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“Where’d you go just now?”

The sound of a tablet scraping across the main desk of the Pitt pulled you from whatever mental vacation you’d been taking.

You blinked twice and looked up to find Dr. Ellis standing across from you, peering down slightly as you practically slumped against the desk. Papers were scattered in front of you, charts half-finished, and your collection of glitter pens lay in disarray from when you’d knocked over the holder while chasing a naked patient down the hallway an hour ago.

“Oh, you know.” You waved a hand vaguely. “My happy place.”

The sarcasm was obvious—a reference to the self-care seminar Robby had forced every nurse to attend last month.

You waved yourself off, changing the subject. “What’s the ETA on the GSW?”

“Rerouted to Westbridge. We may actually get a chance to—”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

Shen appeared beside you, leaning onto the desk with an iced coffee in hand.

“You gonna put a coaster under that Pink Drink?” you asked, nodding toward the condensation already racing down the side of the plastic cup. “Or you gonna let it sweat all over someone’s x-rays?” 

Shen scoffed.

“I’ve told you before. It’s only pink because of the limited-edition strawberry syrup.”

He said it like you were somehow the ridiculous one.

“As long as it’s not the Sabrina Carpenter drink anymore, I don’t give two shits what’s in it.”

Ellis shot you a look of agreement. “I cannot listen to the chorus of Espresso one more time for at least six months.”

“But it’s the song of the summer!”

“It was the song of the summer. Two years ago, Shen.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed a coaster and slid it beneath his cup since he seemed entirely uninterested in doing it himself.

Shen muttered something under his breath about being “culturally underappreciated” before taking a giant slurp from his iced coffee.

“See?” Ellis said, watching him intently. “This is why we can’t have nice things.

“No, lack of public funding is why we can’t have nice things.” 

“You seem slightly more aggressive than usual. What’s up?”

“Other than the fact that I slept maybe three hours earlier?” You rubbed your forehead, keeping your eyes trained on the double doors like if you stayed vigilant enough, gurneys and EMTs would simply stop coming through them. “Existential dread. The naked patient practically assaulting me earlier. The parent who claimed I was indoctrinating their child into Buddhism—a religion I do not practice.”

She whistled.

“Been a minute, huh?”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Since what?”

“Since you’ve seen him.”

Your face twisted into something that could only be described as a mixture of surprise and disdain.

Shen’s eyes darted between you two, leaning in slightly closer to you in anticipation as his mouth was somehow still wrapped around the orange and pink straw. 

“Am I supposed to know who you’re talking about?”

“Oh, come on. Every time you show up here in a foul mood, it’s been at least a week since you and him met up. You’re practically a billboard with ‘needs to get laid’ written across it in bright red font.”

“I am not that readable.”

Shen decided this was a good time to join in, adding, “Earlier, you told Whitaker he should consider putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign for tiny elves to live in his hair.”

You frowned, eyes still fixed on the double doors as your fingers fidgeted with your badge.

“Okay, and was I wrong? He needs a curl routine. I’ve been telling him that for a year now. It’s not a good look for us.”

She offered you an amused smile, the kind she always did. Parker Ellis was probably your favorite doctor in the department—always willing to help despite half of it falling outside her responsibilities, always ready with advice when you needed it. You knew she didn’t hand that out to everyone, which only made you appreciate it more.

And Shen was…well, he was Shen. You got a laugh out of him every so often. 

You didn’t typically make a habit of getting close with the doctors, as they tended to be in and out of a hospital most of the time. The other nurses were more your speed, but something about the doctors of the night shift—

“Hey, we all need ways to relieve stress when we work in a place like this. I take edibles. Shen plays a concerning amount of Minecraft. You choose to indulge in a toxic situationship with a guy who only calls you when he wants to get his rocks off.”

“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”

“Shen’s Minecraft addiction is pathetic.” 

“The fuck?” Shen scrunched his face at the stray comment, but Ellis only continued. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, failing miserably at suppressing your laughter as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead briefly against his shoulder.

She pointed a finger at you. “—You’re a consenting adult. As long as nobody’s getting hurt, who cares if all you and this dude see each other for is sex?”

Your stomach tightened a little at that.

Her question didn’t exactly sit well because—

She added, “Plus, from what you’ve told me, it’s pretty damn good.” 

A throat cleared beside you.

You were a nurse in an emergency department. It didn’t exactly say it in the job posting, but “know the vibes of every doctor who works here and find a way to cohesively fit into the team so you can make their lives easier because that’ll actually make your life easier” might as well have been in the fine print. At least, that’s what Dana told you on your first day.

So you knew how different residents operated. You knew how the interns behaved. And you definitely knew how attendings liked to, well, attend.

And this particular attending usually cleared his throat when he found you chatting at the desk with doctors that weren’t him.

You straightened, your expression tightening—not at all like a kid caught talking in class—as your eyes met his.

Dr. Jack Abbot had a particular habit of appearing whenever you were having a perfectly pleasant conversation with another doctor.

It was one of the more irritating things about him.

You’d noticed it months ago.

The second he caught you leaning against a desk with Shen, laughing at something Ellis said, or discussing anything not directly related to patient care, he’d suddenly remember a task that needed doing. A chart that needed updating. A patient that needed medication. An ortho consult that should’ve been paged five minutes ago.

Always work-related.

And always suspiciously timed.

You knew how attendings operated. You knew which ones were strict, which ones were laid back, which ones expected perfection and which ones expected effort.

Jack wasn’t actually hard on you.

The annoying part was that he seemed to save this particular brand of impatience exclusively for moments when you were talking to somebody else.

Which bothered you more than you’d ever admit out loud because you were good at your job.

Your patient satisfaction scores were always high. You stayed late when people needed help. Even Gloria had thrown the occasional “good work” your way, which was practically a standing ovation.

So every time he acted like you were one conversation away from bringing the entire department to its knees, it got under your skin.

“Are we almost through with the social hour,” he asked, hands tucked casually into his pockets, “or can we get some morphine to bed three sometime tonight?”

Right on schedule.

You glanced at the clock—you’d been standing there for approximately forty-five seconds.

“No, we’re through,” you offered him a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Good.” He nodded once, now turning to Shen. “You’re needed in Peds.” 

He stepped past Ellis, whose eyes tracked him before flicking back to you. Shen trailed behind, a mischievous look on his face. She let out a small huff of laughter, then glanced after him again.

Until she looked at you, which, your facial expression could only be described as someone who had just had their parade rained on, set on fire, and then clinically assessed by Jack Abbot

“Yeah…maybe call dude up and see if you can find some time,” she said. “Because you’re wound tighter than wire around a coil.”

“I can relieve stress without sacrificing my self-respect, Ellis.”

“Can you?”

You scoffed, clutching a hand to your chest in exaggerated offense.

“I don’t need some man to help me relax—especially not one who’s as emotionally constipated as this guy is.”

You gathered your pens quickly and messily, stress and dishonesty practically radiating off you in waves. Ellis watched with a knowing look as you shoved a blue glitter pen into the pocket of your scrubs. One sleeve of your baby pink undershirt was pushed halfway up your arm, the other hanging past your wrist.

You were a mess.

“You can’t quit him, can you?” she asked bluntly.

Your head jerked up, strands of hair falling across your cheeks.

“I can stop whenever I want.”

The rest of the shift didn’t get any kinder.

It never did.

A patient screamed at you because the wait time “felt like a violation of human rights,” which, according to him, apparently included triage priority and two actively coding traumas that had rolled in back-to-back.

Another tried to leave against medical advice with an IV still in, insisting you were “controlling the narrative of his body autonomy,” which you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t already three coffees deep and running on pure spite.

The coffee was its own horror story.

Burnt, lukewarm, and somehow still sour, like it had given up on being coffee halfway through its existence. You drank it anyway.

By the time the worst of the chaos finally slowed, your scrubs felt like they had absorbed the entire shift—bloodless but heavy, like your exhaustion had physical weight. Your head ached in that dull, persistent way that made every overhead announcement sound like it was being shouted directly inside your eardrums.

You charted on autopilot. Answered pages. Signed off on things you barely remembered reading.

And all the while, there was that steady hum underneath everything.

Not the monitors beeping or the coding alarms.

You.

Something restless in your chest that wouldn’t settle no matter how much you moved, no matter how much you did, no matter how many people you helped.

When you finally clocked out, the morning air hit you like a kind of mercy.

It was quiet. Empty enough to feel almost unreal after the controlled chaos of the ED. You liked how walking out of a shift into a brand new day felt like a fresh start.

You sat in your car for a moment before starting it.

Hands on the wheel. Forehead leaning briefly against it. Eyes closed.

The silence should’ve helped—but it didn’t. Because now there was nothing to distract you from your own thoughts.

From the shift replaying in fragments—flourescent lights, Ellis’s teasing, Jack’s annoyed glance across the desk, the way your body always seemed to register him before your mind caught up.

And worse than that.

The way your mind kept circling back to the same thing, over and over, like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The way his eyes flicked between your chin on Shen’s shoulder, the sharpness in his stare when he’d paused—just for a second too long—before speaking. 

The way it shouldn’t have meant anything. 

And the worst part was how quickly he’d buried it again, like nothing had happened at all. 

You exhaled slowly, started the car, and just drove.

Traffic lights sliding over your windshield in slow, rhythmic pulses. Red. Green. Red again. The city moving around you like it didn’t know or care what kind of night shift you’d had.

Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, but your mind didn’t.

It kept drifting back to relief.

To something that would make the tightness in your chest loosen for even a little while.

And the more you tried not to think about it, the more obvious it became what your body was already deciding for you.

You didn’t end up at home.

You didn’t even hesitate when you pulled into his building.

You just sat there for a second in the driver’s seat, engine ticking softly as it cooled, staring up at the familiar windows.

Then you got out.

Second guessed your decision. 

You walked up anyway.

Because you could tell yourself a lot of things.

That it was just stress.

That it was just habit.

But your hand was already lifting before you could talk yourself out of it.

And then you were knocking on Jack Abbot’s door.

Like he was expecting you, he swung the door open with a familiarity that always managed to piss you off.

You hated being expected. It meant you weren’t as convincing as you thought every time you swore it was the last time.

“Back so soon?” he asked.

There were two voices in your head.

The first was logical. The one that listed consequences and self-respect and the long, boring, very healthy path of walking away.

The second was louder.

And a hell of a lot faster.

“Shut up,” you said.

And then your lips were on his.

There was no hesitation from him.

His hand came up to your jaw like it had done this before, like it knew exactly where you’d break and where you wouldn’t. The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely registered it.

Not when he was already pulling you closer.

Not when the shift started dissolving at the edges the way it always did the second he touched you.

You told yourself, distantly, that you’d meant to stop.

That you’d been serious this time.

That you were still someone who made decisions and followed through on them.

But that version of you didn’t stand a chance in his apartment.

“What did I tell you about sitting around and talking on shift?” His voice was low against your mouth. 

Your hands found his chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't entirely sure. The fabric of his shirt was soft under your palms, warm from his body, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath it. Steady. Unhurried.

Like he had all the time in the world.

“I told you,” You glared up at him defiantly. “I’d stop when you admitted why it bothers you so much,” 

He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, and the impact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the collision. His knee slid between your thighs, and you made a sound that would've embarrassed you if you had any dignity left to spare.

You didn't.

Not here. Not with him.

“It doesn’t bother me,” 

His lips moved to your jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of your neck that made your breath hitch. 

“You’re such a liar,” You tilted your head without thinking, giving him access, and felt his mouth curve into a smile against your skin.

Smug bastard.

"Guessing this is the last time?" he murmured, changing the subject like he always did, rough in a way that shouldn't have worked as well as it did.

Your eyes snapped open.

The audacity.

"Keep opening your mouth," you said, breathless but sharp, "and I'll walk out."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was infuriating. Amused. Knowing. Like he could see straight through every lie you'd ever told yourself about this.

About him.

"We both know you won't."

Your jaw tightened.

Because he was right, and you both knew it, and that made it so much worse.

You should've said something cutting. Should've shoved him back and proven him wrong just to wipe that look off his face.

Instead, you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Angrier, maybe. Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as some distant part of your brain screamed at you to stop. To leave. To have even a shred of self-respect.

But his hands were on your waist now, thumbs pressing into your hips through the thin fabric of your scrubs, and every coherent thought you'd had dissolved under the weight of it.

This was what you'd come here for.

Not conversation. Not comfort.

Just this—the way he touched you like he'd memorized every place that made you fall apart. The way your body responded before your mind could catch up. The way everything else faded into background noise.

His mouth moved back to your neck, and you felt his teeth graze your pulse point. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make you gasp.

"You're terrible at this," he said against your skin.

"At what?"

"Pretending you don't want to be here."

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to make a point.

"You're terrible at shutting up."

He laughed—low and quiet and far too pleased with himself—and the sound vibrated through you in a way that made your knees feel unsteady.

His hands moved lower, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your scrub top, and the contact of his skin against yours sent a shiver up your spine. Warm. Rough in places. Familiar in a way that made your chest threaten to explode.

You'd told yourself you wouldn't do this again.

You'd meant it, too. 

At least in the moment.

But here you were, pressed against his entryway wall at six in the morning, letting him unravel you piece by piece like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Because it was for him.

That was the problem.

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, and there was something in his expression that you couldn't quite read. Something that looked almost like concern, if you didn't know better.

"Long shift?" he asked.

You let out a breathless laugh. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend you care."

His jaw tightened, just slightly, and for a second you thought he might actually say something real. Something that wasn't wrapped in sarcasm or deflection.

But then his mouth was on yours again, and the moment passed.

Maybe that was better.

Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in it as you kissed him back with everything you had left. All the frustration and exhaustion and restless energy that had been building under your skin for hours—and since the last time a week ago—poured into it.

He made a sound low in his throat, and his grip on your hips tightened.

You were going to regret this.

You always did.

But right now, with his body pressed against yours and his hands pulling you closer, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Not when this was the only thing that made the tightness in your chest loosen. The only thing that made you feel like you could breathe.

Even if it was temporary.

Even if it was a lie.

His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, and you arched into the touch without thinking. Your back pressed harder against the wall, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that you were still wearing your work shoes.

That you hadn't even made it past the entryway.

That this was exactly how it always went.

But then his mouth found that spot just below your ear, and every rational thought you'd ever had scattered like smoke.

"Bedroom," you managed, though it came out more like a plea than a command.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face was devastating.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."

And then his hand was in yours, and he was leading you deeper into the apartment.

Into the same mistake you'd made a dozen times before.

The one you'd probably make a dozen more times.

You were going insane, to say the least. 

After that last time, you once again swore you could stop, and when Jack Abbot laughed in your face, you swore that spite would carry you through. 

That was three weeks ago. 

Your body was practically screaming at you for release. 

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried—you had your own methods of relief at home, in various sizes and shapes, but he might as well have put a curse on you. He plagued your mind, your thoughts, and now, even your damn fantasies. You couldn’t even get past closing your eyes with your head on the pillow without hearing his voice in your ear. 

“Are you listening?” 

“No,” You admitted. 

Ellis smirked. “Wow, that was easy.” 

“I gotta stop,” You said, more so to yourself. “I need to get past this guy, this can’t be healthy.” 

“I mean, I could’ve told you that a year ago,” 

“See? Even that is embarrassing—doing this for an entire year.” 

“How did it even start, anyway?”

Her question was one you often asked yourself.

You were literally there, and somehow it was still remarkable that any of this had managed to happen in the first place.

It had started on one of those rare nights when you didn’t have work. Even rarer, you didn’t have a shift the next day either. So you joined a few of your ED friends for their weekly gathering at the pub down the street from the PTMC.

He was there too.

Before you’d ever spoken to Jack Abbot, you’d noticed him.

You noticed everything about him, actually.

The commanding presence that never felt overbearing. The quiet charm. The way people naturally gravitated toward him without him seeming to ask for their attention.

Then you started working together.

And assisting Jack was easy in a way that shouldn’t have mattered. The two of you seemed to fall into a rhythm almost immediately, anticipating what the other needed before it was said aloud. You worked well with plenty of doctors, but with him it felt different. Smoother.

Natural.

The night at the pub passed slowly, conversations drifting from work gossip to stories about patients to the kind of personal details people only share after a drink or two. You got to know some of the day-shift staff in a way you never really could during a chaotic handoff.

Then, little by little, people started peeling off.

Heading home to partners, spouses, kids, pets.

Eventually, it was just you and Jack left at the table—and neither of you had anyone waiting at home.

So the conversation kept going.

And going.

Until the bartender started flashing the lights for last call.

You could admit now that the alcohol wasn’t the only reason you agreed when he suggested moving the party to his place.

That began a bad habit of spending nights off together at his apartment, which turned into you following him home from work twice a week. Until it was happening every day. 

Until—

“I’m calling psych,” Ellis said abruptly. “Dude has you dissociating.”

“Can you cut me some slack?” you groaned. “My sleep score on this stupid Oura ring is averaging like a 42, and no amount of Dunkin from Shen is helping. In fact, it’s probably making it worse.”

“I told you that ring is full of shit.”

“Probably,” you admitted, “but there’s no doubt this whole…situation has tanked my ability to sleep.”

“You know what?” Ellis leaned in slightly, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I’ve got a friend who’s recently single. Maybe I can set you two up.”

You ignored the immediate flicker of alarm in your chest—the automatic warning your brain always set off at the mere suggestion of entertaining any man who wasn’t the night shift attending.

“I don’t know,” you said instead, fingers fidgeting with your badge—the stupid tell he’d pointed out once.

The second Ellis said it, something in you tightened.

A sharp, instinctive recoil you didn’t get a vote in.

Like your body had heard the suggestion and decided, absolutely not.

It made no sense, really. It was just a date. Just an option sitting harmlessly on the desk between you.

“You know,” you added lightly, like it didn’t matter, like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of your own pulse, “I’m… probably just not in a dating place right now.”

Her head tilted in that knowing way. “Not in a dating place.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Night shift keeps me way too busy—”

“Yet you have time to get in that man’s bed?”

The words hit before you could stop them from hitting. Your brain didn’t even get a chance to form a response—

—Because, conveniently, Crus appeared like a lifeline in scrubs, walking up with a chart for Ellis to sign, as if he’d been sent by the universe specifically to rescue you from this conversation.

Your face lit up at the sudden exit.

“I totally forgot Crus put a pot of coffee on earlier. I’m gonna go try it!”

And before anyone could stop you, you were already backing away from the desk.

Fast.

A little too fast.

“No, I didn’t—” He started.

“Thanks, Crusy!”

You were gone before she could finish.

Crus blinked, looking between you and Ellis as you disappeared down the hall. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”

Ellis didn’t even look up from the chart.

“Avoidant attachment.”

Your eyes squeezed shut in relief as you slipped into the break room, the door still in your hand behind your back as you exhaled slowly.

Then the illusion cracked, and you heard a low chuckle cut through the silence.

You didn’t open your eyes. Didn’t need to.

“Mid-shift pick-me-up?”

You scowled in the direction of his voice, finally letting your eyes open. Jack was standing between you and the whirring coffee pot, one arm lazily leaning on the back of a chair like he had nowhere better to be, like he hadn’t just fucked your entire attempt at emotional escape.

“Is there any more?” you asked, because you could be strong. You could be level-headed around him. 

“I’m makin’ some,” he said. “Someone drank all of it.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking down over you in that quiet, habitual way he had. Not obvious—never obvious. Just enough to feel. 

“Someone tired.”

“Hm,” you hummed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that you, in fact, were not getting any sleep.

“Been a while,” he added after a beat.

His gaze lifted again, slower this time, like he was taking inventory. Like he needed to memorize you again after any stretch of absence.

“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms as you stepped further into the room. “That was the last time.”

“Sure it was.”

Maybe it was his tone. Maybe it was the disbelief. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d tried—unsuccessfully—to get yourself over the finish line this morning three separate times before you finally gave up on hearing his voice in your head.

Either way, something in you snapped.

You walked closer, eyes locked on his, mouth set in a thin, controlled line.

“I meant it that night,” you said, tipping your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m done.”

“Are you?”

“Yep. I even have a date.”

Something flashed in his eyes—quick, unreadable—but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by something sharper. More challenging.

“A date.”

“Ellis’ friend. She’s setting it up.”

“And when is this ‘date’?”

You hated the way he said it.

Like it wasn’t real. Like it wasn’t solid yet. Like it didn’t deserve space in the same room as him. 

And sure, okay, it wasn’t. 

But it still made your jaw tighten.

“What do you care?”

“So I can be available,” he said evenly, “for when you inevitably come by after.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Well that’s presumptuous.”

“Is it?” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You almost choked on the speed at which you snapped back.

“That—that was because we had just had that mass casualty that fucked me up and you know that.”

“I also know,” he said, voice calmer now, almost tired in the way he said it, “that you tend to try to date other people.”

A beat.

“And somehow,” he added, eyes still on you, “you still end up here.”

“I can assure you, Dr. Abbot,” you said, smiling softly—mocking, sweet—using his title the way he’d told you to in public. “I can, in fact, date other people.”

He bent down slowly, bringing himself to your level. Close enough that the space between you stopped feeling like space at all.

“I’d love to see you try.”

And that’s how you ended up at a bar.

Sitting across from Ellis’ friend.

Ordering drinks. Making polite conversation. Nodding at the right moments. Smiling at the right times.

You did everything you were supposed to do.

You even laughed once or twice.

Ellis’ friend was nice. Normal. Stable in the way that should’ve felt like relief.

He didn’t have a traumatic past, or carefully measured words that felt like something else was always hiding underneath them. No guarded edges. No unreadable silences that made you feel like you were constantly trying to translate him.

And yet, every time your phone buzzed against the table, your attention flicked to it before you could stop yourself.

Every time the door opened behind him, something in your chest tightened on instinct.

And every time it wasn’t him, you hated yourself a little more for noticing.

This was what you wanted, right?

Distance.

Options.

Proof.

A life that didn’t orbit a man who barely admitted you mattered outside of four walls and a locked door.

But instead, you just kept thinking about how quiet your apartment would be after this. How loud your thoughts would be.

And how unfair it was that even here—on a date you’d insisted you could handle—you still felt like you were waiting for something else.

Ellis’ friend excused himself to use the restroom, giving your brain a brief opening—just enough quiet to pull you back to a night you hadn’t fully unpacked.

A night you almost told Ellis about.

It had been somewhere in the middle of it all—those weeks where “indulging” had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a routine.

You remember stopping at his front door, scrubs wrinkled from where they’d been tossed somewhere on his bedroom floor, hair slightly mussed, still carrying the aftermath of him in the most intoxicating way.

You’d turned to him in the doorway, eyes lifting to his.

That expectant look you wore sometimes. The one that, for some reason, seemed to scare him more than anything else.

“Hey,” you started carefully. “What do we say if people ask, you know…”

“We don’t say anything.”

His voice hadn’t been soft.

It hadn’t been cruel either.

Just certain.

You blinked. “Right, but… like, what is it?”

A shift.

Barely there, but you saw it. The way he opened the door a little wider. His mouth parted, like he was going to explain it. Clarify it. Do something that would either help you or hurt you.

And you couldn’t stand the idea of either.

So you stopped him.

“Sorry,” you laughed quickly, even though something in your chest was already starting to cave in on itself. “Right. Yeah. Obviously this is nothing—you’re the attending. I just meant like, so no one at work mentions it. And you don’t get in trouble. I mean, you’re not technically my superior anyway, so we’re probably fine. And now I’m rambling. I’m gonna go.”

“Hey, I—”

“No, Dr. Abbot, you really don’t need to say anything. We’re good.”

A beat.

“You can… uh. Call me Jack. Here, anyway.”

It should’ve meant something.

And it almost did.

But his usual composure was slightly off, like he was trying to catch up to the moment and not entirely succeeding.

You just nodded. “Sure,” you said softly, already stepping back. “Anyway… see you at work.”

And then you left.

With your pride carefully, quietly, and completely dismantled.

What you didn’t say out loud—what you never said out loud—was that those weeks had started to feel like something you could accidentally get used to.

Sleeping over on nights off. Coffee in the morning. His apartment slowly becoming familiar to you. 

And you were naïve enough, back then, to think that familiarity might mean you were building something.

Not just…falling into it alone.

And of course you were—what did you expect? That sleeping with the night-shift attending would somehow evolve into anything other than an inevitable fizzling out?

You had a habit of falling too hard in places you didn’t belong.

And this was just another version of that.

After that night, you both pulled back. 

Careful, deliberate distance.

At work, you moved around each other like opposing currents in the same hallway—efficient, professional, slightly off in rhythm. Enough acknowledgment to function, not enough to blur anything further. Contact reduced to necessity. Words clipped. 

