𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛

Two tables away, a group of hockey players was laughing, their loud, easy confidence echoing against the brick walls and rising above the hum of the espresso machine. You didn’t need to look up to check. You knew the exact cadence of that deep, gravelly laugh. But today, it sounded entirely off. He was smiling at whatever story his teammate was telling, but his eyes weren't bright. They looked completely hollow. He was putting on a damn good show for the rest of the room, giving the perfect change to everyone around him, pretending everything was fine. You knew he was faking it. You knew it because you had spent countless Mondays sitting right across from him after that very first afternoon in this café, learning every single detail of his face.

You, on the other hand, couldn't even manage to fake it.

John Logan was sitting just a few feet away, and the simple act of breathing the same air felt like inhaling broken glass.

Don't look, you told yourself, forcing your eyes strictly back to the open notebook in front of you. You tried to focus on the text, but the lines of ink had blurred into a meaningless mess minutes ago. You couldn't sit here much longer. Hearing his voice, knowing the heavy, shifting undercurrent of whatever had actually happened between you, was utterly suffocating. Every memory, every quiet look shared in the dark, now carried a strange, cold weight you couldn't fully parse. It felt like walking through a house where the mirrors had suddenly been tilted—everything looked familiar, but entirely distorted. You just knew that the ground beneath your feet had given way, and the boy who used to be your anchor was now the very thing making you sink.

Before everything shattered into a million bitter pieces, Mondays didn't feel like a punishment. Back when the weather was just starting to turn and the leaves were first hitting the pavement, a Monday was just the day a stupid, rusty bike chain started everything.

The chain on your bike hadn't just slipped; it had completely jammed itself between the gear and the frame, leaving your hands covered in streaks of black grease and your frustration hitting its absolute peak. You were already late for class, the sky was starting to open up into a steady, annoying drizzle, and you were aggressively tugging at the cold metal, muttering every single curse word you knew under your breath.

"Need a hand, or are you just trying to paint your bike black?"

The voice was smooth, laced with a quiet amusement. You snapped your head up, your jaw set, ready to fire back a biting, sarcastic remark to whoever was bold enough to mock your misery, but the words caught directly in your throat.

Standing there was John Logan.

You recognized his face instantly. Just a few weeks prior, your roommate had practically dragooned you into following Fifth Line and you’d then scrolled past pictures of the boys a dozen times. But while players like Di Laurentis or Graham were legendary for their very public escapades, Logan was different. It wasn’t that he had a reputation for being difficult or totally unattainable—people just knew less about his private life.

And right now, that exact guy was standing over your broken bike, wearing a backward Briar cap, a damp grey hoodie, and a soft, genuinely amused smile.

"I've got it," you lied flatly, wiping your forehead with the back of your arm, which undoubtedly just smeared black grease across your skin.

"Sure looks like it," he chuckled, completely unbothered by your defensive tone.

He didn't hesitate for more than a second. Dropping his duffel bag onto the damp grass, he knelt down right beside you, completely ignoring the dirt and moisture soaking into the knees of his sweatpants. His hands were large, his knuckles slightly scraped and heavily calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they were surprisingly deft as he reached into the tangled metal.

"Name's Logan, by the way," he said casually, his shoulder brushing against yours as he leaned in to get a better angle on the gear.

"I know who you are," you muttered, watching his fingers work.

He glanced up at that, his piercing eyes locking directly onto yours from just inches away. A playful, unexpected glint danced in his dark pupils. "Should I be worried, or are you just a hockey fan?"

"In your dreams, hockey boy. Just fix the chain."

Logan let out a laugh that vibrated straight through the damp air and right into your chest. With one quick, expert wrench of his wrist, the chain popped back into place with a loud, satisfying click. He stood up smoothly, pulling a white rag from his back pocket to wipe his stained fingers. He leaned in just close enough for you to catch the sharp scent of mint and cold winter air. "There. Good as new. You owe me a coffee for the rescue. Next Monday. Same time?"

You looked at him, then down at your bike. He was a complete stranger, a star athlete, and entirely out of your usual social circle. Between the sheer intimidation of having his full attention and the dark cloud of your upcoming final exams looming over your schedule, you didn't have the time or the energy for whatever this was. So you chose safety.

"I can't. I have exams coming up and I really need to focus," you said, grabbing your handlebars. You gave him a small, too formal nod. "But thanks for the help, Logan."

You wheeled your bike away, keeping your eyes straight ahead, though you could still hear the low, faintly amused chuckle that followed you down the campus path.

During the days that followed, you spent an embarrassing, deeply frustrating amount of time thinking about that brief interaction. You tried to force him out of your mind, but every time you closed your eyes to study, you saw that easy, dimpled smile. You were completely certain you would never cross paths with him again anyway. Briar U was a massive campus, and even if you happened to attend a game, it wasn't like you'd ever actually interact. At most, you’d just find yourself staring a little too much from the upper decks. It had just been a random, meaningless fluke.

Until Sunday night, when your phone buzzed with an unknown number.

You unlocked the screen, eyebrows knitting together as you read the message.

Unknown: Hey. You left your book behind at the quad last Monday. I picked it up so the rain wouldn't ruin it.

You stared at the text, completely baffled. You tapped out a quick reply, your mind racking through everything you had been carrying that day.

You: Who is this? And I didn't lose any books.

The response came back almost instantly, making your chest tighten slightly with an odd sort of anticipation.

Unknown: Pretty sure it's yours. It has your name written clearly at the top of the page.

A second later, a photo message popped up. You clicked it, your breath hitching. It was a close-up shot of a crisp, white page, and your name was indeed written at the top in neat, precise ink. But the framing of the photo was so tight and the lighting so specific that it completely blocked out the title or any actual text. You couldn't see what the book was about at all. A spike of pure bewilderment hit you. Were you losing your mind? Was this some kind of elaborate prank? Or were you just so completely exhausted by the crushing weight of your approaching finals that you had genuinely forgotten buying and losing a completely random book?

And then, it clicked.

The quad. Last Monday.

There was only one person who fit that timeline. Only one person who had been anywhere near you while you were fumbling with a broken bike chain. Your mind immediately flashed to a backward Briar cap, grey sweatpants, and a lazy, dimpled smile.

John Logan.

But a heavy wave of skepticism immediately followed the thought. It was impossible. You hadn’t given him your number. You hadn't given him anything except a sarcastic attitude and a flat refusal to grab coffee. How on earth could he have tracked down your contact info?

Determined to call his bluff, your fingers flew across the keyboard.

You: What the hell? What book is that, Logan?

You held your breath, staring at the screen as the little typing bubbles appeared, vanished, and then appeared again.

Unknown: So you do remember me. I’m flattered.

A small, uninvited smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you quickly bit it down. He was deflecting.

You: Answer the question. And how did you even get my number?

Unknown: Come to the coffee shop tomorrow at two and find out. I'll bring it. Both the answers and the book.

You chewed on your bottom lip, staring at the flashing cursor. Part of you was entirely intrigued, but that same wave of hesitation from the week before washed over you. Looking into those intense brown eyes without the distraction of a broken bike made your stomach do a nervous, complicated flip. You didn't want to deal with the distraction, especially with your GPA on the line.

You: I told you last week, I have exams coming up and I need to focus. Just leave it at the library front desk or something.

You locked your phone and shoved it under your pillow, determined to ignore it. But three minutes later, it buzzed again. You swiped it open, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Unknown: It'll take ten minutes. Two o'clock. Don't flake on me.

You let out a frustrated, breathless laugh, throwing your head back against your pillow. He was relentless. Yet, as you stared at the cryptic message, you knew you were going to go. It was a crowded coffee shop in broad daylight—it wasn't like you were walking into a dangerous trap, and you desperately needed to know how he'd pulled this off.

When you walked into the café the next afternoon, your eyes scanned the crowded room until they landed on him sitting in a back corner booth. John Logan didn't look like a guy holding lost property. Instead, he had two steaming porcelain cups already waiting on the table and a lazy, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

As you slid into the opposite chair, you dropped your heavy bag and leveled him with a steady look. "Alright, hand it over. Because I checked my notes twice and I definitely didn't lose anything."

With a soft chuckle, Logan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brand-new, crisp paperback book, gently sliding it across the wooden table toward you.

You blinked, looking down at the cover. The title read: It's All About the Bike: The Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels.

You picked it up, flipping it open to the first page. There, written in bold, neat handwriting at the very top, was your name. You lifted your eyes to him, completely stunned, realization washing over you. "You bought this. And you wrote my name in it."

"Technically, I didn't lie," Logan said with a modest shrug, a massive grin breaking across his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It is your book. It has your name in it. I just hadn't officially given it to you yet. But I knew a regular text invitation would get me another 'I can't, I have to study' excuse," he shrugged. "I had to innovate."

"You are completely absurd, you know that?" you sighed, though a warm flush was rapidly creeping up your neck, your heart doing a stupid, uninvited flutter against your ribs. "And how did you get my number?"

"I asked around," he admitted smoothly, leaning his forearms on the table, bridging the distance between you without forcing it. "Turns out we have mutual friends." He pushed one of the steaming cups toward you. "Black coffee, right? Figured you'd want something strong enough to get you through all that studying."

You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, your defenses beginning to crack under his easy, attentive demeanor. "Don't get cocky, Logan. You're barely pushing past mildly annoying right now."

"Mildly annoying?" he chuckled, leaning in a bit closer, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Ouch. Come on, give me a little credit. I got you a book. I'm a local superstar, you know. My ego is fragile."

He placed a hand over his heart, mocking a look of deep, tragic injury, though his tone was entirely sarcastic.

You let out a genuine laugh, leaning your chin on your hand, a sharp, playful smirk matching his. "Oh, please. A superstar? No. I have a much better title for you now. I'm calling you Mavis."

Logan blinked, thoroughly amused. "Mavis? Like someone's grandma? Alright, what's the breakdown on that?"

"Mildly Annoying, Very Irritating Superstar," you proudly declared. "Since you insisted on it."

He threw his head back, a rich, booming laugh escaping him that made a few people at the counter turn around. He shook his head, looking down at his coffee with a warm smile. "You’re brutal. But honestly? I'll take it." He looked back up, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, quiet intensity. "What about you? I'll need a counter-acronym."

You spent the next hour trading sharp, playful barbs. You found out he was surprisingly intelligent, matching your wit at every single turn. Before you left, you noticed a small, neon-yellow post-it note sticking out from the middle of the pages he’d given you. Intrigued, you opened it to the marked page, your eyes landing on a heavily underlined quote:

“It was always scary, Charlie replied, but that was why you did it, right? If it was safe... it wouldn’t be fun.”

You had looked up at him, the comfortable, electric chemistry between you becoming so heavy it was almost dizzying. You had smiled then, thinking about the thrilling, terrifying rush of letting someone like him into your life.

The loud, obnoxious sound of a hockey player throwing a crumpled napkin at Beau snapped you brutally back to reality, the warmth of the memory instantly evaporating into nothingness. It was replaced by the freezing, hollow ache currently rotting your chest from the inside out.

If it was safe, it wouldn’t be fun.

God, what a joke. You had jumped right off the cliff with him, thinking the thrill was worth the fall. But it hadn't been safe. Not even close. And now, you were left completely alone, staring at the wreckage of a shattered heart, realizing exactly how unsafe John Logan truly was.

Shoving your laptop into your bag with trembling, rigid hands, you pulled your hood even lower over your face, zipped your jacket all the way up to your chin, and finally stood up to leave. You couldn't be here anymore. You couldn't listen to him exist, laughing with his friends as if he hadn't completely destroyed you.

You kept your head down, navigating the narrow, crowded space between the tables, intending to slip through the front door like a ghost. He hadn't noticed you earlier, tucked away in your dark corner, and you wanted nothing more than to keep it that way. But as you passed the exact edge of his table, a sudden, involuntary shift in the air pressure made you glance up through the shadow of your hood.

Logan’s head had turned.

Up close, the easy smile he’d been forcing for his teammates vanished instantly. He just looked tired, the tight set of his jaw giving away the exhaustion he was trying to hide from the rest of the room.

The moment his brown eyes locked onto yours beneath your hood, he froze.

The color drained from his face instantly, his chest hitching in a sharp, subtle yet audible gasp. For one agonizing, volatile second, the entire noisy coffee shop stopped spinning. His lips parted, trembling slightly, looking as if he wanted to jump up and shatter the space between you.

You didn't give him the chance. You tore your gaze away, a sharp, suffocating sob catching in your throat, and pushed past the heavy glass doors of the coffee shop, stepping out into the rain.

You walked fast, the icy drops hitting your face as you crossed the quad, your chest aching so badly you could barely draw a full breath. The moment you rounded the corner of the building and found a bit of shelter under the concrete awning, you stopped, trying to force the freezing air into your lungs.

You were still shivering, rain dripping from the edge of your hood, when a sudden vibration buzzed against your thigh.

Your fingers trembled as you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Just as the screen lit up, a fresh notification popped up across the glass. It was an unread text message from an unlisted, nameless string of digits—a quiet reminder of the night you had finally deleted his number.

Unknown: Don't run. Just give me five minutes, please. - Mavis.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, your heart hammering a wild, painful rhythm as you stared at the short message. No desperate pleading, no grand explanations—just that familiar nickname, a sharp echo of the days when things were simple.

With a shaking hand, you locked the phone without typing a single letter, shoving it deep into your pocket. You pulled your wet hood tighter around your face and kept walking into the storm.

One day down. Six more to survive. Then repeat.

The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway. 

The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.

“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.

Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.

“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”

“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.

Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”

You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.

“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta—  buy him some time till we get him a room.”

“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”

Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.

You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”

“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”

Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him. 

So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.

Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.

“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”

You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.

“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.

“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”

You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”

Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”

You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”

“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”

“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”

“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”

“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”

Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.

“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”

“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”

“On?”

“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”

“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.

“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”

“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”

“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”

“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”

You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”

“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.

“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”

His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”

“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.

“And what happens if I pass?”

You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.

A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”

The glass door across the room swings open without warning. 

Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.

His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.

“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”

“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.

Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.

Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”

The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.

The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.

You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender. 

His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant. 

“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”

The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room. 

Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.

“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”

Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”

“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”

“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.

You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.

“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”

“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”

“Then let me do something about it—”

Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.

“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”

“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”

The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.

A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”

“I said— tell her— to stop!”

His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click. 

“I can’t!” you hear yourself whimper. “I can’t stop, Jack— He’ll die.”

“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”

“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”

Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”

The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.

“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”

“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief. 

“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”

The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood. 

Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.

“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”

Another step forward.

“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”

Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.

The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop. 

“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”

The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.

Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.

“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?” 

Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.

Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.

Two shots ring out.

You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.

The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.

Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.

It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.

And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.

The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!” 

None of it feels all the way real. 

It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.

Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.

“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.

Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”

Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room. 

You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.

You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.

The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.

“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.

“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.

“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”

“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.

“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”

The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.

He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.

Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.

“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”

He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.

He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”

You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”

“That I’d make a good case…” 

Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”

“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps. 

His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”

You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder. 

You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you. 

The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness. 

“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”

“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”

“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”

Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”

Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.

“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”

“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”

“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”

You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”

“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”

Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.

The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment. 

“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.

Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.

“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”

The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.

Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”

Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.

The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.

Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.

You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling. 

You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.

The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.

You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.

“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.

Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.

You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.

Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR. 

His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.

“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”

You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time. 

“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist. 

Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.

“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”

“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.

“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”

You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.

“You sure?” he presses.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”

He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him. 

“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”

You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors. 

You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.

Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.

Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”

“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”

“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”

You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”

“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”

You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.

Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”

You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”

“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”

“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.” 

Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.

“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”

“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…” 

Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.

His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.

Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.

“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”

“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”

“Want me to go grab her for you?”

He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”

“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”

The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip. 

The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.

The door creaks softly open.

Something tightens in his chest.

You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief. 

The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.

Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.

“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.

“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”

You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.

“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.

You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”

“Fair point…” he nods.

“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”

Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”

That almost gets a real laugh out of you. 

“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”

You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. 

Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.

He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.

“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.

“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”

His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.

“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”

Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.

“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”

“No.”

His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.

“I guess I was just thinking about you…”

The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall. 

Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.

“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”

“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”

Your breath hitches.

Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.

“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”

His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”

“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”

Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?” 

You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”

That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.

You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.  

“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”

Your features screw, hardly convinced.

“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”

You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”

“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.

“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."

A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"

Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.

After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?

Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.

Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.

Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.

She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."

"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"

Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"

"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"

"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."

"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"

"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."

You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."

Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.

"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."

You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."

You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."

"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."

As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.

You sighed, "shit."

As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.

But that wouldn't stop you from trying.

"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"

"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"

She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.

You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.

"Yes."

You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.

"That's it?"

You shrugged, "Yes."

He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."

"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."

"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"

You sighed, "Yes."

He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."

"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."

"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"

You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."

"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.

"I won't," you called back.

Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"

Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."

He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"

"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."

He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."

Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."

Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.

"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.

"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."

Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.

"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"

"You got it."

***

You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.

Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.

"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"

"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."

"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"

Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."

It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.

"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.

You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"

"You're too good for triage?"

"I know you're doing it to punish me—"

"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"

"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"

He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."

You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.

But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.

Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.

"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."

"Not now, later."

You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."

"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."

His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"

"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."

You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."

He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.

"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."

You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."

You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."

"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."

You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.

You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.

How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.

He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.

In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.

And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.

"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."

You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."

You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."

"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."

You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."

At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."

You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"

You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."

He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"

He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.

"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."

His grin widened, "Atta girl."

And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.

***

The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.

After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."

Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."

He frowned, "What was that?"

"What?"

"Did you just apologize to me?"

The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."

"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."

The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"

You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"

"Your sister's wedding."

You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."

His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"

You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."

Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.

"If you don't go, they win."

You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."

He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."

"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"

You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"

He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."

Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"

Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."

You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"

He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."

You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"

He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."

You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."

"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"

You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."

After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.

"I left my car at the hospital."

He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."

As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"

Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."

His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"

You snorted, "Seriously?"

He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."

Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."

"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.

You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.

But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.

"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.

Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.

You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"

"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."

"Mom—"

"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"

"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."

"He seemed nice. Handsome."

You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."

Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."

Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.

Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.

You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.

***

You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.

When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"

You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"

"You think I didn't already think of all this?"

He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.

You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"

He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."

You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.

He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.

You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"

"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.

"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."

He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"

You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."

The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."

You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."

He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."

You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.

***

As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.

You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.

"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."

It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.

"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.

"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."

Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.

But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.

Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.

You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.

When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"

You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."

"Yes you can and yes you are."

"Abbot—"

"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."

You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.

He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"

You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."

He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"

Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."

You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"

You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.

"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."

***

As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—

"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.

He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"

You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."

After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"

You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."

He frowned, "What about your parents?"

"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."

His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"

You nodded, "Yep."

"And they're… Fine with that?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."

Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"

"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."

He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."

You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."

After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."

You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?

So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.

***

A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.

You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.

What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.

He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.

And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.

He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."

You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"

"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."

He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."

Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."

"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.

He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."

"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."

"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.

He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.

"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.

"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?

"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.

"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."

He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.

But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."

Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.

"Mom, you remember Jack."

He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.

"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."

"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."

You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.

"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."

You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"

"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."

You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"

Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."

"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."

Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.

"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"

"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."

The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."

You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.

Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—

"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"

You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.

"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"

"Your cane or crutches or something—"

He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."

"But—"

"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"

You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.

Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.

"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.

He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."

"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."

Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."

"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."

Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.

"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."

"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"

Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"

You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"

"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."

You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"

Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."

You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."

Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."

You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."

He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.

"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.

***

Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.

A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.

No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.

Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.

There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.

So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.

Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.

So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.

That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.

You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.

You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?

You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.

***

"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.

"Do you need to sit down?"

You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.

Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.

"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."

You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."

"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"

"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."

Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"

Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.

Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"

Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."

"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"

You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.

"Could you kiss me, you think?"

Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"

Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.

Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.

It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.

"What do you think? Did it work?"

You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."

Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"

You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"

Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."

You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."

Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.

Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.

But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.

Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.

And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.

"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."

You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.

Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."

You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."

Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"

"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"

He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.

But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.

It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.

***

"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"

Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.

You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.

The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.

You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.

Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.

And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.

"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."

She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.

"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."

Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."

You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."

She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."

Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"

"You're lying!"

"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."

Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"

"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"

"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."

There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.

You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"

"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"

You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."

You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.

Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"

She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."

The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.

"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."

Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.

But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.

"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"

Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.

So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.

"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.

You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."

Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."

You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.

"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.

"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."

When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"

"That's not true—"

"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."

The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.

"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.

In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.

"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."

You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"

"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."

His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"

He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."

Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."

His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"

You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."

With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.

***

"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."

Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.

"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.

You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."

Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."

You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.

"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"

A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."

For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.

"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.

"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"

You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.

But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.

You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.

***

Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.

But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.

"So, when're you gonna tell her?"

Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.

"Sorry?"

"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"

Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."

Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."

Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."

"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."

He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."

Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."

Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.

He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.

He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.

You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.

***

After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.

You bit your lip, "Can I help?"

He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"

"I want to. Please."

He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.

You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.

He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"

"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"

He nodded, "Much."

You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.

You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."

He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."

You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."

"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."

You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.

"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."

"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."

He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"

He nodded slowly, "'Course."

As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.

When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.

He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.

***

Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.

When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.

"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.

Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.

You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.

In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.

As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.

The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.

You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.

"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.

"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."

He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.

"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."

"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."

He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."

You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"

He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."

"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."

As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.

"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."

For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.

You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.

"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"

You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."

That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."

You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.

***

Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.

But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.

He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.

You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.

But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.

When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.

You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.

He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."

David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."

Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."

For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."

When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.

"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.

"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.

You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."

"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"

He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."

"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"

Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."

He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."

You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.

"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"

Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.

"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."

You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."

Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.

"I don't need you picking me apart as well."

He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."

You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"

Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."

There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.

Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.

"Jack?"

"Hm?"

"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."

His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."

He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."

It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.

Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.

But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?

Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"

Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.

You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."

***

Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.

His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.

It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.

He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.

The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.

But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.

When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.

You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.

Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.

When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—

"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.

Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"

You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.

Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.

There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.

But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.

And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.

He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.

"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—

"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"

Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.

Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.

"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"

"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.

"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."

He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.

This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.

At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.

Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?

But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.

After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"

When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.

"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.

"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"

He sighed, "That was out of line—"

You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."

Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."

When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.

He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.

You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.

"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think…Could you hold me?"

Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.

You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.

He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.

When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."

He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.

***

Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.

As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.

Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.

You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.

"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.

"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"

"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"

He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"

You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."

He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"

You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"

He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."

You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."

Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"

You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."

He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."

You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.

"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.

Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."

Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.

"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.

Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"

"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."

You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.

And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.

His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."

***

The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.

The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.

Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.

"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"

"Jack—"

"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"

Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"

You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"

He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"

You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."

He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."

You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."

"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"

You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.

After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.

Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."

You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"

His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.

As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.

"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."

Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?

***

You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.

"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.

You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."

And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.

You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.

"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.

You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."

Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."

You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."

You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.

"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."

You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.

Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."

"I'm just trying to help—"

"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.

She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."

You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"

"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"

"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"

"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"

You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"

"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"

"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"

"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"

It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.

"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.

Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.

"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.

"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.

"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.

"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.

Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"

"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.

David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"

You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.

"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"

"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."

David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"

Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"

"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"

"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."

"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."

You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."

"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"

Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."

"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.

You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.

And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.

You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.

You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.

"You can talk to me right here."

Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"

"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"

"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"

You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.

Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."

You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.

You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.

It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.

Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—

"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."

Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.

"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."

Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"

You frowned, "But I—"

"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."

You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."

***

Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.

When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."

David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"

Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."

Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."

With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.

There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.

"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"

She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."

Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"

God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."

Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."

She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."

Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."

***

You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.

You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.

It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.

It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.

And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.

So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.

For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"

"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."

You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.

It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.

"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.

"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"

He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"

You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."

His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"

"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."

"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"

"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."

Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"

"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."

You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.

"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"

"Yes."

He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"

You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"

He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"

"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."

His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"

He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.

"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.

Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.

"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."

Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.

You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.

The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.

Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.

So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.

***

Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.

On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.

"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."

Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"

"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."

Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."

She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."

Jack frowned, "I don't follow."

Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."

She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.

He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.

Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.

The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The third night, he snapped.

"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"

"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"

Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."

He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.

As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.

He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.

When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.

You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.

"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"

Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.

You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"

"I'm sick."

Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."

You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."

He tilted his head, "You don't?"

Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"

"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"

"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"

"Scared of what, honey?"

Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."

Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.

"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."

You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"

He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."

You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."

He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.

With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"

You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."

He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."

You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."

Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.

He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.

"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.

He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."

"Where are we going?"

"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.

He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.

Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.

"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.

"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."

"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"

You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."

He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"

"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"

He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."

***

It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.

You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.

Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.

"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.

His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"

You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."

His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.

Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.

Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.

Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.

When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.

His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.

"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."

Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.

"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"

"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."

There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."

As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"

"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."

"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"

Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"

"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."

You nodded, "Me too."

He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."

Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."

He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."

Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.

"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.

When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.

He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.

Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"

Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.

After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.

He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."

Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.

With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.

You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."

You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."

You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.

"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.

You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."

His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.

With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."

Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.

He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"

"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."

He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.

As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.

The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"

You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"

"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."

For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.

Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."

***

With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.

"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"

You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."

He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."

"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."

He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."

As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.

With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.

Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.

Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."

Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."

To his relief, you don’t immediately break up with him. Instead, you smile, your lips brushing his cheek. “It looks like meat stewed in sauce. And I think it’s very appetizing.”

“It looked a little better in the picture,” he sighs, his tone letting the frustration in. “And by a little, I mean hell of a lot, and I —”

You put your finger under his chin to turn his face to you — and kiss him. And all Jack’s worries burst like soap bubbles. It has become his cure for everything: the soft, unhurried movement of your mouth against his, your hand that traces soothing patterns on his back, the tenderness that leaves him breathless. You smile into the kiss, too. He loves it — that small twitch of your lips as their corners curl up, like he is making you so happy, you can’t help it. He could kiss you all day.

“I’m telling you, it looks great,” you reassure him, pads of your fingers caressing his jaw. “And I really appreciate the effort.”

Jack hums, calmed and contented, the sound muffled by your mouth when you peck him on the lips again. One of his hands settles at your hip.

“Not sure the spice level will be to your taste, though,” he chuckles.

But you can tell by his studying gaze that it’s an actual concern of his. It’s something you are still getting used to — him putting so much care into everything, without question, all the time. Your fingers travel up to brush through the grey curls at his temple.

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m looking forward to not seeing you cry into your plate,” you tease.

“I didn’t cry,” he argues, not aggravated but abashed. “That curry thing was spicy. They labeled it with four out of five hot peppers on the menu.”

“Vindaloo,” you recall. “The waitress thought you were about to have a heart attack.”

Jack huffs a laugh, then tugs you closer with both hands. You watch a hue of pink spreading over his freckled cheeks.

“I was trying to impress you,” he tells you, voice raw with sincerity that warms your heart.

“Your dedication was impressive,” you bite your lip to bite down a giggle at the memory. “But I would prefer you not to suffer.”

A corner of his mouth twitches up. With barely covered amusement, with an uncovered gratitude: he hasn’t had a single bad day since you two started dating. His own happiness is sometimes overwhelming. (He’ll gladly suffer through a thousand more spicy dishes just to hear you laugh).

“Your wish is my command,” he isn’t even trying to be subtle with his feelings. He never is — he wants you to know. You do. It would be impossible not to.

“Then I’m wishing for a taste test,” you say, your gaze mellow, your whole body relaxing against his.

Jack’s hand only leaves you for a few seconds — to grab one of the spoons he laid out. You take it, enthusiastically leaning over the pot to carefully scoop up a piece of meat and bite right into it.

He takes this moment to get a better look at you. (His girlfriend; the word makes his blood rush).

His eyes catch on your blouse — a dark, deep red, the same silk that you like, the fabric hugging your upper body just the way he likes. His gaze glides up, over the dip between your collarbones, over your neck, the bowed lines of your lips — a drop of sauce glistens in the corner of them while you’re chewing —

Then, you moan. The sound low, drawn-out, very satisfied.

“Oh, this is good.”

Jack feels his face flush. “You can’t be serious.”

“When it comes to food? I always am,” you retort cheekily, and he uses his thumb to wipe away that oily drop. A smile tugs at your mouth when he reluctantly removes his finger. “Gonna start telling everyone I’m dating a doctor and a chef.”

“Says Gordon Ramsay,” Jack mumbles, fully aware that his cheeks now likely match your blouse. It’s something he is still getting used to — you being generous with praise, with kindness, with showing him appreciation. All the time.

“Exactly,” you insist softly. “Since I’m Gordon Ramsay, I know what I’m talking about. So your objections are overruled.”

There’s barely any space between you — his hands back on your waist, your body half-turned but still touching his, your shoulder to his chest, two ribcages leaning into each other. Jack fixes his gaze on your lips.

“I think I want a taste test too,” he says, barely a warning. More of a confession — before he moves to close the distance between your faces.

You meet him halfway.

There’s more intention and way more intensity: it’s in the eagerness he kisses you with, in how you snake a hand into his hair, and Jack hastily pulls you flush up against him. He can taste it — the burning flavour on your tongue, the heat of cinnamon, cumin, coriander, chiles. (To be fair, he only knows the names because he added them). He savours it: you and your softness, pliancy, desire that overtakes you two shamelessly fast. You don’t fight it; you kiss him until your lips are wet and tingling, until you have to stop to gulp some air.

Jack doesn’t move away — instead, his mouth moves to the side, under your cheekbone, then to that small spot behind your ear that makes you breath heavy.

“This was supposed to be the part where we build the tacos,” you whisper as his kisses (predictably, much to your delight) start shifting lower.

“I’ll be quick.”

“You never are.”

He grins, his words tickling your neck. “And you never complain about it.”

That’s true, you don’t — you can’t, not when he’s so adept at touching you exactly where you want to, and your body is already heating under his hands. His lips find your collarbone, his fingers readily unbuttoning your blouse. Button by button. And that sweet, dizzying anticipation hums under your skin, in tact with your heartbeat, a low and rhythmic buzzing —

Like a phone’s. Yours.

“Someone is calling,” you mutter. You both turn to the sound of the device persistently vibrating on the kitchen counter.

