from far away, stays for a day

You were close with Andrew, some may even consider you friends. You talked, hung out, he let you vent to him…but he never vented to you. He never said anything about himself and he was sure you wouldn’t notice. Most people are too self-centered to care much when someone else won’t talk about themselves.

But you weren’t most people. You were…you. You were sweet like sugar, kinder than anyone he’s ever known, and not in the fake way. Not in the way that Smurf was, kind in order to receive something in return at some point.

You were just kind because that’s who you were. It wasn’t even that you wanted to be kind, you were cursed to be unnecessarily caring and understanding. You were empathetic to a fault, feeling everyone’s pain as your own…so much so that you would spiral. Andrew remembers the first time he witnessed it…he could never forget.

“Hey.” You hear his voice call out to you, muffled and warbled. You feel like you’re fucking drowning. “I was knocking for like fifteen minutes…you okay?” He finally rounds the bed to crouch down in front of you. Your face is mostly covered by the blanket, only your teary eyes being visible. “Hey…” He reaches out, voice gentle in a way no one but you had ever heard.

“They killed him.” You choke out, holding back another wave of tears.

“Who?” His brows knit together.

“A police officer.” Andrew feels his heart lurching. “He was…he was patrolling or something. He had a wife and kids, he was an incredible officer. I hate cops but he…he was good.” You swallow. “And they killed him…ran him over with their fucking truck.” Andrew couldn’t believe it. Some man you’ve never met or seen in person a day in your life…and you were sobbing in bed because he’d died.

You were inconsolable, rotting in bed for two days until he finally came by your apartment.

“I saw it on the news.” Is all he replies with. He climbs into bed with you and holds you close while you cry. For the first time in his life, he truly feels guilty. He’s felt guilt, but never enough to make him crack…cave and tell the truth. You were different, you made him different. The words almost fell past his lips multiple times…this was dangerous.

So yes…you were kind. You were gentle with him and comforted him so easily. It seemed so effortless when you did it, so natural. You never had to try, never had to force it. You held him in a way he’d only ever dreamed of. The way you made him feel was…scary.

Andrew had liked people before, dated before. He loved Cathrine since they were children, he knew love. Until he met you that is, because what he felt for you surpassed every other feeling he’s experienced.

He loved you.

So he knew he had to let you go.

Only his version of ‘letting you go’ was really just pushing you away. He fell away and ignored you, pretended he was busy. You bought it for a while, until you didn’t. That was another thing he loved about you, you were smart. Not book smart in particular, but people smart. You saw things no one else did, understood things no one else could…which is what made him consider telling you everything.

That was another thing he’d never experienced. The need to be completely honest, to spill his guts to you. He wanted to tell you everything he’s ever done or witnessed, and he wanted to tell you how it made him feel. He didn’t want to give you the dumbed down version either, he wanted to tell you exactly how he had been hurting.

He thought he’d gotten rid of you, everyone in his family did. They pat him on the back and told him it was the right thing to do. They didn’t see how horrible it was for him, how broken he was…but you would have, and you did.

“Andrew!” You scream, making him whip his head back, locking eyes with you. You’ve been crying, a lot. Your eyes are red and swollen, lips plump and extra pink, the tip of your nose rosy like Rudolph’s.

He was ready for you to scream at him, belittle him and call him an asshole. He braced himself for your harsh words, but they never came.

You walk up to him, reaching him in only a few strides. He flinches, ready for the worst.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, voice sweet as ever.

“What?” He asks, voice cracking.

“What’s wrong?” You ask again, reaching out to grab his face in your hands. “You’ve been drifting away, pulling back. I see the way your face shifts, holding back tears.” How could you possibly notice that? “If there’s something I did or said, you can tell me. I can try to fix it or if it isn’t fixable then at least I know why you’re pulling away.”

You’re unbelievable…truly unbelievable.

“You didn’t do anything.” He answers simply.

“Then what is it? Does it have to do with your family?” Andrew’s eyes widen just a fraction.

“Why do you think it’s about them?”

“Anytime I mention them you flinch. Your eyes twitch and your bottom lip trembles a few times before you stop it.” You really did notice everything. “Anytime you talk about them yourself, your voice lowers. You sound rougher, angrier. Your jaw clenches and your teeth grit together, which is really bad for them by the way.” The way you slip the comment in makes him smirk.

“How do you notice things like that?”

“Born that way, you know that.” He nods slowly, he did know that. “Talk to me, Andy…you know you can.”

“I can’t.” His voice breaks, gently pulling your hands away from his face.

“Did they do something?” He simply shakes his head, looking away. “Did they say something?” Another shake of his head. “Is this about the whole crime thing?” You question. His eyes go bulging wide as he stares back at you, mouth hanging open slightly.

“How did you-“ He trails off, watching you like you’re the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.

“The dozens of vehicles in your garage. Boats, bikes, cars. The giant fucking house and all the nice furniture. How careful they are when talking about their jobs, and yours. All their voices catch the slightest bit when they lie, including yours. Anytime they talked about your guys jobs, lives, pasts…voices would catch.” Andrew watches you still, head shaking in awe.

“Janine always offers money, always tries to buy her way through. You all have an edge to you too…” You pause. “A certain…vibe I guess. You’re all tough and secretive, sly and cunning. All signs point to criminals…for lack of a better word.” You wince when the word leaves your lips, shaking your head.

“Why are you still here?” He asks quietly. You don’t have to ask what he means, because you always know.

“Because I don’t care.” You scoff, like the answer was so obvious. It was obvious, but he wasn’t hopeful enough to let himself see it. “I love you, Andy.” Your voice wavers, tears gathering in your eyes. “I don’t care what you do, or what your family does. All I care about is being with you, taking care of you when you won’t do it yourself…talking to you when you need it, helping you.”

“You’re too good.” He shakes his head with a smile.

“So are you…you just don’t show it all the time. It isn’t obvious, or out in the open. You’re so kind but you hide it, don’t make a big deal out of it.” You notice so many things he’s always overlooked, things everyone’s always overlooked.

“That’s why I love you, Andy. You’re a better person than you think. You aren’t who you envision yourself to be, who you think everyone else sees. I see you, good and bad, I see it all…” His eyes are watering now. You don’t point it out, you don’t wipe away his tears because you know it would make him toughen up again, lock away his emotions. “And I still love you, with everything I have.”

You pause, thinking you had misheard or misunderstood him. "What? What ring?"

"What ring do you want? You haven't sent any or pointed any out, and I haven't seen you wear any rings, so I don't know what you like."

You blink at him, trying to piece together his clarification. Realizing what he was referring to, what ring he is talking about.

"Are you proposing to me?" You ask, not upset or mad, just genuinely confused.

His head tilts slightly, "No. But if you want me to, you haven't left hints. And I guessed you would, thats what most women do."

You shift in bed, suddenly not tired anymore after the sudden conversation that was initiated. "Oh. I don't know." You hesitate, taking a moment to think before continuing, "Honestly?"

He nods, waiting.

"I hate the feeling of rings, and I think that it's going to get stuck, and then that's all I think about, and then I wanna rip it off. That's why I don't wear them." You explain and watch as Andrew's eyes soften.

He comes around the bed, sitting next to you, facing you. "I didn't know that."

You nod. "It's fine, really. It's the same with bracelets and most jewelry, honestly. I hate the feeling of them on my skin."

"I knew about bracelets and necklaces just didn't know about rings. So you don't want a wedding ring?"

"I just wouldn't wear it and would feel bad."

Andrew nods, staring at you. If you didn't know him, it would be intimidating how intense his glare is. His hand slowly comes to the skin of your thighs, which is exposed by your nightdress. But pause, asking if you want to be touched. You give him a small nod, letting him know it's okay. He brings his hand to your thigh, slowly rubbing it.

"So what do you want instead?"

That question makes you think. Hating rings, you never thought about alternatives. Then, struggling with dating your whole life, you hadn't thought about marriage or weddings at all.

"I don't know, babe…"

"Do you wanna get married?" He asks, brows raised. You know, he also means, do you want to marry him? And it's the one question where the answer immediately comes to mind.

"Yeah. I do. I just don't know about the details. The wedding dresses are uncomfortable, there's a lot of people and expectations and socialization and then the food and again the people and germs and-"

"No one said anything about all that bullshit. I just wanna marry you. I don't care about the rest of it."

His words bring a smile to your face. You had never thought you'd hear anyone tell you that. You couldn't contain the rush of excitement surging inside you. You move your body, rocking back and forth a bit from the excitement. "I really want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?"

Andrew nods, bringing a hand to your waist, pulling you to him until his lips are on yours.

He pulls away after bringing his hand from your waist to your cheek, rubbing it between his rough, calloused hands.

"I just wanna marry you too. I don't care about the bullshit either." You tell him, repeating his words.

"But this is not me proposing. I'll do it right."

Once you’re dressed, the day officially begins. Despite yourself, you find your eyes jumping from person to person, eagerly looking for one doctor in particular. 

But he finds you before you do him. You jolt when his arm brushes against yours as you stand near the charge station. You angle your head in his direction and you feel your heart skip a beat as you focus fully on him.

“Hey,” you say to Jack, trying—and failing—to refocus on the schedule in front of you. 

He doesn’t even try to look busy as he drags a hand through his silver curls, eyes twinkling despite their exhaustion. “You’re starting early.”

You half-shrug, flipping the page over, scanning quickly through the patient list. “Lena needed another nurse on deck… something about Jacob’s paternity leave. So, here I am.”

“Here you are.”

You look at him fully then, an affectionate smile creeping across your face. “How’s the shift been? Chaotic?”

Jack shakes his head. He rubs his temple as if doing so would release every worry from his head. “Uh, it’s been about the same. So, catastrophic on every level. I had—“

Your Apple Watch suddenly buzzes twice in quick succession and your attention is unintentionally diverted. You frown, again confused why you were receiving nonessential notifications. When you open the screen, two text messages are there from an unknown number. You can’t preview the messages from your watch before the screen goes black, so you have no idea what they might contain.

“Everything okay?” Jack reminds you of his presence when he asks this, and you briefly look up at him to let him know you heard his question.

“Yeah, not sure what’s going on today.” You push and hold to silence the watch. “Spam callers are having a field day, I guess. Bet they just texted to let me know I have to click this sketchy link to prevent my nonexistent car from being repossessed.”

“Better get on that,” your boyfriend says with a light chuckle, “you know the United States government has an invested interest in your nonexistent car and those nonexistent toll fees.”

You grin at his sarcasm. Finally dissuaded from checking your notifications, you look up at him. “Now if only they could adjust their pitch to match Pittsburgh public transportation.”

“—Yo, lovebirds,” Lena’s voice commands attention from every corner of the room, and you feel your spine immediately go ramrod from her tone. “I got patients back here that would love an ounce of your undivided attention.”

Despite her tone, you know she’s not truly angry. You place a quick kiss on Jack’s cheek, then head over to your charge nurse. The text messages, phone call, and even Jack migrate to the back of your head as you get sucked into work.

You haven’t thought about your ex in a long ass time. It’s hard to reconcile that at one point in your life, he’d been all you thought about.

You had met in nursing school. He was the sweet, handsome, charismatic guy who sat next to you in pharmacology. It was hard to see in your young, 20-something-year-old brain the glaring red flags. Or perhaps you had ignored them in favor of the relationship.

You had the habit of focusing on the positives more than you did the negatives of any situation, especially regarding relationships. You focused on the fact that he always brought you a coffee when he got himself one, the fact that he would wrap his arm around you and tug you to his side when talking with friends, how he’d always make up for arguments with gifts and affection.

But as time wore on, his negatives only became more pronounced. He was not used to working hard for his degree in college—that is what happens when daddy pays for you to have good grades in undergrad—and flunked out. He blamed you for being a distraction to his schooling, but never dared breaking up with you. He started getting too adventurous with his drug usage, to the point finding his next fix took priority over everything else.

You broke up with him a year ago. Six months ago, you started dating Jack.

Jack is everything that he wasn’t. He’s responsible. Everything he has he’s had to work for. He loves you, and does not put you on the back burner when life gets messy, instead, he tries to make it work. Most importantly, though? He doesn’t fucking blame you for all his problems.

You stare at the phone in a stunned silence.

All it takes was two texts for you to remember why you hated being single those six months you were. The audacity of some men was truly astounding.

???: did you really just ignore my call? who the hell do you think you are?

And then, literally, seconds later:

???: are you in town, babe? maybe we could grab some drinks?

One might wonder how you knew it was him, but it’s just so obvious. No one else would be texting at five in the fucking morning looking to get drinks after a year no-contact. It’s the kind of insane behavior one could only expect from him. 

You shake your head after a few moments of staring blankly at your phone and stand. You throw the last bits of your meal away and drop your phone back off into your locker. As you step out of the nurse’s area, you notice Lena waving you over from across the room.

You make it over to her in two quick strides, eager to get your mind the hell away from whatever those texts were. 

Those dreams are dashed the second you notice Lena giving you a concerned look.

“Hey hon.” Hon? She never calls you that. “We have a man in North 2 asking for you by name. Want to take it?”

You cock a brow, mind moving a mile a minute as you try to quickly go through who that could be. But the texts still linger in your mind from moments before and you get stuck on one thought. Would he really be so stupid… so deplorable… to get himself admitted to your ER?

You sigh and nod, straightening your scrub top nervously as you approach the patient room door. You pause for a moment, trying to will yourself to just knock on the door. When you finally do, a smiling brunette answers it—not exactly what you’d been expecting.

“Are you the doctor?” she says, entirely too caffeinated and hyper for being in a hospital at five in the morning.

“I’m the nurse,” you tell her, smiling tightly. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, right.” She lets out a laugh. “Sorry, I see that on your badge now.”

She steps aside and you take at most two steps before your stomach drops to your feet. There he is, in all his glory. Considering the fact that you haven’t seen him in a year and he’s gained at least thirty pounds, you applaud yourself for recognizing him so quickly. He’s got one arm covered in gauze, and blood seems to have already soaked through.

The woman who’s with him goes to his side, stroking his unhurt arm gently. Poor girl, you think, if only she knew what she was getting herself into.

“I’m just going to take your vitals.” Strict professionalism. That is your aim for working with him. You grab the blood pressure cuff and loop it around his upper arm.

“Babe, how about you go get me a coke?” His voice is just as dry and grumbly as you remember. Once upon a time, you’d found it attractive. Now it was just grating.

You squeeze the cuff as the girl nods cheerily and practically skips out of the room. He lets out a quick breath through his teeth when you maybe squeeze it one time too hard. An honest mistake, really. You type down his blood pressure dutifully in his patient chart.

You gesture toward the door where the woman just slipped out. “Where’d you pick a girl like that up at?” 

“Eh, she’s just some squeeze.” He shrugs. “Nothin’ compared to you, babe.”

“I see your limitless assholery has remained the same.” You type a few more numbers into his chart, refusing to give him the eye contact he so desperately searched for. “So, what? You just so happened to cut yourself after texting me for the first time in a year?”

He winces as you reach over to pull back the bandage. It’s not too bad. You probe the edges of skin once, twice, then pull the bandage back over it. It looks like it might need stitches, which means, unfortunately, he will have to stay longer.