Waiting, almost.

For something to shift.

For someone to say something that neither of you were willing to be first to say.

Until you broke first.

And after that, the pattern settled in: you’d show up at his place after hard shifts, or on days off when your mind wouldn’t quiet down. You’d get exactly what you knew he was willing to give—nothing more, nothing less.

And then you’d leave.

You’d swear it was the last.

Until it wasn’t.

“Ready to go?” Ellis’ friend asked as he returned to the table.

You nodded, grateful for an excuse to leave before your brain wandered any further down memory lane.

“Yeah. Early shift tomorrow.”

It was a lie.

A small one, but a useful one.

The check was paid and a few minutes later you found yourself in the passenger seat of his car. You’d Ubered to the bar, assuming you’d just call one home afterward.

Back when you’d thought you’d actually be paying attention to this date. But how could you refuse a free ride home? 

The drive was pleasant. He was pleasant. That seemed to be the problem—nothing was wrong. No red flags. No awkward silences. No glaring incompatibilities.

Just an overwhelming absence of whatever stupid thing—or person—your brain seemed determined to chase.

Streetlights blurred past outside the window.

You stared at them.

Half-listening as he talked about something involving his neighbor and a broken sprinkler system.

“Alright,” he said eventually, slowing at a red light. “Where am I taking you?”

You answered without thinking.

“Fourth and Mercer.”

The words left your mouth automatically.

Like muscle memory.

Like reciting your own address.

Then you froze.

Because Fourth and Mercer wasn’t your address.

It was Jack’s.

The realization hit about half a second too late.

For a moment, you just stared out the windshield.

Then you laughed.

Once.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You rubbed a hand over your face.

The normal response would be to correct yourself.

Give him your actual address. Go home. Take off your makeup. Get some sleep.

Maybe unpack whatever psychological damage had just caused you to instinctively send a date to another man’s apartment.

Instead, you found yourself shaking your head.

“Actually…” You looked back out the window. “Yeah. That’s right.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to launch yourself out of the moving vehicle.

Because what the fuck was wrong with you?

Seriously.

What kind of person goes on a date with one man, accidentally gives another man’s address, realizes what they’ve done, and then decides to commit to it?

Apparently you.

You, who had spent the last month insisting you were done.

You, who had spent the last week avoiding him in the hospital whenever possible.

You, who had sat across from a perfectly attractive, emotionally available man for two hours only to subconsciously recite Jack Abbot’s address like it was your own.

Insane.

Clinically insane.

Potentially diagnosable.

If Ellis found out about this, she’d never let you hear the end of it.

Hell, if you found out someone else had done this, you’d tell them to seek professional help immediately.

And yet, the thought of seeing Jack—

You shoved that one away immediately.

Nope.

You were not about to sit here and unpack whatever deeply concerning emotional implications were hidden inside the fact that his address lived in your head rent-free.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Maybe it was muscle memory.

Maybe your brain had been permanently damaged by night shift.

All plausible explanations.

Far more plausible than the alternative.

True delusion and toxicity drove you out of the car.

You offered your date a small wave through the passenger window, ignoring the increasingly bewildered expression on his face, before shutting the door and turning toward the building.

If he had questions, he was kind enough not to ask them.

Which was good.

Because you didn’t have answers.

Your feet carried you up the familiar steps before your brain could mount any meaningful objection. Through the front entrance. Down the hallway. To a door you could probably locate blindfolded at this point.

The realization should’ve horrified you.

Instead, it barely registered.

You knocked once.

And the door swung open almost immediately.

"Don't."

The word came out sharp. A warning.

To him. Maybe to yourself.

But Jack just stood there in the doorway—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white t-shirt, hands in his pockets—and that look on his face that said he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

Smug didn't even begin to cover it.

You should've turned around.

Should've walked away.

Instead, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward you.

Your mouth found his before either of you could say another word, and the kiss was immediate. Desperate. All teeth and urgency and the kind of need that made rational thought impossible.

He didn't hesitate.

His hands were on you instantly—one sliding to your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he walked you backward until your spine hit the entryway wall with a dull thud.

This was the pattern.

The same one you'd fallen into a dozen times before.

You never made it all the way inside.

Not at first.

Something about the threshold—the space between leaving and staying—always unraveled you both.

His mouth moved against yours with the kind of confidence that made your knees weak, his body pressing into you until there was no space left between you. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his lips.

"Even had him drop you off, huh?"

The words were low. Amused. Spoken directly against your mouth between kisses.

Your stomach dropped.

Because of course he knew.

Of course he'd been watching from the window. Of course he'd seen you get out of another man's car and walk straight to his door like you had no other choice.

"Jack—"

"Shh." His thumb brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth found the corner of yours. Then your cheek. Then just below your ear. "It's okay."

It wasn't okay.

Nothing about this was okay.

You'd just come from a date with someone else. Someone normal. Someone who didn't make you feel like you were constantly drowning.

And yet here you were, pinned against an entryway wall, heart racing, breath coming in short gasps as Jack's hands roamed over you like he owned every inch.

The worst part?

You wanted him to.

God, you hated yourself for it.

Hated how easily you melted under his touch. How your body responded before your brain could catch up. How the shame of it all only seemed to make you want him more.

His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the hem of your dress, and you bit down on your lip to keep from making a sound.

"So eager to see me," he murmured against your neck, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. "Couldn't even wait to get inside."

Your hands fisted in his shirt as he kicked the door shut, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to push him away.

"What a good girl, always coming back to me."

The words hit you like a physical thing.

Your breath caught. Heat flooded your face—and lower—and you wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to fuck off, wanted to do anything other than stand there and let him see exactly what those words did to you.

But you couldn't.

Because he knew.

He always knew.

His mouth found yours again, slower this time, more deliberate, and his hand finally slipped beneath the fabric of your dress. Fingers trailing up your thigh with maddening patience.

You made a sound—something between a whimper and a protest—and he smiled against your lips.

"That's it," he said quietly. "Just like that."

You were going to hell.

Or maybe you were already there.

Because the only thing worse than how much you wanted this—wanted him—was how much he knew it.

How easily he could unravel you with a look, a touch, a handful of words that made you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Even if it was the last place you should've gone.

His hands moved to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and he hiked your dress up in one smooth motion. The fabric bunched around your waist as he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around him.

The wall was cold against your back. Unforgiving.

He wasn't.

Or maybe he was—just in a different way. Unforgiving in the way he kept you circling the same drain, always one step short of whatever this was actually becoming. Always dancing right up to the edge of it, like neither of you could decide who was supposed to fall first.

His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his other hand worked between you, pushing aside fabric, finding exactly what he wanted with the kind of precision that made your head spin.

"Jack—"

"Yeah," His voice was low, thick with desire. "Right here, sweetheart."

And then he was inside you.

The stretch, the fullness, the way your body yielded to him so easily—it was too much and not enough all at once. Your head fell back against the wall, a broken sound escaping your throat as he held you there, pinned between him and the plaster.

He didn't move. Not yet.

Just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead pressed against your temple, his breath hot against your ear.

"Tell me," he murmured. "Tell me you don't want this."

Your nails dug into his shoulders.

"Jack—"

"Say it." His hips shifted slightly, just enough to make you gasp. "Tell me you don't need this."

You couldn't.

The words wouldn't come.

Because they'd be a lie, and you both knew it.

He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before driving back in with enough force to make you cry out. The sound echoed in the narrow entryway, shameless and desperate.

"That's what I thought," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

He set a rhythm then—slow, deliberate, controlled. Each thrust calculated to pull sounds from you that you didn't want to make. Each movement designed to remind you exactly who was in charge here.

"You can't get enough of this, can you?" His hand tightened on your thigh, holding you open for him. "Can't stay away."

"Don't—" The word came out as a whimper.

"Don't what?" He punctuated the question with a particularly deep thrust that had your vision blurring. "Don't tell the truth? Don't make you admit it?"

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough that it should've hurt, but he just groaned and moved faster.

"Say it," he demanded, his mouth against your jaw. "Tell me you need this."

"I—" You couldn't finish. Couldn't force the words past the shame and the pleasure tangled so tightly together you couldn't separate them anymore.

He slowed. Almost stopped.

"Say it, or I stop."

"No—" The protest was immediate, desperate. "Please—"

"Please what?"

You swore you hated him.

Hated how easily he could reduce you to this—begging, pleading, completely at his mercy.

"I need it," you gasped out, the admission burning in your throat. "I need—fuck—I need you."

The smile you felt against your skin was pure victory.

"There she is," he murmured, his pace picking up again. "My good girl. So honest when I'm inside you.

The wall dug into your spine with each thrust. Your leg was starting to shake where it was wrapped around him. Everything was too much—the angle, the intensity, the way he looked at you like he'd won something.

Because he had.

"You came straight here," he continued, his voice rough now, control starting to fray at the edges. "Didn't even go home first. Just needed me that badly."

"Yes—" The word broke on a moan.

"Even after your little date. Even after trying so hard to move on."

"Jack—please—"

"Please what? Make you come? Make you forget about him?" His hand slid between you, finding exactly where you needed him. "Make you remember who you belong to?"

You shattered.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, pulling you under, drowning you in sensation. Your body clenched around him, trembling, and you heard yourself crying out his name like a prayer or a curse—you couldn't tell which anymore.

He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.

He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.

Your leg was still wrapped around him. His hand still gripped your thigh. The wall was still cold against your back, but his body was warm—solid—and for just a second, you let yourself stay there.

Before reality could catch up.

Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, and his hand moved to your face. Thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache. Mimicking a softness he once showed you, way back before this all got entangled in the way these things did. 

"Stay."

The word hung between you.

You blinked. "What?"

"Stay over." His voice was quieter now. "Tonight."

Your heart did something complicated.

Because he'd never asked that before—at least, not since that morning. Not since you'd tried to define this thing and shut it down and he let you walk away pretending it didn't matter.

You stared at him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you what this meant.

But his expression was unreadable.

Guarded.

Same as always.

"I—" You started to pull away, to put distance between you, but his hand on your waist kept you there. "I should go."

"How?" he asked simply. "Your date dropped you off, remember?"

The logic of it hit you like cold water.

Right.

You'd given Jack's address. You'd gotten out of the car here. You didn't have your own car. You'd have to call an Uber, and it was late, and—

"I can call a ride," you said, even though the words felt hollow.

"You could."

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Just waited.

And somehow that was worse.

Because you couldn't tell if he actually wanted you to stay or if he was just Jack Abbot, night shift attending, solving a problem. Couldn't tell if this was something or if you were reading into it the way you always did—seeing meaning where there wasn't any.

"Jack—"

"It's late," he said. "You're here. Just stay."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

The question came out smaller than you meant it to.

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then his hand dropped from your face, and he stepped back, giving you space. Letting your leg slide down until you were standing on your own again.

"Because I'm asking you to."

That was it.

No explanation. No declaration. No answer to the question you were really asking.

Just that.

You wanted to leave.

Wanted to walk out the door and prove to yourself—and to him—that you could.

But your feet didn't move.

And he knew it.

He always knew.

"Okay,"

It started small.

It was always small things with him—never enough to point at, never enough to accuse, never enough to justify the way it started messing with your head.

But you noticed everything anyway.

The way he paused—just briefly—before walking away from your station, like he was deciding whether or not to say something that wasn’t strictly necessary.

He never used to hesitate.

That was new.

And it made you hyper-aware of everything else.

He didn’t lean into the sarcasm as much when Shen made some comment that would’ve normally earned a dry remark from him. He didn’t linger in the doorway of trauma bays the way he used to, but he also didn’t leave as quickly either—like he was calibrating your distance instead of defaulting to it.

Even his silence felt different.

Intentional.

And it was fucking with you.

Because if you were being honest—if you were being brutally honest—you had built a system around the predictability of him.

Cold when he needed to be. Detached when he wanted to be. Clear lines, clear roles, clear nothing-you-could-misinterpret.

It had been easier that way.

Safer.

Even if it drove you insane.

But now?

Now there were these almost-imperceptible deviations in the pattern.

Like he was…paying attention in a way that wasn’t strictly required.

And you hated that your brain immediately started translating it into something dangerous.

Hope, maybe.

Or worse—meaning.

You were charting at the nurse’s station when he appeared behind you, not speaking right away. Just there. Close enough that you registered him before you turned.

“Can I see bed six’s labs?” he asked finally.

Normal.

Professional.

Except he didn’t leave immediately after you handed them over.

He looked at them.

Then at you.

Then back at the chart like he was stalling for time that didn’t exist.

“You didn’t get coffee,” he said.

You blinked once. “I did. Earlier.”

A pause.

“I meant since then.”

There it was again.

That thing.

That quiet attention that didn’t match the version of him you had built your rules around.

“I’ve been busy,” you said carefully.

“I know.”

You turned back to your chart like it was suddenly fascinating, because looking at him for too long felt like stepping too close to something you’d been actively trying not to name.

“You’re being weird today,” you muttered.

A beat.

“I’m not.”

You almost laughed at that.

Because if this was him not being weird, then you didn’t know what reality you were in anymore.

He finally took a step back, but not before his eyes flicked over you once more—quick, practiced, familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten without permission.

“You should eat something,” he said.

Then he walked off.

And you sat there for a second too long, staring at the space he’d just occupied, wondering when exactly “professional concern” started feeling indistinguishable from something else entirely.

Your mind thought back to that mass casualty that happened six months ago—the day that the PTMC turned dark. 

All hands on deck. Every hallway filled. Every monitor screaming for attention it didn’t have time to get. Voices overlapping until they stopped sounding like words and started sounding like pressure.

You remembered moving on autopilot.

Remembered the way your body kept going even when your brain started lagging behind it.

Remembered the moment you couldn’t take it anymore.

The stairwell had been quiet in a way that felt wrong. Not peaceful—just empty. Like the building had forgotten how to breathe.

You don’t even remember deciding to go there.

Sinking down on the step with your head in your hands while everything you’d held together for the last hour finally split open without asking your permission.

You weren’t sobbing like in movies. It was worse than that—it was silent. Like your body was trying to process too much at once and failing in real time.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t do any of the things people do when they’re trying to create distance from something they don’t know how to fix.

He just came down the steps and sat beside you.

Close enough that your shoulders touched.

And then closer.

Until there wasn’t really space between you at all.

His hand didn’t hesitate when it found your back. Slow, steady pressure like he was anchoring something that kept trying to drift away.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that.

Minutes. Hours. Something outside of time entirely.

At some point, you stopped shaking.

At some point, your breathing stopped feeling like it belonged to someone else.

And at some point, you became aware of the fact that he hadn’t moved—hadn’t checked his watch. Hadn’t said a single word about needing to go back.

Just stayed.

Like leaving wasn’t an option he was considering.

When you finally pulled back, it was gradual. Reluctant. Like stepping out of water that had been keeping you alive.

You didn’t look at him at first.

Neither did he speak.

You wiped your face, exhaled once, and nodded like that was enough to reset the universe.

“Back to it?” you had said.

A pause.

Then, like nothing had happened at all:

“Yeah.”

And spent the next six months acting like something inside that stairwell hadn’t quietly rearranged itself without either of you acknowledging it.

And now, here he was, rearranging everything again.

Not in any dramatic way. Not in a way you could point to and accuse him of meaning something.

Just the damn small things.

Restocking your glitter pens without being asked. Answering patients with a clipped patience when they got too loud with you, stepping in before you even had to react. Sliding a chart back into your station that you hadn’t realized you left open, like he was quietly tidying up the edges of your shift when you weren’t looking.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

That was the rule.

That was always the rule.

But your brain kept betraying you anyway.

Because it felt like that day in the stairwell.

And now, watching him move through the department like that again—steady, controlled, too observant for his own good—you couldn’t help the thought that crept in at the edges.

That maybe this wasn’t nothing to him either.

That maybe it had never been.

And that was the thought you needed to stay away from. 

So you needed to do something drastic. 

You were halfway through your coffee when the break room door opened hard enough to make you look up immediately.

Not in alarm—just recognition.

Jack stood in the doorway for a second too long, not stepping fully in right away. His attention went straight to you, skipping over everything else in the room like it wasn’t relevant.

“Why is Robby asking me about switching you to days?”

You set your cup down slowly.

Not because you were rattled.

Because you were trying to decide how much of this conversation you were willing to have before your shift even started.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Probably because it has to go through you. Staffing, scheduling, whatever.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

That was the first sign this wasn’t just about paperwork.

“It doesn’t go through me like that,” he said after a beat.

You nodded once, like that detail didn’t matter much. “Okay.”

That seemed to irritate him more than anything else so far. He stepped fully into the room now, letting the door fall shut behind him.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said.

You leaned back slightly against the counter, keeping your posture loose on purpose.

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

A pause.

His jaw tightened briefly before settling again.

“You’re changing your schedule at this hospital,” he said, more controlled now. “And I’m only hearing about it through Robby.”

“It’s not finalized yet,” you said. “It’s just a request.”

“That’s not the point.”

You watched him for a second.

He wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t raising his voice. Wasn’t doing anything obvious.

But there was something contained in the way he stood there that you were starting to recognize too well.

Like he was holding himself in place more than he was standing.

“I don’t see why it’s a problem,” you said.

“It’s not a problem,” he answered too quickly.

Then stopped.

Corrected himself, slower this time.

“It’s just…unexpected.”

You hummed slightly, almost thoughtful.

“Since when do you care what shift I work?”

His eyes flicked to yours at that, steady but sharper now.

“I don’t,” he said.

It didn’t land convincingly.

Not even close.

You didn’t push it—instead, you let the silence sit there for a moment, thickening.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“You won’t be around as much.”

It came out like a practical observation, but it didn’t sit like one.

You looked down at your coffee for a second before answering.

“I’ll still be here,” you said. “Just different hours.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

He shifted his weight slightly, then stilled again like he’d caught himself mid-movement.

“You don’t work days,” he said.

It wasn’t a correction.

Something closer to resistance.

You glanced up again. “That’s not really a rule.”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Another pause.

This one was longer.

He looked like he was considering something he didn’t like the shape of.

Something quieter.

Something he was actively not letting develop into words.

“You’ll be harder to find,” he said finally.

You frowned slightly.

“I’m not disappearing.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

But he didn’t elaborate.

And that was the problem.

Because the things he didn’t say were starting to feel louder than the things he did.

You straightened a little, watching him now instead of your coffee.

“You’re acting like this is a bigger deal than it is,” you said carefully.

A beat.

“I’m not,” he replied.

It was immediate again.

Too immediate.

Then, quieter, like he was correcting something internal more than responding to you, “I just want to understand why now.”

You held his gaze for a moment.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was challenging your decision.

It felt like he was trying not to lose something he wasn’t allowed to call his.

“I’m tired,” you said simply. “That’s it.”

He nodded once, but it wasn’t satisfied.

Just contained.

Like he’d accepted the answer without believing it fully.

The silence stretched again—long enough that it started to feel like a decision neither of you were saying out loud.

Finally, he looked away first.

“Do what you need to do,” he said, quieter than before.

And then he stayed there a moment longer anyway.

Like leaving first would make it real.

Like not saying anything else was the closest he could get to asking you not to go.

You didn't go home after your shift.

You went to his place instead.

The drive was short enough that you didn't have time to second-guess it, which was probably the only reason you actually showed up. By the time you were standing outside his door, your scrubs still on, your bag still slung over one shoulder, the momentum was the only thing keeping you upright.

You knocked once.

Not politely.

Hard enough that it wasn't a question.

The door opened after a few seconds, and Jack stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking like he'd just gotten home himself. His hair was still damp from a shower.

He didn't look surprised.

That was the first thing that pissed you off.

"We need to talk," you said.

He stepped back without a word, holding the door open.

You walked in, dropped your bag by the entrance, and turned to face him before he'd even closed the door fully.

"Why didn't you fight me on it?"

He shut the door carefully, then looked at you.

"On what?"

"Don't do that," you said. "The schedule change. You stood there earlier like it mattered, and then you just—let it go."

He exhaled slowly, like he was buying time.

"You said you were tired.”

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one you gave me."

You stared at him.

He wasn't deflecting exactly—it was more like he was staying behind something. Some line he'd drawn for himself that you couldn't see but kept running into.

"You do this," you said, quieter now but no less sharp. "You act like it matters. And then the second I push, you back off like it was never a thing to begin with."

"I'm not backing off."

"Then what are you doing?"

He didn't answer right away.

You took a step closer.

"You’ve been checking on me during shifts," you said. "You ask when my dates are. You ask when I’ve eaten. You don't do that with anyone else."

"You don't know that."

"I do," you said flatly. "Everyone knows that."

His eyes flicked away briefly, then back.

"So what?" he said, and there was an edge to it now. "You want me to stop?"

"No," you said. "I want you to admit what it is."

Silence.

He shifted his weight slightly, and you saw it—the crack forming.

Small, but there.

"It doesn't have to be anything," he said finally.

You laughed, short and humorless.

"Bullshit."

"It's not—"

"Then why don't you see other people?"

That landed.

You saw it in the way his expression stilled, like you'd just said something he wasn't ready to hear out loud.

"I don't—"

"You don't," you interrupted. "I know you don't. You haven't since this started."

He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see him deciding how much to give.

Not enough.

Never enough.

"That's not your business," he said quietly.

"It is if you're going to act like I'm yours without actually saying it."

His jaw tightened again, sharper this time.

"I never said you were mine."

"You didn't have to."

Another pause.

Longer.

Heavier.

He turned slightly, like he was going to move away, then stopped himself.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was lower now. Rougher.

"The truth," you said. "Just once."

He looked at you then—really looked—and for a second you thought he might actually do it.

Might actually let whatever he'd been holding back finally break through.

But then he shook his head, just barely.

"It's not that simple."

"It is," you said. "You're just making it complicated because you're scared."

"I'm not—"

"You are," you cut in. "You're terrified that if you call this what it is, it'll mean something. And if it means something, you'll have to actually do something about it."

He didn't deny it.

That was answer enough.

You stepped closer again, close enough now that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had curled slightly at his sides like he was holding himself back.

"Why do you think I asked for the schedule change?" you said, quieter now.

He looked at you, and something shifted in his expression.

Something wary.

"I don't know," he said.

"Because I can't keep doing this," you said. "I can't keep waiting for you to figure out what you want while you act like I'm the only person in the room."

His throat worked briefly, like he was swallowing something down.

"I'm not asking you to wait."

"You don't have to ask," you said. "I've been doing it anyway."

That hit him.

You saw it in the way his eyes closed briefly, in the way his breath came out just a little too controlled.

When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.

"I don't want you on days," he said.

It came out rough.

Unfiltered.

Like he'd finally let something slip that he'd been holding onto too tightly.

You stared at him.

"Then say the rest of it."

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

Just stood there, close enough to touch, looking at you like he was trying to decide whether letting you in would break him or save him.

"I can't," he said finally.

And it sounded like the most honest thing he'd said all night.

You held his gaze for another moment, then stepped back.

"Then I'm switching to days," you said.

He flinched.

Barely—but you saw it.

"And if you want me to stay," you continued, "you're going to have to give me a reason that isn't just showing up and acting like I'm supposed to know what this is without you ever saying it."

You picked up your bag.

Turned toward the door.

His voice stopped you before you reached it.

"Don't go."

You looked back.

He was still standing in the same spot, but something in him had shifted.

Something raw.

"Not yet," he added, quieter.

You waited.

He didn't say anything else.

But he didn't look away either.

"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't know how to do this."

His voice came out rougher than before, like the words were scraping their way out.

You stayed where you were, hand still on your bag.

"I don't know how to—" Another pause. His jaw worked briefly. "How to be with someone. Not like this. Not in a way that—that means something."

He looked down, then forced himself to look back up.

"I've never—" He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. "I've never had to name it before. Never wanted to. Because if I don't name it, then it's just—it's just there. It exists without me having to—"

He stopped again.

You could see him fighting for the next words.

"Without me having to risk it," he finished quietly.

The silence stretched.

You didn't move.

Didn't help him.

He needed to get through this on his own.

"I'm terrified," he said, and it came out almost angry. Not at you. At himself. "I'm terrified that if I call this what it is, if I say it out loud, then it becomes something I can lose. And I—"

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"I can't lose you."

It was barely above a whisper.

"That's why I didn't fight you on the schedule," he continued, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "Because fighting you would've meant admitting why I wanted you to stay on nights. And I couldn't—I couldn't say that. Couldn't say that I needed you there. That I needed to know where you were, that I could find you, that you were—"

He stopped himself.

Breathed.

"That you were mine," he said finally. "Even though I had no right to think that."

You felt something shift in your chest.

"All of it," he said. "The checking on you, the showing up, keeping you close—it was because I didn't know how else to keep you. I didn't know how to just—to just be with you like a normal person. So I did it like this instead. Like I could have you without actually having to say I wanted you."

