luzzerna

The ER had a certain energy that you had learned to live inside, and after ten months working alongside Dr. Jack Abbot, you had gotten very good at pretending that your completely  embarrassing schoolgirl crush on the man simply did not exist. It helped that the department rarely gave you time to think about anything that wasn’t blood pressure, labs, or the occasional drunk patient attempting to fight a security guard, and it also helped that Jack himself treated you exactly the way he treated every competent resident who worked under him, which was with sharp humor and the occasional low, approving “nice catch” when you called something correctly. You told yourself it was harmless. Plenty of people had little workplace crushes that never went anywhere. It didn’t help that he called you sweetheart when he was tired, distracted, or trying to soften an order that was actually a command. You ignored the way that word curled warmly in your chest and got back to work like a functioning resident.

Most days, you managed just fine. Then…he walked through the ambulance bay doors wearing the SWAT medic uniform. The trauma alert had come in hot and messy, something about a training exercise gone wrong that turned into an actual injury, and the bay filled instantly with the familiar rush of bodies, stretchers, shouted vitals, and the smell of antiseptic mixed with adrenaline. You had been halfway through finishing a chart when the overhead call came through, so you shoved the computer aside and moved automatically toward the doors, mentally running through the usual sequence of priorities. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. You were ready for the paramedic crew by the time they pulled up. What you were not ready for was Jack Abbot stepping out of the back of the ambulance in dark tactical gear.

You glitched out for half a second, long enough for your brain to fully register the details in a way that was extremely unhelpful to your professional composure. The uniform fit him like it had been tailored specifically to make your life difficult. Camo pants tucked into boots, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the medic patch stark against his shoulder, a vest slung open because he had clearly been working. There was dried blood on one glove and a faint smear across the front of his shirt. His hair was messy, jaw shadowed with the beginning of a beard, and he carried himself with the loose, confident awareness of someone who had just come off an active scene. You stared at him like a complete idiot. Jack caught sight of you immediately and the corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin that made something inside your chest squeeze all of your insides.

“Hey sweetheart,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just walked into your workplace looking like the most beautiful man alive. “You gonna help me out or are you just out here admiring the view?”

Your brain finally restarted. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered under your breath as you stepped forward to the gurney. “You can’t just show up dressed like that.”

He let out a quiet laugh that vibrated somewhere low and warm. “Pretty sure the patient would disagree.”

The team moved around you both as the injured officer was rolled inside, the rhythm of trauma care snapping into place around muscle memory and practiced communication. You worked the case the way you always did, focused and sharp, calling out orders, checking vitals, adjusting lines while Jack gave a quick report at the head of the bed. It was routine. Except that it wasn’t, because every time you looked up, he was still wearing that damn uniform.

He stayed close during the first part of the stabilization, helping transfer the patient, answering questions when someone asked about the mechanism of injury, his voice steady and roughened  from shouting orders throughout the day. You caught the faint smell of smoke and cold air on him when he stepped past you to reach the monitor, and it made your brain do something profoundly unproductive. Ten months. You had worked beside this man for ten months without completely losing your mind. Apparently all it took was one tactical uniform to destroy your self control.

When the patient was finally stable enough to head upstairs, the room slowly emptied, leaving you at the counter finishing up the chart while your pulse tried to remember how to beat normally. You were pretending very hard to focus on the chart when Jack leaned his hip against the edge of the desk beside you, still in full gear, still looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said.

You didn't dare to look up. “I’m keeping my comments to myself.”

“That bad?”

You set the pen down slowly and finally turned your head to glare at him. “You walked in here looking like a goddamn recruitment poster, Jack. What exactly did you think was going to happen?”

His eyebrows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “Recruitment poster, huh?”

“Don’t push it.”

He studied you for a second, something thoughtful sliding behind the humor in his eyes, and then he leaned a little closer. Not enough to touch you, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him and the quiet gravity that always seemed to follow him around the department.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “are you telling me you’ve had a crush on me this whole time?”

You scoffed, which would have sounded a lot more convincing if your face wasn’t currently burning. “Please. You wish.”

Jack’s smile turned slow and crooked. “You’ve been staring at me like you want to climb me like a tree since I got here.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t look like that,” you shot back. “You ever think of that?”

“Look like what?”

You gestured vaguely at the uniform. “Like that.”

He glanced down at himself then back at you, clearly enjoying this far more than he had any right to. “So…you’re saying the outfit’s working for you.”

“Shut the hell up.” That earned you a quiet laugh, low and rough, sending a small shiver down your spine. Before you could decide whether to be mortified or furious, he reached out and nudged your chin upward with two gloved fingers so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. There was a heat there now, unmistakable and burning low.

“You could’ve said something,” he murmured.

You blinked at him. “About what?”

“About the crush.”

You stared at him like he had just suggested jumping off of the roof later. “Jack. You’re my attending. I like having a job here.”

“Fair point,” he admitted easily.

Silence stretched between you for a moment, charged in a way that made your stomach flip. Then he tilted his head slightly. “For the record,” he added, “this isn’t exactly new information for me.”

Your mouth fell open. “You knew?”

“Yeah, you blush every time I call you sweetheart.”

“Fuck off.”

He laughed again, softer this time, and the sound settled warmly against your nerves. “I was waiting to see if you’d do anything about it.”

“And you decided the best move was to show up in tactical gear?”

“Seemed efficient and straightforward.”

You pressed a hand over your face and groaned. “You are unbelievable.”

Jack’s voice dropped just a little when he spoke again. “You’re the one who looks like you’re about to tackle me in the middle of the nurses’ station.”

You lowered your hand slowly, shooting him a glare. “Don’t tempt me.”

The grin he gave you in response was wicked enough to make your heart stutter. “Careful,” he said. “I might start thinking you’re serious.”

You leaned back in the chair, studying him openly now. You took in the dark uniform, the tired strength in his posture, the confidence that had apparently been wrecking your self control for months without your knowledge. “Next time,” you said, “you could warn a girl before you walk in here looking like that.”

Jack pushed away from the desk, adjusting the strap of his vest as he prepared to head back out to the ambulance bay, and the look he gave you was teasing and just a little bit dangerous.

“Where’s the fun in that, sweetheart?” He paused near the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. “Dinner after your shift,” he added. “You can tell me all about that schoolgirl crush.”

You felt your pulse jump again. “Jack,” you called after him. He stopped.

“If you show up to dinner in that uniform,” you said sweetly, “I’m not responsible for my actions.”