“Would you respond to me otherwise?” He makes a good point. You would never answer the phone if you knew he was on the other line. However, faking an injury and taking the bed of a person who might actually need it? Now that’s just wrong.

You snap your gloves off and go to add one more note to his file. Do not administer Oxycodone-based medications. That last bit of information comes from personal experience.

“Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?” you ask, leaning up against the door of the room.

He doesn’t have to think on it for long. “Good.”

“The good news is that you will not be seeing me much more for the rest of your stay here. The bad news is you will have to stay a little longer. A doctor will need to come assess your wound.”

“How’s the good news good? I came here specifically to see you,” he says, his tone annoyed.

You give him your best attempt at a smile. “Oh right–that’s good news for me, not you. Have a good day.”

You leave the room quickly after that, ignoring his protests as you do. You pass the brunette on your way to the charge station, and you offer her a pitying smile. Poor girl really has no idea who she’s getting involved with, does she?

Leaning across the charge desk, you pinch your nose bridge in between your fingers and attempt to take several deep breaths.

Of all the things you’d seen in this profession; all the people that had been lost along the way… somehow, the hardest struggle was having to face your ex. How ridiculous was that?

“You good?” The sudden question is punctuated by a loud slurp of a drink, and you know who it is before you even turn your head.

“Hey Shen,” you greet him curtly. He shakes around the Dunkin’ drink in his hand, the ice cubes clinking together.

“You and Jack having some trouble in paradise?” Shen says before taking another loud sip of his drink. 

You can’t help the short laugh from snorting out of your nostrils. “No, no,” you tell him, “if only it were that.”

Shen narrows his eyes. He looks you up and down as if trying to discern the issue.

You sigh. “My ex. He’s in North 2. He faked an injury to see me.”

“No way.” Shen laughs. “Listen, I have some pretty crazy exes, but even they haven’t done anything that crazy.” His tone shifts when he realizes you aren’t in the same jovial mood. He steps forward, expression drawn tight. “You need help?”

You look off to the side, pondering. It would suck if Jack had to meet him. It wasn’t so much that you didn’t want Jack to know as it was that you didn’t want to have to deal with the embarrassment of having dated that thing for a brief point in your life. 

“You free? Think you could inspect his wound? Maybe put in some stitches?” 

Shen cocks a brow. “You sure you don’t want Jack to do that? Need him to go all macho on him?”

“I’d rather Jack not be involved.” You shift uneasily on your feet. “Not because he’s possessive, but because I worry my ex might get… unruly.”

Shen nods, then puts his drink down on the counter, even though Lena had explicitly requested he not do that. “Give me fifteen. I’ll meet you back here for consult.”

You watch for a few seconds as he strides away, then you avert your eyes to your hands. They’re shaking, but you’re not sure why. You aren’t scared of your ex—but that doesn’t mean you aren’t upset by his reappearance in your life.

You hadn’t been one of those couples that said “let’s just be friends!” even once they broke up. You’d been more so the type that you blocked each other’s numbers and you moved your entire career and livelihood to get away from him. It felt like two worlds colliding, him being here, where you were now a successful nurse and not his overly-reliant girlfriend.

As you continue to stand by the desks, you notice Jack stepping out of a patient’s room down the hall. You turn your back and attempt to look busy in sorting paperwork, but you know he’s seen you.

His voice breaks through your thoughts just as you begin to think he’s not coming over. “Working hard or hardly working?”

You smile despite yourself. “Hey,” you say, turning your head. 

His eyebrows furrow as he gets closer to you, able to see you more clearly. He leans beside you on the counter, chewing the inside of his cheek. He’s worried about you—he always does that when he is. “You alright?” 

You knew he was going to ask this, but it still catches you off-guard.

You don’t want to lie to him, but you don’t want to tell him the truth either. Subjecting Jack to your ex was not high on your to-do list. If all went well, no one would have to deal with him other than Shen. Besides, you don’t need a man to stick up for you. You could handle him just fine on your own.

You shrug. “Sometimes I forget how chaotic the night shift can be.”

He leans forward, voice soft. “If you’re struggling, I’m sure Lena will be understanding…”

You put your hand on his bicep and give it a squeeze. “I’m okay, Jack. I promise. Besides, your shift is over in, what, an hour and a half? Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll try,” he tells you, “but you have a way of making it into my head whether I want you to or not.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

“—You ready to go, my favorite nurse?” you hear Shen say from behind you. He reaches between you and Jack to grab his drink, taking a long sip. The seriousness of the conversation he just interrupted is completely lost on him. He turns to Jack. “Oh, hey man. Didn’t see you there.”

Your boyfriend cocks a brow at you. “What’s going on?”

“A consult,” Shen replies simply.

Jack looks at you like he’s expecting a more in-depth explanation. You smile teasingly and pat his arm. “Back to work, doc. Patients won’t save themselves.”

Jack rolls his eyes affectionately as you step away, but once your back is turned, the expression falls away.

You clutch the suture kit cart as Shen knocks on the patient door then uses his hip to push it open. He stands to the side as you enter. Your ex’s new girlfriend shoots to her feet as you push the cart in, her eyes wide. You offer her what you hope is a comforting smile.

“Hello, hello,” Shen says as he takes a seat on a rolling stool next to his bed. “I’m Dr. Shen and I’m going to be taking care of you today. I hear you have a cut on your arm?”

Your ex doesn’t look at him as he replies, his eyes on you and the suture kit. “I slipped.” He reaches over to remove the gauze on his arm.

“Is it going to need stitches?” The girlfriend asks from behind you.

Shen inspects the wound carefully, eyes moving slowly across the ripped skin. He pulls away and nods. “Yeah, I think a few stitches. It’s pretty deep and jagged along the edges. What was it you slipped on?”

He moves out of the way so you can begin flushing the wound. You ignore the fact that your ex is flexing his muscles as you grab the cleanser, completely locked into your work.

“My damn hunting knife,” he says, “it’ll leave a pretty nice scar though, huh?”

You roll your eyes without even really meaning to, and you feel your ex’s glare on you.

“Go ahead and put some lidocaine in,” Shen tells you. He turns to your ex. “Don’t want you to feel your skin being pulled together with a needle, do we?”

Your ex goes pale as you grab the syringe and fill it with the liquid. “Uh, could I… does it have to have stitches?”

“Trust me, honey, you do not want sepsis,” his girlfriend says, “my cousin got it and—“

“—Just be quiet,” your ex snaps at her. You flinch at the tone, and accidentally spill a little bit of the liquid on the table.

Shen steps up behind you, crossing his arms in front of his chest. You know he wants to comfort you, but you’re glad he keeps his distance. “Your girlfriend is right,” he says, “lots of nasty things can happen if you let a cut like that not heal properly.”

You gently guide the needle into the skin above his wound and push the liquid inside. You turn to your ex as you pull the needle away. “It should be completely numb in a few minutes.”

You step back to let Shen take the seat again. You turn to look out the window of the room only to lock eyes with Jack. He’s talking to Lena, but his eyes are on you. You look away. You nervously shift on your feet, clutching your hands across your front.

“So, uh.” Your ex’s eyes are on you as he starts to speak. Your lips draw into a thin line. “You guys get out much? Have boyfriends, girlfriends?”

Shen knows who the question is aimed at, yet he answers anyway. “Eh, it’s kind of difficult,” he says, poking and prodding the arm. “I’m not much for commitment.”

You refuse to reply. 

“Okay, I think it’s numbed up, I’m going to go ahead and start,” Shen tells him. “Maybe try not to look at it. I find my patients who don’t usually have the best time with this.”

You hand Shen the threaded needle and help clamp the skin together with forceps. 

“And you?” His fucking mouth. 

You barely look up from his wound as your ex says this. “What?” 

“Are you dating anyone?” 

“Honey, I think they’re concentrating right now,” his girlfriend butts in. You shoot her an appreciative smile and keep your hands steady as Shen guides the needle through the first point.

“Surely she can answer a question,” he huffs, “I mean she’s just holding a clamp. I can do that.”

You shake your head and barely murmur, “I’m not doing this here. Not now.”

Shen goes through the third point, drawing the skin together tightly.

A few moments pass and you think he’s given up. Then, he says, “I just don’t understand what the big deal is. Why can’t you answer the question?”

You clench your jaw, barely able to conceal your irritation. Shen shoots you a look, but then goes back to sewing.

“Cmon, really?” he continues. 

“I have a boyfriend—is that what you so desperately want to hear?!” your voice is unexpectedly loud, and you immediately regret the outburst after it leaves your lips.

The girlfriend looks shocked—hurt, probably realizing that your connection with her boyfriend goes beyond a normal patient-nurse relationship. Your ex looks equal parts annoyed as he does satisfied with your outburst. Like he’d just proved some point in his head about how you weren’t all perfect.

Shen turns his head and says, “scissors.”

You hand him the utensil and he pulls the thread taut before snipping it. 

Your ex lets out a short laugh. You cock a brow, worried that someone had slipped him something.

“I don’t believe you.”

You roll your eyes. “Good thing I don’t care if you do or don’t.”

Shen turns to you. “I can wrap up here if you need to step out.”

You’re already halfway out the door by the time he says this. You move quickly to the stairwell, passing concerned nurses and doctors as you do. Once you are out the door, you have to bend over to catch your breath. Pressing the palms of your hands hard against your eyes, you will yourself not to get upset.

Only he could get you that flustered with hardly a word. And you fell for his bait every single time. You lean against the wall and try to steady your breathing.

A few minutes pass. More than you are sure that Lena would allow. The doors to the stairwell open and you turn to the side, hoping the person there can take a hint.

Unfortunately, Jack is persistent.

He gently grabs your arm and pulls you to his side. You allow him, and the stress of the day flows out of you with your muffled tears. You cushion your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He strokes the top of your head while the other arm holds you just as tightly.

Once you’ve released all the emotion you can handle, you pull back a little, wiping your eyes. Jack doesn’t let you get far, keeping you close to his chest.

“Shen told me you were upset,” he says, “what’s going on?”

You sniffle, trying to look away. He gently guides your head back to meet his eyes with his thumb on your chin. His fingers slide up to cup your cheek and you melt into his grip. “Talk to me, love.”

A fresh set of tears escape your eyes at the sweetness of his voice. The caring, affectionate man in front of you was so much better than anyone you’d ever been with. It makes you feel silly for crying, silly for complaining.

“This morning, when my watch buzzed.” You hiccup. “It wasn’t a spam number. It was my ex-boyfriend.”

You watch Jack’s face carefully as you say this, trying to predict his next words before he says them. You thread your fingers in his scrubs, anchoring yourself to him.

“Then, he showed up as a patient. He intentionally hurt himself to see me. And he’s been rude and crass, sure, but that’s not even what bothers me the most.” You wipe your eyes with the palm of your hand, knowing you must look a mess. “I don’t want him back in my life. Never. He… just doesn’t belong here. It makes me sick thinking he’s trying to worm himself into my perfect life that I’ve built without him.”

You pause, taking a panicky breath in. “I don’t want him to come between us. I don’t want you to think… I don’t want you to think less of me because of him. I mean, I can’t believe I ever dated him. He’s awful.”

Jack strokes your cheek, letting you get it all out. When he’s sure you’re finished, he speaks.

“First of all,” he says, “I’m never going to judge you for people you no longer have in your life. If you chose to get rid of them, I know there’s a hell of a good reason. And, personally, I think you’re a great judge of character. I don’t want to hang out with someone you don’t like.” You avert your eyes bashfully, but Jack angles your head so you’re still looking at him.

“Secondly, don’t blame yourself for the choices of stupid people. Just because you once associated with him, doesn’t mean you still stand by his choices today,” he says. “I love you. I mean that. And that means I trust you, implicitly. I wouldn’t have tried to get in the way—well, let me rephrase that. If you weren’t in imminent trouble and I thought you had it handled, I wouldn’t intervene with your issues.”

You let out a soft laugh at that last part. 

For a moment longer, the two of you stand there. He strokes your hair, you clutch his scrubs. Finally, you release him.

“I’ve got thirty more minutes left before the day shift inevitably arrives,” he says, “so, what do you want to do?”

You shake your head. “Honestly? I hope he disappears.” You push open the door with your hip. “But if he doesn’t, then I’ll let you know.”

You step into the buzzing ER and let out a deep breath. You start to head to the bathroom, when your eye gets caught on a figure quickly headed in the other direction. Her dark hair bounces against her back as she jogs away, her hand covering her face. The girlfriend. You imagine that their conversation didn’t go over well.

Your ex steps out after her, clutching his now-bandaged arm. He looks at her retreating back for a moment before he rolls his neck back, peeved. As he turns to go back in the room, he halts. Then his eyes lift and immediately lock onto yours.

A rehearsed grin spreads across his mouth. You turn your back, but he reaches you before you can push open the door to the bathroom.

He grabs your shoulder and you spin around, pushing him away disgustedly.

“Don’t ever touch me,” you say through gritted teeth.

“Woah, woah,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “Easy there, tiger.”

He jumps in front of you when you go to push open the bathroom door.

“Hey, just listen to me.” His eyes are like a weasel’s, predatory and conniving. “Just let me say my piece.”

“I’m not interested,” you tell him. “What part of that can’t you get through your thick skull?”

“Is this about the cheating thing? Are you really still mad about that?” 

“You really are oblivious, aren’t you?” You roll your eyes. “You can stick your dick in any hole you like. It’s none of my business. Why? Because we aren’t dating.”

You turn your back when you remember you have makeup wipes in your bag. But you can’t get far before a hand wraps around your wrist like steel. You don’t have a moment to think, your body reacts before your mind can. You turn and punch him squarely in the jaw.

He releases you immediately and lets out a loud groan, falling back against the bathroom door. He clutches his jaw with a fury in his eyes unlike you’ve ever seen.

“I said, don’t touch me, asswipe.”

He comes toward you, as if to retaliate, but then you feel an arm pushing you behind a sturdy body and your view is cut off.

“Who the hell are you?” your ex says, gesturing to Jack with a foul expression.

You look down at your hand and realize it’s bleeding. Your thumb might be sprained—you aren’t sure. It throbs painfully, but you can move it at least.

“I’m her boyfriend.” You peer around Jack’s shoulder and realize that your ex looks about ready to piss himself. “But that doesn’t matter. When someone asks for space, that’s when you back the fuck off.”

“—What’s going on here?” A voice cuts in. You turn your head to see Ahmad there, his hand resting on his holster.

You step forward. “Ahmad. Could you escort this patient out? He should be ready for discharge. I’ll fill out all the proper HR paperwork—this is all just a big mistake.”

“Hey, hey,” your ex says, waving his hand toward Ahmad,  “I’m not taking the fall for this.”

Ahmad grabs your ex’s shoulder before he can reach out and grab you. You look back and see Jack and Shen are there, both willing to corroborate.

You look back at your ex. “It’s time to go. And don’t come back.”

“Unless you get seriously injured in the vicinity of our hospital, then you can—“ Shen starts to say, but Jack elbows him in the side.

Your ex stares at you for a full second. Then he turns his head. You think he’s given up, then he mutters a very clear, resounding bitch underneath his breath and Jack is stepping forward before you can stop him.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Jack,” you call out.

Your ex looks at him square on. “She heard me.”

