feels wet. Hot blood still slipping through your grip no matter how hard you hold pressure.

Jack’s voice crackles through the phone near your knee where you dropped it onto speaker. “What’s happening?”

You swallow hard. “She’s crashing.”

Silence. Not real silence. You hear movement behind him. Orders being barked across the ER. Metal trays clattering. The Pitt already preparing for the casualties heading their way.

Jack knows exactly what kind of scene you’re sitting in. Exactly how bad it probably looks.

“She conscious?”

“Barely.”

You can feel Jake staring at you, waiting for something. You hate this part, you have always hated this part. The space between trying and failing where everybody still looks at you hopefully.

Leah’s eyes flutter weakly. “Cold,” she whispers.

Jake breaks completely at that. His whole face crumples. Tears running unchecked while he bends over her like he can physically shield her from dying through proximity alone.

“You’re okay,” he keeps saying frantically. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay—”

You grip the back of his neck hard. “Jake.” He looks at you immediately. “Need you to breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

He absolutely is not. His chest is heaving so fast you feel panic rising in yourself just watching him. The shock is setting in ugly now. His shoulder is still bleeding too, forgotten entirely beneath Leah’s worsening condition.

You grab the discarded sleeve of your jacket and shove it hard against his wound.

“Pressure there.” He obeys automatically, and you thank every cosmic force that might be out there.

Your vision blurs suddenly. You squeeze your eyes shut hard once and feel the world tilt sickeningly underneath you.

“Sweetheart?” Jack again. Immediate. Alert.

You hadn’t even made a noise. “I’m okay.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep pestering me.”

A horrible little laugh escapes him unexpectedly. Sharp with stress. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You know that laugh. The one dragged out of him when he’s overwhelmed enough that humour becomes the only thing stopping him putting his fist through a wall.

Sirens are closer now. Leah makes another weak choking sound and your focus snaps back instantly. Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of her mouth. It’s bad enough that you already know where this is going. Jake sees your expression change again.

“No.”

You hate how small his voice sounds.

“She’s okay,” you lie.

“She’s not.” His face twists violently. “Don’t fucking lie to me like that. It’s fucked up.”

Your throat tightens. People think medics get used to this. They don’t. You just learn how to keep moving while it happens.

The first paramedics finally break through the crowd. Relief hits so hard your hands start shaking worse. One of them crouches beside Leah immediately while another reaches for you.

“I’m fine,” you snap instinctively.

The paramedic looks unimpressed. “You’ve been shot, ma’am.”

“Not dying though.” Your words slur slightly at the edges.

Jack hears it too. “Hey.” Sharper now. “Stay with me. Let them help you.”

The paramedic starts peeling your blood-soaked hand away from your arm and pain explodes through you white-hot and vicious enough to make your stomach lurch.

“Oh, fuck.”

“There she is,” Jack mutters darkly through the speaker. “Knew you were concussed or dying when you stopped cursing.”

Despite everything, your mouth twitches weakly.

The paramedic assessing Leah suddenly barks for more gauze. Jake flinches hard enough to nearly fall over.

“She needs transport now,” another voice says urgently.

Jake grabs Leah’s hand desperately while they start loading her onto the stretcher. He keeps trying to climb beside her despite the blood loss making him unsteady too.

“Sir, we need you checked out as well.”

“No.”

“Jake,” you say firmly.

He looks at you with tears streaking his face.

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You aren’t.”

His breathing catches painfully.

Your own head feels strangely heavy suddenly. Hard to hold upright. The paramedic wrapping your arm is talking to you but the words drift oddly in and out.

Jack’s voice cuts through the fog immediately. “What’s her BP?”

The paramedic glances towards the phone. “Who is this?”

“Her husband. Dr Jack Abbot.”

Something in Jack’s tone must land correctly because the paramedic answers instantly after that.

“Pressure is dropping.”

You hear the silence on the other end. Not empty silence, calculating silence. Dangerous silence.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought of him hearing numbers instead of seeing you himself. Jack trusts his own hands more than anything else in the world. You know he hates this. Hates being trapped at the hospital while you bleed somewhere he cannot reach.

“They’re taking us to the Pitt?” you ask weakly.

“Yeah.”

Good. You need Jack. The thought arrives suddenly and honestly enough to hurt. Not Dr Abbot. Not your attending physician. Just your husband. Your Jack. The one who sleeps with one heavy hand spread across your stomach every time like he needs proof you’re still there.

Jake climbs into the ambulance beside Leah while they try to convince him to let somebody examine his shoulder properly. You force yourself upright too fast trying to follow and immediately regret it. The world blacks at the edges. Strong hands catch you before you hit the ground.

“Easy,” the paramedic says.

You feel weirdly detached from your own body now. Floating somewhere slightly behind yourself.

Jack’s voice sharpens again instantly through the phone. “She pass out?”

“Nearly.”

“Sweetheart.” Fear leaking through now despite all his control. “Talk to me.”

You try. Nothing comes out properly. Your tongue feels thick. The paramedic starts asking questions rapidly. Name. Age. Allergies. Orientation. You answer automatically between breaths while they push you towards a second ambulance.

Blood loss. Shock. Probably more injured than you first thought. Your arm burns savagely.

“You still with me?” Jack asks.

“Yeah.” Barely.

You hear Jack exhale quietly. “Good girl.”

The words hit you straight in the chest. So familiar. So him. Usually murmured against your skin in the middle of the night instead of through a phone while you bleed through dressings.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. The ambulance doors slam shut. Everything becomes sirens and fluorescent lights and movement. A paramedic cuts your sleeve fully away and swears under his breath at the amount of blood.

“Looks worse than it is,” you mumble.

“That what you tell all your patients?”

Jack actually snorts faintly through the speaker.

“Yeah,” he says. “She does.”

You can practically picture him now. Leaning over a desk somewhere in the chaos of the ER. One hand braced against the surface hard enough to ache later. Eyes distant and furious all at once.

Somebody in the background says his name. You hear him switch instantly. “What’ve we got?”

Pure attending voice now. Steady. Cold. Commanding. You have seen entire trauma bays settle the second Jack walks into them, like everybody unconsciously trusts him to carry the worst parts. He comes back to you a second later, softer again somehow.

“Nearly there, baby.”

You close your eyes briefly. So tired suddenly.

“Don’t you dare,” he says immediately.

Your eyes open again. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. “Especially with you.”

The medic checking your vitals suddenly goes very still looking at the monitor. Your stomach sinks.

“What?”

He looks up sharply. “Do you know how much blood you have lost?”

Nobody tells you the answer to that question. Which is answer enough on its own, really.

The ambulance feels too bright. Too loud. Every bump in the road sends pain shooting through your arm and shoulder hard enough to make your vision flicker. You focus on the ceiling instead. On breathing. On staying conscious long enough to get to the Pitt.

Jack keeps talking. You realise after a while he is doing it deliberately. Filling silence before it can turn dangerous.

“You remember Santos trying to tell me how to run a trauma bay last week? Pulling that shit again today.”

A weak laugh catches painfully in your throat. “She’s brave.”

“She’s annoying.”

“We like her. She’s fun.”

“Unfortunately.”

The medic beside you presses fresh gauze against your arm and you hiss through your teeth.

“Easy,” he says.

“Not my favourite word.”

Jack hums quietly through the speaker. “That’s true.”

Your chest aches with missing him. It feels stupid. He is only across the city. You have survived deployments and distance and night shifts and grief and all the ugly things life threw at both of you. Still, all you want suddenly is his hand around yours and his mouth against your forehead and the certainty that comes with him being close enough to touch.

You feel sixteen different kinds of exhausted.

“Leah?” you ask faintly.

The medic hesitates. Bad sign. Your stomach twists violently.

“She’s alive.”

Alive. Not stable. Not okay. Just alive. You nod once anyway.

The ambulance doors finally burst open into noise and fluorescent light. Controlled chaos already swallowing the ambulance bay whole. Stretchers moving. Nurses shouting vitals. Blood on the floor somewhere.

The Pitt. Home, in the worst possible way.

You barely make it two feet before spotting Jack. He is halfway across the bay giving orders to somebody when he sees you.

Everything stops.

Not literally. The ER still roars around him. Staff moving constantly. Sirens outside. Chaos everywhere. Still, something in Jack goes completely still the second his eyes land on you.

You have seen that look exactly twice before. Once overseas. Once after his wife died. It hits you hard enough to hurt.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

Then he is there. Hands on your face first. Immediate. Grounding. Like he needs physical proof you are standing in front of him. His eyes move over you rapidly after that, taking in blood loss, sweat and tears, and the dressing wrapped round your arm already soaked through.

You watch anger flood him in real time. Not at you. At the situation. At the blood. At the fact you got hurt where he could not protect you from it.

“Hey,” you whisper.

Jack grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard enough to shut you up entirely. Desperate. Furious. His hand shakes once against your jaw before he gets control of it again.

“You scared the fucking life out of me.”

The words come rough and low. You almost cry at the sound of it.

“I’m okay.”

“No, you are not.”

Pure Jack. Sharp enough to cut.

A nurse approaches carefully. “Abbot, we need—”

“Give me a minute.”

Nobody argues. You sway slightly where you stand and Jack’s entire grip tightens immediately.

“Woah, okay.” Softer now. “Easy, sweetheart.”

The adrenaline is disappearing. Fast. Your body suddenly feels unbearably heavy.

“Jake,” you manage. “Leah?”

“They’re in trauma.”

Alive then, at least for now.

Jack guides you backwards towards an empty stretcher with one hand firm against your waist. You can feel him slipping fully into doctor mode again despite the fear still sitting raw underneath it.

“Sit.”

“I can still help.”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“No.” Harder this time. “You’re done.”

You hate how emotional that makes you unexpectedly. You do not want to be done. You want to keep moving and helping and fixing because the second you stop everything catches up.

Jack sees it happen on your face instantly. Always does. His expression softens just slightly.

“Baby.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye before you even realise tears escaped. “Sit down before you drop down. Please.”

You obey mostly because your legs are beginning to shake badly enough that you genuinely might collapse. Jack kneels in front of you immediately to assess your arm himself despite multiple staff hovering nearby ready to do it for him.

His hands are steady. Only his jaw gives him away.

“You got lucky,” he mutters after peeling the dressing back carefully.

“Always do.”

He shoots you a look. Not amused. Blood covers his fingers now. Yours too. Familiar in the ugliest way. You watch him mentally catalogue damage with frightening speed.

“You should see the other guy,” you mumble weakly.

Jack stares at you for one long second before a broken little sound leaves him halfway between a laugh and something else entirely.

“Shut up, sweetheart.”

His forehead drops briefly against your knee. That scares you more than anything else has tonight. Jack does not fold. He bends maybe. Cracks quietly where nobody can see. Never folds, especially not in the Pitt of all places.

Your hand moves automatically into his hair. “Hey.”

He breathes once. Twice. Then straightens again before anybody else notices. Professional mask back in place.

“You’re getting fluids and scans,” he says flatly. “And if you try arguing with me I’ll sedate you myself.”

“There he is.”

His mouth twitches despite himself.

The curtain nearby suddenly gets shoved aside and Trinity stumbles through looking wrecked. Blood dried across her scrubs, hair a complete mess.

“Fuck,” she says immediately. “What do you need?”

The words slam straight into your chest. Jack stands instantly. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

Trinity looks at you then and visibly pales. “You’re bleeding through that.”

You glance down. The fresh dressing is already red again. Jack notices at exactly the same moment and something inside him finally snaps.

“Get me another pressure dressing now,” he barks sharply at a nurse nearby. “And where the hell is her trauma consult?”

You stare at him slightly dazed. Trinity does too. Jack never raises his voice unless things are bad. Seconds later, Trinity is called away to treat another casualty, and you watch Jack pale as if he needed that extra lifeline in the room just this once.

“I’m stable,” you try weakly.

Jack rounds on you so fast it almost startles you.

“You do not get to tell us you’re stable while bleeding through gauze every five fucking minutes.”

The nurse returns quickly with supplies while Jack drags a hand hard over his face like he regrets snapping immediately.

“Sorry,” he mutters roughly without looking at you.

Your chest aches. “Jack.”

He crouches back in front of you again, pressing fresh gauze carefully to your arm this time. His touch gentler now. Almost unbearably gentle. He presses one quick kiss against your forehead.

“Don’t move.”

“Bossy.”

“Yeah.” His hand squeezes the back of your neck once. “You married me anyway.”

Jack exhales slowly. The attending disappears first, but your husband stays.

“You scared me,” he says quietly.

No sharpness left in it now. No irritation. Just honesty stripped raw. Your chest aches immediately.

“I know.”

Jack pulls the stool closer and sits in front of you with a pained wince before carefully peeling back the soaked dressing around your arm. His touch stays precise but impossibly gentle at the same time. You know all the versions of him by now. The trauma doctor. The exhausted veteran. The husband who wakes instantly from nightmares with his hand already reaching for you.

This version is frightened. You feel it in every careful movement.

“You should’ve let somebody help you sooner,” he mutters while inspecting the wound.

“There were people worse off.”

Jack’s eyes flick to you with a frown. You look away, standing by that ugly instinct to keep going until your body physically gives out because somebody else always needs more.

“Sweetheart.” His voice softens dangerously. “You were bleeding through your clothes.”

“I know.”

“You nearly collapsed in the ambulance bay.”

You swallow hard. He starts flushing the wound carefully with saline and pain burns viciously through your arm. Your face tightens automatically.

“Sorry, baby.”

“You didn’t shoot me.”

“No, but I’d still like to kill whoever did.”

That nearly earns a laugh from you. Exhaustion hangs too heavily for humour now. Adrenaline burned off enough to leave everything underneath exposed and shaking.

Jack notices immediately. “You dizzy?”

“Yes.”

“Nauseous?”

“Little bit.”

“Head?”

“Hurts.”

“Good. Means you’ve still got one.”

You snort softly at that despite yourself. Jack’s mouth twitches faintly in quiet satisfaction before settling again. His hands are steady.

“You sounded scared on the phone,” you say quietly after a moment.

Jack keeps his eyes on your arm while wrapping fresh gauze into place. “I was terrified.”

The honesty knocks straight through you. “You never sound scared.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is with everybody else.”

His hands pause briefly. “You aren’t everybody else.”

Emotion climbs sharp into your throat so fast it hurts. Before you can say anything, the curtain suddenly jerks open.

Jake stumbles inside looking destroyed.

Your stomach drops instantly.

Blood has dried down the front of his shirt. His eyes swollen raw from crying already. He looks barely upright.

Jack stands immediately. “What happened, buddy?”

Jake opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Then suddenly he folds in on himself completely.

“She died. Leah died.” The words break apart halfway through. “She died and I wasn’t there and she was asking for me and I wasn’t fucking there—”

“Oh, Jake.”

You are moving before you even think about it despite the pain ripping through your arm instantly. Jake drops heavily into the chair beside your stretcher and puts both hands over his face like he physically cannot hold himself together anymore.

“I left her,” he chokes out. “I shouldn’t have left her.”

“No.” Your voice comes sharp automatically. “No, honey.”