His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"But you matter too much," he said, quieter now. "You matter too much for me to keep doing that. And I don't—I've never had that before. Never had someone matter so much that not having them felt like—"

He didn't finish.

Couldn't finish. 

"I don't know how to do this," he repeated, and this time it sounded like a confession and a plea at the same time. "But I don't want you on days. I don't want you anywhere I can't find you. And I know that's—I know that's not fair, but it's the truth."

He looked at you then, fully.

Unguarded.

"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever this is. I just—I don't know how to do it without ruining it."

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then shook your head slowly.

"Then why," you said, voice tight but controlled, "did you say it was nothing?"

He blinked.

"What?"

"Months ago," you said. "When we—when this started. You said it was nothing. You agreed it was nothing."

His jaw tightened.

"I didn't say—"

"You did," you cut him off. "You stood there and you let me say it was casual, that it didn't mean anything, and you agreed."

"I didn't get to say what it was," he said, and there was an edge to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration turned inward. "I didn't—I didn't know how to say what it was."

You felt your chest tighten.

"So you just let me decide for both of us?"

"You already had decided," he shot back, quieter but sharper. "You said it first. You called it nothing before I even had a chance to figure out what the hell I was supposed to call it."

That landed harder than you expected.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

"It was easier," he continued, voice dropping. "It was easier to just—to go along with what you said. Because at least that way I didn't have to try and fail to explain something I didn't have words for."

He looked away briefly, then forced himself to look back.

"You named it," he said. "And I let you. Because I didn't know how to name it differently. And I was terrified that if I tried, I'd say the wrong thing and you'd leave."

The silence between you felt heavier now.

Different.

"So you just—what?" you said quietly. "You just let me carry that? Let me think that's all it was?"

"Yes," he said, and it sounded like an admission of guilt. "I did."

Another pause.

"Because it was easier than risking you," he added, barely audible.

You exhaled slowly, something unraveling in your chest that you hadn't realized was wound so tight.

"That's not fair," you said.

"I know.”

He didn't move. Didn't try to defend himself further.

Just stood there, letting you see exactly how much of a coward he'd been.

"You should've said something."

"I know."

But this time, he moved.

Finally.

He crossed the space between you in three steps, and then his hands were on you—one sliding around your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your head as he pulled you against him.

The contact hit you like a shock.

Solid. Warm. Real.

His arms tightened around you, and you felt something in your chest crack open—something you'd been holding closed for so long you'd forgotten it was even there.

You didn't pull away.

Couldn't.

Your hands came up automatically, fisting in his shirt, and you pressed your face against his shoulder as everything you'd been carrying suddenly became too heavy to hold on your own.

He held you tighter.

Like he was trying to make up for every time he hadn't.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice rough against your hair. "I'm sorry I made you carry that alone."

You felt your throat tighten.

"I've been in love with you," you said, and it came out muffled against his shoulder. Quieter than you meant it to. "For a year."

His breath caught.

You felt it—the way his chest stuttered against yours, the way his grip on you shifted, became more deliberate.

More certain.

"I know," he said softly.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his hand slid from the back of your head to cup your face instead, thumb brushing across your cheekbone.

His eyes were darker now. Softer.

"I know," he repeated, "because I've been in love with you too."

The words landed between you like something fragile and vital all at once.

You stared at him.

"The whole time?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

"The whole time," he confirmed, and his voice cracked slightly on it. "I just—I didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to be someone who could say it."

Your eyes burned.

"You're saying it now."

"I'm saying it now," he agreed quietly.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of a year's worth of unnamed things finally settling into place.

"Don't switch to days," he said, and it wasn't a command. It was a request. Vulnerable. Raw. "Please. Just…stay with me."

You opened your eyes.

He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

Like maybe you always had been.

"I'm not leaving," you said finally.

His exhale was shaky with relief.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay."

He kissed your forehead, then pulled you back against him, and you let yourself sink into it—into him—for the first time without wondering if you were allowed to.

"I love you," he said quietly, like he was testing the words out. Seeing how they felt.

You felt them settle into your chest, warm and certain.

"I love you too," you said back.

And this time, when he held you, it didn't feel like he was trying to keep you coming.

It felt like he was finally letting you in.

By the time exhaustion finally won, sunlight had already begun creeping through the blinds.

You’d fallen asleep sometime around seven in the morning, tangled together beneath the sheets, and hadn’t resurfaced until nearly three in the afternoon.

You stirred softly.

For a moment, you weren’t entirely awake. Just floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness, warm and comfortable enough that you didn’t particularly care which side you landed on.

Then memory slowly caught up.

Jack.

A small smile pulled at your mouth before you even opened your eyes.

The last time you’d gone to sleep at seven in the morning and woken up in the afternoon had been the first day of quarantine.

Back when you’d been sick, miserable, and convinced you were spending two weeks trapped with the most frustrating man in Pennsylvania.

The memory almost made you laugh.

How quickly things changed.

No—not quickly.

That wasn’t fair.

The last two weeks had changed quickly.

The rest of it had been happening for years.

You shifted slightly, blinking your eyes open against the muted afternoon light filtering through the bedroom.

Jack was still asleep.

That alone was unusual enough to earn a longer look.

His arm remained draped across your waist, face relaxed against the pillow in a way you rarely got to witness. The sharp edges he carried through the hospital weren’t here. The attending physician, the veteran, the man who always seemed to have a plan for everything—none of them existed in moments like this.

Just Jack. Your Jack. 

You studied him for a second before catching yourself.

A second turned into five.

Then ten.

God, you were becoming one of those people.

The realization should have embarrassed you.

Instead, it made you smile.

As if sensing the attention, he stirred slightly.

His brow furrowed before one eye cracked open.

Immediately finding you.

“You’re staring at me.”

His voice was rough from sleep.

You smiled innocently. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re literally on top of me.”

You glanced down.

Unfortunately, he had a point.

At some point during the night—or morning, technically—you’d migrated until you were half draped across him.

“Coincidence.”

“Mm.”

His eyes closed again.

You waited.

Then waited some more.

“That’s it?” you asked.

One eye reopened.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” You propped your chin on his chest. “A grand speech about how beautiful I look in the afternoon.”

“You do.”

The answer came so fast you nearly choked.

Jack looked entirely unbothered.

You, meanwhile, felt your face heat immediately. “Oh.”

A faint smirk appeared without him even opening his eyes.

“Got you.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re annoying.”

“I’ve been told.”

His arm tightened briefly around your waist, pulling you slightly closer.

“Has it really been fourteen days?” he continued, his free hand coming up to scrub over his face.

“Does it feel longer?”

He thought about it for a moment.

“Yes and no.”

You hummed. “I know what you mean. It feels like it was yesterday and also five years ago at the same time.”

“Yeah.”

A quiet settled between you.

“And now it’s time to go back,” you said.

The words hung heavier than you intended.

Jack’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling.

“Not sure what I’m gonna do without you here.”

Your head tilted toward him.

“Well, I mean, I can always come over after shifts.”

“Mmm.”

The sound was thoughtful.

“I don’t think it’s enough.”

Your brows shot up.

“What?” You pushed yourself up onto an elbow. “What, you want me to move in?”

That earned a snort.

“Whoa. Slow your roll there, buddy.” His hand landed on your hip, steadying you as he looked up with a grin. “I barely know you.”

You swatted his chest.

“Besides,” you said, rolling your eyes, “I can barely afford to pay Santos rent, let alone you and this giant house.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, “don’t offend me with the prospect of you paying your way on anything here.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You really are eighty.”

He groaned immediately.

“Here we go.”

“No, seriously. That was the most old-man thing you’ve ever said.”

“I am literally forty-six.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s not old.”

“It is when you’re offering to financially support women.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I wasn’t offering to financially support you.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was not.”

“You basically just told me I could squat here indefinitely.”

“That’s a gross mischaracterization of what happened.”

You laughed as he pulled you back down against him.

“Admit it. You’d have a heart attack if I tried to hand you money.”

“I’d survive.”

“Barely.”

His chest shook beneath your cheek with a laugh.

“Maybe.” 

“How the fuck do we proceed?” You sighed again. “You’re the attending. Attend.” 

He scoffed. “We proceed like any normal people would do in this scenario.” 

You glanced up at him expectantly. 

“You move in here permanently, we carpool to and from work, and eventually…” You hung onto his words, and he knew it. “…get a dog.” 

You couldn’t help but bark a laugh. “A dog.” 

“A dog.” 

“We work in the emergency room, you idiot. The fuck are we going to do with a dog?” 

“Have a lazy dog.” 

“You’re insane.” 

“That’s what my shrink says anyway.” 

You turned fully onto your side, tucking your hands beneath your cheek.

Noticing the shift in your expression, Jack mirrored you almost immediately, rolling onto his side so you were facing each other.

“Seriously,” you said. “When we clock in today at six o’clock, what do we do?”

“What do you want to do?”

You groaned.

You knew why he was doing it. After years of being your attending, years of holding authority over you, he was making a point to let you steer this.

It was thoughtful.

It was respectful.

It was also incredibly annoying.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

Jack studied you for a moment before nodding.

“Okay.”

“We have two options,” he continued. “We face PTMC head on and basically confirm what everyone with functioning eyesight has apparently suspected for years.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“Or?”

“Or we keep it to ourselves.”

His voice remained easy.

Steady.

Like either outcome genuinely sat fine with him.

“I’m good either way, sweetheart.”

You believed him.

If you wanted to walk into the ED holding his hand, he’d do it.

If you wanted to pretend absolutely nothing had happened for a while, he’d do that too.

Neither option seemed to threaten him.

You, meanwhile, felt like your stomach was performing acrobatics.

“You’re being suspiciously calm about this.”

“I’m a calm person.”

You gave him a look.

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not.”

“Jack.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Six months ago, you nearly argued with a cardiologist because he used the phrase ‘heart vibes.’”

His expression remained completely neutral.

“He was wrong.”

You barked out a laugh.

“He was trying to explain something to a patient.”

“He was explaining it poorly.”

The familiar banter softened the tension for a moment.

Just enough—before reality drifted back in.

“Robby’s going to know immediately.”

He nodded. “Robby already knows.”

“That’s fair.”

“Santos definitely knows.”

You buried your face in the pillow. “Oh, she knows.”

“She knew before we did.”

The thought made you groan louder.

Jack’s smile widened. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think we’re putting too much pressure on one shift.”

You looked back up at him.

His expression had softened again.

“Nothing actually changes tonight,” he said. “We show up. We do our jobs. We save lives.”

His hand found yours beneath the sheets.

Easy.

Natural.

“Then we go home.”

Home.

As though there wasn’t any question where either of you would be going afterward.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“We don’t have to solve the rest of our lives before six o’clock.”

You stared at him for a moment.

Then sighed.

“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“It sounded like one.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shen’s definitely going to know.” 

“Shen’s been asking me for years.” 

“What if I quit tonight? Then we don’t have to tell HR—” 

“No one is quitting.” 

Jack walked beside you like it was any other day.

No hesitation. No visible shift in posture. No performative adjustment to account for the fact that, technically, everything between you had changed in the span of fourteen days. 

Just calm, steady movement through the automatic doors like he belonged exactly where he was going.

Like you did too.

Everyone was already gathered in the center of the floor the way they always were at shift change—half-circle clusters around the board, voices overlapping in that familiar controlled chaos of PTMC handoff. Day shift finishing up last-minute updates, night shift filtering in, everyone half-listening while still trying to catch their own assignments.

The second you stepped onto the main floor, it happened.

Conversations tapered off mid-sentence. Mel paused with her pen hovering above the paper. Whitaker literally stopped walking, frozen halfway between trauma bay three and the board. Even Dana looked up from the desk with slow, deliberate recognition, as though bracing for something dramatic to unfold.

Silence that didn’t feel accidental.

It felt collective.

Like everyone knew something had changed.

Everyone was just waiting to see how it would announce itself.

Your stomach tightened immediately.

Jack didn’t slow down.

He adjusted his ID badge slightly and kept walking toward the board like nothing in the world was out of place.

Then, without even looking away from the updates being scribbled up front, he spoke.

“Are we going to stand around,” he said evenly, “or are we going to fill me in on what I’ve missed?”

That did it.

The illusion of restraint broke instantly.

A few people glanced at each other. Someone coughed awkwardly. An intern snapped back into motion a little too fast, shuffling forward with a chart like they’d been personally called out.

The tension in the room shifted from frozen anticipation to frantic professionalism in seconds.

Just like that, he had taken the room back.

Jack Abbot, attending physician.

Nothing more.

Robby cleared his throat, insulated cup in one hand and tablet tucked into his other. “Welcome back you two, you’ve been missed,” 

You stood slightly behind Jack for half a beat longer than you meant to.

Because you could feel it.

Every eye that had been waiting for confirmation was now actively searching for you instead.

And you suddenly became very interested in the floor.

From your peripheral vision, you caught movement.

Santos.

She leaned against the counter near the desk like she had been waiting for this exact moment since the beginning of time itself. Her arms were crossed, expression already sharpened into something far too entertained.

Her eyes flicked to Jack first.

Then to you.

And stayed there.

You felt your entire face heat up on instinct.

Absolutely not. You knew Santos had an effect on you that got you to sing like a canary, and you would not be doing this now. Or here. 

You dropped your gaze harder into the chart in front of you like it contained the secrets of the universe.

Jack, meanwhile, was already in full attending mode—calmly asking about a trauma admit, redirecting a resident, scanning the board like the last fourteen days had been nothing more than a brief inconvenience.

Professional. Unbothered. Infuriatingly normal.

Santos, however, was still looking at you.

You could feel it.

You risked a quick glance up.

Bad idea.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

A silent, devastatingly smug: Oh. So that’s what happened in quarantine.

You immediately looked back down at the chart.

“Okay,” Jack said, closing a chart with finality. “Let’s move. Who’s covering north—”

His words cut off mid-sentence.

His attention snagged on something past the nurse’s bay, gaze sharpening in a way that made the shift in the room immediate. You followed his line of sight.

The security office.

More specifically, the whiteboard inside it.

You saw it instantly.

Dozens of brightly colored sticky notes layered over one another in chaotic, deliberate organization—the unmistakable sign of a PTMC floor wager. Something that had clearly escalated far beyond anyone’s attempt to make it subtle.

Your stomach dropped.

A few people shifted uncomfortably. The air in the room changed again, this time from anticipation to something closer to collective regret.

Because now everyone knew exactly what was about to happen.

Jack didn’t say anything at first.

He just walked.

Slowly.

He didn’t rush. Just controlled, purposeful movement toward the office like he had all the time in the world to dismantle whatever he was about to find inside.

The room watched him go.

And then watched harder when he stepped inside.

You couldn’t see him for a few seconds, but you could feel it—whatever he was reading in there. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable, punctuated only by the low hum of monitors and the distant beeping of a patient you weren’t currently thinking about.

Then he stepped back out.

With something in his hand—a bucket.

Full.

And judging by the weight of it in his grip, absolutely not small change.

He looked at it once.

Then at the group.

“The hell is this?” he asked.

His voice had dropped into that controlled attending tone that meant someone was about to have a very bad time.

“I told ‘em to take it down numerous times,” Robby said casually from the side, taking a sip of his coffee like this was the least surprising development of his week.

Jack didn’t look at him.

“Take it down. Now.”

One of the security guys opened his mouth like he might argue.

Jack cut him off immediately.

“Don’t. This is not only unprofessional, it’s a violation of hospital policy. And if Gloria saw this, she’d have a heart attack before I finished the explanation.”

A beat.

“I said take it down. Now.”

Silence.

Then movement.

Immediate, slightly panicked compliance.

Around you, the group shifted uncomfortably, the earlier tension now replaced with the very real consequences of getting caught turning your personal life into a full-scale betting pool.

People glanced between you and Jack now with renewed intensity, like the stakes had somehow doubled.

Santos, of course, looked like she was enjoying every second of it.

You refused to look at her.

Jack walked back toward the board, still holding the bucket like it personally offended him. He set it down with a dull thud that made at least one resident flinch.

Then he finally spoke again.

“I’ll be keeping this. Are we done entertaining ourselves,” he said flatly, “or can we get back to doing our jobs?”

That snapped everyone back into motion.

You felt your insides warm at the way he’d just single-handedly shut down half the floor’s curiosity without even acknowledging what they were really trying to do. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for show. It was just Jack, doing what Jack did—drawing a hard line and refusing to let anyone turn it into entertainment.

You watched him for a moment longer as he moved through the night shift handoff, already back in control of the room. 

Like none of it had touched him.

A throat beside you cleared. 

Santos.

You didn’t even notice her approaching until she was already beside you. Denim jacket already on. Work bag slung over her shoulder. Expression determined in that way that meant she was absolutely not letting this go.

Here goes nothing.

“Hey,” you breathed.

“Been a long two weeks, huh?”

You let out a quiet sigh.

“Do we have to do this here?”

She raised a brow.

“Seeing as you’ve dodged most of my calls, yeah, I’d like to.”

Fair.

You leaned slightly against the counter, lowering your voice.

“If I tell you it’s because I was in fact very busy discussing the future of our relationship, will you drop it?”

There was a beat.

Santos blinked at you.

Like her brain had to reboot to process the sentence you’d just delivered with full sincerity.

“…Yeah?” she said finally, slower now. “Shit, I actually was only about, like, eighty percent sure you two would come out of this in a fucking relationship.”

You let out a breath that turned into a laugh despite yourself.

“How much did you bet, Trinity?”

She hesitated.

Which was answer enough.

“Doesn’t even matter,” she said quickly, pointing vaguely toward the floor. “Your damn boyfriend took the prize pot so I guess we all lost.”

Your head snapped slightly to the side at that.

The mention of ‘boyfriend’.

The word still hit you like you were some lovestruck teenager remembering her crush liked her back.

You followed her gesture instinctively.

Jack was across the floor near Robby, speaking in low, clipped tones as they reviewed something on a tablet. Fully in attending mode again. 

Like it was just another Tuesday.

You exhaled slowly.

“I can’t believe you people were betting on us,” you muttered.

Santos scoffed.

“Oh, please. It was the most entertaining thing that’s happened on this floor in months.”

“That is deeply concerning for patient care.”

“But deeply relevant to morale.”

You shook your head, but your mouth was still betraying you with a smile.

Across the room, Jack glanced up briefly.

Not long.

Just enough.

His eyes found yours instinctively.

Like it was second nature now.

He held it for a beat.

Then, he winked at you. 

A quick, stolen moment—barely there if you weren’t looking for it. A subtle lift at the corner of his mouth, almost imperceptible.

A reminder that he was here. That he had your back. That none of this—the eyes, the whispers, the poorly hidden questions—was going to shake what had already been decided between the two of you.

Then he turned back to Robby as if nothing in the world had shifted at all.

You blinked once, caught between the absurdity of it and the warmth that followed it too quickly for you to properly process.

Across the floor, Dana moved past the edge of the group.

She was in her street clothes now. And in her hands—

The bucket.

Full of money.

She looked far too pleased with herself as she carried it like some kind of hard-won trophy, chin lifted just slightly as she made her way toward the exit.

Your brows knitted together.

Your attention snapped back toward Trinity.

“Uh,” you said slowly, still watching Dana disappear toward the doors, “what did Dana bet?”

Trinity followed your line of sight, squinting like she was trying to remember.

Then she let out a low laugh. “Oh,” she said, like it suddenly clicked into place.

 “She bet that it started the day you started working here.”

The argument in the laundry room.

The conversation that had somehow turned years of assumptions inside out.

And, maybe worst of all, the conclusion you’d arrived at afterward.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand across your face before letting it fall back onto the mattress.

The guest bed no longer felt nearly as comfortable as it had yesterday. The room itself had changed somehow. Before, its privacy had felt welcome, even necessary. Now it just felt lonely.

Your eyes drifted toward the closed bedroom door.

On the other side was the hallway. The kitchen. The smell of coffee that was probably already brewing. Jack.

The thought alone made your chest tighten.

Which was ridiculous.

There had been far more days during this quarantine where you’d dreaded seeing him than days you’d looked forward to it. You remembered lying awake in this exact room during the first week, mentally preparing yourself for whatever disagreement awaited you over breakfast. Wondering what sarcastic comment would annoy you first. What criticism would stick with you for the rest of the day.

Before, facing Jack Abbot had felt like a chore.

Now it felt impossible for very different reasons.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling again.

The more you thought about it, the more absurd it became.

For years, you had convinced yourself that what existed between you was frustration. Tension. Competition. You had built an entire narrative around that explanation because it was easier than the alternative.

Easier than admitting that his opinion mattered more than anyone else’s.

Easier than examining why you could brush off criticism from another attending but spend an entire evening replaying something he said.

Easier than asking yourself why every shift somehow felt incomplete when he wasn’t there.

The signs seemed embarrassingly obvious now.

Like discovering the answer to a question that had been sitting in front of you the entire time.

You buried your face briefly in the pillow.

“Fantastic,” you muttered.

Because that was the real problem.

Not the quarantine ending.

Not returning to PTMC.

Not even the complicated logistics of whatever relationship the two of you were trying to build.

The problem was that somewhere along the way, this had stopped being a silly crush.

You thought about him standing beside the washing machine yesterday, frustrated in a way you’d rarely seen. About the look on his face when you’d told him what those years had felt like from your side. About the quiet honesty underneath all that annoying confidence when the conversation turned serious.

You thought about how carefully he’d handled you from the very beginning of this. How willing he had been to give you space, even when it clearly wasn’t what he wanted.

And suddenly it felt impossible to dismiss any of it.

You exhaled slowly and sat up, resting your elbows on your knees.

Maybe that was why seeing him this morning felt so daunting.

Because nothing had actually changed.

Jack was still Jack.

The house was still the same.

The quarantine would still end tomorrow.

But now you were different. What you were willing to face about yourself. What you were potentially willing to admit after all this time. 

And once a truth like that settled in, it had a way of changing everything around it.

Including the way you looked at the man waiting somewhere on the other side of that bedroom door.

Eventually, the prospect of starving to death became less appealing than facing your feelings.

Barely.

You lingered in your room longer than necessary, going through a morning routine that normally took fifteen minutes and somehow stretching it into forty-five. You reorganized your toiletry bag. Folded a sweatshirt that didn’t need folding. Checked your phone despite there being nothing new on it.

Anything to delay the inevitable.

But eventually there were no more excuses left.

With a deep breath, you opened the bedroom door.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

You padded down the hallway cautiously, as if the truth would manifest itself into some physical, earthly object and jump out at you. 

The thought was ridiculous.

You still checked anyway.

The smell of coffee reached you before the kitchen did.

Of course, the man still made coffee after asking to spend the night apart. 

When you finally rounded the corner, you found him exactly where you expected.

Jack was standing at the counter with a mug in hand, dressed in a faded PTMC t-shirt and sweatpants. Reading glasses sat low on his nose as he looked over something on his tablet, one hand absentmindedly wrapped around his coffee.

The sight of him hit you like a truck.

Not because he was doing anything particularly remarkable.

Quite the opposite—he looked painfully normal.

Comfortable.

Like this belonged to him.

Like you belonged here with him.

Oh, this was going to be a long day.

Unfortunately, Jack looked up at that exact moment.

His eyes found yours, and immediately narrowed.

You froze.

He froze.

A beat passed.

Then another.

“…Why are you standing like that?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You look like you’re about to deliver bad news to a patient’s family.”

Offended, you straightened.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

His attention returned briefly to the tablet.

“Is somebody dead?”

“No.”

“Are you dead?”

“No?”

“Then come have coffee.”

The ease of it almost pissed you off. 

There he’d been all night in your head, starring in every catastrophic scenario imaginable, and meanwhile he was standing in his kitchen looking concerned only that you hadn’t had any caffeine yet.

You crossed toward the island, trying very hard to act normal—whatever that was.

Jack was already reaching for a second mug before you sat down.

Muscle memory.

The realization struck unexpectedly.

He didn’t ask if you wanted coffee anymore.

He just made it. Exactly how you liked it.

The mug settled onto the counter in front of you.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the mug.

His eyes flicked upward. “There it is.”

Your heart sank.

“There what is?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

“The one you’ve had since you walked in.”

You groaned immediately.

Jack set his tablet down.

“You’ve been awake for approximately ten minutes and you’re already thinking too hard.”

You scoffed. “I’ve been awake for way longer than that.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I should’ve known. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.” 

You hated that he knew you so well.

Maybe that was the problem.

It wasn’t quarantine or returning to work.

Or the fact that you’d spent half the night realizing you were hopelessly in love with him.

It was that Jack Abbot had become intimately familiar with you.