Jack clenches his fists. You reach forward to grab his shoulder. You look over at Ahmad, who then forcefully turns your ex around and leads him away.

“Jack, it’s okay,” you say. “I’ve heard worse, believe it or not.”

“He can’t just…” he starts to say, then shakes his head. 

“I love you,” you tell him softly. “And I’m okay.”

Shen gets drawn into an incoming trauma and hurries away. You clutch your still-bleeding hand to your chest, which draws Jack’s attention.

“Shit,” he curses. “Why didn’t you say you’ve never punched someone before? I could’ve done it.”

Your hand is still shaking as you follow him to an empty exam room. He opens the door and you shuffle in.

“It’s really not that bad,” you say, “it’s mostly the adrenaline making me shake.”

Jack keeps his back to you in the room, looking through cabinets quickly. You sigh.

“Really, Jack, I needed to punch him. For my own mental well-being. I’d be kicking myself later if I hadn’t,” you say with a soft laugh.

Jack retrieves some bandages and disinfectant. He takes a seat on a rolling stool in front of where you sit perched on an exam bed, swinging your feet back and forth. Jack gently grabs your hand and looks over your injuries.

“How are you so calm right now?” he asks, unfolding a disinfectant swab. “Your ex just verbally assaulted you in front of the entire ER floor.”

You hiss through your teeth as he dabs the swab against your torn knuckles. He gives you an apologetic look, but doesn’t let up. 

“I’m sure I’ll start panicking later, once everything settles in.” You wince again as he wraps your knuckles. 

“Can you move your thumb?”

You move it side to side, then up and down. Confusion washes over you as he inspects it. “How’d you know I hurt my thumb?”

He laughs. “I haven’t seen a fist that bad since I was sixteen. You can’t tuck your thumb inside your fist when you punch—you’re lucky you didn’t break it.”

You pout. “I thought I did good.”

He lets go of your thumb to cup your cheeks together in his palms. “I didn’t say it was terrible. You still packed a pretty mean hook.”

You can’t resist. You lean forward to give him a kiss. He returns it wholeheartedly, angling your head with his palm. 

You pull away before it can devolve into something inappropriate for a hospital setting. He strokes the back of your neck even as you pull apart, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded.

“You better go brief the day shift,” you tell him, “I’m sure they’ve already heard plenty about your eventful night. You know Shen loves to gossip.”

He bites his lip and throws his head back with a groan. “God, all I want to do right now is go to sleep.”

“At least you don’t have to do HR paperwork with a hurt hand.”

“You got me there,” he says, gently tugging you to his side as he heads to the door. “You’re off tomorrow, right? Want to come over to my place?”

You grin at him. “I’d love nothing more.”

Your body still felt off. It was stiff in a way you hadn’t experienced, but also light and airy in a way that felt preternatural. Sounds had begun to filter through the staunch wall of your brain, and they felt sharp, biting. There was an underlying panic that perhaps you had been out for much longer than you first estimated, but something else soothed that panic each time it rose. It made you feel right, despite every wave of confusion, and you leaned into that feeling rather than giving in to the fear. 

Something was buzzing beneath your skin. It flowed in your blood and seemed to zap your veins. Drugs—it was definitely drugs through an IV. Probably pain killers and antibiotics and several other things keeping you alive as your appendix acted against you. There was a chance it had already been taken out, and you preferred that narrative. No time to be anxious about surviving a surgery that already happened. 

Low murmuring suddenly ripped past the mundane sounds of whatever room you were in, and then the panic was back in full force. 

“Explain it again?” 

“The priestesses said it was sudden. Bryaxis was unsettled—and then she was there. Unconscious.” 

The content of the conversation was enough to make your breathing shallow, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that there was nothing medical about the words floating above you, or that you were suddenly concerned you had been taken to a… convent? A church?

No, it was that the words sounded so, so foreign, each consonant and vowel weaving together to form echoes of a language you had never heard before, not even in passing. It was unusual, possibly European, but also not in the slightest. You thought it could have been Latin, but even that didn’t sound correct. The worst part, the terrifying part, was that you understood it. You could tell it was different, and still, everything was so clear in your mind. Like it was relayed through a translation app and inputted directly into your brain. 

You felt yourself shift as the fear tightened your throat, and to your surprise, nothing was dragging against you—no wires or IVs or tubes helping you stay afloat after a major surgery. You took in a deep breath and smelled no antiseptic or starched linen sheets. Instead, the air held an herbal hint, spices and heady plants alarming your senses.

Were you kidnapped? Had your organs been harvested? You began to second-guess the integrity of your roommates, running through their university housing profiles in your head. Two grad students, quiet, no parties, night-owls—nothing about being part of an underground organ-harvesting ring. But, then again, maybe they had been waiting for the perfect moment, for you to be vulnerable enough to cart off without a fight.

Your breaths became even more difficult to capture. 

“She’s waking up,” one of the male voices said.

You choked on the strange scent of the air, and then your eyes opened and adjusted to the dim, humming light in the room. You were in a room that was, as predicted, not in a hospital. Deep, polished wood made up the roof beams, with red rock twining between tiny cracks and fissures. There were pictures on the walls depicting a town with sprawling lights and a rushing river, and mountains with snow-capped peaks and figures outlined upon them. A window was allowing light in from the far side of the room, and you snapped your head up once the rush of consciousness became less novel. 

Two men stood by the door, both imposing in their statures, neither looking like the type to steal someone’s organs. They were well-dressed and put together, calm with their attention fixed on you, and you’d never witnessed any organized crime, but the lavish room you were in, paired with the careful, guarded looks you were receiving, didn’t add up to the assumptions in your head. The comparisons didn’t help you feel calm. 

Your hands hovered over the plush blanket on your lap, fingers shaking. You let out a sudden gasp of air that quivered in your chest and flinched as the two men reacted to the sound. Neither had moved from their positions by the door, though you knew by their expressions that they would if they had to. The shorter one, his eyes more cunning and knowing, tilted his chin up and began to speak. 

“Where did you come from?” he asked, tone clear. “And how did you land in my library?” 

The lack of malice in his curiosity told you he was in control of the situation. The taller man behind him, lean but still taking up so much of the doorway, looked on with equally searching eyes, but he was more guarded, more reserved, his brow twitching as you observed him. You had a hard time discerning which of the two was more dangerous. 

“Um,” you stammered, still frozen in place. Your voice was more melodic than you had expected. “I don’t—exactly know how I got here. I’m from the—I, um, I’m in grad school on the east coast.” 

“The east?” the man in the back echoed. His voice was so low you felt it in your chest. “Of what court?” 

You paused. “New York?” 

The one with the deep blue eyes squinted. “Where is that?”

Confusion overrode panic. “New York? As in, the state?” 

Everyone knew about New York, even if they only conceptualized it in terms of taxi cabs and hot dogs and the Statue of Liberty. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that you had been taken to a remote island, on which no one had a map, or access to the news, or even an internet connection, but these men looked… knowledgeable. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but they didn’t seem the type to be uninformed. 

You glanced out the window to get a better concept of your surroundings, but saw only a clouded blue sky. You were high up, then, granting even more evidence against your remote island theory—if they could build a house several stories high, they would know about New York. 

You worried your bottom lip as the clouds inched their way across the window, the room silent. Through the corner of your vision, you saw the men looking at each other—furrowing and straightening their brows, squinting and grimacing and huffing out breaths. If there were words accompanying their expressions, it would have made more sense, but as it stood, you were beginning to amount a new fear: that you were kidnapped, and your kidnappers were clinically insane. 

The most reasonable avenue would be the escape, but you would need to scope out your surroundings first, and each time you even shifted on the bed, eyes shot to you. Were you not allowed to move? Were you chained to the bed? You took stock of your legs and feet under the blanket, not feeling bound by anything other than the tucked-in sheets. There were no bars on the window, either, and the room itself was rather welcoming. You glanced over at the side table, tinctures and small vials labeled with scrawling text. Your fingers spasmed as you read the words clearly, despite the letters looking foreign. 

This could have been a very, very realistic dream. 

After another moment of the men staring at each other, you decided to take a chance, feeling resolute in both the dream and the insane kidnapper theory. You slid one leg out from under the blanket, but movement by the door stopped you. 

The taller man had turned to you again, expression watchful, feet moving on the plush carpet. You sucked in a breath and stalled your attempt to get to the window. And then you felt yourself scream. Just one scream—an accident, really, your hand coming out to cover your mouth as the men stood at alert. Your breaths were making strange sounds past your fingers, and your shoulders were unintentionally raised. 

Wings. 

The man had wings, and they didn’t look fake. They moved along with him, membranes allowing light to pass through and highlight the veins tracking back to the roots. And the closer you looked at him, the worse it became. There were glowing, blue… gems—no, sconces of light attached to his body, and they seemed to move with him too. They sparked and swirled as he took you in, responding to him in a way that couldn’t be manufactured. 

But what had you jumping from the bed were the shadows emanating from him, wisps of darkness flowing from his shoulders. Some of them seemed to tug at him, others cloaked him in their murky air. You jolted up and got caught on the sheets, tugging your ankle loose until your hands finally met the carpeted ground. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t hear them, too panicked to make sense of this strange language you suddenly understood. You ended up with your palms flat on the ground and your knees supporting you, vaguely aware that you were wrapped in some sort of silk material that you were positive did not come from your closet. 

“Easy,” the winged man warned, but his hands were up in a placating gesture, and he had begun to crouch to meet you at your level. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

Your chest had begun to sting with your quick inhales. The man took the smallest step forward, and you rushed back, your head slamming into a table and making your vision blur. 

“Azriel, you are scaring her,” the other man patiently said. He hadn’t moved from the door, but something about him felt more imposing. Your head was throbbing too much to make sense of it. 

Azriel looked over his shoulder. “Well, what would you like me to do instead, Rhys?” he quipped out, as if this were some kind of game and you weren’t being held hostage. 

Okay. 

You were the one going insane. That had to be it. You had fallen into the hall back at your apartment and had some sort of psychotic break, prompting your very appropriately acting roommates to put you on a psych hold. That was it. That was why you were seeing shadows and wings and glowing bulbs. You blinked hard and tried to orient yourself to that truth, hoping that some clarity would come with the revelation, but when you opened your eyes, you were still there. 

“This isn’t real,” tumbled from your lips, sounding breathy and light. “You—you aren’t real. And I’m going insane.” 

Azriel shook his head. “This is real. You are in the Night Court. Is that where you’re from? Or are you from somewhere else?” 

“Night Court?” you mumbled to yourself, gaze falling to your fingers as you fiddled with the hem of the satiny dress. And you focused on them, then, more intently than you had when you first woke up. You flipped your palm over and looked at the length of your fingers, at the elegance that flowed along your wrists and up your arms. They were your hands, but they weren’t. Not at all. 

Night Court. 

You couldn’t focus on just one thing anymore, your eyes traveling around the room without abandon. They went from Azriel, to the man at the door, to the window, to the paintings along the wall. 

Were you from somewhere else? You were from New York. You were getting your master’s in library science, and you were going to be a librarian. You had a tiny, cramped apartment in Syracuse with roommates getting grad degrees in STEM. Night Court—that didn’t make sense. 

It didn’t make sense because you were crazy. You had gone crazy. The energy drinks had driven you insane with their promises of copious vitamins and energy and a faster metabolism. This was the price. 

At some point, Azriel had dropped to his knees to mirror you on the ground. “I don’t think she’s going to answer us, Rhys,” he quietly called out, eyes never leaving you. “Maybe Feyre would be better.” 

“I’m not sending Feyre in when I can’t see if she has… motives.” 

Something clicked in your brain. Things lined up, information being shelved in alphabetical order until confusion made way for understanding, and then that understanding lingered. 

“Feyre?” you mumbled again. The man, Rhysand, your brain provided for you, perked up in the doorway. “That book.” 

“What book?” Rhysand quickly asked. 

“The—series. It’s… I read it a few years ago, but I don’t think it’s—” Your next breath was an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god. I am actually going insane. I’m hallucinating, and it’s—I should have gone to law school, oh my god.” 

“Law school?” Azriel echoed. 

You snapped your gaze up to look at him, finally taking in the hazel of his eyes and the shadows that weaved into his dark hair. Then you found his hands, confirming something to yourself when scarred tissue rested atop his thighs. Rhysand was next, and you located his pointed ears and elongated features almost instantly. 

Another disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. Azriel moved again, and you shot back, head connecting with the table for a second time. Pain split down your neck, something rattling on the surface above. You brought your hand up to tame the ache, but Azriel’s hand had raised too, and for a second, the shortest second, your fingers brushed. You tore your hand away, pressing it into the base of your skull, snapping your eyes to his. 

Something pulled. The air stagnated. 

It felt like the pull from right before all of this happened, before your brain short-circuited and threw you into a fantasy land you’d read about during your gap year. You leaned into it, hopeful that somehow, it would zap you back into reality. That maybe if you honed in on the feeling, you would find that this was all some coma-induced dream you could forget about with time, but always reference when you told the story of your appendix bursting—because you were still holding out hope that it was actually that. 

It did the opposite. You gave in to the pull, tugging on the glowing thread, and it made you feel more rooted in the spot. More concrete in the make-believe. Still just ahead of you, Azriel made a gasping sound that echoed each of your panicked breaths from before. You scanned his expression, etched your gaze into the high corners of his face, but he was seemingly frozen. His chest didn’t move. His shadows paused. 

“What—” 

You didn’t get the chance to finish your question, not that it had ever been formed in your head. Azriel shot to his feet, stumbling back and causing you to flinch again, to cower into the table that you had been trying to inch away from. He looked down at you, and his expression pinched, looking pained, before his hand gripped at his chest, covering his heart as his shadows wove between his fingers. One came down and brushed your cheek, and you screamed, jolting into the light of the window. 

Azriel flinched at the sound. He took another step back, and then another. You hadn’t realized you were breathing hard again until your shoulders met the far wall, your bone digging into the wood. Your mind was racing at an impossible speed, all your theories and concerns and all of the confusing sensations melding together. And maybe you could have handled it, maybe you could have collected yourself, but there was a mirror just across the room. You looked at it with your blurry, unfocused vision, and you thought it was another painting. At first. But then you moved, and the figure etched within it moved with you. And it was a mirror, and it was you, but it wasn’t. 

You looked like yourself, could recognize yourself, but you were changed. 

Made. 

The thought sang in your head, unfounded, and your panic turned to terror. Because this entire time, thoughts had all been yours. They had been unorganized and scary and untrue, but they had all come from you. But that one hadn’t been. 

So, you did the first thing you could think of on your own, the first thing that truly felt like it could bring you back to yourself. You reared your head forward, and then you let it fall back with force. The pain was similar to before, but it was numbing, almost. And it didn’t bring you back. Someone shouted, panicked, but you thought maybe the numbing was reality, so you edged forward again. 

You didn’t have the chance to try a second time. 

Your head slammed back, but it hit something soft, something that gathered the momentum and didn’t let it continue. Azriel was in front of you again, no longer edging out of the room, and it was his hand that stopped your assault. He was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, and then he wasn’t. He yelled something over his shoulder, and then Rhysand was in front of you. The door opened. Footsteps followed. 

“Do something.” 

“I can’t—”

“Anything.” 

“Your family’s in town?”