Jack glances at you once before stepping back slightly, giving you space. Jake’s shoulders shake violently beneath your hand when you touch his arm.

“They said she coded again and they couldn’t get her back and I wasn’t there—”

“You listened to medical staff,” you say firmly, throat burning already. “You were injured too.”

“I should’ve stayed with her.”

Guilt. Pure, ugly survivor’s guilt already setting in. You know the shape of it intimately.

Jake starts crying harder. Full body shaking with it now. Young and heartbroken and completely lost. Something inside your chest caves painfully inward at the sound.

“She was scared,” he whispers.

You think suddenly about Leah lying on the concrete with blood soaking through your jacket. Her tiny voice saying how cold she felt. Jake holding pressure with shaking hands because you told him to.

Jack rests one hand briefly against the back of your neck. Grounding. Steady. You lean into it automatically while keeping your other hand wrapped around Jake’s wrist.

“You stayed with her,” you tell him softly. “You hear me? You stayed.”

His face twists apart completely. “I loved her.”

The room goes painfully quiet. Jack looks away briefly. You know why. Leah’s death hits him too. Every loss does, no matter how hard he tries to bury it beneath protocol and movement and work.

The hooks of the curtain scrape against the pole as Robby pulls it to step inside. Exhaustion hangs off him in visible waves. Blood on his scrub top. Eyes hollowed out by the night.

He takes one look at Jake. “Come on, kid.”

Jake looks up at him with a completely shattered expression. Robby crosses the space quickly and grips the back of his neck firmly. “C’mon.”

Jake doesn’t move. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” Robby says it quietly. Certainly. Like fact.

Jake wipes violently at his face. “I left her.”

Robby’s expression tightens for one brief second.

“No,” he says firmly. “You got shot trying to save her.”

Jake starts crying again anyway. Robby pulls him gently upright after a second, keeping one steady hand between his shoulder blades.

“Come sit with me for a minute.”

Jake looks back at you once before leaving. Lost. Apologetic somehow. You squeeze his hand weakly.

“This isn’t your fault.”

His face crumples again at that before Robby finally guides him back out into the chaos beyond the curtain. The second they disappear the room feels heavier somehow. Jack turns back towards you slowly. You realise suddenly your cheeks are wet too.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He moves immediately, stepping between your knees and pulling you carefully against his chest despite the IV line and bandaging. You go willingly, forehead pressed hard against him while everything finally catches up at once.

The gunshots. Leah. Jake crying. Jack hearing you bleed over the phone unable to reach you.

Your body starts shaking properly. “I couldn’t save her,” you whisper brokenly.

Jack’s arms tighten instantly. “That wasn’t on you.”

“I knew she was dying.”

His hand cradles the back of your head carefully.

“I knew.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I still kept lying to him.”

Jack pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “You gave him hope while she was alive.”

Your throat burns. You start crying harder at that. Quiet, ugly crying pressed into the front of Jack’s scrub top while he holds you through it without hesitation. Nobody ever talks about this part properly. The aftermath. The helplessness. The guilt medics carry around in their pockets like spare change.

Jack knows though. Of course he does.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your hair.

The words nearly finish you off entirely. Eventually, your breathing evens out again enough that he can guide you gently back onto the stretcher. His hand never fully leaves you.

“You need scans before I take you home,” he says quietly.

Home. The word lands soft. You look up at him tiredly. Really look. Exhaustion carved deep into his face now that the crisis is slowing. Tiny flecks of blood still near his jaw. Eyes red-rimmed from stress and lack of sleep and fear.

“You need rest too.”

Jack huffs quietly. “Yeah, well. You first.”

Your mouth twitches weakly. You love him so much it feels unbearable sometimes.

Later, after scans and stitches and far too much arguing over whether you can walk unassisted, Jack finally gets you home sometime near dawn.

The house is dark and still, as safe as you need it to be. Jack helps you out of your ruined clothes with unbearable gentleness before settling you carefully into bed. Clean shirt pulled over your head. Pain medication pressed into your palm. Water forced into you until he looks vaguely satisfied.

Then finally, after stripping off his bloodstained scrub top and unfastening his prosthetic with the exhausted familiarity of routine, Jack gets carefully into bed beside you.

The second the mattress dips, you move towards him automatically. Your face tucked against his throat. One arm curled carefully around his waist while he wraps himself around you just as instinctively.

For a long time neither of you speak. Jack’s fingers move slowly against your spine.

“You awake?” you murmur eventually.

“Yeah.”

Your eyes sting again suddenly. “Jake’s gonna blame himself forever.”

Jack goes quiet for a moment. “Probably.”

Honest. Always honest with you.

“He shouldn’t.”

“No.” His arm tightens slightly. “Neither should you.”

The emotion lodged in your chest aches horribly.

Outside, somewhere beyond your windows, the city keeps moving.

Inside, wrapped tightly around each other in the dark, the two of you finally stop trying to.

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Jack most assuredly ripped Ogilvie a new one. He's never been so enraged here at work, since he's a man who prides himself on the trained ability to keep his cool under duress. After all, if he could bark orders while bullets rained down on his unit overseas, then an ED would and has been a cakewalk in comparison.

Until you came along, apple of his eye.

You'd been so shy initially—presumedly because you felt intimidated—but intent on seeking you out, Jack refused to let you slip from his grasp. So he tutored you in field medicine (maybe to show his skills off, even a little), gifted you a beautiful hardback copy of Gray's Anatomy, a fancy carrying case for your stethoscope, and this year for your birthday, a $200 prepaid Visa gift card to spend as you pleased. A present you'd been insistent on giving back, until he threatened to up the amount to $300 if you didn't accept it.

The more you bonded, the more the scales tipped from teacher and student to something else that he didn't really have the words for. What is it the kids call it nowadays? He heard it from one of the residents before... Situationship. Obnoxious, but he supposes appropriate.

What else is he meant to call it when he barely even calls you by your name anymore—instead opting for sweetheart, darlin', honey, baby doll, pumpkin; any and all pet names that he can come up with which earn him a sweet, bashful smile in return?

When the two of you are on a case together, he's always at your back or side to supervise your actions and decision making while showering you in quiet praise all the while. And anytime you have a particularly hard day? Jack gathers you in his arms and holds you suffocatingly close while insisting on taking you to a quiet dinner after... Or breakfast. Whatever you wish is his command.

But it's not all heaviness and burnout. It's also joking around by snapping rubber bands at your ass and tickling you until you're begging for a reprieve—lest you wet yourself—because your smile is his favorite sight, and your musical laugh or joyous cackle his favorite sounds.

He's waiting for the day HR comes down on his head like a hammer, but he's also aware that PTMC can't exactly afford to lose his expertise, so he feels pretty comfortable in toeing the line here and there.

So when your body went stumbling back because of Ogilvie acting first and hardly thinking at all, he hit the roof.

A gurney was unnecessary when he cradled you against his chest and carried you into a private room before lying you back on a hospital bed so he could wait at your side for the medication to wear off.

He continually took your vitals every handful of minutes, afraid the substance would wreak havoc on your system. With him being unaware of any possible allergies you may or may not have, sitting idly by while watching the clock simply wasn't an option. He needed to make himself of use somehow.

While running a soothing hand over your forehead is when you finally stir and blink up at Jack from beneath drooping lids.

Loosing a long, ragged breath of relief, the tightness in Jack's chest dissipates. "Hey, sweetheart," he coos quietly. "How you feelin'?"

Your tautly drawn features quickly morph into that of a scrunched nose and a toothy grin. "You're s'handsome," you slur while lifting a wobbly hand toward his cheek.

Practically slapping it against the stubbled skin, you giggle, which is then followed by your eyes suddenly widening to the size of saucers while your lips form a perfect O. "Are you my husband?" you inquire breathlessly.

Are you taking the piss or is the injection still wearing off?

"Honey—"

You toss your head back. "Jus' kidding," you drawl. "Never be that lucky," you mumble with a pout.

Waving your hand floppily that he should lean in closer, he does so with an amused smirk.

"I think 'm in love with you," you murmur while fisting the neck of his shirt and tugging him toward you.

Suddenly pulled out of his seat, Jack stumbles forward and barely manages to catch himself by planting a hand on your hip before you guide his lips down to your own.

Thank God he pulled the curtain around to give you a bit of privacy, because if anybody caught him in such a compromising position?

He jolts when you slip your tongue in his mouth and moan lustfully while exploring the warm, wet lay of it. Not a man to take advantage, though, especially of you, Jack breaks away reluctantly. A gesture which is met with a long, drawn out No from you.

Seating himself again, he tries literally to wipe the smirk from his face by scrubbing a hand from his cheekbones to jawline, but it does him little good.

"You're s'posed to say it baaack," you whine between chattering teeth.

With a sigh, Abbot shakes his head, then reaches over you to grab the remote for the electric blanket he draped over you just incase, until you lift your head and chomp down on his forearm.

Your lips recede into a smile while you nibble on the skin between your teeth.

He barks a laugh, then slips the limb from your mouth while turning the blanket to high heat. "You're somethin' else," he commentates while tucking the edges securely around your shivering form.

"But you love me," you whisper before your eyes flutter closed.

Cupping your cheek in his hand, he smiles softly. "If only you knew how much."

When you come-to, you feel groggy and ran through. Your memory pretty well begins and ends with you passing out just after being injected with something you shouldn't have been.

You've seen the videos—funny little snippets where people divulge hilarious admittances and embarrassing secrets while under the influence—so you of course begin to panic a little when your eyes slowly draw open. What if you said or did something? Maybe you were left alone to recuperate on your own?

When your head lulls to the side, that hope is quickly shot dead at the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with an iPad held at a bit of a distance.

"Got my test results on there?" you ask quietly.

Lowering the device, the daytime attending studies you from over the rim of his glasses. Robby sets the tablet aside, then leans forward and caresses your cheek with a smile. "How you feeling?"

You blink sleepy eyes. "Tired. Which I shouldn't be if I slept long enough for you to get here."

He snorts quietly. "Being under anesthesia is hardly the same as sleeping. You know that."

You roll your eyes. "It's called sarcasm," you groan while sitting up.

"Easy," Robby mutters while settlings his hands over the crowns of your shoulders to keep you steady.

Hanging your head in exhaustion, you sigh. "Was anybody in here when you clocked in?"

"Abbot."

You wince. "Did I...do or say anything?"

His lips twitch into a smile. "If you did, he didn't tell me as much. Just asked me to sit with you so he could get back to it before his shift ended."

You lift your head. "You don't have to waste your time in here—"

He clicks his tongue while giving your chin a gentle, affectionate tap. "I'd never call it that." Robby slides a hand down the back of your head after standing. "Watching you sleep was the most peace I've gotten in..." he shakes his head while turning and pulling the curtain aside. "Too long," he mutters.

"Could have that all the time if I could only get you to come onto the dayshift with me," Robby states while turning around with hands on his hips. "Might do you some good to see a bit of daylight every once in awhile."

You grin while swinging your feet. "Are you trying to poach me from Abbot's team?"

He meets your smile. "Always." Robby walks over and grabs the iPad again. "It'd give me a reason to look forward to coming in here again every day at least."

Robby offers you a hand, which you take. Once you're standing on two feet again, you take a moment to catch your bearings.

Sliding an arm around your shoulders, Robby slowly leads you toward the door. "You're not just Abbot's favorite, you know?"

You glance up to him. "Oh?"

He presses a kiss to your brow before swinging open the door and holding it for you. "Just something for you to consider. Incase the nights ever get too long."

With your shift at an end, you decide to head in the direction of your locker to gather your things before heading home. A long soak in the tub, followed by plenty of rest sounds pretty nice. Maybe some Chinese takeout while you're at it. Or Thai.

"Robby tells me that you seem to be feeling better."

Clicking your locker shut, you turn and smile at the sight of Jack standing just a few feet away with an easy grin playing on his lips, matched by hands stuck in his pockets.

"Think so," you reply with a quiet, casual shrug.

"You heading home?" he asks while ambling closer.

"Planning on it."

Slipping your bag from your shoulder, he hefts it onto his instead. "How about," Jack begins while leading you in the direction of the elevators with your hand held in his, "You come up on the roof with me now that you're awake and let me watch you for a bit to make sure there's no residual effects."

You huff dramatically. "Jack, I really do feel fine."

Pressing the button that'll lead the two of you up, he cups the crown of your shoulder in his hand and brings you in close. "That is to still be determined."

The elevator dings and steel doors slide apart, inviting the two of you into an empty chamber.

"By me," he concludes while ushering you inside with an encouraging push.

With one arm wrapped around yourself, you settle the other over your mouth to suppress a laugh of disbelief. "Of course you and Robby have folding chairs up here," you remark with a giggle.

Popping one open, Jack nods to it, indicating it as your designated seat. "Could always look into a tent," he states while settling the other beside it. "If it meant getting you snuggled up next to me in a sleeping bag."

Plopping down in the offered chair, you rest an elbow on the fabric arm and your chin in your palm.

Jack tugs off his prosthetic, then leans back with a sigh. "That feels better."

"Maybe we get an extra big one. Or a blow-up mattress," you quip happily.

Jack clasps his hands over his belly. "Why's that, pumpkin?"

You flash a grin. "Maybe Robby can join us."

Hanging his head back, he shakes it from side to side. "Don't tell me he was making moves on my girl while I was busy saving lives this morning."

You shrug while wiggling your brows playfully.

"So..." You begin while picking nervously at your nails. "Did I say anything?"

"To me or Robby?" Jack asks while massaging his leg.

You roll your eyes. "Apart from me asking Robby to take his shirt off," you remark sarcastically.

Jack snickers and his mouth curves into a lopsided grin. "Without me there to see it?"

You remain silent as you wait for him to fess up.

"You, uh..." he trails off, then barks a laugh.

Oh no...

Jack glances at you. "You might've bit me," he says while cringing mischievously in an attempt to downplay things.

"I what?!" you cry while leaning toward him in shock.

Jack throws himself back against the chair and lies his arms palm face up. "Well, after you got done harping on my good looks, you got cold, so I went to switch on the heated blanket that I put you under and you just chomped down," he explains whole gesturing toward his right forearm with his hand drawn into the shape of a claw. "It was more like a nibble, though." He shrugs and bestows a reassuring smile. "You didn't break skin, so don't worry about it."

Burying your face in your hands, you shake your head. "Oh, this is mortifying." Dropping them into your lap, you stare at the skyline. "I'm so sorry."

Studying him from beneath your lashes, you nervously chew your lip. "Anything else?"

Please say no, please say no.

He smiles warmly—almost bashfully, in fact. "Asked if I was your husband. Then you broke character, and let me know you were just kidding."

It can't get any worse, surely.

Doubling over, you rest your elbows on your knees, then press your forehead against the heels of your palms. "Please tell me that's it."

He should let it go—leave things as they are. But Jack can't help it: wanting to hear that it wasn't just because you were high as a kite.

That feelings are mutual, and always have been.

When the sound of silence descends, you raise your head. "Jack?"

He sighs. "I just want you to know that I know it was strictly because you were out of it." Jack turns fully toward you. "That you didn't mean it."