The caller is unknown — it’s just a number on the screen, without any name or photo, but you don’t hesitate to take it. You swipe right and pick up the phone, freeing yourself from his embrace so you can focus better. Jack feels a little smug about being the reason you can’t think straight.

He keeps an eye on you as you answer the call. It takes about three seconds for your features to relax.

“Oh, hi, Victoria! Of course I remember —”

But it’s cut short — your greeting first, then your tranquility, and Jack watches your smile disappear. You listen closely to what the caller has to say, with that same concentration you shift into when it comes to work. For a long moment, nothing in you moves, nothing betrays your thoughts or feelings. But Jack knows what to look for — and so he can discern it in your face, as if you mentally flip a switch: your gaze hardens as your brows pinch together, lips thinned into a straight line.

This isn’t just concentration, this is you planning, strategising, picking criminal code articles to use. To weaponize. This is the look that tells him it must be something bad.

“Victoria, I need you to stop,” you tell her with an even tone. “Now, please take a deep breath for me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Your fingers move to button up your shirt. You take another step away from Jack. Without thinking, he closes the pot and puts it off the stove.

“Tell me, are you safe in there? Were you hurt?” you delicately choose your words. “Okay, that’s good. Can you walk me through the events again? I don’t need all the details, just the basics will do.”

You rush out of the kitchen to grab your bag and take out your laptop, tapping away at the keyboard as you look something up — names, profile pictures, streets on a city map. Jack watches you in worry, in a helpless wonder. And it takes an embarrassing amount of seconds for his mind to throw him a hunch: Victoria. That’s not Javadi, right?

Jack catiously taps you on the shoulder, then whispers her last name to you — unsure, like a question. You simply nod. The furrow in between your brows stays.

“Yes, they absolutely cannot do that,” you tell her, chest rising on a long inhale, like you’re holding back a sigh. “Do you know which room he’s in right now? I need you to put me on speaker and then walk into that room. Don’t knock and immediately tell Mateo to stop talking. After I’m done, walk out, don’t speak to anybody and wait for me somewhere nearby. Alright?”

Jack stands close, his fingers carefully working on fastening your last two buttons. He wants to somehow make it better, easier for you; he can’t. That thought stings like a thorn.

You take another deep breath. You wait. Your free hand curls into a fist you put behind your back. But when you talk, your voice comes out unfazed.

“This is Mr. Diaz’s attorney, and I’m very curious why you didn’t allow him that one call he has the right to make. Mateo, did they explain your rights to you?”

You roll your eyes at the reply. Jack figures it’s a no.

“Which means anything he says or has already said is inadmissible in court. Are there any injuries I need to be aware of, apart from a possible nose fracture?... Well, I hope it stays that way. I’m twenty minutes away, I’ll be there in fifteen. Which interview room?”

You end the call without any pleasantries to spare. And you can feel Jack’s stare, so you spill it all out before he even puts the words into a question.

“Some inadequate patient was pissed that they didn’t fix him in record time, so he threw a fit, got his ass kicked out of the ER — and didn’t think of anything better than to wait for Victoria outside. Apparently, to share more of his dumbass complaints. He grabbed her,” your voice wavers — a tiny giveaway of how upset you actually are. But you push the emotions down. “I don’t know what his plan was, but thankfully, Mateo showed up. They got into a fight. The cops were driving by, and for some stupid reason, they decided Mateo was the one to blame. So they took him in. Ignored all of Javadi’s explanations. The other guy got away.”

Jack frowns. “How the fuck is that legal?”

“It’s not. It’s just how cops do their job,” you huff, grabbing a blazer you left hanging on a coat rack.

“What was it about a fracture?” Jack looks for his car keys.

“The guy clocked him on the nose, Javadi said it wasn’t that bad. But then one of the cops slammed Mateo face flat against their car. And I suspect that kind of impact can break bones.”

He can’t stop an involuntary grimace as his mind paints that picture; you are correct in your suspicions.

“Can they arrest him?”

“They will not,” you say, certain, unwavering. With just a bit of anger peeking through. “They are stalling and trying to intimidate him into a confession of some sort. They have no legal grounds to even hold him there.”

Jack goes to take his jacket; there is no question that he’ll drive you. But then he absentmindedly looks at his watch, and what stings him this time is guilt.

It’s 9 pm.

This was supposed to be your first evening together in the last five days. He thinks about the excitement you brimmed with when you came in.

He also thinks about the meat that’s getting cold, about your hectic schedules that never align, with him being on nights and you being so busy you sometimes forget to eat. He leaves you voice messages that serve as a reminder. He sneaks protein bars and fruits into your bag, he learns to cook for you, something that would bring you joy after an exhausting day. It is the only goal, it’s at the core of everything — to get to see you, smiling, happy. His. Your face relaxing only when you fall asleep with his arms wrapped around you.

He hoped that his apartment would be the only place where you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.

“I didn’t give your number to anyone at the hospital,” Jack tells you quietly. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this off the clock.”

You shake your head and look at him, eyes softening for a brief moment as you reach out a hand to caress his arm, a touch that says there’s nothing to be sorry for. “She knows I’m Cassie’s lawyer, so she called McKay for help. I am actually glad she did.”

You give yourself a look-over in the mirror: everything still sits impeccably, no crinkles on the fabric of your clothes, no stray hair, nothing to give away just how long of a day you’ve had. And you’re unusually quiet, which Jack finds unsettling.

“Glad why?”

“The police station Mateo is at has a reputation. That cop who dragged him into the car, I think I know who that is. Wasn’t his first misconduct. Hopefully, it will be his last.”

That almost puts a smirk on Jack’s face; it doesn’t feel appropriate, so he stays serious. He asks you for the station’s address to be useful.

“It’s less than ten minutes away,” Jack muses. He can make it there in eight.

“I love a good old element of surprise,” you say, matter-of-factly, already texting someone, feet moving toward the door. But then you pause and glance at him again. He can almost see the wheels in your head turning fast, faster. “Any chance you’ve got a pair of scrubs at home?”

He doesn’t have to ask why.

You two don’t talk during the ride — you make calls and send messages, gaze mostly focused on the screen, only short sentences leaving your mouth:

Yes, got it. Just send me the whole thing. No, I don’t think so, not today. But please look up the chief’s number. And text me when you reach the hospital’s security.

Jack figures it’s your secretary on the line. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling nervous. Also a little bit protective. He knows Javadi — a 4th-year medical student, smiley and sometimes clumsy, that wide-eyed girl who’s capable of outsmarting half of the ER. He likes her, Robby likes her, there is a solid chance she’ll get a job offer at the PTMC. He’s trying not to think what could’ve happened if Mateo wasn’t there to help her. He keeps his focus on the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack also watches you.

He’s seen you angry — in that uncovered, fervent kind of way, when the emotions spill out of you, and he’s allowed to witness it, because he’s earned your trust. He doesn’t ever patronize or pity you, he loves it — that you are caring, empathetic, tenacious in your pursuit of justice. He’s also painfully aware of how unjust the system is. He has been witness to that too: self-righteousness people in power use to cover their prejudice, the poison of which still slips through — it’s in the cruel treatment and harsh words, in the belief that certain skin color and gender grant you impunity and liberties the others can be stripped of. And it’s not easy appealing to the law when your opponent doesn’t believe in human rights.

So Jack is glad he will be there for you to offer some support. He also cannot help but feel a bit of pride: whatever are your feelings, you don’t have any trouble keeping them in check. He knows you’re fucking good at this. He’s dying to see you in action.

Your ride only takes seven minutes. Jack quickly parks, opens the door for you, fixes the badge clipped to his chest and grabs his first-aid kit. All the police stations are the same to him: greyed out walls, the smell of sweat and beer, the never-ending echoes of footsteps and voices. You lead the way.

The cop at the front desk — seemingly fresh out of the academy, a little chubby, visibly bored — stops slouching in his chair when he sees you. He tries to act cool, tries for his voice to sound more solemn. His act barely lasts a minute.

“You are here for that nurse guy?” he asks while checking your ID. “Damn, they roughed him up.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m coming with a doctor,” you note, merely polite. “I thought you guys also had one?”

“Yeah, our doc is here... Somewhere. But they were in a rush to question your client, I guess. Just gave him a few paper towels to stuff into his nose, he had to walk all the way up to the interview room with his head tipped back to stop the bleeding. It was painful to watch.”

“It surely sounds painful. Also, isn’t that use of force a little extreme?”

“Tell that to officer Nordwin,” the guy huffs.

“I plan on doing exactly that,” your voice stays steady, but now there is an edge to it. A coldness. And your promise doesn’t sound empty.

The guy looks up at you from his computer and drops his smile immediately. It dawns on him that maybe he told you too much. He only gives Abbot’s ID a glance, then points you in the right direction, with not very concealed concern.

You don’t waste time on pointless goodbyes, and now you move with purpose, a bit quicker. Jack has to keep up — still, he is opening the doors for you, and his eyes scan the corridors for threats, out of habit.

You spot Javadi from a distance: she’s all alone on some cheap-looking beam seating, hands clasped together, one foot nervously tapping on the floor. She looks unharmed but pretty shaken up. The second you come up to her, Victoria springs to her feet.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know who else to call,” she babbles, her words frantic, eyes glistening with fear. “My mom doesn’t know that Mateo and I are a thing— I mean, dating,— and she would go freaking ballistic if she finds out, because I’m supposed to be focusing on my studies, and my residency, and if I call my dad, he will tell her, and that is the last thing —”

“Deep breaths,” you remind her, keeping your tone quieter, softer. “You don’t have to worry about anything, now that I’m here. Did they take your statement?”

“No,” she tells you on a long, shuddering exhale. “I kinda feel like they forgot about me. Is that bad?”

“It means you get a chance to have me by your side when the time comes. Which is good,” you reassure.

Her repose barely lasts a second — before her eyes go woeful and teary. “They were so rude with him, so harsh,” she whispers. “One of the cops in particular, I didn’t catch his name. He didn’t even let either of us explain, just grabbed him, and I think— I’m pretty sure he broke Mateo’s nose. I did my best to stop the bleeding on our way here, but they were rushing, and the car kept bouncing on the road, I couldn’t see anything back there.”

“They made you ride in the back of the police car with him? In the cage?” you clarify, your voice veiled with the same steeliness Jack’s only now discovering.

“I don’t have my own car, and they didn’t want to wait, they just shoved him in there. And I couldn’t leave him alone. I think— I’m not sure, but I think they are mistaking him for someone else. But he didn’t do anything bad, he—he just tried to help me,” Victoria insists, already bordering on desperation. Because her prior explanations clearly fell on deaf ears.

“He did the right thing. You’ve got yourself a hell of a boyfriend,” Jack steps in, lowering his head a little so he can catch her gaze. He waits for her to register his words, to realize he means it. “I’ll check his nose, make sure it’s nothing serious, alright?”

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” Victoria breathes out, a wobbly smile on her lips. She wipes her nose and moves back a little, then points toward the row of doors down the corridor. “They took him in the last room on the right.”

You turn your head to find what room she means. And narrow your eyes at the number written on it.

“That’s where he is?” you ask, gaze boring holes into the wooden door, like it offended you somehow.

Javadi nods. Then hesitantly asks: “Should I go with you?”

“There is no need. You stay here, maybe get yourself some water from the cooler. I’ll try to make it quick,” you promise, and she lets out a small sigh of relief.

You turn to Jack, eyes meeting his — and under the bright fluorescent lights, he picks out new shades of you: you are decisive, steadfast, cool-headed. And he gets a peculiar inkling: maybe you didn’t bring him for support. Maybe you will not need it.

“I don’t want you talking to them,” you explain hastily. “You are only coming in to check on Mateo. You are allowed to take your time and do whatever’s necessary. I want it confirmed that he was hurt, and they didn’t do anything about it.”

“Got it,” Jack says and follows after you.

But what he thinks — playfully, holding back a smile — is that he likes you bossy. He also can’t help but appreciate the way your hips sway as you walk. He clears his throat and clears his thoughts just as you push the door open.

The interview room’s got no windows and no air conditioner, stuffy and small. Your eyes instantly find Mateo — he’s sitting at the table with his hands cuffed, half of his t-shirt stained with blood, red streaks of it dried under his nostrils, all over his chin. He smiles at the sight of you and winces; his nose is definitely broken.

There are two cops standing with him — one in plainclothes, older, a police badge secured on his belt. The other wears a uniform, blond hair slicked back, his tan clearly fake, too orange.

“This is officer Nordwin, and I’m detective Harrelson,” the older man reacts first, a bit surprised. He goes for a handshake. “We didn’t expect you for another few minutes, that was fast.”

You do not shake his hand, don’t even glance at it. Your gaze lands on his face — your words land like a punch:

“This is a negotiation room number five. You can’t count to five? Or is there another reason you gave me the wrong number?”

Jack freezes at the door.

Mateo’s brows shoot up at your remark.

There’s an immediate shift in the room. Like someone just brought a bazooka to a gunfight. Except, these men didn’t expect a fight at all. Neither did Jack.

The younger cop is quick to take offence. “Hell of an introduction. How about you tone down your attitude, and then we can talk,” he bristles, his body leaning just a little in your direction.

Jack tenses up. He has to fight that dog-like instinct to interfere any time he thinks you are in danger, or mistreated, or someone just looked wrong your way. But you stay calm as ever. Your tone is polished down to civil when you say:

“I simply don’t want us to start on the wrong foot. Anyone here has a law degree?”

They don’t. And you are very well aware — because in just a second, you’re back to being firm and unapologetic:

“So it’s just me. Which means I will do the talking. You need —”

“Maybe I should repeat myself,” Nordwin sneers. “I don’t think —”

“I’m sorry no one ever taught you that it is rude to interrupt people. Never too late to learn,” you cut him off, then quickly pull up an empty chair and sit down next to Mateo. “Take off his cuffs.”

The cops share a look. You keep eye contact with the older man.

“Is Mr. Diaz under arrest? Is he posing a threat? The answer to both of these questions is no. So you need to uncuff him,” you insist. “Or you can give me the keys, and I can do your job for you.”

Harrelson studies you for a few seconds. At last, he goes to sit across from you and gives the other man a nod. Nordwin does very little to hide his scowl. You make a point to keep your eyes on him, like he’s a toddler who may need your guidance. The cop hates it. You find his reaction satisfying.

Mateo rubs his wrists once they are freed, and you notice that he is breathing through his mouth.

“Dr. Abbot?” you call out. Nonchalantly, two syllables of his last name stripped off of any warmth you usually address him with at home.

Both cops turn their heads to him. And by the looks on their faces, Jack realizes: they didn’t even notice him before. Because all their attention has been drawn to you. He can’t really blame them.

Abbot snaps into a doctor’s mode: he puts the gloves on, then takes a penlight out to check Mateo’s nasal septum. Then does the hand examination. It is too quiet in the room for him to talk, so he just gives the nurse a wink. He also cannot stop himself from glancing at you, which you ignore completely.

Nordwin’s now seated too. He watches Jack suspiciously. “I didn’t know lawyers now play dress-up.”

“He’s an attending physician at the PTMC’s emergency department. Look for a big plastic card clipped to his chest, it’s hard to miss,” you deadpan. “Do you happen to know the symptoms of a deviated septum or septal hematoma?”

The corner of Mateo’s mouth curls up in an unvoiced approval. Both cops shake their heads no.

“Neither do I, and that’s why he does need a doctor. A pity that you don’t have one here.”

“We do,” Harrelson retorts, albeit reluctantly. “The precinct put new protocols in place this year.”

“So it was a conscious choice to refuse him medical care? Good to know.”

The old man exhales sharply through his nose. His gaze flicks to Mateo and stays on him, like he’s assessing damage and weighing their options. Whatever his conclusion is, he decides to play it nice.

“Listen, it was an honest mix-up with the room number,” Harrelson gives you a tight smile. “And we appreciate that you were able to join us on such short notice. Now, how about I lay out all the facts, so you can... get the drift of things.”

Your jaw shifts. Barely. Followed by a movement of your brows — up, quick. This is a new expression Jack is yet to find the meaning of. He somehow instantly knows he doesn’t want to ever get that look from you. His thumbs lightly press on the sides of Mateo’s nose. His tension doesn’t ease up.

Harrelson takes your silence as agreement.

“Officer Nordwin and his partner were on patrol this evening. We had to bring in a few extra cars because there’ve been reports of car thefts in the neighborhood. The officers heard sounds of a struggle and obviously had to check it out. As their duty requires,” he notes with just a touch of condescension. “Upon approaching the hospital area, they saw two men involved in a physical altercation. And one of them, as per officer Nordwin’s recollection, matched the description of a suspect in a recent theft. The decision was made to take him for questioning. Mr. Diaz, unfortunately, did sustain an injury, but it was clearly not life-threatening.”

Nordwin chimes in to argue. “Wasn’t even a real injury, it was nothing. He just —”

As if on cue, Mateo yelps. Jack mumbles an apology and grabs an instant ice pack to put over his nose. Both cops are startled, both staring at the nurse.

You don’t even flinch. “Doesn’t sound like nothing to me.”

Harrelson’s confidence falters a little. He moves his eyes to Jack. “Pushed the bone back in its place, doc?”

“That I did,” Abbot replies through gritted teeth while wiping the dried-up blood off Mateo’s face.

“Any of you ever got your nose broken?” you ask coldly.

Nordwin nods, all smug, like it is something he takes pride in. “I did, actually.”

“That makes sense,” you say without even sparing him a glance. “I take it, compassion isn’t one of your job’s requirements. But you clearly aren’t qualified to make statements regarding the severity of someone’s injury. Unless you’ve got a medical degree, which I sincerely doubt.”

His nostrils flare at your reply. A treacherously bright redness creeps up his neck and ears. You couldn’t care less about his anger.

“What’s the description of the suspected thief you mentioned?”

Harrelson shoots the younger cop a glance. Nordwin forces out:

“Male, in his thirties. Around 5' 11", medium build, dark hair at shoulder length.”

“Half of my Facebook friends match that description,” you tell him, unimpressed. Then you start firing off your question with no concern for his growing discomfort. “Any chance your forensic artist did a better job?”

“We are still working on the identikit.”

“Based off what?”

“Video footage. He was caught on CCTV.”

“Any DNA on the crime scene? Partially recovered fingerprints? Eyewitnesses?”

The silence hangs in the air, way more uncomfortable than the swelter of the room; you do not let it stretch.

“So, to summarize, you have no detailed description and no sketch, no real forensic evidence and no witnesses. Which begs the question, why exactly you thought to connect two absolutely unrelated incidents.”

This is a tone Jack’s never heard you use — uncompromising, sharp, commanding. And weirdly enough, he’s latching to your every word. What’s even weirder is that Abbot — who’s worked in pitch dark, under fire, in all weathers and all hours of the day — has trouble focusing on anything but you. The tension coils somewhere in his stomach.

“I also find it interesting that you prioritized the unproven connection over the very real threat a man posed to a defenseless woman. And the two dutiful officers just let that man go,” you punctuate, and this time, you’re looking straight at Nordwin.

He’s only able to hold your gaze for a few seconds before averting his. He is not winning this staring contest. Or this argument — you’ll make sure of both.

“I’d like to get my facts from each party involved,” you turn to face the nurse. “Mateo, how about you tell me what actually happened.”

Not tell us, just you, Jack notes. He closed his med kit and took off the gloves, now standing just a step behind you, not to draw attention. His gaze keeps coming back to you — to trace lines of your profile, down from your focused eyes to cheekbones to lips. He’s always found you beautiful, but in this moment, something makes his undeniable attraction grow tenfold.

The orange-faced cop chuckles dryly. “I’m sure he will be unbiased.”

“I don’t think your name is Mateo. So I’m not talking to you,” you easily dismiss him. Your eyes stay on the nurse, and you give him a nod to prompt him to start talking.

Mateo tells everyone what Jack already heard from you. About the impatient man who came in with an unspecified chest pain, then got progressively annoyed, lashed out at a couple of doctors and was escorted by the security and —

Jack’s only catching pieces of his story. From where he’s standing, he can catch the scent of your perfume. He also notices that you are leaning slightly against your chair, one hand tucked into your pants’ pocket, the other lying on the table. There is no stiffness in your body, nothing that would suggest you’re nervous or unsure. Instead, you flourish under pressure. Jack finds it hot. He finds it hard to look away.

“— He got out his car keys, and I didn’t want that asshole to just get away, so I grabbed 'em—”

“Speaking of the connection,” Nordwin points out. “The man yelled that he was trying to steal his car.”

“That’s not true!” Mateo eagerly protests. “He yelled that street theft was all us latinos are good for, and I said I didn’t need his damn car, but I won’t let him just drive off like nothing happened. And that’s when you walked up to us.”

You cast the cop an openly disdainful glance. “A man holding someone else’s keys to stop that person from escaping made you think he steals cars for a living?”

Nordwin grows redder, but he cannot come up with a reply. The older cop side-eyes him. The look on Harrelson’s face suggests he does not think too highly of his colleague.

You gesture for Mateo to continue and listen to him talk, despite already knowing all of it. You want to show him that his story matters. You want him to speak up the truth. You only get distracted when your phone vibrates — you take it out to read a message on the screen. Then take a moment to ponder over it.

Nordwin tries poking at you. “Bad news?”

“Not for me,” you counter, looking at him like a rottweiler would look at a hysterical lap dog. And you keep looking while you ask, “Mateo, when officer Nordwin tackled you, did you or Victoria try to explain the reason for the fight?”

“We did,” he answers, obviously displeased. “Multiple times.”

“Did he have any questions for the other man involved in the fight?”

“No.”

“Did he check on Victoria or show any concern for her well-being after she got assaulted?”

“No.”

“Okay, I get it,” Nordwin snaps. “He’s your client, and you are on his side. But you and I both know that in the end, it’s his word against mine.”

“No,” you state simply, your stare unblinking, your restraint unmatched. “It will be your word against the surveillance footage from the parking lot.”

The cop’s annoyance ebbs a little, eclipsed by his surprise. “They have cameras at the parking lot?”

“Yes, it’s where they park those big white cars that cost up to three hundred thousand dollars each,” you explain coolly. “I sure hope you aren’t up for a promotion with that lack of critical thinking.”

There is no comeback he can think of.

Jack almost wants to laugh. But then he feels that his own face is burning, and his heart rate went up, fluttering warmly in his chest. The tension that’s been building in him forces the realization out — the molten truth that rises to the surface, like magma from the depths of Earth:

he isn’t watching you out of worry, or in anticipation or amusement.

Instead, Jack is extremely, unspeakably turned on.

He takes a breath and takes a step toward the wall, so he can use it for support, pressing a palm to it. To something cold and steadying. But this new spot grants him a better view — of the curve of your lower back, your hips and thighs. That look so good in those tight pants you’re wearing. He briefly squeezes his eyes shut, he makes an effort to stop staring at your ass.

The cops, thankfully, are busy worrying about their asses. You give them enough reasons to be.

“The hospital security is looking through the footage as we speak. But I can give you a quick summary of what’s in there: an aggrieved man approaches a med student half his age. He starts harassing her, not only verbally but also physically, grabbing her by the arm. He is then interrupted by the student’s boyfriend, who tries to resolve the situation, but also gets assaulted by that man. The fight attracts the attention of the patrol car. Instead of trying to de-escalate the conflict or make any attempts to understand what’s going on, one of the officers decides to detain the boyfriend, while also using excessive and unnecessary force to do so,” you stare Nordwin down as you speak. “My favorite part is when the offender walks away, and the police do nothing.”

There is a ringing silence. Almost as loud as Jack’s heartbeat. Nordwin is seething, red all over; and yet, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Harrelson tries to mitigate their failure. “We are already looking for that man.”

“Define looking.”

“Excuse me?”

“That was just two words, which one do you need me to explain? Define?” you aren’t making this into a joke — you talk to him like he is actually stupid. “Because it seems to me that you are definitely not looking for the person who assaulted two health workers. The man you targeted instead is one of the victims, who did nothing wrong.”

“He is so innocent, he had to get his attorney involved?” Nordwin quips.

A pause falls in the room, and he can’t help but gloat, thinking he caught a gap in your defence. Thinking it is his chance to finally walk over you. Instead, he walks into a trap.

“His girlfriend called me. You know, the one that was attacked,” you tell him sharply. “And what exactly is she guilty of?”

You sit up straighter. There’s danger in how swiftly your whole body moves, in how your eyes bore into him, in just how easily you own the room.

“Please, don’t be shy, I really want to know your reasons,” you push, throwing each word at them like daggers. And you don’t miss. “A man walks in on his girlfriend being assaulted. What do you think he should’ve done? Watch her get beaten? Raped? Should’ve just given you guys a call and patiently wait for someone with a badge to show up. Since the policemen would never let the attacker get away, right?”

Wrong, your tone implies. Your gaze confirms. Both cops stare at you, dumbfounded and speechless.

“But hey, the police did show up. And the two officers present at the scene failed to assess the situation, didn’t identify the real perpetrator, didn’t bother questioning the third person, who was both a victim of the attack and a witness to the fight,” you list, unbothered and unyielding. “Instead, they wrongfully presumed my client guilty and detained him by force, which was criminally disproportionate to the nature of his presumable offence.”

Mateo turns his face to Abbot and mouths “wow”. Jack manages to give him a small nod. He knows that he’s not winning any arguments if you ever decide to talk to him like that. He’d be too stunned to speak. Just like he is right now.

You stand up from your chair abruptly. Nobody else moves.

“Let’s cut the crap. You had no real grounds for detaining him and not a single damn reason for using force. The mere insinuation that he’s complicit in some theft is not only unfounded, but also defamatory and will be treated as such,” you put your hands on your hips, your blouse red like fire, your eyes and words burning no less. “So let me save us all some time and tell you what happens next. You will let Mr. Diaz go, drop your ridiculous allegations, own up to your fuck-up and apologize like men. Or I will sue you, your station, and the whole police department for — let’s see,” you hold up your right hand and start counting on your fingers. “Failure to intervene in misconduct, use of excessive force, racial discrimination, slander, failure to provide medical help, intentional infliction of emotional distress and mental anguish... And that’s what I just came up with on the spot. When I wake up tomorrow after a good night of sleep and have my morning cup of coffee, I will double this number,” —

and then you lean over the table, your palms pressed flat against it as you look Harrelson dead in the eye,

“Are you catching my drift?”

Jack thinks that never in his life has he wanted to kiss someone as much as he wants to kiss you. Here, now, when you’re arguing and harsh and fuming, with deadly gaze, sharp on the tongue. His eyes are helplessly fixed on your mouth. His want doesn’t stop there — it’s only spreading, it’s abyssal.

And he would gladly kneel in awe between your legs.

Jack’s thinking of how your voice will crack when he’s eating you out, of your leg muscles tense and shaking while you ride his face, of how your slickness will drip all over his tongue —

A chair creaks against the floor. Abbot snaps out of his daydreaming to see that Nordwin’s glaring at you.

“Is that a threat?”

“That is a promise,” you say with simple, cold-blooded assurance.

You pull back and stand by Mateo’s side. The young cop’s trying very hard — his neck vein bulging, his mouth smirking — to be intimidating. “You think you can handle me?”

You could’ve laughed at him (you should — he’s looking really fucking stupid, Jack notes). Instead, you let him feel the weight — of your words and your confidence that’s built on crushing men like him:

“I charge nine hundred dollars an hour because I’m very good at handling things. And you better believe I do deliver on my promises.”

His smirk fades. Nordwin opens his mouth — then closes, failing to master a reply. Before he tries again, Harrelson puts his hand up (which very clearly reads as “Please, keep your mouth shut”). The old man looks like he is mentally composing his resignation letter. Still, he picks a conciliatory tone:

“Alright, point taken. We’ll get in touch with the PTMC’s security and ask the hospital to give us that patient’s name. Typically, you would need someone to report the incident first, but since the officers actually saw the fight,” he sends Nordwin a disappointed glance, “That is enough to start the investigation. We’ll obviously need a witness statement from Mr. Diaz and his girlfriend.”

“Once they receive medical evaluation and get some rest,” you emphasize, you tone brooking no argument.

Harrelson doesn’t bother holding back a sigh. He’s got no wish to argue. “Yes, of course. It’s been an eventful evening,” he’s mostly looking at Mateo’s nose as he adds, “Mr. Diaz is free to go.”

You gesture for him to get up. But your eyes stay on the detective. Your looming presence forces the old man to meet your gaze. You pull a white paper rectangle out of your blazer’s pocket with two fingers — and throw it on their table.

“Here’s my card. Don’t even think about contacting my clients directly,” and then your mouth stretches into a smile. Teeth-baring, bright, only a tad mocking. “Apology means verbal acknowledgement of failure, in case that word wasn’t in your vocabulary. But you’ve got enough time to practice until tomorrow.”

You let Mateo walk out first, your head held high as you stride out of the room behind him. Jack has to summon all his self-control to keep his eyes up as he follows you. His girlfriend — fierce and competent and nothing short of perfect. That image of you is a revelation. It makes his blood rush.

It makes desire spread through his whole body like a blaze.

The walk to his car takes barely a minute. Victoria keeps checking on Mateo, her hand carefully wrapped around his arm, her eyes two pools of adoration. He keeps smiling at her, despite his broken nose. You’re on the phone with Robby, who is still on shift. Jack lets the lovebirds take the back seat while he waits for you. He puts his hands in his pants’ pockets to fight the urge to touch you.

“Robby will meet them, he wants to do the evaluation. Apparently, the cops are already trying to contact him,” you let out a chuckle, turning off your phone. The sunset drapes a veil of violet over the blushing sky. You can hear chatter, cars honking, the noises of the city full of life. But your remark is met with silence.

“...Jack?”

His face expression is unreadable. He blinks and looks up from your blouse to meet your gaze.

“Um, yeah,” his voice is quiet, almost... strained. “Let’s get out of here.”

He walks to open the car door for you, but it feels like he keeps some distance. You sit and watch him go around to take the driver’s seat, his gaze purposefully rooted to the ground. Something is off about him.

“I can’t believe you made them apologize,” Victoria gasps, in equal parts shocked and pleased. “You weren’t afraid?”