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

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

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

“Dinner circuit?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So your fucked, basically.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

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

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You work with my daughter?”

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

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

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

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

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

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

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

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

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

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

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

“Are you joking?”

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

“No.”

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

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

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

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

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

“Have you… thought about this?” 

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

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

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

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

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

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

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

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

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

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

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

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

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

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

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

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

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

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

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

In a way. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could swap me with someone else?”

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

“Touché.” 

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

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

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

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

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You smell good.” 

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

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

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

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

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

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

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

“Fair point.”)

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

At least, that’s what he says. 

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

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

“Singing your praises, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’d I do?”

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

“Looking forward to it.” 

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

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

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

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

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

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

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

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

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

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

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

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

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

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

“Why’d you leave?” 

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s perfect. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

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

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

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I remember.” 

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

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

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

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

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

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

“You’re so much more than them.” 

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

An old habit. 

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

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

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

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

“Jack—“

“Please.”

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

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

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

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

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

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

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

“I wasn’t going to.”

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

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

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

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

“Oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I‘ll—“

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

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

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

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

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

“This really isn’t a good time—“

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

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

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

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

“She fight back at all?”

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

“Christ.”

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

“Fuck. Do you think—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

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

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

“It’s different.” 

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

“You lost me on that last one.” 

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

“Is there a difference?”

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

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

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

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

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

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

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

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

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

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

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

“Fuck no.”

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

“I save lives too.”

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

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

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

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

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

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

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

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

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

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

It’s how they treat you. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hiding from you.”

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

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

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

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

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

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

“Nothing has changed.”

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

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

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

“And how do you know that?”

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

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

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

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

And of course, it’s something that has to happen on one of the only real nights you get off to yourself. Not a night where you expect a call or text because Phoebe wants to come home. A night where, if anything, Phoebe has most likely begged your mom to just move in with her. 

You have to laugh at the thought, but the movement and contractions of your stomach only heightens the pain. You’ve bled through two pads and pairs of pyjamas, soiled your sheets well enough that you’ve had to throw them out. 

Perhaps it’s dramatic to call an ambulance to get you to the ER, but you’re unsure you’ll be able to stomach getting up, let alone driving yourself the short ten minute trek to PTMC. You consider leaving it, just ride it out for as long as you can. But the thought of Phoebe coming home tomorrow afternoon to a crippled and possibly bleeding out mother… 

A pathetic groan follows your movements as you force yourself to sit up on the bed, allow yourself a moment for composure and a silent prayer to the Universe to just make it stop.

Much like all other times, the Universe doesn’t listen. And the moment you stand, you’re met with that horrifying sensation of blood pooling between your legs and soaking into three pads you’ve stacked in your underwear.

What should take you fifteen minutes to get ready and arrive at PTMC actually ends up taking you almost an hour. The only reprieve you are offered is a slightly quiet waiting room. Twenty to thirty people at most occupy the chairs, all too exhausted or pain-ridden to offer up much conversation between each other. 

You don’t look much better than them. Pyjamas, messy hair, face bare of anything other than a grimace. Every step toward the check-in desk takes you back to when you first had Phoebe. When, for two weeks, you could only just shuffle your feet across the floor to get around after the emergency surgery. 

You’re clutching your abdomen when you finally reach the desk. An older woman sits on the opposite side of the protective screen, dark hair pulled back into a bun, kind eyes that assess you and a soft voice that asks for your name and what’s brought you in. 

“I think my IUD has moved or embedded.” You manage to get out through gritted teeth, hunching slightly over the tall ledge as you take in her name badge. 

Lupe’s head tilts sympathetically to the side. “Can you describe your symptoms and pain for me? When did it start?” 

“Uh, about four hours ago. Very heavy bleeding, the pain is both an ache and a stabbing sensation. Feels kind of like someone’s got a chainsaw on my uterus.” You try to laugh through the pain, but when your stomach tenses you’re met with a blinding sensation of agony that you struggle to blink away. 

Lupe types on the keyboard of her computer, side-glancing you as if checking you’re not about to pass out and smack your head on the ledge or marble floor. “Any nausea or dizziness, hon?” 

You nod, swallowing on a dry throat. “I think that’s only due to the pain, though.”

Lupe finishes typing before the printer beside her begins to rumble and she’s slipping you a write-up through the small gap beneath the safety screen. “There’s free sanitary products in the restroom. Take a seat, hon. Someone should be with you shortly.” 

You offer a weak smile in thanks and she returns one with understanding.

It’s painful to sit but even more so to stand. After ten minutes, you’re slouching in the most uncomfortable chair you’ve ever had the displeasure of using. Another ten minutes and you’re shuffling to the public restroom before you can leak through yet another article of clothing.

It’s only twenty minutes later, when you’re trying to remember labor breathing techniques that the door opens and a gentle voice is calling your name. It takes you a moment to reach her but she waits patiently, an understanding look on her face through pursed lips. 

She introduces herself as Dr. McKay as she slowly guides you to a curtained off section in triage. It’s not until she’s helping you onto the bed with steady hands that you take notice of two other doctors standing behind her. 

Dr. McKay follows your line of sight. “We’re typically a teaching hospital, if you’re okay with two of our students observing tonight?” 

You wave her off. “I’m a mom, I lost my dignity a while ago. The more the merrier.” You manage to joke but when a laugh slips from your lips, your face scrunches in pain and your body curls involuntarily. 

Dr. McKay grins through a sympathetic look, sitting at the stool to the side of you. “Trust me, I know all about that,” she reassures, turning back to the students at the foot of the bed. 

“This is Kwon and Ogilvie. They’re in their third and fourth year as med students and getting a little taste of the night shift. We’ve read through your patient intake report, but do you mind explaining again what’s going on? You think your IUD has moved or embedded?” 

You nod on a sigh. “Yeah, the pain and bleeding started around four hours ago. I’ve leaked through pads and clothes maybe three times since it started.”

McKay hums, snapping on a pair of gloves and lifting your pyjama shirt to expose your abdomen. “Copper or hormonal IUD?”

“Hormonal. I only got it about three and a half years ago. A few months after I had my daughter.” 

She hums. “Any dizziness or nausea?”

Your head bobs, a wince slipping from you when she pushes slightly lower on your mid-section. “A little dizziness, a lot of nausea. I think it’s just because of the pain, though.” 

Kwon moves to your side, as she slips her hands into a pair of blue gloves and reaches for the thermometer. It beeps, flashes green. “Temp is steady at 98.96.” 

McKay moves back, discards her gloves into the trash and slides back over to you. “Are pain and bleeding usual for you?”

You shake your head before she can finish her question. “No, my cramps and monthly periods stopped a month after I got it inserted.”

She nods, a distant look growing in her eyes for barely a moment. “Alright, we’ll do a pelvic exam to check if we can identify the device to rule out any embedding. If it has shifted, we’ll get you ready for an ultrasound to find out what’s going on before attempting removal.” 

You nod with a wince when Dr. McKay stands, reaching over for a robe that she hands to you with a sympathetic smile. “We’ll step out for a moment while you change and get comfortable and then we’ll be back shortly.”

You hear her speak with the students as they pull the curtain closed behind them, questioning something about initial assessments but you zone out when the pain begins to grow. It’s five minutes later when you're situated in a gown on the bed when the three of them return. 

“Our student doctor Kwon is going to conduct your pelvic if you’re okay with that?” 

You hum at McKay’s words, not really caring who is going to be all up in your vaginal canal so long as the issue is resolved. You weren’t lying when you said your dignity left when you fell pregnant almost five years ago. 

Joy Kwon doesn't offer any pleasantries as she slides her hands into a pair of gloves and positions herself on the stool between your legs at the foot of the bed. 

Ogilvie stands behind her, looking anywhere but at your parting thighs. You move silently, without guidance. Knees up, dropping them to your sides, heels together. McKay grins at the sight when you fist your hands and shove them beneath your back, in line with your coccyx. 

You catch her amused look and offer an exhausted grin in return. “I know my way around these exams.”

Kwon cocks a brow as you meet her gaze again, a flicker of amusement washing across her eyes. It’s fleeting, but you catch it nonetheless. She reaches for the speculum, applying the translucent lubricant to the equipment.

Your eyes are closed, an overwhelming wave of pain washing over and you crippling any sense of peace you had begun to find. It’s so intense that you miss the voices from outside the curtain, only just catching McKay informing you that an attending is going to observe Kwon’s exam.

“Yeah, no worries. Let’s call it a party.” The words are rushed on a pained laugh from your lips before McKay is slipping outside before returning with another. 

When your eyes flicker open and a shaky exhale leaves your lungs, the air gets suddenly stuck in your throat at the sight before you. 

“This is Dr. Abbot.”

Jack stares at you with wide eyes and raised brows, his gaze involuntarily trailing down to your parted knees before snapping his eyes to the wall on the other side of the room. Your cheeks feel hot, your heart is thumping against your ribs and you feel like you can’t fucking breathe. 

There is no fucking way this is happening right now. Jack is barely able to meet your gaze again as he tries his hardest to offer the most professional nod and tight-lipped smile you’ve ever seen. 

“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor.” You can’t help it. The words fall from your lips before you can think twice, the tension in the room that the others are only now privy of is too much to remain silent under. 

McKay’s eyes dart from you to Jack, lashes hitting her brows in shock. “Neighbor?”

Jack clears his throat, scratching at the nape of his neck in a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. He blinks at you, lips parting and closing again. You never imagined him to be anything other than confident and composed. 

Bored with the conversation, Kwon moves closer and lines the speculum with your entrance, a hiss falling from your lips at the cool contact of the lubricant. 

“Take a deep breath, you’ll feel some pressure.” She advises, a bit dully. Like she’d rather be anywhere but here. You feel the fucking same. 

Ogilvie frowns at the speculum, eyes darting from the tool to between your legs. Like he’s assessing the physics of the exam. “Is that going to fit?” 

“I can get Shen, instead.” Jack offers abruptly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Perhaps he’s trying to find a way out for himself, maybe he’s the one that’s uncomfortable with the situation he’s accidentally walked into. But the thought of yet another doctor staring between your legs is the last thing you want right now. Your eyes squeeze shut in pure mortification. 

Your hot, widowed neighbor has just seen you in the most unappealing way you could ever imagine. 

“Nope. Four doctors getting an eyeful is enough. I don’t need a fifth.” You keep your eyes closed, unable to bear the thought of meeting Jack’s gaze right now and a wince passes through your teeth when Kwon slowly pushes the instrument into your vaginal canal. 

You blink up at the ceiling through quick breaths, discomfort turning into pain as you struggle to stretch around it. Kwon peeks up between your parted knees, noting the discomfort in your expression, can feel the resistance of the instrument and casts a quick glance to McKay.

“Did you have a vaginal birth?” she asks you softly. 

You laugh through gritted teeth. “Emergency caesarean, baby.” 

Kwon sighs, slowly retracting the speculum and placing it back on the tray. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s covered in blood. “I thought it felt a bit tight.” She comments. 

Your eyes bulge open at that with another mortified laugh. But when your gaze snags on the tool she originally tried to use, you blink rapidly. It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever had inside of you before. Including any and all speculums you’ve had the displeasure of being examined with. “You thought that was going to fit!?” 

“I didn’t think it would. I’m happy to try instead with a Pederson.” Ogilvie offers with a wide smile and you’re far too quick to shake your head for someone who was, at the beginning, happy for students to observe and conduct the exam. 

“No! That’s okay, Dr. McKay—”

“Dr. McKay, there’s a phone call for you. An officer from the PPD.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” She doesn’t excuse herself. Just tears off her gloves and stomps through the curtain. Leaving you with two student doctors and Jack fucking Abbot. 

Wearily, your gaze meets his again; your cheeks aflame and a stillness in his shoulders that makes you slightly more uncomfortable than the idea of Ogilvie spreading you open. Ultimately, you know Jack is your best option out of the three. 

More experience, kind and compassionate. Familiar, but maybe that’s not a pro in this situation. No. Definitely not a pro to have your fucking neighbor inspect your cervix. Yet you don’t look away from him. You don’t mean for your gaze to be pleading, don’t mean to ask the silent question that you do but Jack hears it anyway, answers it with a subtle dip of his head and he’s slipping into a pair of blue gloves and clearing his throat before taking Kwon’s position. 

“Asking the patient what birth they had should always be asked before conducting a pelvic exam.” Jack notes, eyes flickering to Kwon in a brief moment of silent scolding before he reaches for the other, much thinner probe. 

You don’t miss the way Kwon shoots a glare at Ogilvie with slightly threatening eyes. He has the right to look sheepish and a little scared before slowly stepping on foot closer to the foot of the bed. 

“That would be my fault, Dr. Abbot,” he admits nervously. “She said she was a mom, so I assumed the birth was vaginal and the largest speculum would be most appropriate.” 

You don’t mean to scoff when you laugh, but you do. Partly in offence for all women across the fucking world that this guy assumes all moms to have loose vaginas. The other part because if he had been watching Dr. McKay when she was checking your abdomen, he would’ve seen the small but visible scar just above your pubic bone. 

Jack blinks as he unwraps the sterile tool and smears a small amount of lubricant over it. “In that case, I highly recommend you brush up on your knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.” 

Ogilvie takes the hint. He tears off his gloves and slips past the curtain to do exactly what Jack has said. A wave of guilt begins to ride over you but it’s also quite quickly replaced with a bigger wave of relief. 

Kwon turns to you with a thin grin, like she’s pleased with his lack of presence. “Sorry about him. I don’t think he’s seen a vagina since he came out of one.” 

You almost choke on your laugh at that, wincing quickly after as your body locks up with another crippling cramp of pain. Jack’s gaze flicks up to your face, assessing the furrow in your brow, the flush to your clammy skin. 

“You doing okay, neighbor?” His voice lacks its usual flirty tone; gravelly now and laced with a thickness he can’t quite shift. But you can hear the lightness he tries to offer, the reassurance he doesn't speak that this is okay and you are okay and you don’t need to be embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this. 

“Oh, just peachy.” You snip back through gritted teeth, fisting the thin cotton sheets beneath you. 

Jack blinks his way to go between your thighs, jaw clenched and having to remind himself to separate any personal sensations right now from his professional responsibility. It’s one thing to think about you being laid in the position, but it’s a completely other thing to have you like it for an entirely different reason. 

Jack tries to block out the actual sight of you. Because in truth, there isn’t anything erotic about this, not even in the slightest. You’re in pain and bloody and hurting, and you’re trusting him to fix the issue. He feels sick with himself for how much he’s internally struggling at the situation.

“I’ve done this plenty of times, promise you’re in good hands.” He clears his throat, lines the speculum with the entrance of your vaginal canal and very slowly eases it between your walls. 

There’s no pain this time, only a slight hint of discomfort but that’s mostly at the cold gel. You can’t help the cock of your brow at Jack’s words. “You examine a lot of your neighbor’s cervixes?”

He laughs at that, breathily enough that you can feel it ghost the side of your thigh. You swallow, blink up at the ceiling. His laughter helps ease this fucking awkwardness and embarrassment of having to dig around in his neighbors vagina. Doesn’t do enough to stop it from haunting you moving forward.  

“No, you would be my first.” Jack promises, and you’re foolish enough to let yourself believe that comment has a double meaning to it. 

