mari 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The ER noise swells and recedes around you. Monitors, distant voices, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Jack watches the department the way you do when you’re exhausted but still responsible for everything, alert, present and steady. 

He reaches for the coffee cup he must have abandoned on the counter earlier in the night, frowns at it. It’s cold by now. He knows that, and so do you, warm coffee is a rare luxury when working in the ER.  

“How’s it been tonight?” you ask, eyes on the chaos down the hall.

He exhales slowly. “Busy, like always.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Like fucking always.”

“You’re off after tonight, right?” he asks.

“Yeah. Four days.”

“Good,” he says, immediate. “You need it.”

You give him a deadpanned look. One eyebrow lifts, unimpressed, exhausted, painfully aware of the irony. “Wow,” you say flatly. “What gave it away? The bags under my eyes, or the fact that I just almost began to chart on the wrong patient?”

He smiles, just a little, the kind of expression that makes him dangerous in the way he can break your focus with nothing more than a look. You are mature enough to admit to yourself that you have a crush on him, as immature as it feels, and as impractical as it definitely is. 

“You deserve it, is what I meant,” he adds, softer than before, like he’s correcting himself for your sake.

The words land differently. There’s no teasing in his expression now, no easy smirk to hide behind. Just that steady, unreadable look he gets when he means something and isn’t sure how it’ll be received.

You swallow, because somehow that is the thing that almost cracks you, the gentleness of it. Not you’re tired, not you look like hell, but you deserve a break. Like rest is something you’ve earned instead of something you have to justify.

“So do you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t answer that, he just studies you for a long moment, something unguarded flickering across his face before he reins it in.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Maybe.” It’s not dismissal, though it’s not agreement either.  

The moment stretches, at least as long as a moment can stretch in a place that never really allows stillness. 

You really are looking forward to a break from this place, four days for just you and your little girl. Four days of pancakes shaped vaguely like hearts. Of bedtime stories read twice because she insists she wants to hear it again. Four days where the world shrinks down to something soft and manageable. 

Your parents have been wonderful, they have her on the nights you work. The perks of working at night is that she is sleeping when you’re working, and you are sleeping when she is at daycare, and you get more control to pick your shifts, so some weeks you work a lot and others you have more days off, you guard those days like treasure. You can keep her home on those days and give her all the attention in the world.

It’s not the life you pictured once, but it’s a life that fits. Mostly.

Jack shifts beside you again, subtle, like he doesn’t want to startle you out of wherever you’ve gone. Then, with a faint tilt of his head toward the board, “You see bed twelve? They finally cleared it.”

“Thank God,” you mutter. “That guy was ringing his call bell every two minutes.”

Jack lets out a low breath that might almost be a laugh. “I swear, if one more patient tells me they ‘never wait this long at other hospitals’.” 

“I would start telling them to keep to that hospital,” you say dryly. “Sounds magical.”

That gets a real smile from him, brief but relieving. The spell breaks when the automatic doors slide open with a sharp hiss. The sound cuts clean through the noise. You both turn instinctively.

A little girl, dwarfed by the fluorescent lights is being rolled in, she is sitting up and is alert, which should mean it isn’t that serious, but the look of her still makes all the air leave your lungs for a second.  

Your heart stutters. She looks so small on the gurney, in her pink and white striped pajamas, a spot of dried blood on the breast pocket. She holds a butter yellow hand towel to her left brow like someone had told her to and she’s now taken it very seriously. She holds her other arm close to her body, like she is instinctively trying to prevent it from bumping into anything, like it’s hurting.  

You call out her name and her head turns, she peeks out from behind the towel. “Mommy,” she exclaims, voice breaking on the word like she’d been holding it in her chest the entire ride over.

You’re at her side in an instant. Your own mom is already right behind the gurney, her voice cuts through the noise before you even fully register her presence.

“She fell on the stairs,” she says breathlessly, one hand still gripping the rail like she’s afraid letting go might mean she loses sight of her granddaughter. “I woke up to the thud and her crying. She was supposed to be asleep—”

“Mom,” you say gently but firmly, the word grounding both of you. “It’s okay. She’s here, we’ve got her.”

Your daughter’s fingers tighten around yours the moment she recognizes you fully, relief flooding her face now that the pieces have connected. Grandma, hospital, you.

“I didn’t mean to fall,” she blurts out immediately. “I was trying to get my water.”

“I know, baby,” you murmur, brushing hair back from her damp forehead. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody did.”

Jack is there without announcing himself. Of course he is. He steps in close enough that you can feel him at your back, steady and calm, his presence like an extra set of hands holding everything together. 

“Peds is clear,” Jack says quietly, already reaching for the side rail. Not rushed, not loud. He says it almost like this is just another patient, except the way his voice dips careful, betrays that he knows it isn’t. 

Your daughter looks up at him with wet lashes, half her face still covered with the tower, and her voice wobbles. “Hello,” she says, both a little shy and a little wary, her small voice barely audible over the hum of the ER, still clutching the towel like a shield.

Jack smiles at her and crouches slightly, bringing himself to her level. His voice is soft, steady, and deliberate. “Hey there, kiddo. I’m Jack. You took a pretty good tumble, huh?”

​​Your daughter glances at him, her wary melting away, though the shyness still lingers around the edges. You notice that he introduces himself as Jack, not Dr. Abbot, the casual warmth of it settles the room, as well as something within yourself. 

“Yeah,” your little girl says, her voice quieter now, the edge of fear softened by the calm way Jack crouches to meet her eye level.

“Can I see your forehead for a second?” Jack’s voice is gentle, and your daughter hesitates only for a heartbeat before slowly lowering the towel. 

Your heart twists as you see the blood on her little face. 

“Alright,” Jack says as he takes a look at her split brow, the soft hospital light catching the worry lines on his face in a way that makes you realize how present he is, how focused, without being overwhelming. “Thank you for the look,” he then says before he straightens up again. “We are gonna take you to your own room now, so we can fix you up, is that okay?” Jack continues, his voice still soft, calm, like he’s guiding her through a storm she didn’t want to be in.

She nods with all the bravery a four and a half year old can muster, clutching your hand a little tighter. The gurney starts rolling. You walk alongside it, one hand never leaving your daughter’s. Your mom falls in step just behind. 

Your mom, who is usually a calming presence, seems just as tense as you are, her brow furrowed slightly. “I should have heard that she had gotten out of bed,” she says, and you know that she is just worried, and that she is blaming herself for an accident that isn’t really her fault, but her worry is slightly stressing you out. 

When the door to the pediatric room closes you feel it then, the way the room tilts just slightly. The collision of roles. Nurse, mom, daughter. All stacked too tightly inside your chest.

Jack notices immediately, of course he does. “Why don’t you sit with her,” he says quietly to you, though not really as a question. “Then I’ll run the exam.”

You hesitate, instinct fighting training, but he meets your eyes with that steady look that says I’ve got this. You don’t have to be everything right now. So you nod.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, Jack lifts your daughter from the gurney, very mindful of her hurt arm, and places her on your lap. 

Your little girl practically melts into you, she settles against you like she’s been wound too tight and is finally allowed to loosen, her cheek pressing into your chest. You instinctively brace her with one hand at her back, the other cradling her carefully away from the injured arm. She’s warm, solid and here.

“She didn’t lose consciousness,” your mom says again, like she needs to say it out loud. “She cried right away.”

“That’s good,” Jack replies. “You did exactly what you should’ve,” he then says, his words now directed at your daughter. That makes her smile, and you feel your chest tighten with a rush of pride so sharp it almost hurts.

Your moms phone begins to ring in her bag, your mom startles, trying to find it with shaking hands. “Sorry, that’s probably your father, he dropped us off at the entrance,” she says, voice unsteady, already halfway apologizing for answering it.

“It’s okay, you can go find him,” you tell her gently. “I’ve got her.”

Your mom hesitates, eyes flicking between you and your daughter, guilt written all over her face. 

You soften your voice even more, the way you do when you need someone else to borrow your calm for a second. “Mom,” you say quietly. “She’s okay. I’m right here. Go find dad, he’s probably pacing a groove into the sidewalk.”