"The more you talk, the more worried I'm getting," you reply with searching eyes.

Clasping his hands together, Jack leans forward slightly. "You..." he sighs. "You told me that you were in love with me."

His eyes flit to yours—attempting to gauge from expression alone whether it was a true utterance, or mere sarcasm. "And then you kissed me."

Your eyes pop wide open. "I—" You clam up.

Is this it? The defining moment that either makes or breaks your and Jack's...situation?

"You know how they say drunk words are sober thoughts?" you ask quietly and with a pattering heart that leaves you short of breath.

Jack's chin wobbles, but only slightly. "Yeah?"

You nod, and a sob breaks last your watery smile.

"C'mere, honey," he commands with a wave of his hand.

Rising from your seat, Jack guides your hips until you're seated on his generous lap. "Can you say it again?" he asks quietly while smoothing a hand across your brow.

You press your forehead to his and hum from the feeling of the rising sun warming your back. "I love you," you whisper while winding soft, gentle hands around his neck. "Jack."

Cupping his own around the curve of your neck, he guides your lips down to his this time. "'Bout damn time we got that outta the way," he murmurs before kissing you the way he's meant to so many times.

Jack teases your tongue with a wet, pointed tip which he slides along the underside of your own.

"How about," he pants. "I take you home just to be safe." A calloused palm scratches its way along the polyester that covers your inner thigh.

"Y-Yours or mine?" you whimper.

Squeezing your hip temptingly, he nips at your chin. "Better take you to mine to keep an eye on you. Help you in the shower," he drawls with a bored shrug. "I have a chair in there. It'll make things more comfortable when I help. Then I can fix you dinner before we go to bed. Together."

Carefully, he prods at the heat which radiates from between your thighs. "Would you like that, sweetpea?"

"Pretty dizzy all of a sudden," you sigh.

"Let me get my leg back on and I'll take you home, baby."

While Abbot gives his typical obnoxious pep talk about nightcrawlers and the wild west, you stand to the side while shifting on your feet and studying the electronic board ahead—its colorful fields filled to the brim, as always, with cases that never seem to cease in volume.

When the speech finally concludes, you jump slightly, then turn to walk away... Until Abbot calls for you.

You swing back around to him with a forced cheery smile that doesn't quite meet your eyes.

"You alright?" he asks while resting a calloused hand against your upper arm in concern.

You nod while glancing past him. "Yeah. Fine."

"Didn't join in tonight. Getting tired of your old man already?"

Your eyes flit back to his and you shake your head. "Just thinking about getting to waiting patients." Swerving around Jack—not wishing to give him an opportunity to dig any deeper than surface-level—you head in the direction of an occupied trauma bay.

In the middle of a debridement, a patient's local anesthetic wore off—something you were meant to be keeping in mind, as they were going to require further dosages as you worked to ensure that the site was kept good and numbed while you cleaned—and were made more than aware of that fact when they started howling in pain due to your negligence.

Gently pushed aside when Abbot came sprinting into the room, you stood idly by and sniffled quietly while your eyes filled with tears and apologies poured forth from your lips. "I'm so sorry," you'd whimpered while wiping at your cheeks and mentally berating yourself to get it together!

Once the patient was given a dosage of anesthesia and another resident was summoned to take over, Jack pulled you into an empty room to check in with you.

"Sweetheart, what has been going on with you?" he asks gently with crossed arms.

Wrapping your own around yourself, you shake your head in denial. "I just forgot by getting lost in what I was doing. I'm so—" you clamp a hand over your mouth. "I'm so sorry."

Jack sighs, then takes a step forward and does something unexpected: he wraps his arms around you before tucking you beneath his chin and safely against his chest. "You look exhausted. Are you not sleeping well?"

You yawn and decide to give in. You screwed up, so he deserves explanation. Plus, you're too beat to try and worm your way out of this. "I think I have SAD."

You can't help but feel the least bit pitiable for it. You're surrounded by people with broken bones, burns, lacerations, and unidentified chest pain. Meanwhile, you're in a depressive mood because it's gotten cold outside.

He hums. "You taking anything for it?"

You shake your head. "I had a script for vitamin D once, but I don't feel like it made me any happier. Or any less stressed, for that matter."

Jack runs a hand up your back. "I thought you seemed off lately. I didn't know if it was something outside of here, or work itself."

Your eyes water. "All of it."

"Startin' to worry me. You're not taking breaks, you're taking on more cases than you can handle—"

You pull away while wiping your tear-stricken cheeks with the sleeve of your undershirt. "I'll be fine."

Truth is, you had hoped that by overwhelming yourself here, your bouts of sadness would subside because you were more than occupied and didn't have time to think about anything else.

Jack makes to reach out to you, but you turn and head for the door. "I have patients to get to. I'll be more mindful from now on. I'm sorry, Dr. Abbot."

He watches with disappointment as the door clicks shut behind you.

You're standing idly by and observing Dr. Garcia perform an emergency thoracotomy on a patient with penetrating trauma when you end up having to squeeze your thighs together due to a suddenly straining bladder. Continually shifting your weight from one foot to the other in hope of relief does you little good, though.

Just another way you've been neglecting your own wellbeing lately: by not even bothering to use the restroom regularly.

Hopefully it doesn't result in a UTI. It'd just be another issue to add onto the already growing pile.

Abbot glances to you curiously and watches as you rotate your neck and squeeze your eyes shut before popping open again. Trailing his own lower, he notes the familiar little dance you seem to be doing and sighs.

This damn girl.

Discreetly, Jack silently crosses the room to reach you, then turns and leans in close. "Go to the restroom and relieve yourself."

You glance up to him and blink.

"Go potty, sweetheart," he mumbles before stepping away.

You turn and exit without anyone noticing.

The next time Jack takes note of your obvious self-neglect is when he's passing by the computer station just as you're making to stand, and you sway on your feet before thankfully catching yourself on a nearby counter.

Circling back around, he settles a hand on your hip and guides you in the direction of the employee lounge.

"What're you—"

He stops just outside the door and slides his hands into his pockets while nodding toward the room's interior. "Go get a snack. I'm not going to have you passing out from hypoglycemia."

You roll your eyes, then open your mouth to insist that you're fine and will eat a Snickers later, until he crosses his arms and steps forward with an unwavering expression painted across his features. "Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

You stare blankly at him. "I'll be okay. I had a protein shake before I left the house. I'll have a granola bar later."

Jack grips your shoulders and spins you around while ushering you into the break room. "You're going to have a cup of Ramen, which you will finish every bite of, as well as a juice box, and only once both are on your stomach will I deem you fit to return to work."

A juice box? What, are you five?

"I really am fine," you insist.

He blocks the doorway. "Since you seem incapable of looking after yourself, I'm taking up the obligation instead."

You glance away in humiliation. "I'm not an invalid."

Jack sighs with remorse. "Honey, I didn't mean it like that. But you're worrying me sick. How can you expect to properly look after your patients if you're continually putting your own needs aside?"

Walking further into the room, you yank a container of Ramen off the counter. "I just have to get through to Spring. I'll be fine."

"That is months away," he counters. "So until then?"

You peel the lid off the thin cardboard bowl and toss it into the trash. "I eat my Ramen and drink my stupid juice box," you mumble while filling the container up to the designated line at the sink.

You're slurping up a mouthful of seasoned noodles when Robby waltzes into the lounge for a bottle of water before he clocks out.

Grabbing a cold one from the fridge, he looks at you with a sportive expression. "I'm sorry," he begins with a chuckle. "Are you having a snack in the middle of your shift?"

You narrow your eyes while chomping down on your noodles—sending them sliding back into the bowl. "Jack made me."

He leans back against the fridge. "Jack made you?" Robby asks incredulously before nodding toward the table. "He make you drink the juice box, too?"

You sip at it, then mumble your response. "Yes."

He softens then, with only a slight, playful grin now upon his lips. "Are you alright?"

You shrug while stirring your noodles. "Just not myself lately."

Robby's tennis shoes squeak quietly against polished tile as he heads for the table you're seated at. Pulling out a chair, he seats himself across from you before leaning back. "Something happen?"

"SAD."

He sighs. "Are you taking any—"

You hang your head. "I swear you're both two halves of a whole."

"Guessing he asked the same thing?" he inquires while unscrewing the lid on his bottle.

You return to your noodles. "Yes."

"And?" he asks while leaning forward.

"No."

Robby shakes his head while sliding his clasped hands atop the table. "Do one of us need to write you a prescription?"

Now finished with your noodles, you go in for the juice box so you can finally get back to work. "I'll be fine."

"And how many times have you fed that line to my supposed 'other half'?"

You glance to him and sip the remaining dregs with a frown. Releasing the plastic straw, you reply quietly. "Couple times."

Robby leans back with a sigh and a hand planted atop his thigh. "Well, I suggest you take Dr. Abbot's advice and do a better job of looking after yourself going forward."

He rises, then comes to your side and rests a hand between your shoulder blades while looking down at you. "Otherwise, one of us will. And speaking for myself, I already have enough patients to worry about as it is. So do you."

You crumple the juice box before standing. "I will," you supply—desperate for them both to crawl off your back. "You don't need to worry, Robby," you finish while tossing the item into the trash.

Sliding a tender hand down the side of your neck, he purses his lips. "I hope not." He heads for the door. "Need to be able to look forward to seeing my favorite girl every night before I go home."

Robby turns the handle to finally head out. "Don't know what I'd do if she wasn't here for me to set eyes on."

You watch as he leaves, completely taken aback by his comment. But it nevertheless causes you to warm all the more toward him, now knowing he's so fond of you.

When you wake the next evening, it's with a renewed vow to yourself, your patients, and coworkers: you'll be making every effort going forward to do considerably better. More bathroom breaks—including stops for water afterward—and you have a shopping bag full of nonperishable snacks you plan to lock away in a drawer at the computer station to munch on when you're charting.

Small efforts, but all good steps in the right direction.

Standing in your bathroom, cast in only the soft yellow glow of a nightlight—too early...or, rather, late for the glare of an overhead bulb—you brush your teeth while doing your best to keep your eyes open.

And then a firm, heavy knock resounds from your front door. Your plastic toothbrush clattering from your hand and landing in the sink, you quickly swipe your phone from the porcelain countertop and when you check your outside camera, your jaw falls open.

"Is—Is everything okay? Did something happen at the hospital, or with Robby, or—"

Abbot raises a brow while easing his way inside and over the threshold of your home while brushing past. "Robby always the first thing on your mind in the morning?"

You cross your arms while turning around—curious as to the bag he holds. "No. You two just seem attached at the hip."

He blows a raspberry, then hands you the bag—which seems to have some heft to it—before bending at the waist with a groan to untie his shoes.

"What is this?" you ask while gently lifting the item.

"Breakfast," he replies. Tossing his shoes to the side, Jack stands upright while settling his hands against his back and lightly stretching.

"W-Why?"

He takes the bag again, then plants a palm against the small of your back. "Kitchen?"

You pad in that direction.

Once you've reached it, Jack reaches up and switches on the hood light atop the stove—you're thankful that he didn't go for the ugly hanging chandelier overhead instead, which you plan to replace when you finally have the funds—before opening and closing cabinets in search of a plate.

"I can just eat it with my hands," you say while peeling the brown paper bag open—not that you even have an idea as to what's inside.

You assume some sort of sandwich or biscuit.

You've only just removed plastic utensils when he slides a plate in front of you and snatches the bag away. As he's pouring the contents of a steaming breakfast bowl onto it, you look at him. "How...How did you know where I live?"

He smirks, then steps away to throw away the now empty plastic container and bag.

"Wait," you blurt. "Did you look in my employee file?"

"Took down your cell, email, and home address," he retorts before glancing toward the hallway you emerged from but a few minutes earlier. "Bathroom this way?" he asks while pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

"Yes..." you reply with furrowed brows while watching him disappear around a corner.

Talk about making one's self at home...

Jack is satisfied to see you cleaning the plate in front of you while also sipping on the bottle of orange juice he purchased.

You bristle at the sound of his heavy, ambling footfalls, and open your mouth to begin hounding him with questions until you feel a brush suddenly being run through your hair.

You jerk in your seat and a forkful of scrambled eggs plop back onto the plate in front of you. "What're you doing?"

"Your hair. What's it feel like?"

You toss down the fork before spinning around. "Why're you doing this? The—The breakfast, and you having my information, and now trying to—"

"I told you," he says while settling his hands on his hips. "I am taking up the mantle of your personal babysitter. At least until the seasons change." He shrugs. "Probably until well after, if I'm being honest." He circles his finger. "Turn back around."

"But—"

He leans in close while gripping the back of your chair. "Finish your breakfast, young lady. Now."

You gulp at his demanding tone, and ultimately do as you're told.

You raise a brow at the feel of him parting your hair before consistently running a finger through it and tightening as he goes. "Are you braiding my hair?" you ask between chews.

He hums in response.

"How do you know how?"

He snorts. "These hands can do more than just hold a scalpel." He happens to slide a finger down the back of your neck. "And braid hair, but that's a conversation for another time."

You remain silent while sipping at tangy OJ.

"There was a woman I served with. Hurlston was her name. Her daughter was only a few months old when she got deployed. Got into her mind that she needed to know how to do all these fancy hairstyles for whenever she got older. So, she ordered one of those big fuckin' Barbie doll heads and practiced on it constantly. Complicated shit.

"When there's down time in the Army, there's a few things you can do: read, write letters, watch movies, some plays games... She did hair. Sometimes, I watched when I got bored with a Tom Clancy novel. Learned how to do just a basic braid that way. French? Had her teach me that."

Your plate now being clean, you swirl your juice around to occupy your hands. "Why? Just...boredom?"

Jack shrugs while tying a band he found in your medicine cabinet around the end. "That. And...if I ever got married again, or had a daughter of my own, I figured it'd be something worth knowing how to do."

He squeezes your shoulders while taking the plate to slip into the dishwasher. "Finish your juice and then we're going once you're dressed."

Jack seems to be set on going the extra mile with this. Such as him not allowing you to so much as carry your own bag, and when you slide into the passenger seat...

"Ok, I can get my own seatbelt—" you sigh with irritation as he clasps it into place anyway.

Placing one hand on your seat's headrest and his other forearm across your lap, Jack remains close while speaking. "I am only gonna say this once, so you need to listen."

You draw your knees inward and keep your eyes on his arm before finally meeting his gaze again.

"You need someone to look after you for the next few months. Sweetheart, I refuse to turn a blind eye when someone that I care deeply, deeply for is suffering in silence. All your 'I'm fines' are bull, and you know it. So, until the change in seasons—hell, probably even past that, given where we stand, like I said earlier—you can consider me glued to your side. That means giving you designated break times at work, ensuring you're eating three square meals a day, as well as snacks, bath time here at your home or mine, bedtime—whatever I need to do to ensure that you're being looked after the way you not only need to be, but deserve."

Your chin wobbles. "I'm not a child, Jack. I can—"

"No, but if you need someone to father you—or...or just act like a surrogate husband when things get dark, then baby, that's what I'm here for. Alright? All the shit you're having trouble carrying right now? Put it on me. I can handle it. Okay? I am not losing you to depression—seasonal or otherwise. Because, sure, right now maybe it's forgetting to eat or use the restroom, but what about when you don't have the energy to bathe, or the mental fortitude to get out of bed every evening?"