“I’m honored.” You mutter it sarcastically and brave the thought of looking down to the foot of the bed. 

You’re met with the sight of Jack peering between your legs, eyes slightly squinted as he works. Kwon looks just as invested as Jack does, handing him another tool when he silently opens his palm toward her. 

“You said you bled through clothes and menstrual pads?” Kwon asks. 

You nod, trying to remember not to tense or hold your breath. “Yeah, why? I’m not haemorrhaging or something am I?” 

“No.” Jack assures you with a firm tone, catching the lick of anxiety growing in your voice. He doesn’t move his head but his eyes flick up to meet yours and your entire stomach turns molten at the sight. 

You can’t look away and despite your best efforts, you do find yourself holding your breath. 

“You’re not haemorrhaging and it’s definitely not embedded, which is good. Looks like it’s just shifted slightly which has caused the pain and the bleeding. Did it start tonight?”

You nod, watching Jack slip into a fresh pair of gloves and reach across the room for a small machine. “Well, I’ve felt a little uncomfortable for a couple days. Just light cramps that I usually get when I should be due on my cycle. But the bleeding and pain started tonight, yeah.”

Jack nods as he approaches your side, a look of reassurance on his face as he turns on the ultrasound screen and reaches for the gel. Kwon moves silently, offering you a large sheet and gesturing to cover your lower part and pull up the hem of the hospital robe to reveal your abdomen.

“I’m just gonna check everything is okay internally and then Kwon should be able to do a quick removal and replacement.”

You nod, loosing a breath as you try to relax yourself as Jack presses the transducer to your lower abdomen. He moves it slowly, tenderly with his touch; not using too much pressure or pushing on your bladder like the midwives did when you were pregnant. 

He keeps his eyes on the screen and you realize you definitely have a thing for doctors. Or more specifically, this doctor. 

“You bring Pheebs with you?” He asks softly, offering a brief glance to your face before returning his attention to the screen again. 

“No, she’s having a sleepover with my parents tonight.” You say softly and you don’t miss the fond grin that spreads across his lips. It warms your heart so much that you can’t help but subtly mirror it. 

“How’s her tummy now?” 

A laugh bubbles up your throat. The irony of him being the one to check you over when only a week ago he was checking your daughter. “Yeah, good. Back to shitting like a pro again.”

Jack huffs in laughter, taking one more moment to assess the ultrasound before removing the probe from your skin and cleaning it off.

“Your uterine walls are thicker than usual. They're shedding, which is why you're bleeding the way you are. Totally normal. Other than that, ultrasound is clear,” he concludes with a smile that you can finally meet. 

That awkwardness and tension has finally begun to ease and disappear. Right now, you’re not neighbors. He is your doctor and you are his patient. 

“So, everything looks okay?” You ask. Jack nods, eyes on you again with that intensity you’ve started to grow used to. 

“Yeah, you look perfect.” It’s slightly raspy when he speaks, both the tone and his words causing a flush to burn across your entire body. 

It feels like air has trapped itself in your lungs and Jack’s shoulders stiffen as if he’s just realized the words he’s used and the tone he’s spoken them in. 

From the foot of your bed, Kwon’s slightly uncomfortable eyes flicker between you and Jack, blinking as if that’ll clear the air as to what the fuck she’s witnessing right now. Before she can open her mouth with a remark, before Jack can splutter an apology or a distraction, the curtain moves and McKay is slipping back into the area. 

Jack steps away from the bed, lips pursed into a firm line and he’s tugging off the gloves and moving toward the curtain. “She’s all cleared for removal and replacement.” He tells McKay, voice slightly strained. 

You can’t help the amusement that starts to curl within your lower belly, a grin stretching across your face and Jack meets your gaze, mirroring it a bit bashfully before slipping past the curtain. Leaving you with your legs spread, heart thumping, and delusional thoughts in your mind that he found this procedure just as eye-opening as you did. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s late Sunday morning by the time Jack’s done with his shift, exhausted and almost limping with how sore his leg is. He stayed late. Again. And his knee is protesting at the idea of potentially having to do it once more on his next shift.

It’s been a slight struggle now that Robby is on sabbatical. Jack’s left with the responsibility of staying later or starting earlier to aid Al-Hashimi with the influx of patience as the weather has gotten hotter. The sun comes out and people grow stupid. And Jack has to work through the pain of his prosthetic growing sweaty and unstable.

On top of that, he’s been riddled with something he can only compare to high-school level anxiety. Every time he’s walked through the main doors of the apartment complex for the past week, Jack’s been fucking nervous. Anxious that he may stumble into an awkward encounter with you after performing your pelvic exam. 

It’s stupid, he knows. You’re both adults and Jack’s a professional, for fuck’s sake. He offered to get you another attending, and you declined. You had smiled—grinned—at him when he left you in McKay’s capable hands. And yet he had not heard from you since. 

No text, no collisions in the hall. Not that you owe him anything, he knows that. And it’s not even like you texted religiously before your night in the Pitt. But Jack can feel something strained between you. Perhaps you’re embarrassed by the situation. That your neighbor had pried you open to check for an embedded IUD. Or maybe he had made you uncomfortable with that stupid fucking slip he made when he said you looked perfect. 

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Jack takes the elevator to the third floor, his leg far too achy to brave the stairs after being on his feet for the past nineteen hours. When he makes it inside his apartment, he’s not sure what’s worse. The deafening loneliness or Robby’s contact popping up as an incoming call on his phone. 

He answers before he even closes his apartment door. 

“You’re alive, then.” 

Robby scoffs a breathy laugh down the line at the greeting, something Jack can’t help but smirk at. He makes his way straight to the couch and falls into it, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he works to remove his prosthetic. 

“Yeah, well… who would’ve thought nature could be so refreshing.” 

Jack hums, half listening with a grunt until he slips the metal from his knee and exhales a breath of relief. “You doin’ okay, though? Haven’t heard from you for two weeks.” 

“What? Miss me already?” Robby snides.

It pulls at the corners of Jack’s mouth in the form of a gentle smile. This is good. He’s cracking jokes, his voice doesn’t sound strangled and pained. He sounds better than he did when he left two weeks ago, but Jack is not a fool. He’s all too familiar with what Robby is experiencing, he’s danced toward the line one too many times himself. 

“What are you even doing with yourself out there?” Jack says instead. 

He can almost hear Robby shrugging through the line. He’s quiet for a few moments, likely contemplating, deciding how much or how little he wants to share. “How’s the hospital?”

Jack scoffs, shakes his head and leans back into the couch, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. “Work is not your concern until you’re back from sabbatical. Not a day sooner.” 

Robby grows quiet again and they stay like that for a little while. No words spoken, just breaths shared down the line; both basking in the quiet comfortability of one another. Calming, familiar. Like moments shared on the roof after a particularly long shift.

“Spoke to McKay yesterday.” It’s Robby that breaks that silence. “Said you performed a pelvic exam on your neighbor.” 

Jack can hear his smirk, the teasing churn in his voice. He takes a deep breath and then a laugh is spluttering from his chest; exasperated and exhausted. 

“Brother, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” Jack admits roughly. 

Robby doesn’t push, gives him a chance to add more if he wants to. He doesn’t. So Robby approaches carefully. 

“You like her?” 

The question makes Jack pulse skip. “Barely know her.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jack hesitates. It’s a lie, really. He does know you. Perhaps not in the most stereotypical way, but he does. He knows your love lost, your hatred for the way your ex treats your daughter, how your mind works when you create the excellence that you do. 

Deeper than that, he knows your heart beats solely for your daughter. He knows Phoebe. Her chaos and easy charm, knows how you’ve bled your personality into her unintentionally. 

Jack swallows. Robby waits. 

“I don’t know what it is. There’s just—there’s something there. Something about her…”

“It’s not just her, though, Jack. She has a daughter. Package deal. Big deal.” 

Jack hums, an involuntary smile curling on the corners of his lips. “She’s the coolest kid I’ve ever met, man. She makes her mom sing her AC/DC as a lullaby.” 

Had they been on the roof, Jack would see the softness that smoothes the worry on Robby’s face. He’d see the quiet understanding in his eyes as he listens to every word, as he understands why there’s a certain dullness in Jack’s voice. A reservation.

Robby takes a heavy breath. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that, Jack.”

It makes Jack wince. Because he does feel guilty. Whenever his mind wanders to the thought of you, he’s crushed with an immense wave of guilt. Like he’s betraying his wife, like he’s losing sight of her in the fogginess of his memory. 

Maybe that’s what scares him so much. He’s been with people since. One night stand, casual flings to keep the loneliness and demons of the night away. Physically invested and emotionally detached. It’s different this time. With you. Because there’s no physicality there, just this undeniable pull he feels whenever he looks at you, thinks of you. 

It’s deeper than a surface level attraction. It fucking terrfies him because he hardly knows you. Not truly, not in the ways he wants to. 

“You’re allowed to find happiness somewhere else. With someone else.” 

The phone slips to rest on Jack's shoulder as his gaze falls down to the hands resting in his lap, the silver band that still wraps around his ring finger. 

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just lets you grow around them. 

Jack changes the subject fairly quickly. They spend the next ten minutes talking about nothing much before Jack forces Robby to promise he won’t leave it two weeks to reach out again. He showers, changes, takes some time to tend to the ache in his knee before brewing a coffee and making some eggs and taking them out to the balcony. 

He hears it the second the door opens. 

Music. Singing. Laughter. Loud and carefree and happy. 

It pulls a smile to his face immediately as he sits at the table and watches across the gap between your balconies. Jack sips on his coffee, admires the sound he’s blessed enough to hear, the fleeting catches he gets of you and Phoebe running around or dancing on the kitchen island. 

The sun is warm on his skin, the breeze soothing the ache of his tight skin where a limb once was and he feels himself slowly beginning to relax. 

“Morning neighbor!”

His eyes peek open, a palm out above his eyes to cover the blinding sun. Jack blinks and you’re there. Standing on your balcony, one hand on the railing and the other is waving above your head. Calling out to him, like that night last week didn’t happen. 

So you’re not embarrassed and he hasn’t made you uncomfortable. He can’t see you properly, too far a distance but he can make out the wide grin you offer. 

Jack throws a hand up to reciprocate your wave and you jab a thumb over your shoulder. “What do you think!?” You call back, and it takes Jack a moment to realize you’re asking about the music. 

His hand drops from the air and moves to cup the side of his mouth. “I love The Smiths!” He calls back. 

You lean closer, he’s sure he can see your brows pinching as you call out to him again. “What!?”

Jack huffs a laugh, leaning forward in his seat and sitting up straighter. He cups both hands around his mouth now and bellows across the space. “I said I love The Smiths!” 

He watches you throw your head back in laughter and suddenly wishes Robby never called. Because then he wouldn’t be so aware of the feeling in his chest whenever he looks at you. He wouldn’t have had to acknowledge and verbalize the turmoil that’s been brewing in his head from the moment he first laid eyes on you and Phoebe. 

You don’t say anything else. He watches you retreat back inside and you don’t come back out. The balcony door is closed sometime ten minutes later. And within thirty minutes, the music stops completely and Jack’s left in that horrible, aching silence again. 

After his eggs and coffee, he too is returning inside, leaving the dishes in the sink. He only allows himself a quick shower when the coffee begins to perk him up and decides it’s probably best to run some errands and grab some groceries before he inevitably crashes and sleeps for the rest of the day. 

He dresses in a black t-shirt and a pair of beige chino shorts. It’s not something he’ll ever really admit outloud, but Jack hates the summer. He hasn’t always, but in more recent years, especially since losing his leg, he does. There’s a choice he has to make every time the heat begins to pick up in Pittsburg.

Wear trousers and ignore the sweat and swelling on the tight skin of his knee, or wear shorts and ignore the lingering stares of the general public. He should be used to it by now, it’s been well over a fucking decade since he lost his leg. But in recent years, without his wife’s reassurance that they’re curious glances and not judgmental stares, Jack can’t seem to decipher a difference between the two anymore. 

Still, he knows he has to take care of himself. And with the ache still settling deep in his bones from his earlier shift, he’s aware that shorts are his best bet. It’s just after he clips his prosthetic back on again that there’s an uncoordinated knocking at the door.

The short relief of letting his leg breath allows Jack to move a bit more fluidly now, limp barely noticeable as he makes his way to the front door and slowly eases it open. He’s not offered much of a chance to check who his visitors are before a small body is barrelling into limbs. 

Jack only just manages to catch himself by gripping a hand on the doorframe as he blinks down at a small head of curls of a three-year-old who is blinking in wonder at his prosthetic. He faintly hears your voice, soft but firm and scolding Phoebe for barrelling into him. 

The child beams up at him, excitement laced in her chubby features as she points to his leg. “I like your leg.” 

It makes Jack blink, pulls him back to the present where a throb begins to form around his knee and he grins at her, reaching down to readjust the prosthetic that the kid has somehow almost displaced. 

He misses the way your brows raise as you look at him. You’d never realized he had a prosthetic and you can't help the way your head tilts at the sight of his arms straining when he readjusts the straps.

“SWAT?” you ask, voice thick as his veins pop and muscles flex beneath freckled skin. 

Jack huffs out a laugh, pretends he can’t hear his heart in his ears and the fact that you’ve seen his fucking leg and you’re not being awkward about it. “Military.” 

Phoebe watches him intently as surprise flickers across your face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for your service.” 

He rises to his full height at the flirty tone of your voice, letting his eyes rove over your body from the painted toes to the hair on your head. A beautiful sage green summer dress kisses your skin. Cinched at your waist, short but puffy sleeves, a neckline that teases the swell of your breasts and the hem stops just mid-calf. 

Jack swallows, admires your face. Hair pinned back in a flaw clip, messy and yet presentable. Your lashes look fuller and darker, a brightness to your face with makeup that doesn’t hide but accentuates your natural features. It momentarily knocks him breathless. 

He’s never seen you like this before. 

“I could say the same about you.” Jack’s voice is low and raspy when he speaks. It prickles your skin in buzzes of excitement, spreads a warmth beneath the flesh that charges your blood. 

Of course, Jack notices. The way your lashes flutter, how your lips part. How, despite the warmth, goosebumps prickle your skin. A smirk kicks at the corner of his mouth and he looks away, back down to Phoebe. 

She wears something similar, a blue summer dress that stops below the knee. Her hair is twirled up into a bun, little white sandals on her feet. It’s the most presentable he’s ever seen the kid look. And from the way she pulls at the dress and rolls her shoulders, he can tell immediately that it was a fight getting her to wear it. 

The fondness in that crevice of his heart aches at the thought. 

“Where are you two off to, in your pretty dresses?” He directs the question at Phoebe, who offers a twirl despite her hatred for the clothing. 

“Grandma is dying.” She chirps. 

Jack’s brows shoot to his hairline at the same time as you whipping your head down to your daughter. “What? No. Grandma is retiring, baby. We’re going for brunch with her company.” You correct her quickly, blinking profusely and both you and Jack are confused as to how she got those two words, of all things, mixed up. 

You clear your throat, taking a step closer to the threshold that Phoebe has occupied. Jack notices the movement from his peripheral and sets his burning gaze on you again. You smile at him, a bit sheepishly and push your arms out to offer him the tray of cupcakes he had missed. 