“They weren’t the worst people that I’ve dealt with. And I only asked them to,” you correct her. “You both are yet to hear those apologies. Seems like the bare minimum after the way they treated you.”

Jack starts the engine. Out of habit, his hand moves to the side to check your fastened seatbelt. He feels it briefly with his fingers. But he doesn’t look. Maybe he’s just uncomfortable with other people in the car.

“Will they do anything about that Nordwin guy? Like, put him on suspension?”

“He should’ve been suspended months ago,” you note, although you do not plan on giving her the details.

She’s had a rough day as it is, and you know that she only needs a long, hot shower and a good night’s sleep. Everyone in this car does. Your gaze involuntarily flits to Jack. The broad canvas of his black t-shirt tightens a little with his every breath, his hands both on the wheel.

“He’s done it before? So it’s not a one-time thing,” Mateo muses. “It should at least raise some questions if there is a pattern.”

“Of course, there is a pattern. He looks like a guy who’d fuck his cousin to make sure his kids are the right shade of white,” you comment, not meaning for your words to bite. They do. It does earn you a glance from Jack. It also makes him grab the wheel tighter.

“I think we’re paying that man too much attention,” you add, calmer this time. You turn a little in your seat to look at them. “Robby said Mateo needs a head CT, but they will try to speed it up. Just hang on for a little bit, an hour tops.”

Mateo nods, his arm resting on Javadi’s waist. He cocks his head at you. “Speaking of paying.”

“No, don’t.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you, with naive and sincere stubbornness. “You saved my ass out there. Feels fair to cover your hour fee.”

“Mateo, I know your heart is in the right place, but I need you to think with your head. You’re telling me you don’t still have student loans to pay?” you get your answer when he drops his gaze. You give him and Victoria a small smile. “Better spend your money on the things that matter. I can afford to help people out for free. You owe me nothing.”

Javadi whispers a timid “thank you”, her hand rubbing Mateo’s leg. You notice just how fast the colors of the city flash behind the windows. It feels like Jack is speeding.

“If you have extra money, order some takeout tonight. There’s a nice Indian place on Eloise Street,” you mention, eyeing Abbot. “Be careful with the spicy dishes, though, they aren’t for the faint of heart.”

You only catch a flicker of his mouth, an almost-there smirk. It’s not enough to put you or him at ease, and you are still left clueless about whatever troubles him. He stays out of all your conversations and runs a yellow light three times.

When you reach the emergency department, Robby is already waiting outside. Jack stops the car right next to him, and he yanks the closest rear door open.

“Jesus Christ,” he frowns when he sees Mateo’s face.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” the nurse tiredly chuckles as Robby helps him out.

“Wish I could say it’d get better in the morning,” Robby’s brown eyes immediately move to Javadi. “You alright, kid?”

“I’m fine. This one got the worst of it,” she sighs and steps out of the car, readily clinging to her boyfriend.

Mateo pulls her closer, his fingers caressing her shoulder. “Oh come on you guys, it’s just a nose. I will survive, no need for coddling.”

“Me, coddling? Just wait until you see Evans. She may try and strap you to the hospital bed,” Robby cackles and waves at you. You wave back and roll down your window.

Mateo asks him in a hushed voice, clearly touched. “Dana stayed too?”

“Of course she did. Better not keep her waiting,” Robby then pats him on the back and motions for them both to go inside.

He keeps an eye on them for a few seconds before turning to you. The brunet has to lean down, poking his head inside the car. He’s grinning.

“I think you should know that I just got off the phone with Chief Burgess. He wanted to apologize on behalf of the police department,” Robby crinkles his brow at you. “What the hell did you do in there?”

You shrug. “My job?”

Robby can’t stop a laugh, eyes glinting with amusement. “Jack patched up one of their guys after Pittfest, they all praised Abbot as a hero. And then you come out of nowhere and stir things up, so much so that they had to get the chief involved. You two make quite a couple.”

Jack doesn’t look amused. He stares at Robby from his seat, his gruff tone hinting that he’s in no mood for talking. “Any more sentiments you feel the need to share?”

But Robby doesn’t take offence. He takes a step back, still smiling, his gaze darting between you two, like he sees something you are yet to notice. “Gonna go check on our local Zorro. Enjoy the rest of your evening, guys.”

And Abbot hits the gas without another word.

He keeps his eyes front, taking the turns on autopilot, taking deep breaths that somehow feel too shallow for his lungs. His heart is hammering. His muscles taut like strings. And now that you’re all alone, you cannot help but ask:

“Are you okay?”

By every definition of okay there is, he’s very far from it. And Jack’s always believed he could rein in his feelings, but clearly, you challenge that belief.

Your palpable confusion is quickly turning into guilt.

“I know it took longer than planned. I’m sorry —”

“No, don’t be. You did great, I just —” Jack takes another breath (he is just trying not to fuck you right here in his car). “Want to get home faster.”

He has to stop at a red light. His jaw ticks. And then his hand moves to your leg, in an attempt to offer you some comfort. (In hopes that it will also ground him). But under the thick fabric of your pants, there’s the same tension that’s been tormenting him. Unwittingly, he makes you nervous, he can feel it. He also knows what he can do to make it better.

The ride back passes in a blink.

He parks the car. He takes you by the hand once you are out. He leads the way — into the lobby of his apartment building, into the elevator; his fingers tightly intertwined with yours. You watch him, searching for some hints, waiting for him to talk to you when he finally locks the front door from the inside.

Instead, Jack drops the keys on the side table in the hallway and darts into the bathroom to wash his hands. You’re left guessing. You know he’s usually open to any conversations, but you aren’t sure how to start this one. You hear that he turns the water off. You have your questions at the ready: is he upset about something? Is he feeling worn out?

Jack is on you before you can utter a word.

His lips crash into yours, hot, eager, unquestionably hungry. It is the kind of hunger he can no longer curb: he grabs you by the waist, his touches desperate as his hands move to cup and squeeze your ass. It makes you gasp. But you meet him with zero hesitation — your fingers curl into his t-shirt to pull him close, two wild heartbeats colliding when your chests do. You kiss him with the same amount of need and desperation. Until your lungs burn, and you pull back to suck in a shaky breath.

“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Jack rasps, his mouth already on your neck.

Your mind stumbles over your thoughts as his lips find your pulse point. Someone should study the way his kisses lower your IQ. Belatedly, you guess what’s going on:

“The legal talk turned you on this much?”

“You have no idea,” he mumbles as he untucks your blouse, his fingers back to working on the buttons, way more impatient than last time.

“And here I was worried—” your voice trembles when his tongue traces your collarbone. “Worried that I went too far.”

Jack lets out a short laugh. “I didn’t even know you had it in you,” his tone is warm and teasing. “You just walked in and tore them into pieces. Never seen cops looking so dumbstruck.”

The gloom around you is diluted with a faint golden glow, a small lamp on the wall being the only source of light. Its glimmers sneak into his silver curls.

“I thought about apologizing for dragging you into that mess,” you tell him as his hands move to the waistband of your pants.

Jack stops. He locks his gaze with yours. His eyes are a dark shade of green, a restless sea that’s churning with emotions. He moves his face closer to you:

“I thought about fucking you at the police station,” he tells you in a low voice, dragging your pants down to your hipbones, “And in the car,” his fingers brush your naked stomach, “And at the parking lot.”

When you pull him into another heated kiss, you know that you won’t make it to the bedroom. Jack proves you right: he blindly sweeps things off the table with one hand — then pushes you to sit on it, lips never leaving yours. He shoves your pants down to your knees, and then you wiggle your legs out of them, the piece of clothing falling to the floor. You catch his lower lip between your teeth, pushing a groan out of him. Jack hooks your panties with his fingers, and his thumb slides to caress the inside of your thigh. It’s hard to choose between the need for air and your need for him.

Jack makes the choice for you when he pulls back. Barely a fraction of an inch. Your hand keeps grasping his t-shirt, your noses touching.

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” he whispers vaguely.

And then he rips your underwear off, thin lace torn into a few useless pieces. You are still struggling to catch your breath, you’re watching in a daze — how Jack is sinking to his knees, how he pushes your legs apart, his big palms gliding up your thighs, his gaze fixed on where you are already wet and wanting.

“This is what I’ve thought about the most,” Abbot avows. And he is ready to devour.

He glides two fingers through your folds and parts them, making your hips jerk forward, smirking appreciatively at how responsive you are. Without a warning, Jack leans in and licks a broad stripe up your slit.

“Fu-uck,” you breathe out, one hand immediately coming down to grip his shoulder.

His tongue moves firmly from your entrance to your clit. Then back down and back up, repeated motion that allows him to taste your wetness, to drag more sounds out of you. He loves you vocal, loves you loud, he loves the stutter in your voice that comes when he is making you feel good. He knows exactly how to.

Jack seals his lips around your clit, making the pleasure jolt through you, so sudden that your head falls back, hitting the wall. He hears you wince. He flicks his tongue over your bundle of nerves, then gently sucks on it — turning your wince into a moan. And Jack starts lapping at your cunt, obscene wet noises filling the hall, while his forefinger rubs small teasing circles at your weeping hole. He does not push in, doesn’t yet need to: your hips already buck into his mouth, your nails digging deeper into his shoulder — until his steady efforts throw you over the edge. Your legs shake, your walls clenching around nothing as your arousal coats his tongue. He doesn’t find it satiating.

“One more,” Jack mutters hungrily between your legs.

His hands come up to pull you closer to the table edge, to him. He leaves a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. “Lean back on the wall, don’t want you to hurt your head again,” and then he glances up at you — your chest heaving and face blissed-out, so he taps on your knee. “Sweetheart.”

“Yeah-yes, leaning back,” you echo incoherently, your shoulder blades pressing against the stable surface.

Jack gives your other thigh a kiss. He keeps his gaze on you as he moves his two fingers up and down your leaking cunt — before pushing them both in, one fluid motion, up to the very knuckles. Making you cry out his name. His pace is slow at first as he stretches you open, letting your orgasm build again, letting you put a hand into his hair as your hips move to meet his thrusts. And then he expertly curls up his fingers to hit that spongy spot that makes your vision blur.

“Oh my— fuck, Jack,” you whine, voice cracking, “Right there, don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he grins against your thigh. “C'mon, honey, want you to soak my face.”

Jack fucks his fingers faster into you as he drinks up the sight: your eyes are half-lidded in pleasure, the red blouse open, and breasts ready to spill out of the bra. He adds a third finger — and barely a second after, he sucks hard on your swollen clit. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, hand tugging sharply at his curls. He doesn’t care that it hurts, and he doesn’t let up, his lips and hand working in tandem to make you come undone. It only takes four — five more quick flicks of his tongue — and you are trembling all over, his mouth’s flooded with your release. Jack doesn’t miss a drop. He licks you clean, shamelessly groaning at the taste, waiting for you to come down from your high.

“T-too much,” you tell him breathlessly, your fingers caressing his scalp as he pulls back. His mouth and chin are drenched, but Abbot doesn’t bother wiping them.

He has to lean a little on the table to get back on his feet. Jack thinks you need a moment — of silence and reprieve — but your hands tug him closer by his t-shirt. You pull it up and over his head, and then the softness of your lips touches his chest. Jack feels his heart leap. Warmth spreading through his bloodstream. Your kisses slowly travel higher, to his neck, over his throat and jawline.

“We really need to take this to bed,” you press a teasing whisper under his ear.

He doesn’t answer you with words — instead, Jack hoists you up, one of his hands secured under your ass, the other pulling you into a kiss. You wrap your legs around his waist. This kiss is slower, the tenderness woven into your shared breaths, the space around you growing dim as he brings you into the bedroom.

The night already slinks in through the floor windows, with glittering streetlights under the indigo sky. You lose his t-shirt and your blouse somewhere along the way. Jack lowers you on the bedcovers, and you impatiently pull down both his pants and boxers, his body flinching when you brush his cock. He’s hard, painfully so, he’s been like that ever since he kissed you in the hall. You know. You’re trying to be gentle as you marvel at him — flushed, thick and leaking in your hand — you give him a slow stroke, and then another one, watching his stomach muscles tense —

Jack stops you.

“Don’t,” he says huskily, closing his fingers around your hand to move it away. “Tonight’s about you.”

He dips his head down, bringing his mouth back to yours, his palms cradling your ribcage to lay you down on the bed. He skims his fingers up your sides, then finds your bra strap with ease. The piece of underwear flies somewhere on the floor. The air is cooling against your heated skin — Jack’s lips paint it with goosebumps. He leaves kisses between your breasts, unrushed featherlike teases, and then he seals his mouth over your nipple. One, then the other. And he is relishing the way you’re arching into him, the way your body instantly reacts to light strokes and firm touches of his hands (he’s very skilled in that, indeed). Jack moves to take the condoms from the nightstand —

“I’m on the pill.”

His breath catches. You can tell — his chest just freezes on the inhale. You reach a hand out to him, gliding your fingers up his arm.

“Been on it for a couple of days, just didn’t know when to mention it,” you explain quietly, watching him take your words in, watching astonishment bloom on his face. Your voice drops to a whisper. “I missed you.”

It seems like your confession gives him air: his lips part as he takes a breath, his gaze on you. His hand catches your wrist. He leaves a kiss on the inside of it. You use that same hand to draw him closer, his muscles countroured by the moonlight as he comes back, as he holds himself over you, his eyes shiny and filled with adoration.

“Missed you too, missed you so much,” Jack murmurs.

He lays his forehead against yours, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth. He doesn’t want to close his eyes, he wants to see your face — when he nudges your legs open, shifting his hips to drag his cock through your soaked folds. He watches the desire swell in you as you spread your thighs wider, your arms looping around his neck. And you both shudder at the contact.

You hold your breath when he starts pushing into you, inch by agonizing inch — and your walls suck him in. Wet, tight, heavenly. Jack sinks his teeth into the lower lip, the sharpness of the bite helping him hold on for a little longer. Until his cock is fully seated in you, bare for the first time. Jack makes a choked sound.

This is the closest he has ever been to awestruck. This is the closest he can be to you. And you feel absolutely perfect, just like he knew you would.

“You’re so warm,” he says, his voice already wrecked. “I need to— just give me a minute.”

He hides his ragged breath in the crook of your neck, nudging his nose against the spot where your pulse is trashing under your skin. The rising of your chest suggests your breathing is equally unsteady. Because you have been wishing, aching for it, too — this fullness, and this intimacy, and nothing in between you two. He feels your walls spasm around him. His long exhale skates across your shoulder as he looks down, his gaze moving to where you’re joined together. Jack can’t help but pull back — only a little, only to catch a sight of his cock glistening with your arousal. And then he snaps his hips forward, back into your heat.

“Fuck, this feels—” so good, too good, a tipping point he doesn’t know how to come back from; Jack can’t find the right words.

“I know,” you say, your own voice tremulous. Your palm skates up from his neck to his cheek to make him look at you, and your words are a plea:

“Want you to move, please, I just— Please, Jack.”

Your wish is his command.

He props himself up on both elbows and leans closer, covering your lips with his — to drink the whimpers that escape you as he starts moving. Jack knows he won’t last long, but he is trying not to rush it: he sets a steady rhythm, his thrusts measured as he fucks you deep. And you lose all your self-restraint with him. You kiss him back, mouth desperate and open to let your breathy moans out, your nails scraping down his back, your hips pressing against his.

And Jack is losing himself in the feel of you.

“You’re squeezing me so tightly,” he growls, pumping in and out faster, harder. And watching as your head falls back against the pillow, the dim light sparkling on your sweat-covered skin. His hot breath trails up your throat, his voice a low rasp tucked behind your ear. “Perfect, you feel fucking perfect.”

He can tell that you won’t be able to hold off much longer.

It’s in the way you cling to him, supple and surrendering, your mouth opening to gasp for air and to breathe out his name. It’s something he can almost see — a radiant, intense heat that mounts up in you, unstoppable and all-consuming. He sneaks a hand between you two, thumb firmly circling your clit.

“I need you to cum,” Jack mouths at your skin, “Cum for me.”

He feels you pulse under his thumb, and then the orgasm ripples through you, making your body shiver, your juices dribbling down his cock. And he can’t help but follow right behind. Jack’s hips stutter, breath hitching as he fills you up, a little dizzy from how overpowering this new sensation is — of your warmth, of your walls milking him. He can’t remember if he’s ever cummed this hard.

Jack drops his forehead to your shoulder, waiting for his heart and breath to steady. He feels your hand brushing his elbow, signaling for him to lie down. Which he is grateful for (he doesn’t want to pull out just yet). Jack shifts his weight a little to the side so he won’t crush you, draping an arm across your hips, head resting at your chest.

The silence settles for a fleeting moment. You run your fingers through the damp grey curls that frame his face.

“So,” he hears you say, mirth in your voice. “You have a competence kink, huh?”

Jack breathes out a laugh. He doesn’t even ask if competence kink is a thing — his own reaction is proof enough of that.

“Guess so,” he leaves a kiss under your collarbone, before his gaze darts up to yours, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Only when it comes to you.”

You smile at him, so brightly that his heart swells. And Jack feels himself smiling back. Because you’re making him so happy, he can’t help it. His gaze moves to your mouth, his face’s about to follow it —

Your stomach growls. You groan.

“Would it be a bad idea to have tacos this late at night?”

“It’s bad to go to bed with your stomach growling, that’s for sure,” he moves closer, meaning to peck you on the lips. But it inevitably turns into a proper kiss, because he is too eager for you, too comfortable in your embrace. He pulls back only to whisper softly, “Let me clean you up.”

“No, you stay here, you’ve been on your feet all evening. I’ll be quick.”

He slips out of you, and your body slips from under his as Jack moves to the side. You hastily get out of bed, keeping your thighs together, so nothing drips onto the covers. He doesn’t bother holding back his smirk as he watches you hurry in the direction of the bathroom.

His smile fades as he wonders when was the last time you ate.

Jack sits up, stretching his arms and legs, no tension pulling at his muscles, his whole body warmed up. He grabs his briefs and puts them on, catching the sound of your approaching steps. You leave the light on in the hall. You come back with a glass of water — and wearing his t-shirt. It is the view he’ll never get tired of: your hair down and your face softened, your curves barely covered by his clothes. That now will smell of you (at least, that’s what he hopes for).

“Want me to bring your crutches?”

Jack shakes his head and leaves the emptied glass on the nightstand. “I’m good,” he leans forward a little to rest his forehead against your stomach. “I was thinking, I can switch to days next week. And then on Friday we will get off work around the same time,” his arms wrap around your legs. “I still owe you a date.”

“Technically, we’ve been on a few already.”

Judging by technicalities, he’d argue that what you mean weren’t exactly dates. It first happened one random evening, when he decided to give you a ride home, and you excitedly asked him to pull over next to some street food truck. You told him it was the best jerk chicken in the city (you were right — it was so good, Jack licked his fingers clean). You two soon made it into a habit to grab a bite on his days off or when you’re free from work. You go to places that he hasn’t heard of — some tiny cafes, food carts and family-run stalls, bolivian, korean, mexican, ingredients and dishes he could barely pronounce. And Jack, who’s never had the appetite for something new, is suddenly so keen on trying all of it. With you.

Your fingers trace unknown shapes on his upper back. “This can be a date, too.”

“Tacos at my apartment? That doesn’t sound very romantic,” his words are hushed as his lips ghost over your navel.

“I’d take this over any fancy place,” he can discern a smile in your voice. “I also know that dates usually start with food and end with sex, but I’m okay with the reversed order,” you add, running your fingers through his hair.

You feel his mouth moving higher, stitching a kiss into the cotton fabric, right below your heart. “Then we can start at a restaurant and finish here.”

“You don’t actually have to pick anything expensive,” you say quietly, with the sincerity that almost sounds like concern.

And Jack is thankful for the darkness of the room that hides his heated cheeks. Okay, so flying you to Paris on the weekend is a no-go. Noted.

“I hope to pick something you’d like,” he tells you just as honestly.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll like any place if you’re there with me.”

Jack tilts his head back, chin pressed against your stomach, eyes looking up at you like you’re his source of light. He lets himself enjoy this moment, save it in his memory, another snapshot in his mental album. He hopes to get at least a million more.

He stands up, slowly, palms following the contours of your legs to settle at your lower back. “How does Friday at 9 sound?”

“Sounds like a plan,” and you are smiling when you kiss him. You taste like happiness; it takes you two a while to pull apart. “Now I just need to find a dress. But first, we need to eat.”

And as you tug him by the hand to lead toward the kitchen, he thinks he needs to ask Shen about the new restaurant that he keeps bringing up.

Jack also needs to find the words and the perfect moment to tell you that he is in love with you.

✧ FYI: I was inspired by a scene from “Landman” that YT recommended me (I haven’t watched the show; that scene deals with SA, beware if you wanna look it up); ✧ this oneshot is a second part of my mini series: part 1: mad about you; part 3: love-filled (WIP); (I will probably post the series masterlist soon bc I need to keep things in order lol).

"This is Dr. Robinavitch."

"Robby?"

That was you on the other end he knew instantly, your voice small and tinny and sounding like you'd been crying.

Still, though, he was incredibly confused and your name tumbled from his lips in a rush, "Where're you calling me from?"

"The police station."

"Wh—? What happened? Are you okay?"

He heard your shaky breath, static in his ears like sand, "I'd rather not talk about it right now if you don't mind." Your voice sounded watery, like you were trying to swallow tears, but also slow and nearly slurred, "I hate to ask you for anything, but do you think you could come pick me up? They won't let me leave until I'm either sober or someone comes to get me."

Well, that explained the slurred speech, "You're drunk?"

There was a pause on the other end before you answered, "Very."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, holding his phone between his shoulder and ear as he searched for a pair of pants to pull on, "Yeah, I'm on my way."

You sighed in what he thought sounded like relief, "Thank you."

He had a million questions like why the fuck were you in a police station and where was Brian? Why was it him you'd called? Surely there had to be someone else, anyone else you'd call in a crisis? He wasn't upset about it, in fact, a small part of him was pleased that you were turning to him when you needed help. But after your last conversation, he just didn't understand why.

He drummed his fingers against his steering wheel anxiously as he pulled into the police station, hurrying into a near jog as he went inside.

When he told the officer at the desk he was there to pick you up, the man sighed and said he'd be back. He returned soon after with a bag of your things and Robby frowned.

"What did you take her in for?"

"Disorderly conduct," He said and then handed Robby a clipboard to sign.

Robby skimmed it quickly and signed at the bottom, "You took her things away and locked her up because she was publicly intoxicated? I work in an ER you usually just drop them to us if they're that drunk."

"She threw a glass bottle at a guy."

He frowned. Brian? Granted you were drunk, but what could he have done to piss you off so bad in one night that you'd throw a bottle at him?

A moment later, you were brought out, roughly tugging your arm away from the officer who led you out. Your eyes were swollen and puffy and you swiped your things from the counter on your way outside, never looking at Robby.

He followed you outside hesitantly, watching as you dug through your bag: first for your phone and then for a cigarette.

He leaned against his car next to you, hands shoved in his pockets, "Are you alright?" He asked as gently as he could manage.

You took a couple of drags of your cigarette before your face crumpled. Before he could move to comfort you, you doubled over and heaved the contents of your stomach onto the pavement.

"Ah, shit—" He muttered and then bent to your level, taking the still lit cigarette from your hands and rubbing your back.

And he realized pretty quickly that you weren't just vomiting, you were sobbing. You shrugged off the hand he'd put on your back in an attempt to comfort, still crying and now that the vomiting had passed, it looked like hyperventilating.

Reaching into his car he grabbed some napkins and bottled water. Opening the bottle, he poured some out on a napkin and held it in front of you, "To wipe your mouth."

After a moment you took the napkin from him, wiping down your face and then taking the opened bottle of water, beginning to chug it.

"Hey—hey—" He reached for the bottle and gently tugged it away from you, "Small sips or you're just gonna throw it up again."

After the two of you stood side by side for a while, you slowly sipping on the water, Robby broke the silence again, "Do you wanna talk about whatever happened?"

"The date was bad and I drank too much," You said, voice hoarse from the bile that had burned it just minutes ago, "I wanted to leave, but I was drunk and couldn't break from him and he took me behind the restaurant and tried to…" You trailed off and when he looked over at you, your chin was wobbling and your eyes bloodshot. It broke his heart, but he waited.

"I kneed him in the groin and he left me alone, but I think—I don't remember exactly, but I think he called me a cunt and spit at me—And so I threw the bottle at him." You breathed in slowly, "And then it turned out the police had been parked there the whole time."

Robby tried to swallow down the wave of protectiveness he felt. He didn't think that was what you wanted or needed right now, "So Brian's in there too?" He asked, nodding towards the station.

You laughed, "No. Apparently only my behavior was considered a threat to the public. He left of his own free will."

He slowly turned his head towards you, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

You shook your head, "Nope."

Robby scoffed and then pushed himself up off the car, feeling levels of righteous anger he hadn't felt in a long time, "Why don't you get in the car, I'm just going to have a quick talk with the officers inside—"

"Don't bother, Robby," You said, your voice sounding weary and exhausted, "It doesn't—It won't make a difference—I just wanna go, please."

He looked stubbornly from you to the police station. You did look exhausted and more sad than he'd ever seen you. He was used to seeing you angry and defensive, but right now you looked defeated. Vulnerable.

"Okay," He said, nodding, "Where do you want me to bring you?"

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, frowning and seemingly growing frustrated the more you thought about it.

"You still don't trust me with your home address?"

You shook your head, "No, no I just…" Your chin wobbled again and you looked up towards the moon, "I can't go home. Like this. I'll have to ex—I don't wanna go home."

There was something you weren't telling him there, but that wasn't exactly new so he just nodded, "Okay. I can… bring you to my house. I'll sleep on the couch."

This seemed to frustrate you as well until finally you sighed, "Okay. Fine."

When you got to Robby's place, he watched as you wrapped your arms around yourself, eyes wandering around his place, cataloguing.

"Do you want something to eat?" He asked.

As if waking from a trance, you slowly turned your attention back to him and shook your head, "No."

He nodded, and then gestured for you to follow him down the hall to his bedroom. He went into the ensuite bathroom, laid out an extra toothbrush for you and clean towels, then came back out to search his drawers for a clean t-shirt and pair of boxers.

But you were staring at his bed, eyes distant.

"I've changed the sheets," He said slowly, "Since Noelle was here. If that's what you were wondering."

You nodded, but remained quiet, avoiding eye contact with him. It scared him, how quiet you were. He'd never, ever seen you like this, bereft and despondent.

"You can take a shower if you want, you're welcome to anything in the bathroom," He placed a pair of boxers, sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie on his bed in front of you, "Here are some clean clothes. I'm gonna grab you some Liquid IV, water, and ibuprofen. Do you want anything else?"

You blinked quickly and shook your head. He wished there was more he could do, that you would allow him to do more. But right now he wasn't sure what you were thinking at all. And so he quietly began to back out of the room—

"Robby?"

He looked up and you were looking at him with watery eyes, your arms still hugging yourself, "Thank you." You said softly.

He nodded, "Anytime."

***

You thought you wanted to be alone. You showered with soap that smelt like Robby and brushed your teeth with his spare toothbrush and got dressed in his clothes that also smelt of him. And when you came out to his bedroom, all of the things he promised you were sitting on his nightstand, bedroom door closed again.

You climbed onto his bed and crawled across it to reach the ibuprofen, knocking back some water and then reaching for the Liquid IV. You crawled into his sheets, turned off the bedside lamp, sat in darkness enveloped by his things and his smell and were surprised when you found it all comforting. That his presence all around you made you feel safe.

Maybe if you were feeling more yourself, you would have been more apt to interrogate the feeling. Maybe you would've been strong enough to resist it. But spending the night with someone who didn't understand you, to almost being assaulted, to being thrown in jail, all while trying to fight off an alcohol induced panic attack, you just wanted to give in.

You were tired of fighting it. Of fighting him. So after about forty five minutes of staring at the ceiling, you climbed out of the bed and padded out to the living room. You heard the familiar sounds of a Jeopardy! rerun as you rounded the corner and saw Robby sitting on the couch, glasses on his nose as he read something on his phone.

A floorboard creaked as you approached and he looked up immediately, "Hey," he said softly, placing his phone down next to him, "Do you need something?"

Wordlessly, you walked over to him and straddled his lap, burying your face in his neck and wrapping yourself around his body. He stiffened for only a moment before wrapping his arms around you in turn, leaning back into the couch as he held you to him. His warmth and the feeling of his chest expanding against yours immediately soothed you. After just a couple of minutes in silence, him holding you tightly against him, you could feel that sleep was going to overtake you soon.

"Will you come to bed?" You asked quietly, "I don't wanna sleep by myself."

"Sure," he said, his voice rumbling through your chest as he spoke, "Whatever you want."

You pulled back slightly, pressing your forehead against his, "But do you want to?"

His eyes roamed over your face and then his hands reached up to cradle your cheeks, thumbs running gently over your cheekbones, "Yes," he said eventually, "very much."

You got up out of his lap and held his hand as you led him back down the hall to his room. When he climbed in bed next to you, you scooted as close as possible, pressing your nose to his.

"Can I ask you something?" He asked after a few minutes, his thumb resting on your hip and rubbing lazy circles into the soft flesh there.

"Hm?"

"Why was it me you called tonight? After the way we left things earlier I thought I'd be the last person you'd call."

You almost laughed, "Truthfully, I had no other choice. They took my phone and told me I wasn't allowed to call anyone unless I knew their number by heart. But I found your business card you gave me when we were in Jamaica in my pocket with your cell number on it."

"Ah," he said sounding disappointed, "Okay, that makes more sense."

"But I'm glad I called you," you said quickly, "I'm glad I'm here."

"This wasn't how I wanted you to finally take me up on my offer to stay the night."

"No," you nudged you nose into the crook of his neck, "me neither."

He stroked absently at the back of your head for a few moments, "I'm sorry the date with Brian went badly."

You chuckled, "You don't feel vindicated?"

"No, I—No. I know we argue, but you looked absolutely devastated when I picked you up. I know not just because of Brian, but I—" He sighed, "What I'm trying to say is that even though we butt heads and I know I can be a dick, I… care about you. I don't like seeing you upset. I've never seen you like that and I— to be honest with you, it scared the shit out of me."