That earns a fragile, breathy laugh out of her. She exhales, shaky, then leans in and presses a kiss into your daughter’s hair, lingering there like she’s imprinting the moment.

“See you later, love,” your mom whispers, half to you, half to her. 

Your daughter nods against your chest, already half-burrowed into you again. 

The door closes softly behind her, and the room exhales. The silence that settles afterward feels earned.

Your daughter’s breathing evens out against you, small and warm and real, her weight anchoring you to the bed. One socked foot dangles, slowly swinging, the adrenaline ebbing out of her system now that the danger has been named and contained. She smells like sleep and soap and that faint metallic tang of blood that makes your stomach tighten if you think about it too long. Not because you aren’t used to blood, but because it’s hers. 

Jack stays quiet for a moment, giving the room time to steady itself while he gloves up. 

“Alright,” he says quietly. “I need to get a better look at your eyebrow now.” 

She nods again, trusting him with the kind of trust that feels enormous when you witness it. She shifts slightly in your lap but doesn’t pull away. One small hand fists into the fabric of your scrub top. The other stays tucked protectively against her side.

“I’ll be really gentle,” Jack adds. He leans in, gloved fingers steady as he cleans the dried blood away. He talks the whole time, narrating just enough to keep your daughter engaged, not scared.

Jack keeps his voice low and even as he works, like he’s smoothing the edges off the moment rather than rushing through it.

“This is just a little cold,” he tells her as the saline touches her skin. 

Your daughter huffs a tiny, indignant sound against your chest. “I don’t like cold things.”

“You know what?” Jack says solemnly. “Neither do I. Except for ice cream, of course.” 

Your daughter lets out a small, incredulous giggle against your chest, the sound soft but precious, and you feel it ripple through you like sunlight cutting through fog. “I like ice cream too.” Her little voice trembles a little with excitement and relief, and you feel a soft tug at your chest. 

She winces, just barely, at the saline and you murmur sweet nonsense into her hair. Soft sounds, familiar rhythms, the kind of reassurance that comes from instinct more than thought.

“That’s my brave girl,” you whisper.

Jack’s calm demeanor doesn’t waver as he glances at the now clean cut, more carefully. He kneels slightly to get a better look, his gloved fingers gently parting the edges of the gash.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice steady but soft, “this cut is a little deeper than I first thought. We’re going to need a couple of stitches to make sure it heals properly.”

Your daughter tenses, her small body stiff against you. She presses her face into your chest.

Jack glances at you over her head, a subtle question in his eyes, you okay? You nod, almost imperceptibly. He accepts that answer without pressing.

Then he refocuses on your daughter again. His voice drops even lower, gentle and steady.

“I’m going to be super gentle, and you get to hold your Mommy’s hand the whole time. I’m also gonna give you some numbing medicine, so your eyebrow won’t feel much of anything.”  

“Okay, then I think I dare,” she says,with a determined whisper, burrowing her face back into your chest. 

You can’t help but smile at her choice of language. You and Jack catch each other’s gaze for just a second and in that brief moment, it’s almost like the world outside the room disappears. 

She gets two small stitches. Jack moves with a quiet precision, each motion deliberate and measured. He listens, explains, lets her keep her dignity, in a way that makes something in your chest ache, sharp and reverent all at once.

Jack keeps his voice low as he works, steady enough that it becomes part of the room’s rhythm. He isn’t rushing, or indulgent, just present.

“Alright,” he murmurs as he finishes prepping. “I’m going to start now. You don’t have to do anything except keep sitting still and holding mom’s hand, okay?”

Your daughter nods once against you, solemn. Her fingers curl tighter into your scrub top, the fabric bunching under her fist. You feel the tiny tremor in her body before she stills again, trusting you to hold the fear for her. Hearing Jack mentioning you so naturally, so without hesitation, does something quiet and seismic inside you.

You are a mom, her mom. It’s a role he hasn’t seen you in before, up close, unguarded, instinctive. Something in your chest gives way at that. 

The first stitch goes in cleanly. She makes a small sound, more surprise than pain, and you immediately murmur reassurance, pressing your cheek to the crown of her head. Your hand moves in slow, familiar circles along her back, grounding both of you.

“That’s one,” Jack says softly. “You’re doing really well.”

Your daughter stiffens for half a second at the sensation, then exhales against you when nothing terrible follows. Her body loosens again, trusting the pattern now. Jack’s calm voice, your steady hold, the quiet truth that she is not alone in this.

You feel it in your bones, that trust. The way she gives the fear to you without ceremony, like it’s always been yours to carry.

“I’m gonna do the other now,” Jack sys gently, more for her than for himself. “Still doing great.”

She nods into your chest, a small, solemn movement, like she’s taking the job seriously. Her fingers flex once in your scrub top, then relax.

Jack works with the same careful precision, his hands steady, unhurried. He narrates just enough to keep her grounded, not enough to overwhelm her. The second stitch goes in as smoothly as the first.

She flinches, just a breath of movement, and then it’s over.

“And two,” Jack says quietly. “All done with the stitches.”

There’s a beat of silence where the words don’t quite register for her yet. Then. “Really?” she asks, muffled, the same way she always asks when she’s braced for more.

“Really,” Jack says, smiling. “You were incredibly brave.” 

He holds a hand up for a high five. She peeks up at him at that, lashes still clumped just a little, eyes wide and searching his face for confirmation. Then she lifts her hand on her noninjured arm and gives him a careful, deliberate high five. It lands soft, more ceremonial than forceful, but Jack treats it like it’s the most solid thing in the world.

“There it is,” he says, warmth unmistakable now. “Perfect form.”

A smile breaks fully across her face, crooked and proud and still a little wobbly at the edges, accompanied with the sweetest little giggle. She immediately turns and buries it against your chest again, as if embarrassed by her own bravery now that it’s been witnessed.

You meet his eyes. You mouth a thank you. Jack nods. It’s small, almost nothing, but it carries weight. He understands what you’re thanking him for. There’s no swell of music, no cinematic pause. Just the quiet aftermath of something tender having happened in front of both of you, something neither of you pretended not to see.

You realize, with a strange clarity, that this is the first time he’s really seen you like this. Not the competent nurse who can anticipate orders before they’re spoken, not the colleague who trades dry humor at the station to survive another night shift. But with your heart wide open and bleeding quietly behind your ribs while you hold your child together with instinct and love. 

He looks back to your daughter, instinctively, the way you do when you want to keep the center of gravity where it belongs.

“Alright, superstar,” he says softly. “I’m just going to clean this up and put a little bandage on. Then you get to keep sitting right here.” 

Your daughter hums sleepily in approval, cheek pressed to your chest, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles into your scrub top. The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving only that heavy, boneless calm that comes after fear has burned itself out.

Jack finishes quietly. Gauze, a careful strip of tape, hands that never tug more than necessary. He peels off his gloves and disposes of them, movements efficient but unhurried, like he’s deliberately resisting the ER’s constant pull to rush. 

The calm doesn’t last long. Her arm still needs to be looked at. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and kiss the top of her head. “You did so good, baby,” you whisper, voice low and steady even as something inside you braces again.

Your daughter hums faintly in response, eyes fluttering but not quite closing. When she shifts, the movement is careful, instinctive, but the moment her hurt arm bumps against your side, she makes a small whimper. 

Your chest tightens. Jack catches it immediately.

“Can I see?” she asks, voice small, tentative, like she’s not sure she wants the answer but needs to ask anyway.

“Of course,” you say, even though a part of you would prefer her not to, in case it will scare her. But you also believe that pretending something isn’t there is worse than letting her face it with you beside her. 

You take your phone from your pocket and turn on the front camera. You angle it so she can see without having to move much, your hands steady despite the faint tremor still humming under your skin. 

She studies the screen seriously, brow furrowed in concentration. Her free hand lifts, hovering over the bandage, before lowering it again. 

“You might get a little battle scar,” Jack says gently, finishing the thought with care. “But it’ll fade. And until then, it’s proof you were very brave.”