They’re decorated with multiple colors of messy frosting, some smothered in sprinkles and others decorated with some diced fruit. Jack blinks at you.

“We made cupcakes for Phoebe’s birthday tomorrow, and we made you some as a thank you. You know, for helping her tummy and then… well—mine.” You finish on a nervous laugh, one that Jack reciprocates. 

But he takes the dish from your open palms, a revert thank you falling from his tongue and he lets his finger tips brush against yours as he does. So this was a peace offering of sorts, a way to clear the air. He offers a glance to Phoebe. “It’s your birthday?”

Phoebe nods. “In the morning, and I’m having a birthday party at my house, Jack! Will you come?”

His eyes widen slightly at the request, casting a quick glance to you. You shrug a shoulder, pursing your lips to hide a smile and when he looks back down at Phoebe, she’s got her palms together in a prayer-like position with far too convincing pleading eyes.

Jack breathes through his nose, smiles fondly at the young girl. “Absolutely, I wouldn’t want to spend my day off doing anything else.” he promises. 

You smile at the sight, at how Phoebe brushes a sprinkle off Jack’s prosthetic that fell from the tray. He watches her just as intently, but when she returns her attention to the chipped polish on her nails, it’s like he loosens a breath.

“Everyone’s coming by at like 5 ish. But come whenever.”

Jack nods, allows his gaze to drift over you again. “You both look beautiful.” 

There’s a reverence in his tone, like it’s a physical need that you believe him when he says it. All you can do is smile; soft and shy. You reach for Phoebe, tell her to say goodbye and slowly guide her away from Jack’s door and down the hall. 

Of course, he watches you both go. Phoebe’s hand in yours, your slow steps and her quick skips. He’s about to go back inside when Phoebe halts abruptly, tears her hand from yours and turns to race back to Jack, giggling his name like she needs to tell him something exciting. 

She stops by his feet again, he watches as you wait for her with a sigh at the other end of the hall. 

“Jack! I told Mommy I want to be a doctor when I grow up, just like you!”

He blinks down at her, feels his throat constrict as she admits something that causes so much turmoil within him. “Yeah?” he rasps, clears his throat and bends slightly at the waist. “I think you’ll make a fantastic doctor, Pheebs.” 

Her toothy smile is wide and excitable, it’s almost impossible for Jack not to mirror it. 

“Before, I wanted to be a pop star so I could marry Harry Styles. But now, I wanna be a doctor.” She states it so matter-of-factly, like she’s discussing something as simple as the weather. 

It makes Jack chuckle. “You don’t wanna marry Harry Styles anymore?”

Phoebe shrugs, makes a small noise of contemplation. “Mommy said she’d fight me for him!” She giggles. 

Jack cocks a brow, dares a glance down the hall to you where you’re texting someone on your phone as you wait. “Oh, so Mommy wants to marry Harry too?”

Phoebe steps closer, looks a bit conspiratorial as she whispers her next words. “She said Harry will be a silver fox when I’m old enough to marry him… What is a silver fox?”

He blinks at that, unsure as to how they’ve crept into this territory and why the kid even knows the saying of a silver fox. He blubbers momentarily. “Um… it’s someone who’s old but….pretty.”

Phoebe grins, chin tucked to her chest with wide eyes and raised brows. The conspiratorial look has morphed into something far too mischievous for Jack’s liking. This kid is going to be so much fucking trouble when she’s older.

“Mommy said you’re a silver fox.” There’s a slyness to her tone, like she knows what she’s doing. That she absolutely should not be repeating whatever it is she’s heard you say. 

Little shit. 

Jack stills, lips parted into a soft O shape and he blinks at Phoebe. An amused huff of hair slips past his lips “Oh, I don't think Mommy meant for me to know that.”

“Why not? She told my Aunt Bella so. It's a compromise.”

Jack’s brow raises again, though this time in amusement. “You mean complement?”

Phoebe nods at that, moving even closer now. She reaches on her tip toes and cups her small hands around Jack’s ear. “My mommy is a silver fox.”

He laughs harder at that, pulls away to get a look at her face and he shakes his head, rubs at his eye. “Your mommy isn’t old, kid.” 

“But she is pretty.” It’s a statement, not a question. And she looks about ready to fight if Jack even dares to argue otherwise.

Not that he would. He couldn’t ever. He lets his eyes drift across the hall again, finding you standing in the same place. Jack feels his heart rate pick up, feels his skin grow warm and a rush of pure adoration and fondness overwhelms him. 

“Yeah, Diva. Your mommy is very pretty.”

It makes him realize something very, very sobering. 

Jack’s got a fucking crush on you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

Ahhh okay, the flirting is beginning, Robby is trying to knock a lil bit of sense into him and Pheebs is just well... she's doing her thing LMAO. This is where things start to get super juicy and I promise you the next chapter will have lots and lots more of flirty playfulness. I would love to know your thoughts so far!! <3

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Dinner had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The pasta sat untouched on both of your plates while rain tapped softly against your condo windows. The only sound in the kitchen was the quiet clink of your boyfriend, Andrew, turning his fork over and over against the ceramic plate

You watched him carefully from across the table, he got like this sometimes. Quiet first, then distant and then somewhere dangerous inside his own head

“You don’t have to eat it if it sucks,” you said lightly, trying to pull him out of it “I definitely didn’t make it al dente like you usually like, I’m sorry”

His eyes lifted immediately “It’s good.”

“Okay.” you nodded

He rubbed at the scar on his knuckle unconsciously, a repetitive motion you had learned meant his OCD was flaring. Usually when he was stressed, overstimulated, or trying not to think about something. You knew he wanted to say something so you waited until he did

“Do you even like me ?”

The question hit so suddenly you almost choked on your water, “What ?”

His jaw tightened “You heard me.”

“Of course I like you.” you looked at him “What kind of fucking question is that Andrew ? Are you being serious right now ?”

“No, I mean actually like me.” he laughed once under his breath, humorless “Because sometimes I can’t tell if you’re just… comfortable with me.”

You stared at him confused “Where is this coming from ?”

He pushed his plate away abruptly “Four months.”

“What about four months ?” you whispered

“We’ve been together four months and every time I touch you for too long you tense up.” Andrew rasped out “Are you scared of me ? Do I scare you ? If-If I did I’m sorry, I am. I don’t mean to”

Your chest tightened instantly and you shook your head “No ! Oh god no, don’t say that...that’s not true at all”

He stood from the table and paced once through the kitchen “I try not to push you,” he said quickly, words starting to come faster “I know I’m older than you and I know I come with—” he gestured vaguely at himself “—all this shit. I know I’m not exactly easy to be with.”

“You are easy to be with.” you said immediately but he ignored that

“I can’t tell if you’re disgusted by me or scared of me or if you just…if you just hate me” Andrew murmured

“I don’t !” you said as you stood up from your chair “I don’t hate you !”

“Then why won’t you let me ever be…near you ?” he met your eyes

The room went still after that, there was no more anger or raised voices and somehow that made the feeling worse. Underneath the frustration was something bad, something that could easily change everything for the both of you. You could see it happening in real time now, his breathing was too shallow, his hands flexing repeatedly and thoughts moving too fast for him to control

You knew enough about him by now to recognize when his suspected BPD latched onto rejection and once it latched on, it tore him apart like no other

“I didn’t mean—” he started suddenly, running a hand through his auburn curls “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said it like that. It was fucked up, I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry”

“You deserve an answer.” you whispered

“No, because now you’re gonna feel cornered and then you’ll hate me for pushing and—”

“I don’t hate you Andrew, please quit saying that.”

His eyes snapped to yours immediately, almost desperate “Then tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

Your throat tightened painfully, you had spent years avoiding this conversation. Years pretending it sat far enough in the past to not matter but here you were years later trying to build a future with a man who was looking at you like he was already preparing himself to lose you

“I was raped when I was 15” you whispered lowly Andrew turned his head towards you and you swore you could see his eyes begin to water “What ?” he whispered “My older brother's friend, he was in college and I was about to enter my freshman year of high school” you looked at him “He was sleeping over and it was a Friday night, everyone was asleep except he and I. We were in the living room watching a movie and I went to bed and while I was asleep he came into my room and….and he raped me”

“What ? He…..No” he shook his head, his voice barely existing “No…no…not you”

You swallowed hard and blinked to avoid the moisture building up in your eyes “I never really dealt with it properly. I just learned how to avoid things that make me feel trapped or panicked.” you gave a tiny shrug “Sometimes physical stuff is harder than I want it to be.”

He stared at you like he couldn’t process the words, you waited and waited and then you watched the exact moment it sank in. His face was drained of color but somehow he straightened up his posture and looked in your eyes “Who.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a demand. You knew exactly where his mind was going and there was no way you’d ever let him handle anything like that for you, ever “No.”

“Who did it ?” Andrew rasped out, his voice frighteningly calm now, which was always worse than yelling “Just tell me…please”

You knew stories about him before you dated him, the things he’d done for his family. The extreme violence and the arrests. You remembered your friends and locals referring to him as Pope, a nickname he had told you he despised and only kept because his brothers refused to ever refer to him by his actual name

You knew his family was one to never cross but he had assured you time and time again he was done with that. There was no way you’d ever take him back to that kind of thing. The people who crossed him and his family regretted it, most ended up dead or missing somewhere. You knew the things he personally was capable of

He stepped away from the table entirely now, grabbing his jacket off the counter with shaking hands “Tell me his name.”

“Hey.” you walked over to his side and held his hands “No.”

“You-You said he was in college when you were a freshman, he was-he was an adult ? You were 15 ? Tell me.” Andrews voice shook “Remember, please remember”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” you moved your hands to caress his cheeks, attempting to ground him

“I do.” he nodded avoiding your eyes as his breathing was getting rougher

You could practically see the compulsive thoughts taking over him, fix it, hurt him, make it right, do something. It was going over and over in his brain and you desperately wanted to bring him back “Hey…look at me, please”

“If he’s still alive—”

“Stop.” you whispered “Just stop, please….forget I even said anything just stop”

“He hurt you.” he finally looked at you “He hurt you….he violated you”

“I know.”

“And nobody did anything ?” he exclaimed, his voice cracking at the end “No one did a damn thing ?”

You flinched slightly at the sudden sharpness in his voice and that made him freeze instantly. The anger vanished from his face, replaced immediately with horror “Oh my God” he dropped his jacket “I’m sorry. I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“You didn’t yell.” you shook your head “Just…just surprised”

“But you flinched” his face twisted like the sight physically hurt him

Leaning your head on his chest you wrapped your arms around his waist and hugged him tightly, looking up at him “Look at me.”

He couldn’t do it, he shook his head, his breathing continuing to speed up “I should’ve protected you.”

“You didn’t even know me Andrew” you murmured 

“I should’ve protected you.” he repeated

“You were not responsible for what happened to me when I was fifteen.”

“But somebody should’ve been”, his eyes were glassy now, frantic in a way that made your chest ache “You think I can sit here knowing somebody touched you like that?” he whispered “You think I can just eat dinner after hearing that ?”

“You have to.” you said softly 

“No.”

“Yes.”

He tried pulling away again but you tightened your hold on him, “Listen to me carefully,” you said softly 

He finally looked at you with glossy eyes and moved his hands to your face “You were a kid…you were a little girl…who hurts little girls like that ?”

“You going after someone isn’t going to undo what happened to me” you sniffled 

His jaw clenched hard enough you saw the muscle jump “He deserves it…he deserves it for hurting you like that”

“Maybe he does. But I’m asking you not to” he looked tortured by that, actually tortured and it made your heart break

“I don’t know how to live with hearing that.” Andrew looked at you “I wanna kill anyone who ever hurt you”

“You don’t have to…do that” you shook your head

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“No,” you finally said gently “It’s actually not.”

That finally shut him up and you watched the anger in his face slowly crack apart into something else now, grief. Not for himself but for you. His hands squeezed yours almost painfully “You were a kid.” he repeated

The way he said it nearly broke your composure but you managed to stay calm and simply nodded 

He shut his eyes hard and when he spoke again, his voice sounded wrecked “I can’t stand thinking about somebody hurting you.”

“I know.” 

“And now every time you pull away from me I’m gonna wonder if I remind you of him.”

“You don’t.” you answered quickly as your voice broke “How could you think that Andrew ? Of course you don’t”

“How do you know ?”

“Because I’m not scared of you.” you shook your head 

That hit him hard enough that his expression crumpled slightly and you reached up to kiss his cheek “You know what the difference is ?”

He shook his head once

“You stop when I need you to stop, you ask before you touch me sometimes, you pay attention and you make me feel safe,” you whispered “Even now.”

He looked devastated hearing that after what you had told him, his thumb rubbed unconsciously over your knuckles again and again and again, repetitive and grounding “I don’t know what to do with this feeling,” he admitted quietly “I feel like I’m gonna crawl out of my skin.”

“You sit with me.” you murmured 

“That’s it ?”

“That’s it.”

His eyes searched yours like he still wasn’t convinced, then finally, slowly, he nodded. You guided him toward the couch and for once, he let you take care of him. Later that night, long after the rain stopped, he held you carefully against his chest in bed like he was still trying to understand how the world could’ve ever been cruel enough to hurt you at all

You could always tell when his brain got stuck on something because he became unnervingly focused. Like every thought tunneled into one point until it consumed him completely. He hadn’t let go of your hand in almost an hour, his thumb kept moving against your skin in absent repetitive strokes, grounding himself

Finally, quietly, he spoke again “Did you tell anybody ?”

You looked over at him “No.”

“Not even your parents ?”

You shook your head once “Nope”

His jaw tightened slightly, but there was no anger in it this time. More disbelief than anything else “You were fifteen.”

“I know.”

“How does a fifteen-year-old carry that alone ?”

You gave a small shrug “I just did”

“That’s not an answer.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped you despite yourself “See ? This is what I mean.”

His brows pulled together immediately “What ?”

“You ask things like an interrogator babe”

“I’m trying to understand.” he said as softly as he could

“I know.”

And you did know, that was the difference. He wasn’t asking for details out of curiosity. He was trying to build a map in his head so he could understand every reaction you’d ever had around him. From every hesitation to every flinch to every moment you froze up and pretended you were fine afterward

He looked down at your joined hands again “Did he…” his voice caught slightly before he forced himself to continue “Did he hurt you physically ?”

You considered the question carefully and finally nodded “Yes, he did”

His breathing changed immediately, still controlled but barely “And afterwards ?” he asked quietly “Did you get help ?  Like did you go to the hospital ?”

“No I didn’t”

His head snapped toward you “No ?”

“I didn’t tell anyone, remember ?”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Andrew shook his head

“It made sense to fifteen-year-old me.” you shrugged

He stared at you for a long moment like he hated that answer because he couldn’t argue with it. He knew what he was going to ask next could get him kicked out of your place but he needed it answered, “Did you think it was your fault ?”

The bluntness of it should’ve sounded harsh but instead it just sounded sad. You looked down at your lap and nodded “At the time I did….I shouldn’t have been alone with him. I should’ve gone to bed when my brother did. I should’ve locked my bedroom door like I always did…I…let it happen”

His face twisted instantly “That’s insane to even think that kind of shit. How could you think it was your fault ? It’s that sick fuck’s fault for hurting a kid”

“I’m the one who stayed up till 1 am with him” you whispered

“You were failed by every adult around you.” he brought up sternly

You reached over and touched his arm gently “I’m okay.”