His admission struck a chord in you and you pulled back again to see his face in the dark.

He cared about you. Your fingers ran aimlessly over his cheeks and beard. It was funny to hear him say it. He didn't even know you, not really. He only knew the select pieces of you you'd decided to give.

He didn't care about you, he cared about the version of you you'd created specifically for his consumption.

But still, you'd let yourself pretend, if only for tonight.

"Thank you," you whispered and pressed your mouth to his, "I'm not always very kind to you, either."

He kissed you back for a moment or two before pushing your face gently to the side so he could kiss your cheek instead, "I like when you're mean," he pressed an additional kiss to your temple, "Go to sleep, now."

In his arms, sleep came quickly and held you in its grip the whole night through.

***

Your alarm was trilling, shattering the morning tranquility. At some point in the night, you'd turned onto your side and Robby's arm snaked around your waist like a vice. As you blinked the sleep out of your eyes, you felt his deep breaths lightly fan your neck.

You hummed softly as you woke, wiggling your hips in an attempt to free yourself of his grip.

"Turn it off." Robby mumbled into your neck,

"Gladly, if you'd free me from the cage that is your arms."

Robby's laugh rumbled behind you, "Can't you turn it off without abandoning me?"

You felt heat spread up your neck and to your cheeks, "So dramatic." You scoffed and pulled lightly at his arms again, which he removed from your waist, though he whined the entire time.

With your phone in your hand, you turned off the alarm and Robby immediately tugged you back to him, eliciting a quiet oof.

When you saw the time, 9AM, you quietly cursed. Neither of you were working today, but you needed to get home so Cecelia could leave. You'd promised her you'd be home by 8AM the latest if you stayed out, but in the chaos you'd forgotten to adjust your alarm the night before.

"What's wrong?" Robby mumbled, and then when you threw the covers off yourself and started to climb out, he groaned an indignant, "Hey!"

"Sorry, I really have to go." There were several unread texts and missed calls from Cecelia on your phone and you were trying not to overreact, mostly because you didn't want to betray anything in front of Robby. Anymore than you had the previous night when you were drunk. Sober, now, you were already beginning to regret calling him. You should have toughed it out in jail.

"Okay," He stretched in bed, arms reaching towards the headboard and his t-shirt rode up slightly as he did. With effort, you tore your eyes away, "Let me drive you."

Scrolling through Cecelia's texts quickly, there was nothing about your dad in them. She just wanted to know where you were. Quickly, you texted her back apologizing and let her know you were on your way home.

"That's okay, I'll just call an Uber."

He scoffed, "We're back to this, now?"

You sighed as you walked around the room, gathering your things, "Thank you for picking me up last night and letting me stay here, but I shouldn't've—I think the boundaries we have are good. I don't want to ruin anything—"

"You stayed here last night and the world didn't end. I don't understand what the problem is."

At this, you laughed, "Yes, I think you've made it abundantly clear you don't understand and haven't from the second I walked into PTMC."

"Maybe I'd be more understanding if you ever actually explained anything to me."

You ran your hands over your face in frustration, "We keep going around in circles, Robby, aren't you exhausted?"

"No," He shook his head and sat up, watching as you walked around the room, "I could keep going all day."

When you turned back to him, he had a closed lip smile. He was enjoying this. Asshole.

His hair was mussed and the sleep still hung heavy around his eyes, making him look soft, younger. If you were honest, you wanted to crawl back in his arms and make out with him, slow and messy. You wanted his hands under your shirt, playing with your nipples until you whined and ground down onto him. You wanted him to crawl between your legs, licking you slowly and tenderly, an arm firmly bracketing your hips to keep you from squirming, his warm brown eyes looking up at you drenched in desire—

Clearing your throat, you looked away. Frankly, you thought you'd be bored of him by now. But every time you saw him, it reignited the embers in your chest, fire spreading through your veins. It was becoming evident that this was more than just sex, now.

"Thank you again for coming to get me and letting me stay, I really mean that. It was—Well, it was very nice of you."

You heard him laugh behind you, "You say it like you're shocked I could be nice to you."

"I'm not shocked," You lied, slinging your bag over your shoulder, "Men that are regularly sleeping with me are typically nice to me. I'm a great lay."

You tried to instill your words with as much false confidence as possible, but as his eyes scanned your face, a hand scratching lightly at his beard, you got the sense that he knew you were a fraud.

He nodded and finally broke your gaze, "Just let me drive you home, alright? I won't show up unannounced, ever, I promise."

You really couldn't afford the Uber right now. You bit your lip before groaning, "Fine. But we have to go now."

When Robby pulled outside your house, he leaned over the center console first to examine it. It was a mid century, two story home built of brick and slanted roofs. The yard was in need of being mowed and the rest of the landscaping wild and unkempt.

"You live here?" He asked, a note of confusion in his voice. You figured his confusion likely came from the price range of this neighborhood. You assumed he knew Pittsburgh well and this neighborhood was known for upper middle class families settling down in the eighties. It wasn't somewhere a single woman in her thirties lived by herself on a nurse's salary.

"Yes," You said, and looked towards the house. As you did, Cecelia opened the door, the two dogs running past her and into the yard, barking at Robby's parked car.

"Whose that? Those dogs yours, too?"

"I'm done answering your questions," You said, turning back to him, grinning. You pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth, felt him continue to lean in even as you pulled away, "Thank you again. I'll wash your clothes and bring them back—"

"Don't bother," he said, voice husky as he gripped your chin between his fingers, "I like the way they look on you."

You hated the way your stomach fluttered at the sound of his voice. You pressed your lips together and narrowed your eyes at him, "Okay. I'll see you at work."

"Not sooner?" He asked, his tone light and teasing. You both were off the next couple of days, but you'd be back a day sooner than he would.

You hummed, "Goodbye, Robinavitch."

As you jumped out of the car, the dogs ran up to you, pouncing up and down around you as their tails wagged.

"Hello boys," you cooed, running your hands over each of their heads in turn as you walked towards Cecelia, "Mr. President," You said, mocking formality, "and Mr. Vice President. Did you miss me?"

They trotted up after you onto the stoop until you stood in front of Cecelia, "I'm sorry," you said immediately, "It was… Not the night I anticipated, I should've texted or called."

But Cecelia was frowning, looking from the oversized clothes on your frame to the car still parked out front, "Whose clothes are these?" She pulled at your sleeve, "You said the EMT was a young guy, but that looks like an old man from here."

You clicked your tongue as you walked past her into the house, the dogs running quickly along your legs back in, "Cecelia, I didn't know you were such a neb-nose."

She pointed her finger accusatorily, "You take that back, I am not nebby. I just worry about you since your last relationship, I just think someone your own age would be better for you."

You sighed, "Yes, well, I tried. Date sucked."

She shook her head, "And you ended up in someone else's bed?"

"You know I love you," You said quietly, "But I really don't want to discuss my love life with you."

You felt her stare, both judgmental and motherly, as you pretended not to notice, "Fine. I'll stay out of it." She said, throwing her hands up emphatically. She wouldn't stay out of it, you knew, but you appreciated the well meaning lie.

"How has he been?"

"He's good," She said sincerely, smiling, "He's playing chess with Tim."

Tim was Cecelia's husband. You smiled, "Really? He hasn't played in months."

She nodded and gestured for you to follow her. Down the hall, the low voices of two men floated down the hallway.

You were delighted to find your father and Tim sat at the table by the big window in the piano room, sun warming their faces. And your father was smiling and laughing, even as his hand shook while he moved a board piece.

"Oh, look, the girls have joined us," Tim said jovially. He grew up in Wisconsin and had this dynamic, magnetic personality. The first time you met him you knew immediately why Cecelia loved him. He balanced her.

It was a good day for your father, it seemed, because when he looked at you you could tell he recognized you. He fumbled for your name, but got it eventually, and while he told you about his day, said he was happy you stopped by to visit, you found yourself getting misty eyed. Again, this was the kindest you could recall him being with you since you were very small.

What was it about fathers who lost interest in their daughters once they reached adolescence? The overnight change to full blown femininity too detestable to look past.

You had full journals probably still tucked beneath these floor boards lamenting reasons why he would not, or could not love you the way you needed. And now, when you had well and truly given up on childhood fantasies of unconditional parental love, the plaques in his brain had progressed in such a way that he couldn't quite remember you fully, but he still knew he loved you.

All this time and underneath it all the only thing left was love, the one thing you had wanted more than anything, but he had withheld.

You had thought you wouldn't feel anything when your father died, resigned to indifference many years ago, but the revelation that he likely had always loved you and had just been too stubborn to show it had grief clawing up your throat.

"Did you talk to his neurologist yesterday?" Cecelia asked, "His tremors are getting worse, his meds will need to be adjusted."

"Fuck," you swore softly, "No, sorry, I forgot. I'll call her today."

You felt Cecelia's imploring gaze on you in your peripheral, but tried to ignore it.

"Dana mentioned she passed along some memory care facility brochures to you."

You sighed, "Of course she did."

"I want to be clear that I'll support you no matter what, but I really think you should at least tour those facilities. If you're going to move him somewhere, it'll be easier on him to do it now while he still has some understanding."

You swallowed thickly, "I know that."

"His Medicare will probably fund most of it, more than they would for care at home."

You nodded silently, all things you knew, but had been putting off thinking about. Because in the back of your head was the conversation you'd had with him when he was first diagnosed. His very matter of fact tone as he told you he was making you his health care proxy and also that he would never forgive you of you used those powers to put him in a nursing home.

You didn't blame him for it. You'd worked in a nursing home for a few years as a CNA while you were in school and even in best case scenarios they seemed miserable to you. The memory care facilities weren't quite the same as a nursing home, but you figured the sentiment remained. You supposed that was a conversation you should have had with him at the time, but you had been desperately trying to avoid any hard conversations then. In fact you had resented him for getting diagnosed right when you'd got engaged. It was horrible to even think it, you knew, but it felt like he was trying to steal your happiness.

"You ready to hit the road, Cece?" Tim had stood and joined his wife, stretching an arm comfortably around her shoulders.

You walked them out, thanked them profusely for staying and then closed the door behind them. As Franklin whined with concern at your legs, another sound had you resting your forehead against the wood of the door.

You had few pure—untouched by anger or hurt—memories from childhood. One that stuck, sweet like candy in your teeth, was your father singing Here Comes the Sun to you while he pushed you on the rickety swing set in the backyard.

Now you could hear him in the other room, humming the melody softly, like a hymn.

***

Brian was back in the ER and your head was throbbing. You were doing your best to avoid talking to him, but you had noticed the subtle whispers and fist bumps to his fellow EMT when he walked by you.

When he had passed the hub, you bent over the counter, closing your eyes for just a moment or two. You had gotten very good at removing yourself from the ER even if only for a moment.

"Hey," That was Cassie's voice behind you and you straightened again, forcing a smile, "Isn't that the EMT you went on a date with last week?"

You hummed, "The very same."

"How did it go? Did you get laid? Tell me you got laid, I need to live vicariously through you."

You gave a short laugh, "No, I did not get laid."

She frowned, "Well, why not? I assumed that was why you didn't show for dancing."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that Cassie, I wanted to come, I just—Something came up. The date was horrible, though, if it's any consolation."

There must've been something in your voice that gave you away because she looked you over, not in judgment, but it was instead sympathy you found in her eyes as she tilted her head, "Are you alright?"

"McKay?" It was Javadi's voice that cut through the din of the ED before you could answer, "I need to present 13 to someone, are you free?"

"Sure," McKay said and draped her stethoscope back over her neck before turning back to you, "We'll talk later?"

You weren't planning on that, but you nodded anyway. Took a slow steadying breath and blew it out slowly as you looked down at your iPad—

"Good morning—"

"Jesus, fuck." You swore and rounded on Robby who had somehow managed to sneak up on you. At your shouting, the pain in your head intensified for a brief moment and you winced, "Could you announce yourself before doing that next time?"

He frowned and leaned his hip against the counter, scooting back enough so he could see your face, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," You said through incredulous laughter, "Why does everyone keep fucking asking me that?"

"You winced," He said, ignoring your question, "Something hurt?""

You sighed, "I just have a headache, I'm fine." At that moment, you looked up and accidentally locked eyes with Brian, who smiled at you. Smiled. Not sneered. As if nothing was wrong.

Robby tracked your gaze and you noticed the way he stiffened, "Is he bothering you?"

"No," You said quickly, "We haven't spoken."

"Well why the fuck is he looking at you like that then?"

You heard the undercurrent of danger in his voice and frowned, finally looking at him. He was watching Brian with an almost predatory gaze, his forearms braced against the counter, "I don't know," you said quietly, "Because he's deranged? Maybe you should stop staring after him with those fuckin' wolf eyes."

He turned back to you, "Wolf eyes?"

You rolled your eyes, "You're looking at him like a jealous boyfriend," You lowered your voice, "If you don't cut it out people are going to start talking. Everyone knows I went out with him."

He shook his head marginally, "Sorry, I forgot how puritanical you are over the idea of people knowing who you're sleeping with."

You blinked slowly at him in shock, and then laughed, loudly, until eyes were on both you and Robby. The sound was off key and grating and you took a small delight when Robby grimaced.

It was ridiculous, really, that you were dealing with this. And you had no one to blame but yourself. Calling him in a weak moment, letting him take you home, letting him convince you he cared about you. It was naive and stupid and you knew better.

"Wait—" He said immediately, "Hold on, that came out wrong—"

"Over and over, Robby, you continually prove my point of exactly why we should not be involved in any way."

"Oh, that's—" He scoffed, "Come on, that's an overreaction, the other night we—"

"Here you go," McKay sidled between you and Robby and set some ibuprofen in front of you.

"I—" You frowned, "What's this?"

"It's ibuprofen." She said, smiling.

"Well, yes, I can see that. Um, why?"

"Oh, it was obvious that you have a headache, that's why you're acting all snippy. You were like this a couple of weeks ago, same deal," She turned back to Robby and looked between the two of you, "Sorry, did I interrupt something?"

Robby started, "Yes, actually—"

"No," You said quickly instead, "Robby was actually just headed to… Central 11 so Dr. Santos can present." You raised your voice slightly since you knew Trinity was behind you, trying to chart, "Isn't that right Dr. Santos?"

She sighed heavily, but you heard her push back from her workstation, "Sure, no time like the present."

"Fantastic," You looked back at Robby in front of you, a smile pasted to your face, "Off you go, Dr. Robinavitch."

He watched you, temper evident in his gaze as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. But in the end, he simply pushed himself off the counter and walked off with Santos.

McKay slowly shifted her gaze from Robby to you, "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?" You took two ibuprofen capsules in your palm and tossed them back with a sip of Diet Coke.

She lowered her voice slightly, "Am I crazy or are you sleeping with Robby?"

At her words, you gasped, but there was still soda in your mouth and so you accidentally inhaled it, burning down your lungs and up your nose.

"Oh, shit, sorry—" She said, but there was laughter in her voice as she thumped you over the back, "Are you okay?"

You waved her off and grabbed your water bottle to clear the irritation. Once you'd caught your breath you turned back to her, "What the fuck would make you think that?"

Over her shoulder, you saw Princess trying to fight a smile behind her, Perlah not far off. And you knew they all meant well, really. These were probably the three people in the ED least likely to judge you. Princess and Perlah you had been unsure of in the beginning, but they really did keep their gossip to themselves and they never treated you differently once they knew. McKay was probably the one other person here you would trust with sensitive personal information.

But it didn't make it feel any better. With everything you had going on at home, when you came here all you wanted was to do the work. The work that had always given you purpose, that you'd been good at, your near pathological desire for organization and control put to good use. Now though, all because of some stupid lapse in judgment when you were on vacation, you were becoming the topic of all the wrong conversations.

McKay opened her mouth slowly, "Well… There just seemed to be a lot of weird tension when I walked up here."

"Yeah, well, we were having a disagreement. About work."

"Right, but there was also the fact that he was glaring at Brian as if he'd committed some sort of personal crime against him."

You felt your frustration flare, "What, like they were fighting over the last piece of chicken?"

McKay frowned, "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you—"

"You didn't," you said sharply, "I have to go do a room check."

You walked away before she could get another word in, but you heard the whispers behind you from her and Princess and likely Perlah too.

What did it matter, you thought. Likely you were only a temporary replacement for Dana anyway. She'd be back before you knew it and maybe you'd pick up a shift here and there but that would be it. They'd replace you in a second. What did it matter if they talked? What did it matter if Robby planned to toss you aside when he got bored?

What did any of it fucking matter? You had no fiancé, no real friends, your dad was about to die and he never liked you much anyway, pretty soon you'd have no job as well. Thirty plus years and nothing to show for it. The throbbing in your head increased as you walked around the ED.

"I need to talk to you," You said when you found Robby.

"About what?" He said shortly.

"Privately." You said, and grasped his forearm before tugging him out of the emergency room and up the stairs.

"Where are you—? Now? You're taking me here now—?"

You were leading him up to the abandoned floor where the two of you had met up many times after shift for sex. But it had always been after shift. Never during. The two of you would never leave the ED unattended like that. But you were feeling reckless.

He continued to follow you even though you failed to answer his question and you took this as consent.

When you pulled him inside and empty room and closed the door behind you, immediately and without preamble, you were on him. Lips locked with his and hands braced against his chest, you kissed him both hungrily and viciously, teeth nipping roughly at lips.

He made a sound of surprise at the back of his throat, but he kissed you back, hands lifted to cradle your neck.

It was only when your hands slid down to unbutton his cargo pants that he pulled away. Grunting, he slid his hands down to brace your wrists and pulled you off and away from him, "Wait—Hold on—What're you doing?"

You scoffed, "What does it look like I'm doing?" You said quickly, and relatched your mouth to his, desperate for distraction, desperate to stop the self loathing thoughts that pounded like nails against your skull.

"Hey—" He pushed you away again, "C'mon, kid, knock it off."

This time, when he pushed you away, you groaned in frustration, the sound growing into an almost scream, "What is your problem?"

He tilted his head as he looked at you and when he spoke his voice was full to the brim with agitation, "What's my problem? Just ten minutes ago you were telling me emphatically how we shouldn't be involved anymore and now you're trying to jump my bones. You don't see how I might be experiencing fuckin' whiplash?"

Your eyes burned and you blinked rapidly in an attempt to dissolve them. The last thing you wanted was to break down in front of him again. You tried desperately to hold onto your rage, though with each passing moment you felt your grip slipping.

"Sweetheart," He tried again, his voice tender and warm, "What's going on?"

You shook your head and tried to laugh it off, looking up at the ceiling, "I don't know. I don't fucking know. I feel like I'm losing my mind." You sniffled before you continued, though you still couldn't look at him. Couldn't look him in the eye while you spoke. "Everything—Everything's wrong and I feel like—Every day I wake up and I realize that my life is already over."

Your thoughts were jumbled and you couldn't properly communicate what you were feeling. Never mind that you didn't want to really tell him anything, you just wanted to fuck. Why couldn't he just shut up and fuck you?

After a few moments of silence passed between you, you heard him chuckle softly. Frowning, you finally looked at him and he was shaking his head, a hand running over the back of his head.

"You're a child," he said, deathly quiet.

You stood, frozen for a moment, certain you'd misheard him. But he didn't say anything else.

"What?" You asked, hated how small your voice sounded.

"You're so young," He said, and he sounded exhausted, "You don't know anything about the world yet, you're just a baby."

His voice was so gentle when he said it, as he closed the distance between you again, you weren't sure he meant to be condescending, to be cruel, as you thought he had been at first.

No, he had been incredulous, in wonder. And sure enough, when he was standing just centimeters from you again, his took your face gently in his hands, thumbed at the wetness beneath your eyes, the sensation of the calloused pads of his thumbs against the soft skin of your cheek had your eyelids fluttering closed.

He was calling you a baby, that was fine, you wanted to be babied. You wanted desperately for someone to baby you, just for once for the burden to be taken off your shoulders. Please, you begged him with your eyes, please take care of me.

"Your life's just starting," He said quietly, "It's only just begun."

And because you couldn't stand the sincerity in his voice, you couldn't bear not to needle him, "Oh, such a big man," You said teasingly, "why don't you show me then?"

He almost looked like he wanted to sigh, like he couldn't understand why you were defaulting back to cynicism, to sarcasm, when he was trying to be earnest for once. But the moment passed and then he was kissing you, soft and slow.

"I don't—Think we have time for this—" You said, impatiently tugging at his pants again.

But he took your wrists in his hands, pinned them to the wall above your head with just one of his hands, "Be quiet," he said roughly against your mouth, his beard rubbing your chin raw, "For once just be quiet and take what I give you."

Before you could think about protesting, he pushed his free hand between your legs, slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your pants. You sighed, eyes rolling back and squirming against his hold on your arms uselessly when his fingers stroked your folds. He sucked at your neck, occasionally dragging his teeth along the skin of your neck and then running his tongue along the goosebumps that rose in his wake.

He knew your body well by this point which meant his fingers knew exactly where to go, the rhythm at which to stroke, exactly how much pressure to apply to your clit with his thumb until you were whining after an embarrassingly short amount of time. But you were unable to feel shame about it just then, that would come later. Your muscles clenching, your mind having gone blissfully blank the second he'd touched you.

"There she is, sweet girl, so quiet when I touch you, hm? Should I let you come? You think you've earned it?"

You sighed, "Please?"

"Whatever you want," he said softly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he sped up the rhythm of his fingers and you fell apart around him, his hand dropping your wrists to hold you through it as you shuddered and broke, "Shhhh," he hushed your moans with kisses to your mouth, "You're okay, sweetheart."

For a few moments, you believed him.

But only for a few.

When you were back at the hub, Robby nowhere to be seen, missed calls on your phone from your father's neurologist and the memory care facilities you'd promised to tour, McKay asking if everything was okay, you taking every last bit of strength trying and failing not snap at anyone else. The weight was staggering again without Robby's hands to share the burden.

***

Robby watched you closely the rest of the shift, recognized the signs that you were sinking beneath the waves, allowing the current to pull you out to sea. Your clipped insistence that everything was fine, your snapping at staff, your aversion to any real discussion quickly disguised with sarcasm and wit. It was like staring in a fun house mirror, something like his worst nightmare.

What really alarmed him was when you'd pulled Whitaker aside after you'd found out he had repeatedly informed an Alzheimer's patient that her husband had passed. He hadn't heard all of it, but had walked past in time to hear you lay into him.

"But—" Whitaker was saying, "She should know he's gone, I was just—"

"You were just what?" You snapped, "Putting your feelings in front of the patient's? Alzheimer's was in her chart it's not a fucking mystery she's not going to remember what you tell her. You tell her once. It doesn't stick? Well then you start telling her he's at work or he's in the other room, but you don't retraumatize her again and again. How do you think you would like to relive the moment you found out you were a widow again and again and again?"

"Everything okay in here?" Robby announced himself and you had immediately blown past him.

"Fine," you said, "But maybe you need to give your residents sensitivity training so they stop fucking torturing patients."

You were gone before he could say anything else.

He remembered what Dana had said to him not too long ago: Do not pull her down into the pit with you.

He hadn't meant to, but wasn't that always the case with him? He never meant to hurt, but he always ended up maiming anyway. Especially the ones he cared about the most.

After shift, he sat outside by his motorcycle and waited for you. You always seemed to stay until whoever was there to relieve you kicked you out. Something else he was familiar with: The ED was a curse, but it was also the only thing that kept him above water.

"Hey," He said when he saw you walk through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

You walked over to him, but your eyes roved over his bike, a slow smirk on your face, "What d'you have, a death wish?"

He smirked halfheartedly and avoided your gaze, "I wanted to talk about what you said earlier."

"Unfortunately I talk quite a lot, so I'm gonna need you to be more specific."

"About us not being involved anymore. I think you were right, I think we should stop seeing each other."

He was met with uncomfortable silence. It stretched and frayed until it snapped.

"Well, isn't that incredibly responsible of you." Your tone was impressively sardonic, the venom in your voice palpable, but he had expected this. Had become accustomed to your constant push and pull from the moment he met you. You would be unhappy no matter what he decided. You didn't know what you wanted, you were in no state to figure it out. If he was right about you, the internal war you waged took up most of your strength day in and day out.

"It doesn't mean we can't be friends or that I don't care about you—"

"You know what, you don't have to do all this. I'm going home. Goodnight."

"I mean it," He said, quickly reaching out to grab you to stop you from walking away, "Look, I can see you're struggling and I wanna help—"

You wrenched yourself from his grasp, fury in your eyes, but he saw the way they grew wet as you backed away from him, "Please just leave me alone." You said softly, voice ragged.

He watched helplessly as you walked off, unsure of what to do next. Briefly, he considered following you home, but he'd promised he wouldn't ever show up unannounced.

He thought about the woman who'd stood on the stoop waiting for you and calmed significantly. You had someone, he assumed maybe your mother, waiting for you at home.

Living with your parents would explain a lot about your secrecy. Maybe you were even embarrassed about it. But he didn't think there was any shame in that, considering you had recently left a serious relationship and then moved across the country.

It was good that you weren't alone. You'd be fine. You didn't need him. He ignored the ache in his chest at the thought and got on his bike.

***

You hadn't spoken to Robby in weeks. There had been times before and after shift where he'd tried to pull you aside and you'd mumble some excuse about not having time, about another nurse needing you, whatever you needed to say to get away from him. And while before, you thought he would've invited this as a game, and likely part of you would mean it to be interpreted that way, you no longer wanted to play. You knew he could sense it, had seen you pack up the playing cards, no longer caring if he saw your hand. And so eventually he left you alone.

It surprised you the way you missed him at night, when your only company was the shadows on the walls and the Jeopardy! contestants in the TV. When you couldn't sleep, you'd try and remember the night you'd slept in his sheets with his arms wrapped tightly around you. On the worst nights, you'd put on his hoodie he'd given you. But it had long since lost his scent.

"Honey, is there something else going on at work that's bothering you?" Cecelia had asked as you walked around the grounds of one of the memory care facilities you'd agreed to tour, the name of which escaped you now, "I know the last few weeks with your dad have been hard, but I get the sense there's something else going on."

The last few weeks with your dad had been more than hard, they'd been so challenging at times you had begun fantasizing about disappearing or walking out in front of an ambulance as it pulled into the bay. The fantasies grew more detailed, your coworkers noting the organ donor heart on your license and having to keep you on a ventilator until it was time to harvest your organs. You felt you'd have more purpose as an organ donor than a living, breathing person. You had seen enough caretaker burnout over the course of your career to understand what was happening, but you weren't sure exactly what you were meant to do about it. Your support network began and ended with Cecelia and you had already asked more of her than you were comfortable with.

The issue of Robby paled in comparison, but it still added to your depression. Yearning for a man you were never meant to have, that you knew from the beginning was temporary, who discarded you just like you always knew he would. The first time you had opened up to him and he'd fucking stabbed you straight through the heart. It hurt, yes, but it was also humiliating. It had been the exact thing you had been trying to avoid. You felt stupid and you felt like a child for missing him. Missing something that never quite existed, you reminded yourself.

"I'm fine," You'd told Cecelia, forcing a smile and then turning your attention elsewhere, "It says they have someone come play the piano for the residents twice a week, I think he'd like that."

You had been late coming in this morning, Dana once again covering for you, because your father had a cold and the low grade fever was causing his hallucinations to become more severe. You'd worried about leaving him with Cecelia, but she swore she could handle it. She was always insisting on getting you out of the house lately. Had asked more than once just this week if you needed her to stay overnight.

Of course, you did not, on account of being a huge bitch to all your friends at work and now not speaking to Robby.

"Hey, everything alright?"

You looked up from your iPad to see McKay standing next to you. You gave a small smile, still feeling remorseful for snapping at her weeks ago though you had since apologized.

"Yeah, why?"

"Oh, I just worry whenever Dana covers for you," She shrugged, "You don't have to tell me what you have going on at home, but I'm here, you know. If you ever want."

For a moment, you considered it. She was looking at you so earnestly you were almost overwhelmed with the urge to unburden yourself—

But then there was a commotion in the ambulance bay.

The doors slid open, a stretcher came into view. It took a few seconds for your brain to process, but you recognized your father on that stretcher, Cecelia behind and talking to the paramedics.

Robby had rushed up to the stretcher, calling out for McKay as he did, and you stared at them, dumbstruck until Robby called out your name, "What's open?"

You blinked and looked down at your iPad quickly and directed them to trauma one.

Then, in something of a daze, you followed after them. Listened as Cecelia debriefed them and stood quietly in the doorway.

"…Fever's spiked to 101, his heart rate's tachy—"

Your father was thrashing, calling out for your mother and you felt absolutely paralyzed—

"Alright, let's get him some risperidone—"

"No, no risperidone," You interjected, "He's already on quetiapine, you can up his dose if you want."

Robby looked up at you, frowning, "Do you know our patient?"

You swallowed and inhaled slowly, "Yes. He's my father and I'm his healthcare proxy."

The room went very still. And as the moments passed, Robby's eyes widened marginally and the familiar signs of pity began to flood his expression. Intense revulsion flooded you and it was a feat to continue holding his gaze.

"Evie—" Your father said weakly, his hand reaching for you. You swallowed down any emotion and went to him, taking his hand.

"Who's Evie?" Robby asked quietly.

You blinked rapidly as you smiled at your father and then looked up at Robby, "My mother."

***

That morning when Robby had walked in and saw Dana at the desk instead of you, his anxiety had spiked.

"Where is she?" He asked as calmly as he could manage.

"Good morning to you too."

"Dana—"

"She's fine, she'll be here later."

You were fine. Fine, he told himself. But his wild heartbeat wouldn't hear it. He pulled out his phone instinctively. He wanted to hear your voice, wanted you to tell him yourself you were alright. He unlocked his phone, opened his messages and scrolled to your message thread. Stared at your last exchange of messages from weeks ago. Him asking you to meet him upstairs after shift, you giving the message a thumbs up.

He hated the way things were between you now. He worried about you constantly and now he couldn't even get you alone to get a read on you. But each time he saw you you seemed more and more withdrawn, your usual irritation and wit replaced with mostly indifference.