Her eyes flick from the screen to him, weighing that idea. “Battle scar?” she repeats, testing the words like she’s rolling them around to see how they feel.

Jack nods, solemn as if this is a matter of record. “Yep.”  

Then she nods once, solemn acceptance settling in like a decision she’s proud of. “Okay,” she says quietly. 

You watch the exchange with a tender kind of awareness that sits low and quiet in your chest. There’s a tenderness in the way he frames it, like he understands intimately that scars are not just marks left behind, but proof of surviving something that could have taken more. 

And of course he does. Because Jack knows what it means to carry proof on your body. 

“Okay,” he says softly, already moving back toward you. No urgency in his tone, but no delay either. “Let’s take a look at that arm now.” 

Jack pulls the stool closer again and sinks down in front of you, movements measured and familiar. He doesn’t rush the moment your daughter whimpers, but waits for her to settle first, for her breathing to even back out against your chest. 

When she finally feels ready, she sticks her arm out for him to look at. He examines her arm the same way he did everything else, slow and deliberate, hands light. He watches her face more than the arm, catching every flicker of discomfort. When she stiffens near her wrist, he stops immediately.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

You already know what he’s going to say. You’ve seen this pattern a thousand times. Knowing it doesn’t make your chest feel any less tight.

“I want to get an x-ray,” Jack says softly, glancing up at you. Not alarmist, but not minimizing it either, just honesty.

The word lands quietly but solidly. You nod before he even finishes the sentence. There’s no debate in you about it, just that familiar, steady click of yes, of course, do what we need to do. You’ve lived on this side of decisions long enough to trust the rhythm.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I figured.” 

Your daughter lifts her head a little, eyes heavy-lidded but alert at the word she doesn’t recognise. “What’s an x-way?”

Jack shifts closer again, keeping his voice gentle, explanatory without being scary. “It’s like taking a picture of the inside of your arm,” he says. “So we can see if the bone got a little bend when you fell.”

She frowns, processing. “Does it hurt?”

“Nope,” he says immediately. “It doesn’t hurt, you just need to sit still for a minute.”

She seems to accept that, then adds, very seriously, “I can sit still.”

You smile despite the tightness in your chest. “Yeah, you’re very good at that.” 

Jack’s mouth curves, at that. Not a full smile, it’s something quieter. Respectful. Like he’s clocking the truth of it.

“Right,” he tells her. “You’ve been proving that all night.”

She looks absurdly proud of that, chin lifting a fraction before the exhaustion pulls her back down. Her forehead finds its place against your collarbone again, like gravity has finally remembered its job.

Jack straightens and looks at you, really looks this time. “I’ll have radiology come down here,”  he says quietly. “No reason to move her if we don’t have to,” he finishes.

Relief loosens something in your chest you hadn’t realized you were bracing. You nod once. “Thank you.”

Jack holds your gaze a fraction longer than necessary, like he’s checking that you’re still upright on the inside too, not just by habit. You offer him a tired smile and he returns it, subtle but real. 

“I need to go check on a patient,” he finishes quietly, already half-turning toward the door. Then he pauses, like something pulls him back. “I will call radiology first. And I’ll be close,” he adds. Not dramatic. Not a promise that needs weight, just information, just enough.

You nod. “Okay. Thank you”

Jack slips out, the door closing softly behind him, and the room settles into that in-between quiet that only exists when something hard has already happened and the next thing hasn’t arrived yet.

Your daughter is fully boneless now, the last of her adrenaline spent. Her breathing evens out against you, slow and warm, her forehead tucked beneath your chin like she’s found the exact place she belongs. One small hand still fists your scrub top out of habit, even in sleep.

You adjust your hold minutely, careful of her arm, careful of everything. Your body knows how to do this without being told. You press a kiss into her hair and let your eyes close for half a second longer than you probably should. 

You can’t help but think about Jack. You don’t try to stop the thought. You’re too tired to police it, and honestly, it’s been hovering at the edges of you all night anyway. The way he made space for both versions of you without comment.

You don’t let yourself spin this into anything more than it is. You’re good at restraint. You’ve had to be. But still, there’s something different about the way Jack sees you. Not in a sweeping, romantic way, but in the way that matters when things fall apart at three in the morning.

Your daughter sighs softly in her sleep, a tiny sound of contentment, and you feel it vibrate through your chest. You tighten your arms around her just a fraction, grounding yourself in the weight of her.

The door opens quietly again, and you don’t even look up at first. You know his footsteps now. You feel them before you hear them.

Jack pauses just inside the room when he sees your daughter asleep against you. His expression softens in that unguarded way you’ve come to recognize, the one he doesn’t seem aware he’s wearing.

“She out?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Finally.”

He nods, like that tracks. Like he expected it. He steps closer, careful, glancing at her arm, the bandage on her eyebrow, the way she’s tucked into you like she’s claimed you as her anchor.

Radiology’s already on their way,” he says. “They’ll be quick.”

“Okay.”

There’s another pause. Not awkward, just full.

“I’ll come back when they get here.” Jack doesn’t move right away after he says it.

He stands there for a beat longer than necessary, weight settled into one side. His eyes flick once more to your daughter, then back to you. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t need to be. The understanding is already there, layered and solid from years of shared shifts and unspoken things.

Jack steps back out into the hall, leaving the door cracked just long enough that the sounds of the ER bleed softly into the room instead of crashing. Then the room exhales again.

You shift slightly on the bed, adjusting your daughter so her weight is more evenly supported. She makes a small noise in her sleep, a soft protest, then relaxes again. You get your phone out to text your parents, thumb hovering for a second before you type.

She needed a few stitches, she took it like a champ. Waiting for an x-ray on her arm just to be safe. She’s asleep now. I’ll update you soon. You add a heart you don’t usually bother with, then send it before you can overthink it.  

You tuck the phone back into your pocket, the bed creaks softly as you adjust again, instinctively shifting to keep her arm supported. 

The door opens again not long after, a soft knock, then the roll of equipment. Radiology, quiet and efficient. Jack is with them, of course. He catches your eye immediately, gives you a small nod that says I’ve got it, still.

Your daughter stirs a little in your arms.

“Hey, superstar,” Jack murmurs, keeping his voice low. “We’re just going to take that picture we talked about.”

Your daughter stirs more at the sound of his voice, blinks once, then burrows closer into you instead of pulling away. A sleepy whine ghosts out of her throat.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

The tech explains things gently, positioning the portable machine with practiced care. Jack helps guide your daughter’s arm into place, his hands steady, never rushing her, never forcing the moment. When she whimpers, he pauses instantly, waiting until her breathing smooths again before continuing.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Just like that.”

The image is taken quickly. The machine hums, then stills. The tech murmurs a quiet thank-you and slips out again, leaving the room with that same reverent quiet it entered with.

Jack stays where he is, eyes on the screen now, posture relaxed but intent. You don’t ask. You just watch his face, the way you always do. 

Jack studies the image for a long second, head tilted just slightly, the way it always is when he’s lining things up in his mind. The room feels very still around you, like everything has leaned in to listen.

“Okay,” he says quietly, turning back to you. “Good news.”

The words don’t hit all at once. They spread instead, slow and warm, loosening something deep in your chest that’s been clenched since the moment you saw her on the gurney.

“No fracture,” Jack continues, voice still low, still careful. “Just a sprain. It’s going to be sore for a bit, but nothing that won’t heal on its own.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your shoulders drop. You press your lips into your daughter’s hair, eyes closing for the briefest second as relief washes through you.

“You’ll get a splint to keep it comfortable for a few days,” Jack says, sitting back down in front of your little girl like he has all the time in the world. 

Her eyes widen with concern. “A splint?” 

You understand her concern immediately. “A splint, baby,” you murmur softly. “Not a splinter.”

Jack huffs a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh, catching himself before it becomes one, but he smiles. “Yeah, no splinters,” he says gently. “I promise.”

Your daughter blinks at him, processing through the fog of exhaustion. “Splinters are mean,” she informs him solemnly.