You sniffle while settling a palm atop the back of his hand. "Are you sure?"

He slides his hand out from beneath your own, and cups your cheek. "My purpose at work is obvious. Outside of it?" he swipes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Honey, you're it. And I couldn't be more thrilled."

Jack sort of moves you into his home in the middle of the fall season. Nothing drastic like furniture, but he does have you pack up the basics: clothes, toiletries, hobbyist materials like your laptop, some books, a journal, and so on. And as your newly designated caretaker, he only thinks it fair that he pay your rent and utilities while you're away, since he's the reason for your sudden absence from your domicile.

He once makes a joke while giving you a bath—yes, something which most certainly sent you reeling the first time he drew one for you—that if you give up your lease, then he won't have to worry about checking on dripping faucets once snow starts to fall.

In way of repayment, whenever you're both off, you try doing chores and general tidying up around his house while he watches TV or works on bullet reloading. Until your pacing and utterly inane babbling finally does Jack's nerves in...

After yanking you into his lap one afternoon in the living room and practically cradling you in his arms while threatening to shove his thumb in your mouth if you didn't calm the hell down, you finally got the message that you needed to sit and shut up for awhile.

Now, he gives you designated chores on a chart on the fridge for you to do a few times a week, so as to occupy you, and time set aside for you to talk your little heart out where he listens until you've run out of words. He adores talking with you, but God if you can't be a chatterbox at times when you get excited.

It honestly gets to a point that, when you're outside of the ED—which you're once again flourishing in because of Jack's consistent, precise direction—you almost wholly turn your mind off and otherwise leave it in more capable, trusted hands because you feel so safe and taken care of with him.

Jack drives you home, bathes you, puts you in clean PJs, makes you dinner, and even tucks you in right next to him every morning.

He'd initially tried out the arrangement of giving you his bed—he refused to listen to your protestations when you insisted it be the other way around—while he would sleep on the pullout couch, but it didn't last long because of his back.

Turned onto your side with Jack behind you, he runs a calloused palm beneath your camisole and up your back, trying to coax you to sleep. "Do you need a cup of warm milk?" he whispers.

You pop open a curious eye. "That actually sort of sounds disgusting."

He smirks. "I thought so, too, but figured it worth offering if you thought it'd help."

He tugs the hem of your camisole up to just below your breasts, then returns to massaging your back. "There's another tried and true method that usually helps get me to sleep."

You close your eyes again. "Hm?"

He grows quiet for a moment. "Be easier to get started on if you took your clothes off."

You sigh in irritation. "I don't think my attending is supposed to say things like that to me."

He chuckles. "I think that ship sailed when I appointed myself your caregiver, sweetheart."

Rolling onto your other side, you drag yourself closer, then burrow into the warmth his bare chest provides. "Goodnight."

Cupping the base of your skull, he tilts your head back and brushes a kiss over your lips. "Good morning."

You tangle your limbs around him before making to count up to a hundred in an attempt to finally drift off.

"Maybe we should move to Alaska," he mumbles. "Then there'd be no reason for this to ever end."

You shake your head while giggling. "Go to sleep."

You chewed on your lower lip as you crossed the lawn towards him, a heat swirling in your belly that had nothing to do with the July weather. It had been so long since you’d been with someone, let alone interested in anyone, that you almost didn’t recognize what the feeling was. Watching the way Brett expertly flipped the burgers on the grill with a flick of his wrist, his forearm muscles bulging, you knew exactly what you wanted.

You wanted to fuck Brett Richards.

You weaved through the crowd of people who had gathered for Edgewaters annual Fourth of July barbecue and came up to stand next to your dad’s best friend, who was delightfully alone.

“Hi,” You said, clasping your hands behind your back to avoid accidentally reaching out and touching his bicep like your fingers were itching to do. “I haven’t seen you in Edgewater before.” Brett gave you a friendly smile as he closed the grill and your knees shook at how handsome he looked when he smiled, with wrinkles in the corner of his eyes. You wanted to kiss his crows feet.

“I just got here a few weeks go.”

“Oh, me too! I just moved back.” You commented, giving him a beautiful smile back. You saw how his eyes flickered down to your mouth for just a moment and your heart soared in triumph.

“Why’d you move away?” Brett asked, mirroring your stance with his hands behind his back as he turned to face you fully. You knew that stance well, it was one firefighters did when they were standing at attention. You licked your lips as your eyes raked over his chest and broad shoulders before you replied.

“For school.” You said, your eyes moving back to his face and seeing amusement in his features. He caught you staring and you didn’t mind one bit. “But I came back because my grandmother is recovering from hip surgery and she needs some help. My job is remote so I can be here with her.” Another small smile crept onto Brett’s face as he nodded at your explanation. You could tell he was impressed by your decision to drop everything and return home to help your family.

“And you’re a firefighter?” You asked playfully, your eyes shining with mischief as Brett chuckled.

“What gave it away?”

“Oh, just your arms and your hands.” You said with an innocent shrug. Brett narrowed his eyes a fraction, thrown by your answer. He was sure you’d point out the t-shirt he was wearing with the fire department logo on it.

“My arms and hands?” He asked, tilting his head towards you in confusion. You nodded and held out your hand for him to give you his. He gave you a quizzical look but complied, unclasping his hands to give you his arm. You stepped unnecessarily close as you took his hand in both of yours, turning it over as you spoke.

“You clearly work with your hands, you have callouses and tiny scars,” You ran the tip of your finger over the palm of his hand, following the lines like you were telling his fortune. His fingers twitched like they wanted to grab your hand but they stayed flat for you.

“And your muscles show lots of strength,” Your fingers trailed across his wrist and up his forearm, sliding over the corded muscles under his skin. “Probably from swinging an axe and you’re too clean shaven to be a lumberjack.” You looked up at him then and saw his face was flushed a shade of pink it hadn’t been before. You bit your bottom lip and tilted your head at him.

“Am I right?” You watched Brett swallow, the muscles of his throat working as he stared at you with darkened eyes. He nodded, his eyes locked on your lips. You smiled and stepped back, hoping he’d chase you, which he did until a voice broke through the crowd.

“Oh you two met already!” Your mom appeared next to you, giving you a quick side hug as she beamed at her husbands old friend. “Your dad will be so pleased you recognized Brett, honey.” She said to you, completely oblivious to the charged energy between her daughter and her husbands best friend.

Brett stood there slack jawed as you conversed with your mom. He’d spent the last few minutes basking in the attention you gave him, his eyes greedily looking at the tops of your breasts peaking out of the neckline of your summer dress and imagining sliding his hands up your thighs and under the skirt of the dress. But you weren’t some random young woman flirting with him at the barbecue, you were his best friends daughter! He suddenly felt like a dirty old man, lusting after you like that.

You didn’t seem to mind, casting Brett glance that told him you wanted to eat him alive. His cock jumped at the look in your eyes, his imagination running wild with all the positions he could fuck you in.

Your mom broke Brett’s train of thought when she had to bid farewell suddenly to go help with some dispute at the raffle table. Alone with you once again, Brett tried to deflect.

“If you’re waiting on a burger they’re almost done.”

“That’s not what I’m hungry for.” You commented, your words heavy with innuendo.

“You’re playing with fire kid.” Brett warned, trying to hold onto his last shred of morality.

“Good thing that’s your specialty Deputy Chief Richards.” You said with a flirtatious smile.

“We can’t.” Brett whispered back.

“Why not?”

“Your dad-”

“Will never know.” You cut him off, squashing his worry. “C’mon Brett, you’re not gonna leave me all cold and alone tonight, are you?” You asked coyly, batting your eyelashes at him. Brett swallowed thickly, half his brain shouting this was a bad idea and the other half chanting ‘do it!’ again and again.

That half of his brain and his cock won out and soon he was leaving the function about two steps behind you. Your dad stopped you both, none the wiser to what was about to happen, and you lied to him effortlessly when he asked where you were going.

“Brett offered to come over and fix that leaking pipe my landlord has been ignoring.”

“Thanks for helping Brett!” Your dad commended his friend as he slapped him on the back while you all walked to Brett’s truck before your dad started heading back to the party. “I know you’ll take good care of my girl.”

And take ‘good care’ he did, alllllll night long.

“Fuck, fuck, you feel so good baby.” Brett groaned as his cock thrust into you over and over, his hips slapping against yours as he pressed you into your mattress. You moaned in response, your legs wrapped around him as you clung to his body for dear life. The room was hot and humid, partially from the July heat and partially from the marathon sex you were having with Brett. Your bodies were covered in a sheen of sweat, your breaths hot and quick as Brett fucked you.

He knew this was wrong, you were his best friends daughter. Hell, his own daughter was only a few years older than you. But Brett couldn’t deny how good this felt, plunging his cock deep inside you, watching your face scrunch up at the pleasure he gave you. He wanted to get lost inside you, forever nestled between your perfect thighs.

“You’re doing so good baby, takin’ me so well.” Brett grunted, his forehead pressed against yours as his hot breath fanned over your face. Your nails dragged down his back as you whined, your pleasure nearing its peak.

“You gonna come?” You nodded frantically in response, a whimpered ‘mm hm’ sounding from your throat.

“Yeah, yeah, come on my cock baby. Be good for me kid, come on my cock like the good girl you are.“ Brett cooed softly, sending you over the edge. You came, your back arching as much as it could under his weight as you screamed his name. Brett fucked you through it, not letting up for a second. As your pussy fluttered with aftershocks around his cock, Brett muttered praises against your skin.

“Good job kid, you did so well. ‘M so proud of you.” Your pussy clamped down on his cock at his praising words as another whine was pulled from your throat. Your whole body shifted on the mattress from the force of Brett’s thrusts as he chased his own orgasm, the bed creaking in rhythm.

“Look at me baby.” He ordered. “Eyes on me when I come in you.” Your whole body grew hot at his words and you forced your eyes open so he could stare at you.

“Yeah, yeah, just like that. So good for me. Fuck, I’m gonna come."

"Please Brett," You begged, your ankles locking across his ass and pulling him impossibly closer.

"Yes, oh fuck yes, oh fuck baby I’m gonna come! I'm gonna come!” Brett panted, his hips slamming into yours frantically as he came, his hot cum spilling inside you. Brett sighed contently as his hips slowed to a stop, his cock buried fully inside you before he collapsed on top of you, his weight like a comforting blanket. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, heaving breaths against your skin, hot and fast. Your hands rubbed over his back as you tried to catch your breath too, your whole body tired and satisfied from the sex. It had been a long while since someone ravished you like this, you were practically floating.

“You’re amazing baby.” Brett sighed happily and you giggled with the little energy you had left.

“Worth it then?” You asked. Brett peppered kisses over your neck, trailing upwards to your lips. He kissed you soundly, his tongue sliding over yours.

“Very worth it. And if I’m already going to Hell, I might as well have some fun.” Brett kissed back down your jaw, pulling himself back until he was slipping out of you along with gush of his cum. Brett kissed down between your breasts, his intended destination clear. Your hands found their way to his grey curls and followed his head down between your legs as Brett showed you just how much he liked you all night long.

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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“You know what-” Baz snapped, his voice rising.

“The ‘how’ doesn’t matter!” Craig yelled, cutting Baz’s argument short. “What matters is how we’re gonna help him. I’ve heard some bad shit about what happens to people who don’t act on their urges under the drug. We gotta find someone for him.” The knot in your stomach twisted and you tilted your head at Craig, not quite believing what you were hearing.

“Someone for him to what? Fuck?” You asked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” He said with a shrug. “Like a hooker.”

“Sex worker.” You corrected him automatically before your head caught up with what he suggested. You shook your head vigorously.

“No, no, no. We are not arranging a sex worker to come here and have sex with Pope in his drugged state.” The idea of some random woman coming over to the house to sleep with Pope when he’s in this compromised state made a wave of nausea roll through you. The fact his brothers seemed to think this was even an option really said a lot about their upbringing and lack of care for their brother. Baz scoffed at your words, rolling his eyes.

“We are not doing anything.” He said, gesturing between the three of them and you. “We are handling it.” He gestured between himself and his brothers. “We will-”

“I’ll do it.” You said suddenly, surprising yourself a little. Your declaration took a moment to settle in your mind and when you realized the gravity of what you said you decided that this was the best solution. Pope was your closest friend, you loved him and you’d treat him with care. You’d talk him through it and make sure he was alright.

“What?” Deran asked, his confusion mirroring his brothers.

“I’ll have sex with Pope and help him through the effects of the drug. I’m his friend, I’ll make sure he’s okay. I’m the best person for this. I’m volunteering.” Baz opened his mouth, likely to object, but Craig interrupted him.

“Works for me!” Craig clapped his hands together in finality, clearly happy to have the problem solved and the rest of his day back. Deran shrugged, agreeing with you, and grabbed Baz to pull him away before he picked a fight for not being the person to solve the issue.

“I’ll text you all tomorrow when the effects have worn off and it’s safe for Baz, Cath, and Lena to come back.” You said as you moved towards the door to the house. Craig paused a bit before leaving, turning towards you.

“By the way, we had to tie him up so he wouldn’t hurt himself, just so you know.” With that last piece of information, the Cody brothers hopped in Deran’s car and drove away.

***

The house was mostly quiet, save for the whimpering and groaning you could hear from the bedroom. As much as you’d wanted to rush to the bedroom to release Pope from his restraints, you knew there were some things you needed to do first.

You closed and locked all the windows and doors, and shut the curtains. You wanted to disturb the neighbours as little as possible. You grabbed two water bottles from the fridge and some energy bars from the cupboard. From what little you’d heard about the effects of this drug, you and Pope were going to be hungry and thirsty when it was all over. You grabbed some spare towels and left them in the bathroom for the shower you’d both inevitably need at the end. You moved as quickly and efficiently as you could, not wanting Pope to wait another moment. You searched briefly for condoms but were unsuccessful. You decided that was probably for the best and since you had an IUD anyways, you weren’t worried.

The moment you crossed the doorway and entered the room, Pope’s eyes were on you.

He was lying on his back, fully clothed, each of his wrists tied with rope that secured him to both bed posts. His grey t-shirt was soaked with sweat, his forehead glistening with it, his face flushed. He was wearing jeans that did nothing to hide the way his cock bulged against the material. The moment he saw you his body moved instinctually to try and get closer to you, only to be stopped by the ropes. The wood creaked as his arms pulled on the restraints. Despite his body practically screaming with want, his face told a different story. His brow was furrowed and his mouth turned down in a look of misery.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Pope choked out the words, his voice rough and low, his breathing heavy. You closed the door behind you and as you moved closer to the bed his hips lifted eagerly without his permission, uncoordinatedly humping into the air for a moment to no satisfaction.

“Pope I know what’s going on. I’m here to help.” You said softly as you reached the edge of the bed.

“Oh god,” Pope whined, his face twisting in a look of torment as his head fell back against the pillows.