"I'm worried about her," He said slowly to Dana, "I know you won't tell me what's going on in her personal life, but since you know and I don't, are you absolutely positive she's fine? Because she really doesn't seem fine to me."

She looked up slowly, "What has you so concerned, Cap?"

He sighed, "She's combative with staff and patients, she's making mistakes, she's withdrawn—She—She told me a few weeks ago she felt like her life was over."

Something shifted just slightly in Dana's face before she masked it, "Are you still sleeping with her?" She asked, lowering her voice.

Robby ran a hand over his face, annoyed with having to diclose this information to Dana, "No."

Dana interrogated him with her eyes before lowering them back to her iPad, "I'll talk to her."

"Thank you."

When you came in, he'd watched carefully as you spoke with Dana. He noticed when the smallest hint of irritation traveled across your face and tried as subtly as possible to eavesdrop.

"—went to the tours?" Dana was saying.

"Yes, I have to follow up with a couple of them."

"You're running out of time, kiddo."

He didn't get to hear what exactly you were running out of time for because Samira whisked him away to get his opinion on a patient. But always, you were in the back of his mind.

And then, when there were just a couple of hours left of the shift, the stretcher rolled in with the dementia patient. He noted for a second the way your face fell when you saw it and filed away the oddity, calling out to you to give a room number.

When he saw you just a few moments later, hovering in the doorway, he didn't think much of it. But then his eyes went to the woman who was reporting the patient's current condition. His first thought was that the way she was speaking so clinically made him think she must be a home health nurse. His second thought was that she looked a lot like the woman he remembered seeing on your stoop when he dropped you off a few weeks ago.

Before he could fully process all that, you had interjected about the antipsychotics he had been about to order.

And suddenly the pieces of the puzzle seemed to slot into place.

The dosage of quetiapine seemed to calm your father down and once they got a handle on his fever enough to begin ordering tests and a chest x-ray, you slipped from the room.

"You're the man who gave her a ride home a few weeks ago?" The nurse—Cecelia, he learned—said to him as he was putting in orders at the computer.

"Yes," He said and gave her a smile, "You can call me Robby."

"Robby," She said, seemingly turning the name over in her head, "Dana mentioned you."

He raised his eyebrows, "You know Dana?"

Cecelia nodded, "We went to nursing school together, sorority sisters. I was the ER charge nurse at Presby for a long time, retired during Covid. But I trained your new charge nurse over there, recommended her to Dana when she mentioned she might want to step down."

Robby hummed, yet another puzzle piece to slot in, "Well I'm sure you've heard horrible things, then."

Cecelia laughed, "No, no. She's always said you were a good man." He watched as she peaked through the door at you, "You were seeing each other, but now you're not?"

Robby felt a flush climbing up his neck, "Something like that," He sighed and then added quickly, "Is she—Is she the primary caregiver? Is her mother around? Siblings?"

Cecelia shook her head, "It's just her. I help out while she's working."

He ran his hand over the back of his head, "So she leaves here and then is his around the clock care?"

"She hasn't talked to you about any of this?"

He sighed, "No, no she hasn't. But this explains a lot about… Well, things are starting to make a lot more sense to me."

"Dana and I have been trying to convince her to move him into a memory care facility for months now, but she's very stubborn."

He chuckled, "Tell me about it."

"Maybe she'll listen to you."

His mouth fell open as he looked at her, slowly shaking his head, "I don't think… We're not on the best of terms right now."

"Please," She said earnestly, "She can't keep going like this. If she hears enough people who care about her telling her that maybe it'll get through that thick head of hers."

Robby wanted to tell her that he wasn't sure you even believed that he cared about you, but he himself had noticed what was now obvious to him as caretaker burnout. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't try.

"I'm gonna call our night shift charge to see if she can come in early to relieve her."

Cecelia nodded, "Thank you."

When Lena came in more than an hour early, you looked mildly annoyed, but in the end thanked her and headed for your dad's room. Once the shift was officially over and he'd handed off everything to Shen, he went to see you.

He stood in the doorframe for a few moments. Your father seemed to be sleeping and you were in a chair by his bed, leaning over your knees, face in your hands. He knocked as gently as he could manage, but you still jumped. Upon seeing him, you deflated a bit and looked back at your hands, elbows still braced on your thighs.

Since you didn't demand he leave, he took that as invitation to come in and so he took the stool and dragged it next to you before lowering himself to sitting.

"How's he doing?" he asked quietly after sitting in silence with you for a few minutes.

"Better. Fever's stable. I'm glad he's sleeping, he hasn't slept in days. Waiting for his X-Ray to come back, but it's likely pneumonia." You rubbed harshly at your face, "I listened to his lungs last night and I didn't hear anything."

He didn't bother trying to tell you not to blame yourself. He knew it would fall on deaf ears.

"When was the last time you slept?" He asked softly.

You stared ahead and didn't answer him.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

You're quiet for so long he thinks you'll ignore him again, but then you start talking and your voice wavers like a branch in the wind, but you don't falter.

"Whenever a woman gets rolled in here, seriously injured, dying, crashing, everyone's first thought is who she is in relation to other people. Whose wife, whose daughter, whose sister, whose mother. It's so sad she's dead because she has kids, or she's married. It's always bothered me. I never felt like when a man rolled in here anyone felt the need to tally up all the ways they were important to other people in order to matter. But a woman—well—it's time to do some arithmetic to see what her life is worth to us.

"And day in and day out, I've done the same math for myself for years. What would my life be worth to my staff if I needed help one day? And year after year it's the same number," You paused and cleared your throat, "I've never liked my father and he's never liked me. My mother left us when I was still a baby and I know he's resented me for that my whole life. I did everything I could to get out of here as quickly as possible and just when I thought I'd done it, I moved away, I was engaged—"

You paused and looked down at your hands, "He got diagnosed and then… I don't know. It all went to shit. I told you when we met that my fiancé cheated on me, but that wasn't true. I told him, the man who was planning to love me for better or for worse, that I needed to come back to Pittsburgh to care for my father and he essentially said 'no thanks, I'm good,' as if I'd asked him if he wanted to come run errands with me. And so when I moved back here by myself, having lost everything, I already resented my father and it was beginning to make sense why he's hated me all this time. I took everything from him and now he's taking everything from me."

Robby couldn't help his sharp inhale, the hopelessness in your voice as you spoke staggering and terrifying. There was truth to what you were saying. As much as he'd like to deny it, now that you'd said it like that, he knew what you meant about the "math" that was done when a woman was in the ER.

Even still, he didn't like the direction you were going with this. It didn't mean it was right. It certainly didn't mean your life was worth less than anybody else's. He thought, surely, deep down you must have known that. He reminded himself that you hadn't slept likely in days. You weren't yourself.

"Sweetheart—"

You held your hand up to quiet him, "I knew people would look at this—you would look at this, me being a caregiver, and think I'm being noble. I'm not. I'm doing it because I have to. I don't want anyone pitying me or making me into some fucking superhero. The math hasn't changed."

Part of him wanted to take you by the shoulders and shake you, to make sure you understood that he didn't agree with this assessment at all. It didn't matter how you viewed yourself if the glass you were viewing yourself through was distorted. But he also knew that wouldn't be received well right now. He'd been there himself, was still there as of this moment.

"Fine," Robby sighed after a few moments had passed, "Then I think you're a selfish asshole. Is that what you want to hear?"

Still bent over your legs, your shoulders shook just slightly and when you turned to look at him, eyes glassy, he realized you were laughing. You nodded, "Thank you."

After you'd sat in comfortable silence for another few moments, you cleared your throat, "Shouldn't you be getting out of here?"

He shook his head and reached out for your hand, clasping it between both of his, he brought it to his mouth where he pressed a kiss to it, "No, I'm right where I need to be."

It took a while, but he eventually convinced you to let him take you home. Only because you started grumbling about having to take care of the dogs. You insisted that you wanted to come right back afterwards and he let you think he agreed with that plan, but he was gonna try everything he could to make sure you got some sleep before he took you back. You were both back on shift at 7 the next morning and if you didn't get any sleep he was gonna call in Dana. If you did sleep, he'd let you work as he knew you'd likely prefer that. By then, hopefully your father would be moved up to ICU.

At your house, he watched you with the dogs. They mostly ignored him and pranced around you playfully. Your face lit up as they did and he stood with you on the deck out back as you watched them run around the yard.

"You don't have to stay, you know," You said quietly, "I… appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm fine."

"I want to be here."

You huffed a laugh through your nose, "That's strange, because I recall you saying you didn't want to see me anymore just a few weeks ago."

He rocked back and forth between his feet, "I didn't know what you needed then. I don't think you knew what you needed either and I thought I was making you worse. I was wrong, I'm sorry."

Slowly, you turned to look at him and when he met your eyes, they glinted wet in the moonlight, bloodshot from what he assumed was lack of sleep along with the cacophony of emotions you had to be experiencing.

"Well, what do you want?" You asked, tears in your throat, "What do you need?"

This was something he had asked himself over and over since he met you. Why did he, over and over, keep coming back to you? Months had passed and it was still you he longed for when he was alone at night. Your voice he wanted to hear, your laugh, the sounds you made, your constant needling, the taste of you, all of it. In his quiet moments and in the moments when his thoughts raced, still, he returned to you.

At first he'd denied it to himself. You'd made it clear whatever was between you didn't exist outside of hospital walls. But then there was the night you'd called him from jail. The night you'd slept in his bed, sought him out for comfort. You could be so gentle, so vulnerable when you wanted to be. Delicate, like the first blooms of spring, petals easy to crush in his hands if he wasn't careful. And he'd felt so proud that you'd showed him that side of yourself after everything.

He found he wanted to be worthy of it, your softness, your vulnerability. And he realized what that meant, the truth of it. But it scared the hell out of him. Not because of you, but because of him. He knew he couldn't afford to mess this up, knew it because despite everything, despite how hard he knew you'd tried to stay away from him for fear of him breaking you, you'd succumbed to him anyway.

You understood him in ways he didn't think anyone else ever had. You identified all the worst parts of him immediately and even if you'd wanted it to, they hadn't deterred you. He could do the same for you. He would.

But not yet. He didn't want to make declarations or promises when you were clearly on the brink.

Gently, he took your face in his hands, gently ran the pads of his thumbs across your cheeks, "Right now, I want you to get some sleep. And I wanna be with you while you do, if you'd let me."

You looked up at him, chin wobbling slightly, but you nodded.

You allowed him to lead you by the hand back into the house, the dogs following closely behind. When he asked where your bedroom was and you simply shook your head and led him to the TV room instead, he didn't push.

The couch was large with one corner extending into a chaise lounge. He sat there, sighing at the aches and groans of his joints as he did. He coaxed you to him and you rested your head in his lap, legs stretched out and away from him so your bodies created something of a right angle. One of the dogs, the one he thought was called Franklin, hopped on the sofa and wiggled his way into your arms pulling a smile from you that had his stomach flipping.

He rested his hand against your face, running it soothingly from the crown of your head down the column of your throat. He was pleased when you fell asleep within minutes, both you and the dog eliciting soft snores in unison. Sleep came for him soon after.

***

You woke up long before your alarm, neck stiff and the imprint of Robby's cargo pants on your cheek. He was still asleep, snoring loudly enough that it made you want to laugh. Carefully, you detached yourself from him and got up.

The dogs trotted after you and pushing the sliding door open, they ran outside and you followed, a pack of cigarettes and lighter in your hand.

There was a thick fog that settled beneath the horizon and covered the yard. The dogs broke the quiet of the morning as they played and chased after one another.

You had nearly finished smoking your cigarette when the sliding door opened behind you and you felt Robby at your back.

The two of you stood in silence for a few moments, watching the dogs play. You allowed yourself to lean back into him just slightly, his broad chest warm on your back.

"I can call Dana if you don't wanna work today. Yesterday must've been a lot for you." He said quietly.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "The alternative is sitting in his hospital room all day. No thanks, I'll work."

You felt his hands work their way around your waist to your front, holding you to him. For once, you allowed yourself to sink into him.

"Your relationship with him is really not good then?"

"It's fine now, I guess," You said, "Now that his memory's going. It's hard to be angry with someone who can't remember what they did."

He bent his head and pressed soft kisses to the skin of your neck. His beard tickled and you instinctively shrugged your shoulders up.

"Why do you do it?" He asked quietly, "Cecelia mentioned you'd toured a memory care facility. If you don't even have a relationship why won't you sign the admission papers?"

Your body went cold and you disentangled yourself from him, "That's why you're really here, huh? Cecelia's agenda?"

"I—No, it's because I couldn't tell the last time you slept and I thought you might hurt yourself—"

"Me?" You scoffed, "Mr. Donorcycle is worried that I might hurt myself?"

He ran a hand over the back of his head, "We're not talking about me right now, we're talking about you."

"And when have we ever talked about you?" You were nearly shouting now, "You think my behavior's erratic? You should look in a fucking mirror."

He shook his head, "Listen to yourself. I only asked a question and you're deflecting so hard I think you might pull a muscle."

"Because you're a fucking hypocrite! If I wanna kill myself by working myself into the ground and taking care of my father 24/7 that's my business! Just like you riding around Pittsburgh without a helmet on practically begging for a car to hit you is yours. But at least I'm honest about it!"

He scoffed, "That's not—" He sighed, "It's not the same thing."

You smirked and took a step closer to him, "No?" You lowered your voice until it was almost like a caress, "So when you're riding that bike and you see a car coming from the opposite direction with just a yellow line separating you, you've never thought about just… leaning a little to the left? And when you thought about it and felt relief instead of fear, where did you put that feeling?"

Your faces were close together, close enough that when you met his eyes you almost faltered, the depth of the sadness you found almost too much.

After a moment, you swallowed and took a step backwards, "You and I aren't that different, Robby."

Putting your fingers in your mouth, you wolf whistled and the dogs came running as you slid the porch door open for them to run through, "I'll see you at work." You said and followed the dogs inside.

***

Robby felt a bit nauseous for most of the day, thinking over what you'd said to him. He knew you were right, but what he had wanted to say was that after meeting you he felt himself changing. The impulses lessened when you were around.

It wasn't just sex to him anymore. At some point things had changed without him quite realizing it. Until you brought up to his face what he'd been avoiding for quite some time, that he didn't see a reason to keep going. But now the truth of it was, he found himself looking forward to things. Looking forward to seeing you, to talking to you.

It didn't fix him the fact that you made him want to live, he knew this. For one, there was no guarantee that you felt the same. That it was anything other than just sex to you. But it had gotten him thinking about the fact that maybe there was more he'd be missing if one day he drifted over that yellow line.

You avoided him most of the shift, only giving him updates when he asked. If you had a question specifically for him you'd taken to sending one of the nurses or residents to ask him for you and report back. It felt ridiculous.

When he could, he snuck away to see your father who was still in the ER having been diagnosed with pneumonia. He knew from what he'd been able to overhear when he got close enough to you that you had been calling the ICU charge nurse every hour, begging for a room. Your father didn't like the noise or the lights. You'd closed his door and turned his lights off, pulling the curtains.

The fact that he was still down here meant he was still Robby's patient. So under the guise of just being a doctor, he went to sit with your father. Most of the time, he slept. Sometimes, when he was awake, if he wasn't dreadfully confused he would ask for you. Not for your mother, for you.

"She's working," Robby would say, "She's the charge nurse. A lot of responsibility. This place falls apart without her."

Once, only once when he seemed in a very cheerful mood after Robby had brought him a turkey sandwich, he'd smiled, "Charge nurse, eh? Just like her mama."

Robby's stomach sank, "Does she know that her mother used to be a charge nurse?"

"Oh, yeah," Your father folded his hands over his stomach and stared at the ceiling pensively, "That was how we met. I was a pharmacist at the hospital she worked at."

Following in the footsteps of the mother you never knew. Were you trying to prove to yourself that you could do what she couldn't? It should be her here taking care of her husband, but instead it was you caring for him on top of working in the ER. Your mother who hadn't been able to withstand the pressure of a baby and a husband and a career. Did you think less of her for it? Was it starting to scare you that maybe you could understand why she had run away from it all?

"Young man," Your father said, interrupting his thoughts, "Could you please help me to the bathroom?"

Robby nodded, "Of course."

***

You hated Robby and you were also obsessed with him. This is what you were thinking all throughout shift when you weren't too busy to think or you weren't thinking about your father. You were both enamored and repulsed by his closeness. You wanted him to touch you, but the sound of his voice had you running in the opposite direction. It was maddening.

Miraculously, you were not thinking about him at all when you heard the sound of crashing equipment coming from your father's room. Your head whipped towards the sound and before you'd even really registered it your feet were moving.

When you ran into the room, you were startled to find both your father and Robby sprawled on the floor, his IV having been knocked down in the fall.

"Jesus—What the fuck?"

Robby groaned, eyes shut tight, then immediately, "I'm fine, I'm fine, your father—"

But your father seemed largely unharmed, though a bit in shock, "Dad… Dad are you okay?"

He frowned, "Fell on my ass."

Your lips twitched, "Does anything hurt?"

"No…No…" Then his eyes traveled to your face and lit up, "Hey, pumpkin. What're you doing here?"

The ache in your chest returned, as it usually did when he called you "pumpkin." But you forced a smile, "Just checking on you. We gotta get you up though—"

Robby sat up, hissing in pain as he did and pressing a hand to his back, "You have to get another nurse—Can't lift him yourself—"

You laughed and then sighed as you got a good grip on his transport belt, "What do you think I do when I'm at home, huh?" You turned your attention to your father, "You ready, dad?" He nodded, "Okay, on three. One, two, three—" Lifting with your knees, you got him to standing and then back in his bed.

Sighing, you lowered yourself back to the floor where Robby was, still wincing in pain, "You hurt yourself, old man?" You teased.

He looked up at you with disdain and as he did, you saw he had a small cut on his forehead, "You hit your head?" You asked frowning, reaching out to get a better look.

He allowed it, closing his eyes at your touch. Your heart fluttered a bit, seeing the effect your touch had on him, "Might've hit the IV stand on the way down."

"Can you stand?"

He rolled his eyes, "Can I stand—Of course I can—" As he pushed himself up he interrupted himself with a groan, "Fuck."

"Ooo—" You said sympathetically, "Okay, let's—The bed next door is empty, let's go over there—sit down."

Once he was sat down, you took his face in your hands again, moving his head gently so you could look at his cut better.

"How's it look, doc?" A familiar joke that had the tension rushing out of you. As an NP you could diagnose some illnesses and order medications on your own which led to you having to constantly remind patients that you weren't a doctor. You had done a brief stint in Family Medicine years ago that had had you murmuring "not a doctor" in your sleep. This was one of the few things about yourself that you had willingly divulged to Robby.

Despite yourself, you smirked, "I think you'll live. Why were you moving him anyway?"

"He had to use the bathroom."

You frowned, "Okay… That's a nurse's job. You should've come and grabbed me."

You had begun to clean up his cut and he closed his eyes again at the contact, "I know this'll piss you off, but you shouldn't be treating him while he's here and I know if I told you to reassign him to a different nurse that would also piss you off, so. I was trying to ease some of the burden off you."

There he went again, being thoughtful when you were trying to be angry with him, "Doctors suck at transport." You said softly.

He chuckled, "Yeah, noted."

"Did you pull something in your back?"

He shook his head and winced as he gingerly stretched his back, "I'm okay, just need to sit for a couple more minutes. You gonna tell everyone about this?"

"Oh, of course." You said and were pleased when he smiled.

"I called Hemsley House this morning just… out of curiosity. They think they'd have a room for him by the time he's discharged if you're interested."

You tried to stifle the annoyance and looked down at your hands, "Robby—"

"I'm just asking you to think about it. You don't have to do anything. Baby, look at me."

The pet name caught you off guard and your eyes shot up. He was looking at you with such care and affection, his big brown eyes impossible not to drown in.

"You have cared for him as well as you can from home, but you're running on fumes. If you don't hurt yourself, you'll hurt him. Is that what you want?"

You swallowed, "He made me promise I wouldn't send him to one. A long-term care facility. Said he'd rather be dead. But I can't afford around the clock care and Medicare won't pay for it either."

After a moment, Robby sighed, "I don't mean to be unempathetic, but I'm just not sure in this situation that that's an option. I would argue keeping him at home with you is unethical, even."

You scrubbed your hands over your face, "There's a condition in his will, when he dies. That if I put him somewhere else, I get nothing. And I don't… I wouldn't care so much if it wasn't for the fact that I spent most of my savings moving back here and the cost for all his medical care has eaten up almost everything else and I don't even know how I'm gonna pay for his burial—"

"Okay, hold on, slow down." He looked over your shoulder, as if he could see your father from here, "He really did that? With the will? That seems fuckin' cruel."

You nodded, "He was a mean bastard. He still can be, sometimes. Not like he was, though."

Robby ran a hand over his head and sighed, "Alright… Well let me think it over…"

You scoffed, "What is there to think about?"

"I'm gonna find some way to help you."

"Robby," you sighed, "you really don't have to, it's fine—"

"It's not fine!" He said sharply, "If anyone else came in the ER in the shape you're in and told us they were taking care of their very sick parent all on their own while working full time, we'd have social services down here in a second."

You ground your jaw and looked away from him, "I told you already," you said softly, "that if I wanna put myself in the ground with him, that's my business."

"I don't accept that," he said, shaking his head, "I need you."

You rolled your eyes, "You do not. Dana will be back before you know it, and the hospital won't pay for us both—"

"No," he interrupted, "No, I didn't mean like that." He took your hands in his, squeezed them gently until you were looking at him again, "I need you."

His face was so earnest as he said it and your heart was hammering in your chest. But he couldn't—You were already shaking your head, "No, no that's not true either. I'm just the flavor of the week. You'll replace me with whatever pretty young thing walks through the doors next—"

"No, this is different." He said firmly, "I'm not going anywhere this time, I want you."

You were still standing and he slid his hands around to the backs of your thighs, tugged you gently forward. You didn't want to trust him. Not after the way your last relationship had ended and whatever this was with Robby had been so tumultuous. But the thought of having someone else around, of not being so alone was unfairly enticing. So when he gripped your chin and pulled you down until your mouths met, you didn't stop him.

Sighing into his mouth, your hands found purchase at the base of his neck. He pulled you impossibly closer until you were nearly straddling his lap. He kissed slowly today, luxuriously even, his tongue sliding against yours to savor instead of to claim.

"Dr. Robby—" The door opened, bringing the din of the emergency room with it and you startled, jumping backwards and turned to see McKay in the doorway. She looked shocked, but also—pleased, "I'm so sorry," She said, looking down at the floor as she tried to stifle a smirk, "We need you in trauma two, Robby."

He ran a hand over his beard and nodded, seeming horribly unbothered by the whole thing, "I'll be there in a minute."

McKay left, letting the door shut behind her and Robby turned to you immediately, "Don't freak out, okay? McKay already knew."

You closed your eyes, biting down on your lip in an attempt to steady yourself. Every moment that passed you felt as though things were spinning more and more wildly out of control—

"Hey," Robby's voice again, closer this time. When you opened your eyes he was stood in front of you, he brought up his hand to cup your cheek and despite yourself, you leaned into his touch, "We're gonna figure this out, together. Okay?"

You weren't sure that you quite believed that, but you blinked and then nodded. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and then he was gone.

Later, at the hub, McKay approached you slowly like a hawk circling its prey.

"I'm not gonna talk about it so don't even bother," You said without looking up from your iPad.

She snickered, "Fine, fine, I was just gonna congratulate you is all."

"For what?"

"Uh, well—I've seen Robby take many women to bed in this hospital—"

"—God, Cassie—"

"—But I don't think I've ever seen him in love before. It's nice."

You paused and then looked up, frowning, "You're insane."

McKay shook her head, "I'm not. That man is deeply obsessed with you."

You had to stifle a smirk as you rolled your eyes, but as you looked up, your eyes found Robby's across the room and watched as he instantly softened, the corners of his mouth turning slightly upward.

You looked away quickly, alarmed at the feeling that was now stirring in your chest. One that you thought had been laid to rest many moons ago: Hope.

***

Robby didn't bring up Hemsley House again, for which you were grateful. Instead, when your father got discharged, he came home with you and helped you take care of him and made sure you were taken care of as well.

He hadn't complained about sleeping on the couch, but on one of his days off had set up a new bed in one of the empty spare rooms. Once before, he had asked why you didn't sleep in your childhood bedroom, but you couldn't give him a clean answer, only that you hated being in that room. It reminded you too much of when, as a teenager, you'd felt like a prisoner in your own life.

As the weeks passed, you were growing accustomed to having Robby around, but you knew the care taking was also beginning to take a toll on him as well. He got along well with your father. In fact, your father had begun to prefer his company. Asking him to play chess when he was in a good mood. When he needed to go to the bathroom, he preferred Robby to take him no matter how you tried to insist. It compounded you with guilt, watching Robby day in and day out help without complaint. You felt like it was only a matter of time before he got tired of it all and left. And while you felt like you'd prepared yourself for that possibility, there was a large part of you that realized the heartbreak would be inevitable.

It was a Friday and Cecelia had offered to stay the night with her husband so that you and Robby could have a night to yourselves and Robby was acting almost giddy about it. He had both your overnight bags in his hand as he unlocked the door to his house.

"What d'you think?" He asked as the two of you walked into the entryway, "Should we go out? Or we could stay in, make dinner, rent a movie…"

You shrugged, but the idea of doing anything other than loafing around exhausted you, "Whatever you want," You said, smiling.

Immediately it seemed, Robby noted your lack of enthusiasm. That was something else you'd been having a hard time getting used to: his inhuman ability to see right through you. Or maybe you had always been easy to read, but no one else had cared to open the book.

"Or…" He said slowly, "We could just order take out and have really loud sex."

You laughed at that. It was true that most of the time you had had sex, it was like a secret was being kept. Either at the hospital or at your house with your father sleeping just down the hall. It required discretion, often leading to hands pressed over mouths the stifle the sounds of an orgasm. But not at Robby's house. At Robby's house, you could be as loud as you wanted.

"Yeah, I think that sounds good."

He smirked and took a few steps closer to you, dropping your bags, "Yeah?"

You nodded, "Please." You hated begging, but had found over the course of the last few weeks that Robby really liked it when you told him what you wanted, better when you begged as you panted beneath him. Sometimes begging him to come led to him being turned on so much, he'd grind himself into the sheets as his tongue swirled around your clit. You also enjoyed it when he begged, so you couldn't exactly blame him.

Sure enough, with just that one word you watched Robby's entire demeanor shift.

"You need the stress fucked out of you, baby?"

A familiar chill ran down your spine at the shift in his tone, the easy dominance and soothing cadence. He was not what you expected from a dom in bed, and you thought in fact he could be better described as a switch, much like you. He could tell you what to do, call you his best girl, spank you and spit in your mouth, but all while worshiping you. All while praising you, telling you how good you were doing, how good you felt. No one else could make him feel so good. It always had you melting beneath him. But there were times when he also wanted to be taken care of, yearned for you to boss him around a little bit. And you were happy to oblige.

But you thought tonight, you'd really prefer it for him to take the reins.

"Yes," You said, already breathless in anticipation.

He led you to his bedroom and gently pushed you to sit on the edge of the bed, crawling over you as he kissed you and lightly tugged at your clothes. Quickly, you were naked beneath him, him still fully dressed. You liked that, the slight power imbalance of you being bare before him. He kissed slowly down your neck until he reached your breasts, slowly licking and sucking on each nipple until they hardened against his lips.

Already, you were worked up, your hand attempting to slip between your legs— But Robby quickly circled your wrist in his hand, pinning it back up over your head.

"I know, I know sweetheart," He cooed when you began to whine, "I'm gonna take such good care of you, I promise, just need you to be patient, yeah? You need me to make you come? Think it'll make you feel better?"

You nodded quickly, "Please, really need it."

"I know, baby," He said softly and began sucking harshly down your belly, working his way down to where you craved him the most, "You're being so good for me. You already wet for me?" He reached two fingers between your legs, collected your slickness on his fingers as you sighed at the contact, "That all for me?"

You nodded, "Only for you."

He smiled up at you and kissed the inside of your thigh, "Hm, let's see if you taste as sweet as you sound when you beg for me."

The first swipe of his tongue had your back arching up and off the mattress. From the very first time you slept with him, it had been obvious your sexual compatibility had been off the charts. You had never told him this, but he was easily the best sex you'd ever had. It alarmed you how quickly he learned your body and how fast he could pull you to the edge when he wanted to.

Today he was torturously slow, but he also knew that despite your begging, you liked being teased. That you never came harder than you did after he'd repeatedly nearly brought you to the edge, only to pull you back at the last second.

After a while of this, you with tears streaming down your cheeks, he slipped a finger inside of you, pumping slowly, matching the pace of his tongue against your clit.

"Robby— Robby, please, please, let me come."

He hummed against you, but did not remove his mouth from you. The ocean receded from the shore, building steadily in the background, the impending crash growing larger and larger by the second. He sped his movements incrementally until you were grinding against his mouth, chasing your high—And then the wave broke and you were crying out, Robby's name hanging from your tongue as he worked you through it.

Your limbs felt loose and useless at your sides, thighs shaking as Robby finally let up and crawled back up to you. You pulled him down by the neck to kiss him, your juices smearing from his beard to your chin, the taste of you evident on his tongue.

Moments later, you began pulling at his clothes, helping him get undressed. Immediately, when his cock sprung from his boxers, you had a hand wrapped around it, stroking him eagerly as he sucked on your tongue.

When he finally pushed himself inside you, your mind went quiet as it usually did when he fucked you. It reminded you of when you were young and had fallen asleep to the television on, only to wake up to the monotone frequency and rainbow pattern across the screen.

"Feel so good, sweetheart," He had you folded nearly in half, still fucking you at a slow and gentle pace. You stared up at him, admiring the view. Beyond how good he felt inside you, especially when you were extra sensitive after an orgasm, when he was in control you thought he was exceptionally beautiful with a fucked out expression on his face. He was flushed red from the exertion and sweat dripped down his back when you dragged your fingernails across his skin, "Jesus Christ, think your pussy was made to take my cock like this, wasn't it?"