Not in the way Shen knew your preferred corner of the ED for charting, or the way Ellis could predict the exact face you make when a patient informed you they’d ignored your medical advice in favor of a Google search.

Those were workplace observations. The byproduct of spending long shifts together.

This was different.

Jack knew you.

He knew when you were hungry before you did. Knew the difference between your genuinely angry silence and the silence that meant you were thinking too hard. Knew that when you started cleaning something that didn’t need cleaning, you were anxious. Knew that you always forgot your stupid glass water bottle at home and always had a bottle from the vending machine ready. 

More terrifyingly, he knew how your mind worked.

He could predict your next argument before you made it. Could identify the exact moment you started spiraling. Could look at you from across a room and somehow know what emotion you were trying—and failing—to conceal.

You weren’t sure when that happened.

Or maybe the scarier possibility was that it had always been happening.

This familiarity made uncertainty harder.

It made the idea of walking back into the emergency department tomorrow and pretending this hadn’t fundamentally changed both of your lives feel almost impossible.

Your gaze dropped to your coffee.

“Good morning to you too,” Jack said dryly, definitely in tune with the thoughts running through your head as you were too invested in them to respond. 

Despite yourself, you laughed.

“Sorry, just… long night.”

“Me too.”

You lifted your gaze back up.

For a moment, your eyes moved between his, searching for something. Some hidden message. Some indication of what his night had looked like after you’d retreated to separate rooms.

Did he lie awake, too?

Did he replay every conversation you’d had over the last two weeks? Did he think about the future? About the hospital? About you?

You tried to find the answers in his expression.

And came up with nothing.

Not because he was cold or guarded.

But because Jack had always been harder to read than most people.

That notion hit you like a ton of bricks.

For someone who knew you so well, you weren’t entirely sure you knew him the same way.

You knew pieces of him, certainly.

You knew he preferred the night shift because he liked the unpredictability of it. You knew he woke up early no matter how late he’d gone to bed. You knew he took his coffee black and that he pretended not to care about holidays despite secretly participating in every department event.

You knew he carried more grief than he ever talked about. You knew he hid pain behind sarcasm. You knew he was kinder than he wanted people to realize.

But there were entire parts of him that still felt unexplored.

You’d spent so much energy trying to survive him that you never stopped to understand him.

Every time you found yourself wondering why he acted a certain way, you’d defaulted to the simplest explanation.

He’s irritated with me.

He doesn’t trust me.

He doesn’t like me.

Those answers had been easier.

Now, sitting across from him with a cooling mug of coffee between your hands, you found yourself realizing just how much of him remained a mystery.

And strangely, that didn’t feel discouraging.

It felt…exciting.

Because for the first time, you weren’t wondering how to make Jack Abbot like you.

You were wondering who he was when he wasn’t your attending.

The thought must have shown on your face somehow.

Which, to him, it usually did.

One of his brows lifted slightly. “What?”

You blinked.

“What, what?”

“You’re staring at me.”

Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks.

“No, I’m not.”

A familiar look settled onto his face.

One that suggested he found your denial deeply unconvincing. One you’d grown to unfortunately love. 

“You absolutely are.”

You took a sip of coffee solely to avoid answering.

Unfortunately, Jack knew you well enough to recognize that maneuver too.

His mouth twitched.

And for the first time that morning, you found yourself smiling back.

“Share with the class, sweetheart,”

“Don’t wanna,” you mumbled behind your mug.

“Mm.” His tone softened, but it didn’t lose that quiet insistence. “What’s going on in that beautiful head?”

The words came out too smoothly.

You’d seen that voice work before. Not in theory, not in stories—right in front of you. The way it could cut through tension in a trauma room, steady a panicked patient, bring order to a room that was seconds away from spiraling. 

But this version of it wasn’t for patients.

It was for you.

And your body reacted to it like it had its own memory of him, independent of everything your brain was still trying to sort out.

“I just…” You let out a breath, setting the mug down with more care than necessary, elbows coming to rest on the counter. “Worry I don’t know you as well as you know me.”

The silence that followed was immediate.

Jack actually paused.

Not in the casual, teasing way he usually did when you pushed back at him. This was different. His expression shifted slightly, like he was recalibrating what he’d just heard.

And honestly, so were you.

Because you hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not so honestly, anyway. Especially not at nine in the morning, standing in a kitchen with sunlight starting to spill and tension beginning to thicken.

But something about him made honesty slip out of you before you could stop it.

His gaze stayed on you for a long moment.

“Why would you think that?” he asked finally.

You hesitated, then shrugged slightly, eyes dropping to the countertop.

“Because you… notice everything.” Your fingers traced an imaginary line near your mug. “The way I work, the way I think, what I’m going to say before I say it. You’ve always been like that.”

A beat passed.

“And I spent years thinking I had you figured out,” you continued more quietly. “But I don’t know if that was ever real, or if I just… made up a version of you that made sense to me at the time.”

That landed heavier.

You could feel it in the way the air shifted.

Jack set his mug down more slowly than before.

When he spoke again, his voice wasn’t teasing anymore.

“It wasn’t made up.”

You looked up.

His expression was steady, but there was something behind it now. Something a little less controlled than usual.

“I’ve always noticed you,” he said. “That part is real.”

Your breath caught slightly at the simplicity of it.

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to soften it with humor or deflection.

Just stood there, meeting your eyes like he wasn’t interested in backing away from what he’d said.

“But you’re right about one thing,” he added after a moment.

Your brows furrowed slightly.

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t know me,” he said quietly. “Not really.”

It didn’t sting, per se. 

Because he wasn’t accusing you.

He was agreeing with you.

“Doesn’t feel fair,” you huffed a quiet laugh.

“It’s not.” He shook his head once, like he didn’t see any point pretending otherwise. “So I want to even the score.”

That made you pause.

Your head tilted slightly, your attention sharpening in the way it always did when Jack had a proposition.  “How?”

His gaze stayed on you for a moment longer than necessary, like he was weighing whether to say it out loud again. 

Then he exhaled. “I’ll make you dinner tonight,” he said. “A real date.”

Your chest tightened at the phrasing alone.

“A date?”

“Yes.” No hesitation this time. “So we can get to know each other outside of the ED. Outside of… all of this.”

His hand moved vaguely between you, the weight of quarantine, everything that had compressed the last thirteen days into something neither of you could separate from the rest of your history.

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh again, but it didn’t fully form.

“Jack,” you started, then stopped, because you weren’t entirely sure what you were objecting to yet.

The idea itself?

Or how much you immediately wanted to say yes to it.

He noticed the hesitation, of course he did.

But he didn’t backtrack.

“I’m not trying to complicate things,” he added. “I’m trying to slow them down.”

That hit differently.

Intentional. Real.

Not the accidental intimacy of proximity and circumstance. Not the quiet escalation you hadn’t realized you were participating in until it was already happening.

A choice.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug.

“You’re aware we go back tomorrow,” you said quietly.

“I am.”

“Back at PTMC. With our colleagues. Back in the real world.”

“I know.”

The calm certainty in his voice made your stomach flip in the worst and best way at the same time.

Like he had already accounted for all of it.

Like he wasn’t asking you to ignore reality—but just to meet him in it.

Your eyes searched his face again, slower this time. Trying to find the catch. The hesitation. The part where he might pull back and turn this into a joke.

It didn’t come.

Instead, he just stood there, waiting.

Not pushing.

Just offering.

And that, somehow, was what made it harder to refuse.

“Dinner,” you repeated, quieter now.

“A date,” he confirmed.

A beat passed.

“Pick me up at 7,” 

God bless Trinity Santos.

You thought in your head, holding up the one black dress she had somehow managed to pack into your duffel like she’d known, on some chaotic, intuitive level, that you would need it.

Casual enough that it didn’t feel like you were trying too hard. Cute enough that it absolutely still counted as effort. And somehow, exactly right for a “real date” with your attending physician in quarantine-adjacent emotional turmoil.

Of course she’d done this.

Of course she’d anticipated something you yourself had been actively refusing to acknowledge until approximately twenty-four hours ago.

You stood there for a moment longer, dress in hand, staring at it like it might offer guidance on what exactly you were supposed to do with the dilemma of either to date your attending or to shove it all back down in a box and light the box on fire.

The answer, unfortunately, did not come.

So you got dressed anyway.

By the time you stepped out into the hallway, you could smell it.

Food.

Not hospital food. Not takeout. Not something thrown together.

Something intentional. Like, DoorDash-groceries-and-nice-wine-for-date-night intentional. 

Your steps slowed slightly as you moved toward the kitchen.

Jack was already there.

The sight of him made you pause in the doorway without meaning to. He’d changed too—no scrubs, no work attire, just a simple shirt and dark pants rolled at the sleeves like he’d made a decision about this evening and committed to it fully.

The kitchen, meanwhile, looked like a place that had been subtly transformed. Nothing dramatic or staged. Just small, deliberate signs of effort. A pan still warm on the stove. Plates already set out. A bottle of something opened on the counter.

And him.

Waiting.

When he looked up and saw you, there was a brief stillness in his expression that he didn’t bother hiding.

You felt it immediately.

That shift.

Like the version of you in scrubs, in exhaustion, in argument, had been replaced by something he was still learning how to look at.

“You found a dress,” he said finally.

“I had help,” you replied, stepping fully into the kitchen now.

A faint exhale of amusement left him.

“I should’ve known Santos would get involved.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I should be thanking her,” He chuckled. “Because you look beautiful,” 

Your chest threatened to explode. Sure, he’d been complimenting you in more suggestive ways the past few days, but this was different. This was intimate. It was earnest. 

He turned slightly back toward the counter, giving you a moment that felt suspiciously intentional.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Starving,” you admitted.

“Good.”

There was a pause as he picked up the plate he’d been working on, then glanced at you again.

“Sit,” he added, nodding toward the table.

You hesitated for half a second before doing it, the chair scraping softly against the floor as you settled in.

It felt too normal.

Too much like something you could get used to without realizing it was happening.

Jack placed the food down in front of you, then sat across from you, not immediately filling the silence. Not rushing it. Just letting it exist.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The kitchen light was warm. Late-day sun filtering in through the window. Everything quieter than it had any right to be considering what this evening was supposed to mean.

You looked down at the plate, then back up at him.

“This is the part where I’m supposed to say something clever and cute,” you said.

A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“You usually do.”

“I’m off my game.”

“Understandable,” he replied, almost dry. “You’re on a date with your attending.”

You groaned softly, dropping your head back for a second.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s normal.”

His eyes flicked over you then, steady and unreadable in a way that felt new again.

“It’s not normal,” he said simply.

It was brutally honest, and somehow, more grounding than anything else he could’ve said.

You picked up your fork slowly.

“So,” you said after a beat, forcing a lighter tone, “what exactly is this version of Jack Abbot like outside the ED?”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he leaned back slightly in his chair.

“The honest answer?” he said. “Boring.”

You blinked at him.

“Boring,” you repeated.

He nodded once, unbothered.

“Very.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“Well, that I know,” you said, picking up your fork again. “I’m trying to learn new things about you.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, gesturing slightly with your fork. “Anything that isn’t ‘man who verbally dismantles residents before 7 a.m.’”

That earned a faint huff of amusement from him.

“Fair.”

You took a bite, and for a moment the conversation settled into something easier. Not weightless, exactly, but no longer sharp at the edges either. 

“I read,” he continued.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Non-medical books.”

You paused.

“Okay, that’s new.”

His expression stayed neutral, but there was a slight flicker of something like satisfaction.

“Mostly history.”

You leaned forward a little, genuinely curious now.

“Any specific period?”

“Varies,” he said. “Right now it’s post-war reconstruction.”

You studied him for a second, like you were recalibrating the version of him you had in your head.

“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that beneath the emotionally constipated attending persona, there’s a guy who reads about infrastructure rebuilding in his free time?”

A low laugh left him, more relaxed now than he had been all day.

You noticed it immediately. The way his shoulders weren’t quite as tight. The way he wasn’t watching you like he was waiting for something to break.

It made something in your chest ease as well.

“So what about you?” he asked after a moment.

You frowned slightly.

“What about me?”

“This version of you,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Outside the ED.”

You leaned back in your chair, considering that.

“I sleep a lot,” you admitted. “I complain less. I have hobbies that don’t involve watching people actively ignore medical advice.”

“Impressive.”

“Right?”

“Not reading about post-war reconstruction, I assume.”

“Oh, I’ll read,” you said, leaning back slightly in your chair, wine glass lazily in your hand. “But it’s usually some raunchy, enemies-to-lovers thing set in a small beach town.”

That earned a pause from him.

Then, quietly, “Educational.”

You grinned around your bite of food.

“You’d be surprised.”

The ease between you lingered after that, not rushing to be filled. The meal slowly disappeared between conversation and small interruptions—little comments about the food, teasing observations, the kind of back-and-forth that didn’t feel like effort anymore. 

It just… happened.

At some point, the plates were empty without either of you really noticing.

Neither of you moved to clear them right away.

Instead, the conversation kept going.

Lighter things first.

Stories from the ED that weren’t arguments. Small absurd moments you both had witnessed but never had time to laugh about before. Patients who said outrageous things. Residents who tried too hard. Nurses who knew everything before anyone else did.

Almost like you were rebuilding a previously thought to be tarnished story. 

And Jack laughed more than you expected him to.

Not loudly or performatively. Just enough that it changed the shape of him across from you. Less contained and measured.

And you realized, somewhere in the middle of it, that this version of him wasn’t new.

He had just never had space to exist like this around you before.

Eventually, the conversation slowed without either of you deciding it should.

The silence that followed didn’t feel like an ending. More like a natural pause.

Jack leaned back in his chair slightly, hands loosely clasped in front of him.

For a while, he just looked at you.

Not in a way that made you tense—just in a way that made you notice he wasn’t joking anymore.

“I didn’t talk about this much at work,” he said finally.

Your expression shifted slightly, but you didn’t interrupt.

He exhaled, gaze dropping briefly toward the table before returning to you.

“Loss,” he clarified. “Not in detail.”

Something in your chest tightened, but you stayed still.

“I’ve lost patients,” he continued. “We all do. That part you learn to carry. Or you don’t last long in the ED.”

A pause.

“But there’s a difference between losing patients and…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening briefly like he was choosing his words carefully. “And losing people who were supposed to stay in your life longer.”

You didn’t speak. Not because you didn’t want to. But because you could feel how deliberate this was for him.

Jack didn’t offer things like this easily.

“I had someone early in my career,” he said quietly. “Someone who made the days feel easier. Life felt…lighter. Losing a leg and having a tough job no longer felt as heavy.”

His fingers shifted slightly against each other.

“Then I lost her.”

The admission hung there for a moment.

“When that happened,” he continued, voice steadier now but lower, “I think I started treating everything like it had an expiration date. People. Relationships. Even good moments.”

His gaze lifted to yours again.

“I didn’t want to get comfortable in anything I might lose.”

The honesty of it made your throat tighten.

It wasn’t. dramatic. Or heavy in a way that demanded a response.

It was just what it was. 

You let that sit between you both for a moment before speaking.

“So you stopped letting yourself stay in things.”

A faint, almost rueful smile tugged at his mouth.

“I tried.”

You studied him for a second, really studied him, in a way you hadn’t before when you were too busy being frustrated or angry or unsure of what he thought of you.

“And now?” you asked quietly.

His eyes held yours.

“Now I’m trying to be more intentional about what I don’t walk away from.”

The words landed harder than everything else that night.

Outside, the light had shifted further, softening into late evening gold against the kitchen walls. The house felt quieter now, but not empty. Just settled.

You realized you weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore.

You were just… there.

With him.

And that didn’t feel like something you had to escape from.

It felt like something you might not want to leave.

Jack didn’t move right away. Neither did you. The plates were still on the table between you, forgotten in a way that didn’t feel careless so much as inevitable. Like whatever this conversation had become had quietly taken precedence over everything else.

Outside, the light had shifted fully into evening now, stretching warm gold across the kitchen walls. It softened the edges of everything it touched, including him. Including you.

Jack broke the silence first, but not immediately. He looked down at the table for a moment, then let out a slow breath.

“I don’t know what this looks like outside of here,” he admitted.

You watched him carefully.

“I don’t either,” you said honestly.

That seemed to settle between you without tension. Only truth.

He nodded slightly, like that was enough for now.

Another pause passed.

Then his gaze lifted to yours again, and something about it had changed. 

“I meant what I said this morning,” he said quietly.

Your heart picked up immediately, but you didn’t interrupt.

His fingers rested loosely on the table now, no longer clenched or guarded.

“When I said I wanted to be intentional,” he continued, “I meant with you.”

The air between you shifted.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of your hands resting still in your lap.

“Jack—”

He shook his head slightly, not cutting you off, just asking you not to rush him.

“I’ve spent a long time not saying things,” he said. “Not because I didn’t feel them. Because I thought it was easier that way.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“And because I thought if I gave it a name, it would become something I could lose.”

The honesty of it made your chest ache.

You knew that feeling.

More than you wanted to admit.

He exhaled slowly.

“But I’m tired of treating everything like it’s temporary.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, like it cost him something to say it out loud at all:

“And I don’t want this to be temporary.”

Your breath caught.

Because that wasn’t vague. Or careful. Or any of the things you had grown to know about Jack Abbot. 

It was right in front of you without the buffer of uncertainty he usually hid behind.

You searched his face for something that would soften it.

It didn’t come.

Instead, he added, even more quietly:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The words didn’t echo.

They didn’t need to.

Your throat tightened immediately, like your body had decided to respond before your mind could organize anything coherent.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak at all.

All you could do was look at him.

Really look.

At the man who had spent years being your frustration, your challenge, your impossible standard. The man you had misunderstood for just as long as you’d unknowingly been circling something neither of you had been ready to name.

And now he was sitting across from you like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Like it had always been there—it had just finally been said out loud.

You let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, but it didn’t fully form.

“That’s…” you started, then stopped, because your voice didn’t feel reliable anymore.

Jack didn’t push.

He just waited.

So you swallowed again, slower this time, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

“That’s really unfair timing,” you said quietly.

A faint flicker of confusion crossed his face.

And then you exhaled, shaking your head slightly at yourself.

Because there was no point trying to dodge it anymore.

“Because I think I’m in love with you too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full. Of everything that had been building for years without either of you giving it permission to exist out loud.

For a second, Jack didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Then, slowly, his shoulders eased, like something in him had been carrying that weight longer than he’d let on.

A small, almost disbelieving breath left him.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly.

You nodded once.

“Yeah.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again, slower this time, as if he was making sure you were still there in front of him and not something he’d imagined into existence over the last thirteen days.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned in slightly without thinking about it, closing the already fragile space between you by just enough that it no longer felt theoretical.

His hand came up carefully, pausing for a fraction of a second before settling at your jaw. Just resting there, like he was giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You didn’t.

The breath he let out was quiet.

Barely there.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed.

It was controlled in the way someone is controlled when they’ve been holding themselves back for far too long and finally stop trying.

Like he’d made a decision and couldn’t afford to undo it anymore.

Your hand found his shirt without thinking, grounding yourself in something real as the world narrowed down to the space between you.

When he pulled back slightly, it was only enough to breathe, his forehead almost resting against yours.

“You’re sure?” He murmured, like he was giving you one last out. One last chance to decide this wasn’t what you wanted. 

“I’m very sure,” 

And that was it.

Whatever careful control Jack had been maintaining tonight shattered completely.

His hand tightened at your jaw, tilting your face up as he kissed you again, harder this time. Not asking permission anymore. Just taking what you'd both finally admitted you wanted.

Your fingers twisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and the sound he made against your mouth sent heat flooding through your entire body.

Years of unspoken feelings.

And now there was nothing left to hold it back.

His other hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress like he needed to confirm you were real. That this was actually happening.

You gasped softly when his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of your neck that made your grip on him tighten involuntarily.

"Jack—"

His name came out breathless, almost desperate, and you felt him pause for just a second against your skin.

Then he pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes darker than you'd ever seen them, pupils blown wide with want.

"Stand up," he said quietly.

It wasn't a command—but there was an edge to his voice that made your stomach flip.

You didn't hesitate.

The chair scraped back as you stood, and immediately his hands were on you again—one sliding to the small of your back, the other cupping the side of your face as he kissed you again, deeper this time.

You met him with equal intensity, your hands finding his shoulders, his neck, threading into his hair and pulling slightly without thinking.

He groaned softly against your mouth, and the sound of it—raw and unguarded—made something inside you snap.

Your back hit the edge of the counter. 

Jack's body pressed against yours, solid and warm and real, one hand braced on the counter beside you while the other traced down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping there like he couldn't help himself.

"All mine," he murmured against your lips, even as his hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your thigh through the fabric of your dress.

“All yours,” you breathed back.

That earned a low, almost disbelieving laugh from him before his mouth found yours again, harder, more demanding.

Your hands moved without thought—sliding down his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, then lower still, tugging his shirt free from his pants so you could finally touch skin.

The moment your fingers made contact with the bare skin of his abdomen, he inhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening.

"Christ," he muttered against your mouth.

You smiled slightly, breathless, and did it again—letting your hands explore the planes of his stomach, his sides, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

His hand slid higher on your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress up slightly, and the deliberate slowness of it made your breath catch.

"Jack—"

"I know," he said quietly, his forehead resting against yours for just a moment. "I know."

But he didn't stop.

His thumb traced small circles against your inner thigh, maddeningly close to where you wanted him but not quite there yet, and you made a small frustrated sound that made his mouth curve slightly against your jaw.

"Patience," he murmured.

"I've been patient for years," you shot back, breathless.

That made him pause.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his expression shifting into something more serious, more intense.

"So have I," he said quietly.

And then his hand moved higher, finally, and your head fell back against the cabinet with a soft thud as a gasp escaped you.

His mouth found your neck again, kissing and biting gently as his fingers moved with deliberate precision, and you couldn't think anymore.

Couldn't do anything except hold onto him and let yourself feel everything you'd been denying for so long. Something about this time felt…different. Now with everything on the table, you could fully allow yourself to get lost in him. 

Your hands found his belt, fumbling slightly with the buckle, and he made a low sound against your throat that might have been your name.

"Bedroom," he managed, voice rough.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

But neither of you moved.

Instead, his mouth found yours again, kissing you like he couldn't quite bring himself to stop long enough to walk the ten feet to the other room.

Your fingers finally got his belt undone, and his hand caught your wrist gently, stilling you.

"Bedroom," he repeated, more firmly this time.

This time, you listened.

He stepped back just enough to let you move, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together as he led you out of the kitchen.

The walk down the hallway felt both impossibly long and far too short.

The moment you crossed the threshold into his room, his hands were on you again—one sliding into your hair, the other at your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you with renewed intensity.

You walked backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then you were falling, pulling him down with you.

He caught himself on his forearms, hovering over you for just a moment, his breathing ragged.

His mouth moved down your jaw, your throat, finding that spot just below your ear that he'd discovered days ago—the one that made you gasp and arch into him every single time.

"Still so responsive," he murmured against your skin, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

"And you're still so smug about it," you managed, your fingers threading into his hair.

"I am," he admitted without shame, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "I love how you react to me."

The word love landed differently now.

Made your breath catch in a way that had nothing to do with what his mouth was doing.

He felt it, the slight hitch, and lifted his head to look at you.

"Say it again," you whispered.

His eyes darkened, but his expression softened.

"I love you," he said, deliberate and clear. Then his hand slid up your thigh, pushing your dress higher. "And I love this. The way you look at me. The sounds you make."

Your hands found his shirt, working the buttons open with more coordination than you'd had in the kitchen. He helped you shrug it off his shoulders, and then your palms were on his chest, sliding down, relearning the terrain you'd mapped thoroughly over the past week.

When your fingers traced the line of his prosthetic, he didn't tense this time. Just watched you with an intensity that made your chest tight.

"I love you," you said, meeting his eyes as your hand moved deliberately along the edge where metal met skin. "All of you."

He exhaled roughly, then captured your mouth again, kissing you hard enough that you felt it everywhere.

His hands made quick work of your dress, the zipper sliding down with practiced ease. You lifted your hips to help him pull it off, and he tossed it aside without ceremony.

"Better," he muttered, his gaze raking over you in just your underwear.

"Your turn," you said, reaching for his belt again.

This time he didn't stop you.

You got his pants open, and he shifted to kick them off with his prosthetic, the movements efficient and unselfconscious in a way that made your heart squeeze.

When he settled back over you, there was nothing between you but thin fabric and intention.

"Come here," you said softly, pulling him down.

He went willingly, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his mouth found yours again. The kiss was deep, thorough, the kind that made you forget where you ended and he began.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your mouth.

"You're going to kill me," he muttered.