“It’s okay.” You said as you toed off your shoes and put down your purse and things from the kitchen. “I want to help.” You looked him over, weighing your options. You knew how strong Pope was and you could see how desperate he was for some relief. You knew Pope would never hurt you, you trusted him, but in this state you needed to help him out a bit before letting him go. “I don’t think I can release the restraints just yet-” Pope’s head snapped up quickly.

“Don’t.” Pope said, his voice strangled. “I told them to tie me up. I could hurt you.” You held Pope’s anguished gaze, his glassy, pleading eyes pulling on your heart.

“Okay.” You said again. “It’s okay. You need to act on the urges the drug is giving you otherwise you might-” You stopped as an unexpected lump formed in your throat. You hadn’t heard much about this drug but what you had wasn’t good. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. You’re safe with me.” You held Pope’s gaze while he mentally weighed his options. Pope nodded frantically after a moment, letting you know he was alright with you being there. Not wanting to waste anymore time, you reached under the flowy skirt of your short summer dress to pull your panties down and off. Pope’s chest rose and fell quicker as he watched you, the anticipation filling his veins with fire and sending more blood to his already painful erection.

“I can take your pants off but I can’t remove your shirt without releasing your arms.”

“Please,” Pope whined, pulling on the ropes. “Please take my clothes off, it feels like sandpaper on my skin.” Thinking quickly, you grabbed your purse and pulled out the Swiss Army Knife Pope had given you for your last birthday. You returned to the bed and climbed up onto the mattress, making quick work of getting Popes pants and boxers off. He sighed loudly in relief as his cock sprang free, large and aching. You did your best to focus on the task at hand and not his impressive length, with its red, leaking tip, straining against his stomach. You opened the small scissors feature on the Swiss Army Knife and cut as quickly as you could to remove his shirt. When you moved further up his chest, Pope leaned up as best he could, pulling the ropes taut. He extended his neck as much as he could to get his face closer to you, his mouth open and wanting.

“Pope! I could have cut you.” You scolded as you leaned back out of his reach.

“I need to touch you.” Pope begged. “Please. I need you.” His eager tone sent a zap of pleasure straight to your core. You looked over to see how his biceps bulged with the effort to resist his bindings.

“Let…let me touch you.” Pope pleaded, his eyes locked on your lips, his breathing heavy and ragged. You swallowed thickly and licked your lips, eliciting a groan from Pope.

“Fuck.” He whispered.

“If…if you let me remove the rest of your shirt, I’ll give you what you want.” You did your best to keep your voice even despite how fast your heart was racing. Pope nodded slowly in agreement, his eyes never leaving your lips. You reached up cautiously and continued to cut away at his shirt. You leaned closer to get the right angle to make the last cut successfully and Pope took the moment to his advantage, turning his head to push his face into your hair and against your neck. His skin was hot, almost feverish against yours, making you gasp at the contact. You tossed the scissors aside, and they clattered against the hardwood floor as you pulled the scraps of his shirt off. Pope couldn’t hold you with his hands tied so he grabbed you the only way he could.

With his teeth.

Pope bit down on your shoulder, near your neck, making you cry out. He moaned into your skin as you felt a gush of wetness between your thighs. You were learning things about yourself today. Like how Pope’s desperate, almost animalistic energy was a huge turn on. As much as his teeth pressing into your skin felt incredible, you need to get to the main event fast.

You reached forward, one hand threading through Pope’s auburn curls and tugging hard, the other blindly grabbing his cock. Pope let you go with a ragged moan, his head following the path of your tugging hand as his hips rolled into your touch. You managed to get him to lie back down and straddled him before he made any other movements. With one hand bracing on his stomach, you raised up on your knees to situate yourself above his throbbing length.

“Take your dress off. I want to see you.” Pope’s gravelly voice sent a shiver through you as you obediently grabbed the hem of your dress and pulled it up and over your head, discarding it on the floor behind you. You made quick work to remove your bra as well. The moment your breasts were on full display Pope moaned, his hips bucking up into the air. The sudden movement sent you forward, both of your hands bracing on his stomach to keep you from falling on top of him, inadvertently pressing your tits together in the process. Pope was panting at this point, practically drooling at the sight of you, his eyes wide with awe.

“Oh fuck, you’re perfect.”

You couldn’t take it anymore, you needed him in you yesterday.

You grabbed his cock, eliciting another tortured moan from Pope, and guided him to your soaking entrance before sinking down onto him. The two of you moaned in unison, your heads falling back in pleasure. The stretch of him was delicious, filling you completely in ways you’d never experienced. You’d been so turned on it was easy to slide him all the way into you and for you to be fully seated on his cock.

Finally having what he craved, Pope wasted no time planting his feet on the mattress and right as you started to rise up Pope thrusted up into you. He thrusted so hard it almost knocked you off of him and you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. It took you a moment to get your bearings before you were able to match his rhythm, moving down to meet his upwards thrusts.

It felt amazing.

Pope had been your friend for years but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t wanted to mean more to him. To be more to him. You’d quietly fantasized about being with Pope for the better part of two years now and he’d been the star of every late night fantasy that resulted in an orgasm. His body, his voice, his hands. Everything about him turned you on, including his gentlemanly approach to you like opening doors and carrying you to bed when you’d fall asleep on the couch. His kindness and tender heart made you want to hold him and never let go.

The rest of him made you want to ride him and never let go.

There was time later for a discussion about being more than friends, but right now you needed to focus on helping him through this.

Due to how tightly wound he had been, Pope came quickly, spilling his release inside you as he yelled your name. Despite coming, he was still rock hard inside of you, and continued to desperately drive his hips up into you. The punishing rhythm, Pope’s groaning and whining at the feeling of you, and the rub of your clit against his pelvis at every downward movement had you coming soon too. You cried out as your orgasm overtook you, your walls tightening around his cock as it plunged into you over and over. Pleasure spread through your body, prolonged by Pope’s movements.

“Oh, Andrew.” You moaned, your head tilted back and your eyes closed.

You’d been so preoccupied with your pleasure that you hadn’t heard the creaking and cracking of the bedposts as Pope had pulled on them. You missed the look that crossed his face, the dark, dangerous one that made his nose twitch as his lips curled and his teeth clenched.

He needed to touch you now.

His name spilling from your lips as you rode him through your orgasm, your face slack in the pleasure he gave you, was enough to give him the last bit of strength he needed. Pope pulled hard enough to break the bedposts, the wood giving way under the strain, and freed his arms from their restraints.

Your eyes flew open as you gasped in surprise at the sound. Your brain didn’t have time to comprehend what happened before Pope grabbed you, and flipped you both so he was on top, practically tackling you to the mattress. With his new freedom Pope had the leverage to drive into you as fast and hard as he wanted.

The pace was brutal, his hips slapping hard against yours as you squealed with pleasure at every thrust and you did your best to wrap your legs around his hips. The headboard banged against the wall over and over as he hung his head over you, your foreheads touching.

He hadn’t expected you to walk into the bedroom but he was so glad you did, that of all people it was you who stepped up to help him. While you had volunteered to help him, Pope was sure you hadn’t imagined it would be like this, fast and rough. And he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, you felt too perfect.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Pope said again and again with each drive of his cock into you.

“Don’t be, don’t be, don’t be,” You replied back, breathless. You brought your hands up to his face, making him look at you. You smiled. “I want this. I want you. I’ve wanted us for so long, Andrew.” Pope moaned loudly at the mention of ‘us’ and his eyes rolled back as he came inside you again, his whole body shuddering as his hips slammed into you.

His rhythm slowed after a moment but didn’t stop and you leaned up to kiss him. Pope kissed you back feverishly, his tongue slipping inside your mouth as he pressed you against the mattress. The kisses spurred him on and his thrusts grew in speed again. He was still hard inside of you and you guessed you’d be in for a long night before it was all out of his system. You were able to turn your head to free your lips to speak, which did nothing to deter Pope who began kissing and sucking on your jaw and neck.

“Use me however you want Pope.” That got his attention enough that he pulled back to look at you. You nodded encouragingly. “I’m yours for the night. Use me however you want, however feels good.”

Without a word Pope sat back enough on his knees to pull the remaining rope from his wrists and grabbed your legs to put the backs of your knees over his arms. He leaned back down, pressing your knees to your chest, and pushed himself even deeper inside of you to a spot that had your eyes rolling back. Pope picked up his movement, returning to the previous, frantic thrusts that had the headboard hitting the wall again. The wet sounds of his cock ramming into you joined the sounds of your sweaty skin slapping against each other. You moaned with each brutal push of his cock, your face flushing as your orgasm built. Your nails dug into his beautiful, freckled biceps as your pleasure climbed higher and higher.

“Yes, yes, yes, Andrew!” Your orgasm crashed over you, making your legs tremble and shake in the crook of Pope’s arms, your back arching as much as it could under the weight of him. Pope fucked you through it, as he did your last one, prolonging the warm sparks moving through you. He continued his unrelenting pace, pushing his cock deep inside you. Your limbs felt weak and you could feel how low your energy was with how heavy your eyelids felt. Considering how Pope likely wasn’t anywhere near done, you knew you needed to tell him he could keep going.

“Use me Andrew,” You moaned. “Even if I pass out, use me however you need.” Pope nodded in understanding and thrust into you a few more times before coming again.

For the first time in a while, Pope pulled out of you and you groaned at the loss of his cock inside you, as your legs fell limply on the bed. He grabbed your hips and flipped you over onto your stomach. You could feel his cum leaking out of you, unsurprising considering he came in you three times already. Pope draped himself over your back, lined himself up with your leaking entrance, and slid back in. Your head was turned, cheek pressed against the mattress as you moaned loudly at the feeling of his cock filling you again. Pope began to drive his cock in and out of you again, his hips smacking against your ass every time he pushed inside of you. You could feel the warmth of his skin against your back and his breath in your hair as he leaned his forehead against your temple. He wanted to be close to you, to feel how good he made you feel, to have you.

“Use me.” You whimpered as his cock pumped in and out of you, your clit rubbing against the mattress with the force of his thrusts. “Use me, use me, use me.”

“Yes,” Pope moaned against your skin. “Yes.” Pope continued to fuck you, grunting in your ear as his hips roughly slapped against your ass, jolting your body forward with each thrust, sending sparks of pleasure through you as your hips moved. Pope needed you in this moment like he needed air. He felt like an animal, hungry to take you how he pleased and mark you how he could. He wanted to bite you again. He wanted to suck on your skin until it bruised. He wanted to fill you again and again and again until he physically couldn’t anymore.

“You’re mine.” Pope groaned in your ear.

“Yes,” You sighed against the mattress, your toes and fingers curling with pleasure. Pope pulled back from your head and put his hands on your shoulders to give him leverage for each brutal thrust. The hold pinned you to the mattress, leaving you at Popes mercy.

“You’re mine.” He put more weight on his hands, holding you down. “Mine, mine, mine, mine,” He growled, punctuating the words with each thrust into you.

“Y-yours.” You gasped out. Trapped between Pope and the mattress, you couldn’t have felt safer. The man holding you down was strong (you knew that, he broke the headboard) but his hands weren’t hurting you, they were just keeping you in place. You’d stay between Pope and this mattress forever if you could.

With the two previous orgasms and the constant rubbing of your clit against the sheets, your next orgasm built and burst through you fast, leaving you twitching and trembling on the bed. Exhaustion hit you hard and right before you passed out you heard Pope moan your name, desperately groaning “I’m yours!” to you as he came again.

***

There was soft sunlight coming through the window when you woke up. Pope was asleep next to you, his face relaxed as he calmly breathed in and out. You were a few inches apart and Popes arm was strewn across your waist. It was so rare to see him like this, so peaceful. The sun lit strands of his auburn curls a bright cooper and you couldn’t help but smile. 

Without moving, you knew you were sore, but you also knew you needed to pee and shower. And drink some water. Where were those bottles of water you grabbed before this started? You tried your best to move without waking Pope but when your thighs rubbed together you winced audibly and that roused him. He blinked awake, clearly confused at his surroundings before you watched the night reply in his mind as a dozen emotions crossed his face. It settled on remorseful, which broke your heart.

“Are you okay?” Pope asked as he sat up with a groan, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. You smiled lazily at him.

“I feel fantastic. A little sore but that’s to be expected.” Pope shook his head at your comment.

“I shouldn’t have-”

“I’m going to stop you right there. Pope, I knew what I was getting into by volunteering to have sex with you, and your body was under the effects of a drug. Don’t apologize to me for the best sex of my life so far.” Pope blinked at you for a moment, stunned.

“The best?” He croaked out. You smiled widely, glad he focused on that rather than the guilt he shouldn’t have.

“Yes. So far.” You sat up, wincing a little. “I'm excited to see what you can do when you’re not on a crazy sex drug.” You leaned forward and placed a kiss on his bare, freckled shoulder. When you looked up at his face, you saw surprise and hope in his features. “I’d like to date you Andrew Cody. If that’s okay with you.” Pope smiled sheepishly before he dipped his head to press your foreheads together. Your eyes naturally closed.

“Thank you.” He said to you quietly. You hummed a soft acknowledgement before leaning in and kissing him slowly. You pulled away after a moment, eyes opening to see Popes mouth trying to follow you. You laughed a little at his eagerness, especially after he spent who knows how long last night fucking you.

“How many more times did you come last night after I passed out?” You asked. The tops of Popes ears turned pink.

“I think three.” He glanced down at your naked chest. “I got a bit carried away.” You looked down to see that your tits were covered in hickeys, purple bruising both on and in between your breasts.

“Damn! I can’t believe I missed that. Promise me that next time you give me a hickey, you’ll do it when I’m awake.”

“I promise.” Pope said, his voice rough. You looked back up at Pope to see him staring, his eyes filled with wanting. Your cheeks flushed under Pope’s full attention. You needed to change the subject before you two attempted something your sore body parts might not forgive you for.

“We should have a shower and clean up this place a bit before telling Baz to come back.” Pope nodded in agreement, before his eyes glanced behind you and you turned to follow his gaze. The broken headboard. You cringed as you turned back around.

“Oops. Forgot about that.” Some memories of how the headboard broke flashed in your mind and you blushed even more as you looked at Pope. “That’s on you to pay for. And I think it’s best if we just toss these sheets, for Baz and Cath’s sake.” Pope nodded a bit, holding your gaze before a giggle bubbled up and out of him. You bit your lip to keep from laughing but it escaped you anyways and the two of you sat on the bed in the morning sunlight, laughing together.

***

“Is it safe?” Baz asked as he entered the house, one hand covering his eyes.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have texted you otherwise.” You said in a clipped tone. You muttered ‘asshole’ under your breath for good measure. After the laughing fit, you and Pope had showered together, drank two glasses of water each, and put fresh sheets on the bed. You also remembered to open up every window in the house to get any smell of marathon sex out.

“Hi Uncle Pope.” Lena called out with a wave as Cath carried her inside. Pope was washing the cups you’d used and he waved back.

“Hi Lena.”

“Is that Baz’s shirt?” Cath asked as she set Lena down on one of the kitchen island chairs. You looked over at Pope and back to Cath.

“Yeah, we had to throw away Pope’s shirt. Baz will get his back.”