You hummed in response, pulling him down closer to you so you could suck and bite along his neck and shoulders. You felt his cock twitch inside you and gasped, your walls tightening in response and Robby swore.

The fatigue from your orgasm was beginning to wear off and you started bucking your hips up to meet his with every thrust, needing him deeper and harder, "There you go, angel," he cooed, "Such a good girl, aren't you?"

As you nodded, he pressed his thumb against your chin, prompting you to open your mouth. He slipped two fingers inside, stroking them against your tongue until you closed your mouth around them, humming and bobbing your head around them as if they were his cock.

You watched Robby's eyes, the way they so subtly changed at the sight of you sucking on his fingers. It undid him, with your walls fluttering around his cock and your pretty mouth taking his fingers, taking everything he gave you, "Ah, fuck." He swore and then rutted his hips into you faster and harder, his fingers slipping out of your mouth.

The sensation of him thrusting into you over and over had you seeing stars. You never felt so loose, so free as you did with him inside you like this. Nothing else existed outside of where your bodies connected and held one another. Maybe it was this utterly uninhibited feeling that had you gasping as you looked up at him, "I love you."

His eyes widened slightly as he processed what you had said—and then he was coming, the sounds he made as he did sending pleasant tingles down your spine.

He collapsed against you after finishing, his cock still inside you and softening. Turning your head towards him, you claimed his mouth. Despite the fact that it was over, you still felt needy for him, for this closeness, the intimacy of it. It also helped that you didn't wish for him to speak yet. Didn't wish to hear him let you down easy after you'd so recklessly declared your affection. He kissed you back after grunting a bit in surprise and then a moment later he pulled away, a gentle hand still at your throat.

"Hold on, I, before anything else, I just—"

"It's fine," You said quickly, "We can pretend I didn't say anything, I didn't—I got caught up in the moment."

He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, eyes narrowing, "Well, did you mean it?"

You pressed your lips together in a thin line, eyes searching his for what the correct answer was. You had meant it. Had felt it for a while, had thought it to yourself more times than you could count, almost every time you looked at him these days. If you were honest, you loved him so much, you threatened to burst at the seams with it.

"If it helps," He said finally, sensing your hesitancy, "I love you too," He said, his voice impossibly tender and hopeful, "I love you so much I sometimes ache with it."

Your breath stuttered and a hesitant smile began to stretch across your face, "You do?"

He nodded, fingers gently caressing your cheek as he pressed his nose into yours.

"I love you," You said again, a little breathless, "I meant it."

He grinned and kissed you and when you opened your eyes again, his were looking into yours, shining impossibly bright with what you hoped were happy tears.

Later, after you'd eaten way too much Chinese takeout in your underwear on the couch, Robby paused the TV show you'd been watching.

"Hey—" You said, pushing yourself up from where you'd been comfortably resting against his chest, "Why'd you do that?"

He sighed and pulled you both up to sitting, much to your chagrin, "I wanted to talk to you. About your father."

You stiffened slightly. Here it was, the impossible ultimatum he was bound to give you. He couldn't help with your father anymore and so it was your father or Robby. You could not continue to have both.

"I've been doing some research," he started, "And I talked to Noelle about it—"

"You were talking to your ex about my father?"

He winced, "Just, let me finish?"

You huffed and crossed your arms in front of your chest, "Fine."

"Noelle told me that you could combine your father's Medicare as well as your own benefits, have you heard of the Hospital at Home program?"

You frowned and shook your head stubbornly, "No."

"One of our benefits to working at the hospital includes extremely discounted part time home health care, for either ourselves or family."

You opened and closed your mouth, "Oh."

He nodded, "Yeah, so what I was thinking is that combining those two would likely get you at least to cover the day time hours… And um, I looked into overnight care—"

"I can already tell you I can't afford that."

"I know," he said, placing a hand on your ankle, "I know, which is why I wanted to offer to pay for it."

You stared at him for a long time, and then blinked, "Robby, that's—that's too much—"

"It's not," he said shaking his head, "Really, I promise it's not. I'm pretty frugal with my money, I haven't had anyone to spend it on in a really, really long time. I can't think of a better use for it. Let me close the gap for you. Please."

You felt a burning in your eyes and looked down at your hands, not wanting him to see you cry. The immediate relief at just the prospect of not having to be your father's around the clock care was overwhelming. It felt like a dam was splintering and cracking behind your eyes.

"You're sure?" You said finally, hearing the tears in your own voice.

He squeezed your ankle lightly, "Yeah, positive. We can start interviewing nurses next week."

You nodded, your vision blurring from the tears, "Thank you." You said and as the dam fully broke, he pulled you into his lap.

"I've got you, baby."

***

EPILOGUE— TWO YEARS LATER

Your father dying was something you had thought about for quite some time, but the reality of it had been quite different than you'd imagined.

You'd expected to feel almost nothing by the time he died. After all, he'd become a shell of the man you knew. He hadn't been himself for quite a long time. And by the time he passed, he remembered Robby's name better than yours.

But when he had died, for some reason you laid in bed beside him for a long time, wailing like a child. You couldn't understand it and that made you cry more.

Robby had held you for a while that night, had wondered aloud if maybe you were mourning that you had never been able to fix your relationship with him. If maybe deep down you had wished to fully understand the way he treated you, if you had been hoping for an apology.

Your father had been the only person to ever know what you were like as a rambunctious kid, skinned knees and digging in the dirt for worms. The girl who begged to take a bird inside with a broken wing to try and nurse it back to health, only to have it die in the night. You had been inconsolable for days afterwards no matter how he tried to bribe you with sweets and toys. Only your father knew the girl who watched the Wizard of Oz on repeat for an entire summer, walking around the house in braids, a blue gingham dress, and ruby red slippers every single day.

He was the only person alive who knew you when you were still soft and curious and unconditionally hopeful. And sure, he had crushed the spirit out of her pretty quickly, but you always knew he remembered her the way you did. But now he was dead and he'd taken most of her with him.

The burial had been a short affair. Your father had cut most ties he had with anyone once he retired twenty years ago and so most of the people who showed up were his home health nurses, Robby, Cecelia, Dana, and other coworkers from the Pitt. Your father's dogs—now your dogs—Franklin and Garner had laid at his headstone and whined softly throughout.

And then, when it was all said and done, you'd let yourself rot on the couch with the dogs for what felt like months. The house was quiet now. If you thought it'd been filled with ghosts before, it practically overflowed with them now.

Finally, Robby came home one day, took one look at you and the dogs laying pathetically on the couch, remote hanging from your hand and said, "That's it. We're leaving. Pack up your shit."

"Where are we going?" You asked, sounding bored.

"My cabin in the mountains."

And so Robby had packed you and the dogs into his car and drove you out of the city. You spent a few days there and he finally got you to admit that you felt like he'd been the last person alive to really know what you were like before he beat the whimsy out of you.

But Robby had shaken his head, "That's not true, I know her too." When you frowned he went on, "I see her whenever you roll in the grass with the dogs, when you sing a silly song to the kids in the ER to distract them from an IV or a blood draw, when we go out dancing with McKay and I have to physically remove you from the dance floor." He placed a finger against your chest, "She's still in there. She's not dead until you are."

It had moved you so thoroughly that after a few moments you blurted out, "Will you marry me?"

He had grinned so wide his crow's feet nearly swallowed his eyes whole and you'd made love until the sun came up.

As the months and years passed and Robby stayed firmly by your side, you learned to love with abandon and so did he. You never again woke up in the morning wondering if he still loved you or if he planned to leave, because the second he opened his eyes and saw you, there was always a smile on his face. And in turn, you stopped looking for an escape hatch.

Love could not heal on its own, that much you knew to be true. But it was also true that love had held your hand and led you to the door for healing, had stood there with you until you felt ready to walk through it. Love didn't make you worthy, but it had insisted stubbornly day in and day out that you were worthy if you would just open your eyes and see it for yourself.

Love hadn't made you want to live again, but it had held you, patient and steadfast when you didn't and reminded you that the feeling would pass.

It was snatched away from you just like that. You were angry and more than a little bitter and you wanted to get fucked up on a beach about it.

There would be no men on this vacation, you decided. It would be all too easy to fall in bed with a gorgeous specimen and drown yourself in someone else. You'd spiral down the same path you'd only just narrowly escaped. Because that's how you were framing it now, that you were lucky all this had happened, that you learned who he really was before the wedding.

It didn't make it all hurt any less though, no matter how you tried to pretend it did.

So men were off limits. Yep, they sure were. You almost made it through to the end of the trip having followed through. Until you met him.

As luck would have it, the resort you'd chosen in Jamaica had been overrun with middle aged men, exactly your type. At first, you had thought it'd be an inhuman feat to get home without falling victim to some older man's flirting. But quickly, you noticed all of these men were here with their wives and had exhaled a sigh of relief. Immediately, all desire for them evaporated and it was much easier to ignore them.

So when a tall, handsome, bearded man took the pool chair next to you your last morning you didn't bother to even look up from your book.

"Gorgeous weather we're having, wouldn't you say?" His voice was warm with amusement, a pleasant grate to it against your ears.

You sighed and turned a page, "No," You said simply.

He gave a short, incredulous laugh, "Excuse me?"

"The weather's lovely, but I'm not interested."

"Interested in what?"

"Sleeping with you."

He chortled quietly and out of your peripheral, you saw him shake his head, "Well I don't recall asking you that."

You sighed, "Look, I'm young, but I wasn't born yesterday. And, my God, how long have you been married that the best you could do was ask about the weather?"

Finally, you looked at him, and were immediately grateful your sunglasses could not betray the way your pupils likely dilated at the sight of him. So thoroughly exactly your type: Tall, slightly graying beard, brown hair and brown eyes, a hairy chest that led to a soft tummy, the beginnings of a beer belly, protruding just slightly over the waistband of his bathing suit. Oh, you were going to be sick.

Amused smirk on his face, he scratched the back of his head, "Well, I guess that explains why I've never been married, if my flirting is as horrendous as you say."

You blinked and your eyes darted immediately to his left hand. No ring. "You're not married?" You asked, note of fear in your voice. If he wasn't married this was going to make things much more difficult for you.

He shook his head, "No."

You weren't entirely convinced and you had been burned before by men claiming not to be married, but it turned out they had simply taken their ring off for the evening.

Clenching your jaw, you held out your hand, "May I see your hand?"

He gave you a funny look, but obliged you, likely amused by your bizarre behavior. His hand dwarfed yours, warm and calloused in your own. You resisted the urge to intertwine your fingers and closely examined his ring finger. No indentation, no hint of a tan line. If he had ever worn a wedding band, he had taken it off long ago.

Satisfied, you returned his hand and leaned back in your chair, turning your attention back to your book, "I'm still not sleeping with you."

"Again, I never asked you to."

"Not yet, but you will. The answer will still be no."

You had said it more for your own benefit than his, but you suspected he had taken it as a challenge. So you learned each other's names and he had spent the whole day chatting with you, asking about your book, asking you why you were here, if your ire for men encompassed the whole gender or was it reserved exclusively for married men.

"All of them, at the moment. You can thank my cheating ex-fiance for that."

"He must've been out of his mind to cheat on you." He said softly, and it didn't sound like a line to use, it sounded genuine.

But you scoffed, "You don't know me, maybe I'm a raging psychotic bitch who drove him to cheat."

He shook his head, "Nah, I don't buy it. I suspect this prickly exterior is just to act as a deterrent."

You felt your cheeks heat, "And you're not deterred?"

"Not in the slightest."

Chatting at the pool turned into drinks by the pool turned into drinks in the pool turned into lunch by the pool until the sun began to wane.

"Come to dinner with me." He said as everyone was beginning to abandon the pool.

"I'm not sleeping with you," you repeated your mantra, but it was beginning to sound false even to your own ears.

"I'm not asking you to," He repeated, and you knew he was lying as well.

Dinner turned into drinks turned into a walk on the beach under the stars. As the waves crashed against the shore, he kissed you in the moonlight and when you moaned into his mouth you knew he had won.

Which was how you'd ended up naked back in his room, straddled on top of him, worshiping his chest and belly with lips and teeth and tongue. You weren't entirely sure what you had done to deserve the sort of pleasure that was overtaking you now, sparking through every inch of your skin that met his.

Until he gently gripped your chin in between his fingers and brought your face up to his own, so you could see just how desperate and breathless you'd made him. Dewy brown eyes looked up at you, heavy with lust and awe as you rocked your hips back and forth, your pussy dragging over his hard cock and clit rubbing against the soft pudge of his belly with every stroke.

You ground your slick folds against anything, anything to find purchase. Your clit rode the incline from groin to belly button, moaning into his mouth as you did.

"You're gonna come just like this, aren't you baby?" He murmured, "Rubbing your clit on anything will do the job, hm? You're that desperate for me?"

Normally his cockiness would've pissed you off, but you were so desperate for him it only surged you forward, pathetic whimper falling from your lips where he gripped your cheeks.

"Go on, sweetheart, come for me."

And suddenly you were unraveling and crying out his name as you did. He had positioned your hips over his cock afterwards, driving you up and down his erection himself while you were dumb on the aftershocks of your orgasm, clit occasionally rubbing against his belly again as he did, sending sparks across your body.

When it was over, you had begun to gather your things to head back to your room, "Where're you going?" He asked, voice rough with sleep.

"Back to my room."

"Oh," he said, a note of surprise, and was that… disappointment? In his voice? "You could, um, you could sleep here if you wanted."

You resisted a smirk as you looked up at him, "Robby, are you asking me to sleep with you?"

A grin stretched across his face, "Yeah, I think I am. If you'd reconsider your previous decision."

You pretended to think it over, but you had really already decided. You'd lost your own battle, why deny yourself the softness afterwards as well? Those eyes, those hands, that face, that voice, had won you over from the moment you saw him.

And so, you were back in bed with him, curled up against his chest with his lips at your temple. You reminded yourself that all this was just temporary, that tomorrow you'd both be leaving, likely to another side of the country, and you'd never see him again.

You continued to remind yourself this as you both woke up the next morning and you gathered your things, intending to head back to your room to pack.

"Hey, um, I know we're on vacation and we're both thinking that's all this is, but…" He took out a card from his wallet and began scribbling what you assumed was his number on the back, "If you're ever in town, give me a call."

You smirked as you took the card, already knowing you'd get rid of it when you got home. You desperately needed to be alone for a while and you had already broken too many rules for him in the space of 24 hours. You shuddered to think what other rules he could convince you to break if you allotted him any more time.

But as you went to place the card in your wallet, your eyes caught on the front:

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center

Michael Robinavitch, MD

Emergency Medicine, Department Head

And your heart stuttered to a stop in your chest. Oh, this couldn't be happening, "Fuck."

"What? What is it?"

Your mind raced backwards to the interview you'd had a month ago with Dana Evans. The grumpy attending she'd told you might need a little time to adjust to you. That he struggled with change but he had a good heart and if you did a good job (which you would, you were a fucking stellar charge nurse) he'd come around.

"You're Dr. Robinavitch?" You asked, a little breathless.

He looked at you, confusion evident in his face, "…Yes?"

You sighed heavily, resigned to whatever fresh hell this was turning out to be, all because you couldn't have just kept to your one fucking rule. No men.

You reintroduced yourself and stuck out your hand, "I'm your new charge nurse."

***

Robby's head had been spinning ever since you had told him you would be taking over for Dana for a while. It wasn't that big of a deal he tried to tell himself. It was possible to maintain a mature, professional relationship even if you had slept with a colleague.

He just wished he had had the chance to know you professionally first.

"You can't tell anyone," You had said frantically that morning, "You have to pretend you don't know me when I come in."

He had rolled his eyes and scratched the back of his head, "Seems a bit high school, don't you think?"

"No," you snapped, "I know how much everyone there must love Dana because I met her! She's phenomenal! Do you know how hard it's gonna be for me to earn everyone's respect? And if on day one everyone knows I slept with the attending?"

He looked down at his shoes, shrugging his shoulders, "Honestly I think a lot of them would respect you for it. Might even consider it community service given how miserable I've been lately." When he looked back up, you were glaring at him and he managed a chuckle, "Fine, okay. We'll act like it never happened if that's what you want."

"It is."

He nodded, but felt a kernel of disappointment in his chest. He wasn't sure why, exactly. He knew when he slept with you it would likely be a one night stand, but the idea of acting like he didn't know you when he had spent the last twenty four hours wooing you felt wrong.

To complicate matters further he didn't want to like Dana's replacement. And he found already there was resentment brewing within him, both for replacing Dana and for dictating your nonexistent relationship.

"Great," He said, turning his back on you, "Then I'll see you in the Pitt."

And so now he sat at his work station, glasses perched on his nose as he pretended to chart while Dana reiterated that you'd be coming in today to shadow. He'd nodded and nervously scratched the back of his head, avoiding meeting her eyes.

"Robinavitch."

"Yeah?" his jaw shifted from side to side. Even just the sound of your name elicited memories of you on top of him, of his hand squeezing the soft flesh of your hip in the pool, of kissing you with only the stars to witness.

He had no idea how he was going to make it through today or any successive shift with you as charge.

"What's the matter with you?" Dana popped a piece of gum in her mouth, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He shook his head and looked back at the computer screen in front of him, words on the chart scrambling and bouncing off his skull, not quite penetrating.

"Just tired." He said, tossing back some of his coffee as if to prove the point.

He could feel Dana's eyes scrutinizing him still across the hub, "You know, you've been off since you got back from vacation. Thought it would've done you some good to be away from this place, but it seems to have made you worse somehow."

Your words echoed in his head. How you'd asked him to pretend to not know you. He was fairly certain he could probably be convincing of that in front of most people—But not Dana. He was almost positive the second you walked through the door she'd clock it.

What was the harm? It wasn't Dana you were worried about anyhow, it was everyone else. And if he didn't tell someone it would drive him insane.

He sighed, "I… met someone. While I was away."

Dana frowned, "Okay…" She said slowly, "Vacation fling, what's the big deal?"

"Yeah, I thought as much… Until I gave her my full name," He shook his head slowly, "You should've seen the look on her face."

Dana stared at him, blinking blankly, "You're gonna have to spell it out for me, Cap, I'm not following."

He rubbed his face with his hands, felt the flush crawling up his neck, "Well it turned out," He said finally, "My vacation fling is our new charge nurse."

After a moment of what Robby assumed was processing, Dana pulled her glasses off, "You slept with my new hire? Are you joking? Tell me you're joking."

Robby was beet red, "Could you keep it down, please? She asked me not to tell anyone."

Finally, Dana scoffed, "Son of a b—"

***

You were leaned up against the wall outside the ambulance bay, lit cigarette between your lips. Your new badge was clipped to your scrub top but you'd been mostly avoiding looking at it. Every time you saw "Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center" you were reminded of Robby's business card, of the fact that he was going to be in this building. That as charge you'd be unable to avoid him.

You looked down at your watch and saw you were three minutes late. Probably not the best first impression to have, but you'd do almost anything to prolong what was certain to be a painfully awkward reunion.

In the time between when your plane deboarded in Pittsburgh and now you had been actively fighting every urge to think about him. To remember the way he felt inside you, the sound of his voice, low and husky in your ear, his tongue between your legs—

"Fuck," you muttered, feeling the warmth spread from your belly outwards as you ground out your cigarette.

Stretching your neck from side to side, you breathed in the frigid February air slowly through your nose, and out through your mouth, opening your eyes in time to see your breath cloud in front of you. You were alive and you had been through worse. You would survive this, too. Better yet, you'd thrive.

And with that, you walked into the lion's den.

Dana spotted you first, a smile on her face as you approached. And you couldn't help it, your eyes slid to the broad shouldered doctor next to her, his face cold and distant. It was what you'd asked for, you knew. But still, you couldn't help remembering the gentle and funny man he'd been when you met. The way he'd looked at you that day felt like being warmed by the sun.

You swallowed and tore your eyes away from his to meet Dana's, forcing a smile.

"Hey, kiddo," she greeted you, "You make it in okay?"

You nodded, "Yeah, it's good to see you again, Dana."

"This is Dr. Robinavitch next to me," she gestured to Robby and you immediately reached a hand out to shake his— "Though I understand introductions are unnecessary."

Your face fell and yours and Robby's hands hung midway to one another before you dropped yours and looked up at him with abject horror.

He at least had the decency to look guilty as he sighed and turned to the woman next to him, "Really, Dana?"

"What?" She looked between the both of you, a knowing smile on her face, "We're all adults here."

But your mouth hung open, daggers in your eyes aimed exclusively at the man in front of you, "I asked you for one thing."

Before Robby could rush in to defend himself, Dana swung an arm around you and turned you away from him, "Kid, believe me. This is a blip. He only told me because I could tell something was up and I would have pinpointed it as soon as you walked in. He hasn't told anyone else and he won't, alright?"

The betrayal and anger still simmered in your peripheral at Dana's words. You felt immediately like a trapped animal, Robby having coaxed you into a cage and tossing away the key. You had trust issues. Your last relationship had ended terribly, marred by betrayal and a complete upheaval of the person you thought you had known best. It wasn't easy to trust anyone after that. You had let Robby slip past your defenses too easily, lulled by the idea of never having to see him again.

Well, now, he'd have a tough time surpassing your "prickly exterior" as he had so affectionately called it. Now, it would become an absolute fortress, hostile to any potential invaders, especially him.

"I just don't want that to be everyone's first impression of me," You said softly to Dana, still unable to look at her for the embarrassment.

"It won't be," She squeezed your shoulder, "As long as it's done now, yes?" She forced eye contact with you, "It was one and done, right?"

"Yes," you said immediately, "absolutely."

"Alright, then don't sweat it, kid. No one's gonna find out anything. Now," She gestured behind her and in a moment you felt Robby's presence beside you, though you didn't look at him, "Let's do rounds with the doctors, alright?"

You nodded, tried to calm yourself as you jotted notes on each patient, but it was hard to jolt yourself from your thoughts.

That was, until a hypothermic child was rolled in and then you had purpose again. You hardly noticed Robby next to you as he called out orders, already flagging a Respiratory Therapist to assist with intubation and the warming and humidifying of the ventilation circuit to attempt to warm the lungs.

Before Robby could ask, you gently removed the family from the room, attempted to gather more information about the accident that brought the child in.

"His clothes were wet, did he fall through some ice on a lake or a pond?"

His mother shook her head, eyes red rimmed, "No, I—I don't think so. I think he was just outside for too long." Her face crumpled, "He has autism. I didn't even know he'd gone outside. Is he going to be okay?"

Before you could say anything, you felt Robby behind you, "He's stable right now and we're working to warm him up. His heart seems healthy, if a bit slower than it should be. We're helping him breathe right now and using humidified air to warm up his lungs. I'll come find you when we have an update."

"Can we see him?"

"Of course."

The parents thanked Robby profusely and then headed into the trauma room and you immediately began walking to the Hub where Dana was.

"Hey—" You felt his warm hand at your forearm and flinched as you turned to face him. He dropped his hand, a flicker of something you couldn't quite place was there and gone, "I wanted to talk to you for a second—"

"Is it about work?"

"No," He said slowly, "I—"

"Dr. Robby," You looked around nervously to make sure no one was watching the two of you, "From here on out our relationship is strictly professional. I don't want to discuss personal matters with you and I certainly don't want to discuss them here. Okay? Are we good?"

He stared at you and this time you recognized the irritation in the set of his jaw, "I only wanted to apologize to you for telling Dana. I didn't do it maliciously, I just know her and she's… very observant. It was just easier to have it out in the open—"

"Easier for who?" You snapped, "I imagine it's very easy for you to just brush things like this off in the workplace. You're not the first attending I've slept with, I know how this goes. I bet you sweep a new woman off her feet every week in this hospital. I'm sure I'm just another in a very long, forgotten list. The problem is that long after you've forgotten, everyone else will remember the women you've discarded."

He scoffed, looking bewildered, "I'm—I'm sorry have I done something to offend you? Beyond the obvious? This—" He gestured between you, "—reaction seems disproportionate to what happened today."

You shrugged, "I'm not upset, I just want to be clear that there is and will be nothing more between us than a collegial relationship."

He crossed his arms and looked down at this feet, "Understood, I just wanted to—"

"No need," You smiled, "I'll see you around."

Then you left him standing there, feeling confused and dumb and maybe a little angry, though he wouldn't admit that yet. No, he would not give you the satisfaction of seeing how easily you'd gotten under his skin.

Robby thought himself an empathetic man and it didn't take a genius to understand why you were lashing out at him. He remembered dismissive comments about hating men and a cheating fiancé. You had let him in so easily in Jamaica because you didn't think you'd have to see him again. Now that the two of you would be working together, the stakes were higher. You had to cut him out like a cancer before he metastasized, before he reached your heart.

And fuck, he knew he should respect that. He should have backed off right then.

But the fact that you were so terrified to let him get close meant that what you were really afraid of was your own desire. In other words, he could have another chance to touch you. He'd also thought he'd never see you again after the first time, but finding out that you would be working here had had him revisiting your night together and longing for your skin instead of deterring him.

So once again, Icarus spread his wings, his eyes turned up to the sun.

***

Robby had to jog to catch up to you after shift ended. You had left in a hurry, dismissive of all his attempts at conversation unless it was about a patient.

"Is this gonna be an issue?" Dana had asked him quietly when there was just an hour left of the shift and you had once again skirted past his attempts to address the tension between you, "The girl becomes Houdini whenever you enter a five foot radius."

"I'll sort it out." He said sighing, watching you from across the way. The child that had come in with hypothermia earlier that day was awake and the two of you smiling at each other as you took his vitals. Something you said made him laugh and your grin widened. It nearly knocked him out.

So now he was running to catch up with you, "Hey—" he called out when he was close enough, out of breath, "Hang on a sec—"

You sighed when you saw him next to you, matching your stride, "I thought we understood each other—"

"You haven't let me get a goddamn word in all day so I don't know what would give you that idea."

He watched as your whole body tensed up. You were still avoiding looking at him, "I want to be adults about this—"

Robby stepped in front of you, walked slowly backwards to force you to look at him, "Is that why you're avoiding me like a schoolgirl with a crush?"

It was obvious you weren't enjoying the fact that he was now cornering you and you had no choice, but to listen to him. You rolled your neck and slowed to a stop in front of him, "I'm not avoiding you. Last I checked, you should be able to do your job without my input. There was nothing about babysitting the attending physician in the job description."

You sidestepped him as he laughed softly to himself. You were so goddamn antagonistic it was infuriating.

"If you can't handle working with me, collaboratively," He called after you, "Then I'll have to tell Dana that she needs to find a different charge nurse."

You stopped walking and slowly turned back towards him, "You wouldn't do that." You said, but your voice betrayed you. You were uncertain.

He was bluffing. First of all, Dana would kill him if she had to put off leaving for a while because he had defiled their promising new hire. Second, even though it had only been one shift and you had been avoiding him as if your life depended on it, it was easy to see that you were a good charge nurse and finding a nurse at all in need of employment was rare. Third—and the reason that brought him the most shame—he really wanted to sleep with you again and he suspected if he fired you, you'd be unlikely to indulge him.

But right now, you didn't need to know any of that.

"I certainly don't want to," he shrugged, "but the working relationship between a charge nurse and the attending physician is probably the most important in our department. If we don't work well together it all falls apart. So… do you think you could put our little dalliance behind you?"

Slowly, you walked up to him until you were toe to toe. Until you were close enough to kiss him if you just pushed up on your toes. His breathing faltered at your closeness and a smug look transformed your face when you noticed, "Can you?"

The scent of you sat heady in his nostrils, and despite himself, Robby felt himself leaning into it, mouth hovering just above yours. If he closed his eyes, he was back in the Caribbean, your tongue in his mouth tasting of rum and sea salt.

Swallowing, he took a step back from you, "Sure can."

Your grin widened, "Then we're good."

He cleared his throat, "You'll stop avoiding me?"

You nodded and looked down at your watch, "Sure, I really have to go now, though."

"Let me walk you home."

You snorted, "No, I don't want you to know where I live."

He frowned, "What do you think I'll do with that information?"

"Probably show up in the middle of the night begging to slip into my bed," You smirked and started to walk away from him again, "Goodnight, Doctor Robinavitch."

"I would not—We said—It's Robby." He called after you, exasperated, but you ignored him.

He wasn't used to someone getting under his skin like this. In fact, it was usually him doing the irritating. But you were so good at needling him to the point of being flustered.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself as he watched you disappear into the dark.

It would be annoying how frustrating he found you if it didn't also turn him on.

But that was just fine. If you wanted to play games then he'd set the match.

***

You hesitated for just a moment as you turned the key in the doorknob of your childhood home. As always, when you walked through the threshold you were cocooned by old ghosts.

You leaned against the door as you closed it behind you, pressing your entire weight into it so you could slide the deadbolt into place. Though, you thought, the deadbolt likely wouldn't supply much protection if someone thought to break in, the wood around the hinges beginning to splinter and crack. All that stood between you and the outside world was a good kick from a steel-toed boot.

You let your backpack fall from your shoulder to the hardwoods, kicking off your New Balances as you did. You listened to the familiar sounds of the house: the hum of the refrigerator (the appliance was as old as you were and had only gotten louder as time passed), a Jeopardy! rerun playing in the TV room, and your father's snores echoing down the hallway.

You padded towards the TV room where you found Cecelia on the couch, illuminated by the blue light from the TV as she crocheted diligently. She looked up slightly from her project when you entered the doorway, but continued counting quietly to herself as you sat down next to her, leaning your head on her shoulder.

Cecelia had been the first emergency charge nurse you'd shadowed at Presby when you were still in college. And since you had never known your mother, you had imprinted on her immediately like a little duckling. Luckily, she had taken to you as well. She was the reason you'd gotten the job at PTMC since Dana had been her sorority sister once upon a time.

Having retired during COVID, she spent her time now with her kids and grandkids. And you. And occasionally your father, when you needed the help.

"How was your first day?" She asked, once she'd written down where she'd left off on the sweater she was crocheting in a notebook.

"Long," You said solemnly.