"Good," you said, rolling your hips deliberately.

His hand slid between you, fingers finding you through your underwear, and the touch was confident, knowing exactly where and how to press.

You gasped, your head falling back, and he took advantage, his mouth moving down your throat, across your collarbone, lower.

"Jack—"

"I know," he said, his voice rough. "I know what you need."

And he did.

He knew how to touch you, how to build the tension until you were trembling beneath him. Knew when to go slow and when to push harder. Knew the exact moment to slide your underwear down your legs and replace his fingers with his mouth.

"Fuck," you gasped, your hands fisting in his hair.

He made a low sound of approval against you, and the vibration nearly undid you.

It didn't take long—it never did with him—before you were gasping his name, your thighs trembling around his shoulders.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was curved in that rare, genuine smile that you'd only started seeing in the past few days.

"I love watching you come apart," he murmured simply.

You pulled him up to you, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his lips.

"My turn," you murmured against his mouth.

But he shook his head slightly.

"Not yet," he said. "I want—"

He paused, and something shifted in his expression. Something vulnerable.

"I want to be inside you," he said quietly. "I want to look at you. I want—"

"Yes," you interrupted, understanding immediately. "Yes, Jack."

When he settled back between your thighs, he paused, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to you.

"Look at me," he said softly.

You did.

His eyes held yours as he pressed forward, slow and deliberate, and the stretch of him was familiar now but no less overwhelming.

"Fuck," you breathed, your hands finding his shoulders.

"You feel perfect," he said roughly. "Every single time."

He started to move, and the rhythm was immediately familiar—the pace you'd learned together, the angle that made you both gasp.

But something was different now.

The way he looked at you. The way his hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pressing them into the mattress. The way he said your name like it meant something more than it had before.

"I love you," he said again, the words coming easier now. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you gasped, your free hand sliding down his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he moved. "Jack, I—"

"I know," he said, his forehead dropping to yours. "I know, sweetheart."

The endearment made your chest ache.

His pace increased, and you met him thrust for thrust, your body knowing exactly how to move with his.

"Harder," you said breathlessly.

He obliged immediately, his hips snapping forward with more force, and the sound you made was obscene.

"Like that?" he asked, his voice strained.

"Yes—just like that—"

His hand released yours to slide between your bodies, finding where you were joined, and the added pressure made you cry out.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

You were close—so close—and he knew it, could read your body like he'd been doing it for years instead of days.

"Come for me," he said roughly. "I want to feel it."

The command, the intimacy of it, the way he was looking at you like you were everything—it pushed you over the edge.

You came with his name on your lips, your body clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, his face buried in your neck as he groaned your name.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just stayed there, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other.

Finally, he lifted his head to look at you, and his expression was soft in a way you'd never seen before.

"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't stop saying it now that he'd started.

You reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

"I love you too," you said. "So much."

He kissed you then, slow and tender, before carefully pulling out and standing to walk over to the bathroom.

When he came back to bed, he cleaned you off before pulling you against him immediately, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you.

"Stay," he said quietly.

You smiled against his skin.

"I'm not going anywhere."

His hand traced idle patterns on your shoulder, and for a while, you just lay there in comfortable silence.

"This changes things," he said eventually.

"I know."

"I don't know what it looks like when we go back," he admitted. "But I meant what I said. I want to figure it out."

You tilted your head to look up at him.

"So do I."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Good."

Outside, the evening had fully settled into night, but inside, everything felt warm and settled and right.

Like maybe, despite everything, you'd both finally found something worth holding onto.

Maybe it was silly, but something about going through every pair Santos had shoved into that duffel bag felt almost…symbolic.

You’d done laundry here before. Your tanks after yoga. Towels. Pajamas. 

But this felt different.

As ridiculous as it sounded, running out of clean underwear meant time had passed.

Twelve days to be exact. 

Twelve days of waking up in the same house. Ignoring each other. Sharing meals. Scheduling blocks of time to use the couch. Falling into routines that no longer felt novel enough to notice. Twelve days of learning which cabinet he kept the mugs in, and how he always checked the locks before bed without even seeming aware he was doing it.

Twelve days of becoming accustomed to someone.

All to turn into what?

The thought settled uncomfortably in your stomach as you stared at the washing machine, watching the fabrics tumble lazily behind the glass.

This was almost over.

Tomorrow would be your last full day here. Then, the following evening, you’d both walk back into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center and somehow return to normal.

Or whatever normal was supposed to look like now.

You weren’t sure when Jack had become woven so tightly into your day. Maybe he always had been and you simply hadn’t noticed it before. At work, there had always been a reason to seek him out. 

Here, there were no excuses.

Just you and him.

The machine hummed steadily beside you, pulling you from your thoughts only when footsteps sounded in the hallway.

A minute later, Jack appeared around the corner, fresh from a shower. His hair was still damp, a towel slung over one shoulder as he rubbed absently at the back of his neck.

His eyes landed on you immediately.

Then the washing machine.

Then back to you.

The pause that followed told you he was trying to determine whether you were having an actual problem or one of your moments that usually you brought upon yourself. 

“…What happened?”

You sighed.

“I’ve reached the end.”

His brows furrowed.

“The end of what?”

“The underwear supply.”

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then his eyes drifted to the washing machine.

Understanding dawned.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“And just so I’m clear,” you saw him come to stand beside you in your peripheral vision. “Once they’re clean, you’ll have a replenished supply?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“I’m failing to see the issue.”

You groaned. “She only packed me enough to last the quarantine.”

“Oh, so she underpacked you?”

“No, it’s just—” Your head tilted back as you took a breath. “We’ve only got two days left.”

“Right.”

“And then this is over.”

“And by ‘this,’ you’re referring to…?”

Your head turned, giving him a look.

His turned to meet yours, face as expressionless as ever, as if he were asking whether it was going to rain and not where your entire relationship was headed in forty-eight hours.

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Jack.”

“Use your words.”

You stared at him.

He stared right back.

Infuriating, infuriating man.

“The quarantine,” you finally said, as if it were obvious.

“Mhm.”

“And the living together.”

“Mhm.”

“The…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this has been.”

For the first time, something flickered across his face.

It wasn’t concern or uncertainty.

It could only be described as…understanding. Which, really shouldn’t surprise you. Over the last few days, you were starting to learn that it was very possible that he was the only one fully capable of that. 

“Ah.”

You hated how small that sound made you feel. The pause that came after it, like it was your turn to respond again. 

“That’s all you’ve got?”

A corner of his mouth twitched.

“I’m letting you finish.”

You rolled your eyes and looked back at the washing machine.

The clothes continued tumbling around as if they weren’t currently starring in one of the most uncomfortable conversations of your life.

“We go back to work,” you said quietly. “And everything gets complicated.”

Jack was silent for a moment.

“We always knew it would.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been thinking about this.”

You scoffed unpleasantly. “Jack, I’ve thought about this approximately every six minutes since day nine.”

That actually got a smile out of him.

“Only every six?”

“Don’t mock me.”

The smile lingered for a moment before fading into something gentler.

“You know what’s interesting?”

“What?”

“You keep saying this is over.”

Your brows furrowed.

“Because it is.”

“The quarantine is.”

His shoulder bumped yours lightly.

“I’m not.”

The response was so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that you almost missed it.

Like he wasn’t making a declaration—he was simply stating a fact. The sky was blue. Never shock for asystole. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Your chest tightened. 

“Jack—”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“You say that like it’s just that simple.”

“No.” His gaze stayed on the washing machine. “I say it like it’s worth figuring out.”

The room fell quiet.

You wished his answer made it that easy.

Part of you desperately wanted it to be.

You wanted to take his confidence and wrap yourself up in it. To believe that because Jack Abbot said you’d figure it out, then somehow the universe would rearrange itself accordingly.

But your brain wouldn’t let you.

Because twelve days ago, you were convinced this man couldn’t stand you.

Twelve days ago, you’d been preparing to ask Robby for a shift change because working with him felt impossible. Twelve days ago, every interaction had felt like a battle you were somehow losing. Every critique was—or felt—personal. Every argument chipped away at the already-barely-there will to make it through the shift. 

Twelve days ago, if someone had told you that you’d be standing in Jack’s laundry room discussing the future of your relationship while your underwear spun in his washing machine, you would’ve asked for a psych eval.

You huffed out a laugh at the absurdity of it.

Jack’s eyes slid toward you.

“What?”

“I just…can’t believe I’m the one being practical here.”

His brow furrowed.

“The practical one?”

“Yes, practical.” You gestured vaguely around the laundry room. “Because somebody has to be.”

The corner of his mouth slid into a grin, like he thought you were joking. 

“Sweetheart—”

“No.” You pointed at him. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ your way out of this.”

His expression immediately shifted.

Not angry, but alert. Almost…braced. Like he knew this tone and body language.

The same tone that usually preceded an argument in the ED. Your arms were crossed, feet planted in the only way you knew how to go toe-to-toe with this man. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You scoffed. “That’s your response?”

“What would you like my response to be?”

“I don’t know, maybe something that acknowledges this is insane?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“What part?”

You stared at him.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

A scoff escaped you, incredulous.

“Twelve days ago I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, yeah, I know that now.”

“Good.”

You threw your hands into the air.

“See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

“What?”

“You’re acting like that explanation just…fixes everything.”

His face hardened a fraction.

“It explains a lot.”

“It explains your side.”

“And your side is?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because there it was—that…feeling you used to get in the ED.

The feeling of being backed into a corner by Jack Abbot until you were forced to articulate what was actually bothering you.

“I don’t…know how to trust this.”

The words came out before you could stop them.

The room went quiet.

Jack’s expression immediately softened, which you hated. 

Because it wasn’t supposed to. You wanted his expression to harden, with knowledge and agreement that this was, in fact, an insane fucking situation. Because at least then, you’d have an easy out. 

“I mean, come on.” You looked away. “For years, every interaction we’ve had has been an argument. Every patient, every procedure. You made me feel like I was under a damn microscope.”

His jaw flexed.

“I know.”

“So forgive me if I’m having trouble immediately jumping to ‘we’ll figure it out.’”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“It kind of sounds like you are.”

“No.” His voice remained frustratingly calm. “I’m asking you not to decide it’s doomed before we’ve even tried.”

You crossed your arms.

“And that’s easy for you to say.”

Something flashed across his face.

For the first time since this conversation started, he looked irritated.

“Easy for me?”

“Yes.”

He barked out a short laugh.

“That’s an interesting assessment.”

“Is it?”

“You think this is easy for me?”

You shrugged.

Compared to the alternative—that he was just as scared as you were—that seemed safer.

Jack stared at you for a long moment before shaking his head.

“That’s your problem.”

“What is?”

“You still think I’m the confident one.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because standing in front of you wasn’t Dr. Abbot. It wasn’t your attending. It wasn’t the man who always annoyingly had an answer.

It was just Jack.

“I’m the one that was hesitant to do this,” he spoke, words sounding slightly strained now. “The one considering your role in this and the impact it could have on your success. Making sure I didn’t incriminate us in every single moment we’ve had because of how I felt towards you.”

Your jaw ticked.

“Congratulations?”

His eyebrows shot upward.

“No, seriously.” You laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “What am I supposed to do with that, Jack?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means twelve days ago I thought this was basically a prison sentence.”

The words landed harder this time.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” You shook your head. “You keep saying that like it explains everything, but it doesn’t. For years, every interaction we’ve had has been through the lens of me thinking I wasn’t good enough for you. That I wasn’t smart enough, experienced enough, careful enough—pick one.”

He shook his head incredulously at your words as they continued.

“And now I’m just supposed to just flip a switch because it turns out you’ve secretly been in love with me the whole time?”

“I never said—”

“You don’t have to say it.”

The washing machine hummed steadily beside you.

Neither of you looked at it.

“I spent years convincing myself I was imagining things,” you continued. “Then I convinced myself I disliked you. Then, that I hated you. Do you know how hard that was? To convince myself that, while everyone had this amazing experience of you, I was the outlier?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“…How hard it was to deprive myself of that?” It was barely even audible. 

You’d heard the stories—the attending who stayed hours after his shift to help a struggling intern, the good guy who quietly paid for a patient’s medication, the mentor who somehow managed to be demanding and deeply respected at the same time. 

Everyone seemed to get that version of Jack Abbot.

Everyone except you.

He was quiet for a moment, his broken gaze settling on you. “I do know.”

“Because you had years to process that.” The word came out sharper than you intended.

His gaze dropped briefly to the floor.

“And it wasn’t hard for me?”

You opened your mouth.

Stopped.

Because that wasn’t what you’d meant, but it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

“You had certainty,” you said finally.

His head lifted. “No.” The answer was immediate.

“You think I was certain?”

You blinked.

“Jack—”

“I spent years wondering if it was me reading too much into something.” His voice was rising now too, not angry, but frustrated. “Years making sure I wasn’t treating you differently because of how I felt. Years watching you date other people and convincing myself it didn’t bother me because there wasn’t another option.”

The room went quiet.

“I wasn’t certain,” he continued. “I was careful. For years I got to watch everyone else have the version of you that I wanted.”

The words knocked the breath from your lungs.

“I watched residents become your friends. Watched nurses invite you out after shifts. I listened to stories about your dates, your weekends, your life.” His gaze settled back on yours. “And every time I wanted to know more, I had to remind myself that it wasn’t my place.”

The frustration had drained from his voice now, leaving something quieter. Something painfully honest. 

“You think you deprived yourself of some version of me?” He huffed a laugh. “I deprived myself of you, too.”

Your throat tightened.

“Every time you sat in the break room laughing with everybody else while I walked past. Every time I wanted to ask how your weekend was and couldn’t justify it. Every time I had to pretend I wasn’t looking for your car in the parking lot when I came in for a shift.”

His eyes dropped briefly.

“I know what it feels like to watch everyone else get something you don’t.”

It wasn’t enough to erase the fear—but enough to make you realize he’d been standing on unstable ground too.

“You got to think I hated you,” he said quietly. “I got to think you’d never look at me the way I looked at you.”

His smile was small.

Sad.

“Neither of us exactly won there.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The quiet swish of the washing machine rumbled in the background, water sloshing rhythmically through a load of laundry. It felt absurd, somehow. Such a mundane, ordinary sound accompanying a conversation that seemed to be rearranging years of assumptions in real time.

Just existing alongside two people standing in a laundry room, finally admitting things they’d spent years trying not to feel.

Your eyes drifted over his face to the tension in his jaw and the exhaustion around his eyes.

The vulnerability that still looked foreign on him, like he hadn’t intended for you to see this much of him when the conversation—or, hell, the day—started.

You thought back to all the times you’d imagined what was going on inside Jack Abbot’s head.

Every shift where you’d driven home angry.

Every critique you’d replayed in his voice.

Every argument you’d dissected with Santos over drinks on your days off.

He’d existed in every crevice of your life for years.

And somehow, despite all that time spent trying to understand him, you’d never once landed anywhere close to the truth.

Not until right now. 

And for somebody who spent most of his professional life maintaining complete control over every room he entered, he suddenly looked remarkably unguarded.

Like he’d finally run out of places to hide—or, maybe, decided he didn’t want to anymore.

Jack was the first one to look away.

His hand rubbed across the back of his neck before he exhaled slowly.

“I think we should spend tonight apart.”

The words hit like a bucket of cold water, your face falling before you could stop it.

Jack noticed immediately.

“Not—not like that.”

“Then how?”

“Sweetheart, we’ve spent almost every waking moment together for nearly two weeks.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s kind of what quarantine is.”

A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“Fair.”

The smile disappeared just as quickly.

“But, I think we’ve gotten a little too good at avoiding this conversation.”

Your eyes dropped to the floor.

Because unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

Every time reality crept in, you’d found a way around it. A distraction in the form of avoidance. A passionate kiss against the counter. A joke about the ongoing bet.

Anything to postpone the inevitable.

“We don’t have to decide everything tonight,” he continued. “But I think we owe it to ourselves to actually think.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And if we don’t come to the same conclusion?”

The question escaped before you could stop it.

Jack went quiet.

When you finally looked up, he was already watching you.

“Then we’ll deal with that.”

He didn’t say we’ll be fine. Or don’t worry. He didn’t make some reassuring promise he possibly couldn’t keep.

He just told the truth.

And you hated how much you appreciated that.

“You really want to spend the night alone?”

A faint laugh escaped him. “No.”

The answer came so quickly that it caught you off guard.

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.

“Not even a little.”

That made something in your chest hurt.

“Then why suggest it?”

Jack glanced toward the washing machine. Toward godforsaken underwear tumbling endlessly in circles.

“I think I’ve wanted this for so long that I’m willing to accept almost any version of it.”

His voice was quieter now. “And that’s not fair to either of us.”

Your breath caught.

Because that was the most frightening thing he’d said all day.

You couldn’t sleep. 

The room was quiet. Empty. Every shift of the mattress reminded you that for the last few nights, warm hands were only an inch away. A presence now so obviously absent. 

Your mind went where it was told to—

Back to him.

Back to the quarantine.

It replayed itself in fragments rather than a sequence. The first day, in shock and irritated, convinced Jack Abbot was the worst possible person you could have been stuck with. The arguments that followed almost immediately after, sharp enough to feel personal even when they weren’t supposed to be. The way he never seemed impressed by you in the ways you wanted him to be, and somehow always noticed the things you were trying to hide.

Then it shifted, slowly, into something deeper.

The kitchen. The couch. The small ways you hadn’t realized you were letting each other in. Finding each other in different rooms without being surprised to find each other there. Falling into conversations that no longer felt like arguments just for the sake of them.

The way he had always paid attention.

Not loudly. Not obviously. But consistently, in a way that had been easy to misread when you were convinced he didn’t like you. Or worse, that he thought you weren’t enough.

Instead of paying attention to see you fail, he’d been paying attention to learn you. 

You turned onto your side, pulling the blanket closer, as if that could keep the thoughts from spreading.

Because the worst part was realizing that the quarantine hadn’t created anything new.

It had only removed everything that usually stood in the way.

The hierarchy. The patients. The interruptions. The carefully maintained distance required by the hospital and social setting that had shaped every interaction between you for years.

And it had granted you time. Proximity. And honesty, whether you were ready for it or not.

Your thoughts drifted again to PTMC. 

You had built an entire version of him in your head over the years.

A version that explained everything neatly: He was hard on you because you weren’t good enough. He was distant because he didn’t like you. He challenged you because he wanted you to fail.

It had made things safer, in a way.

Because if that version of him was true, then nothing more complicated had to exist underneath it.

You stared up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

Because the alternative—the one you kept circling back to no matter how many times you tried to avoid it—was that you had been wrong about the foundation of all of it.

Not just about him, but about the space between you.

And that meant the last twelve days hadn’t been an anomaly. They weren’t some isolated event. They had been what happened when neither of you had anywhere left to hide from it.

Your heart rate quickened as you thought about tomorrow. About the last full day. About what came after.

The return to work. The eyes on you. The roles snapping back into place out of habit more than intention. The version of yourself that knew exactly how to survive him professionally, even if you no longer trusted your understanding of him personally.

You pressed your hand against your face, letting out a slow breath. 

Because no matter how many ways you turned it over, you kept landing in the same place: this wasn’t something you could un-know anymore.

You couldn’t unlearn the way his body felt against yours, the way that awareness had settled into your system so completely it no longer felt like something you could switch off.

It was in the smallest things, the ones your mind kept replaying without permission. The way his gaze would catch on you across the counter, a glint in his eye during  a hushed compliment that you struggled to accept. That brief flicker of satisfaction he didn’t ever bother hiding.

Even the ordinary parts of the day had started to feel different now that you knew what it was like to be on the other side of him.

Breakfasts that used to feel like an unfortunate shared space had become something else entirely, especially when he’d lean in just slightly to say something under his breath, low enough that it felt like it was meant only for you, and you’d feel your face betray you before you could stop it. And he noticed. 

Then there were the quieter moments, the ones that should have been easy to dismiss. Sitting on the couch in the late afternoon, some movie playing in the background that he’d insisted on putting on but wasn’t really watching. The two of you ending up closer than necessary without either of you moving away, like distance had slowly stopped being the default and started becoming optional.

At some point, you’d stopped paying attention to when you were touching and when you weren’t. An arm brushing yours. Your head resting against him without thinking. His hand finding your shoulder like it had always belonged there.

And now, lying alone in bed, it was all still happening anyway, just without him in the room.

You sat up suddenly, the movement sharper than you intended, like your body had finally decided it couldn’t stay still with all of this inside it anymore. Your head throbbed from the sheer weight of everything you’d been turning over and over in your mind until it no longer had clear edges.

Twelve fucking days.

That was all it had taken to undo years of push and pull.

You let out a breath that turned into something halfway between a laugh and a sigh, pressing your fingers briefly against your forehead as if that might slow your thoughts down.

“God damn it,” you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.

Because it wasn’t just confusing anymore. It wasn’t just annoyingly complicated.

It was obvious in a way that felt almost insulting, like your brain had been the last one to arrive at a conclusion everyone else had already seen coming.

You dropped your hand slowly, staring into the dark of your room, the realization sitting there with an infuriating kind of calm.

You were done trying to figure out what this was anymore.

Because you already knew.

And that was way worse.

Because it meant there wasn’t a version of this where you could go back to. 

Not after the non-dairy milk. Not after the spoon-feeding you soup. Not after the way he looked at you like he had stopped pretending, even before you had.

You swallowed, the thought settling deeper than you wanted it to.

Of course it had happened like this.

Of course it couldn’t be gradual in a way you could ignore for a few months and mull over at a pace you were comfortable with.

Of course it had been him, of all people, undoing you in less than two weeks after years of intentional distance.

You leaned back against the headboard, exhaling slowly, staring at nothing.

And in the quiet, unhelpfully honest part of your mind, there it was.

It wasn’t framed as a question anymore. Not something you were still debating.

Just simply the truth, arriving late and unapologetic:

You were in love with Jack Abbot.

And you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do with that in the morning.

You sprawled across the couch beneath a throw blanket, attention half on the movie playing quietly across the mounted television. Jack lay stretched out on his stomach between your legs, fully taking advantage of the position by using your stomach—and very intentionally your chest—as a pillow.

Like this was a normal, random Saturday off of work.

Like this was something you’d been doing for years instead of approximately forty-eight-ish hours.

Your fingers drifted lazily through his curls, scratching lightly against his scalp while his arms rested around your waist. Every so often, he’d shift just enough to get more comfortable, and every single time, you were forced to pretend not to notice the way he settled further into you with a quiet sound of contentment.

And maybe the worst part?

You liked it. Worse than liked it.

You were becoming alarmingly attached to it.

Jack shifted slightly again, nose brushing absentmindedly against your shirt as he adjusted his head more fully onto your stomach.

“You’re kind of crushing me,” you informed him lightly.

“Mhm.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“You can breathe enough to talk.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, fingers continuing through his hair anyway. His curls were softer like this after a shower, slightly damp still at the roots. Every once in a while your nails scratched lightly against his scalp and his breathing would deepen almost immediately.

Which was honestly an outrageous—and intoxicating—amount of power for one person to have.

“You realize,” you said slowly, eyes still on the television, “if anyone from PTMC saw this, we’d actually never hear the end of it.”

Jack made a low noise against your stomach that almost sounded like amusement.

“Robby would pass away instantly.”

“He already thinks we’re suspicious.”

“We are suspicious.”

“That’s not helping.”

Finally, he tilted his head just enough to glance up at you from where he was sprawled across your body. Fever still lingered faintly in the pinkness of his cheeks, though he looked far more healthy now than he had yesterday. You tried not to attribute that to your TLC, but it was too coincidental not to point out. 

“You seem pretty relaxed for someone worried about HR.”

You narrowed your eyes down at him. “You are literally using my boobs as a Tempur-Pedic.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“Jack.” 

“What?” His mouth twitched. “You brought it up.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you before you lightly shoved at his shoulder. He barely moved.

“Unbelievable.”

“Still letting me crush you.” he murmured, eyes drifting shut again as he settled more heavily against you.

Your hand slowed briefly in his hair.

There it was again—that quiet thing underneath the teasing. The truth of it.

You looked down at him for a second too long, taking in the rare sight of Jack Abbot completely relaxed against you. No more walls were up. Just playful banter while your attending’s temple was pressed against the firmness of your underboob.

It felt like something dangerous in your chest.

So instead of acknowledging any of that, you lightly tugged his curls.

“You drooled on me earlier.”

One eye cracked open immediately. “Slander.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Can’t prove it.”

You smiled despite yourself, resuming the slow scratch of your fingers through his hair as his eyes drifted closed once more.

But the moment was quickly interrupted by the faint buzzing of your phone, buried somewhere beneath either a couch cushion or one of the throw pillows Jack inexplicably owned.