“They really are,” Jack agrees, like this is serious medical consensus. “But this is more like a glove. It gives your wrist a little rest while it feels better.”

“Oh,” she says, the word soft and sleepy, like the worry has already started to loosen its grip. 

You catch Jack’s gaze over her head, and there’s that quiet, steady reassurance in his eyes again. It warms your chest in a way that’s both familiar and unsettlingly tender. 

He gets the splint, it looks so small in his hands. “Alright,” he says quietly. “This is going to help your arm rest for a few days.”

She watches him with heavy-lidded seriousness, trust intact even through the fog of sleep. When he reaches for her wrist, he does it slowly, giving her time to register the movement before it happens. His touch is careful, practiced in a way that comes from long familiarity with bodies that hurt.

“I’m gonna get discharge started so you can take her home,” Jack continues quietly, finishing the thought without urgency. “She’s earned her own bed tonight.”

“I’ll call my parents to come get her, I still have a few hours left of the shift.”

Jack huffs, something between a breath and a quiet laugh, and shakes his head once. “You take her home,” he says, gently but firmly, like this isn’t a suggestion. “Get your four days off started early.”

You open your mouth on instinct. It’s habit and training. A lifetime of swallowing your own needs before they inconvenience anyone else.

“Jack, I—”

“I know,” he says softly, already ahead of you. There’s no impatience in his voice, no edge. Just understanding. “You don’t want to leave the floor short. But we will be fine, there is someone who needs you more right now.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks, past the scrubs and the composure you wear so easily at work. His gaze drops briefly to your daughter, then comes back to your face, softer now.

He doesn’t need to say anything, you feel it all the way into the marrow of your bones. The weight of his regard settles low in your chest, steady and grounding, just like the way his hands have been all night. It’s the look of someone who understands exactly what it means to keep showing up even when it costs you, someone who has learned, painfully, how to put other people first and live with what’s left over.

Something in your throat tightens.

He clears his own, subtle, like he’s catching himself before he says too much. “She needs you,” he repeats, quieter now. Not as an argument, but as a truth.

Your daughter shifts slightly, her forehead pressing more firmly into the hollow of your neck, her injured arm tucked safely between you. The instinct to stay with her flares so bright it almost hurts.

You nod once. “Yeah… I’ll take her home.”

“Good,” he says quietly. 

Something in your chest melts at the simplicity of it. No bravado, no dramatics. Just him, presentn and steady. 

He leaves to finish the discharge paperwork. You watch him go, the soft click of the door closing behind him lingering in the air. You call your parents to update them, your voice soft, careful not to wake the now sleeping girl in your arms. 

You agree that they should just drive home and that you take your daughter home with you. They will come over tomorrow afternoon to visit her. 

You thank them quietly for always taking so good care of her, keeping your tone low so it won’t stir your daughter. Tonight was not their fault, and you don’t want them to blame themself. And you really do appreciate them so much.  “I’ll text you when we’re home safe.”  you murmur as a last goodbye.

After hanging up, you pause for a moment, just holding her. Her little chest rises and falls against you, and the steady rhythm feels like the only thing that matters in the world right now. You press a soft kiss to her hair, brushing a loose strand from her forehead. 

A little while later, there is a knock on the door and Bridget peeks her head in. “Hey, I should say from Abbot that you’re cleared for takeoff.” 

You smile softly, careful not to wake your daughter, and whisper, “Thanks, Bridge.” 

“How’s she doing?”

You shift slightly, adjusting your daughter in your arms so she’s more comfortable, and glance up at Bridget. “Sleeping,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Everything’s fine now. Just tired from the excitement.”

Bridget nods, smiling as she glances at the little girl curled against you. “Good. Dr. Abbot said she handled everything really well.”

A warmth spreads through your chest at the mention of his name. You brush another loose strand of hair from your daughter’s forehead. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice soft. “She did. And he… he was really great with her.” 

Bridget gives a small, knowing smile. “I can see why,” she says quietly, almost to herself, before slipping out and closing the door gently behind her.

You stay for a moment longer, just holding your daughter, feeling the quiet steadiness of the night around you. When you finally shift to leave the room, you move slowly, carefully, like the world might crack if you rush it. You slide off the bed, adjust your grip on the sleeping girl in your arms, and ease the door open with your shoulder.

The hallway is dimmer now, the night shift easing into that early-morning calm where everything finally slows. Fewer voices, fewer alarms, just the low hum of the hospital breathing around you.

When you turn down the hallway heading towards the staff lockers, your steps are unhurried, instinctively measured to the rhythm of her breathing. 

A few coworkers pass you with gentle smiles and words, but no one stops you. The night seems to understand what you’re carrying.

Your shoulder brushes the wall as you adjust your grip again, careful of her arm, and you feel the weight of the last few hours finally settling into your muscles. Exhaustion, but also relief. The kind that leaves you hollow and light all at once.

When you pass a patient room, Jack steps out into the hallway, lifting his stethoscope back around back around his neck as he leaves the room. He looks up and stops. For a split second, he just watches you.

The lights catch the tired lines around his eyes, the ones you usually pretend not to notice. His gaze moves instinctively to your daughter, her small body slack with sleep against you, then back to your face. Something softens in him, something unguarded.

“Hey,” he says quietly, already lowering his voice.

“Hey,” you answer, just as soft.

“She still out?” he asks, nodding toward her.

“Completely,” you murmur. “Didn’t even flinch when we moved.”

“Good,” he says, like it genuinely matters to him. He steps aside without thinking, clearing your path. “You heading to the lockers?”

You nod. “Yeah. Then home.”

“And you’re okay?”

You take a breath, feel it all the way down. “I think so. Just… tired.”

He gives a small nod, understanding written all over his face. “Let me help grab your stuff.”

He doesn’t wait for you to argue. He just falls into step beside you, matching your pace like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The locker area is quiet, Jack reaches your locker before you can even shift your weight to free a hand. You tell him your locker code without thinking twice, the numbers slipping out of you on instinct, like trust has already made the decision for you. 

He gets your jacket and your bag, the small, ordinary pieces of a life that feels anything but ordinary tonight. 

“Here,” he murmurs, holding the jacket open so you can slide an arm through. 

When you hesitate, balancing her weight, he steps closer, gently settling it around your shoulders. His fingers brush your collarbone for the briefest second before he pulls back, like he’s reminding himself where the line is.

“You’ve got it?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He slings your bag over his own shoulder without asking. “I’ll walk you out.” 

A part of you wants to protest, he has already spent more time than anyone could reasonably expect tonight, but the words never quite make it past your lips. You’re too tired to argue. Too grateful to try. And you know that he wouldn’t offer it if he couldn’t spare the time to do it. 

So you just nod, and let him. 

He doesn’t make a joke about favoritism or professionalism, or anything else that might fracture the quiet you’re carrying with you. He just stays beside you, steady and unshowy, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

He steps aside to hold the door of the employee exit open for you, then falls back in beside you as you head toward the parking lot. His gaze keeps drifting to your daughter, to the way her face is relaxed in sleep, her fingers curled lightly into your scrubs.

When you reach your car, he sets your bag down carefully and turns back to you. For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. The words feel too small for everything he’s done, but they’re the only ones you have.

He shakes his head a little, like he doesn’t want the weight of gratitude. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” you reply. “But I want to.”

His mouth curves into something soft at that. Tired, but real. He glances at your daughter again, then back to you.

He doesn’t have to utter a word. The way he looks at you is enough. Enough to say, I see you. I get you. I care.

He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself, then nods once. “She’s… incredible,” Jack says finally, voice low. His words are not clinical, nor polite, they are honest. “You’re doing a really good job.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you,” you say, voice even lower than his. “You were amazing with her. Never too late to shift to pediatrics,” you add quietly, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. It probably would be too late, and you would hate if he wasn’t exactly where he is. 

He huffs a soft breath at that, something close to a laugh but quieter, more private. “I think I’d miss the chaos too much,” he says, then, after a beat. 

You know what he means. “Yeah, some people just thrive in chaos,” you murmur, letting the words trail off.