“No,” he said immediately “You survived it. That’s different.” he rubbed a hand over his face roughly before asking another question “Is that why you don’t like being pinned down ?”

You stiffened slightly in surprise “You noticed that ?”

“I notice everything about you.” he answered instantly 

The answer came so quick it made your chest ache, of course he would notice that. Andrew noticed everything about you, the good and the bad

He continued before you could respond “The first time we kissed on the couch and I leaned over you, your breathing changed.” he glanced away briefly “So I stopped doing it.”

“You stop touching me in certain ways when I get nervous,” you realized softly

“Obviously.” he nodded

“Most people wouldn’t notice.”

“Well, I do.” he shifted toward you a little more now, eyes searching your face carefully “Does it happen all the time ?” he asked “Or only sometimes ?”

“Sometimes.”

“What does it feel like ?” he whispered

That question took you longer to answer, you tried to think of a way to explain it that would make sense to someone who had never experienced it “It’s like…” you paused for a bit and let out a deep breath “My body gets confused. My brain knows I’m safe but my nervous system doesn’t always catch up right away.”

He nodded immediately like that made perfect sense to him “Like panic responses.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

You blinked at how quickly he accepted it. There was no confusion or frustration, just acceptance. He sat back slightly, thinking again “Have I ever made you feel unsafe ?”

Your answer came instantly “No.”

The tension in his shoulders loosened just slightly “You would tell me if I did though, right ?”

“Yes.”

“You swear ?” Andrew looked at you “Right ?”

“I swear.” you leaned over and kissed him “I swear”

He held your gaze another second longer, making sure “Okay.”, silence settled again for a moment before he spoke quietly again, “I don’t really know how normal people respond to hearing something like this.”

 “I don’t think there is a normal response.” you huffed softly

“There should be.” he murmured

“You’re doing fine.” you held his hand “You are”

“I’m trying very hard not to go find somebody.” Andrew admitted 

You smiled faintly “I know.”

“I mean it.” his eyes dropped again “Every five minutes my brain goes back to wanting a name.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not asking again.”

That surprised you enough that your expression softened immediately “You’re not ?”

“No.” he swallowed “Because you asked me not to.”

Something warm and painful grew in your chest. This man, with all his damage, all his violence, all the terrible things he had survived and done was trying so hard to be gentle with you even now, especially now. You could tell he was trying his absolute hardest to be calm and to be comforting to you

He shifted closer suddenly and reached up carefully, brushing hair back from your face with tenderness “You know what bothers me the most ?”

“What ?”

“That you learned to expect people not to protect you.” he admitted 

Your throat tightened and his hand cupped your cheek softly “That’s over now though”

You looked at him quietly “Okay”

“I mean it,” he said, voice low and steady “Nothing is ever going to hurt you again, nothing’s gonna hurt you baby”

Emotion rose so suddenly in your chest it caught you off guard “You can’t control everything.”

“No,” he admitted “But I can control me.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye “I will never be another thing you survive.”

That nearly broke you and your eyes watered instantly. He noticed right away, expression shifting with immediate concern “Hey,” he said softly “Did I say something wrong ?”

You shook your head quickly “No.”

“Then why are you crying ?”

“Because nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

The look on his face after that broke your heart. There was no pity, just heartbreak that nobody had loved you carefully enough before him…kind of like he had felt just before he had met you. He pulled you into his chest slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted but you didn’t

His arms wrapped around you carefully, securely, like he was building shelter around your body. He pressed his lips against your hair and kissed softly 

Jack, after sliding carefully out of you, had plopped down on the mattress, the warmth radiating from his body swiftly becoming a reminder of what had just happened and a memorandum for what is most probably going to happen next. It happened with every guy before him, and you struggle to believe he's going to be the exception.

He is going to lay there for a bit, before indirectly asking you to leave, making up something about having to work in the morning or straight up locking himself in the bathroom, turning on the shower and hoping you'll be gone once he's done.

You know the drill, so you're going to save yourself the embarrassment and simply leave before he even has a chance to mention it.

Sleeping with the ED attending was not in your plans tonight, when you agreed to go grab some drinks with a bunch of your colleagues. And it certainly isn't in your plans to stay for the night.

It's nothing new to you. You've always thrived in casual relationships, and couldn't be bothered with anything that involves feelings and long term plans.

If questioned about it, you would say you just prefer to focus on yourself, and that you have other priorities. Your friends would say you have an avoidant attachment style. Different points of view, that's all.

A moment goes by before your can feel the mattress moving under you, and that's your cue to bolt. You rise from the bed, and without an ounce of shame in your bones, start moving around naked, reaching for your underwear, previously discarded on the nice parquet of the room.

Behind you, from your peripheral vision, you can see that Jack is now sitting upright, the cotton sheets barely covering him. In the meantime you've put on your panties, found your jeans, and are now looking for the rest of your clothes.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and to some, he might sound disappointed.

"I'm leaving," you respond, while you try to fasten you bra. "Actually, have you seen my top?"

For the first time since you've gotten out of the bed, you turn around to fully look at him. and the sight you're met with is a surprising one.

What you would have expected to see in his eyes is relief — relief that you've taken the initiative to leave without him having to tell you. From your experience with other men, you would have sworn that this time wouldn't be any different than the others. But instead, Jack looks let down.

"You sure you wanna leave, already? It's kinda late."

Mentally you scoff at his words. You hadn't taken into consideration that he could be one of those people who like to play the nice guy, just to feel better about themselves.

You should have expected it, though. Because that's what Jack is: a nice guy. And his words just act as a reminder of how bad you screwed up.

Abbot is your favorite attending (don't tell Shen) and you really look up to him. Having sex with him, though, qualifies as one of the things that could inexorably ruin the professional relationship you have built over the years. All you can do now is trying not to cause more damage and just leave.

"That's alright. I don't live that far," you respond with a forced smile.

"I insist. If you want you could sleep over tonight, and I'll drive you home tomorrow morning."

You search for any trace of insincerity in his eyes, but find none. That's just not how things are supposed to go, which is making your brain short-circuit.

He seems to read you mind — only giving you more elements to overthinking next time you'll be alone with your thoughts — and pats the spot next to him on the bed.

"Come over here." His voice is gruff, and his commanding tone reminds you of the way he sounds while he's walking you through a procedure. He's steady in a comforting way.

You let your jeans fall on the floor once again, and tentatively walk over to him. Once you lay down, you feel his strong arm wrap around your waist, making you freeze for a moment.

This has nothing to do with him. You've enjoyed your night so far. Also, you would be lying if you said you've never fantasized about this.

The real problem is that you're not the type to cuddle after hooking up with a guy, and you're not sure when the line blurred between distance behind something you demanded and it being something you are expected to want.

Jack notices the way you stiffen — of course he does — but he doesn't point it out, afraid you will bite and run away, like a dog that has been let down one too many times.

Instead he gives you the opportunity to ease in the situation, asking if you want to take a shower before bed, offering you one of his old t-shirts and giving you the opportunity to spend some time alone.

You gladly accept, a warm feeling pooling in your lower belly when he kisses your bare shoulder before you get up, his stubble scratching your soft skin in the most delicious way.

His bathroom his spacious, but mostly empty. There's not much on the shelves, even less in the drawers, and that makes you smile bitterly. In the years you've known him, you realized that he's an adrenaline junkie, always trying to run away from his thoughts. If the amount of time he spends at the hospital wasn't a clue already, seeing how empty his house is proves how much he hates being home alone. You're not so different after all.

Once you get out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but his clothes — an old faded t-shirt from a music festival and a pair of his boxers — you find him still there, waiting for you.

For the first time in a really long time, laying next to another person with the prospect of staying doesn't feel so uncomfortable.

And you can bet all you want that despite how hard you'll make it, Jack will still manage to fall in love with you.

A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!

All the love, Anna ♡

His eyes narrowed the second you stepped into the Pitt—or, rather, stumbled into the Pitt. You were favoring your left side just a hair, your toe catching on the vinyl tile, and he could tell it wasn’t on purpose. Jack scanned you for injuries and found none. 

Patient presents with an unsteady gait. Unknown etiology. 

Stumbling into the first shift of four was not inherently unusual. Jack filed the information away. He met you in the hall after rounds and pretended he wasn’t double-checking the amount of weight you were putting on your right leg. 

“Good weekend?” he greeted, bumping his shoulder into yours. “Saw on Instagram that you went to that fancy coffee shop downtown. Thought we were supposed to go together.” 

You huffed out a laugh, knocking your head to the side. “You actually go on Instagram?”

“You told me to follow you.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were keeping it up with it. 

“Only yours,” Jack hummed out. “But I am very with the times.” 

“Right. And I’m Oprah,” you laughed. 

“I can get with Oprah,” Jack nodded, arms crossing over his chest. “Very wise.” 

You started to roll your eyes and offer Jack the slap on his arm that he was vying for, but you blinked too hard instead, a quick squeeze to settle yourself. Jack’s expression faltered, his hands reaching towards you. Not too close—not obvious—but enough to do something if he needed to.

You focused back in on him before he could point it out. 

“I’ll let you know if I hear Oprah is on the market,” you breathed out, patting Jack on the chest as you continued down the hall. 

Patient demonstrates periods of inattention and difficulty focusing, possibly due to fatigue, weakness, presyncope, etc. Differentials to be assessed. 

He was trying not to hover. You hated hovering, and Jack could tell he was pushing it. He was letting his gaze linger a bit too long when he caught you across the room and stood too close every time you got up from your chair. He was analyzing the depth of your breaths through subtle counts because he was pretty sure you weren’t taking full ones, but he couldn’t quite confirm it. 

Something was up. 

But he was pushing it.

“I ordered repeat labs for our guy with jaundice. And the tox screen in South 15 came back clear, so we have to re-evaluate the cocaine hypothesis,” you prattled off, hands on your hips as you gazed up at the board. “Anything else I should—okay, what?” 

Jack had forgotten to look away as you turned your head and looked at him. You had caught him having a staredown with your well-being and did not seem amused by the analyzing gaze. The attending righted his posture and blinked. 

“What? What’s up?” Jack asked, trying and failing to feign innocence. He raised his hands in mock surrender when you gave him a hard look. “I was listening to you. What, is it illegal to look at you while you talk?” 

“You were not just listening to me! You’ve been all… assessing all shift. So quit it.” 

“I have not been assessing,” he lied, trailing after you down the hall. Damn, you were moving fast. “You’ve just been a little off, is all. I’ve been keeping an eye on it.” 

You waved him off and changed course for the bathroom. “Well, don’t. I’m fine, Jack. Don’t be weird.” 

Jack pressed his hands against his chest. “I’m not being weird. You’re being weird. That’s why I was concerned.” 

You spun to face him, arms crossed and expression fixed into an oncoming lecture. When you and Jack began exploring your obvious feelings for each other, you made it clear that you didn’t want anyone to know. Not until things were sure and you were more established in your role as a doctor. You didn’t want people to think you were messing around with an attending just for the relationship to crumble and your career to be lost in the aftermath. 

Jack was fine with waiting. He had absolutely no plans of letting your relationship crumble, but he was fine with the cautious approach. Things were still new, and if you wanted to wait until you felt more secure with him, he was going to do a damn good job providing that. 

But your breathing was off; he finally caught it as you eyed him down in the hall, and that was concerning. He was officially entering concerned doctor territory, and you were officially entering leave me the hell alone territory. The combination was not ideal. 

“Just—keep your distance, okay? People have been eyeing us all shift. I want to continue pretending there isn’t gossip flying around the day shift nurses, but that can’t happen if you give them something to gossip about.” “But if you just—” 

“Jack.” 

He raised his hands again. “Alright, my bad.” 

You pushed into the bathroom, door swinging shut behind you, and Jack let his head hang, sighing into the abyss. 

Patient with ongoing dyspnea that cannot be assessed in a medical setting. Patient resistant to treatment and going AMA. 

It came to a head three hours in. Jack saw the way you kept blinking and pressing your hands against your head, shaky fingers threading by your scalp and creating pressure. A headache—you had a headache, you kept stumbling, and Jack knew you were having trouble breathing. He tapped his palms against the counter in a nervous tic and listed out every differential in his head. 

It didn’t help that you kept glaring at him. And avoiding him. Jack couldn’t keep an eye on you if you were hyperaware of his presence, but he couldn’t exactly slink around the ED unnoticed, so he did what he could. He tracked the movement of your shoulder as you stood with your back to him, and he kept a ready stance when he saw you stumble in the hall.  He was one more hand flex and grimace away from telling Lena to keep another eye on you, but then you caught yourself against a wall, expression pained, and he figured his action was warranted. 

He jogged across the Pitt, hands immediately finding your shoulders and head lowered to search for your eyes. They were unfocused when he got there, blinking again—he was trying to catch you amidst the blinking. 

“Hey, you alright?” he stressed, tracking the way your hands shook as he steadied you. 

“Yeah,” you affirmed, trying and failing to push away. A small group of nurses had gathered, concerned faces looking on. “Yeah. I’m just—maybe I need to eat something or—” 

You went limp, effectively stopping Jack’s heart in the process. He hauled you against him with a long “whoa” that sent the entire ED on alert and cradled your neck as he tried to get your eyes back open. Your head only rolled in his hand, and his breathing felt punctured. 

He said your name and did not get an answer. “Okay. Okay—someone get me a bed and a room cleared,” he calmly ordered, gaze never leaving your face, arms secure around you. He turned his head to mirror each time you lopped over. “I need you to try and open your eyes, y/n. Can you do that?” 

A bed was wheeled into the hall, and Jack lifted your legs from the ground to lay you in it, quickly walking alongside the small team that had formed. He swiped his flashlight from his chest pocket, assessed your pupils, then moved down to your lymph nodes as you were settled into a room. 

“Okay, vitals and get an IV for stat labs—y/n? Come on, let me know you can hear me, sweetheart,” Jack called out, checking your pupils again, flashing the light too many times than was necessary. 

It was the third pass that got you to respond. You groaned, bringing your shaking hands up to push his flashlight away. Jack felt all of the air leave his lungs, a weight dropping to his feet and keeping him rooted to the ground. His head hung again, and he glanced up after a steadying sigh. You were wincing at the overhead light in the room, face an unnatural shade, but more alert and conscious. 

“Fuck. Okay, you scared the shit out of me,” Jack accused. He cupped your face and raised his brows. “You’re fine? Really?” 

You let out a muffled sound. “Sorry. That was weird.” 

“Yeah, you think? Weird—told you you were the one being weird.” Jack glanced at your vitals on the screen. “You’re tachy and your blood pressure’s pretty low. Any ideas?” 

“My mouth hurts,” you mumbled out, gaze blearily trying to focus on the screen. “Maybe… ow, Jack.” 

“Sorry, sweetheart. Okay, yeah, not counting on your medical opinion right now. Let’s get some ibuprofen on board and push fluids until we get the labs back. I want a head CT to rule out—” Jack paused as he looked around the room. Half of the nurses were honing in on Jack’s hands on your face, the other half were smirking at the man himself. Jack looked back down at you, at how hard you were trying to focus on him, and he figured he would deal with the rest later. “Hey, we’ll get this all sorted, alright?”