“What happened to your neck?” Lena asked, staring at the purple mark at the base of your neck. You’d put on Pope’s jacket, zipped up, in an effort to cover your hickeys up but Lena was too observant. You slapped your hand over the bite mark, hiding it from view.

“I got in a fight.” You stated simply as Cath and Baz shared a look.

“One she lost.” Pope joked bluntly as he came to stand beside you.

“I don’t know about that. You’re taking me out to breakfast so I’d say I won. Plus you’re forgetting about that ‘best so far’ comment.” You countered with a smile, which Pope returned. You stared contently at each other for a moment before Baz ruined it.

“What’s going on here?” He asked. You sighed, your mood souring at the sound of Baz’s voice.

“None of your business.” You said firmly. Pope grabbed your bag and handed it to you as you both got ready to leave.

As he parked his truck in the parking lot of your building he turned to you, reaching over and running his fingers through your hair. “I love you.” He whispered as he leaned over and pressed his lips to the top of your head. “You don’t have to do this, we can just take Lily upstairs and forget going to Smurf’s.” You knew that wasn’t true. You knew that the consequences of not showing up there would be worse than if you just went. 

“You know that’s not true.” You sigh as your force a half smile. Reaching out you rest your hand on the back of his neck as your eyes meet. “Stay with our baby, I will run up and get her things. I don’t want to wake her up because lord knows she isn’t going to get any sleep at your mother’s.” Pope gives your a short nod before you leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. 

You were in and out of your apartment in ten minutes, you gathered a change of clothes for all three of you, swimsuits, a few of Lily’s favorite toys and shoved them into a backpack. You stood in the middle of your living room and let out a choked sob into your hands. You didn’t want to do this. You wanted to do just as Pope had suggested and bring Lily upstairs to the only home she knew and the three of you curl up in the bed like you had the night before. Just the three of you. You didn’t need the rest of his family. You had made your own. 

With a heavy sigh, you run your hands over your face, wiping away the few tears that had fallen before you picked up the backpack and slung it over your shoulder. You were not mentally or emotionally ready for the shit storm you were walking into. Your stomach was twisted in knots and every fiber of your being told you. ‘Don’t go’. You were walking back into the lion’s den and you were bringing the most innocent thing in your whole life in with you. 

It wasn’t long before you locked up your apartment and made your way back to the parking lot where Andrew sat in his truck, looking back at Lily as she slept. He glanced up at you as he opened the back door and tucked Lily’s favorite blanket around her as she slept. “It’s not cold.” He whispered. 

“It’s not about her being cold, Andrew.” You start as you carefully shut the door and open the passenger side door, climbing in. “It’s about making sure when she wakes up and is taken into a place she has never been, she has something familiar. It’s going to be scary, she isn’t used to new places or new people.” You set the backpack on the floor between your legs as you reach over and rest your hand on his arm. “You don’t let her out of sight, promise me.” You look at him with a pleading look in your eyes. “Deran is the only other person who can just pick her up.”

“I promise you she is gonna be safe,” Pope said firmly as he reached over and took your face in his hands. “She is our baby, my baby and I am going to make sure she stays safe.” The conviction in which he spoke eased your fears just slightly because you knew that Pope would do anything for his daughter. 

You just hoped he wouldn’t be pushed to that point. 

++++++

The drive to Smurf’s house took a little over twenty minutes, but as soon as Pope pressed the code in and the gates opened, nearly twenty years of memories of this house came flooding back to you. The summers spent with Deran when you were kids, playing in the pool. How Smurf held you the day your mom died and promised that she was going to make sure you were okay. How you spent nearly a month there sleeping the spare bedroom while your father drank himself into a stupor after your mom died. How, when you were a teenager, you would get high with Deran and Craig by the pool, laughing and acting like the world wasn’t about to get as serious as it did. Your eyes fell on the garage where you and Pope had your first kiss, you remembered the sound the garage door made when he shoved you back into. You fell in love with Pope in this house. Your daughter was very likely conceived in this house. 

You had spent so many important moments of your life in this house, but it was never your home. 

Pope threw the truck into park and turned the engine off. He jumped out of the truck and walked around to your side, opening your door for you. He reached in and gently ran his hand across your shoulders as he reached around and picked up the bag off the floor. “Come on, babe.” He whispered. 

You took a sharp breath in as you nodded, fighting the urge to break into tears. You watched Pope go to pull Lily from the backseat as you got of the truck. He was so gentle as he lifted her from the car seat, careful not to let her blanket fall. She let out a little squeak of protest, being pulled from her peaceful nap. “It's okay, Princess.” He whispered as he rested his hand over the back of her, as she buried her face into his neck. “You can go back to sleep, I got you.” He soothed. 

The way he was with her was so profoundly gentle. Pope could be gentle when he wanted to be, you had been on the receiving end of that gentleness over the years. This was different, though. This was a different kind of gentle. It was obvious that Lily was easily the most precious thing in the world to him, and for better or worse, he couldn't hide that. 

The three of you started to make your way into the backyard, where the rest or the family was already gathered. As soon as Craig saw the three of you, he stood up. “About damn time.” He exclaimed loudly, making Lily startle awake a little more, earning Craig a sharp look from Pope as he held her tightly against his chest.

“Can't you see the baby is asleep?” Baz asked sharply as he stood up, before he moved around the table and pulled out a chair for Pope. “Here, sit down with her.” He said before he came over to greet you warmly. He gave you a quick side hug and kiss on the cheek. “It's good to see you.” He said warmly as he watched Pope take a seat. “She is beautiful.” He noted before leaning in closer, “You could have said something, Kath and I would have helped you with her while Pope was away.”

He was doing damage control like he didn't show up at your door almost three years ago with Smurf telling you to leave Pope alone. You push down the urge to throw it in his face as you force a smile and look over at Deran who had scooted over and as sitting next to Pope, adjusting Lily's blanket. “I had Deran,” you point out softly. 

Baz just nods and glances over as Pope is muttering something to Deran you couldn't make out. “Makes sense.” He starts. “You two always were thick as thieves, keeping each other's secrets since you were kids.” You knew that his comment, while the tone was pleasant, was a subtle jab. 

You just force another smile as you walk and stand between Pope and Deran. You put your arm around Deran’s shoulder as you smile down at him. “This is going to be so pleasant.” You whisper with a fake smile plastered across your face. Deran forces himself not to laugh at the very obvious sarcasm in your voice. “I am just going to have the best time.” 

“It will be fine.” Deran says as he slips his arm around your waist. 

“I told her we could have stayed at the apartment,” Pope adds as he glances over, leaning back in the chair, getting more comfortable with Lily in his arms. “Where’s Smurf?” He asked Baz as he was sitting down across from Pope. 

Baz nodded towards the house, “Inside, getting food ready.” Pope just gave him a short nod as he ran his hand over Lily’s back. Baz gave him a short smile. “She looks like you.” He noted as he reached for his drink. 

“He’s her father,” Deran added bluntly. “What did you expect her to look like? Me?” He laughed as he patted your hip, and you chuckled softly. “That would have been hilarious.” 

“We all thought you two were together when you were teenagers.” Craig pointed out with a little smirk as he sat down next to Baz. “You guys did everything together, you went to Homecoming together every year, and Prom. She slept over here all the time, in your bed.” 

“We have never done anything, we kissed once when we were like 13.” You laugh nervously as you take a step away from Deran and move a little closer to Pope. “I slept here because my house was a wreck after my mom died, and I never wanted to go home.” You explain as you reach out and rest your hand on Pope’s shoulder. “I slept in Deran’s bed because it was the safest place for me to sleep and I didn’t want to be alone.” 

“So you say.” Craig chuckled as he took a drink of his beer. “You two were always weirdly close.” 

“Fucking drop it,” Deran said sharply. You knew the truth. You were one of the only people who knew the truth. Deran was gay. If he weren’t, you probably would have been with Deran. That is the truth of the matter. You both knew it. He used to joke that you were the only woman he could ever love, but the idea of sleeping with you made his stomach turn. “She got with Pope senior year, has been his girl ever since. They are getting married for fuck’s sake. So just drop it.” 

“You’re getting married?” Baz asked, leaning forward. You life your left hand shows your engagement ring, as Pope just quietly glared over at Baz. “Since when?”

“Does it matter?” Pope asked as he shifted Lily slightly, her hand clutching the collar of his shirt. “We should have gotten married years ago.” You turn your attention to Pope, you smile warms to a more genuine one as you look down at him, your hand running across his shoulders. 

“You have been out a week, a kid. Now you are getting married.” Baz noted as he traced the rim of the glass with his finger. “Don’t you think this is all a little impulsive?” 

Pope scoffed at the suggestion, “I have been with her for more than a decade. I would have known about Lily if you and Smurf hadn’t tried to scare her off.” There was a flash of anger in his tone before he looked down at Lily, who just curled tighter into him. “I am just getting my family back to the way it should have been.” 

“Your family,” Baz repeats with his own scoff as he leans back, nodding. “Yeah, I guess you have one of those.” He looked at you with an intense glare. “Who would have thought, you two. Parents.” 

“Andrew is a good father. He loves her, and she adores him.” You say firmly as you cross your arms defensively in front of your chest. “And I am a really good mom.” 

“Who kept her daughter from her father’s side of the family,” Baz mutters, and your jaw instantly clenches.  

You let out a soft huff of a laugh as Deran reached out and touched your arm. “No,” you whisper to him before turning your full attention to Baz. “You told me to stay away. That is was going to be too hard for Andrew. That he would worry too much about me. So I did, not because I wanted to.” You let out a shaky breath as Pope reached up for your hand, being able to tell this was all getting to you. 

“Take her.” He whispers as he glances up at you. You just give him a nod as you reach down and slip your hands under Lily’s arms and lift her from Pope’s chest. She stirs again but you are familiar enough with her that she curls right into you, settling back asleep. Pope stands up and gives you the chair he was sitting in. “Baz…” He grumbles as he points over to the corner of the yard. “Now.” 

You watch as Baz stands up, drink still in his hand, as you sit down. The two men walk off into the corner of the yard. Far enough away to upset Lily, but close enough that you could still make out what Pope was saying. “You don’t fucking talk to her like that.” Pope started sharply as he got up in Baz’s face. 

“She is fucking crazy and needy. She fucking baby trapped you, man.” Baz retorts, and that seems to piss Pope off in a way you hadn’t seen in years. 

His jaw is set tight, and he stares down Baz. “No, she’s not.” He started. “She didn’t ‘baby trap’ me, she didn’t even know she was pregnant till after I was inside.” You look down at Lily and try to keep yourself from crying. You didn’t baby trap Pope, you were on birth control at the time and like they always say, it’s not foolproof. The chances are low, but you can still get pregnant. That’s what happened with Lily. “I wanted to marry her before I went in, you knew I wanted to marry her, and you talked me out of it because you said all she wanted was money.” 

“That all she’s ever wanted,” Baz exclaims as he points in your direction. “She came from a fucked up family with nothing.” 

“So did Kath,” Pope shouts, this time his voice carried enough to wake Lily up and start crying softly, which got both of their attention. “She loves me. I love her. I don’t know why it’s so hard to believe.”

“It just proves what I said before, she is crazy. You both are, and now you have a kid, you are going to end up fucking up.” Baz said as he leaned in close. “Who is going to have deal with the consequences? Huh? I am. Smurf is because it’s only a matter of time before you two end up making a mess of this.” 

“Fuck you, man.” Pope exclaims as he starts making his way back towards you, where you and Deran are trying calm down Lily. 

The commotion got Smurf’s attention inside. She walks out with a tray of food and sets it down on the table. “Boys.” She shouts at Pope and Baz. “Enough.” Her voice made you stiffen and Lily noticed only crying harder into your top. “My poor girl.” She says in a sweet tone that curdled your stomach as she walks over and places a hand on Lily’s back. “Daddy scare you, baby?”

Your jaw tightens again as you shift pulling Lily closer to you. “Baz upset him. She just got startled.” You whisper as you kiss the top of Lily’s head. 

Pope walked up behind you and ran his hand over the back of her head as she looked up at him with her big hazel eyes. “Daddy didn’t mean to wake you up.” He mutters and Lily reaches her arms out for him.

“Daddy.” she whines and Pope almost instantly obliges her by taking her back. He holds her close, her little arms wrap around her neck. 

Smurf watches the whole thing with a smug smile on her face. “She loves her daddy.” She notes softly. “It’s sweet.” 

“She has always known Andrew is her father.” You explain softly as you hold Lily’s blanket in your lap. “Her last name is Cody, we are going to put Andrew on her birth certificate. He just has to sign an acknowledgement of paternity.” 

“Good.” Smurf says as she takes a step close to Pope. “At least you didn’t fuck that up.” 

“Stop.” Pope says under his breath as he glanced over at his mother. 

Smurf cocks her head to one side and sighs. “She kept your daughter a secret from this family.” 

“Deran knew,” Craig mutters. 

Smurf’s gaze goes to her youngest son as she blinks slowly. “You knew, how does that not surprise me?” She goes to Deran and rests her hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have done that, you know that, baby?” 

“I did what was best for Lily,” Deran says firmly as he shrugs his mother’s hand off her shoulder. His eyes are locked on Lily’s face as he speaks. He always adored her, from the moment she was born and you never once ever had to question the lengths Deran would have gone to keep Lily safe. He wasn’t Pope, but for the first two years of Lily’s life he was the only connection that Lily had to Codys. The closest thing she had to a second parent. “I made sure they were okay.” You knew that in that moment, Deran wasn’t speaking to his mother. He was speaking to Pope. “She never went without, always had everything she could need or want.” 

Pope just gave him a silent nod as he kissed Lily’s cheek before setting her down the ground. Lily stood looking up at him, with this little offended look on her face like ‘how dare you put me down’. Pope just nodded towards Deran and Lily turned around and saw Deran looking a little forlorn. Instantly, she smiled and raced towards him, her arms outstretched for him. Deran caught her and pulled her up into his lap. “Beach!” she giggled as she bounced on his knee. 

“No, Jellybean,” Deran said gently as he tucked a curl behind her ear. “I can take you in the pool if Mama brought your swimsuit.” He glanced at you and you just gave him a nod as you picked up the bag that had been sat on the floor. “You wanna go swimming?” 

“FISHY!” she giggled. Deran called her a fish because of how much she loved the water since she was small. So you knew that meant yes. 

Standing up you grabbed the backpack in one hand and held the other out for Lily. “Come on, buggy.” You said softly as Deran put Lily back down on the patio. “Let’s go get you changed.” 

“Can she even swim?” Baz questioned his eyes, narrowing on you and Deran. 

“She isn’t Lena,” Deran muttered gruffly as he stood up. “She has been in the water since she was six months old.” 

“You can get her changed in Deran’s room,” Smurf said as she crossed her arms as you walked past her. “You remember where that is?” 

You just force a smile as you glance over at her. “I do, Janine.” You were barely able to hide your contempt for all this as you walked away, Pope following behind you. You glanced back at him as he took the bag from your hand, carrying it for you. 