He nods slowly. For a heartbeat, there’s just the two of you in that parking lot, the world holding its breath around you. He shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pants pockets. He looks down at the pavement for a second. When he looks back up, his eyes are softer again, and gives a faint, almost reluctant smile.

“You should get her home,” he says gently. Not a dismissal, but a kindness. “Get some rest,” he then adds. “Both of you.”

“We will.”

You settle your daughter carefully into her car seat in the back before closing the door. When you straighten up again, Jack is handing you your bag. You take it with a soft smile before stepping to the driver’s side.

You pause in the car doorway, hand still on the handle, and glance back at him. He meets your gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and in that look, something unspoken passes between you. Years of shared shifts, quiet understanding, the weight of your lives carried alongside one another, all of it rests there in that silent stretch. 

“She’s really lucky to have you,” he says finally, voice low, almost lost in the night air, but weighted with something that makes your chest tighten. Then, after a fraction of a second, like he’s correcting himself for your sake.

You swallow, the words settling in your chest like sunlight through fog. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, and the air between you hums with all the things you’ve never said aloud.

You manage a small, tired smile, fingers curling around the handle of the car door a little tighter. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice barely more than breath, but it carries more than you could ever fit into a longer sentence.

“Get home safe…” he adds, letting the words hang just long enough to be felt rather than rushed. His eyes meet yours again, soft and steady, holding a quiet weight that doesn’t need to be named.

You give a small nod, a smile tugging at your lips despite the fatigue. “We will,” you reply softly, fingers brushing the handle of the car door like a quiet tether to reality.

As you pull out of the lot, you glance once in the rearview mirror. He’s still there, watching until you’re gone.

On the backseat, your daughter stirs slightly in sleep. The road stretches ahead, quiet except for the hum of the tires, and for a moment, everything else falls away. And somewhere behind you, Jack is back inside the Pitt, bathed in fluorescent hospital lights. 

You glance back at the precious little girl behind you in the rearview mirror, her small chest rising and falling in soft rhythm, and your heart swells with a tenderness that feels too big for words. 

Masterlist | @vanilleandclove

Broken, part 02 | @robinavitchswhore

Jack Abbot's day is turned upside down when you and y'all's child is brought into the emergency department.

jack and night shift reader | @mercvry-glow

Too Much | @popcornpoppypop

Jack has to reckon with the promises he made to his wife in order to keep her safe.

Organized Care | @/popcornpoppypop

Listen this is a very self indulgent thought because I’m the worst at this… but Jack would be the king of reminding you to take your meds. Birth control, psych, midol/aleve, whatever… he is just always making sure your needs are being met because he knows your mind just blanks on those things… but not him. He’s got you.

Cinnamon Rolls and Resting Bitch Face | @/popcornpoppypop

Jack’s first shift back after your spontaneous Vegas wedding, Robby asks him to stay for overtime. Jack finally gets to use his favorite excuse, “Gotta get back to the wife.”

Woodland Treasures | @/popcornpoppypop

Jack likes to go on hikes on his day off. He finds something unexpected while enjoying the start of fall.

Forever | @lover-girlxx

before your shift, you and jack into a disagreement. when a patient accidentally hurts you, you realise something about your relationship with him.

Rooting From The Heart | @punkgeekcryptid

Little Turkey | @thebirdandthebee

Papa No | @/thebirdandthebee

Pink Plaster | @/thebirdandthebee

never not mine | @highdramas

jack attempts to walk away. you attempt to reel him back in. it leaves you both raw and vulnerable.

A little old for you | @thesewordsareallihavetogive

Some residents at the Pitt try to get Doctor Abbot’s attention, but he only has eyes for you.

Man Of The Year | @/thesewordsareallihavetogive

Doctor Jack Abbot is the best husband, and you’re so grateful.

Strays | @rr-after-dark

You join Jack for the ED picnic, leading to a serious discussion between you and Dr. Robby.

That Kind Of Man | @/rr-after-dark

Jack Abbot doesn't know how to express his feelings in words, so he does what he knows best: Action.

Bridges | @marvelouslytrekking

You find Jack up on the roof after a shift but you don’t have a conventional approach to getting him to step back

Crisis: averted, lives? Changed | @eden031

She and Jack decide to go along on a field trip with Josh‘s class, not thinking anything of it until things go sideways. After Jack has a slip up an important and live changing conversation follows.

The Pitt Gift Exchange | @queersyourgender

The Talk | @at-this-point-i-dont-even-know

You two got together without discussing the future- it’s time now to set the record straight.

Welcome To Night Shift | @yourlipstogodsears

Nightshifts only med student accidentally becomes important at work from Day one.

abbot’s gym wife | @gatorlovebot

you’re having a low pain day so you decide to visit jack during his shift, but instead of seeing your boyfriend you instead learn that he may be hiding something from you.

Older boyfriend Abbot! | @ofthepitt

More Older boyfriend Abbot! | @/ofthepitt

Bedtime | @/ofthepitt

I still love you. Older!BF Jack Abbot | @/ofthepitt

You still you. | @/ofthepitt

moodboard drabble | @se7entyrell

leaning on you | @/se7entyrell

Seeing his wife in the ER | @/se7entyrell

darkness got a hold on me | @/se7entyrell

Honest mistake, Part 2, Part 3 | @girlboss-things

Jack's an accidental thief but it gave him an opportunity to talk to you not at work.

Barely a Scratch | @/girlboss-things

You get injured at work, no biggie. Jack thinks otherwise. Just a little stand-alone fic I've had in my drafts

part 1: I’m not afraid of hurting anymore | @inkdippedquills

Jack Abbot could be a real bitch; grief just made him efficient with it.

part 2: then I’ll have at least tried | @/inkdippedquills

The slow descent of falling in love with a friend, what could be and could have been.

part 3: but it’s enough to keep me going | @/inkdippedquills

Maybe he was in charge of what “could” be

part 4: to prove my love to you | @/inkdippedquills

The past never goes away, but maybe there’s a place to find steady ground.

Mama’s Boy | @oldermenfucker

Your son interrupts you and your husband’s “fun” time every time Jack gets his hands on you. Tonight he’s had enough.

heading out | @miley1442111

a terrible week continues with the start of a terrible shift where a waiting patient decides to grab you as you walk in. jack finds out. chaos ensues.

The Longest Night at The Pitt | @abbotjack

An ordinary night slips into something else entirely. With Jack stuck at the hospital, you face the unthinkable alone—until help arrives. Fear builds, choices are made, and love is stretched thin across time, distance, and emergency room doors.

Goodnight N Go | @rynwrites4fun

Once a year, Jack Abbot takes the early train from Pittsburgh to New York to see you. He spends the afternoon with you, remembering your brother, his best friend, who has passed. He always catches the last train home, says goodnight, then goes. But this year, he doesn’t say goodnight. And he doesn’t go.

You just never choose me | @thepittofdespair

lover boy (part 1) | @toosweetforanyone

completing residency means you can potentially run, but you unfortunately can’t hide from your feelings for Jack. Especially when he’s the one serving it to you on a silver platter.

Sunday Football | @/toosweetforanyone

The Pitt football watch party, a longtime tradition at Jack’s house, starts to look a little different as the crew begin to notice the subtle changes that could only mean one thing between you and Jack.

Snowy Morning | @bysomeweirdo

no one wants to be the one to tell abbot you’re in the ER | @starlord-s

older attending!jack abbot | @/starlord-s

Drabble | @/starlord-s

Jack Abbot x reader | @/starlord-s

Scenic Route | @traumaone

Shen needs saving, you're sleep deprived and suffering an unrequited crush, and Abbot wishes he had never asked.

Personal Space | @/traumaone

Promise | @marlboroughmills

you’ve been working the day shift throughout your pregnancy without much of a problem. but the third trimester is a bitch.

i saw mommy kissing santa claus | @/marlboroughmills

jack’s boys see something suspicious on christmas eve.