His brows furrowed immediately against your stomach. “Who is it?”

You twisted slightly, digging around blindly beneath the blanket and nearly smacking him in the face with a pillow in the process while he made zero effort to move out of the way.

“Hold on—”

The screen finally lit in your hand and your head immediately tipped back against the couch with a groan.

“It’s Trinity.”

“No.”

You snorted at the sheer immediacy of his response. “I’ve been dodging her calls for like two days now, Jack. She’s gonna think you murdered me.”

“Good,” he muttered, eyes already falling shut again. “Then she’ll stop calling you.”

“Yeah, and start calling the police.” You swiped to answer before he could protest further. “Trin, hey—”

Jack lifted his head just enough to send you an unimpressed scowl as you ignored him completely.

“Roomie,” Trinity’s voice exploded through the speaker immediately. “You’re alive.”

“Barely.”

“Bullshit. You sound suspiciously comfortable.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means every time I’ve texted you this week you’ve answered like a woman being held hostage but in a weirdly content way.”

Jack’s shoulders started shaking slightly beneath your hand.

“What can I say, I’ve been busy.” You immediately cringed with how you could practically smell how she’d decipher that. 

“Busy, huh?” You knew the sound of her smirk. “Busy in what positions?” 

“Trinity,” you whisper-hissed, heat exploding across your face.

But it was already too late.

Below you, Jack Abbot had gone suspiciously still for half a second before slowly pushing himself upright, one hand bracing against your thigh as he sat up between your legs.

And for someone who was practically on his deathbed last night, he was somehow still entirely capable of weaponizing smugness.

His hair was a mess from laying on you, curls pushed every direction as he looked up with that infuriating glint in his eyes.

“What positions?” he echoed hoarsely, voice roughened from sickness. “Where to start?”

Your jaw dropped as you covered the mic. “You are sick.”

On the phone, Trinity made a sound so loud you nearly threw it across the room.

“Oh my god.”

“Trin, I swear to God—”

“Huckleberry!” You heard her call before her mouth dropped back to the phone. “You slept with him.”

“Hey! No one said that!”

Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “You didn’t?”

You whipped toward him so fast he actually laughed.

The sound dissolved into a cough almost immediately, forcing him to lean briefly into his fist before recovering with an exhausted sigh.

“You are unbelievable,” you muttered.

“You like me unbelievable.”

Trinity was fully losing her mind now somewhere through the speaker.

“I need details immediately.”

“You’re getting none.”

“Coward.”

“Boundary.”

Jack looked deeply entertained now, leaning back more comfortably against your legs like this was the best television he’d watched all week.

“Fine,” Trinity cut in quickly, but after a beat of silence asked, “So…how long would you say this has been a thing?”

“You’re fucked if you think I’m giving you anything—”

“You know,” he rasped toward the phone, “I tried telling her not to answer.”

“You are contributing to the problem!”

“Hey, he created the problem,” Trinity argued. “By apparently seducing his resident into climbing him like a tree during quarantine.”

You made a strangled noise while Jack outright laughed this time.

Again—followed by coughing.

“Actually,” he corrected mildly once he recovered, “she climbed me without asking.”

“Jack.”

“Oh my God,” Trinity shrieked. “He’s funny!?”

“Of course I’m funny—what is this?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Jesus Christ.”

“Was he at least better than the firefighter who—”

“Okay!” you cut her off loudly, cheeks burning. “We’re done here—”

But Jack had already grabbed the phone from your hands. “Bye, Santos,” He interrupted smoothly.

Your head whipped toward him in suspicion while Trinity immediately started yelling through the phone.

“No—” 

You hung up before she could finish, tossing the phone dramatically onto the opposite couch cushion with a groan.

“Why’d you say it like that,” you accused slowly.

“Say what?” 

“Santos,” You mocked his deep voice. 

Jack looked entirely unbothered, settling back against your chest like nothing had happened. “That is her last name.”

“You used it in a dismissive tone.”

“So?”

“You were jealous.”

That finally got a reaction.

He tilted his head back just enough to level you with a look. “Why would I be jealous of Trinity?” 

You gave him a deadpan stare.

“Not of Trinity, you shit.”

“Oh.” Understanding crossed his face a second too late. “Of some lousy firefighter? Please.”

You barked out a startled laugh. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You literally interrupted her mid-sentence.”

“She was about to annoy me.”

“She was asking about another guy.”

“That too.”

Your grin widened triumphantly as he sighed like he regretted saying it out loud already. “This is really interesting behavior from a man who spent years hating me.”

“Hey,” Jack scoffed, shifting just enough to look up at you. “I’m a man of science. I just want to know how I measure up to a firefighter. You know, as a decorated veteran, senior attending physician—”

“Oh, what else?” You grinned despite yourself.

“Homeowner.”

You snorted.

“Mentor.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Excellent hair.”

“That one’s subjective.”

“It’s really not.”

You laughed, shaking your head as he settled smugly back against you.

“And for the record, I never hated you.” He continued. 

“You were mean to me for, like, three consecutive years.”

“I was professionally challenging.”

“You once told me my sutures looked ‘visually upsetting.’”

“They did.”

You gasped in offense while he smirked against your stomach.

“See?” you pointed accusingly. “Mean.”

“I’m dating you now. I can’t completely lose my edge.”

Your fingers stalled briefly in his hair. The words landed strangely in your chest, each letter swirling around in your mind as your brain began to paint different pathways of how this all could inevitably blow up in your face. 

Dating.

Not sleeping together. Not whatever this quarantine thing was. Not dancing around each other until HR inevitably hunted you both for sport.

Jack must’ve noticed the split-second pause, because his head lifted immediately.

“What?” he asked carefully.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, suddenly very interested in the television again. “Nothing.”

“Sounds like something.”

You looked down at him finally, trying—and failing—to keep the sudden self-consciousness off your face.

“Are you?”

One of his brows lifted slightly. “Am I what?”

“…Dating me.”

Jack stared at you for a second before a slow smile pulled at his mouth.

“Thought I’d try the label on,” he said lightly. “Why? You don’t like it?”

“No,” you answered quickly, almost too quickly. “No, I just…” You trailed off, chewing briefly on your lip. “I don’t know how it feels yet.”

For the first time in what felt like days, the teasing eased from his expression completely. Something softer took its place, like he was realizing the weight of what he just placed on top of you both. 

“Okay,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Take your time.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten a little. Because there was no pressure in it. No hint of smugness or his usual teasing tone. 

Just Jack, looking up at you like he really meant it. 

The silence that followed stretched a beat too long—aware and awkward in a way neither of you usually let things become.

Then, suddenly—

“So,” Jack said casually, settling his cheek back against your stomach, “is it because of the firefighter?” 

You snorted so hard you nearly choked.

“Why are you genuinely threatened by a man from two years ago?”

“I’m not threatened.”

“You’re literally bringing him up unprovoked.”

“I just figured, if Trinity knows about him, he must’ve been hot shit.” 

“The reason she knows is because he couldn’t make me finish to save his life,”

You could practically feel the grin forming against the skin of your stomach. 

“Couldn’t make you finish, you say?” 

Later in the day, as Jack’s fever had finally begun to surrender, you adopted his task of making dinner.

Not that he’d accepted the demotion gracefully.

He insisted on helping, claiming he was “perfectly functional” despite the fact that last night he ran a fever high enough to qualify as a small furnace. The compromise landed somewhere in the middle: you manned the stove while he handled prep work as a quiet playlist drifted from the Amazon Echo.

The whole thing felt strangely familiar.

Not the cooking itself, but the way you moved around each other.

Without discussion, you slid aside when he needed something from the cabinet behind you. You passed ingredients back and forth without looking, somehow already knowing what the other needed.

The same choreography you’d shared in trauma bays.

Only now there were no monitors screaming in the background. There wasn’t any blood or urgency. No where to be. 

Just at the kitchen counter.

You found yourself watching him when he wasn’t looking, knife moving steadily through vegetables as music hummed through the kitchen.

Was this how it had always been? Under the arguments and sharp comments?

Beneath the constant push and pull, had this dance always existed between you?

You thought back to the countless shifts you’d spent orbiting each other. The way he always knew where you were in a crowded trauma room, like tracking you grounded him. The way you anticipated his next move before he’d made it, because even if you wouldn’t admit it, you had learned him years ago.

And the way everyone else seemed to notice your tension long before either of you acknowledged it.

Did they see this coming?

Were you both simply the last people to realize something everyone else had already figured out?

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Because if it was so inevitable…why had hearing him say ‘dating’ felt almost frightening?

The word itself wasn’t the problem. It was what came after. Dating implied a future.

And future required reality.

And reality was waiting patiently outside the walls of this house.

Fourteen days—that was all this quarantine was ever supposed to be. Fourteen days before the emergency department reclaimed you both. 

Before Jack became Dr. Abbot again. 

Before you returned to being his resident. 

Before HR.

Before questions neither of you had answers to yet.

When this all started, that countdown had felt like salvation.

Now it felt more like a period.

You tried not to think about it for too long, because doing so threatened to shatter the beautiful illusion you’d both built here.

And that illusion was slowly starting to peel away as the outside world crept in. 

Like now, when Jack’s phone lit up with a call from, of course, Robby. 

Jack glanced at the screen and immediately looked annoyed.

“I don’t want to answer it,” he gruffed.

“You have to. It’ll look suspicious if you don’t.”

“I dodge his calls all the time.”

“If I had to answer Santos, you have to answer Robby.”

That appeared to give him pause.

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was begrudgingly acknowledging the fairness of the argument.

“I still don’t like it.”

“Answer the phone, Abbot.”

He sighed dramatically before finally swiping to accept the call.

“Hey, brother.”

“Hey,” Robby’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Just checking on you. How’s the fever?”

“Nonexistent.”

You rolled your eyes silently at the never-ending ego while stirring the vegetables sautéing in the pan.

The fever had absolutely existed. You were there, after all.

“Good,” Robby replied. “Because I can’t have all my night shift offense dying of a virus.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You I can replace, but not my best R4.”

Jack glanced toward you, immediately catching your amused expression.

You smiled sweetly.

His eyes narrowed.

“Anyway,” Robby continued, oblivious. “You guys surviving over there?”

“Unfortunately.”

Oh, that’s how he was going to play this?

No.

He didn’t get to sit there all calm and collected with his best friend while Trinity had practically conducted a full-scale interrogation earlier. 

Meanwhile, Jack was somehow getting away with a casual check-in.

If you were going down, he was coming with you.

“Unfortunately?” Robby laughed.

Jack opened his mouth, undoubtedly preparing some sarcastic response, when you chose that exact moment to slide beside where he was now standing against the counter.

His words stalled—only for a second—but you noticed.

Interesting.

“Yep,” he continued, voice slightly tighter than before. “We’re surviving.”

Your lips twitched.

Because while Robby was busy talking about staffing shortages and patient volume, you were busy observing an entirely different phenomenon.

Namely, how much concentration it apparently required for Jack Abbot to hold a normal conversation.

His attention flickered briefly toward you.

A warning.

You ignored it.

“—and Santos accidentally discharged the wrong patient paperwork,” Robby was saying.

“Mm.”

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Absolutely.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You let your hand rest on Jack's hip. Light. Innocent, even.

His jaw tightened.

"I heard you," Jack said, his tone carefully measured. "Santos screwed up discharge papers."

"Right. So anyway, I had to—"

Your fingers traced a slow path downward, following the line of his quad muscle through the fabric of his pants.

Jack's hand shot down, catching your wrist.

He didn't push you away.

He just held you there.

A standoff. 

And historically, standoffs between you led to intense eye contact, gritted teeth, and heavy breathing. 

Yeah, okay, maybe you’d had sexual tension for a lot longer than you wanted to admit. 

"—completely ridiculous, right?" Robby finished.

"Yeah," Jack said. "Ridiculous."

There was a pause on the other end. "You okay, man? You sound weird."

"Fine."

You smiled sweetly at him, then deliberately slipped your hand free from his grip and placed it on his chest instead. Much more appropriate. Practically PG.

His eyes narrowed.

Good.

You let your palm slide down the front of his shirt, feeling the firm planes of muscle beneath the cotton. Slowly. Appreciatively. Your fingers traced the ridges of his hard abdomen, following each defined ridge downward.

"So listen," Robby was saying, "I wanted to ask you about—"

Your hand reached his belt.

Jack's breath hitched.

Just barely.

But you heard it.

"About what?" Jack's voice came out rougher than intended.

"About that conference next month. You planning to go? Heard Gloria saying she wants the attendings to go for some… ‘not mandatory but gently suggested training’,"

Your fingers worked his belt buckle open with ease.

Jack's free hand gripped the armrest of his chair.

"Haven't decided," he managed.

"Could be fun. It's in Miami, Shen said. We might actually, dare I say it, have some fun for once instead of—"

The zipper came down with a soft sound that seemed deafening in the quiet room.

Jack's eyes locked on yours.

A warning. A plea. You weren't entirely sure which.

Maybe both?

"Miami sounds…cool," he said, his voice strained.

You rose a brow mockingly as you sank onto your knees in front of him.

His pupils dilated.

"Right?" Robby continued, enthusiastic now. "And Dana’s been on my case about taking a actual vacation, so I figured—"

You palmed him through his boxers, feeling him already half-hard.

His hips jerked involuntarily.

"—we could make a long weekend out of it. Self-care and all that bullshit Mel talks about. What do you think?"

"I think—" Jack's words cut off as you freed him from his boxers, wrapping your hand around his length. "I think that could work."

"Yeah? Awesome. I'll send you the details."

You stroked him slowly, watching his cock harden fully in your grip. His knuckles were white where they gripped the counter.

"Great," Jack bit out.

"You sure you're okay? You sound—"

You leaned forward and dragged your tongue along the underside of his shaft, base to tip.

Jack's entire body went rigid.

"—distracted or something."

"Just tired," Jack forced out. "Didn’t sleep well."

"Right, yeah. I trust that it was helpful having an ER doctor around to help you battle COVID."

If Robby sounded suspecting, neither of you noticed. You took him into your mouth, just the head at first, swirling your tongue around the sensitive crown.

Jack's hand flew to your hair.

Not pushing. Not pulling.

Just anchoring himself.

"So anyway," Robby continued, "I was thinking we could—"

You sank down, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.

"Fuck," Jack breathed.

"What?"

"Nothing. Stubbed my toe."

You had to suppress a laugh, which created an interesting vibration that made Jack's grip in your hair tighten considerably.

"Graceful as always," Robby teased.

"Shut up."

You established a rhythm, bobbing your head slowly, deliberately. Your hand worked what you couldn't fit, twisting slightly on each upstroke.

Jack's breathing was becoming increasingly uneven.

"Anyway," Robby went on, completely oblivious, "Had to break up this fight between Santos and Whitaker the other day, think they’re going completely mental not having their mediator at home—”

You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, and Jack's hips bucked up involuntarily.

"—protein powder theft. You following?"

"Yeah," Jack rasped. "Following."

His voice was wrecked.

There was no way Robby couldn't hear it.

"Dude, seriously, are you—"

You pulled back and sucked hard on just the tip, your tongue working the sensitive spot just beneath the head.

Jack's thigh muscles were trembling under your free hand.

"I'm fine," he gritted out. "Just... headache."

"You want me to let you go?"

"No."

The word came out too quickly, too desperate.

You smirked around him and took him deep again, setting a faster pace now.

"Okay, well, I won't keep you much longer," Robby said. "Just wanted to check in. Make sure you haven't killed each other yet."

Jack's laugh was strained, almost painful. "Not yet."

"That's the spirit. Trinity says—what?" His voice became distant as he lowered the phone. “I’m not asking him about that stupid bet. Take that off the whiteboard like I asked a week ago. Trinity says hi.” 

You did that thing with your tongue that you'd learned drove him crazy, and Jack's hand tightened almost painfully in your hair.

"Tell her—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Tell her hi back."

"Will do. Alright, man, I'll text you those conference details."

"Sounds good."

You could feel him getting close. His cock was pulsing in your mouth, his breathing ragged despite his best efforts to control it.

"Talk soon?"

"Yeah. Soon."

"Feel better. Later, man."

"Later."

The second Jack ended the call, his phone clattered onto the counter and both his hands were in your hair.

"You," he growled, looking down at you with dark eyes, "are absolutely fucking evil."

You pulled off him just long enough to smile innocently. "I have no idea what you mean."

Then you took him back into your mouth, deep and fast, and his head fell back with a groan that he no longer had to suppress.

"Christ," he breathed, his hips rocking up to meet your mouth. "You're going to be the death of me."

You hummed in agreement, the vibration making him curse again.

His control was completely gone now, one hand guiding your movements while the other gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"So fucking good," he muttered, his voice rough and unrestrained. "Your mouth—fuck—"

You could feel him right on the edge, his thighs tensing, his breathing harsh and uneven.

"I'm—" he warned, his grip tightening in your hair. "I'm gonna—"

You didn't pull away.

Instead, you took him deeper, sucking harder, and he came with a broken groan, his whole body shuddering as he spilled down your throat.

You worked him through it, swallowing everything, not letting up until he was gasping and oversensitive, his hand in your hair going from demanding to almost gentle.

Finally, you pulled off him with an obscene pop, looking up at him with satisfaction.

He looked completely wrecked.

Hair disheveled from running his hands through it. Chest heaving. Eyes still dark and unfocused.

Beautiful.

"You," he said again, his voice hoarse, "are in so much trouble."

You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, grinning. "Worth it."

He huffed a breathless laugh, then reached down and pulled you up into him, kissing you hard and deep, tasting himself on your tongue.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes had that dangerous glint you'd come to recognize.

"Robby's going to call back," he murmured against your lips. "He always does when he forgets to mention something."

"So?"

His hand slid up your thigh, fingers teasing at the hem of your shorts. "So when he does, it's your turn."

Your breath caught.

"Fair's fair," Jack said, his smile sharp and promising. "And trust me, sweetheart—I'm much better at multitasking than you gave me credit for."

You woke up tangled together this morning.

It wasn’t intentional, at least not at first. But now after a second morning of waking up half draped over him with his arm locked around your waist like it was any other sunrise, there was no point in pretending otherwise.

The showers had become routine too. ‘Efficient’, supposedly—because Jack Abbot suddenly cared about saving water. 

“You won’t even be around to see the world lose its water supply,” you’d said as he handed you the sleek bottle of shampoo.

“Ouch,” he chuckled, sitting up a little straighter against the marble shower bench. “I’m letting you use the expensive stuff and here you are calling me old.”

You rolled your eyes, squeezing some into your palm before scrubbing your hands together. 

“Who said I’m using it?” you smirked, stepping closer.

His brows lifted slightly just before your fingers disappeared into his damp hair. And then he went still. Like the act caught him off guard, but in the best way. 

You worked the shampoo through slowly, watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes fluttered shut for a brief second, head tipping back just slightly into your touch before he caught himself.

“You would use Redken,” you teased softly. “Boujee bitch.”

A quiet laugh rumbled out of him, low in his chest. “What’s the point of being an attending if you don’t live lavishly?”

Steam curled thick between you both, warm against your skin and fogging the glass around the shower. You tried very hard to focus on what you were doing—your fingers in his hair, the water running over your wrists, the very normal task of washing shampoo out.

Not the fact that you stood between his thighs. Not the toned stretch of his shoulders directly in front of you.

Definitely not the water slowly tracing down his chest and making your brain short-circuit every couple of seconds.

You shifted your footing slightly and nearly slipped down the drain.

Jack’s hand shot out instantly, gripping your thigh to steady you before you could stumble backward.

“You okay there?” he asked, eyes squinting open now, amused.

“Wet floor,” you muttered weakly.

“Mm,” he hummed, not sounding convinced in the slightest. “Careful. This would be the worst way to tell all of our colleagues about us.” 

Your heart couldn’t help but flutter at the subtle mention of this stretching beyond quarantine—but you wouldn’t get your hopes up too high. You’d continue with this new routine, taking it one hour at a time. In the chance that, in four more days, this would come to end. 

So you focused on what was in front of you: now, breakfast. 

You stood at the stove in one of his faded police training shirts and sleep shorts, flipping pancakes while Jack stood at the island cutting fruit with a focus typically used for more intense operations. 

It shouldn’t feel this natural, you told yourself. 

“You’re burning them,” he said without looking up.

“I’m literally not.”

“You’re thinking too hard. Your pancake technique could use work.”

You scoffed. “My pancake technique?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re incredibly bossy in the kitchen.”

“Hasn’t kept you from it,” he murmured, finally glancing up. 

You pointed the spatula at him. “You’re getting cocky.”

“I’ve earned it, haven’t I?” He threw a blueberry into his mouth. “How many times was that last night?”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Oh my God.”

That earned you a real laugh. Low and warm. It caught you off guard every time.

Because you wanted more of this version of Jack—the one who laughed in his kitchen at eight in the morning, hair still damp from the shower, looking at you like you were something he wanted around. 

This Jack felt almost…fake compared to the man you’d spent three years arguing with in trauma bays.

But somehow, both versions of him were real.

And that was something that still kept you on edge, blinking at the ceiling while he snored softly next to you. At what point would that version of him return? 

You slid a slightly burnt pancake onto a plate with a huff. “I liked you better when you were emotionally repressed.”

“That’s a lie.”

It was. 

“Yep. You’ve gone cocky on me.” 

“Not smug?” 

“You’ve graduated,” 

“Dangerous thing to tell a man,” 

And there it was—that intensity in his stare reserved only for you. He looked at you like this in moments of argument, and just recently, in moments of passion. Making you think back to how long he’s been looking at you in this way, and you couldn’t really remember a time when he didn’t. 

The realization made you pause for half a second too long. And unfortunately for you, Jack noticed everything.

His brows lifted slightly, satisfaction flickering across his face so quickly most people would’ve missed it. 

Which meant he knew he’d won that round.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“That.” You pointed vaguely at his face. “Whatever smug little internal celebration is happening right now.”

“Thought I was cocky?” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought you might actually topple over, which only worsened when he caught you around the waist before you could escape. A noise of protest left you immediately as he tugged you back against him, your shoulders hitting his chest.

“Get of—”

His laugh rumbled low against your ear, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as you attempted to pry his arms off.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, squirming halfheartedly in his grip.

“You like it,” he said smoothly, tightening his hold just enough to keep you there. “Always have,” 

You huffed, stubbornly resisting on principle alone, but his embrace stayed firm around you. Quicker than you’d like to admit, though, you found yourself relaxing, your back settling more fully against him as his chin brushed your temple.

It was ridiculous. 

You were standing barefoot in your attending’s kitchen making pancakes while he held you against him like he’d been doing it for years.

But you knew you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

Later that afternoon, you were stretched across the couch pretending to read.

Pretending being the operative word.

Your book had sat open to the same page for the last fifteen minutes while your attention drifted toward the front windows every couple of seconds. Outside, the sky had turned overcast again, condensation thick on the glass from the faint drizzle that had started twenty minutes ago. 

And you missed him. There, you said it. 

You could admit that when he said he was going for his afternoon run—the one he did daily, and shouldn’t be a surprise to you—you were slightly bummed. So, here you sat, waiting. 

You heard the front door unlock before you saw him. Followed by the soft pad of running shoes against hardwood.

Your eyes lifted immediately.

And your stomach dropped a little.

He looked… off.

Subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But after ten straight days trapped in a house together, years of watching his every move, learning the cadence of his breathing and the look of his face when he was tired versus irritated versus relaxed—

Yeah, you noticed the things most people probably wouldn’t.

His cheeks were paler than usual beneath the flush of physical exertion, hair damp and pushed back from his forehead. His chest rose heavier than it normally did after a run, each inhale sounding rougher, congested somewhere deep in his lungs.

And then he spoke. 

“Hey,” he greeted, voice noticeably raspier than it had been that morning.

Your brows pulled together instantly. “You sound terrible.”

He snorted softly, toeing off his shoes near the door. “Very warm welcome home.”

You ignored the flip of your heart at that last word. 

“Jack.”

“What?”

You sat up straighter, book forgotten entirely now as he moved toward the kitchen. There was a stiffness to him too, you realized. Like his body ached and he was trying not to show it.

“You’re breathing weird.”

That made him glance over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Breathing weird?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, now standing with your arms crossed. “Like an eighty-year-old smoker.”

“Bit dramatic.”

You gave him a pointed look. “You sound congested.”

“I just ran five miles.”

“I know how much cardio you can do without losing your stamina.” 

That earned you a small hmph of amusement, though it dissolved quickly into a cough he tried to hide behind the back of his fist.

Tried.

Failed.

Your expression shifted immediately.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m fine.”

“Where’s your kit?”

“Absolutely not.”