“You need to play nice.” He said in a hushed tone as he pushed open the door to Deran’s old bedroom. It still looked the same as it always had. You let go of Lily’s hand as you walked over to Deran’s dresser and remembered where he kept his trunks. You pulled out a pair before tossing them at Pope. Who caught them but looked confused. “What?” 

“You are going in the pool with her.” You say flatly as you take a few steps over to him and take the bag from him. “Go change.” 

Pope sighs and tries to shrug the suggestion off. “Why don’t you go with her?” 

“And have your mother make backhanded comments about how I haven’t lost the baby weight?” You shake your head as you walk towards Lily, who is sitting on the edge of Deran’s bed. “No, thank you.” You turn back to your daughter and smile warmly. “Let’s get you changed and you can get in the pool with Daddy and Uncle Deran.” 

Shaking his head, Pope resigns himself to the fact that he is going in the pool. He closes the bedroom door as he goes to a nearby bathroom to change, letting you get Lily into her swimsuit. It takes only a couple of minutes to get her changed and by the time you walk out of the bedroom, Pope is waiting for you both. Lily goes racing towards him in her pale blue swimsuit with little white flowers on it. “Fishy!” She giggles as she stops in front of him. 

Pope leaned down and lifted Lily up as she let out a gleeful giggle. “You, my little fishy?” She nodded excitedly as he set her down. “Well, we better get you back in the water, huh?” He said as she reached up and took his hand. You stayed back, standing in Deran’s doorway, watching as Pope walked off with your daughter. You had hoped it would be like this. That the good moments would outweigh the bad, but knowing that you were going to walk out to what you knew was going to be more pointed comments from Smurf made your chest get tight. 

You took a few steps back and sank down onto Deran’s bed. You could feel the way your heart was racing, how you had to struggle to get a deep breath. This was not an unfamiliar feeling, though it had been years since it was this bad. Panic attack. Your hands were shaking as you held them in your lap, staring blankly at the door, which was half closed. You were lost in your own emotions, only startled out by Deran walking in to change. He saw you sitting there, the glossy look in your eyes, the way you were staring blankly at the door and he didn’t think twice. “Hey, hey.” He started as she rushed over to you and took your face in his hands. “Take a deep breath for me.” You try, but your chest feels too tight. Deran starts muttering to himself. “Fuck, fuck.” As he scans his old bedroom. “Okay, okay. We're gonna solve this the way we did when we were kids.” He stood up and started rummaging through his dresser, and pulled out an old Altodis tin. “We’re gonna get you high.”

That almost made you laugh as your eyes darted over to Deran who was already starting to roll you a joint. This is what he did when you were younger, first starting to date Pope and Smurf would cause the panic to rise in you with her snide comments. Sober ever comment she made cut like a knife, when you were high, you could at least pretend like they just rolled off your back. It took him only a couple of minutes before he was sitting back down next to you, joint sticking out of his mouth as he started to light it. When he passed it after taking a puff, it was pure muscle memory, which caused you to reach for it. 

“There we go, now smoke it.” He said, waiting for you to take a puff. 

“Pope is gonna be…” 

“No, he won’t.” Deran cut you off. “If he gets pissed at you, I’ll deal with him. He is the one who dragged you and Lily here, and he can’t deal with the fact you have to be stoned to deal with our mother, that’s a him problem.” He nudged your hand towards your mouth, and you finally gave in and took a long drag off it. 

You and Deran sat on the edge of his bed, passing the joint back and forth between you for the next ten minutes in almost pure silence. As Deran took the last pull off it and reached for the ashtray by his bed, you felt a little more relaxed. After he put it out, he settled next to you, and you leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder. “I fucking hate it here.” You mumble.

“No you don’t.” Deran said softly as he glanced down at you. “You hate Smurf, you love the house. You love Pope, you love me, you tolerate Craig. Baz… is complicated but it’s Baz.” He pulled you into a hug as she kissed the side of your head. “You just haven’t had to deal with it all at once in years and got used to not being in the chaos.” 

“I liked not being in the chaos,” you mumbled against his shoulder. 

“Yeah me too, but you decided it was a good idea to jump back in head first with my brother and here we are.” He patted your shoulder before pointing to the door. “So go out there, sit by the pool. Enjoy watching Lily be blissfully unaware of how complicated things really are and try to not freak out.” 

“Easier said than done.” You mutter as you stand up. 

Deran starts pulling off his shirt and tosses it on the floor. “You have done it half you life, it will be like riding a bike.” 

“I am bad at riding a bike.” You chuckle as you reach for a pair of Deran’s sunglasses that were laying on the dresser and put them on. “I guess I will try.” 

“Good, now go before Craig starts cracking jokes about how we are in here fucking.” 

You start walking towards the door and pause turning back to Deran. “You ever going to tell them? Don’t you think Adrian deserves that?” Deran shrugs as he runs his hands through his hair. “And you wonder why they always say we are keeping secrets.” 

“Shut up.” He teased before pointing to the door again.

You just sigh as you open the door and walk out back into the vipers nest that was the Cody home a little bit more resilient that you had been before. But just barely. 

++++++

You settled by the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water as you watched Lily in her elements. Craig has joined Pope and Deran with her in the pool and watching them interact properly for the first time made you smile. Where Pope was always so gentle with her, treated her like she was made of glass. Craig was tossing her up in the air as she squealed with delight. He was playful, perhaps bordering on a little rough with her, but Lily was having a blast. 

“Be careful with her.” Pope cautioned as Craig tossed Lily up into the air once more, catching her has she let out a shriek of glee before her feet hit the water. 

Holding her, Craig turned back and looked at Pope. “She is obviously enjoying herself.” He tickled Lily’s belly as he spoke and Lily’s giggles filled the backyard with a joy that it hadn’t felt in years. “Huh, kiddo? Who’s gonna be your favorite uncle now? Uncle Craig, right?” He laughed and you watched as Deran rolled his eyes as he leaned against the side of the pool. 

“It’s not a competition.” Deran said flatly. “If it was, I would obviously win.” He let out a low laugh as he dunked his head under the water before resurfacing. 

Pope was close to the edge where you were sitting. He swam up to you, resting his chin on your knees. “She is having fun.” You sigh as you run your fingers through his damp hair. 

“She likes it here,” he says with a brief smile. 

“She likes the pool and the attention.” You correct. “She likes being the center of everyone’s world right now.” 

Pope tilts his head up, and you lean down and give him a quick kiss. “That’s because she is.” He moves back out towards the center of the pool where Craig was passing Lily over to Deran who was much more gentle with as he encouraged her to start practicing her swimming a little more. You watched as Pope stood back watching with a little dread on his face as Deran let go of Lily, but sure enough, she started to swim towards Pope with a big smile on her face. Proud as could be to show off her swimming skills to her father. Catching her when she got close enough, Pope beamed down at her. “Good job, Princess.” He looked so happy, so at peace with her, and everyone saw that. 

Smurf walked up behind you and sat down next to you. “She is good for him.” She says in a low tone. “He smiles with her. Is gentle with her.” You glance over as Smurf pulls down her sunglasses to look you in the eyes. “That also makes her a target, because if someone wants to hurt him. They will hurt her.” You knew what she was implying, that she now had a new way to keep Pope under her thumb. Your daughter.

“If they hurt her, Andrew will kill them.” The tone in which you spoke was soft but there was nothing soft about the meaning was anything but. “It won’t matter who it is.” You whisper as you lean closer to her. “Anyone hurts her, or me, or any other kids we have. Pope will make them suffer.” You force a quick smile before you settle back, placing your hands behind you on the concrete, your eyes behind the sunglasses you wore, focused on Lily swimming back and forth between Pope, Deran and Craig. “Something tells me, they all would burn the whole world down for her.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as Smurf’s jaw grew tight. “You sound sure of yourself.” She uttered, her gaze focused on your daughter. 

“She is Pope’s baby, his flesh and blood.” You whisper. “Deran kept her a secret for two years out of nothing but love for her. Craig, as fucked up as he can be, has morals.” You pull your glasses down, folding them up in your hand as you turn to Smurf. “Don’t fuck with my kid, I am not Kath. I am not scared of you.” That was a lie. You were scared of Smurf and, more specifically, the power she held over Pope. “You should be afraid of me, because he loves me. He loves her. He will love any other kids we end up having, and we will.” You swallow hard as you smile. “So play loving Grandma, Janine. I will bring her around, let you see her. Be a part of her life, be a part of our lives. The second you cross a line, though, I will make sure you get what you deserve.”

“You think you are such a clever girl, don’t you.” Smurf said in a low voice as she leaned in and smiled at Pope who glanced over at the two of you with Lily in his arms. “He is my son.”

“But he loves me and her, more.” You say with the same false sweetness in your voice that she always used against Pope to manipulate him. “It won’t be me or something I did. It will be him and it will be because you pushed too hard.” You sigh as you push yourself up to your feet and look down at Smurf for the first time in your life feeling like you actually had something on her. “You tried to push me out, yet he still came running to me. Not you. Because he loves me. He loves his daughter.” You whisper as you adjust your dress with a warm smile. “The one thing you did teach me, Janine, was protect your children. Fiercely and I have every intention of doing that.” Your smile turns a little dark as you glance back out over the pool. “Because that is the one thing you never could really do, because that meant placing them above yourself and no one is more important that Janine Cody.” You pause as your turn to walk back to the table but pause behind her. “Till now.” 

"Oh shit," you hear another voice approach from your left, Javadi resting her elbows on the desk you and Santos occupy.

"Yeah," you grumble, downing another sip like it's a shot. You wish it was. "Just another asshole wanting to get in my pants, only for him to care just about himself when I so stupidly let him."

You roll your eyes at yourself, your need for validation, any sort of affection taking over and picking these clowns against your better judgement.

"Classic," Javadi says, her own eyes rolling back, knowing all too well what you've been going through.

You've been able to bond with the newer staff in the past year over this, the trials and tribulations of your love lives. Whitaker joins in too sometimes, albeit against his will.

"You could always follow my lead," Santos suggests sarcastically. "Y'know, hook up with someone you work with in secret."

You stifle a chuckle, tipping your can back to your lips. You shake your head incredulously. "I can't believe those are my only options," you groan, your forehead falling to your hands.

"I just feel like there's nobody for me, you know?" You ponder aloud. "Like, if this is all that's out there, then I don't even know if it's even worth it? Ugh, that sounds so stupid and melodramatic," you massage your temples with your fingers, embarrassed by your out-flux of emotion.

"No, it's not," Javadi says in comfort. "I feel the same way sometimes. It's exhausting. These men- sorry, boys- have no idea what they're doing. All they care about is getting their dick wet."

You nod in agreement, another sardonic laugh escaping your lips. "Seriously," you mutter. "I don't even know why I keep trying. I have my vibrator, I might as well just use that for the rest of my life. At least those actually get me to finish."

Your heart stops, regretting your words immediately as you watch Santos' eyes widen, her posture stiff, a telltale sign that one of your superiors is behind you. You can only pray it's someone understanding, like Mohan or McKay.

Of course, you're not so lucky. You turn to find an achingly familiar navy hoodie, paired strong, veiny arms sticking out of the pockets.

Your face burns, your heart beating against your chest as you try to process that your boss, the senior attending partially responsible for your employment, just heard you talk about vibrators and orgasms.

"Sir," you breathe, unsure of what else to say.

His gaze flits to the ground the second yours finds him, and you swear you can make out just a bit of red on the apples of his cheeks.

He clears his throat, a hand coming up to the back of his neck before saying, "I can only assume this is not work related."

The look on his face is pointed, an awkward tension filling the space between you, the girls, and your boss. You shake your head, a pathetic, "sorrysir" spilling out of your mouth.

You watch him adjust on his feet, once again avoiding your gaze. He runs his finger in a circle, referencing the busy ER in which you stand.

"Get back to it," he huffs out, and the three of you scatter like he'd just dropped a bomb.

You flee with Javadi, your arm linking through hers as you keep your heads down, stifling giggles like school children.

"Oh. My. God," you breathe, embarrassment flooding through you like a tsunami.

You part ways when you make it to a turn in the hallway, splitting up to check on your respective patients, eager to run away from whatever just happened.

Hour eight comes and goes, as busy as ever. The only difference, though, is in the way Robby is treating you. Each bark of an order, every harsh correction like tiny needles pricking at the back of your neck.

It starts in triage, where you pop out to spot any incoming traffic. It feels nice, the fresh summer air wafting through the ambulence bay, a welcome contrast to the stuffiness of the ER.

You jump when the door opens behind you, Robby rubbing hand sanitizer into his skin. You avert your gaze, anywhere but the manipulation of his large hands. Santos' words from earlier ring in your head, 'just date someone you work with in secret.'

It feels ridiculous, thoughts of your senior attending ping ponging around your head. You feel dizzy at the consuming thoughts, unwilling to believe that this is where your disastrous dating life has led you- fantasizing about your senior attending while he's standing a foot away from you.

His closeness brings you back to life, the sharp exhale he exudes making you flinch. His eyes widen at your reaction, brows raising like he's waiting on you.

"Well? Did you hear me?" He asks, crossing his veiny forearms over his chest.

You will yourself to look away, your heart picking up speed at the flex of his muscles.

"I'm sorry, what was it?" You ask, your voice flighty and airy.

You fiddle with your hands, desperate to outrun this Molotov cocktail of embarrassment and desire. He's going to kill you by the end of this shift, you're convinced.

"I said," he starts, pointedly, "that you're staying with me for the rest of the day. Word on the street is that Pittsburgh Memorial is at max capacity. Something to do with a pile up on the service drive. So, you're on my team until you clock out," he grumbles into your ear.

His proximity stuns you, the deep growl of his voice crawling down your spine, settling low in your belly. A certain realization dawns on you, then, a chilling reality that settles deep in your bones.

Is this because of what he overheard earlier? Does he feel the need to keep an eye on you, so you don't go off embarrassing the team with your loud mouth? The possibility straightens your posture, tightens your jaw.

"Okay," you mumble, unable to meet his gaze. "We're on the first patient that comes through?"

You work up the courage to actually look at him, your gaze dragging along the scruff of his beard, the tint of gray weaknening your knees. An unsettling frustration rests at the base of your throat, threatening to burst through, to demand he says what's on his mind.

He just nods, though, his eyes trained on the entrance of the bay. Your breath comes out in short puffs, a fuzziness taking over as Robby's forearm grazes yours. The tickle of the hair on his body unzips a chill down your spine, so overpowering you have to close your eyes, to shake yourself out of this feeling.

He sees. You know he does. His gaze is peripheral, catching the way you react to him out of the corner of his eye. Though it's just a glance, it's enough to set your veins on fire, the want to reach out and touch him electrifying.

Silence blankets you, thick and suffocating. You rock on the balls of your feet, he wrings his hands together. You glance over at him again, unable to really keep your eyes off him for long. He doesn't look back, but his cheeks turn pink. You face foward once more, your lips curling into a smile.

The wail of an ambulance slices through the tension wafting through the bay, a wave of relief briefly washing over. You immediately snap into action, assessing the patient rolling in on the stretcher.

Robby is relentless in his questioning, and the world starts to spin around you as you flit from patient to attending, from asking to answering. Regardless of the familiar chaos, your stomach manages to flip at Robby's approval- the validation he gives at each right answer.