She pointed to a mug sitting on the coffee table in front of you, "Made you tea."

You sighed and picked it up, the warmth of the mug leeching into your hands and spreading. The steam caressed your face and you inhaled greedily—chamomile.

"Thank you," you said softly and took a sip, "How was he today?"

It had been two years since your father was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia. You were an only child, your mother had left both of you when you were an infant, and your father had no other family as far as you knew. Except for a single cousin who, up until a couple of months ago, had been taking care of him as the disease progressed. Until in an episode of confusion, your father had punched him, convinced he was an intruder in his home.

And so, the responsibilities had passed to you.

"Okay, tired, which is why I let him go to bed before you got home. I saw some bruises on him when I took him to the bathroom earlier. Did he sleep through the night last night?"

You closed your eyes and rubbed at your forehead, "Uh, no. Sorry I forgot to mention that. He, um, he fell. Trying to get out of bed last night."

Cecelia hummed, "So you didn't get much sleep then either, I assume."

You shook your head, "Guilty."

She sighed and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, "Honey, I'm worried about you. He's only gonna get worse. I really think you should look into around the clock care—"

"I can't afford it," You shook your head, "And he blew all his money gambling before I knew how sick he was. Before anyone knew how sick he was."

"There are programs," she said softly, "For people who can't afford it. Ask Dana, someone in that hospital should be able to help you."

You pondered that in silence for a moment, but the truth was you didn't want anyone else taking care of him. It was bad enough subjecting Cecelia to it and that was only because she had absolutely insisted so that you could work and you had insisted on paying her. You couldn't pay her much, in fact it was sort of criminal how little you were paying her, but you really didn't have the money to give and she wouldn't have accepted more anyway.

The money didn't change the fact that you didn't know how you'd forgive yourself if in his confusion your father hurt Cecelia.

"I can talk to Dana—"

"No," You said quickly, "Thank you, but I—I can handle it."

Cecelia eyed you warily and then hummed, "He kept asking for an 'Evie' today. Do you know who that is? Kept asking when she'd be home from work."

Your stomach knotted and you turned away from her, "Yeah, that's my mom's name. Evelyn. He called her Evie."

Cecelia squeezed your shoulders, "I'm sorry, sweetie. I know this is hard on you."

It was hard. Uplifting your whole life to take care of a man who had never paid you much attention unless it was to yell at you. Losing the man you thought you were going to marry in the midst of it all. Moving back into this house all alone was turning you into the isolated, reactionary child you used to be. You could feel her trying to work her way out of you, sticky fingers and sharp tongue, especially whenever you were talking to Robby. Something about him had her stomping her feet and sticking out her tongue.

"It's okay," You said and then stood, "Let me walk you out."

"I'll see you tomorrow morning?" She asked as she pulled on her shoes.

You nodded, "Yes, thank you for doing this."

"After twenty something years in an ED this is a cake walk." She said and pulled you into a hug, "I'm happy to do it for you. I'd do more if I could."

The backs of your eyes burned and you furiously blinked it away as you pulled back, "You've done more than enough."

You closed the door behind her, leaning against the door again so you could lock the deadbolt. With Cecilia gone, you got ready for bed and then curled up on the couch in the TV room. You didn't like to sleep in your childhood bed, had tried a few times now since moving back and had gotten repeated nightmares. Besides, it was easier to hear your father from the couch.

As if on cue, Franklin, one of your father's German Shepherds padded out of your father's room to sleep at your feet. You reached a hand out to stroke his head once he'd settled. Your father had two German Shepherds, Franklin, named after Franklin D. Roosevelt and Garner, named after FDR's first vice president, John Nance Garner.

Garner couldn't be bothered with anyone who wasn't your father, but Franklin had always liked you best. Which was just as well, because it made you feel better knowing Garner had an eye on your dad while he was sleeping.

"Goodnight, Mr. President." You said softly, and closed your eyes, the sounds of Jeopardy! lulling you to sleep.

***

Robby's eyes were closed, but the images from the TV still bled through to the backs of his eyelids. A woman was asleep next to him. He couldn't quite remember her name. Jennifer or Jessica or Jillian… He had gone for a beer after walking away from you not intending to bring anyone home. But she'd been persistent and something about her had reminded him of you. The sarcastic tilt of her mouth much like yours.

Now that she was asleep, he thought he had wanted it to be you so badly any similarities he might've seen were a figment of his imagination.

Along with the blue light of the TV, your face occasionally flashed behind his eyelids. Sleep seemed faraway and impossible with your ghost haunting every corner and crevice of his mind.

The game of solving the mystery of you had been a welcome distraction while he was on vacation, a vacation that had been essentially forced upon him by the higher ups. He had spent most of it booking excursion after excursion or drinking himself into oblivion. Until he met you that last day.

He thought he had you figured out, but he was starting to realize he had barely scratched the surface of you that day. Why wouldn't you let him walk you home? He suspected there was more to it than your teasing about him trying to slip inside with you.

It was easier to distract himself with thoughts of you, with the novel stimulation of having a new puzzle to solve, than it was to deal with his own shit.

He turned his head to the side and blinked his eyes open to see the woman sleeping next to him and heard your voice echo in his mind: I'm sure I'm just another in a very long, forgotten list. The problem is that long after you've forgotten, everyone else will remember the women you've discarded.

He hadn't meant for it to ever be that way, but as he looked at this woman next to him and tried and failed to recall her name, he knew you were right. In being reckless with himself, there had been collateral damage.

The problem was, he wasn't quite sure how to stop.

***

It had been three or four weeks now since you started in the Pitt, you had lost count. The days tended to blend together. It didn't help that you couldn't recall the last time you had gotten a proper night's sleep. Your father had been waking up more and more throughout the night until you were so anxious anticipating it that you were averaging maybe three hours of sleep a night if you were lucky.

You were spending all, or most of your energy being kind and supportive for your staff and so had very little patience for Robby. And he had been pissing you off already this morning. Moving patients around without telling you. Assigning incoming triage to rooms without telling you. He was fucking with your board and that already pissed you off, but then you saw Princess at the bedside of a patient you had specifically assigned to Jesse and you back pedaled.

"Princess?" She smiled as she saw you and walked over, "I assigned Jesse this patient because it's a more physically demanding case and you're still recovering—"

"I know," She said quickly, "and thank you, I just, Robby asked Jesse to switch with me. The patient only speaks French, it was faster than calling an interpreter."

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, "That's not—I mean, thank you for telling me, but it's unacceptable. He can't just do that without telling me."

Princess shrugged, "I don't know, that's how him and Dana used to work."

"Yeah, well, I'm not Dana," You sighed, "Sorry, my drama with Robby isn't your problem. Do you need anything? A break?"

She shook her head, "I'll holler if I need you."

Fuming, you stormed off toward the Hub where you found Robby looking up at the board, "How are we doing? Can we clear some of these beds out?"

Despite your irritation, you stretched your neck, "North 11 and South 20 are going up to Med-Surg, I was able to get an ICU bed for North 4, and Perlah is getting North 1 discharged."

"Great, keep me updated."

He started to walk away, but you trailed after him, "Do you have any issue with the way I'm doing things?"

He frowned and shook his head, "No."

"Do you think you can do my job better than I can?"

He stopped and turned fully to face you, "What is this about?"

"You fuck with my board, you don't even let me know that you fuck with my board, I have to hear about it from my nurses—"

"Your board?"

"Sorry, is bed management in your job description?"

He scoffed and ran a hand over the back of his head, "Dana didn't have a problem with me occasionally moving things around on the board—"

"Dana's not charge anymore," You snapped, "I am. And I also don't appreciate you changing my assignments around. There's a reason I gave North 8 to Jesse and not Princess. She's injured and I'm trying to give her a lighter case load—"

"Princess didn't seem bothered when I asked her to switch with Jesse—"

"Of course she didn't!" You said, exasperated, "Do you think she's going to say no to an attending?"

He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes, "I don't know where you worked last, but I do like to foster a relationship of mutual respect with my nurses. I promise you they're all very comfortable saying no to me."

Your lip curled, "Well maybe you could show me some of that respect by letting me do my job."

He stared at you for a moment, challenge in his eyes, and you realized that he was enjoying this. He wanted to spar with you, wanted to see how far he could push you before you backed down.

Well you wouldn't fucking roll over for anyone, and certainly not for him.

"I like to have some semblance of control over all aspects of my ED—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, I think you mean my ED. Your paycheck may say you run this place, but let's not forget how quickly it would fall apart without me. It is, in fact, my circus and my monkeys." You felt your voice raise and the telltale feeling of eyes turning on you. But you couldn't find it in you to stop, "And one bearded, six foot monkey is really beginning to test my patience so if you don't back off, you're going to find out just how fast this place will burn to the ground if I walk out."

It wasn't the first time you had reamed out an attending, but it was the first time that one had smirked at you like that afterwards. It was certainly the first time one had looked at you with hunger in his eyes after you'd just put him in his place.

Eyes darting to your mouth and then back up to your eyes, he leaned in to your ear, "You speak to me like that again in front of the department, we're gonna have a problem."

And then he was gone, leaving you still simmering and with an audience. The charge phone started to ring. God, you were so fucking tired.

Later, you were taking a smoke break outside when Mateo found you, "Sorry," you said immediately and put out your cigarette, "I'll be back inside in a minute."

"Oh, no, I actually came out to invite you to drinks after shift at Paddy's. A few of us are going for Kim's birthday."

Oh. Well that certainly was a surprise. It wasn't that you thought anyone explicitly didn't like you (except maybe Robby), but you didn't think they liked you enough to invite you out. At least, not yet.

But Cecelia was with your father. You couldn't make her stay later so that you could go get a drink. She was already doing so much for you.

"Thank you for the invite, really, but I… I don't think I can make it tonight."

"Okay," Mateo nodded and smiled, "Well, open invitation if you change your mind."

When he was gone, you stood outside for a couple of extra minutes, thinking about everything you'd left behind to be here.

You had told Robby while you were on vacation that your ex-fiancé had cheated on you. But that wasn't true. He hadn't cheated on you. He had just decided that when you moved back to Pittsburgh to take care of your father he wasn't going to come with you. Made some dismissive comments about it "being super sad" and "depressing" and "a real bummer."

You had always been attracted to older men and your fiancé had been no exception. He was a good fifteen years older than you. The problem with men that age was that if they were still single, there was usually a reason. Your fiancé's being that he refused to grow the fuck up. You had told him if he wasn't prepared to be by your side when shit got hard, including your father's impending death, then you couldn't share a life with him. And he had calmly shrugged his shoulders and asked for the ring back.

Six years prior you had moved across the country for him. You built a life in the Pacific Northwest with him. You had friends there. All of that disappeared when you moved back to Pittsburgh. And despite the fact that you'd grown up here, you didn't have any friends, only acquaintances. You had always been an exceptionally difficult person to love. You thought you got that from your father.

Though you acted like you didn't care, there was a small part of you that wanted things to be different now that you were older. You wanted to build a community rather than pretend to be so disdainful of human connection so when it didn't find you you could pretend you hadn't wanted it in the first place.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you drafted a text to Cecelia: Would you be able to stay a bit later tonight? Some of the nurses are going out for drinks. I'd only stay for one round.

You were about to head back inside when her reply came through: Of course, sweetheart. That just means more alone time with my crochet project. Take your time.

Stifling a smile, you headed back into the Pitt.

***

You were two beers deep, sandwiched between Princess and Kim in a booth when you saw Robby walk into Paddy's. It pissed you off the way just looking at him felt like a knife twisting in your chest. Despite your attempts to distance yourself, the sound of his voice anywhere near you was like the call of a siren, coaxing you into deep waters. You wouldn't realize how far out you'd swam until it was much too late.

"What's up with you and Dr. Robby?" Princess asked and you quickly tore your gaze away from him.

You frowned, tried to feign confusion, "What d'you mean?"

Princess gave you a knowing look, "Girl, come on, you're constantly giving each other 'fuck me' eyes."

Your mouth dropped open and you gave a short laugh as you felt a hot flush crawl up your neck, "That is not true, we're always fighting."

Princess raised her eyebrows, "Hate fucking is still fucking," she sighed wistfully, "God, I miss hate fucking."

You suspected it was the beer talking, but you felt like you wanted to tell someone, someone closer to your age what had happened with Robby. And you liked Princess a lot.

Biting your cheek you leaned into her so no one else could hear you, "If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?"

Princess's eyes lit up as she looked at you, "About Dr. Robby?" You nodded in affirmation. "I can't keep anything from Perlah, but it won't leave either of us, that I promise."

Well, you liked Perlah too. You hoped Princess meant it when she said it wouldn't leave them. "Good enough," you said, and then explained to Princess the actual circumstances of you meeting Robby.

When you were done, she pulled away from you with wide eyes, "Holy shit." Then she broke into a smile, "I knew I wasn't imagining the sexual chemistry between you two."

You choked a laugh, "No, there's not—It's not happening again."

"Oh, why not?" She whined playfully, "You obviously both want to, that's why you're fighting all the time."

"We're fighting all the time because he's a self absorbed dick," You took a sip from your beer, "Can you look at me and tell me that he doesn't have a new woman in this hospital wrapped around his finger every few weeks?"

Princess opened and closed her mouth, looking down at her drink. Well, that was all you needed to know, "I won't be another one of his conquests."

"Well what if he was your conquest instead?"

You snorted and rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything else a deep and rough voice was saying your name behind you. Your stomach dropped when you turned to see Robby standing at the end of the table, looking directly at you, "Could we talk outside for a minute?"

Normally, you could stuff your feelings down very deep while you were working. The ED was so chaotic, it was easy to redirect your thoughts when they wandered to his big brown eyes or the way he looked when he pulled on the extra large gloves, or the sound of his laugh as it reverberated across the department.

But you were drunk now and he was looking at you with rapt attention, your name having just fallen from his lips like a sonnet. After a moment you nodded and Kim scooted out of the booth to let you out.

You followed him outside, trying and failing to keep your eyes off him, his broad shoulders, his confident gait, the curve of his neck. You had been in a completely different timezone the last time you'd been drunk around Robby and you were conscious of how quickly your defenses dropped when you were even a little bit inebriated. Feelings that had been previously repressed rocketing to the surface. You had pushed it down so thoroughly it even shocked you how badly you wanted him still.

He leaned against the wall on the side of the bar, away from windows and any prying eyes before turning his attention back to you.

"I wanted to clear the air about earlier, we need to be able to communicate with each other in there without it devolving the way it did. Everyone in there looks to us for direction—"

You squeezed your eyes shut and were already shaking your head, the familiar anger poking and prodding again just under your skin, "It wouldn't have gotten to that point if you had been communicating with me—"

He laughed humorlessly, "You just can't let me get a word in, can you? Does the sound of my voice bother you that much?"

"Yes," you lied, even as your stomach stirred and warmed at his attention, "it infuriates me, actually."

He was still smiling, but you knew there was only irritation behind it. He ran a hand along his jawline and looked down at his feet, "S'that so?"

"Yes," you said again, letting your anger, knowingly misplaced, overtake your voice, "That ED runs at a deficit because you're such an insufferable, overbearing control freak and—"

Suddenly his hands were cupping your cheeks and his mouth crashed into yours, hot and abrasive. You stiffened for the briefest of moments in surprise before you kissed him back, pushing him back up against the wall.

It was exhausting pretending like you didn't want him as badly as you did from the moment you met him. You couldn't deny that there was likely a little bit of truth in what Princess had said earlier, that the tension, the wanting of what you knew you couldn't have, was as much a factor in your warring as was his massive ego.

Your frustration and his fought with teeth and tongue. If he took your bottom lip between his teeth, you took his and bit down harder. If your tongue was licking into his mouth a little too dominantly, he would groan and suck on it hard enough to immobilize you.

But then you reached between his legs and palmed him over his pants and you felt the fight go out of him. His head leaned back against the wall, Adam's apple bobbing along his throat, "Fuck me." He cursed quietly and you couldn't help your smirk.

Moving closer to him, you slipped your hand beneath his waistband, gripping his length as he shuddered under your touch. Your free hand cupped his cheek and your thumb ran aimlessly over his parted lips as you watched the effect your touch had on him.

His eyes never left yours, pupils going wide like sinkholes. As you pumped him, he took your thumb in his mouth and you gasped at the feel of his tongue around the digit.

"You want something to suck on while I make you feel good, baby?" You asked, breathless.

He blinked slowly at you, your thumb still in his mouth before he nodded. Eyes never leaving his, you pulled your thumb from his mouth and pushed your hand between your legs, gathering your arousal on two of your fingers. You lifted your fingers back up towards his face, "Open up," You said softly, your other hand continuing to pump him, precum smearing against your skin.

His eyes scanned your face slowly, lips tilting up in a barely there smile before he opened his mouth. He sucked on your fingers greedily, moaning at the taste of you, "Good boy." You whispered and felt his cock twitch in your hand in response.

The fucked out expression on his face, the way he practically went limp and docile at your touch, was enough to keep you satisfied, but still you wanted to taste him. After a few more moments, you pulled your fingers from his mouth and began to lower yourself to the ground.

"You—you don't have to—" Robby began protesting, his voice husky and warm, like bourbon.

"Want to," Was all you said before your ran your tongue along his cock, lapping at the tip where precum had accumulated. He hissed and swore when you took him in your mouth fully, hollowing out your cheeks as you felt him repeatedly hit the back of your throat.

You felt almost out of body as you sucked him off, focusing only on the sounds he was making, the way he occasionally praised you, said how good your mouth felt. You didn't want to think, didn't want to consider the repercussions of this. Of the fact that you were doing exactly what you had promised yourself you wouldn't do again.

But he had kissed you first and at least in the end it had been you making him whimper, you who was in control. You didn't want to be at his mercy again.

"Fuck—M'gonna—M'gonna come." He said, breathless.

You looked up at him, mouth still wrapped around him, granting permission with your eyes and his hips bucked as the come shot out of him and down the back of your throat. When it was done, you pulled your mouth off him and stood.

Immediately, his hand on the back of your neck pulled your mouth back to his, "Come home with me," He said into your mouth, sounding desperate, "Please."

It was like a switch finally flipped in your brain and you remembered Cecelia was at home, waiting for you.

"Shit," You mumbled and pushed yourself away from him.

"What? What is it?"

"I have to go." You said, beginning to walk back to the front of the bar so you could grab your bag from inside.

"Wait—Hold on—Let me take you home, then—"

"No," You said, though at that moment you stumbled, likely revealing to him for the first time just how intoxicated you were.

He steadied you with a light hand at your elbow, "Come on, don't be stubborn."

You pulled your arm from his grasp and headed for your bag at the booth, swinging it over your shoulder as you wished Kim a happy birthday and said goodbyes, carefully avoiding Princess's incessant stare.

"I have to go," You repeated, sidestepping him to get to the door, "Please don't follow me."

And then you rushed back outside, the cold night air a balm to your alcohol flushed skin.

***

Robby watched you go, his hands knotted together on the back of his head. He was still recovering from how hard he came in your mouth just minutes ago and then you had run away.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with that? With how easily you had taken him over? It was like when you touched him his head went quiet. He'd do whatever you asked to keep your hands on him.

Someone sighed next to him and he turned to see Princess also staring after you, "Well you're gonna go after her, aren't you?"

He did a double take, frowning, "What do you know, Princess?"

She smirked, "Enough to know that you should go after her."

He didn't, though, in the end. He went home and stared at his ceiling and replayed you putting your fingers in his mouth.

The next morning he walked into the Pitt— and slowed when he saw Dana standing at the hub instead of you.

"What… Are you doing here?" He asked slowly. Immediately, his brain was running a thousand miles an hour. After last night you disappeared and now you weren't at work. You quit and disappeared and he wouldn't even get the chance to say goodbye.

And why did that possibility scare the shit out of him?

Dana smirked at him, "Well don't look so happy to see me, Cap."

He sighed, "Of course I'm happy to see you, but you weren't on the schedule today."

"No, I was not." When Dana didn't say anything else, Robby raised his eyebrows expectantly, "She'll be here later, she just needed someone to cover this morning."

"Uh huh," Robby nodded, "Any particular reason?"

Dana sighed, "Why're you messing with that poor girl?"

"Messing with—? I'm not messing with her. Did she say that?"

"Oh, she didn't have to, Robinavitch. I know you. Can see it all over your face."

Was it really that obvious? "I'm not, I promise. And I'm a little offended you think I just sleep with any woman that looks sideways at me."

Dana rolled her eyes, "Look, she's going through some shit right now—"

"Aren't we all?"

"—This isn't a game. She's not one of your toys. Do not pull her down into the pit with you. You understand me?"

Well, now he was really starting to get offended. What sort of reputation had he created for himself that Dana thought he was a danger to you?

"Yeah, okay. Like I said, you have nothing to worry about."

"Good." Dana said and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

Robby cleared his throat and leaned over the counter, "So when will she be back?"

Dana glared at him until he raised his hands in surrender and backed away, "Alright, alright, fine. I'm gonna go find Shen for rounds."

"Yeah, you do that."

Robby shook his head as he walked off. He thought about pulling his phone out and calling you himself, but then realized that if Dana was right and you had serious stuff going on at home, that would be selfish of him.

Instead, he stopped in front of the workstation Santos was sitting at, "Hey," he said, "You, uh, catch up on your charting?"

Trinity's eyes flicked up to him and then back down to the screen, "Working on it," she stretched her arms over her head and then directed her full attention to him, "Hey what's going on with you and the new charge?"

Robby laughed nervously, "That is none of your business."

Trinity smiled, "Well don't fuck it up because I like her."

Robby raised his eyebrows at that, "Oh yeah?"

"I love Dana, but it's nice having someone on shift who doesn't baby you. Dana lets you get away with too much."

He scoffed, "Thank you for your unsolicited opinion Dr. Santos. Now if you could go grab the students for rounds, please?"

Robby watched Trinity walk off and tried not to think too hard about what she'd said. First Princess had caught on to the something between you and now Trinity. It wouldn't be long at all before it was making the rounds in the ED, if it hadn't already. You had taken the morning off for personal issues and to then come in and hear the department speculating about a relationship with him— It was going to hurt you. You had become something of a cyclone when you'd found out he told Dana, he didn't want to find out how much more you would lash out this time.

"Princess—" He called out when he saw her walking across the floor, "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"What's up?" She asked when they were somewhat secluded from the others.

"Look, I—I need to know what you know."

Princess lit up, "About your new charge nurse friend?"

Robby sighed, "Yeah, she—There's nothing going on between us right now, but if she hears that people think that there is—I don't know—She might quit, even. You're not telling people that we're—are you?"

"No," She shook her head, "She asked me not to. I only told Perlah. In Tagalog."

He ran a hand over his face, "And was Dr. Santos perhaps nearby during that conversation?"

Princess frowned and then her mouth fell open, "I… Will take care of that. She won't hear anything, I promise."

Robby nodded, "Thank you."

Princess stood there for a few more moments and then, "Did you… Go after her last night?"

Robby tilted his head in exasperation, "Princess—"

"Yeah, yeah. Going now."

Robby ran his hands over his face and then to the back of his neck, bending his head forward and sighing. His hands again itched to take out his phone and call you, just to make sure you were okay. But Dana said you'd be in later, he reminded himself. He could wait. He could be patient. He most definitely could act like a professional when you got here.

***

You were shaking as you walked towards PTMC. Cecelia had said you should just call out, let Dana take the whole shift and then the two of you sit down and research to find a solution for caring for your father. You and Cecelia on your own just weren't cutting it. When you'd come home late last night and Cecelia left, your father tried to get out of bed and while you'd mostly been able to calm him and get him back into bed each time without incident, you hadn't slept.

Finally, when Cecelia came in the morning so you could go to work, you suspected from his lack of sleep, he'd gotten even more confused. He didn't recognize Cecelia and became aggressive and erratic. He confused you with your mother, thought when you were leaving the house to go to work you were leaving for good. When you finally calmed him and convinced him everything was alright, he started crying.

"I'm sorry," he'd said over and over, "I'm so sorry, pumpkin." Using your childhood nickname had thrown you for a loop. It had been a while since he'd indicated he recognized you and not your mother. More than that, you couldn't remember a time he had ever apologized to you so tenderly, even before he was sick.

With him finally asleep, you had tried to excuse yourself to another room, but Cecelia had seen through you and pulled you to her, holding you when you fell apart.

"You can't go to work like this," she said, wiping your tears away when you had begun to quiet, "I'm gonna give Dana a call—"

"No, I don't want—"

"You need to sleep. You're of no use to anyone like this," she said sharply, "I'll tell her you'll be in at 1 to relieve her, alright?"

Half a shift. Just half a shift. The world wouldn't fall apart if you missed just half a shift.

So you'd agreed. You slept for four hours and when you woke, Cecelia tried to convince you again to stay home. But you watched your father as he stared emptily at the TV from his recliner and you wanted to leave. You couldn't stay in this house with its stifling cage of memories. With this version of your father who was mean, but still more gentle with you than he had ever been when he was healthy.

Now you were just outside PTMC trying to get your hands to still when Robby walked outside—And almost right into you.

"Oh—shit—" He reached out to steady you, "Hello." He said, and his tone softened immediately when he recognized you, "Are you okay?"

You flinched away from his touch, feeling like you might fall apart at his attempt to soothe you, "I'm fine," You said curtly, "Sorry I'm late."

"That's okay," he shook his head, "Is everything okay with you?"

"Yeah," You said, voice climbing several octaves as you tried to sound chipper, "Why, did Dana say that I wasn't?"

He pushed his hands into his pockets, shoulders shrugging as he shook his head, "No, she just said that you had some things to take care of this morning."

You nodded slowly and swallowed, "Yeah, I—I did."

"Okay…" He said slowly, "Because I was worried maybe I… scared you off last night."

Despite the morning you had, your stomach flipped and you laughed as if to dispel the warm flush you felt climb up your neck, "Scared me off?" You said with more confidence than you felt, "You practically melted for me."

He smiled and hung his head, but you saw the blush that stained his cheeks as he avoided eye contact, "Yeah, it was—" he cleared his throat, "I… enjoyed it. I hope you did too?"

"I did," You said slowly, "But we probably shouldn't do it again."

He nodded, "Right. Yeah, I know." He scratched the back of his head, "Look, um, before we go back in there I just wanted to tell you that I understand where you were coming from about communicating about the board and I will make sure I consult you next time before making any changes."

You tilted your head and smiled, "Well if I had known all I needed to do to get you to agree with me was give you a blowjob I would've gotten on my knees weeks ago."

If it was possible, his cheeks grew even more scarlet, "It's not—That's not why—"

"I'm kidding." You said quickly, "Thank you, I appreciate that, and I'll try to… communicate my grievances more professionally in the future."

He nodded, "Great. Let's get back to it, then?"

You followed him back inside and watched as he ran off when one of the residents called for him, his hands resting on his stethoscope.

Turning your attention back to the Hub, you saw Dana watching you, a smirk on her face, "Hey kid," she said softly, "You get some sleep?"

You nodded, "Thank you for covering for me, I'm really sorry—"

"Don't sweat it. I was starting to get bored anyway."

As you came around the counter, she pushed some brochures over to you: Juniper Village at Forest Hills, Hemsley House of McCandless, The Pines of Mount Lebanon. All memory care facilities.

Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest, "Dana—"

"You are not a bad person for wanting to live your life. For needing help. His tremors are gonna get worse and his balance will go with it. How're you gonna handle that on your own?"

You swallowed, "I've been slowly working towards buying all the equipment he'll need. I have a transfer belt and a wheelchair. I'm looking into getting a hospital bed—"

"Even with all that it's not sustainable by yourself and you know it." She placed a hand over yours and squeezed, "I say this with all the love in my heart, kid: He's going to die. Sooner rather than later. Just because his life is ending doesn't mean yours is too."

You swallowed and looked back down at the brochures. Ironically, boarding him somewhere would be cheaper than hiring around the clock care. But—

"He made me promise I'd never put him in a home."

Dana tilted her head, lips twisting sympathetically, "That's an impressively unfair thing to ask of your child." She covered your hand with her own and gave it a light squeeze, "Just, think about it, okay? I can come tour the facilities with you, if you want."

You gave her a small smile, "Thanks, Dana."

She began to pack her things away, pulling her jacket over her scrubs, "Now, one more thing before I go. I thought you said it was one and done with Robinavitch."

You nearly choked on your coffee, "Wha—? It was—It is. Done. What did you hear?"

She gave you a lopsided smirk, "Nothing. I saw him walk in this ER looking for you like a lost puppy."

Ridiculous, Bambi eyed doctor. It was really hard to lie to Dana and you were already exhausted, "We may have had a…relapse last night. But it won't happen again."

She rolled her eyes, "Spare me, alright? I've been here before. I just hope you know what you're getting into. He doesn't know how to let anyone in and you'll drown in your attempts to save him."

You gave a short laugh, "Oh, Dana, Dana, Dana… I don't think I can fix him. I think I can make him worse."

She shook her head dismissively, "Don't know why I bother. Just don't do anything stupid, alright?"

You reassured her you wouldn't and watched her head out to the ambulance bay, still chuckling to yourself that she thought you had a savior complex.

You were many things, but you had never been the one to rush in during the final act and mend a broken heart. Your own heart was too mangled for that.

No, you were more like rot, you decided. Slow moving and by the time you were detected it was too late. You swallowed as you looked down at the brochures and thought of your mother. Was your father like this too? Was that why she left?

"Hey," A large hand lightly tapped the counter in front of you, scrambling your thoughts and causing you to try to quickly hide the brochures, "What's open?"

Robby was stopped in front of you, a stretcher being wheeled behind him.

"Uh," you quickly looked down at your iPad to see the board and then around the department, "Trauma one's open."

"Thanks," He said, and as he began to walk away, he winked at you.

It was so ridiculous, you laughed once he'd walked away from you.

"So," You looked to see Princess at your side, grinning smugly, "Has Dr. Robby been conquered?"

You rolled your eyes, but smirked, "Could you assist in trauma one, please?"

Princess walked off, but you stared into trauma one for more than was appropriate afterwards, watching the way Robby moved, his skilled healing hands, the way he rocked on his feet. You strained to hear his voice above the cacophony of the ED.