The response came fast and sharp, his voice dropping instantly into that familiar tone of authority that used to make residents scatter.

It almost caught you off guard. Almost. 

“Jack, come on. You helped me—”

“I don’t need your help.”

Your brows furrowed immediately, that old spark igniting in your chest so naturally it was almost muscle memory. There he was. Your attending again.

“Oh, you don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Funny,” you scoffed, crossing your arms, “I don’t remember needing yours the other day either, but you didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

“That’s because you did need the help.”

“Actually,” you fired back, stepping closer, “I manage just fine without you. I do it every single day outside of this quarantine, by the way.”

His lips pursed slightly. “You need me all the time.”

He may as well have dumped a bathtub full of gasoline on the fire in your chest. 

You barked out an incredulous laugh. “No, I don—”

“Who’s the first person you come to when you’re questioning a med dosage?”

“That is not—” but he continued before you could recover.

“Who do you look for across the ED after a bad code?” he cut in smoothly. “Who do you hand difficult family conversations off to when you know they’re getting under your skin?”

You could only stare at him, eyes narrowing. 

Jack pushed off the counter slowly, stepping closer despite the exhaustion still written across his face.

“And who,” he said quieter now, “goes up to the roof pretending to look for me when really you just want five minutes to breathe?”

Your stomach dropped a little.

Because that one…that one hit too close.

You blinked up at him. “You knew that?”

His expression softened just slightly, though his voice stayed rough from illness.

“You think I don’t know you by now?” He murmured. “‘Sides, I know the look of someone sneaking off to the stairwell,” 

Your brows pinched together. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He gave you a look that immediately flipped the question back onto you. “Why didn’t you?”

You shrugged one shoulder, suddenly feeling strangely shy about it. “I figured you’d think it was weird I was kind of hijacking your spot.”

“I always hoped to find you up there at the same time.”

You physically felt some of your irritation thaw at the confession. Warmth slipped into your chest before your brain caught up.

Your gaze narrowed immediately. “No. Absolutely not. You do not get to flirt your way out of this.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Worth a shot.”

“You need to be examined.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“You can’t treat yourself or family,” you shot back instantly. “You know the rules.”

“Then I’ll make it through the same way I did in the desert,” he said. “Tough it out.”

You stared at him flatly. “Jack.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” you argued, “Your breathing sounds worse, you’re pale, you’ve been coughing every five minutes, and your voice sounds like you swallowed gravel.”

“Again with the dramatics.”

“You say that every time I’m right.”

That earned you a tired sigh of amusement, but it dissolved quickly when another cough caught him harder this time. He turned away slightly into his elbow, shoulders tightening through it before he exhaled slowly.

And when he looked back at you—

you saw it.

The exhaustion was clear on his face. The effort it was taking to pretend he wasn’t feeling as bad as he clearly was.

Your frustration softened immediately.

“Hey,” you said quieter now.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Something in his expression shifted at that. Not fully falling apart—Jack Abbot probably wouldn’t know how to do that if he tried—but enough that you could see the crack in the facade.

“You’ve spent your entire career taking care of everyone else,” you continued gently. “Let somebody take care of you for like…ten minutes.”

For once, he didn’t immediately argue.

He just looked at you for a long second, jaw tight like accepting help physically pained him.

“Five minutes?” he asked, voice rough.

Your mouth twitched slightly. “To start.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his face despite himself. “Bossy,” he muttered again.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said softly, guiding him toward the couch. “Sit down, Abbot.”

He obeyed, though, letting you trail after him into the living room as he lowered himself onto the couch with a sigh. His head tipped back against the cushion for a moment before he lifted a hand vaguely toward the closet near the front door, silently directing you toward the medical kit.

You tried not to look too smug about the fact that he’d finally given in.

“Good choice,” you muttered as you crossed the room.

“I take it back already.”

“Too late.”

You found the kit exactly where he’d pointed, still organized in that irritatingly precise only Jack could. Everything was neatly stocked, every compartment was zipped and labeled like he took pride in it. Which, knowing him, he probably did. 

By the time you returned, he’d slouched slightly deeper into the couch, muscled legs spread out in front of him, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.

This felt very different than when he’d taken care of you. Then, every touch had been careful. Restrained. Heavy with tension and things unsaid.

Now, you moved toward him easily.

You pulled the stethoscope from the kit, slipping the earpieces in before slowly stepping between his thighs. You knelt down to be at his level from where he sat, but his eyes were downcast to you. 

“Shirt up,” you instructed.

One of his brows lifted faintly. “You enjoying this a little too much?”

“A concerning amount, actually.”

A tired laugh rumbled out of him as he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up enough for you to press the diaphragm against his chest.

And there it was again—that irony. The ease of it.

You didn’t even pretend to hesitate the way he had with you. You didn’t hover in anticipation of what touching him might feel like.

Because you knew. 

Your hand settled naturally against his side to steady yourself as you listened to his lungs, fully focused now in the way practicing medicine always sharpened you.

Though unfortunately for your professionalism, his body did not help.

Warm skin beneath your fingertips. Damp from sweat still lingering from his run. His breathing deeper now that he was sitting still, chest rising slowly under the stethoscope as you moved it across different points of his chest.

“Deep breath,” you murmured out of habit. 

He obeyed, but immediately coughed afterward.

Your expression flattened. “Oh, that sounds fucked.”

”You always speak to patients this way?” He grunted. 

“Only my favorite ones.” 

“Oh, a compliment. Finally.” 

“I’m serious.” You pulled the stethoscope away slightly, brows furrowing as you listened again. “You’re thick.”

Jack tilted his head back against the couch dramatically. “Please never say that to me while sitting like that.”

You stared at him for half a second before a disbelieving laugh escaped you despite yourself.

“Calm down old man, we don’t need you any more tachy than you already are.” 

One of his brows lifted lazily. “Then change your position.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly before flicking downward, realizing how you were sitting—half perched between his knees, leaning in close enough to feel the tension rolling off him.

“The best thing you can do right now is rest,” you said, shifting back into doctor mode before he could capitalize on your embarrassment any further. “If yours follows the same timeline mine did, it’ll probably hit hardest tonight.”

His expression tightened slightly at that, subtle. You noticed anyway. 

Your voice softened a little. “Want some soup?”

“I don’t need you doing all this.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I just—” He cut himself off abruptly, turning away as another cough hit him harder this time. Lower. Throatier. The kind that made your own chest ache from just remembering how that felt. 

When it finally subsided, he exhaled slowly through his nose, clearly annoyed with himself more than anything else.

You watched him for a second before speaking more gently.

“Why don’t you go grab a shower,” you suggested. “I’ll bring you some meds after.”

One of his eyes opened excitedly. “In the shower?”

You stared at him flatly, though heat still crept annoyingly into your cheeks.

“Nice try.”

That earned you a tired grin—small, fleeting, but real. “There she is,” 

Despite your attempts, Jack didn’t let you help with much else.

He refused to eat in bed on principle alone, even though the effort it took to sit upright at the kitchen counter was visibly taxing on him. You watched him stubbornly straighten every time his posture started to slump, jaw tight with determination. 

“You know you’re not getting graded on this, right?” you’d muttered while setting a bowl of soup in front of him.

“I have an image to maintain.”

“You’re sweating into the soup.”

“I’m persevering.”

The medicine had somehow been worse.

You’d opened the bottle and handed him the appropriate dose only for him to squint at it suspiciously like you were attempting to poison him. As if you didn’t do this for your literal career. 

Then he said something that made you believe he didn’t do this for his career: “I’ll sleep off the fever.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Did it all the time overseas.”

“You mean in the military?”

“In the war, yes.”

“In the war.” You repeated, staring at him flatly. “That is the least medically sound sentence you’ve ever spoken to me.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” you argued, shaking the pills slightly in your hand. “You’re running a fever, your lungs sound awful, and earlier, you coughed so hard I think it was autotuned. Take the medication.”

“I don’t like taking meds unless I absolutely have to.”

You scoffed. “You are literally a doctor.”

“Exactly. I know what side effects they all have.”

That’s how you ended up where you were now: leaning against the side of his bed sometime close to midnight, watching him sweat through a 102-degree fever. Sans medication.

You’d argued all evening over the smallest things. How much water he needed to drink. How many blankets to use. At one point, the two of you had spent a solid five minutes debating if he was technically “chillsy.” Then another two debating if that was even a word. 

And somehow, despite the fever burning through him, he still had enough energy to be the exact same Jack Abbot you knew in the PTMC. 

Arrogant. Stubborn. Positively infuriating.

“You’re hovering again,” he rasped from the bed without opening his eyes.

You stared at him in disbelief. “You have a hundred-and-two-degree fever.”

“Mhm.”

”You’re burning up. At least take a layer off.” 

“You just want to see me without clothes on.” 

“So far, I haven’t needed you to be sick to achieve that.” 

One corner of his mouth twitched faintly despite the exhaustion dragging at him. His dark hair was damp against the pillow, curls forming slightly at the ends from sweat as he shifted restlessly beneath the sheets.

You watched him for another moment, concern tugging harder in your chest than you wanted to acknowledge.

Because he looked bad now. Not catastrophically bad—you knew how to spot the difference—but bad enough that your brain refused to fully relax.

“You should really take something,” you tried again, softer this time.

“No.”

“Jack–”

“--I don’t need it–”

“You are not invincible!” you snapped.

The words came out louder than intended, sharp enough that his eyes opened immediately, squinting slightly up at you like the size of your reaction had genuinely caught him off guard.

“I know that—”

“Do you?” you cut in, quieter now but no less firm. “Because your hobbies are genuinely lethal, you hang out on the roof for Christ’s sake, and now you’re refusing to take simple acetaminophen for what? To prove some point?”

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose, looking suddenly exhausted, and not from the fever.

“…I don’t need you thinking I’m weak, okay?”

Your face twisted instantly. “Why the hell would I think you’re weak for taking Tylenol?”

“No,” he corrected tiredly, dragging a hand over his face. “The whole thing. Having to do all of this. Take care of me.”

The admission sounded rough coming out of him, like every word had to be pried loose by hand. But you weren’t going to get in the way of something real finally coming to the surface. 

He stared up at the ceiling for a second before continuing more quietly.

“I’m already a hell of a lot older than you.” A humorless breath escaped him. “Kind of a turn-off seeing me all fragile and dependent like this.”

This wasn’t about Tylenol. It wasn’t even about him falling sick.

It was about Jack—steady, capable, impossible-to-shake Jack—genuinely believing that needing care from you would somehow make you want him less.

You stared at him for a long moment.

“Jack,” you said carefully, like you were approaching something delicate. “You really think I look at you right now and see someone weak?”

“I’m just…not used to being on this side of it.”

Jack Abbot was the one people leaned on. The one people called into mass casualties because he would know what to do. The one who held the building together so everyone else could fall apart safely around him.

And the man who, at the end of those terrible days, took his suffering to the roof where no one had to witness its depth. 

Which begged the question: if he took care of everyone else, who took care of him? 

You scooted closer to the bed slowly, now slightly pressed against his torso. 

“Listen to me,” you murmured. “You being sick doesn’t suddenly make me stop…” You trailed off briefly, heat rising into your cheeks despite the seriousness of the moment. Hopefully, he would forget about it in the haze of the fever. “Feeling the way I feel about you.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve been trying to show you that all day.”

His eyes dropped for a moment, thoughtful, like he was debating something internally. You watched the conflict move across his face before he finally sighed and glanced back up at you.

“My leg is killing me.” 

Your brows furrowed softly, before you realized what he was asking of you. The air surrounding you suddenly felt thicker. 

Over the last few days, you’d grown used to the more private realities of Jack’s life. In the emergency department, he was put together. Efficient. Most patients didn’t even know that Jack Abbot was missing a major part of one of his limbs. 

But here, in his home, it was more obvious. The extra time it took after showers. The absentminded adjustments he made after long periods on his feet. You’d watched him move through it all with such practice that half the time you forgot there was effort involved at all.

But this felt different.

He’d never let you help. Not when you shared his bed, or when you showered together. This was something else entirely.

Something way more vulnerable.

You held his gaze carefully, giving him every opportunity to take it back.

But he didn’t.

Your head was nodding before your mouth moved. “Okay,” you answered quietly.

Something in his face loosened at your expression alone. His eyes held something close to…hope. 

Slowly, he pushed himself upright against the headboard, movements noticeably stiffer now that the fever had settled deeper. Your chest tightened watching him try not to show it.

“You don’t have to—” he started automatically.

“—Jack,” you interrupted gently. “It’s okay.”

He went quiet after that.

Carefully, you shifted closer as he reached down beneath the sheets. There was no embarrassment in the motion, no shame—just habit. Routine. But you still noticed the faint tension in his jaw when he detached the prosthetic, setting it carefully beside the bed.

Like some part of him was bracing for your reaction anyway.

Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.

Nothing about him looked smaller to you. If anything, the trust sitting between you now felt enormous.

“C’mere,” you murmured softly.

He hesitated only briefly before extending his leg toward you slightly.

Your hands moved carefully, mindful and gentle as you worked them along the muscles of his thigh, feeling how tight everything had become beneath your touch. He exhaled sharply through his nose the second your thumbs pressed into a particularly tense spot.

“There?” you asked quietly.

“Mm.”

You glanced up instinctively, only to find him already watching you. It wasn’t guarded, or tense, but it was…soft. Almost reverent. 

“You know,” you said lightly, trying to ease some of the intensity suddenly building in the room, “for someone who hates being taken care of, you’re being weirdly cooperative.”

A tired smile tugged weakly at his mouth. “Don’t ruin it.”

You breathed a quiet laugh, continuing to work your hands carefully over the soreness.

And after a long silence, his head tipped back against the headboard, eyes finally falling shut with trust.

You continued for several more minutes, gradually relaxing into the rhythm of it. Your hands moved slower now, more confident, learning him through touch the same way you had in every other aspect of this relationship—attentively listening for every subtle cue his body gave you.

The room had gone quiet outside of the soft rain tapping against the windows and the occasional roughness in his breathing. His fever still flushed his skin warm beneath your hands, but he looked more comfortable now than he had all evening.

You glanced up briefly and found him watching you again, lids heavy with exhaustion.

“What?” you murmured.

His thumb brushed absently against the comforter beside him. “Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

A faint smile ghosted across his face. “You’re very good at this.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard.

You looked back down at his leg, focusing on smoothing your hands along the tense muscle there so he wouldn’t see the way your expression softened.

“I’m literally just rubbing your leg.”

“You’re taking care of me.”

The simple way he said it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“I, uh…” You suddenly took interest in where your thumbs continued to create circles into his muscle. “I don’t mind it. I like doing it.” 

“Thank you.”

That almost undid you entirely.

Because Jack thanked people all the time in the automatic, professional way doctors did. Quick acknowledgments between trauma calls and impossible shifts.

This was so much different.

“You don’t have to thank me for this.”

“I know.” His eyes stayed on yours. “Still wanted to.”

Heat crept slowly into your chest at the look on his face.

Not from desire this time, but from something way deeper, that you weren’t ready to name.

You cleared your throat softly, trying to recover first. “Your fever’s making you emotional.”

“Probably.”

“And needy.”

One of his brows lifted faintly, eyes darkening slightly. “Careful.”

You smiled despite yourself, looking back down before he could see too much on your face.

But your hands never stopped moving.

Last night. The doorway. The way he’d looked at you. The way you’d finally stopped pretending.

Your breath caught slightly as it all came rushing back—his hands, your hands, the way everything had unraveled so fast it almost didn’t feel real.

The laughter after. The way you both melted from something professional to something comfortable. And then… not stopping there.

At some point, the kitchen getting water had turned into his bedroom–which is where you were now. You sat up abruptly, the motion sharper than you intended as reality fully settled in with the morning light creeping through the windows.

“Shit,” you whispered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.

The sheet slipped slightly with the movement, a rush of cold air brushing over your skin, which, to your surprise, was completely bare. Your cheeks heated instantly at the way his sheets were soft against your naked skin. 

You grabbed it quickly, pulling it up and around yourself as your heart started to pick up for entirely different reasons now.

Slowly, you glanced beside you.

And there he was.

Jack.

Still asleep on his back, one arm thrown loosely across the bed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm like none of this had shaken him the way it was currently shaking you.

Your gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have.

Because he looked different like this. Soft, vulnerable, and disgustingly domestic. 

A version of him you weren’t supposed to see—and definitely weren’t supposed to wake up next to.

Your stomach flipped, not entirely from panic. But not entirely from anything else, either. You slowly slid back under the sheet, propping yourself up on your elbow as you stared at him.

Any longer and this was going to cross into creep territory.

You reached out–and poked him.

He stirred slightly, brow twitching—but didn’t wake.

So you poked him again.

And again.

And again—until his eyes finally cracked open.

The second they did, they landed on you. And stayed there.

You tried—really tried—to ignore the way his pupils blew out almost instantly.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep, lower in that way that sent a very familiar feeling down your spine.

“Um… morning,” you echoed, suddenly very aware of everything again.

His gaze dipped down, brief, but not subtle. They flickered to the sheet, to what was now hidden but previously on full display for him. 

“Hey, so—”

“No,” he groaned immediately, dragging a hand over his tired face.

Your brows shot up. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“My eyes have been open for ten seconds,” he muttered, voice muffled, “and I can already see the gears turning in your head.”

You stared at him for a beat.

Then, flatly, “We had sex last night.”

He didn’t even blink as his head turned toward you again. “We did.”

“Like…on purpose,” you added.

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Abbot.”

He shifted slightly, settling deeper into the pillow, a slow, lazy smirk pulling at his mouth like he was entirely too pleased with himself.

“Three times, if my count’s right.”

“Jack.”

“Mmm.” His eyes flicked back up to yours, half-lidded now. “Yes, sweetheart?”

You felt that newly appointed pet name low in your stomach, and you knew he could tell. Especially considering you’d spent a significant portion of last night reacting to that exact tone, that exact name, like it had been designed to unravel you.

“Jack!”

That only made the smirk worse.

You stared at him for a second longer, like maybe if you looked hard enough, he’d suddenly match your level of panic.

He didn’t. Not even a little.

Which is how you knew you were about to spiral alone.

“We broke every rule ever,” you said abruptly, sitting up straighter, sheet clutched tighter around you like that could demand any semblance of professionalism. 

Jack didn’t move. He didn’t even look remotely alarmed. Just stayed right where he was, head resting comfortably on the arm behind his head. You were doing a fantastic job of keeping your eyes on his and not the protruding vein in his bicep. 

“Did we?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.

You blinked at him. “Did we?” You mocked. 

He shrugged slightly against the pillow. “Feels like a lot of rules. Hard to keep track.”

“Jack,” you snapped, dragging a hand through your hair. “You’re my attending.”

“And you’re very aware of that, apparently,” he said, glancing at you with the amused look you’d unfortunately grown so fond of. 

“This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re smirking.”

“That’s different.”

You gaped at him for a second, in disbelief. “We—” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, like the motion alone would convey the magnitude of the situation, “—last night—multiple times—”

“Oh, I remember,” he cut in calmly.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, dropping your face into your hand. “This is a disaster.”

He finally shifted then, propping himself up slightly on one elbow, the sheet barely moving as he looked at you more directly.

“You seem very certain of that.”

“Because it is,” you insisted, peeking at him through your fingers. “There are, like, …policies. Ethics. Rules about this exact scenario.”

“Mm.”

“Mm?” you echoed. “That’s your response?”

He studied you for a second, quieter now. Less teasing. Not entirely serious—but not dismissive either.

“You regret it?” he asked.

The question landed differently. He wasn’t teasing, no, you knew that tone of his. This was…direct. No bullshit. 

Your mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

Because that wasn’t the problem.

And you both knew it.

“No,” you admitted finally, softer now. “That’s not the issue here.”

“Thought so.”

“That doesn’t mean this isn’t a mess,” you shot back, regaining momentum. “We still have to go back. To the ED. To real life. To pretending like we didn’t just—” you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. “This is complicated.”

He didn’t argue with that. Which, usually, would be a win for you. But now, you wanted him to argue with you more than you ever had before. 

Instead, he just watched you for a second longer, like he was granting you the gift of spiraling about sleeping with your attending uninterrupted.

Then, once you were silent for a moment longer, “We’re still in quarantine.”

You stared at him.

“That’s it?” you asked. “That’s your big plan?”

“For now?” he said simply. “Yeah.”

You let out a disbelieving huff, shaking your head as you dropped back against the pillow.

“Unbelievable.”

“Mm.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“So you’ve told me.”

You turned your head to look at him again, ready to keep arguing—and stopped in your tracks.

Because he was still watching you.

With that painfully, infuriatingly, annoyingly amused look that both boiled your blood and stopped your heart. 

“You’ve been so adamant about not crossing a line,” You continued. “And then we cross it, and you’re just…chill. About breaking rules,” 

“Because now I’ve tasted the line, and I’m forced to take a different stance.” 

Your stomach dropped. 

"That's not…" You started, but the words died somewhere between your brain and your mouth.

Because he was looking at you differently now. Something darker in his eyes, something...hungrier.

"Not what?" he prompted, voice dropping lower as he shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

You swallowed hard. "That's not fair."

"No?"

"No," you managed, though it came out weaker than you intended. "You can't just say things like that."

"Like what?" he asked, and there was that rasp again. The one you only heard sometimes, when he lowered his voice in a way that made your pulse spike. You were starting to think he did it on purpose. "The truth?"

"Jack—"

"You want me to pretend I didn't spend half the night learning exactly what makes you fall apart?" he continued, closer now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. "That I don't know what you sound like when you—"

"Enough," you cut in, breath catching.

He did.

But only barely.

His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

"Tell me to stop," he said quietly, eyes locked on yours. "And I will."

Your heart was hammering now. Because you should stop—write last night off as temporary insanity, the inevitable result of nine days cooped up with a coworker who, under any normal circumstance, wouldn’t have even made your top ten list of preferred roommates.

You absolutely should, the voice in your head spoke. The one who usually stopped you from making any bad decisions.  This was already complicated enough without adding more to the pile of things you'd have to rationalize later.

But then his thumb traced your lower lip, the way he’d done last night in the kitchen, and every logical thought you'd been clinging to scattered like smoke.

"I—" you started. “Ah, fuck,” 

And then you kissed him.

Hard.

Jack made a low sound against your mouth—something between a groan and a laugh—before his hand slid into your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you as he kissed you back with the kind of intensity that made your entire body melt.

The sheet slipped. You didn't care. There wasn’t an inch he hadn’t explored at some point last night, between the guest room, the kitchen, this bed, the floor–

His other hand found your waist, fingers splaying across bare skin as he pulled you closer, and suddenly you were shifting, rustling under sheets until you were straddling him, coverage forgotten entirely as his hands mapped every inch of you like he was committing it to memory.

"Still a disaster?" he murmured against your mouth, breathless, smirking now.

"Shut up," you shot back, nipping at his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss.

"You gonna make me?"

One thing about you and Jack Abbot–when he challenged you, you rose to that challenge. 

Your hands found his chest, nails dragging lightly as you kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, until he was the one groaning, hips shifting beneath you in a way that sent heat pooling low in your body.

"Fuck," he muttered, head falling back against the pillow as your mouth moved to his jaw, his neck, finding the spot just below his ear that made his grip on you tighten. "You're going to kill me."

His pupils were still blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your palms as you sat up fully, still straddling him. The shift in position made you both groan—him from the sight of you above him, you from the way he was already hard under you.

"Jesus," he breathed, hands rough as they slid up your thighs. "Look at you."

You didn't answer, just kept your eyes on his as you reached down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him, watching his jaw clench as you positioned yourself.

"Shi—" he started, but whatever he was going to say died the moment you sank down onto him.

You took him slowly, letting the drops of precum allow you to slide around him, inch by inch. Taking him in until you were seated fully in his lap, both of you breathing hard, adjusting to the tight, encompassing fit.

"Fuck," Jack groaned, head pressing back into the pillow, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck, you feel—"

You rolled your hips slowly, cutting off whatever he was going to say, and his whole body tensed beneath you.

"What was that?" you asked, voice breathless. "Couldn't hear you."

His eyes snapped open, narrowed and focused as they locked on yours. Your lips had a mind of their own as they slid into a smirk, enjoying the sight of the high and mighty Jack Abbot so speechless under your touch. 

"You're enjoying this," he managed, though his voice was strained.

"Very much," you confirmed, rising up slowly before sinking back down, setting a rhythm that had both of you breathing slightly more strained.

The angle was perfect—deep, intense, hitting exactly where you needed him—and you could feel the tension coiling tighter with every movement.

Jack's hands roamed everywhere—your thighs, your waist, up to cup your tits as you rode him, his thumbs brushing over sensitive skin that made your back arch further.