It's addictive, the way his brown eyes find yours, the subtle nod of his head. Time stops when he looks at you, you're convinced.

Once the patient is assessed and stabilized, you manage to document the patient's history and current symptoms without interruption.

You turn from the computer, looking over to see Robby, completely engaged with the patient. It's an older woman, a few years more so than Robby, who is putting on the ultimate display of charm. She's eating it up, as they all do.

You can't help but smile at the show, your heart speeding up in your chest. His ability to connect with those that are hurting, in pain, never ceases to amaze you. In moments like these, you remember why it is you decided to stay in emergency medicine. The teaching. The teacher, to be more specific.

A crash from the other side of the hallway pulls your attention away, and you whip your head around to see Langdon's hands full. He maneuvers around a stressed family, trying to care for his patient as best as he possibly can.

Without thinking, you take off to the other side of the room, putting on your best smile as you approach a teary mom, stressed father, and shy little girl.

"Hello!" You chirp, as cheerful as is appropriate when a family is watching their son be assessed in the ER. "I'm going to ask you give Dr. Langdon some space so he can work at the best of his ability. Please follow me and I can show you to our family room."

You start toward the exit, Langdon offering you a nod in thanks as you lead the family away from him. You catch Robby's gaze as you lead the family away, his teeth gritting at your disobedience. His eyes don't leave yours as you walk through the hospital, his cheeks glowing red like the human embodiment of anger.

You lead them through to the family room, your smile never leaving your face.

"Can I get you guys anything? Water, coffee, a snack?" You ask in the doorway. The gaunt father shakes his head, unable to look away from the tiled floors. You know this feeling, seen it many times in this room alone.

You turn to leave, when the mom speaks up, a tiny "uhm" leaving her lips. You stop on your heel, turning to her, your smile still there.

"Would you be willing to take Leah here for a snack?" She asks, referring to her daughter.

Your eyes find the little girl, a bunny stuffie clutched to her chest, a nervous thumb between her lips. Your heart softens at the sight, so you nod gently, offering your hand.

She only takes it when her mom gives her the okay, and she waddles to you dubiously. You take her hand in yours, offering her a soft greeting.

"Hello! It's so nice to meet you, Leah. Want to come see what snacks we have?" You ask, and can't help but giggle at her eager nod. "Okay, let's go, honeybun."

You lead her back into the ER, wavering through the chaos to get to the kitchen. You see Robby again on your way there, his eyes flitting to your new friend as you pass. His jaw does that tick again, though the rest of his face softens at the sight.

Annoyance flashes through his big brown eyes, frustration taking over his features. Your heart starts beating again, a rapid pitter pat against your ribcage. You keep your eyes forward, picking up your pace just slightly, as if you're escaping the flame of his gaze.

You shut the door once you're in the kitchen, and you stand on your tip toes to grab the kids' snacks that are stored in the top shelf. You lay out an array of goodies, from fruit snacks to Goldfish to Teddy Grahams.

Her eyes widen at the selection, the first smile you've seen from her curling her lips. You smile back, and she points at the fruit snacks.

"Good pick," you nod, opening the packet for her. "Here you go!"

She accepts the snack gratefully, munching on the gummy snack as she rests her head on the table. Poor thing, you think. Who knows how long she's been up.

The silence is cut by a tap on the glass window. You startle, causing Leah to sit up abruptly. You see that it's Dana, relaxing just slightly. You walk over to the door and pop your head out.

"Hey, what's up?" You ask.

"I'm takin' over with sweet girl over here. Get back to the boss man, he's not happy with ya," she tells you, and your heart sinks.

"Oh, okay," you open the door wider to let her in. "Hey, Leah," you start, and she looks up, her eyes widening at the new guest. "This is my friend Dana. She's going to be staying with you, okay? She's really nice. You guys will have fun with each other." You smile, turning to exit the kitchen.

"Mmph!" You muffle against cotton as you collide against a broad, rigid chest. "Jesus, Robby," you breathe out, taking a step to the side. Anything to escape the woody smell of his cologne.

He scoffs, the incredulous smile on his face flipping your stomach like a pancake. "Yeah, Jesus," he repeats, annoyance lacing his tone. "Find me in Exam Room 2 in five," he orders before stalking off.

You watch him walk, studying his frame as he saunters through the ER, using his broad shoulders to maneuver the crowd. It's pathetic, the way even his walk causes sweat to prick at your brow, your face heating with nerves. Curiosity pokes at your gut, Exam Room 2? It's a bizarre request from a senior attending, and you can only imagine how much trouble you've gotten yourself in.

You make your way to the exam rooms, your heart pounding louder with every step. You wring your hands together, the sweat accumulating there creating a slippery resistance. You let out a sigh as you reach the second room of the exam hallway, a green light indicating it's free usage.

You turn the knob, cracking it slightly to find Robby, hands on his head, facing the back wall. The door creaks as you push it open, and you clear your throat lightly to announce your presence. You press yourself against the door when it shuts, nerves so palpable you're surprised Robby can't feel it, can't taste it.

"Dr. Robby," you start, voice shaky, knowing he's about to hand you your ass. "I'm sorry I disobeyed your instruction-"

"Damn right you did," he cuts you off, arms crossed over his heaving chest. "You had a direct order to stay with me, so why did I find you with Langdon?" He stalks closer to you, just a step or two, though it feels like more.

"I-I just-" you fumble over your words, that damn cologne wafting through your nose again. "I saw a family, I thought I could help." It's a weak answer, but at least it's honest.

He nods, lips pursing together in thought.

"Guess I can't stay too mad about that," he admits, though his tone is clipped. He runs his palms over his forehead, his glasses pinched between his thumb and pointer finger as he rubs at his eyes.

You're not sure what to say next, treading carefully in the small, tense room. His silence eats at you, each second passing in agony. You watch your boss take deep, heavy breaths, committing the rise and fall of his chest to memory.

God, you wish you could rewind to a time where you weren't completely enthralled with Michael Robinavitch. Not being locked in a confine space with him would be helpful, too.

You shove your hands in your pockets, about to turn and leave when he stops you.

"Wait," he orders. You do as he says.

"I-about what I heard earlier…" he starts, and the breath is stolen from your lungs.

Your jaw drops, white hot embarrassment boiling deep in your stomach. This is what this is all about? Your cheeks burn, and you cover your face with your hands to escape his upending glare. You wish the ground would swallow you whole.

"Dr. Robby, I am so, so sorry about that," you stress, your eyes turning glassy. "It was entirely unprofessional, any patient could have heard me, and we shouldn't have been talking about that on the clock. I sincerely apologize, Sir-"

He cuts off your rambling with a sharp inhale, squeezing his eyes shut, almost as if your words pain him. He holds a hand up, glasses still in his grip. You take a moment, study the way his long, thick digits wrap around the metal.

"You can't- you can't call me that," he breathes out, a sarcastic laugh escaping his lips.

Your brows knit together in confusion, your mouth partially opened, unsure how to respond.

"I'm sorry?" You say, dumbly. It's all you can manage, shock at this new side of your boss taking over.

"You can't call me Sir. Not anymore," he avoids eye contact with you, the vein in his neck bulging.

"I'm sorry, did I do something to offend you, Dr. Robby? I promise I had no intention-"

"No-dammit," he cuts you off again, sweat starting to form at his brow. "Of course you didn't. You're one of my best nurses," he gruffs, almost annoyed at that.

"Thank you?" You respond, and he chuckles. It's a real one this time, a glint in his eye as he takes you in. Your own lips turn up in a smile.

"I just- I know it was a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear. It's just-" he plows five fingers through his hair as he struggles for the words. "All I've been able to think about since then is how I want to- you don't-you deserve so much better than that."

The last few words come out a whisper, and the world stops on its axis. Your mouth fully drops open, shock electrocuting your veins. The past few hours play back as a montage in your brain, his hesitation in the ambulance bay, the need to have you near him, his anger that you went to help Langdon.

Then, another realization dawns on you. A knowing laugh escapes your throat, and you palm your mouth closed. His brow quirks at you, red tinting his cheeks.

"Is that why I can't call you 'Sir'?" You ask, flirtation lacing your tone. "Because you want to help me out so badly?"

He pulls the collar of his sweatshirt away from his neck, fanning himself some as he once again avoids your gaze.

"Fuck!" He exclaims, ten fingers now raking their way through his mussed hair. "I can't- this is ridiculous, you're my nurse. This is entirely inappropriate-"

He rushes to the door, if only you weren't in the way. You stop him, a gentle hand on his forearm. The proximity is lethal, now. He's so close, you can hear his small pants, the tapping of his foot against linoleum.

"I mean, it would be inappropriate, yes," you start, allowing your fingers to graze his skin lightly. He shudders, and your smile is sinful. "If only I wasn't thinking about you all day, too."

His eyes snap to yours at the admission, and you can't help but flit your gaze to his lips. They're slightly chapped, the nippy fall air starting to mark its territory on his skin. They're plump all the same, though, and you wish you could brand the way he licks them onto your skin.

"Robinavitch!" Dana shouts, and you two flinch against each other.

The reality of this situation dawns on both of you, panic now taking place of the tension rumbling between you. Robby presses his fingers to his temples, eyes falling shut for a brief moment.

He pushes you toward the corner of the room, where you'd be hidden once the door opens.

"Stay here," he whispers, and the shoulder where he grips you may as well be on fire. "Give it five minutes. Then go. We can't-I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…" he murmurs under his breath as he swings the door open, his quick gait finding Dana at the end of the hallway.

Silence settles over you like a winter's chill. You roll your shoulders, attempting to shake out any remnants of Michael Robinavitch. You take your hair out of its clip, mussing it lightly to try to at least appear like you've been working.

You take a deep breath in, pushing it out before swinging the door open yourself, finding Robby once again delighting a patient in his special way. Your stomach churns with desire at the sight. Now that you know he wants you, too, all bets are off.

The rest of your shift is a blur, darkness soon settling over PTMC like a blanket. Your tasks feel menial, painfully routine when Robby looks at you the way he is. He's living in the back of your mind until hour twelve blissfully arrives.

It all replays in your head as you walk to the lockers, the glimmer in his eye when he looks at you, the way his knees buckle when you continuously call him 'Sir'. You swing the door open, nodding to the night shift nurses while you collect your things.

You're halfway through the vestibule, the parking lot in near distance, the sweet freedom of home calling your name. Something calls louder, though, and your head swings to the noise.

It's the door to the roof, shutting abruptly. You hear heavy footsteps clunking up the staircase, and you know all too well who it is. You stand there, the angel and devil on your shoulder debating whether or not to follow him.

You think back to the moment you guys had in the exam room, his breathlessness when you called him sir, his knees buckling when you grazed his arm with your fingers. Hell, the man blushed. More than once. You follow him.

You take a moment to appreciate the view once you're up there. The colorful leaves paint a beautiful autumnal skyline. You huff out a breath, a small puff wafting through the crisp air.

You set your bag down, slinking your arms through your pink sweatshirt. It's cold up here. Sobering. You can tell why Robby likes it up here.

"Hey," you start, and he jumps.

It makes you giggle, the pressure of being on the clock no longer pushing down on the two of you.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, rubbing his forehead with his palm. "How'd you find me up here, huh?" He asks, a playful glint in his eye.

"Just a hunch," you smile sinfully, eyes trained on the October sky in front of you. "It's beautiful up here," you remark, as if the tension isn't suffocating.

"Yeah," he remarks, his eyes burning a hole through your cheek. "Yeah, it is."

You have a feeling he's not talking about the view.

"Robby-" you start, but it's not long before his lips are on yours.

The kiss takes your breath away, the firm press of his soft lips is a delicious contrast, enough to make you dizzy. You grip his biceps, your fingers squeezing the tough muscle there. He grunts against your lips and you ease up a little, rubbing soothing circles in apology.

"Do you know," he mutters between kisses, his hands finding your skin under your sweatshirt and scrubs, "how much," he kisses down your cheek, your neck, "I want you?" He pulls away at this question, his eyes finding yours, bewildered at his confession. He presses a kiss to your nose before pulling you closer to him again.

Your head buries into his chest, his hands relentless, exploring every square inch of your body he can reach, his lips following suit. It's you that kisses him this time, gripping his jaw and pulling him to you with a whine.

"You taste so fucking good," he groans, tongue peeking out, testing the waters.

The slide of his tongue against yours is delectable, butterflies flooding your stomach in record speed. You grip the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing him even closer to you. Your knees buckle, falling further into him as he wraps more of himself around you.

He sighs into the kiss as he hoists you around his waist, pulling you out of sight behind a wall lining the roof. Your back hits the hard cement, and Robby's hand resting on the area beside your head. His forehead presses into yours, his breathing coming out quick and shallow. Yours matches his, and you can't help but rake your nails up his stomach to his chest, reveling in the way he shivers at the contact.

"I want you so fucking bad," he grumbles, rocking his hips into yours against the wall.

"You have me," you mutter, "I'm yours."

He groans at that, a loud, pained sound that rumbles somewhere deep in your stomach. He shakes his head, then, and your heart drops.

"Not here," he pants, pressing his body further into you. You moan at the contact, his hips jerking in response. "Fuck."

He kisses you once more, then again, and again. "After what I heard today…" he trails off, pressing kisses all over your face, "about how you're only satisfied with your vibrator…" more kisses, "it made me crazy. Can't believe these idiots your age don't know what to do with a woman like you."

Heat rushes through your veins at his words, desire burning at dangerous temperatures. His kisses grow more frantic as you feel him plumping up through his pants. Your knees buckle around him, and you thrust your own hips up to meet his.

"Robby, please. I need you to at least touch me," you whisper, not above begging for this man.

Your heart clutches when he shakes his head no, though his brows are knit together in pleasure, his lips parted in a perfect 'o'. He's on the brink of snapping, you can tell. You think you know exactly what'll get him, too.

"Sir, please. I need it," you plead, widening your eyes and jutting out your bottom lip.

A groan rips out of Robby's throat, his frantic hands pushing your scrubs down just below your ass. His fingers find your folds in record time, slowly sliding up and down, collecting your wetness. You bite your lip at the contact, your eyes never leaving his.

His brows jump at your pained expression, fingers stopping for a brief moment. "This okay?" He ensures, and you nod, whining and desperate for him to move again.

"Nuh-uh," he swats your thigh and you yelp. "Is this okay? Yes or no," he demands, and you fall even limper in his arms.

"Yes, it's okay Robby," you breathe out, your hands gripping his wrist, guiding him back to you. He smiles sardonically as he finds your clit, his index finger rubbing slightly.

"Oh God," you moan, arching your back off the wall. "Faster, please faster ohmygod," you whimper out, keening when his speed picks up.

"Yeah?" He asks, a faux pity lacing his tone. "This where you use your vibrator?"

You moan in response, and he chuckles.

"Yeaahh," he draws out, a teasing gasp leaving his lips at the jerk of your hips. "You press it on this pretty clit? Make yourself cum after some asshole can't do it for you?"

You nod shamelessly, hands reaching for his biceps once again. "Please Robby, make me cum, please Sir."