It was always rare whenever yours and Jacks' schedules aligned. With him always working night shifts and your work schedule never being the same as the last, it was difficult to plan shared time together. This morning was a rare occurrence where you would be waiting for Jack when he came home from his shift. Adorned in your favorite sleep shorts and an oversized tee you not-so-secretly stole from Jacks closet, you fought to keep your eyes open as you listened for the familiar unlocking of the front door that meant Jack was home.

Evidently you didn't fight hard enough to stay awake because you were awoken for the second time this morning, but it wasn't by the alarms you had set the night before. You slowly opened your eyes, the feeling of two arms snaking around your waist gently interrupting your slumber as you heard a soft voice from behind you.

"Go back to sleep, I know you were up early this morning." Jack states as he pulls your body closer to his, burying his face in your hair.

You attempt to wipe the sleep from your eyes before placing your hands on his forearms that help you against him.

"I wasn't up early-" You tried to protest before Jack interrupted you.

"Sweetheart, I came home and you were sleeping through two alarms labelled 'Grandpas shift ends'. I told you that you don't have to wait up for me to get home, you need just as much rest as I do."

Before you can mentally beat yourself up too much for being caught, Jack speaks again.

"And I really hope my name in your phone isn't 'Grandpa'.

You let out a small laugh before rolling over in his arms to face him. Your hand reaches up to cup one side of his face, rubbing your thumb gently across his cheek.

"No, you're actually saved as 'Silver fox', thought it would be more fitting."

Jack lets out a half laugh at your response before letting his face get closer to yours and connecting his lips with yours. You sigh into the kiss before pulling away far enough to speak.

"And what's wrong with 'Grandpa'?" you ask with a small smirk.

His eyes are closed now, sleep not too far behind him.

"Reminds me that I'm an old man." He grumbles as his body starts to relax into his position next to yours.

You start peppering small kisses across his face, loving the small smile that threatens to show on his face as you do.

"Yeah," You place another kiss on his cheek, "but you're my old man." You state as you place a quick kiss on his lips, causing his smile to finally break.

He closes what little distance there is between the two of you and buries his face in your neck and sighs- as if he's been waiting for this moment all day.

"Well how about you make your old man happy and go back to sleep with him, huh?" He whispers against your skin, his lips tickling slightly.

Your hands reach up to tangle themselves in his salt and pepper hair, eliciting a hum from him.

"Yeah, I think I can manage that, gramps." Your response earns you a playful pinch on your side from the man wrapped around you before he drifts to sleep.

You lie with him for a while as he quietly snores, watching his relaxed state next to you. You loved seeing him like this, knowing that it was a side of him that only you had the privilege of seeing. You carefully lifted the arm that was draped over your frame and slowly climbed out of the bed, trying not to disturb him. You silently made your way to the kitchen, wanting to give Jack some time to himself to sleep and not worry about being tangled up with you. The smell of the breakfast you had cooked and eaten still hung in the air when you heard the rustling of blankets against sheets coming from your shared bedroom. When you found yourself leaning in the doorframe of the bedroom, you saw a now half awake Jack, eyes still closed, moving his hand as if he had lost something.

"What're you looking for?" you ask as you begin to make your way back towards the bed.

He peeks open one eye to meet yours.

"You."

The blanket shifts as he does; his shirtless frame now peeking from under it, showing off his freckles and faded scars. You couldn't help but admire them as you sat next to his still lying figure in the bed. He reaches out and lays his rough hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before he speaks again.

"Where'd you run off to, hm?" he asks as he begins to trace patterns on your thigh, making your head go a little fuzzy.

"Just to the kitchen to eat. Wanted to give you some time to yourself while you slept so you could fully relax and-" Your response is cut short by Jack interrupting.

"Why would I want that?" He interjects, his eyebrows furrowed as if the suggestion of you being away from him was an outlandish idea.

He moves the hand resting on your thigh to lightly pull on the sleeve of your shirt, attempting to pull you down to him.

"C'mere. You're too far away."

You lie next to him, but he still manages to pull you even closer to him. he brings one hand to your face, holding you in place as the other wraps around your waist and threatening to slide under your shirt.

"I spend my whole shift thinking about getting back home to you so I can do exactly this, and you think I wanna have time to myself?"

His face being so close to yours and the feeling of his fingers dipping under the hem of your shirt makes it hard for you to focus, but you hear him nonetheless.

"I missed you" He whispers against your lips before giving you a sweet kiss.

You smile into the kiss, not being able to help the giddy feeling you have whenever Jack is like this.

The hand on your waist travelled to your thigh before he gently draped it on top of his own, giving him new access to you as he deepens the kiss. He only pulls away slightly to catch his breath and mumble a hushed 'missed you so much' before strengthening his grip on you and changing position. In one fluid motion he's above you, his weight on you as he has you pinned against the mattress as he dipped his head to catch your lips in another kiss. You gasp into the kiss as you feel his hardening bulge through the thin material of his boxers. Jack uses this as an opportunity to invade your mouth with his tongue, groaning as he does. You reach up and place your hands in his hair, gently tugging whenever he ruts against your clothed core.

He's propped himself up on his elbow as his other hand that was gripping your thigh is slowly dragging up to the waistband of your shorts. He pulls away from your lips, a thin string of saliva connecting you two as he hooks his fingers in the band of your shorts.

"You gonna be good for me, sweetheart?" He asks and it sends a shiver down your spine.

All you did was nod yes as you looked up at him through your lashes.

His fingers are still lightly tugging at your bottoms when he shakes his head.

"C'mon baby, you're a big girl, use your words. I asked if you're gonna be good for me." He repeats

You squirm under his intense gaze, already feeling heat rising to your cheeks.

"I'm gonna be a good girl for you."

"There she is, now lift your hips for me, baby."

You wordlessly raise your hips for him as he lifts from his propped up position and drags your shorts and panties down your legs. He leans down trailing kisses and nips down your body, starting at your neck and going down your thighs. He raises again and gazes down at you as you squeeze your thighs together, the sudden eye contact and attention making shyness creep all over your body. He gently spreads your legs and kneels down between them, leaving kisses the further he sinks down.

"You gonna let me take care of you, baby?" He asks as he peers up at you from between your thighs.

You whisper a small 'yes', resisting the urge to buck your hips to meet him halfway.

His hands wrap around your hips, his fingers dig into your soft flesh as he breathes against your core.

"God, you're already so wet for me. You get this excited just from me kissing you, pretty girl?" He taunts you.

You open your mouth to retaliate, but the only thing that leaves you is a moan as he drags his tongue over your clit. His grip on your hips tightening as he listens to the sounds that leave you while he devours you. He swirls his tongue over your clit before dipping lower and teasing your entrance, all while rutting into the mattress and chasing a friction of his own- getting off just by pleasuring you. He groaned against you, the vibrations making you whimper as you pull at his hair and push his face deeper.

Between Jacks tongue and the bruises he's surely leaving with the iron grip he has on your hips, you start to feel a tightening in your core. Your hand travels down to find his, and he intertwines his fingers with yours on instinct. He can tell your close and feverishly quickens his pace, desperate to help you release.

"You gonna cum just from my tongue, baby?" He asks, barely letting you register he spoke before dipping his head again and lapping at you like he's starved.

His taunts and unrelenting tongue push you over the edge and you let out a choked sob as you feel your release wash over you, Jack never hesitating or stopping until you come down.

He crawls up your body, leaving random kisses on your body as he moves. When he reaches your face he captures your lips immediately and you taste yourself on him.

"You did so good for me, sweetheart. Knew you were gonna be a good girl for me. Y'always are." He says breathlessly through kisses, his words slurring together.

Your head was still spinning when one of your hands travelled down to faintly tug at the waistband of his boxers. You were desperate to feel more of him. The fabric of his boxers sticking to your still wet pussy as he began to roll his hips against you, earning a groan from both of you.

"Feel that, baby? s'all because of you, this is what you do to me- fuck." Jack is mumbling as he chases the contact between you two.