"God, look at you," he muttered your name, almost like spoken in prayer. "Taking what you want."

"You said—" you gritted your teeth as you ground down harder, "—to make you shut up."

"Not complaining, sweetheart," he groaned, hips bucking up to meet you now, matching your rhythm. "Fuck, not complaining at all."

You braced your hands on his chest, nails digging into his clavicles as you moved faster, chasing the burn in your thighs. Your hair swept over your shoulder, falling into his face as he twisted his fist around the strands, pulling tightly. 

You hissed, spiteful of the way he still tried to regain control. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, followed by ragged breathing and broken moans.

"That's it," Jack encouraged, voice rough, one hand sliding down to where you were joined, thumb finding you soaked and swollen. "Take it. Take everything."

The added sensation made you cry out, your movements becoming more desperate, less controlled.

"Jack—"

"I know," he said, watching you with an intensity that made everything in your vision explode. You hated when he watched you perform–now you decided you’d die if he looked away. "I can feel you. So fucking tight. You're close, aren't you?"

You couldn't form words anymore. You could only manage to nod, riding him harder, faster, chasing that sweet release.

"Then come," he commanded, thumb circling with a calculated pressure. "Come on me. Let me feel you."

And you did—shattering with a sharp cry of his name, body clenching around him as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Jack groaned low and deep, hips jerking up as you pulsed around him, his own control fracturing.

"Fuck, I'm—" he warned, but you didn't stop, didn't slow, riding him through it until he came with a broken curse, fingers holding you tight enough to leave marks as he spilled inside you.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you trembling, gasping for air. His arms came around you immediately, holding you close as you both came down.

"Okay," he said after a long moment, voice wrecked. "You're definitely going to kill me."

You huffed a breathless laugh against his neck. "Worth it?"

"Absolutely."

Not wanting to overstay your very obvious welcome in Jack’s bedroom, you retreated to your room after cleaning off.

You let yourself take a long, pensive shower, the events of the last twelve hours playing like a movie reel in your brain. Every look, every word, every moment where things could’ve stopped—but never did. 

By the time you stepped out, skin warm and hair damp, you didn’t feel better but… steadier. Aware in a way that made your chest feel tight. Like you couldn’t hide under the covers or in the darkness anymore. 

You dressed slowly, choosing something simple, something that felt neutral enough to pass as normal. Like that might help reestablish some kind of baseline. 

It didn’t.

Because your lips were still swollen from how hard he kissed you. Your collarbone still reddened from where he ground his teeth last night when he had you pressed beneath him. Your goosebumped skin from just the thought of his face between your legs on his bedroom carpet. 

There was no dancing around it. You had to face him, and more importantly, reality. 

The house was quiet when you made your way downstairs, late morning light spilling through the windows in a way that felt almost too calm for your liking. You paused just outside the kitchen, hand hovering for a second like you could still choose to avoid this. 

Then you exhaled and stepped in anyway. 

Jack was already there.

He stood at the counter with his back half-turned, coffee maker still dripping behind him, one hand wrapped loosely around a mug. He looked… put together. Not in his usual professional way, but in that same controlled, grounded way he always did—like nothing ever managed to knock him off balance. 

Your footsteps made him glance over, and there it was again—that flicker of awareness that he always looked at you with. Like your presence was always on his mind.  

“Hey,” he said, voice easy.

“Hi,” you returned, a little more carefully as you moved further into the room.

There was a pause—not awkward, but not easy either. Like you were both feeling out the shape of something new without naming it yet.

He turned back to the counter, grabbing another mug without asking and pouring coffee into it like it was routine. Like you’d spent hundreds of mornings coming into the kitchen, freshly showered and awaiting coffee he made using milk bought just for you.

“Coffee?” he asked, holding it out.

You nodded, stepping closer to take it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Your fingers brushed his for half a second when you took the mug, and while the contact was brief, it was loaded. Those fingers knew you intimately now, and like it or not, there was no going back to when they didn’t. 

 You pulled your hand back a little too quickly, wrapping both hands around the cup instead, grounding yourself in the heat.

If he noticed, he didn’t call it out. He simply leaned back against the counter next to you, taking a sip of his own coffee, watching you in that quiet, assessing way that always made you feel like he was seeing more than you wanted him to. 

You let out a small breath, staring down into your cup for a second before speaking.

“This is… weird,” you admitted.

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a reaction. “A little.”

You glanced up at him, incredulous. “A little?”

“Things are different now,” he said, like that was a sufficient answer. “It’s going to take a second to adjust to that,” 

You shook your head, a soft exhale leaving you as you leaned your hip lightly against the island. “You’re taking this way too well.”

“I’m taking it as it is,” he replied, not defensive, just matter-of-fact.

“And what is it?” you pressed, meeting his gaze.

This time, the pause stretched longer. 

He held your eyes, something more serious settling in now, the earlier ease giving way to something heavier. “Something we’ll figure out.”

You nodded slowly, even if your stomach still hadn’t quite settled since you woke up.

Because it wasn’t just what happened that had you thrown off. It was how easily it had happened. Sure, it had been nine days of tension and peeling back layers–but when it came down to it, you both caved in what felt like seconds. 

“How long?” you asked.

He swallowed the sip of coffee he’d just taken, buying himself a second. “Pardon?”

“Last night,” you clarified, forcing your voice to stay even. “You said you’d been wanting this for a very long time.”

Something in his posture shifted. He took a deep inhale, deliberate, like he knew this answer mattered.

Then he set his mug down gently, the soft clink of ceramic against marble sounding way louder than it should have in the quiet kitchen.

“You want the honest answer?” he asked.

You huffed lightly. “Is there another option?”

“Yeah,” he said, a short breath of amusement leaving him. “When Robby and HR inevitably ask, I’ve wanted this since you quarantined at my house and we discovered there’s more to our emergency department tension than just competitive medicine practice.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

“And the honest answer?” you pressed.

This time, he didn’t deflect. 

He just looked at you—really looked at you—in that steady, unflinching way that he used when he was about to say something he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear.

“From the second you walked into PTMC.”

The words landed heavy. You felt your grip falter, the mug nearly slipping before you caught it, fingers tightening instinctively around it.

“That’s not funny,” you said quietly, though there wasn’t any real humor in your voice.

“I’m not joking.”

Your eyes searched his, like maybe you’d find some version of exaggeration there. Something that made it less… intense. 

Less real.

But there wasn’t anything like that.

His voice held nothing but certainty. And something else underneath it—something that had been there all along, whether you’d noticed it or not.

“You didn’t even know me,” you said, softer now, almost like a case you were trying to make sense of, so you needed to verbalize all the information you had. 

“Didn’t need to,” he replied, just as quietly. “I knew enough.”

You let out a small breath, shaking your head slightly, more to ground yourself than anything else.

“God,” you murmured. “And you just… what? Sat on that for three years?”

His jaw ticked, just once.

“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty much.”

You stared at him, something in your chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with panic this time.

Because that changed things–not the fact that something had happened between you. But the fact of how long it had been building before it ever did.

And suddenly, last night didn’t feel impulsive anymore.

It felt inevitable. 

“I think you knew,” he continued, quieter now. “And up until a few days ago, I thought it was one-sided.”

“I didn’t know,” you shook your head, the denial coming instinctively. “And up until a few days ago, I thought I hated you.”

“I thought you did too.”

The admission wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even bitter.

Your expression softened before you could stop it, something in your chest pulling tighter in a way you hadn’t expected. Because he didn’t sound hurt saying it. He didn’t sound surprised. 

He sounded like he’d made peace with it a long time ago. Like he’d not only decided that you hated him, but accepted it. 

“I just don’t understand,” you said, head tilting as you studied him. “In the ED, it always felt like you disapproved of everything I did. Every other resident could do no wrong, but me…”

Jack went still at that. He didn’t become dismissive. He just looked…guilty.

“I was hard on you,” he admitted. “Harder than I should’ve been.”

“That’s an understatement,” you muttered.

“I know,” he repeated, steadier this time.

You crossed your arms slightly, still watching him. “Why?”

Another pause.

This one felt heavier. Because whatever answer you expected, it wasn’t what he actually said.

“Because I couldn’t afford not to be.”

Your brows pulled together. “What does that even mean?”

His gaze met yours, direct now. No hint of deflection left.

“It means,” he said slowly, “I couldn’t risk letting how I felt about you bleed into how I worked with you.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’d said that morning. For a moment, your head spun. Years of wondering why, feeling like you weren’t enough, and now, you were getting the answer. 

“I knew if I gave you even an inch,” he continued, quieter now, “it wouldn’t look like I was pushing you because you were good. It would look like I was going easy on you because I—”

He cut himself off briefly, jaw tightening.

“Because I had a bias,” he finished.

You just stared at him. Your mind scrambled trying to catch up.

“So your solution was to… what? Overcorrect?” you asked.

“Yes.”

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even look the least bit sorry about it either. 

“I held you to a higher standard than everyone else,” he said. “Because I trusted you could meet it. And because I needed to make damn sure no one could ever question why you were doing well.”

Your stomach twisted.

“That doesn’t make it feel any better,” you said, softer now.

“I know it doesn’t,” he replied. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

That… stung. But not in the way it used to. Not in the way you’d walk out of a shift wound tight and frustrated, replaying every interaction, trying to figure out why the one person who was supposed to back you never seemed to.

But now you understood what had been sitting underneath it.

“You made me think you didn’t like me,” you said, a laugh almost escaping you at how juvenile you sounded. 

“I was trying very hard not to,” he admitted.

That knocked the breath out of you a little. Trying, not succeeding. 

“I was really happy to move to the night shift,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I actually respected you. I’d heard good things about you around the ED. I was… excited to work under you.”

His expression shifted at that. Like he was realizing in real time the impact his armor had on you. The armor he thought was protecting you. 

“And because I may have had a teeny crush on you,” you added quickly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hid slightly behind your mug.

A breath of a laugh left him, quieter now, like relief slipping through the cracks. He set his mug down and leaned in just slightly, closing the space between you. 

“Yeah?” he murmured. “That so?”

“I got over it pretty quickly,” you said, trying for casual.

“Mm,” he countered immediately, a faint smirk returning. “I don’t think you did.”

You lifted a brow. “Oh, please. You think very highly of yourself.”

“Do I?” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because I catch you looking at me all the time.”

“In disgust,” you shot back without missing a beat.

“That doesn’t sound like disgust,” he said mildly. “Especially if you think about me when you’re fucking other people.”

That earned a sharp look from you—heat rising instantly to your face despite yourself. “I’ll never forgive Santos,”

His mouth quirked. “You should thank her.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“Because that’s when I knew this was going to be an… eventful quarantine.”

“That was days ago,”

“I’ve waited years,” He lowered his head toward you, mouth dipping to your ear. “Couple more days wasn’t going to kill me,”  

You giggled, letting him place your coffee mug on the counter while he lifted you onto it. Your legs dangled off the edge as he stepped between them, his hands settling on your waist.

"But I'm glad you didn't make me wait any longer,"

You’d tried—at least, you’d gone through the motions of trying. Lights off, phone facedown, blanket pulled up like that alone could convince your brain to cooperate. But your body didn’t feel interested in rest.

Not when it still remembered the counter.

The heat. The closeness. The exact moment everything had stopped pretending.

And then stopped altogether.

You turned over in bed for what felt like the hundredth time, exhaling sharply into the dark.

Of course you were awake.

Night had always been your body’s real rhythm anyway—quiet, alert, wired in a way that daylight never quite mastered. The same kind of stillness that made the ED feel like home during nights like this.

Except tonight, it didn’t feel like that. Peace was nowhere to be found, and the only alertness you felt was the way your body was still waiting for someone to hit the “play” button—like you’d been paused mid-breath and couldn’t quite convince yourself the scene was over.

You sat up finally, rubbing a hand down your face before swinging your legs off the bed.

That’s when you heard faint footsteps—slippered feet padding down the hallway, unhurried but unmistakable, until they stopped right outside your door.

You froze.

For a moment, there was nothing—just stillness pressed so tightly against the walls it felt intentional.

Then your nerve got the better of you.

You yanked the door open, fingers gripping the handle like it was the only thing keeping you anchored.

And there he was.

Jack.

Hair disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it for far too long to still be in control of his thoughts. A black T-shirt hanging slightly loose, wrinkled in a way that suggested he’d given up on appearances hours ago. Long cotton pants sitting low and relaxed on his hips, the kind of casual you only ever saw in the middle of the night, when everything else had finally stopped pretending.

He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping either.

Like he’d been trying.

And failing.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Just stared.

The hallway light was low enough that everything felt moodier than it should have—edges blurred, silence surrounding you, the distance between you small enough to feel dangerous again.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was soft, low. 

“No,” You breathed. “You?” 

“Tried,” 

“Same,” 

The doorway felt narrower than it had a second ago, like the space between you had quietly shifted without either of you moving.

“About earlier…” he said finally.

But that was all he gave you.

No follow-up. No direction. Just the start of something he didn’t seem fully certain he wanted to finish out loud.

“Come to say it was a mistake?” you asked.

Part of you asked to give him the out. Another part asked so you could get more. Another part of you meant it as a lifeline—something to grab onto if he gave you the answer you wanted. 

His jaw tightened slightly.

“No.”

Your eyes lifted to search his, like you could find a correction there if you looked long enough. Something that would undo it. Reframe it. Put the walls back up where they were supposed to be.

But there wasn’t anything like that. No hesitation that softened it. No regret that explained it away, shoving it under a crossed boundary in the heat of the moment.

Just him.

You and Dr. Jack Abbot were in sync often.

In the ED, over trauma cases—moving like you shared a rhythm neither of you had ever bothered to name. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t intentional. It just… happened. Like your instincts had learned each other long before either of you realized it.

And in this moment, that was still true.

Like both of you decided to say fuck it at the exact same time, you both reached for each other at once—a climax of every touch you'd denied yourself in fluorescent trauma bays. 

His hands found your waist first, pulling you against him with an urgency that made your breath catch. You answered by sinking your fingers into his hair, nails dragging against his skull, and he groaned into your mouth as you kissed—desperate and consuming, all restraint finally shattered.

Years of tension detonated between you.

Your tongues clashed as his hands swept up the back of your pajama tank, fingertips pressing into your bare skin like he was memorizing you, like he'd wanted to do this for far longer than either of you wanted to admit. You arched into him, pulling him deeper, losing yourself in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the solid warmth of him finally here.

Your fingers bunched into the collar of his t-shirt, pulling him down toward you with a desperation that revealed years of restraint. Still not close enough. His hands tightened on your hips, unwavering, as he walked you backwards until the backs of your knees met the edge of your bed.

He lowered himself onto you with a deliberate slowness, your mouths still fused together, never breaking contact as his knee parted your legs with careful intention. You opened for him without hesitation, spreading beneath him as your hands slipped under his t-shirt—finally getting to touch the chest you'd glimpsed in the gym, all hard muscle and heat beneath your palms. 

His knee pressed up between your thighs, and the contact drew a sharp, needy breath from you. You answered by rolling your hips against him, seeking friction, and he pressed back with measured pressure that made your eyes flutter shut. The weight of him there eased the ache that had been building since the moment he'd walked into your room, but it only intensified the hunger for something more.

"Still so eager," he breathed against your skin, and you felt the damned smirk in his voice. "Want more of what we started earlier?"

"Please." The word came out broken, desperate. All pretense evaporated—self-control abandoned the moment he'd walked through your door. You had no patience for it now, not after hours of agony without his touch after finally getting it. After Robby's awkward interruption and an even more awkward dinner, after pretending to study while your mind spiraled with him instead—you were done waiting.

"Since you asked so nicely," he murmured, and you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, tongue grazing the tips before he traced a path down your body. Your breath hitched as they found their way between your legs, and when he sank them inside you, your moan came out raw and unguarded.

"No interruptions this time," he said, his voice low and final, like a promise he intended to keep.

His thumb pressed against your clit with light pressure, picking right back up where you'd left off. But this time, his lips descended to capture your moans—swallowing them like he was finally, completely giving in. Like this was for both of you, not just stolen moments in the dark.

Then, impatience bleeding through, he hooked his fingers into your pajama shorts. He peeled them off slowly despite his urgency, taking his time with the moment even as his breath came faster. The cool air hit your exposed skin, a shock against the heat radiating from your core. You watched his eyes darken at the sight of you—spread open and ready, a silent invitation he clearly had no intention of refusing.

He lifted you effortlessly, helping you shed your tank top over your head. Your hair tumbled down, framing your face as he pulled back to look at you—really look at you. His gaze swept over your entire body with unhurried intensity, lingering on the curves and angles of you, the places where your skin vibrated with want. There was nothing rushed about it now. Just appreciation, like he was committing every inch to memory.

Like he’d worked and waited for this. 

"Just as beautiful as I'd imagined," he whispered, fingers tracing the line of your collarbone. "Are you sure you want this?"

"I want this," you said, grabbing his hand and pulling him down toward you with urgency. "Very badly."

You peeled his shirt over his head in one motion, eyes tracking the shift and play of muscle across his shoulders. He straightened to shed his pants, fingers working at the drawstring with measured efficiency, but then he stopped—hesitated—his hands stilling.

You knew why.

You’d seen it before. His prosthetic, glimpsed in the break room during his quiet moments or in the later hours in the house. But seeing the caution cross his face now, the sudden uncertainty in someone who'd moved through that ED with absolute certainty, made something tighten in your chest.

You rose to your knees, fingers soft against his shoulders as you tilted his chin up to meet your eyes. "Hey," you said quietly. "We can go slow."

His lips curved into a smirk, but there was an edge to it. "Not what I'm worried about, sweetheart."

"Then what?"

"Don't wanna scare you off."

"Oh please.” You laughed—genuine sound music to his ears in such a vulnerable moment—and shook your head. Your mouth dipped toward his ear, whispering, “I think it's sexy."

"Oh yeah?" he murmured, a challenge in his voice.

"Yeah," you answered, nipping at his earlobe before pulling back with a smile.

Then he shoved you—not rough, but with enough force to make you gasp. You fell back onto the plush comforter with a breathless laugh, watching as he shed his pants, one leg at a time. When he crawled back over you, there was nothing hesitant about it. Confident. Assured.

Your hands wound into his hair as your legs fell open for him, your body already trembling with anticipation. He settled between your thighs, his cock heavy and thick, and you held your breath as he guided the pulsing head to your entrance. His sharp intake of breath matched yours when the tip made contact with your slick heat, and for a moment, he just held there—eyes locked on yours like he was asking permission one final time.

Then he pushed in slowly, deliberately, and you felt yourself stretch to accommodate him. The pressure was intense, almost too much, and your lips pressed together as you fought to relax into it, to take him deeper. His eyes never left yours, watching your face as he inched forward—letting you adjust, letting you feel every careful inch of him.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word barely audible as he sank deeper. "You feel—"

He didn't finish. Couldn't. You watched his jaw clench, the muscle jumping beneath his skin as he fought for control. Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as he filled you completely—inch by inch until there was nothing left between you. The pleasure was overwhelming, gasping when he finally bottomed out, hips flush against yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just breathed. Just felt each other. 

His forehead dropped to yours, eyes still locked on yours even this close, and you could see everything in them—the restraint threatening to snap, the vulnerability he rarely showed anyone, the want that matched your own. Your chest rose and fell against his, hearts racing in tandem like they had in a hundred traumas before, but this was different. This was both of you, stripped bare of every defense you’d built to keep each other out.

"Okay?" he asked, voice rough.

"More than okay," you whispered, rolling your hips experimentally.

The groan that tore from him was guttural, unguarded, and it sent heat flooding through you. He pulled back slowly—agonizingly slow—before sliding back in with a calculated thrust that made your back arch off the bed. 

“Jack,” you moaned, and something in him seemed to break.

His rhythm built gradually, each stroke deeper than the last, finding angles that made you begin to melt. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. The sounds filling the room were obscene—skin against skin, your breathless whimpers, his ragged breathing in your ear as he buried his face in your neck.

"Been wanting this," he murmured against your throat between thrusts. "Wanting you. For so fucking long."

"How—bad?" Your voice fractured between thrusts, each one stealing the breath from your lungs, scattering your thoughts.

"You have no fucking idea," he growled, and the words came out almost tortured. His pace shifted—less controlled now, more primal—and you felt the last threads of his restraint unravel. "Years, sweetheart. Years of watching you in that ED, you have no idea what it did to me."

He punctuated each word with a thrust that drove deeper, and you gasped his name, fingers raking down his back as pleasure coiled tighter in your core. Your legs tightened around him, urging him faster, harder, and he answered with the kind of intensity that made the headboard creak against the wall.

“Tell me,” You breathed, eyes squeezing shut, “Tell me everything,” 

His pace shifted—less controlled now, more primal. "Every time you'd lean over a patient, hair falling in your face—" Another thrust, deeper. "Every time you'd look at me across the trauma bay like you knew exactly what I was thinking—"

"Jack—" you gasped, nails raking down his back.

"Blood on your scrubs, adrenaline in your eyes, and all I could think about was getting you alone." His voice was ragged, breaking. "Nights I'd go home and imagine you like this—underneath me, saying my name exactly like that."

Your body responded to every confession, pleasure coiling tighter with each word. "More," you breathed against his ear, and felt him shudder.

"Wanted to bend you over every surface in that goddamn hospital," he admitted, rhythm becoming erratic, desperate. "Wanted to make you mine, hear you scream my name where everyone could hear—"

The pressure built impossibly higher, your bodies moving together with the same synchronicity you'd always had, but electrified. His eyes found yours again—dark, wild, completely undone—and you felt yourself climbing toward the edge, teetering there as he drove into you with increasing urgency.

"I'm close," you whimpered. "Jack, I'm—"

"I know, sweetheart. I can feel you." His thumb found your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Let go for me."

The added pressure was what shattered you—the praise, the confessions of years pent up, finally knowing what he'd felt all along. Pleasure exploded underneath your skin, shooting from your core through your spine and radiating down to your fingertips. You screamed, head thrown back as euphoria consumed you entirely, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave crested through you.

"That's it," he groaned, his voice rough and reverent in your ear despite the distance between you both. "Let it all out. God, you're so fucking beautiful when you come."

"Fuck—Jack—" Your voice broke as you chased the high, hips lifting to meet his increasingly erratic thrusts. His control was completely gone now, replaced by raw desperation. Each stroke was harder, sloppier, driven by the feeling of you unraveling around him. The headboard knocked against the wall with each thrust, a rhythm that matched the thundering of your heart.

He was close now—you could feel it in the way his breathing fractured, the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands gripped you like you might slip away. 

"I can't—" he choked out, and you felt him trembling above you, every muscle taut. His rhythm faltered completely, becoming frantic, uncoordinated. You tightened around him deliberately, still riding your own waves of pleasure, and watched his face transform—jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut before snapping back open to find yours.

"Look at me," you whispered, cupping his face. "Let me see you."

His eyes locked on yours, and that's what broke him. A strangled sound tore from his throat as he buried himself deep, his whole body shuddering with release. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and overwhelming, as he gasped your name like a prayer. His arms gave out and he collapsed onto his forearms, face buried in your neck, breath coming in ragged gasps against your skin.

"Fuck," he breathed, trembling. "Fuck, I—"

You wrapped your arms around him, fingers threading through his sweat-dampened hair as he came down, both of you breathing hard in the quiet aftermath. His weight pressed you into the mattress, grounding and real, and you felt his lips press softly against your pulse point.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing. Just existing in the surreal reality of what you'd finally done.

Then Jack shifted, carefully rolling onto his side and pulling you with him. His hand traced lazy patterns along your spine as you both stared at each other in the dim light—really looked at each other for the first time since this all started.

“So,” you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips. “We just…”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone. “We did.”

The absurdity of it landed all at once.

A quiet laugh broke from your chest—breathless, disbelieving—and for once, you didn’t try to stop it. Jack followed a second later, low and warm and completely unguarded, like something in him had finally stopped bracing.

“We’re so dumb,” you murmured, shaking your head against the pillow.

“Idiots,” he agreed easily, drawing you closer until the space between you disappeared again in a way that felt less urgent now—more certain. “Could’ve been doing this for years.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Definitely yours.”

But there was no bite in it. No defense. Just warmth, threaded through the words like he wasn’t interested in pretending anymore.

His smile lingered as he looked at you, softer than you were used to seeing, like the edges of him had finally stopped being sharp on purpose.

You traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips, still slightly in disbelief that this was real—that he was real like this, close like this, yours in a way neither of you had ever allowed before.

“We were doomed from the beginning, weren’t we?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “We were.”

A pause.

Then, softer—

“Never really stood a chance.”