You may have convinced everyone that the previous night had been a mistake, not to be repeated, but your mind seemed to have other ideas.

***

It had been about two weeks since you and Robby had succumbed to the tension that had been building between you just outside Paddy's. Fortunately for Robby, you had become more and more willing to cross the line as the days passed. However, the one rule you seemed to be sticking to was that nothing could happen outside the confines of the hospital. No matter how many times he invited you to his house for dinner after shift, you refused. And you never ever invited him to your place. Still refused to even let him walk you home.

It would've hurt his feelings more if he hadn't also been noticing the way you were deteriorating. Eyes sinking into sockets, snapping at the techs and students… He had even caught more than one mistake on your beloved board.

No matter how he begged Dana, she wouldn't tell him what you were dealing with at home. You wouldn't even reveal if you were living alone or if there was someone else. He remembered from when you were in Jamaica that you had said you'd just broken an engagement over infidelity. Could it be that you had reconciled and now he was the affair partner?

He was tugging his scrub top back over his head, the two of you having finished your usual post shift fifteen minute quickie in the abandoned floor upstairs, when he decided to try yet again to pierce your defenses.

"What hospital did you say you worked at before here?"

You were pulling your pants up, still shirtless. Robby had begun carefully cataloguing every imperfection, every divot, of your body. He was always worried it would be the last time you allowed him to touch you and then he'd be left with nothing but his own memories.

"I didn't." You said shortly, not looking at him.

He hummed, "Was it here in Pittsburgh?"

"No."

He let a few moments pass, hoping you would fill it, but still nothing. "Is it just me that you have an aversion to giving more than a few breadcrumbs of your life to?"

You sighed as you pulled your scrub top back over your head, "I don't know why you care. Haven't I given you what you wanted?"

Robby scoffed, "I would think that my repeated attempts to get to know you outside of this hospital despite your constant rejection would indicate otherwise."

"Oh," You said frowning, "I thought you were just being nice. You know, in the way older men try to be chivalrous to compensate for their guilt of just using women to fuck. Like, 'Oh, don't worry, you're not just my whore, you're my Madonna too!' But I'm fine just being the whore."

He stared at you open mouthed for a few moments before running a hand over the back of his head, "How do you manage to constantly find new ways to insult me?"

A surprised laugh bubbled out of you, "I called myself a whore and you're insulted?"

"You think I just fuck my way through women without ever recognizing their personhood?"

You blinked at him, "I mean, that's sort of what I've heard, yeah." You shrugged, "But I'm not judging you, I'm doing the same thing to you."

He ran a hand over his face, "Okay, well you're wrong, and I'm concerned both as your friend and your colleague that you're not sleeping."

You smiled as you walked towards him and twined your arms around his waist. You could pretend to be unbothered all you wanted, but he knew you craved touch. It was easy to pick up the way you leaned into any contact at all. He still remembered in Jamaica when you'd slept in the same bed how you followed him, sought out his warmth, if he moved away from you.

Now you leaned into his chest, leaning up on your toes to kiss him, which he obliged. His tongue making languid strokes into your mouth while his hands kept you anchored to him.

It was true that Robby slept around and he wasn't always the best at considering his partner's feelings. There was that woman just a few weeks ago who'd slept in his bed and he couldn't recall her name.

But he was trying to be better about that with you. He didn't want to hurt you, if for no other reason than it would make things difficult around here. But it felt like the closer you allowed him physically the more closed off you were emotionally.

Maybe that was for the best. He had plenty of his own shit to deal with.

He pulled back slightly, his hands reaching up to cradle your face, "I really am worried about you," he said softly, and found that he meant it, "You can trust me with whatever it is."

Your eyes flared with an emotion he couldn't place, but then you blinked and it was gone. Instead, you smiled and nudged your nose against his, "I'm fine. I promise."

He sighed, "Fine. But if I said I want you to come home with me because I sleep better when someone else is nearby, would you be more likely to indulge me?"

You disentangled yourself from his arms and grabbed your backpack off the floor and slung it over your shoulder, "I can't, but thank you for the offer."

He nodded, "Can you at least tell me that the reason you won't come home with me and won't tell me where you live isn't because you already have a significant other at home?"

At that, you smiled, "Don't worry, Robinavitch, you're my one and only."

He shook his head, "I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse."

"Goodnight," You swung the door of the room open, "See you tomorrow."

The door closed behind you and Robby sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it blankly. He sat there for a while, staring after you. Part of him hoped you'd come back.

It was a distinct torture, he found, that he had you, but not quite. He hadn't realized that much of the reason he had been sleeping with various women was because he liked when he wasn't the only one in his home. He liked it when someone else was next to him, when he could hear someone else breathing, alive, beside him.

But now that you refused him over and over, he felt even more alone.

Maybe that was why a few days later, when Noelle texted him late at night, he invited her over. It felt bad, wrong, lying in bed with her with the TV on. Her head laid on his chest and he felt sad all over again.

After that, he felt irritated. It only made him want you more, your insistence to pull away and build walls. He couldn't enjoy intimacy with anyone else. He didn't think he was usually this possessive, his eyes following your every move across the ED with near predatory intent.

When he saw you flirting with the EMT, the way you smiled at him, he felt sick. Like you had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart, still beating between your fingers.

But still, he shoved it down and acted nonchalant later when he came to stand next to you at the board, "Meet me upstairs after shift?" he asked softly, looking around the department over your head.

Miraculously, Perlah and Princess had been true to their word about keeping everything under wraps, even convincing Trinity that they had been wrong about it. He assumed his rekindling things with Noelle had been helpful in pushing her off the scent as well. At least his idiocy was good for something.

"I can't today," you said, not looking at him, Apple pencil resting against your lips, "I have plans."

He hummed, "The EMT?"

"Brian?" Slowly, your eyes flitted to his, "Maybe. I don't think that's really your business."

"It is my business if we're sleeping together."

You laughed, the sound grating rather than the soft trilling he heard earlier, "Really? Because last I heard it was Noelle who was in your bed and you didn't think to tell me about that."

He smiled smugly at the vitriol in your voice, pleased to see that you were just as jealous as he was, "Is that what this is about?" You rolled your eyes and began to walk away and he followed, easily keeping pace with you despite how you tried to outrun him, "You've made it pretty clear that you have no desire to be in my bed, so I'm not sure how you could be upset with me."

"I'm not upset," You said, though your tone was sharp as daggers, eager to impale him on every word, "It just would've been nice to be given a heads up instead of having to watch you flirt with her right in front of me and listen to the nurses gossip about it all day."

He tilted his head, "You mean the same way you've been rubbing it in my face with Brian all day?"

The corner of your lip twitched up into a smile, "So it worked, then?"

He laughed and shook his head, "Are you gonna go home with him tonight? His bed is good enough for you?"

You sighed, "I don't know why you're so hung up on this. You run through women like a fucking train—as evidenced by getting your dick wet with Noelle when you were just inside me not even twenty four hours before—and yet you find it confusing why I wouldn't go home with you? Why I'm trying to keep my distance?"

"If you had just come home with me I wouldn't have called Noelle at all."

You narrowed your eyes at him, jaw going slack in exasperation, "Okay, so the second you don't get your way you're reaching for a new toy?"

He ran a hand over his face, "That's not what I meant."

"Right," you said tersely, "I think we're done here."

When you walked away he watched you go, running his hand over the back of his head. No matter how hard he tried not to, he seemed to just keep digging himself deeper in a hole with you.

***

The date was horrible. As horrible as a date could get, maybe even worse than the worst date you'd ever had. Any chemistry you thought you had picked up on in the ED seemed to evaporate and he was really rude to the waitress who took your order. So rude, in fact, you had excused yourself to go to the bathroom so you could find the waitress, apologize profusely, and ask for her Venmo so you could send her a huge tip.

You sat across from him for nearly two hours and kept thinking about Robby, how the only reason you were here was because he had driven you to such irrational levels of irritation. You hated being jealous, it made your skin itch, it gave power to Robby that you never ever wanted him to have. It was terrifying knowing that he had that sort of control over you, that just seeing him with Noelle had made it hard to breathe, had made you feel nauseous, had thrown you off for the entire day.

In order to make it through the date with your sanity and to stop thinking about Robby, you had overcompensated with alcohol. You'd lost count of how many drinks you ordered, but you felt mostly fine, until you stood up to leave and the world tilted.

"Woah—" A hand was at your elbow, steadying you. Then on your back, then your waist. He was saying things in your ear as you left the restaurant, but the world was beginning to gray at the edges.

Your breathing began to come in fits and starts, your chest tight and painful. You tried to slap his hands away, you wanted to call an Uber, but he stayed firm.

"Stop," You meant to dig your heels into the pavement, but he practically lifted you off your feet, leading you behind the restaurant, near the dumpsters. The panic had really taken hold now, tears beginning to collect at the corners of your eyes.

You were too drunk, you didn't feel right, you didn't feel like yourself, you felt like you were floating above yourself as his hands wandered, his hot mouth on your neck, as he shoved you against the brick wall.

"Stop, I don't want to—Stop!" You don't remember thinking about it, it must have been some sort of primal instinct to drive your knee into his groin—But it got him to release you.

Cursing, he backed away from you and you tried to catch your breath, heart still in your throat and hands shaking.

You had the vague sense that he was shouting at you, but all you caught at the end was "—stupid cunt—" Before he spat in your general direction and turned his back on you.

Looking back on it, you didn't think you wanted to hurt him—Just maybe scare him a little. Or perhaps you went a little wild with rage, like a dog who'd been hit one too many times. You longed to bite back, sink your teeth into soft flesh. But as he began to walk away, you picked up a half broken beer bottle that was on the ground near the dumpster and threw it in his direction, causing it to shatter against the pavement near his feet.

He turned back to you, like he was ready to lunge, and you regretted it immediately. You felt like you'd knowingly provoked a predator, alerting it to its next meal. But then blue lights flashed across his face, the brief whoop of a siren, and you turned to see a police car parked not more than a hundred feet away.

For the briefest of moments, you felt vindication. Surely they had been there the whole time, had witnessed him about to force himself onto you and were here to take him away.

But when they got out of the car, they stopped to talk to him first and you watched with growing apprehension as they acted fraternal. Shook hands and slapped each other on the shoulder. And then Brian was walking away, a spring in his step, and they were walking towards you.

It was difficult later to recall the exact details, you were too far gone in your own panic attack as well as the alcohol, but you did think you tried to fight back when they told you you were under arrest for disorderly conduct. You're sure you were sobbing and incoherent, but you had tried asking them about Brian, told them he'd tried to force himself on you, but they were unempathetic and eventually the fight went out of you as they confiscated your things and put you in the back of their cruiser.

Your breathing rattled in your chest, silent tears streaming down your face the whole ride. When you threw up in the back of their cruiser, it made you feel only slightly better imagining they'd have to clean up after you. Pigs.

"We're just keeping you until you sober up," They said after you were processed and put in a cell.

"I want a phone call, can I have my phone?"

"You can have a phone call, but you can't use your phone so you better know a number by heart."

You wanted to scream. Of course you didn't know any fucking numbers by heart. The only number you knew by heart was your father's old landline that he'd taken out years ago at your suggestion.

Feeling defeated and sorry for yourself, you curled up on a cold bench. You weren't sure who you would call anyway, even if you had your phone. Cecelia was the only person you wouldn't feel humiliated by seeing like this and she was staying with your father overnight with her husband at your request.

You hadn't been planning to spend the night at Brian's house, but McKay had asked you to meet her later to go dancing as it was her ex's weekend with her son. She'd said you could crash at her place after and you had intended to take advantage of that, to sleep somewhere that didn't feel so haunted and full of decaying memories.

Maybe if you had your phone you could've called McKay. You weren't super close, but she was open about her history and had never seemed judgmental in the least. Didn't matter, though, you couldn't use your fucking phone. Seemingly for no reason other than they were being spiteful. Probably because you threw up in their car.

You had been in enough trouble as a teenager to know that disorderly conduct was a summary offense that usually warranted only a ticket if the offender had ceased the behavior upon receiving a warning, not an arrest. You couldn't remember, but you didn't think they had given you a warning.

It was cold in the cell and in a useless attempt to warm your hands, you shoved them in the pockets of your jeans— to find a piece of card stock poking into one of your hands. Frowning, you pulled it out to examine it and found Robby's business card, his personal cell scribbled on the back. These were the jeans you had worn to the airport on the flight back to Jamaica.

You stared at his phone number, his messy scrawl that you had become so familiar with over the last couple of months, and wondered if you could bear it. If you could swallow your pride and call him to see if he'd come get you, faced with both humiliation and the possibility of rejection. Or if you'd sit and stare at the cement ceiling, shivering all night.

Unfortunately, the thought of spending the whole night here was immediately spiral inducing. You could not stay here. Well, you could, but you knew you'd regret at least not trying to get out.

So, tail tucked between your legs and business card clutched in hand, you asked for the phone.

He can’t. His hand is currently cradling some guy’s inferior vena cava like it’s made of glass, and one wrong twitch means this guy is leaking faster than a bullet-addled DC-10.

But the buzzing doesn’t stop.

It goes off again.

And again.

The third time it happens, Ellis glances toward the tray table. “Dr. Abbot, your phone—”

“I know,” he says, voice calm but clipped. “Ignore it. I need suction.”

It’s not that he isn’t curious. Of course he is. Jack’s phone never rings this much unless something’s on fire—or worse, you tried using his gas stove again.

But there’s a heart in his hand, so it can wait.

Probably.

Hopefully.

God willing.

And then it fucking goes off again.

“Oh my God,” he breathes out, entire body stilling with disbelief. “Can someone please answer that?”

There’s a small shuffling as Ellis obeys his command, maneuvering around the occupants of the room towards the small metal tray. Tugging off one red-streaked glove, she shimmies the small phone out of his back pocket and swipes across the screen, unlocking it.

It presses against Jack’s ear.

Silence bleeds through from the other side, softly broken by the static of a breath.

“Hey, Jack.” You voice drifts out, half-articulate, and followed by a soft smack like you were mid-snack and had a prophetic vision of him at the most inopportune moment and decided to blow up his phone. “What’s up?”

Jack blinks down at his blood-soaked gloves—at the fucking cavern his hand disappears into.

What’s up?

“Nothing crazy,” he replies mildly. Catching someone’s eye, he nods down where his hands disappear, demanding more suction. “Are you dying?”

“Only to talk to you.”

Jack sighs, wedging the device harder between his shoulder and cheek.

“Honey, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back.”

“No, you won’t—you always say that. There’ll be some emergency you have to tend to.”

“An emergency in the emergency room?” he asks dryly. “Imagine that.”

The doctor hears you snort, the microphone picking up the soft sound of your socks scuffling across the porcelain-disguised-as-wood floor before you grunt.

Hopping onto the counter in the kitchen, Jack assumes.

He shifts his weight, the blue fabric of his gown crinkling as he carefully pinches the artery between his fingers to further constrict blood flow.

Glancing up, he meets Ellis’ eyes and mouths, where the fuck is surgery?

Two minutes, she mouths back.

Jack huffs a breath that fogs up his glasses for a split second.

“Jack? You still there?”

“No, actually—”

“Alright, obviously you are. Anyway,” the doctor groans, but you continue as if he didn’t even have vocal chords with which to make the noise. “Medical opinion. Skipping backstory because someone is feeling bitchy today. Do penguins have depression?

Jack’s brain short-circuits.

Shaking his head minutely trying to generate any energy that would restart any mental faculty, a disbelieving laugh—more of a hwa, really—escapes him.

“What?”

“They can’t fly. Are they, like, sad because of that? I think I would be.”

He cannot fucking do this right now.

His leg is starting to ache, and his shoulder is starting to cramp from the awkward fucking position he finds himself in trying to stabilize this patient long enough to get him to surgery, and he has to subtly shift his weight in a futile attempt to relieve any of that tension—though, if he’s honest, most of that tension is coming from you—and his shoes make a sickening shweck sound when the soles of his boots slide across the blood-slicked ground. And through it all—the faint pulsing of the blood through the vein in his hand and the scent of iron wafting through the air, stealing all breath from his lungs—you’re on the other side of the phone, miles away, chirruping about the presumed mental state of Antarctic birds.

Jack’s eyes slide closed for a beat, and he takes a deep, should-be calming breath.

And then he cuts you right the fuck off.

“Sweetheart, I’m chest deep in someone who tried to merge with a semi-truck,” he bites out. “I have the only thing keeping his blood pressure in the double digits in my hand. My resident looks like she’s about cut my arm off and use it as a puppet, and I’m almost positive I just heard you lick a spoon.”

Jack takes another deep breath.

“And you called me,” he confirms slowly, the syllables taut with barely-there restraint, in an attempt to find the fucking sense in them, “to ask me if I think penguins get sad because they can’t fly?”

Someone stifles a snort across the room.

The tendon in his jaw flexes as he attempts to rein in his annoyance.

Someone's heart is literally in his hands. You’re calling inquiring about the possible chemical imbalances that may afflict flightless avians. And now there is laughter in his trauma room.

Jack makes a note for later—clean-up detail, entirely comprised of that one fucking guy. Why shouldn’t the janitor get a nice hour off?

“Yeah," you say simply. "Do they?”

“Honey. Sweetheart. Light of my life. I’m mid-vascular anastomosis,” He tilts his head, carefully balancing his phone between his cheek and his shoulder. Like a switch is flipped, his voice becomes laden with frustration. “I cannot stand here and opine on the emotional state of penguins,” Jack snaps.

The line goes silent. Jack almost feels bad.

Almost.

Then your voice—your once again snack-addled voice, thick with peanut butter or something, Jack guesses—cuts back in.

“Jack, it’s a simple yes or no,” you sigh.

Like he’s the crazy one for not wanting to have this conversation right now.

“I’m hanging up,” he decides.

“Okay, rude ass—”

“Kid, I love you,” he cuts in, catching Ellis’ eyes and shrugging the shoulder with his phone on it. “But I’m hanging up.”

Ellis grabs the phone from him, an extremely amused smile on her face.

Leaning over to him, she whispers, “I’ll make sure to chart that call as ‘urgent,’ Abbot.”

The moment Jack opens your door, he’s ready to fight.

He spent the entire drive rehearsing what he was going to say, so he could at least try to make it hard for you to twist his words and win an argument.

Jack would bring up the fact that the phone call was completely irresponsible. He would concede that, yes, you’re right, he could have hung up at any moment. He would also assert that you knew he was on-shift and that, barring any injury, major or minor, or you winning the lottery, communication should be confined to text.

He had it all planned out.

He, of course, forgot to account for the fact that your front door seems to squeak when it opens no matter how many cans of WD-40 he puts on it—he suspects that he’s keeping Home Depot in business from that alone—and the entryway looks directly into your kitchen.

His foot hovers over the threshold to your apartment, and Jack sees you freeze, half-eaten bagel hovering in the air, one of his old hoodies draped over your body barely covering your shorts, and one sock scrunched down by your ankle while the other remains glued mid-calf.

You don’t even turn toward him, but he sees your wide eyes locked on his figure from your periphery.

Without removing his eyes from you, the doctor hangs his backpack on the little hook he installed for himself.

His right foot brings him one step closer.

Then his left.

And then he starts stalking toward you.

Slowly, as casually as possible with no sudden movements, you toss your bagel down to the plate with a ping from the hard bread meeting ceramic. To your right, your arm slides across the kitchen island, your body turning toward him as it melts into the granite while your feet slink in the opposite direction.

Finally, your body reaches maximum stretch, and Jack rounds the island to rest opposite of you.

The island of burnt bagels and granite.

His new battleground.

You throw him a lopsided grin.

“Heyyyyyyyyy, Jack,” you nervously laugh out. “Looking goo—”

And suddenly, he’s angry.

Very angry.

He's angry that you can look so cute and be so nonchalant when you’ve caused him major turmoil in the past four hours. Not to mention teasing from Shen.

“Four in the morning,” he barks out.

Your shoulders hike up to your ears, smile melting down and baring your teeth in a distinct haha, you got me expression.

“You called me at four in the morning,” Abbot reiterates, “to ask me if I thought that penguins get sad because they can’t fly.”

He sticks a finger in your face. “Four in the morning.”

“Okay, well, do you—?”

“Four.”

“Established! But,” your finger lazily draws a circle on the counter, “you’re still not answering.”

Your name vibrates out of his chest in a groan. “You of all people should know the legal ramifications of stopping an emergency procedure for a phone call.”

He pauses.

Then, “Especially ones that are penguin based.”

“I don’t…” your eyes dart to the side before snapping back to him.

You squint, weaponizing confusion. “Jack, I’m not sure why you think the law explicitly prohibits penguin discussions amid emergency operations.”

“That’s not— my point is—”

“Give me one statute,” you demand.

“What?” he flounders, caught off guard.

“One. Statute.” You raise your eyebrows and shrug. “I’ll wait.” 

1. Bring up the fact that the phone call was completely irrespons–

“That’s your job—” he hears himself saying instead.

What the fuck is happening right now? Where did his bullet-points go?

“Oh, alright,” you laugh out, crossing your arms over your chest. “So, you admit you came into the operating room with zero legal grounding.”

“What? No—”

“So you knowingly performed a high-stakes medical procedure without ensuring full compliance with potential,” your voice hesitates, the last syllable wavering as you battle amusement, “penguin-related clauses in state and federal code. That’s…” You push yourself clear off the island and wave two disbelieving hands in a what the fuck gesture. “Well, that’s bordering on gross negligence, Jack.”

“I didn’t— there are no penguin clauses—”

“Oh, okay.” You nod slowly. “So now you’re just assuming legal precedent, then. On what basis? Gut feeling? Ornithological jurisprudence?”

“You’re making things up,” he snaps.

“I’m doing my job.”

“What job? It’s eight in the morning on a Saturday and you—” he hisses out, jabbing a finger in your direction, “—you’re in Whataburger boxers and mismatched socks.”

“Typical Sunday best,” you dismiss with a shrug.

Stand your ground, Jack.

“It’s Saturday, not Sunday,” he grinds out.

“Saturdays are Sundays of the weekend, everyone knows that.”

And what the fuck does that mean?

Jack groans, rubbing his temples like that’ll somehow buffer him from your logic.

“You know what?” he snaps. “I hope penguins are sad. Deeply, irreparably sad. Because if I have to suffer, they do too.”

“Wow.” You blink, head slinking back in astonishment. “Bold stance for someone claiming to be pro-bird.”

“I never claimed that!” he insists, the tendon in his neck flexing, almost to the point of pain, while he fights for his life in a court of bird law that doesn’t even fucking exist.

And, if it does, it sure as fuck isn’t taught in medical school.

“Oh, so you’re anti-bird now?”

“No! I just— God, what is happening right now?” he explodes, gesturing wildly. “You called while I had my fingers in someone’s heart to debate whether Emperor penguins have some sort of evolutionary seasonal affective disorder—”

“Well, do they?”

He closes his eyes.

Breathes in.

Out.

You lean forward, elbows on the counter in full cross-examination intensity.

“You said—and I quote—‘You of all people should know the legal ramifications.’ So, I asked you a legal question. And now,” your hand comes to rest on your heart, “I’m the bad guy?”

“I said that because you were going to kill that guy.”

“I was going to do no such thing,” you say mildly. “Because I. Respect. The law.”

The older man stares at you, jaw working, a silent plea to whatever higher power might be listening for the patience to survive this conversation.

A strange sense of calm washes over him—one that accompanies your specific brand of arguing technique.

He thinks maybe you have a point with all that amen, brother shit you throw around half-seriously.

“You know what I meant,” he says, each word a slow, deliberate exercise in self-restraint. “You can’t just twist my words because you’re bored and running on two hours of sleep and orange juice.”

You don’t bother to hide your smirk.

“I’m not twisting your words. I’m clarifying the record for the court. You know, in case this comes up during your deposition.” The sentence cuts off abruptly as you blink, holding a finger up while a thought belatedly comes in on the fax machine in your brain. “Also. I cannot drink orange juice. It interacts with my Focalin.”

“I’m not on trial.”

When he says it, he really, really tries to keep his tone resolute—clinical and I’m Mister Doctor who does doctor things.

You prod a finger at the air between you.

“Not yet. But the jury,” you gesture to the half-eaten bagel on the counter, “isn’t looking great for you, doctor.”

But, unfortunately, he's not doing doctor things. He's off the clock.

Jack stares at you for a long beat—at your wild hair that kind of resembles a lion’s mane right now, and at the amusement simmering in your eyes.

The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of this entire conversation hits him full force, all at once. Five hours ago, he was in the emergency department actually saving lives; now, he’s standing in your kitchen, tired and resigned and helpless to you, standing there wearing Whataburger boxers and arguing avian psychology with the composure of a Supreme Court justice.

Ruth Bader Gins-bird, Jack's brain helpfully supplies, inner-commentary sounding suspiciously like you.

A slow, helpless twitch tugs at the corner of his mouth. He tries to swallow it, but it’s too late. His shoulders betray him with a single shake, a breathless puff of air escaping him as his head drops forward.

You pivot on your back foot, twisting your body to put distance between the two of you, in confusion.

But when Jack looks back up, whatever annoyance—anger, whatever—that was there is completely gone. The wrinkles by his eyes deepen with an amount of affection that is, frankly, a little embarrassing.

“You’re a nightmare,” he laughs, but the bite is entirely replaced by a soft, thread of fondness, wrapping around each word. He begins a leisurely walk towards where you’re standing, before he reaches out and catches the side of your jaw. “A literal, legal nightmare.”

Looking down, he sees your cloth-enclosed toes shuffle forward until they bump his shoes. His eyes make the ascent, trailing across your socks, and your fuckass shorts, and his hoodie, until they lock onto your own.

The apartment is silent as your soft breaths mingle with his.

Jack’s thumb traces down the line of your jaw, hooking on your chin before it smooths down to rest right above your collarbone.

Slowly, he tilts your head up.

Even more slowly, because proximity to you is now just downright Pavlovian, his eyes slide shut.

Distance between the two of you becomes non-existent, the bridge of his nose gently nudging your forehead.

He’s not thinking about the semi-truck or the first-year resident he’s definitely going to be overworking tomorrow or your extremely frustrating way of doubling down even when you know you’re wrong.

He’s thinking about how your forehead feels against his and how, despite his best efforts to be a serious professional, his heart is currently doing an extremely unprofessional skip.

“I’m going to lose my license because of you, you know that?” he whispers.

Against his throat, he feels your low, vibrating hum of surrender, lips grazing the sensitive skin.

“Not even because of that stupid fucking phone call,” he says. “But because I’m currently standing in the kitchen after my shift arguing about the legality of penguins with my extremely stubborn girlfriend instead of sleeping.”

A small puff of laughter dances across his skin, goosebumps following in its wake. “Girlfriend, huh?”

Jack hums.

And then lets out a long, very self-suffering sigh as the mockery of adrenaline evaporates from his system, leaving only the comfortable weight of being home. Carefully, his body sinks into yours, nudging one foot between yours and anchoring himself to you.

“For the record,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin with every word, “your little jury is biased. I would like to request a mistrial.”

Your arms snake around his waist, hooking together and finding comfortable resting place on his spine.

Jack abruptly pulls back and you whine, a pathetic where are you going whine that tugs at his heart.

“And I want a bite of that bagel as a peace offering,” he demands.

Small arms—deceptively strong small arms—pull him back to you.

You shake your head like your trying to burrow in.

“That’s literally your bagel,” you say, words muffled from where your face presses into his chest. "I made it for you."

Jack blinks.

“You were just eating it.” He turns his head and looks at what’s left of the offending breakfast item. “I watched you eat it. It’s literally half-eaten.”

“Ohhhh my god, you are bitchy today.”

SEASON ONE:

Summary: It’s your birthday, but The Pitt doesn’t slow down for that. Between subway accidents, drownings, shootings, and the quiet heartbreak of patients who come back again and again, you do your best to keep your hands steady and your head clear. Somewhere in the blur of alarms and blood, you realize you’re holding onto something you shouldn’t—feelings for your quietly grieving chief attending. At The Pitt, you don’t just learn how to save lives. You learn how hard it is to ignore your own heart.

Chapter 1: Everything's Circling Around Us

Chapter 2: Maybe He Doesn't Care For Sentiment, Or He Doesn't Care For You

Chapter 3: My Persistence Left Me Empty-Handed

Chapter 4: I Should've Learned By Now, You Would Say The Words Out Loud Just To Break Me In Half

Chapter 5: When You Drown Once, It's Scary To Swim Again

Chapter 6: You Turned Me Into Something, And I Allowed You

Chapter 7: Why'd You Have To Leave Me Here Still Hoping?

Chapter 8: I Know It'll Take Time, Some Time To Get Over You

Chapter 9: With The Way You Look At Me, I'm Scared It's Gonna Happen Again

Chapter 10: For Me To Let Go Of What You Meant To Me

Chapter 11: I Wish I Didn’t Feel Like A Burden All The Time

Chapter 12: We Both Got What You Asked For

Chapter 13: The System Works, And We All Stay Terrified

Chapter 14: But You Dream Of Some Epiphany

Chapter 15: I Won’t Ever Mind Crisping Up On Your Backburner

PRE-SEASON TWO:

Chapter 16: I'll Just Wait For The Wind To Sweep Away My Words

SEASON TWO:

Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible. What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?

Chapter 17: Felt Good About You Til I Didn’t

Chapter 18: If She's Got A Pulse, She Meets Your Standards Now

Chapter 19: I'm A Little Bit Lost Without You

Chapter 20: It's An Endless Cycle, Turns Me Upside-Down

Chapter 21: Did You Like Her In The Morning?

Chapter 22: I Just Wanted You To Know That This Is Me Trying

Chapter 23: When It Kills Your Heart But You Can't Say No

Chapter 24: 'Cause I'm A Real Tough Kid, I Can Handle My Shit

Chapter 25: Breaking My Back To Carry The Weight of Your Heart

Chapter 26: I Gave You All My Best Me's, My Endless Empathy

Chapter 27: TBD

Chapter 28: TBD

Chapter 29: TBD

Chapter 30: TBD

Chapter 31: TBD