All you had to do was say his name barely above a whisper, for him to lean up enough to practically tear his boxers down his legs and let his erection spring free. He let out a shaky sigh as he lined himself up with your entrance before slowly sinking into you. He immediately let out a groan accompanied by a string of mumbled 'fuck's as he let you adjust to his size. He finally started rolling his hips into you once he felt you start bucking your hips up, trying to create friction between you. Your hands found your way to his back, moaning as you felt the muscles flex as he pumped himself in and out of you repeatedly. You felt as though you were seeing stars when Jack grabbed your leg and swiftly brought it to hook onto his hip, hitting you even deeper than he was before. You could already feel that familiar burn forming in your core again as you dug your nails into Jacks back and leaving marks for him to admire the next day.

"You're so fuckin' tight, fuck, baby. You gonna cum again for me?" He says, barely catching his breath as he feels his own release sneaking up on him.

He leans down as he's still drilling into you and whispers against your ear.

"Want you to cum all over me, angel. Want you to make a fucking mess for me."

His words send you over the edge, moans fleeing from you rapidly while Jack continues thrusting into you as he reaches his own high. He fills you up completely and his hips finally come to a slow halt before pulling out and taking his place beside you. Before getting too comfortable he reaches on the floor, grabbing a spare towel from his shower earlier to gently clean you. He throws the towel in his hamper before pulling you against him, skin sticky and warm as he wraps his arms around you. Jack plays with your hair as he holds you and listens to your breathing becoming calmer, smoothing out any hairs that became misplaced during your morning activities together. He places a kiss to your temple before speaking.

"Not bad for an old man, right?"

You scoff at his comment before burying your face in the crook of his neck.

Jack Abbot wasn’t exactly a man who gave the details of his life out like it was nothing - an intrinsic part of him felt certain things had to be earnt, although he was also self-aware enough to recognise that he was pretty selfish in keeping things to himself so they remained untouched from outside interference.

Interference like Dana, who, upon him walking through the ED twenty minutes before the start of his shift (he woke up early, and one thing he couldn’t stand was being still), fixed him with a raised brow and eyes full of mirth. In fact, it threw him so off his usual routine that he sidetracked his path to the lockers, making his way to the desk, eyes quickly drinking in the board.

A quiet day meant only two things: an easy enough night, or devolvement into carnage. 

And, guessing from the way the corner of her mouth seemed to twitch up slightly, Jack was willing to bet money on the latter.

“It’s never a good thing when you look like that.” He fixed her with a flat stare, tamping down his own smile as she tilted her head, “What did you do?”

Dana shrugged, playing coy, “Not me. You.” She pointed her pen at him, and Jack’s body seemed to lock in place of its own accord.

He frowned, unzipping his coat - just needing something to do with his hands, “What have I done now?” 

He hadn’t had the best sleep earlier; could still feel the remnants of last decade’s fatigue burning at his eyes, and he could already feel his patience running a little thinner than usual. Irritable, tense. Standing at the front desk and willing the night to remain as calm as possible. Willing the pounding of his chest to remain as manageable.

“I don’t know.” Dana replied, folding her arms across her chest, “D’you know any doctors in the ICU by any chance? Upstairs?”

Something clicked in his head, and he shifted on his feet a little, feigning confusion as best as he could, “A doctor that’s a patient or a doctor of the ICU?”

He had a feeling he knew what this was.

“Doctor of.” 

“Ah.” His eyes darted to where Robby had just walked out of the toilets, mindful that if he didn’t quite get to the bottom of things before he got there, before he saw Jack being awkward and Dana prodding, that something would get blown a little too out of proportion for his comfort, “I might, yeah.”

Dana hummed but didn’t immediately say anything, interpreting his short answer for what it was - deflection. She knew Jack well enough to fluently read his little idiosyncrasies. It was how she knew not to pry too much when he’d walked into the Pitt with a crease already between his brows and a seemingly immovable half-frown on his face. Something was bothering him, and he looked like he hadn’t slept too well. 

She knew when to be merciful, and she had a particularly soft spot for the ragged man in front of her.

“Okay,” she tapped her pen three times on the desk as Jack narrowed his eyes in her direction - not threatening, not grumpy, just assessing, “because she, who will remain unnamed, just went upstairs and told me to tell you to check your phone.”

Jack said nothing, but his attention momentarily flickered to the doors of the elevator, his hand already searching the pocket of his cargos, “She okay?” 

Dana managed a small smile, one that went unnoticed by Jack but was caught by Robby, who - after leaving the bathroom - had watched the odd little interaction out of the corner of his eye, “Far as I could tell.” Then, maybe just to test him a little, “She’s very pretty.”

Jack felt his eyes widen in acknowledgement, something warm tugging at his chest. Yes. That answer was painfully obvious, much to his chagrin. Every time you chose him - texted, rang, spoke to him, sought him out - his ears would throb and he’d get this giddy feeling in his chest. And if he hadn’t read your text of ‘NEED HELP ASAP’ at the same time Dana put that little nuisance of an observation into his mind, he probably would have cracked a smile and agreed, but all he could do was tighten the strap on his backpack and mumble a quick apology to Dana before he’d all but rushed to the elevator, fingers hurriedly typing a reply.

Dana watched him go, half-concerned, half-curious, as Robby approached the bench, hands in the pocket of his hoodie, “What was that about?”

Dana huffed a laugh, “He got a text from a very, very pretty ICU doctor.”

Robby’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, mouth forming a rather surprised ‘o’, “Anyone we know?”

She tilted her head, “Not yet. The system says she’s about to run the night shift in the ICU for a few months; the boss is on maternity leave.” She breathed, watching as the doors to the elevator shut, Jack inside but hidden from view, “I’m willing to bet money on the fact that they know each other well, though.”

Robby eyed her carefully, “How well?”

“Friends.” Dana replied, confident, “For now, at least.”

Robby hummed, “I’ll take that. Ten dollars?”

“Thirty. Don’t be a pussy.” Dana shook her head, scoffing.

***

By the time Jack made it upstairs, the kettle in the break room had only just finished boiling and you’d yet to manage to take some painkillers, and you knew - because this always happened - that maybe thinking you had time to make a cup of tea was a little ambitious.

Your phone pinged, and you didn’t even need to be looking at the screen to know he was waiting by the door, brow furrowed and lips downturned in concentration. 

You were right, of course. Except he looked a little…off. 

“Is everything okay, why–”

You cast a cautious look around, scanning the area for any of your fellow doctors, before dragging him into a toilet cubicle off the side of one of the corridors. There wasn’t much space, but the lighting was bright enough to really get a good look at him. You’d had three days off work to get rid of some of your paid leave before the year reset, and although they’d been pretty slow, it felt weird not seeing him. Like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle - something hadn’t been wholly right.

But three days also didn’t mean that you suddenly lost the ability to read the lines in his face, and Jack Abbot looked exhausted. His hair was a little taller than usual, like he’d been awake longer and had more time to thread his fingers through it, and his eyes were red enough for you to see it with two feet of space between you both.

“Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?”

You both spoke at the same time, but before you could beat him to it, he held up a hand, “You first, that text was cryptic and kind of desperate.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, “What if I just wanted to see you?”

His brows raised, a flicker of amusement lighting his features, “Then you’d have stuck around or just told me that.” He sighed, “Are you okay?”

You paused, suddenly a little sheepish. Nervous. Maybe a bit embarrassed, too. In truth, you had wanted to see him - that seemed to be the pattern when it came to Jack lately, because you always wanted to see him - but certain circumstances meant priorities had shifted slightly.

He tilted his head, waiting for you to respond with remarkable patience, hazel eyes darting across your face. Reading the hesitation, probably.

“I did something to my collarbone this morning.” You started, hand going up to clutch the offending area, unable to mask the wince at the contact. Your skin still felt a little funny - scrub top scratching unpleasantly, or it would have done if you hadn’t quickly sewn a bandage to the inside to soften it, “I managed to fix it I think, but I need a second opinion.”

He nodded every so often, gaze switching from your eyes to the hand that rested down your shoulder, clearly still too tentative to place much weight there, “You hurt yourself?” He asked, this time his tone less gravelly, a tad softer.

The crease between his brows faded slightly as he adjusted his stance, arms unfolding. Concerned, but not fussing, and for that you were glad - even if he could see from the lopsided way you were standing that something was clearly wrong. Broken, dislocated, separated, his brain listed off possible reasons before he could put a plug in to silence it.