About twenty minutes later, you were sitting upright and much more cognizant. Jack had the lights dim in the room and a bag of pretzels glued to your hand even though your blood sugar came back normal, and he found you just as he left you as he pushed back inside. He hadn’t really been able to focus since you went down, so stalking the lab for your results was easy. 

“Labs came back,” Jack revealed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You’d given up on making him leave you alone after his second visit to your room. “Wanna take a wild guess?” 

You groaned, shoving another pretzel in your mouth. “No. Just tell me.” 

“Iron-deficiency anemia. You honestly might need an iron infusion with the levels you’re at. How long have you felt like this?” 

“Seriously?” you sighed. “I fainted because I don’t eat enough legumes?” 

“Hey, this is serious,” Jack chastised. He leaned in closer and took your hand in his. “It’s not just a little deficiency. You were down for the count for a while there. We gotta get this figured out.” 

“We?” 

Jack took in the color returning to your face and intertwined your fingers with his. “Yeah, sweetheart, we. Unfortunately, I think I kinda gave us away when you passed out. Forgot I was supposed to be playing it cool because you looked almost dead.” 

“That’s a little dramatic.” You puffed out your cheeks with a loaded breath. “So… everyone knows?”

“There’s about a 95% chance it’s made its rounds. And been sent out to many day shift nurses who have probably sent it to—” 

“Okay, okay. Everyone knows.” 

You slumped back against the bed, pretzel bag crinkling as it fell beside you. Jack hadn’t let go of your hand, and with the clammy pallor it still resembled, he didn’t have it in him to let go. He had been right to worry this morning, and his slow action was eating at him.

“I’m serious, though,” Jack began. You cracked an eye open. “Your ferritin levels are alarmingly low. We’ll have to think about infusions and then go to supplements after we get you more regulated.” 

“I can just call my PCP and—” 

“I’d like to help. I can help.”

You paused, lingering humor and frustration wiped from your expression. Jack watched emotions flit across your face and saw each settle as your hand twitched in his. Just slightly. Enough to almost be a squeeze. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you softly said. “I know it freaked you out that I fainted, but you don’t have to take on some huge responsibility when it comes to me. We only just started seeing each other.” 

Well, you could ask, but he would probably say yes, and you liked the night shift staff too much to do that to them. 

“What the hell happened in here?” you heard Ellis ask, her backpack slung over her shoulder with casual air. You envied her rested face. “Why’s it so damn hot?” 

You grimaced, the expression making your head hurt. “What didn’t happen here?”

“That bad, huh?” 

“I mean, I’m sure there’s been worse days. Not sure when those would have happened. Maybe before electricity and the discovery of germ theory.” 

Ellis leaned her forearms on the counter by your computer, raising a brow. “Germ theory bad? Damn.” 

You finished your blessed last note and slammed the key to lock your account. “Just—maybe screen some patients for bird flu if they’ve been here all day. All I’ll say.” 

Ellis blew out a breath as you leaned back in your chair and pressed a hand to your forehead. You needed to drink about a gallon of water to abate the headache permeating along your temples—or maybe three. Jack liked to keep those gross electrolyte packets at your place for days like these, and while you usually had to choke them down and beg him to leave you alone, the sour peach flavor was calling your name. 

And so was about 14 hours of sleep wrapped in that hoodie Jack got from some national park you couldn’t remember the name of. 

“Let me know when you’re ready to do handoffs,” you called as residents and trickled in, your face in your hand and your eyes barely open. “I’ll be here.” 

“And don’t you just look so excited?” 

Jack’s voice sent a tiny jolt of energy through you—a really tiny, almost neuron-firing-level of energy. You cracked an eye wider and saw your boyfriend standing where Ellis once was, his expression far fonder and far less filled with disgruntled trepidation. 

“I’m thrilled,” you droned out, fighting off the smile working onto your face.

“Yeah, I can tell.” Jack rounded the nurse’s station and leaned over your shoulder, pressing his lips to your temple in a chaste kiss that jostled you around. “Are you good to drive home, or do you need me to have Shen take over for the first half hour?” 

“I can drive home,” you scoffed. “I’m tired, not incapacitated.” 

Jack hummed by your ear, spinning your chair and touching your forehead with the back of his fingers. “We should get an ice pack on the back of your neck before you head out.” 

You swatted at his hand with a breathy laugh, rolling away from his assessment. “You should go get ready for report. Sooner you do that, the sooner I can leave.” 

“You told me the AC went out nine hours ago. When’s the last time you drank water?” 

“Will you leave me alone?” you exasperated, still laughing, still the happiest you’d been all shift. “Go find Robby. He’s in an awful mood, and if he’s distracted, I can slip out and take care of myself, Dr. Overbearing.” 

Jack knocked his head to the side as he looked at you, the fondness still open on his face. He reached into the side pocket of his bag and tossed you his water bottle, giving you a pointed look as he backed away and headed to the lockers. 

The day was awful, but as you took a large sip of that damn electrolyte water and thought about the way Jack always looked at you, it felt a little less awful. 

Until Robby burst through the elevators with a vendetta. 

His ambush started on an uneven playing field. You had a clipboard in hand as you rattled off the vitals of a woman presenting with a kidney infection, the eager intern beside you nodding intently. The air had kicked on about five minutes into your rounds, and you silently cursed it for working just as you were leaving. 

“Another hour of observation and she should be good to go. Needs a ride due to the morphine dose,” you rattled off. 

“Got it,” the resident relayed back. “For the fracture in north 12, did you say—” 

Robby’s voice interrupted the flow of your rounds. 

Your name was a harsh strike through the air, and you jumped at his curt shout, your clipboard rattling. The intern stared at you with wide eyes as you waited for the telltale signs of Robby’s approach, but they never came. He wanted you to go to him. That wasn’t great. You’d also never heard him say your name with so much vitriol before, and you couldn’t pinpoint anything throughout the day that would have warranted such a call. 

“Um,” you paused. You shot your gaze to the side and considered pretending that you hadn’t heard him, but the entire room had paused when he shouted, so there was really no pretending. “Why don’t you catch up with Dr. King’s handoffs? I only had a few left.” 

The intern looked like she wanted to say more, maybe offer encouragement as you went off on your final mission in life, but she only nodded and scurried away, leaving you to parade yourself awkwardly into the hall. 

Robby did not look patient or kind or understanding when you got there. He had his hands on top of his head and was staring at the ceiling, his weight bouncing on his toes until the door to the Pitt closed, and you were alone with his frustration. He took in a large breath and looked at you, brows raised. 

The silence dragged. 

“You know I don’t treat you differently just because of your relationship with Jack,” Robby started, kissing his teeth. “I told you that when you started dating.” 

You blinked, unsure where the conversation was heading. You weren’t even sure if half the staff at PTMC knew you were dating Jack; special treatment was not an expectation nor a perk, and you had only recently become more lax in keeping your relationship private.

“What? Robby, I know that. I would never—” 

He was already shaking his head, the quickness of his words overpowering your rebuttal. “You fucked up. You fucked up, and I can’t make concessions for you just because of your relationship with an attending. I told Jack that if you were going to make your relationship public, you had to be perfect. If you weren’t perfect, it would—” 

“Wait—you told Jack? Why are you talking to him about my career? And you never told me that I needed to be perfect. I didn’t realize my relationship suddenly gave me unreachable contingencies.” 

Robby shrugged. “It makes sense. If you make mistakes, it looks bad on him. If you aren’t disciplined properly, it looks like favoritism.” 

“Disciplined? What have I done to warrant being disciplined?” 

Your body was heating up despite the air feeling cooler than it had all day. Your hands clenched into fists as you ran through the decisions you made throughout the shift, all the patients you’d treated and discharged. Nothing was alarming. It had been the environment, not the caseload, that made this day so chaotic. 

“You tell me,” Robby posed, and his nonchalance was starting to piss you off. 

An entire day of everything going wrong, and you kept a positive attitude. You had led the interns and taken the grunt work, and you had only eaten about half of a granola bar throughout your shift because of it. You could only recall one major trauma from the day, and you’d been pulled from the hall to assist with it. You hadn’t been part of the intake or the transfer. Everything else had been run-of-the-mill injuries and angry, sweaty patients. 

You opened your mouth and closed it a few times. “I—I have absolutely no idea.” 

Robby nodded, and you could tell from the redness working up his neck that he was about to blow. He’d been a ticking time bomb all day, something—maybe the heat or the multiple shifts—eating away at him. And you, alone in the hall, were about to be the victim of that repression. 

It all blew up at once. Robby was jutting his hands out as he yelled about improperly ordered labs and a missed CT. Then there was something about an incident in the hall with the same patient and letting a med student perform a procedure you shouldn’t have. He paused for a moment when your eyes became glassy, but started up again with a shake of his head because you were a doctor. You needed to know when to take criticism. 

He threw his hands up when he shouted about legal action and pressed his tongue into his cheek when you couldn’t answer a question about charting. He didn’t let you get a word in to answer him, but there was also the issue that the case wasn’t yours. You distinctly remembered Santos complaining about the situation earlier in the shift, med student intervention and all, but apparently, Robby was just getting word about it. And you had been incorrectly tied to each mistake. 

Silent tears were running down your cheeks as he made the final blow. 

“You know, maybe this isn’t where you should be. You’re sloppy now—distracted by your personal life. That’s not what a doctor is. Figure. It. out. Or I’m recommending a transfer because I can’t run my ED with an incompetent—” 

“Hey, whoa!” Jack was quickly jogging down the hall, and you blinked at the ground to steady yourself. More tears fell. He stepped in front of you, fingers tenting against Robby’s chest and pushing slightly. You hadn’t realized how close he had gotten while he yelled. “Wanna tell me why the hell you’re talking to her like that?” 

Robby laughed—a mean laugh. “Fuck, how ironic. You come to her rescue when she can’t handle it? She messed up, Jack. Multiple times. She deserves to hear it.” 

You saw Jack’s shoulders tense through your blurry gaze. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? We don’t talk to any of our doctors like that. Calling her incompetent—what’s going on with you?” 

“She missed basic signs. Didn’t run the tests she was supposed to and couldn’t figure out how to teach the med students the fundamentals. She’s been too busy cozying up at your apartment to—” 

“Watch yourself,” Jack snapped in a low tone. “This is about the medicine, but it could pretty quickly be about something else.”

You let out a shaky breath, begging the tears to stop, but it was like a dam had cracked from the stress of the day, and being yelled at for several minutes was not something your nervous system could regulate. You clutched your scrub top in your fists and counted your breaths, feeling pathetic and angry in each of your movements. 

“Can’t seem to separate them with her,” Robby accused. “Even now. I can’t teach my senior resident without her boyfriend getting in the way.” 

“That wasn’t teaching. You were berating her in the hallway. She never cries, and she hasn’t stopped since I got here, so, Robby, you need to back the hell up and reassess.” 

There was more silence, the two men staring each other down, and then Robby slapped his hands against his thighs and shot out a quick “find me when she’s ready to take accountability,” before harshly pushing his way back into the Pitt. Your tears had finally begun to slow as the heat in the hallway dissipated, but you felt them well up again when Jack turned to you and hushed out a gentle sound. 

“C’mere, it’s alright,” he muttered, yanking you against his chest. You pressed your face into his shirt and tried again to calm your breath, latching onto the soap and detergent and the feel of his body against yours. He held you for a moment and then spoke close to your ear. “The hell was that about?” 

You gripped the material along his back. “Wasn’t even my case,” you hiccuped, words uneven. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” 

“Probably because you had the shift from hell and then got screamed at.” 

You felt Jack tuck your hair back from the stickiness of your face and kiss you where his touch lingered. Your eyes fluttered shut. “Maybe I deserved it.” 

Jack pulled away, a frown etched on his face. “You just said it wasn’t yours.” 

“It wasn’t.” You bit into your lip and looked down at his sure hands along your waist. “But maybe he was right, and I’m distracted by our relationship—being a bad doctor and not working how I’m supposed to. I mean, you’re here, comforting me, and anyone else would have had to take what Robby said and get over it.” 

“Robby wouldn’t have had that argument to use against anyone else,” Jack countered, palms running flat along your head until they cradled the back of your neck. “He’s pissed about something else, not you. You’re a damn good doctor. If workplace relationships jeopardized that, he would be an issue too.” Jack’s jaw flexed, and he muttered a quiet, “Hypocrite,” to the air beside him. 

You were vaguely aware that Robby hooked up with a nurse from admin. Some of your anger flickered back to life at the reminder of his distracting relationships, but your head was pounding, and Jack kept scanning your face for any sign of happiness, his brows furrowed and his face wincing, so you sighed and tried to play along. When the twitch of your smile was mirrored on Jack’s face, it felt worth it to try and forget. 

“Are you comparing me to Robby’s late-night hookups?”

“Never,” Jack whispered, pulling you closer and slotting his mouth against yours. “You’re my whole world, baby.” 

You huffed, clutching his wrists. “Yeah, well, your whole world has a puffy face and just got reamed out by your best friend, so I need a couple of minutes before I can finish my handoff report.” 

“Want to sit in my truck for a while?” 

“Do you still have the gushers I left in there?”

“Why do you think I offered?”

You sat in Jack’s truck for approximately ten minutes, eating every last one of the gushers in the oversized bag Jack bought you on a road trip a couple of weeks ago. The air conditioning blasted the heat from your face, and you downed an entire water bottle he had left for you in the door. And while you recalibrated, Jack found Robby. 

“Got a sec?” Jack barely asked, sweeping past Robby to meet back up in the hall. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for his friend to let the door swing behind him. 

“Look—” Robby started. “I get that she’s your girl, and it can be difficult to—” 

“Wasn’t her case,” Jack interrupted, expression as neutral as he could get it. “It was Santos’. She wasn’t going to tell you that, but I will.” 

Robby paused, nodding jerkily. “Okay. Okay, my bad. I’ll talk to her.” 

“You will.” 

Robby eyed Jack. “But my point still stands. She needs to be able to take whatever this ED throws at her. She can’t have you swooping in to protect her.” 

Jack pursed his lips, nodding back at Robby to make the space feel equal. “Robby, I respect you. A lot. You’re one of the few people left that I’ve cared about for most of my life.” He took a step closer. “But I’ll protect her from what she needs protecting from.” 

The air between them was heavy and uncomfortable, and Jack couldn’t remember a time it had ever felt like that. Maybe a few months after his wife died and he lashed out. Maybe when Robby wouldn’t ask for help and Jack forced it a little too hard. Or maybe it had never felt like this—with Jack on the offensive, unwilling to let anything slide. 

Robby must have felt it too. “Heard,” he affirmed. 

“Good.” Jack went to leave the hall, patting Robby’s shoulder as he went. But he felt there was more to say, so Jack paused, looking at the wall behind Robby’s head. In a matter-of-fact tone, he said, “And if you ever make her cry like that again, I will beat the shit out of you.” 

Robby’s head turned to look at his friend fully, and Jack met him there. He lifted the side of his mouth in a fleeting smile, patted him on the shoulder once more, and then left Robby in the hall. 

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.