Jack Abbot wasn’t a fusser by any means, and you’d never been more relieved that was the case until right now.

You nodded, teeth catching briefly on your bottom lip, “Yeah. I, um…Is that okay if you check it out?”

“Of course.” He shook his head, as though his shift didn’t start in fifteen minutes, and his hands made an awfully familiar motion, “You wanna take the top off?”

You hummed, keeping your injured shoulder as still as possible as you shrugged one arm out of your shirt and only with Jack’s help and three ‘ows’ did you manage to slip it off the other side. You wedged your top between your knees, pulling the strap of your vest and bra down slightly. 

It did cross your mind that maybe you ought to have just asked one of your colleagues, but with the way his brow quirked up and his focus remained on your fucked up collarbone, that thought went straight out of the window.

He looked right at you, “You dislocated your collarbone.” It wasn’t a question, not with the way a warm hand gently touched your shoulder, thumb tracing your clavicle, trying to decipher where it was irregular. Your shoulder hung a little lower on one side, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was your own caution and pain that let it sag, or if it was a little more damaged than you initially thought.

You nodded, cringing at the touch, “I put it back in but I just need a second opinion.”

“Well it was clearly dislocated but you did a pretty good job at resetting it yourself. The swelling’s normal - you take any pain meds?” He didn’t let his hands fall completely, instead letting them trail down one arm, clasping one of your wrists and tracing small circles above the band of your watch.

“Not yet.”

He huffed, an impressed smirk on his face, “I can’t decide if that’s brave or stupid.” 

You rolled your eyes, “I just haven’t gotten round to taking any yet, I spent most of this morning trying to get dressed because it hurt so much. Don’t even get me started on breathing.”

He tilted his head, face muscles sharpening, “It hurts to breathe?”

You hesitated again, pulling a face as he extracted a packet of painkillers from one of the pockets of his backpack and handed you his water bottle wordlessly, “I mean…yeah.” 

He fixed you with a thoughtful look, and you could almost taste his thoughts bleed into your brain, “Any other symptoms?”

Oh, he was Doctoring you now. You’d said the buzzwords ‘hurt to breathe’ and his brain had flagged an error. 

“Couldn’t move my arm or turn. My skin kind of feels weird, and my neck and underneath my scapula too on that side.” You knocked back a gulp of water, swallowing the pills, “Also…” You pulled an unsure face, not certain how he was about to take the next piece of information, “Don’t lecture me on this, I know I shouldn’t have put it back in myself, but I actually didn’t know it was dislocated until this morning.”

His eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head, concern billowing off him in waves, “What?”

You swallowed nervously, hands fiddling with the coarse material of your scrub top, “Yeah. Yesterday morning I thought it was just a bit stiff, but then the pain got worse, and earlier I woke up and my collarbone wasn’t…there.”

He sighed, running a hand down his face, taking your scrub top from you, something unreadable on his face. You expected him to make some comment about human anatomy and knowing when body parts were in the right place or not, but no. Instead, “Okay.” His voice was gentle again, eyes still on you as he folded your top neatly without looking, “You wanted a second opinion?”

You nodded, heart pounding at the rather grave tone in his voice. You had a feeling you knew where this was going.

“Come down to the ED with me, I’ll sign you in and get you on the list for a CT because that sounds like a nasty dislocation and we don’t want any unnecessary damage.” He paused, jaw twitching, “You also need a sling to take some of the weight off for a while.”

You sighed, eyes darting to the frosted window, “I’m supposed to be on shift in ten minutes.” 

What you didn’t say was I’m needed here. You’d just had your vacation days, and now a fucked up collarbone was gonna intervene and the whole department was going to be one staff member short, all because you’d slept on your shoulder funny. 

But he was right. He nearly always was, and you knew for certain that if a patient had told you those were their symptoms you’d have booked in them fifteen minutes ago. And as frustrating as it was, you needed to be fit and uninjured to do a good job. 

You weren’t currently at that stage.

Grey curls entered your line of sight, and you blinked, focusing on him before he had to properly get your attention. One thing about Jack? He was gonna get your eyes on him no matter the circumstance. Even more so if the situation was a little dire.

“Okay.” You scratched your eyebrow, “Okay, yeah.”

Something that had been coiled tight in Jack’s chest eased a little at your compliance, and he nodded carefully, “Can anyone cover for you?”

“I think so, yeah.” You offered him a reassuring smile, more for his sake than yours, but he noticed the way the edges were pulled a little bit too tight.

“You think?” He echoed, brushing a stray stand of hair out of your face. He watched you track his movements, watched your brain stall for maybe half a second, before snapping back in.

He’d given you his second opinion - been your doctor - now he could just be Jack. Could let himself relax a little now he knew you weren’t on the brink of death or about to refuse his very valid medical advice (his mind had taken a horrific image earlier and just ran with it). 

And he’d missed you. Well and truly, as sad and pathetic as that made him sound. He’d gotten used to your little routine: picnic on the roof when the weather was nice, or meet up in the canteen if it wasn’t. Coffee break at two in the morning if things weren’t too busy, and breakfast after shift. Yours or his place afterwards. He hadn’t realised quite how much time he was spending with you, and for those three days he had felt a little lonely.

Weird, he thought, how that happened.

He blinked back into the room when your lips parted, eyes wide and slightly unsure. He’d seen you handle trauma after trauma in the ER when they needed an extra set of hands, had seen you rattle off orders and whatnot like it was second nature, but this was the first time you’d looked a little out of your depth.

“I haven’t actually told anyone I’m injured.” You admitted, a little shyly.

He inhaled, a small smile playing at his lips, “How come?” 

You grimaced, watching him as he bent down to unzip his backpack, before handing you one of his spare hoodies and replacing it with your folded scrub top, “Apparently Ashley on the day shift came into work the other day with a broken nose because her husband rolled over in bed and accidentally punched her. Nearly everyone laughed at her and she had to go to the ER to get it set.” 

Jack straightened slowly, shouldering his backpack and considering you carefully, “You think people will laugh at you?”

“No.” You threaded one arm through a sleeve, relishing in the warmth of the fleece, “I don’t think, I know.”

He huffed an amused breath of laughter, holding the other side of the hoodie open so you could thread your sore shoulder through easier, “I mean, you did dislocate your collarbone in your sleep, so, I think that’s a perfect opportunity to incite bullying.”

Your jaw dropped, and before you could stop yourself, you swatted his side with a huff of laughter - one more so of shock than anything else, “You’re supposed to be making me feel better not worse.”

He grinned, catching your hand before you could get him again, “I am, see, you’re laughing.” The crinkles by his eyes deepened as you both stopped struggling, the quiet a comfortable silence.

He still had one of your hands clutched in his but neither of you acknowledged it. He didn’t drop it immediately either, and you felt your heart pound for another reason.

This man, with his grumbling, premature grey hair and unreadable expressions, was going to be the death of you some day.

“So, if I’m a patient in your ER—”

“I’m giving you to Parker.” 

You scoffed, “Rude. I want you.”

“In seven minutes, it’ll be my ER, and you will get me. I just can’t be seen flirting with one of my patients.” He checked his watch.

“God forbid that happens.”

He nodded, “God forbid I have a heart.”

Silence.

You looked at him; he was a little livelier than when you saw him earlier. His eyes weren’t so dull and he seemed a little more at ease - less tension in his shoulders and easier to make smile.

“You okay?” You asked, squeezing his hand. He took it as an invitation to step a little closer, the slight waft of his deodorant tickling your nose. 

It was a smell you’d come to familiarise yourself with, one that - against your will - was synonymous with comfort. And it had everything to do with the man who wore it.

He inhaled, lips curling slightly, “Didn’t sleep too well but I’ll be fine.”

You nodded, considering his words for a moment, “I think this is a sign.”

He raised a curious brow, “This?”

“Yeah. We don't see each other for three whole days and you don’t sleep and I wake up with a dislocated collarbone? Can’t be a coincidence.”